Chapter three: Twelve and Twenty-seven

Warning for implications of drug use.

Chapter notes: A lot of this is taken from my own hospital experience when I was a teenager. I broke my leg and had to have three rounds of surgery to fix the damage, and morphine seemed like the best thing in the world. I was quite upset when they started to decrease my doses, nothing else seemed to work as well. This quick dependency scared me, and I've never tried illegal drugs because of this, but I can imagine someone like Sherlock wanting to explore the effects.

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Twelve year old Sherlock lay in the hospital bed, sneering and growling at anyone who came near him. The enforced bed rest was incomprehensibly painful to a boy who was used to doing at least fifty things at once. Mycroft sat by the side of the bed, looking wan as Mummy ordered the doctors around outside the door. It was only a broken limb, (iOnly/i, Mycroft scoffed), but it had been a bad break that would apparently take two rounds of surgery to correct.

The news had been a painful reminder to Mycroft of how much he cared. Mummy didn't give him a lot of news about Sherlock, and trying to work his way up the ladder in the Home Office meant he didn't have a lot of time to think about home. He had left university with a first-class degree (he'd been one of ten scholars accepted to read philosophy, politics and economics),that surprised no-one, and earned a graduate position with the government almost as soon as he had stepped out of Magdalen's doors.

On paper, it was a perfect start.

Sitting next to Sherlock's hospital bed, though, he felt like it was all worth nothing. What would his life have been like had he been Sherlock's acknowledged father? Would he still be in the same position?

But then, how could he cope with a child like Sherlock? He didn't imagine it could be that easy.

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The surgery had gone well, Mycroft was told, they had successfully reduced the swelling, and although he'd have scars, they would fade over time. He stood watch next to Mummy as the anaesthetist tried to put an oxygen mask over Sherlock's face.

"I don't want it, I need a drink" his head twisted from side to side, "No, NO."

Mummy pulled the doctor aside, "Can't we give him some water? He will continue to refuse otherwise."

The doctor pursed his lips, "You can put a damp cloth to his lips, but he'll be nauseous for a while, and any water he drinks is likely to come right back up."

Mycroft followed the instructions and dampened a washcloth that he gave to Mummy who sat by Sherlock's bed. "This will help, darling" she said to him, smoothing back the curls from his forehead, "And then you must put the oxygen mask on, just until we're back in your room."

It was a sign of how disorientated Sherlock felt that he agreed to her proposal, only commenting on how he wasn't wearing any underwear.

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Sherlock railed against the confines of the bed. He hated everything about hospital, the white walls hurt his eyes, and the television that Mummy paid for was rubbish. Even the nurses were insufferable, they kept trying to treat him like a baby and cheer him up. That had stopped though, after he'd bitten the second nurse and made the third one cry by telling everyone that her marriage was failing. It wasn't his fault the evidence was written all over her, no matter what the matron said.

He ignored Mycroft, who hadn't left his side the whole hour he'd been there. Sitting there like a great big mournful bird or something, just watching him.

"Go away."

Mycroft frowned, a small wrinkle between his brows, "Why?"

Sherlock ignored the question.

"Sherlock?"

The boy scowled, "I can't think when you're staring at me."

"I'll stop staring then." Mycroft was being annoyingly patient. It was usually easier to drive Mycroft away.

"Why did you come from London? It's only a broken leg. Where's my Dad?"

"Can't I care about my little brother? Dad's in Singapore, you know that."

"David's brother didn't visit him in hospital when he sick and he lived in the same town." Sherlock's gaze was challenging, as if he was daring Mycroft to tell the truth, but that couldn't be the case, there was no way Sherlock could possibly have any idea of the truth.

Mycroft smiled a tight smile, "I think you'll find not all brothers are created equal, Sherlock."

Sherlock scowled again and twisted his top half over so that he was facing the window, the heavy plaster cast tethering his leg to the bed.

"Go away, I can't think properly with you here."

This time, Mycroft acquiesced, and went to join Mummy outside the door. Sherlock couldn't help the bite of hurt that appeared when it was so easy to push him away, but turned the unpleasant emotion into a savage triumph at winning one over Mycroft.

The heavy taste of anaesthetic was finally leaving his mouth and he was beginning to think clearly again, which would normally be a good thing, except for the pain.

The next time a nurse entered the room, (a new one, good, maybe she'd think the other nurses were exaggerating), Sherlock gave her his most pitiable expression. "Please, Miss, my leg hurts so much, can you make it stop?"

She checked his chart and smiled at him, "Only a little, dear."

Morphine really was the best thing about hospital, Sherlock mused.