CPR didn't always restart someone's heart. It was usually more of a placeholder, something to keep oxygen and blood flowing through an unconscious person's body until the emergency crews came with shock pads. Rarely, the patient began to breathe on their own while the first responder pumped their chest.

Beneath John's hands, Sherlock took a shuddering breath.

Immediately, John stopped pumping. Sherlock coughed weakly before taking more erratic gasps of air. As Sherlock's breathing turned into frightened hiccups, John cradled the tiny boy against his chest. "It's okay, Sherlock. I've got you."

Though Sherlock's eyelids fluttered, John couldn't be certain whether it was a reaction to his voice or just Sherlock's body struggling with the strain of breathing. John glanced towards where Mrs. Holmes had been and then cursed at the empty doorway. I'll assume she didn't call 999, then. Damn it—Sherlock, keep breathing.

"I'm going to move you, okay, Sherlock?" John told Sherlock's prone form. "I have to get my mobile out of my pocket. It's okay," he soothed when Sherlock whined. "Just let me make a call."

Most people's hands shook when they felt angry or frightened. John's hands remained perfectly still. When the operator answered, John said crisply, "I need an ambulance and the police. A two-year-old here was beaten unconscious. He stopped breathing for about a minute. I did CPR, and he's breathing on his own now. He's still in danger, though. Yes, the abuser's still here and dangerous. I'll find the address."

Gently, John lifted Sherlock up and walked to the window. Enough light streamed out of the still-open front door that he could read the brass numbers on the front of the house. He rattled them off to the operator with military precision. "Long driveway, huge—massive house. You can't miss it. Hurry."

John let his mobile slip from his fingers while he adjusted Sherlock in his arms. The boy's breathing had steadied, but John still watched the rise and fall of his fragile chest closely. In the Army, John's natural patience had allowed him to crouch calmly beside a wounded soldier in a storm of bullets until the rescue helicopter came. Now, John struggled to remain still. No sounds other than Sherlock's ragged breathing echoed through the house. Greg's a DS, John reminded himself. He can hold off Mr. Holmes for a little while.

…I hope.

Finally, sirens wailed up the long drive. Downstairs, something (someone?) slammed against the door before a voice yelled, "Police! Open up!" Chaos—voices—but John ignored them, remaining silent and still. When heavy footsteps clattered up the stairs, John curled his body around Sherlock. He only straightened up from his protective crouch once the paramedics came through the door.

"His name's Sherlock Holmes," John told them without prompting. "He's two years old. He was unconscious and unresponsive when I found him. He started breathing after about a minute of CPR. His left arm was already broken in three places before tonight. He's been to the hospital twice in the past month for abuse-related injuries."

"Does he have any pre-existing medical conditions other than the broken arm?"

Quickly, John thought back to the chart in Sherlock's hospital room. "None that I know of."

The paramedic nodded. "We're going to lift him onto the stretcher now, okay? Will you help—oh, great, you've already braced his head. Are you—?"

"I'm his doctor." John felt rather than saw the looks the paramedics exchanged while he focused on settling Sherlock onto the stretcher. When they tarried a moment too long, John squared his shoulders. "Can we get moving, please?"

In Afghanistan, John would have been the one taking up an end of the stretcher to heave it onto the nearest chopper. Here, he trailed behind the paramedics, murmuring gentle encouragement to Sherlock's immobile form, while they eased the unconscious boy down two flights of stairs. On the ground level, John tried and failed to ignore the splattering of blood across the marble floor. Fervently, he hoped it belonged to Mr. Holmes.

One step through the front door immersed the paramedics, Sherlock, and John in the chaos of light and sound. John's fingers twitched toward his gun when he heard the familiar thwap-thwap-thwap of helicopter blades. For Sherlock? But how'd they manage to call one in so quickly?

"Watson!"

John snapped to attention at the sound of that voice. He whirled from the back of the ambulance to see a very familiar figure striding across the Holmes' lawn. "Captain!"

