A/N: Thank you, once again for your support in this! I really do hope you're enjoying it! Apologies for the delay, I have started back up at work and sadly, cannot write nearly as much as I'd like to – but I'll certainly try my best!

Also, I have just noticed that this couldn't take place between TGG & ASiB – because they follow on from each other. So just ignore that and place it where you please.

THE ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES

RATED: T

CHARACTERS: Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes and Doctor Watson

WARNINGS: Mild to Moderate Violence, descriptive mentions of injury

GENRE: Hurt/Comfort, Friendship & Family

Set between The Great Game & A Scandal in Belgravia – it is a good thing that Mycroft decided to invest in a rather sophisticated surveillance system at 221B, or he may be too late in saving his younger brother's life…

Caring is not an advantage – Part 2

John Watson quickly glanced at his watch as the patrol car screeched to a stop outside of 221B Baker Street. It was 3:30 in the morning and thankfully, with the assistance of an officer quite adept at defensive driving, his estimation of 20 minutes had well and truly been met. John thanked the man distractedly and without pausing to ponder why the front door was wide open, he simply stepped through and sprinted up the stairs.

His reaction to the mess was slightly less dignified than the elder Holmes. Dropping his bags, he stared, horrified, at the unhealthily large brown stain in the beige carpet. Mouth dry, his dark blue gaze swept the rest of the room - his chest tightening further at the vomit, the tacky-red prints smeared the length of the hallway; the wall probably being the only thing holding Sherlock up at the time. He was stunned, shattered.

'Doctor Watson!' Mycroft bellowed from the bathroom, causing the Doctor to flinch. Because he had never heard the British Government sound so…utterly useless.

John took several shuddering breaths and closed his eyes for a second. He had to prepare himself for this – the man had plenty of experience dealing with one hysterical Holmes…two of them was going to be one for the records.

Numb legs took him on autopilot towards the bathroom. He could see the wedge of light spilling into the hallway, hear the splash of the basin tap – who cares – and then he pushed the door open.

Fuck. Me.

A strangled sob broke free because he couldn't fix this. All the red – it was entirely in the wrong place, stark against too-pale skin. And then, of course, there was Mycroft Holmes; shoulders trembling, kneeling uncaringly in the pool of scarlet as he pressed the crumpled material of his dinner jacket against his brother's gut. Sensing another presence, his head whipped around – eyes wild and red rimmed. The look of complete terror came as a shock and it broke his heart.

'Do something,' he begged.

He fucking begged.

John swallowed the lump in his throat. Sherlock needed a bloody hospital hours ago, by the state of things. He hadn't done surgery since Afghanistan – and he was scared to death at the thought of having to attempt it on Sherlock…but if he didn't try, Sherlock would die. As in gone. Forever.

Not a chance in bloody hell.

'Ok, ok…shit. Mycroft, I need you to move aside please,' John urged gently, manoeuvring himself into the tight space between tangled limbs. The elder Holmes shuffled minutely and hesitantly allowed the Army Doctor to take over.

Watson kneeled between Sherlock's splayed legs and pressed two fingers against his carotid, feeling the rapid thrum against his skin.

'Sherlock?' He tapped his cheek gently, hoping for a response – but getting nothing. He was well and truly out for the count.

John took a deep breath, and another, before pulling the dinner jacket aside to check the wound. As soon as the pressure had been removed, blood welled to the surface and spilled out at an alarming rate.

'Christ…Mycroft, I need your help…' No response. 'Mycroft, he's dying – I need you to be…' what? What did John need him to be? Clinical? Uncaring?

This Mycroft was absolutely foreign to him, completely terrifying, and yet…John liked it. The doctor liked it, because this was how an older sibling ought to act when his brother was hurt.

He tried a different approach. There was very little time to do this…home surgery, but he needed the elder Holmes to act a little more himself.

The Doctor turned away from Sherlock and slapped his brother. Hard.

The man flinched, blinked several times and nodded.

'Wh-' he started thickly, stopped and swallowed. 'What do you need, Doctor?'

John sighed in relief and turned back to his charge.

'I saw a pretty nifty looking kit in the living room. What's it got?' He asked, briefly eyeing the rest of Sherlock's injuries. Not life threatening – they could wait.

