Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are in the public domain, but I claim no responsibilities for the wonders Gatiss and Moffat have created with the BBC version.

It starts slowly.

Actually, it starts with ringing telephones and surveillance cameras, but John tends to gloss over that bit because it's still one of the stranger things that's happened to him. So in John's mind, it starts slowly.

The crime scene is exhilarating and terrifying. The image of the woman in pink lying on the floor is burned in to the back of his eyelids and he is confused and amazed beyond belief at everything Sherlock does and says. His limp, of course, is still there as he walks towards the main street, cane in hand, jacket wrapped tightly around his body, and he is entirely unaware of the turning cameras. Dark eyes trace his movements through the streets of London.

The illusion of privacy is shattered when the phone rings.

'Hello?'

His voice is cautious, but not hostile, and he has no idea about what is about to happen.

'Get in to the car, Doctor Watson. I would make some kind of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you.'

It is obvious the moment John realises what is happening. The expressionless, military mask falls firmly in to place and he holds himself tightly as the car pulls up alongside the curb. He doesn't hesitate, however, and climbs in through the opened door as the dark eyes watch on with interest.

For John, when he steps out of the car it's the first time they meet. For the gentleman, it's the first time they meet in the flesh, rather than pixels and light on a screen. There is immediately something: the heat of attraction and some kind of tension that he couldn't feel through the TV screen. John puts it down to his racing heart and the adrenaline coursing through his veins. The man has no such thing to hide behind. Their conversation is tense, like they're testing each other, and John hasn't felt this alive since he came back from the war.

The man standing in front of him is controlled, the complete opposite of Sherlock and everything he's seen in the past few hours, and he is dangerous. The soft voice, the sharp, dark suit, the casual swinging of the blue umbrella - it screams danger, and John finds his pulse quickens with desire. And then he says:

'I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen' and 'Show me' and it takes every inch of John's self control to hold his hand steady.

'You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks it's Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service.'

John very nearly gives himself away as those long fingers touch his skin. They're soft and warm against his wind-blown hands, and he fires words back, hides behind the out the man is giving him.

'Fire her. She's got it the wrong way round. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady. You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson. You miss it.'

He's wrong, this man in front of him. He's wrong for the first time this evening, because John's hand isn't steady because of the battlefield and Sherlock Holmes. Oh no. His hand is steady because of this; because of the man holding it, warm against his skin, and because of litany of emotions currently running through his body; none of which are fear or stress.

Of course, the man turns out to be somebody entirely unexpected. He's still dangerous - of course he is - but that danger reduces the moment John finds out who he is. The problem is that that something - that attraction - doesn't reduce, and John finds that his pulse still quickens whenever he sees Mycroft Holmes.

At first, it's easy to deal with. Mycroft tends not to frequent 221B all that often, and in the few times he does, the air is so thick with animosity between the two brothers that John can't really feel anything himself anyway. Instead, he sits off to the side and watches. He pretends to himself that he's watching the conversation - the bickering - as it bounces back and forth, but the reality is that his gaze doesn't leave Mycroft for too long. He wonders if they notice. Knowing Sherlock, he does, but for some reason he declines to mention it. Mycroft is a different matter - an unknown entity - but John finds he doesn't care if he does know.

There is a space of a couple of weeks when he doesn't see Mycroft at all. The days pass in a haze of night and day and colourful noise and John almost forgets about sharp suits and blue umbrellas. But then comes the case of Westy. All of a sudden Mycroft is there, in the front room of his flat, and John can barely breathe as the attraction rushes back full force.

The shock of the feeling fades, but the intensity is as sharp as ever, and as Mycroft and Sherlock bicker, and he moves to the window to catch his breath. His eyes alight on the ruins of the house opposite, and for a moment he forgets Mycroft as he thinks of what could have been - what, thankfully, didn't happen. He doesn't get much time before the older Holmes is back in his head. There's a question aimed at him, and John blinks.

'What?'

John turns back to the two men sitting on the chairs in front of him, and before he knows it, he's being handed a folder containing top secret information. Mycroft's smooth, deep voice rolls over him, and although John knows he should protest, there is a glimmer of amusement in the taller man's eyes, and John is helpless. Mycroft reaches out, shakes his hand and holds on for longer than he needs to; the warmth of his skin seeping into John's as he leans forward.

'Goodbye John. See you very soon.'

The next time John sees Mycroft, he feels so stupid. There is nothing John can find out, nothing he can do that even remotely resembles what Sherlock does, and yet he finds himself dressed in his one suit that hasn't somehow borne the brunt of one of Sherlock's experiments, sitting in Mycroft's darkened office and asking questions. John is mostly thankful that Mycroft humours him. He lets him ask his questions and replies honestly, but there is a small part that wants Mycroft to call him on it, for him to ask John what he's doing, because this isn't him - he's a doctor, not a detective.

'Then how did he end up with a bashed-in brain on the tracks at Battersea; that is the question. And I was rather hoping Sherlock would find an answer to. How's he getting on?'

John tries. Honestly, he tries, but Mycroft is sitting there, arms folded and legs crossed as he leans back against his desk, looking every inch like he doesn't believe a single word John is saying. Not for the first time, John curses Sherlock, as he stutters and stammers his way through an excuse.

He can't bear the weight of Mycroft's narrowed gaze and the sense of disappointment that makes his stomach clench, so he makes himself leave and walks home. There is a dull ache in his leg that hasn't been present for a while, and John doesn't want to think about why it's back; instead, he grits his teeth and limps on. He doesn't' notice the dark eyes that watch him leave, or the familiar black car that follows him home.

