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Sherlock was fighting the paramedics, twisting and hitting. Though John wasn’t surprised that his friend was combative after being locked in the warehouse cellar for so long, the amount of blood seeping through his hasty bandaging was worrying. When Sherlock began to emit strangled, pained sounds, John couldn’t take it any longer.
“Oi, back off!” he shouted. The words came out sharper than he intended, a military order, and the two medics froze. John shouldered past the man who had been trying to strap down Sherlock’s flailing arms and leaned over the trolley so that his friend could see him. “Sherlock,” he said, his voice gentle but firm, “you’re all right. We got you out. Look at me, okay? Sherlock?” John caught a hand that had come up to claw at him, held it still. The action took very little effort, but provoked a strong reaction.
“No!” Sherlock said furiously, fighting to pull away. “No, no, no!”
John immediately released his arm. “Please, Sherlock, calm down. You’re safe, I promise. Just lie still. You’re hurting yourself.”
“Get away! Don’t touch me!”
John backed off a little more. “Okay. Okay, Sherlock. I won’t. Just calm down.” But it was evident that his friend was beyond reason. Sherlock continued to thrash, making muffled, pained noises. John turned to the nearest paramedic. “You’ve got Fentanyl?” he asked, resigned.
“Sure,” the man said. “We usually push it with Diazepam. That all right?”
John nodded. “I didn’t want to sedate him, but—”
“Doctor Watson?” A new voice broke through the crowd, and John turned to see Mycroft striding towards him, his sleek black umbrella in hand, looking supremely unruffled. He came to stand on the other side of the trolley, his sharp eyes sweeping over Sherlock dispassionately. “What are his injuries?”
Taking a moment to mentally curse the Holmes brothers and their bloody dramatic entrances, John sighed. He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Lacerations on his shoulder and back. Concussion. Don’t know any more than that, because he won’t let me get close.”
Mycroft seemed to consider this for a moment, and then looked down at Sherlock. “Perhaps if I tried?” he suggested mildly.
John shrugged. “Couldn’t hurt,” he said.
Mycroft handed his umbrella to a very confused paramedic and leaned over the trolley. Sherlock was still twisting and moaning agitatedly, and when he saw someone standing over him, began to panic again. “Don’t! I won’t let you! No, no—”
“Sherlock,” Mycroft said sharply. Everyone in the vicinity jumped; Sherlock froze, his eyes wide. “You will stop this at once.” His tone was commanding, brooking no argument. Slowly, deliberately, Mycroft reached for his brother. Sherlock visibly tensed.
John held his breath, not daring to disturb the sudden silence.
Mycroft’s hand touched Sherlock’s forehead, smoothed away limp, sweaty curls from his face. “I’m here, and no one will touch you again. I swear it.”
Sherlock stayed rigidly still for a long moment, his chest moving with short, panicky breaths. Then, suddenly, he heaved a great sigh. The tension drained from his body, until he lay limp and weak on the trolley.
Sherlock blinked dazedly. “Mycroft?” he whispered.
“Yes.” Mycroft’s hand moved to Sherlock’s shoulder, his thumb rubbing gentle circles there. “Close your eyes, Sherlock.”
“But—”
“They’ll not be back. I’ve made sure of it. Now close your eyes.”
Sherlock obeyed. Within moments, his breathing evened out, as he either fell asleep or slipped into unconsciousness. Mycroft’s hand lingered on his brother’s shoulder for a moment longer; for a fleeting second, John saw an uncharacteristic softness in his face. Then Mycroft turned to him, his usual smug expression firmly in place.
“He’ll be all right, of course?”
“Of course,” John answered, a bit stunned.
“Carry on, then,” Mycroft said, retrieving his umbrella from the even more stunned paramedic. He turned to walk back to a sleek black car across the street, where his PA stood dutifully, Blackberry in hand.
“Mycroft,” John said abruptly, feeling the sudden urge to say something—a thank you or a reassurance or a what the hell was that?
Mycroft spun on heel. “Yes, Doctor Watson?”
Seeing his expression, the words died on John’s lips. “Never mind,” he said.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Do try and prevent him from terrorising the hospital staff, or nipping down to the morgue. Too much paperwork, you understand.”
John nodded, unable to get words past his lips, because something had just happened that he thought only occurred with Sherlock. He had read a full and eloquent statement of emotion in Mycroft’s eyes.
Take care of him, John. Make sure he’s all right. I don’t know what I would do if . . .
And then Mycroft turned away, stepped into the backseat of his car, and was gone.
John turned back to Sherlock. “Archenemies, my arse,” he muttered, and climbed into the back of the ambulance.