All is Fair in Love and War

The Best Medicine

John chose diplomatically to not respond to that last, opting rather to sit silently.

"You saved my life," Mycroft said suddenly. "And Sherlock's. Again."

John raised his eyebrows. "It's what anyone would have done," he said finally.

"No," said Mycroft. "It isn't."

It turned out to be three hours before the hospital staff were willing to admit visitors into the ICU. When finally the doctor came out to brief them, John was on the verge of falling asleep in his chair, but at the first mention of the detective's name he felt wide awake, all traces of weariness gone.

"The anesthesia's worn off, but he's sleeping," the doctor was saying. "I can let you in to see him, but I recommend you let him rest."

Mycroft motioned to John, but the blonde man bit his lip and turned his head.

"Go ahead," he heard himself saying. "I'll give you a minute."

Now that it came down to it, he wasn't sure he could face Sherlock. What if the detective blamed him for what happened? It had been at John's insistence that they had gone after Moriarty in the first place. After Mary's death, he'd been too overwrought to consider a safer course of action, and the detective had suffered for it. What if Sherlock couldn't forgive him? God knew John was having trouble forgiving himself. A single sob, not even half formed, caught in his throat.

The door to the ICU opened and Mycroft came striding back out, looking exasperated.

"Well, he certainly made a mess of himself," the official snorted. "You can sit with him, if you don't mind watching him drool. I'm off."

"You're leaving?" John asked in surprise, standing.

"I have paperwork to attend to. Nothing is served by my staying. He'll recover, and I dare say he'll complain about every minute of it."

Mycroft was most of the way down the hall before John called after him, "You're not fooling me. I know you care about him."

The politician stopped mid-stride. He did not turn around, but after a moment, he said, "Then my showing it would just be redundant."

He left.

John stared after him a moment before hesitantly pushing open the door to Sherlock's room. The detective lay in a hospital bed, a dozen tubes protruding from under the thin sheets. His skin looked fragile under the fluorescents, and next to the black curls lying flaccid against his forehead it seemed likewise too pale. The hollows around his eyes were more sunken than usual, and the burns on his arms stood out in sharp relief. All told, it was an image John had seen too many times, the death mask of one who already had one foot in the ground.

With a shuddering breath, the doctor sank into the visitor's chair left next to the bed. He found the detective's hand under the sheet and held it.

"God, Sherlock, I'm so sorry," he whispered.

"Whatever for?" came the quiet reply.

John started, looking up to find blue-grey eyes focused intently on him.

"You're supposed to be asleep," the blonde man chided.

"What, so you can make misguided pleas of apology by my bedside like I'm a corpse or something?" Sherlock tossed his curls out of his face. "Mmm. No."

"How long have you been awake?"

"Since the anesthetic wore off."

"And Mycroft didn't know?"