"What the fuck?" his captain growled once he reached John. "What the fuck, Watson, I told you to keep out of trouble once you got back! Do you know who that chopper's for? Us! Us, Watson! I got woken up at one just to come out here and ride in that chopper with you because apparently you're some kind of traitor to the Crown or—"

"I'm not a traitor. I was just—there's a two-year-old boy in that ambulance dying because his dad decided to beat the hell out of him! I'm a doctor, Captain. I'm a soldier. I'm supposed to protect people, and that's what I was doing. How does that make me a traitor?"

John's captain scowled. "I don't know. I sure as hell hope whoever's on that helicopter understands better than I do."

As wind from the helicopter's blades buffeted all the people surrounding the mansion, Sherlock's ambulance pulled away. John watched it leave, worry making his hands tremble slightly. Putting a patient into someone else's care was always hard, but losing Sherlock made John feel ill. He couldn't control what happened to Sherlock anymore. If something happened to that boy…

"Captain Macgregor! Lieutenant Watson!" The helicopter pilot, a younger soldier with an anxious, boyish face, beckoned them impatiently. John followed his captain on board, as he had so many times in Afghanistan, and strapped himself in. As the helicopter lifted off, he closed his eyes, imagining he was back in the desert, about to land beside a pinned-down convoy. About to heal, to save, to do something constructive.

John clenched his fists and glared out the window at the city lights now glittering below him. I should be with Sherlock.

Until his captain answered him, John didn't realize he had spoken those words aloud. "You're awfully worried about that kid."

"Of course I—" John stopped, suddenly aware of who he spoke to. He ducked his head apologetically. "Yes, sir, I am. Sherlock's amazing, the most brilliant kid—no, the most brilliant person I've ever met. I can't imagine why anyone would want to beat him enough to kill him! If Sherlock were my son—"

The captain's eyebrows shot up. "You're pretty damn close to him, for him being your patient."

"I know, sir. I'm a bit too close, to be honest." John shrugged absentmindedly. "I don't really know how it happened. He's just such a fantastic kid…I couldn't let his father abuse him anymore, sir. I couldn't. I knew Sherlock and his brother were being mistreated. I had an obligation to protect them."

"I think that's the police's job, Watson."

"Yeah, well, they weren't doing their job, sir…"

John's voice trailed off when he caught sight of their destination. His captain frowned and peered out the window. "Fucking hell."

That summed up John's thoughts quite nicely. He'd heard that the garden at Buckingham Palace was also a helicopter pad. He'd just never thought he would have the opportunity to test that theory. Instinctively, he squared his shoulders as he followed Captain Macgregor and the helicopter pilot into the palace. Are we here to see the queen? Jesus, I'm not dressed properly for this. What the hell am I doing here?

The helicopter pilot led Captain Macgregor and John into a well-lit and lavishly furnished inner room. Two men already stood, talking in low voices, at the end of the room. When the helicopter pilot called, "Sir," one of them turned to face John and his captain.

"Ah. Stillman, you're back. So that's Watson, then?" When the helicopter pilot nodded, the grey-haired man strode towards their little group. "Take Macgregor down the hall. There are different orders for him. Craig and I want to speak to Lieutenant Watson. Lieutenant?"

John recognized the man immediately. Though he'd never met him, he'd heard him speak on the BBC and seen him via satellite telly while he was in Afghanistan. He was different in person—a little more old and grey, but even more imposing. As the helicopter pilot led his captain away, John snapped to attention. "Sir!"

The United Kingdom's chief of defense waved him off. "At ease, Lieutenant. Find a seat."

John remained standing, very nearly awestruck, as the defense chief settled himself onto one of the upholstered chairs. When the older man waved an irritable hand at him, John remembered himself and perched uncomfortably on the edge of a fainting couch. The other man, a twitchy fellow in a sport coat, sidled up to him with a sniff. "Well, you've gotten yourself into a fine mess, Lieutenant."

John shook his head quickly. "You mean with Sherlock Holmes? It's no worse than the mess I was in over in Afghanistan, sir."

"That's what you think now. Do you know who Reynard Holmes is, Lieutenant?"

John's jaw tightened. His mind flew back to their first meeting in Sherlock's hospital room, with the huge man towering over his frightened sons, and then again to only a few hours previous, when the cruel man's voice echoed up the stairwell while John desperately pumped air and blood through Sherlock's frail body. "I know he's Sherlock's father, and I know he abused both of his sons. Sir."