'Everything you may need. It's a surgical kit.' Mycroft replied, his voice falsely steady. 'I've sent out a list for the more…difficult items. Plasma, IV fluids, Oxygen and more pain killers, but everything you'll need to sew him up is in the kit.'

John shook his head. 'You don't understand! I can't just 'sew him up'! He's bleeding internally – something's been nicked.'

Mycroft paled. 'Can you…can you do it?'

He hesitated…Could he? Could he risk severe infection and potential exsanguination by performing complicated surgery on his Best Friend?

Either way, things were looking grim.

'Yes.' John found himself saying firmly. 'But not here. I need you to clear off the dining table, soak it with bleach and then rinse it off. There are towels in the linen press to dry the floor and table when you're done. Hurry Mycroft – I need this done in less than ten, if you please.'

The elder Holmes did not hesitate. John sighed, and as an afterthought reached up to turn the basin tap off. Sherlock must've been attempting to flush the wound before collapsing.

Sherlock shifted beneath him and to John's utter horror, pale eyes blinked open.

Dammit! He needed him out for this.

'Hey there,' John greeted softly. 'You're going to be just fine.'

The younger man blinked at him owlishly.

'Myc…where is he? Is he…angry?' Sherlock gasped slowly.

'No, no. Of course not – you should see him. It's creepy!' John allowed himself a chuckle. 'Mycroft is cleaning up a bit. We're going to have a game of Operation, me and him.'

Sherlock frowned and his eyes slipped shut. 'C-can I play too?' he asked.

John felt the tears then. God, he hoped he could do this without killing him.

'Course you can. Just, have a rest and we'll start soon. Ok?'

There was no response. Out again – just as Mycroft reappeared.

'I'm done. You'll need help getting him out there.'

Indeed he would.

For someone who tended to neglect food on a regular basis, Sherlock was bloody heavy. Taking into consideration the unnaturally long limbs to go along with the dead weight meant that it took longer for the pair to get Sherlock situated on the sterilised table than John was comfortable with.

The Doctor was relieved to see, however, that Mycroft had the foresight to prepare everything required for the utter idiocy that he was about to embark on. If the man thought for a second that Sherlock would survive an Ambulance ride, John would have called it through – bugger the consequences.

An angry Sherlock was better than a dead one.

First things first – pain relief, and a hefty dose, just in case Sherlock woke during the surgery. He wasn't about to risk a heavy sedative at this stage, and it was just as risky giving him opiates – but if, God forbid , if Sherlock were to die from this, John would much rather he be in as little pain as possible.

He washed his hands thoroughly and donned a pair of surgical gloves, noting silently that Mycroft had already done so.

This meant that the elder Holmes was willing to get his hands dirty in order to save his brother's life. John took a steadying breath and prepared a dose of Oxycodone, injecting it directly into the crook of Sherlock's elbow. They didn't have the time for fiddly cannulas at this stage.

Another breath – now came the bloody awful part. It was likely he would have to open the wound further to fix the internal damage, but it would depend on the severity.

He was about to ask Mycroft for a torch, but the elder Holmes was already at his side, shining a beam over the ragged cut.

John was sweating already. There was so much blood, it would be difficult to see anything – but he's seen worse and he's done worse, all in the bloody Middle-Eastern Desert. He could handle a little bit of kitchen table surgery. Hastily, he injected a local anaesthetic to the wound, but he was hesitant to continue.

'Ok. Shit...c'mon John…' he muttered to himself, taking a deep breath and slipping two fingers into the ugly wound. Sherlock flinched and John froze, dark blue eyes flickering up to gauge Sherlock's level of consciousness.

Pale brow furrowed, Sherlock blinked slowly and John's heart near stopped.

'Impeccable fucking timing, you utter berk,' John muttered fondly, turning to Mycroft. 'Go to him. Keep him distracted and calm.'

'The torch, Doctor,' Mycroft pointed out and John just opened his mouth, allowing the elder Holmes to slip it between his teeth.

'Nnnnnnggghhhhh,' Sherlock whined, his pale face moist with sweat.

