Chapter Text
The whiteness is almost too much to take. His mind already burns with unbidden deductions. Hospital room. Private. Mycroft.
"I see you are awake, brother mine." Black suit against the white wall. A figure designed to impress, to threaten whenever the need arises. But something is wrong. Deeply wrong. Recent weight loss. No sleep in the last 36 hours. Slight tremor, exhaustion beginning to settle in. 72 hours until breakdown.
“Allow me to bring you up to speed, Sherlock. Eleven days ago you took a potentially fatal mix of substances, most of which I have to presume you manufactured yourself. You have been under sedation until now to let the worst of the side effects wear off. Any discomfort you might still be experiencing is but a shadow of what you body had been going through. Luckily, your doctors will allow you to go back home to Baker Street shortly, where, I hope, you will be able to continue that pitiful existence that you apparently have accepted as your life.” The words are as cold as has to be expected, the delivery to the point. But something is missing. A vague sense of alarm settles in his mind, more terrifying that looking into the barrel of a gun.
“What happened?” Not a brilliant start for his side of the conversation. But the question is valid. He cannot remember a thing.
“You coped the only way you know how to. I’m sorry, Sherlock. I truly am.” Defeat. Not something that should ever been associated with his brother. I usually spells disaster for all of the involved. But only a moment later, the mask of the British government personified slips back into place.
“Well, I’ll better start getting this mess sorted out. Visiting hours will start shortly and you know how I detest running into people.” The last word is said with a visible shuttering and just like that, Sherlock is left on his own.
Which is just as well. His body still aches with the aftermath of drug-induced convulsions and his mind is spinning. No illegal substance has seen the inside of 221B Baker Street since John has moved his daughter in. So why is he lying in this bed? All of a sudden, cold dread fills him. Chokes him. John. Rosie. The beeping of his heart monitor picks up speed, as panic overwrites every thinking part of his brain. Then, mercifully, darkness.
When he wakes up again, he sees the one face he needs to see most in this world. The man who has saved him in any way conceivable. John Watson.
“Take it easy for now. They told me you had a bit of a panic attack earlier. No wonder really. Don’t know what Mycroft was thinking. You know, for a genius, he can be amazingly stupid. Do you know where you are? You have been awake a few times already, but never quite here.”
Sherlock opens his mouth, but for a moment words fail him. Just behind John, sleeping and most definitely alive, her hands resting on her swollen abdomen, sits Mary Watson. His mind implodes on itself. He struggles, gags, screams. Somewhere there is John’s voice, trying to calm him down. Hands push him onto his bed, he feels the comforting familiarity of a needle in his arm and then the darkness claims him back.
In the end, it takes him five more attempts before he is not forcefully send back to unconsciousness. Mycroft is back at his bedside. Guiding him trough the wake-up. Debriefing him.
“What do you remember?”
“Mary. Eurus. Sherringford.”
“Eurus? Ah, yes. The East Wind. You used to like that story.”
“I never liked it, Mycroft.” The older man answers with an indulged smile.
“You know Mrs. Watson to be in excellent health. You’ve seen her already.”
“I also saw her die.”
“Sherlock, I am trying to help you.”
“When were you ever able to help me?” For a moment Mycroft looks as if he is physically hurting. It passes quickly.
“Never, I fear. Now, I hope. If you’ll let me.”
“Then tell me, tell me what happened.” He is getting impatient. His confusion is crippling him.
“You shot Magnussen. You were imprisoned. You were send to a mission that was likely to cost you your life. You were reassigned. What more do you need to know?”
“How can I tell when I stop dreaming?”
“Have you ever known me to be wrong?”
“I have never known you to be anything but.” It's a lie of course, but there are rules to these kind of brotherly conversations.
“You are not dreaming.”
And that is all it takes. Because Sherlock’s mind is not as rational a thing as he would like to believe. And in his mind Mycroft is never wrong.