"And you're angry about that," the defense chief observed.

When John's gaze darkened, the man in the sport coat asked nervously, "Lieutenant Watson, do you understand how much power Holmes has? You've endangered the entire nation with your idiocy—"

Behind his back, John clenched his hands into fists. "How? How have I endangered it? Mycroft's seven. Sherlock's just two! I don't care who their father is or what he does. He's not above the law. He has no right to try to kill them. They're kids, for God's sake! They didn't ask for this!" Sometime during his tirade, John leapt to his feet. Suddenly, he looked down at the two disapproving men in front of him and realized who he was yelling at. His face flushed; slowly, he sank back into his seat. "I'm sorry, sir," he muttered. "I just can't imagine…You obviously somehow know who I am. You know I've been in Afghanistan. I've done CPR on a lot of patients who have been badly abused, but never children! I became an army doctor for a reason," he said finally. "I know I'm way out of bounds here. I know you can discipline me for disrespect, or even court-martial me for whatever my treason is supposed to be, but I joined the RAMC to help people. If I can't even protect two children back home—"

"I understand your frustration." Though the defense chief spoke sharply, John relaxed at his sympathetic words. "I've felt it every day I've had to deal with Reynard Holmes. If you truly knew who he was, perhaps you would better comprehend the delicacy of this situation, but for now you must trust my word. Do you understand?"

Slowly, John nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Good. Now, please answer Craig's question for me," the defense chief requested with a sideways glare in the twitchy man's direction.

"Do I understand how much power Sherlock and Mycroft's father has?" John hesitated. "No, sir," he finally admitted, "but I know it was enough for him to convince Scotland Yard to ignore violent child abuse for a very long time. From what I saw tonight and what Mycroft told me earlier, it was horrible. They had a routine, sir, a routine of abuse. They expected it."

The defense chief sighed. "You'll see worse before this is through, Lieutenant. Now, while Craig is right—you've gotten yourself into quite a predicament—we may be able to use this to everyone's advantage."

John frowned. "Everyone's?"

"Well, maybe everyone but Holmes. I did some planning while you were busy shouting." When John ducked his head, the defense chief waved him off. "Up until your outburst a few minutes ago, you'd proven yourself to be admirably level-headed in a crisis. I need you to prove it again." The defense chief leaned forward, arms braced on his knees, his intense gaze fixed entirely on John. John straightened up as much as he could on the plush couch. "From what I've heard, Holmes' sons have become attached to you over a very short period of time. Good. This can work to our advantage. In order to keep them out of danger until their father's trial begins, they will be placed in your protective custody."

It took John a minute to find his voice. "Sir?"

"You heard me. You're a soldier and an accomplished doctor who has already gone far beyond the call of duty for these children. You can protect these boys, you want to protect these boys, and you will protect these boys. You'll get more information on a need-to-know basis. Until then, Lieutenant Watson, your orders are to care for Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes as if they are your own sons. Do you understand?"

John's mind whirled with questions, but his military training made him nod sharply. "Yes, sir."

"Good. You'll be flown back to the hospital now to stay by Sherlock Holmes' bedside. One of his nurses will bring you the emergency custody papers to sign. Mycroft Holmes is, I believe, still at the home of Scotland Yard Detective Sergeant Gregory Lestrade?"

"Lestrade," John said suddenly. "Is he okay? I didn't think to—Jesus Christ, I forgot about him. He was downstairs at the mansion keeping Mr. Holmes busy while I tried to get Sherlock to breathe. I didn't think to look for him after—is Lestrade okay?"

The nervous man in the sport coat nodded. "We've got a good eye on him."

"Thank you, Craig. What do you think, Lieutenant? Should Mycroft Holmes be allowed to stay with the Lestrades for tonight?" When John hesitated, the defense chief scowled. "Come on, Watson. What did I tell you? Act as if he's your son!"

John's brow furrowed. Easier said than done! I've never had children before. I don't know what I'm doing. In his mind's eye, he pictured Mycroft fast asleep on a li-lo with a borrowed umbrella shielding his head. "Yes, sir," John said finally. "He can stay the night there. He likes Lestrade, and so do I. Besides, it'll give me time to get my flat ready."

