"Wonderwall"

Sherlock wakes up in the white room with the crisp, sterile sheets, and experiences a familiar sense of disorientation. He can remember a time when everything was clear, painfully clear, so clear and so obvious that he had to resort to questionable methods simply to keep from being overwhelmed by the amount of raw data that his mind received. But even the memory is fuzzy and distant, almost as though it is a dream, fading now that he is awake.

He sits up carefully so as not to tug on the IV in his arm, and takes a sip of water from a Styrofoam cup sitting on his bedside table. His movements, quiet as they are, waken John, who has been sleeping in the room's single chair. The former army doctor stretches and makes a face, rubbing his leg surreptitiously. He won't say anything, but Sherlock knows that it still hurts sometimes, especially in bad weather. Sleeping in the chair every night certainly doesn't help either, but he insists on staying no matter how many times Sherlock tells him he would be much better off if he got a proper rest in bed. It is somewhat understandable. Both of them know that since they survived the explosion, there is a good chance that Moriarty did as well, and neither wants to let the other out of his sight for very long.

Really, though, John is the lucky one. Sherlock struggles to turn towards the window, shaking off John's tentative attempts to help. He glares at the flat sheets where his right leg from the knee down should be. If he believed in fate, he would contemplate the fact that this is the same leg that continues to bother his flatmate. Since he doesn't, though, he instead concentrates all of his mental energy on the logistics of moving with only one good leg.

What bothers him is not his helplessness or the knowledge that he will never be able to use his intimate knowledge of the city to chase down criminals again. It's that he can still feel his leg throbbing from the shrapnel embedded in it. He has always prided himself on the ability of his brain to overcome physical needs and sensations, so it is intensely frustrating to him that he can know logically that the limb is missing, yet he is still surprised every time he looks down and sees a lump and a half, instead of the two that he expects.

Conventional painkillers don't help with the aching in his absent leg, but he doesn't dare ask for morphine. It's John's fault. Sherlock doesn't understand why, but the dark disapproval in the doctor's eyes during Lestrade's drugs bust is something that he fervently hopes never to see again directed towards him, no matter how much he may deny that it affects him.

Even if Sherlock hadn't been given a clue from John's discomfort, he would have known that it was raining outside by the diminished light coming into his room, and the quiet but steady sound of drops hitting the glass. He leans over and opens the blinds to reveal a small garden, someone's attempt at overcoming the devastating monotony of the whitewashed hospital. Sherlock stares out at it for lack of anything better to do. He and John exhausted all possible conversational topics days ago.

Of course that doesn't stop John from trying to engage his flatmate. "Ghastly weather, isn't it?" he asks.

Sherlock gives him a glare, which he hopes conveys the message "I can't believe you're resorting to talking about the weather" clearly. Apparently it does, since John doesn't try again. Instead he gets up, and moves to stand beside Sherlock's bed, joining him in gazing out at the waterlogged greenery.

When the door opens and a doctor steps into the room, Sherlock takes his time in turning around. Even now, with the drugs coating his mind in a dull haze, he knows that it's Dr. Edwards, who is coming to the end of a twelve hour shift, and is unlikely to get much sleep even when he goes home, if the baby powder and mashed carrot smell wafting towards Sherlock is anything to go on. He's more than a match for the man. But he doesn't really feel like fighting today.

The Dr. Edwards slowly settles into the chair with a sigh, pulling out a pad and pen. "How are you feeling today, Sherlock?" he asks with false enthusiasm.

"Fine," Sherlock answers shortly. John snorts, but the doctor doesn't acknowledge him.

"Your leg isn't bothering you?"

"No."

"Good, good." The doctor makes a few notes. Sherlock doesn't bother to read them upside down. It's not like they will be any different from those of the past few weeks, and besides, he knows that John will tell him if the man writes anything important.

"Your brother called. He's coming to visit you today."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. Mycroft's visits have been at random intervals, at different times for each one. Dr. Edwards is probably the only person who knows Mycroft's plans for today, and he is undoubtedly being paid a large sum of money to not tell anyone. In fact, Sherlock is surprised that dark, unmarked vans don't show up every time that his brother does.

"That's nice of him," John says sarcastically, and Sherlock hides a smile. They both know that Mycroft only sees Sherlock at all because their mother insists on it. His visits are always intensely awkward, and tend to end in shouting matches, which John usually avoids by slipping out while they're distracted. Dr. Edwards ignores John's comment, and instead documents his patient's displeasure at the news.