Mycroft, bless his pompous heart, brushed the damp curls from his brother's brow and didn't even flinch when Sherlock turned his head to press into Mycroft's stomach.

Noticing the affectionate display from the corner of his eye, John blushed as he probed the wound – feeling like an intruder.

'Don't be ridiculous, Doctor Watson,' Mycroft said softly, like he could read his thoughts. 'You have been more a brother to Sherlock than I have in recent times, regrettably.'

John felt only marginally better, as he leant closer to the ugly wound, eyes narrowed in concentration.

'Whaass' goin' on?' The patient slurred, rolling his head up and attempting to sit.

'No! Shit, Sherlock – stay bloody still! Please mate?' John begged, his heart constricting at the panic in those sharp eyes.

'Wh-John?'

Incomplete sentences, confusion – this scenario was getting far worse than John anticipated, but he'd found the nick. Not even big enough to warrant a band aid, had it been on his finger – but intestines? They would have to monitor him carefully for infection.

'Sherlock, listen to me.' John began firmly, making eye contact with the young man who had somehow become the most important person in his life. 'I need you to tell me if you can feel any of this, ok? You have a small cut on your intestine and I have to sew it, but I don't know how numb you are. I administered a local a couple of minutes ago…is it effective?'

Sherlock's brow furrowed as he hissed through clenched teeth. 'It hurts…'

John nodded. 'Okay, okay. How much, on a scale of one to ten?'

The young man tried to choke out a response, but turned his head and vomited instead. John readied another dose of local.

'We need something stronger than Oxy.' He hissed to Mycroft, whom despite being covered in blood and now vomit; was muttering soothingly to his brother.

Another breath and another, John knew this would hurt immensely, but the local had to be administered to the site he was about to stitch.

He spread the wound open and with steady hands, slipped the needle in.

Sherlock howled, his head thrown back as John depressed the plunger.

'Easy, brother, easy…' Mycroft soothed; his eyes suspiciously damp as he squeezed Sherlock's hand. The younger man was panting, whimpering and utterly distressed, but the elder Holmes continued to speak softly as Doctor Watson sewed two tiny, neat stitches using dissolvable thread.

'Almost done, Sherlock,' I soothed, patting a hip and giving him a tight smile as his eyes met mine.

'T-thank you, John,' he managed to reply hoarsely, before his gaze disappeared beneath fluttering lids.

Thank heavens for small mercies.

Mycroft sighed shakily as his brother lost consciousness, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

John began stitching the outer wound as the elder Holmes joined him.

'Anything I can do?' He asked softly, hands shaking minutely.

I nodded toward the gash in Sherlock's thigh, and moved slightly so Mycroft could access it.

'Still bleeding?' John asked, eyes not leaving his patient. His hands were steady and there was no sign of stress. Mycroft could not have asked for a better person to be tending to his sibling.

'No, it seems to have stopped. I don't think it's as bad as we initially thought,' the elder Holmes looked back to his brother's lax features, and there was a swell of emotion at innocence of his sleeping face.

Mycroft sighed again. 'William Sherlock Scott Holmes, you little bastard.' He said softly, hand resting on his sibling's knee. 'You will never know the depth of my love for you.'

John choked as he tied off the last stitch, rocking back and meeting Mycroft's eye. 'He's going to be alright, Myc. You know him; he has a flair for the dramatic.' There was silence for a moment. 'Also, William?'

The elder Holmes allowed a small smile. 'Yes, that is his birth name; and quite a bit too dull for my brother. I am inclined to agree. Sherlock is anything but dull…now, let us get this mess cleaned up and make my brother comfortable.'

As they cleaned, John spoke once more, his trained eye never straying far from his patient.

'He's going to be insufferable once he recovers enough, isn't he?'

Mycroft's eyes sparkled with glee. 'Oh Doctor Watson, you have no idea.'

Let it be known, that Doctor John Watson is quite a patient man…except when his patient is one William Sherlock Scott Holmes, Consulting Detective and self-proclaimed Sociopath. Who very well nearly killed himself again because he was BORED.

John Watson very nearly helped.

Yes, well – this took a while.

I'm not sure how I feel about the kitchen table surgery, but I justified it in the end – I think. Anyway, let me know what you think!