The defense chief raised his eyebrows in Craig's direction. Reluctantly, the man in the sport coat nodded. John suddenly felt as if he'd passed a test. "Very good," the defense chief said. "As I said before, admirably level-headed. Well, then, that's all for tonight. Go to the hospital. Protect Sherlock Holmes. Tomorrow, Mycroft Holmes will be delivered to you, and then you'll prepare for the trial. I'll speak to you within the week. Craig, I'll see you out. Good night, Watson—and good luck."

With a crisp salute and a nod, the general and the nervous man strode out the door, leaving John to stare after them in shock. The chief—the actual chief of defense—he wants me to take care of Sherlock and Mycroft? Bloody hell. Jesus Christ. Orders to—Mycroft and Sherlock—bloody hell! Who's their father? What's he do? Why's he so important?

"Watson! You all right?"

"What—oh, yeah, Cap, fine, fine. I'm, uh, I am seriously considering nicking an ashtray."

Captain Macgregor snorted. "Just don't blame it on me if you get caught. You've dragged me into a hell of a lot already tonight." When John stood up, the captain eyed him thoughtfully. "I've just heard more about you than I ever wanted to know. You're really taking in those two kids?"

John hesitated. The defense chief hadn't said anything about not telling anyone about the boys, and, to be honest, it would be hard to hide Sherlock for long. He nodded. "They don't have anywhere else to go."

"Well, that's good of you. You're up in it to here, aren't you?" his captain asked, gesturing toward his neck. When John didn't reply, he sighed. "Just don't get yourself killed before we rotate back over to Afghanistan, okay? That's an order. We need a fuckin' good doctor." He clapped John on the shoulder. "Go get on that helicopter. I'll be seeing you around."

John spent the short ride to the hospital lost in a maelstrom of tired thoughts. Why me? I'm not a father. I don't have much money. I'm definitely not as smart as Sherlock and Mycroft. How can I keep up with them? I can try to protect them, but how can I succeed?

As soon as he entered the pediatric intensive care unit, John accosted the nearest nurse. "I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes. He's two. Severe fractures, multiple contusions, was unconscious when he came in?"

"If you're not his appointed guardian, you can't see him."

"I am his appointed guardian. John Watson. Um, I was told I'd be given papers…?"

Comprehension lit the nurse's eyes. "Right! I have those. Here you go. Have a pen. I'll fax the form in as soon as you've read and signed—or you can just sign right now without reading. That works too."

John smiled tiredly as he handed the forms back over. "I know what I'm getting into."

"Good for you. Room 259. He's still out," the nurse told him. "I can't promise you anything.

"Believe me. I know."

I know it all too well.

The door to room 259 was closed, the curtain pulled all the way around the tiny bed. John could hear the hiss of an oxygen mask even before he saw Sherlock's pale and battered face. John took a deep breath to fight down a surge of rage. He wanted desperately to think of Sherlock as the curious, lively figure perched on his shoulders the day they met, not as the still, lifeless rag doll wrapped in bandages and wires. "Sherlock. Oh, Sherlock."

Suddenly, John's sleep deprivation caught up with him. His knees wobbled. He collapsed into a chair with a groan. Sherlock gave a snuffling sigh in response. John couldn't stifle his fond, startled laugh. "Jesus Christ, Sherlock, what have you gotten me into now?"

A thin, tired voice replied. "John?"

.

.

It's been a crazy few weeks for me! I'm about to graduate from high school, so there's been proms (two of them), finals prep, and graduation practice… It took a healthy dose of the Avengers to get me back on track (two viewings so far), as well as a night of screaming at PBS for editing out the ashtray scene in "Scandal" (hence the nod to it in the chapter). This isn't the last you'll hear of Buckingham Palace—I'm about to take great liberties with the structure of the British government, and European government in general, in this story. I regret nothing. Reynard Holmes is more powerful than you can possibly imagine.

Somebody called me "Moffata" for the last cliffie. I'm sorry—ish. At the very least, I hope I didn't actually kill any of you. Much love to gatissimo, formerly teacrumpetsandjam, on tumblr, who happily read this chapter early. Go follow her now. Also follow letmehavemytea, who prodded me into writing again.

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I'll see you in a week or two. –Icey.