"Is there anything you would like to tell me?" he asks.

"No," Sherlock answers, knowing that the man just wants to go home, and won't press him.

"All right then," says Dr. Edwards, clearly relieved. "Someone else will be by later." Sherlock nods, and watches him leave before turning back to the soaking garden.

Sherlock spends the time waiting for Mycroft to arrive counting how many raindrops it takes to convince the first earthworm to surface, and noticing that one of the nurses is having affairs with several of the orderlies. John doesn't think he should tell the men. "They wouldn't appreciate knowing, trust me," he assures Sherlock, who has a hard time understanding how anyone could desire something other than the truth, but eventually bows to John's superior social skills.

Sherlock knows his brother is there by the sudden disappearance of all the nurses on the hall. He rolls his eyes at the two men dressed in black that position themselves outside his door after Mycroft enters before turning his attention to the government official. He looks…old. And tired. Sherlock briefly entertains the idea of just pretending that Mycroft isn't there, but knows that if his brother took the trouble to come, he's not going to leave without a token argument at the very least. Plus, the lethargy that Sherlock felt during the doctor's visit has been slowly eroded all day by the rain and the pain where his leg should be and the anticipation of what Mycroft is going to say to him.

John takes one look at the expression on Sherlock's face, and leaves the room. The guards don't try to stop him. Mycroft sees the look too, and sighs. "You're going to try to fight again, aren't you?" he asks wearily.

Sherlock sneers at him. "It's hardly my fault if you continue hurling your outrageous accusations."

Mycroft's face falls even further, if it is possible. "They're not accusations. And you know that they're the truth. You just don't want to accept it."

"You're lying," Sherlock insists, shaking his head to emphasize his feelings on the matter. "I still don't know why. But swear to you that I will find out."

In response, Mycroft moves closer, and bends down, his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. He looks into his brother's eyes, and tries to clear away all traces of deceit that have taken up residence in his own, in order to impress upon Sherlock the validity of his statement. He speaks very slowly.

"John doesn't exist. You made him up because deep down you knew you needed a conscience. He's not here. He was never here."

By now Sherlock is used to this flat denial of his friend's existence, but it still angers him enough to cut through the fuzziness in his brain. Pushing Mycroft away, Sherlock says calmly, "That's ridiculous. In my line of work, having a conscience is just dangerous and unhelpful. I need to be free to consider cases without any emotion. So why would I invent a personification of a trait that is not only unnecessary, but also treacherous?"

"Because you're human, Sherlock. Because even you can't help being moved by some of your cases. Because you need a friend, and no one other than that skull of yours is willing to take the job."

Mycroft winces immediately, aware that he's gone too far, but it's too late. Sherlock is already furious and eager to lash out. The rational part of his mind, still composed, reminds him that Mycroft needs to be yelled at now and again anyway. He has far too many people in awe or terrified of him.

"And what about you?" he bites. "It certainly must be hard for you to have friends, what with all the secret assassinations you have to plan and the backstabbing you have to do."

"What I do is important. You wouldn't understand. You couldn't possibly comprehend the idea of not being recognized for your work."

"That's not fair," Sherlock pouts. Mycroft stares at him, exasperated.

"Oh, so we're reverting to being five years old, are we?" Sherlock just crosses his arms and continues to sulk, so Mycroft tries a different approach. "Listen, even you have to admit that you can't always tell the difference between reality and hallucination. Your leg, for example."

Sherlock explodes. "Phantom leg, phantom friend! Why can't anything be real? Why can't you just let something be real?" Then he realizes what he's just acknowledged and can't quite hide the fear that dances across his face.

Mycroft presses his advantage. "So are you admitting…" he starts to ask, the beginnings of a smirk on his face, but Sherlock cuts him off.

"No! I'm not! He exists, he's my friend, and nothing you can say will change that."

With that, Sherlock turns his back on his brother and refuses to speak any further. Mycroft makes a few attempts to engage Sherlock, who ignores all the man's taunts, focused completely on the raindrops sliding down the window pane.

Mycroft is too mature to stomp out of the room, but his back is very stiff as he leaves, followed by his bodyguards. John comes back in a few minutes later, a cup of coffee in his hand, and sinks into his chair. Sherlock looks at him and doesn't say a word. They both gaze out the window at the ceaseless rain.