All is Fair in Love and War

The Best Medicine

JOHN WATSON

It was an hour before the LPD was confident in calling the military base secured. Moriarty, still unconscious and probably concussed, was strapped into a straightjacket and removed in a police helicopter, Moran with him. The hired mercenaries were similarly collected and packed off in bulk for the nearest prison locality. John learned this only later, for he and Sherlock were also taken via helicopter and transferred to St. Bart's with swift immediacy.

At the hospital, John vehemently protested medical assistance, and once the nurses had ascertained that he was mostly just a mess of bruises, they packed some gauze onto the more serious ones and let him alone. It was late, and he was exhausted, but he couldn't sleep without knowing how Sherlock was faring.

Flagging a nurse, he tried not to pester her too much as he inquired into his friend's condition.

"It's really hard to say yet," she told the doctor apologetically. "They're trying to get him stabilized."

John closed his eyes. "How bad is it?"

"I'm afraid it's not good. Are you family?"

"His flatmate."

"Then I'm not sure I can say -"

"Ah, Ms. Drew, I presume?" Mycroft's dulcet tones interrupted her as the politician came around the corner.

"Yes, that's me. And... you are?" the young woman asked, flushing slightly.

"Mycroft Holmes. I have the dubious honor of being Sherlock's older brother."

"Oh. Mr. Holmes, excuse me." She flushed further. "I'm sure you want to know more about your brother. Perhaps we should go somewhere more private?" Her gaze shifted pointedly to John.

Mycroft waved her down. "John is a family friend," he said. "He should hear the news as well."

"Very good, sir." She sighed, spreading hands on her apron. "Sherlock sustained significant blood loss, as well as multiple fractures to the four lower ribs and his right leg. The doctors are setting the breaks and a blood transfusion is already underway. He regained consciousness not long after he arrived, so we've since put him back under. Besides that, your brother has numerous bruises and first degree burns; whatever he was up to, Mr. Holmes, he got in a bit over his head."

"That's not really any of your business," Mycroft said coolly, "but for the record, yes, he did."

"When can we see him?" John asked.

"Not until the doctors have finished. At a guess, I would give it an hour."

The blonde man thanked her and leaned back in his chair, letting the crown of his head rest against the cold wall. Mycroft stood next to him, pulling a small package from his jacket.

"Cigarette?" he asked, offering John the pack.

The doctor looked at him sidelong. "This is a hospital."

"And?"

"And... I don't smoke."

Mycroft shrugged. "Neither do I, but sometimes it is a habit justified by circumstance."

"Kindly take your habit outside."

Oddly enough, the politician did not argue, stepping out onto a balcony down the hall before lighting up. When he returned, smelling faintly of smoke, he chose to stand next to the doctor again, a fact that John found both puzzling and comforting.

"Do you want to sit down?" he asked, gesturing at the chair next to him. Mycroft glanced at it before replying.

"Thank you. No. I can't stand sitting in hospitals. I've done too much of it."