Chapter Text
The door to 221B flung open, and two men stood sweating and panting in the hallway as if they had run a long way. The first man pulled out his phone, punching in three numbers before hitting the green ‘call’ button and rushing back downstairs. The second man, dressed primly in a waistcoat and holding an umbrella at his side (which he promptly dropped upon seeing the unconscious consulting detective lying on the floor) hurried over and quickly knelt down beside his brother, running his hands over his siblings body as he searched for any non-visible injuries. Thankfully, there was no broken ribs or signs of spinal and neck damage.
"Sherlock." Mycroft swallowed, trying to keep his voice calm. "Sherlock, can you hear me?" The Government Official eyed the dried blood around his brother's nose, taking note of the soaked and stained carpet. "Hey, Sherlock?" Mycroft tapped Sherlock's face lightly with his palm, but as this brought no response, he quickly turned the taps into a full-on stinging slap.
Sherlock's eyelids moved, his dark lashes fluttering. Mycroft scanned his face, gently cupping Sherlock's face in his hands as he slowly came to. "Come on, Sherlock." Mycroft's voice was soft, but urgent at the same time. He tilted Sherlock's head central, his gaze soon to be facing the ceiling when he awoke, as he was laid flat out on his back.
"Greg!" Mycroft shouted from the living room. "Greg, get some water!"
Greg Lestrade raced back into the room, shoving his phone back into his pocket. "An ambulance is on its way." He said, before hurrying into the kitchen to grab a pint glass of cold water.
Sherlock's leg twitched, then his arm, then his leg again. His torso began to shake ever so slightly, like he had the shivers. His head rose half a centimetre before colliding back down on the floor again.
The twitchy routine continued for barely ten more seconds before Sherlock's body nestled down safely to the floor.
Mycroft stared, eyes wide, at his brother, his own mouth gaping open. Tears shined in his eyes. What was happening?
Sherlock's lashes fluttered again, this time, however, his eyes sleepily opened and the light in the flat appeared brighter than usual. His stomach felt like it was doing flips, but not as strongly as earlier. Moving his right hand to his forehead so that he could soothe his temples, Sherlock skimmed the bloody carpet with the back of his hand - and it was as if all his recollections from the events that the early morning had brought him came flooding back.
"John?" He frowned, gazing up at the bleary figure knelt over him. His speech sounded slightly slurred, like he'd been drinking one-too-many pints of cider or glasses of Pimms. Squeezing his eyes back shut, he felt a hand wrap around his wrist.
"Sherlock, it's Mycroft." Lestrade crouched down beside Mycroft, handing him the glass of water. "Now, Greg and I are going to help you sit up, and then you're going to try drinking some water." Lestrade noticed how Mycroft had (purposefully) failed to mention that an ambulance was currently breaking the speed limit somewhere in London in order to come to the foolish man's aid, but not saying anything about hospitals to him was probably for the best.
Sherlock scowled, but allowed himself to be helped up. Lestrade put the water glass down and wedged his hands firmly under Sherlock's armpits and gently pulled him upright into a sitting position so he could lean against the wall.
Mycroft's palms once again reached forward and cupped his brother's face, as he leaned in and inspected his complexion, deducing what was right and was was wrong. Obviously, more key points fell under the ‘wrong’ category than they did in the ‘right’. Typical.
"Drink." Mycroft commanded, taking the glass and offering it to Sherlock's lips. Sherlock gratefully accepted the water, taking slow, steady slurps and relished over the fact that his head was gradually beginning to clear. Finally, he could get back on with his work.
"Why-" Sherlock began, thinking carefully about his choice of words before deciding that he didn't particularly care if his brother was offended by what he had to say. "Why are you here?"
Mycroft glanced at Greg. "Greg called me. Said he'd heard a commotion happen down your side of the line. Unsurprisingly, he was right."
The faint wailing sound of an ambulance drawing closer filled the air. Sherlock groaned, his eyes narrowing. "If that ghastly vehicle with its foul men stop at any point along this street, I swear to God I'll-"
"You'll what?"
"I'll simply send them on their way. I am awake, there is no way that they can take me against my will and, dear brother, I know my rights." Sherlock finished with a cough, although he was proud that he'd sent a wave of confusion to pass over his brother's expression, but also rather narked off that he'd used such a stupid, vague, normal, boring human term of: ‘I know my rights’.
What an obvious, bland phrase.
Mycroft gritted his teeth, staring at the door. The ambulance was now drawing into Baker Street. "You will go to that hospital, and you will get checked out; I will make sure of that. Greg, call John. Tell him to meet us on Ward 92."