From then on, everything moves quickly.

The Westy Case is solved; the other case isn't. John suddenly has no time to think about anything other than the blow to the head that knocks him unconscious, and the madman talking at him while he's pushed and pulled in to a jacket made of Semtex in a swimming pool changing room. But then he's still, because his training has kicked in and he's found that unnatural calm, that strange ability of his to face whatever this is head on without flinching.

The madman, Moriarty, smiles coldly.

'It's rude to be greedy, Johnny-boy.' He says. John just stares at him, and then cocks his head slightly to the side.

'What do you mean?'

It's not so much a question - more of a demand for information - and Moriarty's gaze hardens.

'My my. A little slow on the uptake, aren't we? I do wonder what they see in you. But then…'

Moriarty steps closer, and a cool finger strokes down his cheek. John can't stop the shiver of revulsion that runs through his body as Moriarty's breath ghosts across his skin.

'I wonder how far I could push you.' He murmurs. 'I wonder how far you would bend before you broke. Do you think they'd still want you if you were broken?'

John has heard worse threats. He has been threatened with violence and torture and stood firm, but this man makes him scared. He has a cold insanity, and John knows his threats aren't empty.

'Did you know, John, how hard it was to get to you - how well you're guarded?'

Moriarty moves, circling him.

'Sherlock sees so much, it's hard to get around him, but Mycroft. Ohhh, Mycroft. He watches you like a hawk. Did you know that John? Have you felt his eyes on you? It's all rather… sweet.'

The last word is spat at him, and John flinches slightly, mind racing, but Moriarty doesn't see as he walks towards the door at the end of the room. A sickening smile twists his face, and John finds himself stumbling forward as one of Moriarty's men pushes him in the back.

'Now, Johnny-boy. You must do exactly as I tell you, say nothing else or…boom!'

And then John's walking through the door of the pool. The light is blue and flickering, and the look of betrayal on Sherlock's face is heartbreaking, but then everything changes as John pulls the parka open, revealing the coat of explosives.

It's all a blur and John can barely see past the coat of Semtex. Then it's gone, and there is a wholly new danger as Sherlock aims his gun at the explosives now lying on the floor.

It's funny, John reflects - he'd always thought that seeing your life flash before your eyes was a myth, but as he kneels there, he sees everything; he sees the war and Sherlock and Harry. He sees Mycroft.

And then the world explodes.

In one moment, the cool inside of the swimming pool detonates into a maelstrom of red and orange and pain. The sudden shock of cold envelopes him, and he can't breathe. John struggles against whatever is holding him under the water, twisting his arms and legs, head shaking as his lungs burn. His open eyes see the fire that sweeps across the top of the pool, and he feels the shockwaves as chunks of debris begin to fall from the ceiling.

He's survived the explosion; he doesn't think he can survive a falling building. He feels a sick sort of triumph as he feels the pressure and blinding pain in his side, and he sinks further down, pinned to the bottom. He opens his eyes, and the last thing he sees is Sherlock.

He doesn't know how long he's been like this. The world to him is a mass of shadowed voices - some he recognises, others he doesn't - but always there is someone at his side, whispering. He can't understand. He wishes he knew what they were saying, but when he reaches towards that deep, comforting voice, his quiet, calm world erupts into pain, and he sinks again. But he cries. He wants to be closer to that voice, he craves it… The voice is louder, soothing, and he calms and lets the dark drag him down.

John opens his eyes, flickering his eyelids against the harsh light. He feels strange, light-headed and sleepy, and he knows this feeling straight away. Morphine. Slowly, and calmly, John moves his toes, and his legs, his fingers and his arms. He hisses as his limbs protest at the movement, but he could weep with relief at the pain and ability to move his limbs.

It's only then that he looks around. He's in a private room and the curtains are closed - night time then - then he turns his head the other way, and stops, eyes fixed on the man sitting at his bedside.

Mycroft smiles slightly, and leans forward.

'Hello, John.'

John moves to talk, but his voice is nothing more than a rasping whisper. Mycroft picks a plastic cup of water up off the table, and holds it to John's mouth, allowing him to take small sips; wetting his throat. When he speaks, his voice is still rough, but he forces the words out.

'Mycroft. How long?'

'A week.' John closes his eyes briefly, and takes a deep breath. When he opens

them again, Mycroft is watching him intensely.

'Sherlock?'

'He's fine. He's on bed rest at my house. So naturally he's carrying out experiments. My housekeeper is keeping an eye on him.'

A wave of relief washes through John, and it leaves him feeling exhausted. He closes his eyes.

'Thank you, Mycroft.' He murmurs, and he feels Mycroft shift closer, feels the warmth press into his arm.

'What for?' Mycroft's voice is deep and soothing next to his ear, and it reminds John of something, but the memory is gone before he can hold on to it.

'For being here with me.' His words are slurring slightly, but as he slides towards sleep he feels the soft press of lips against his forehead, and he smiles.

When he wakes next, the world is less of a blur, but the pain is markedly more. His room is empty, and so he shifts in the bed, wincing as the movement jars the burns on his legs and the deep wound in his side, and he allows a grimaces to twist his lips.

The pain doesn't fade, but John focuses and pushes it aside for a moment as he tries to take in his surroundings in more detail. The room is large for a private room, and it's quiet, which is unusual. John has, he thinks, entirely too much experience of hospitals, but this is definitely the quietest he's been in. He can hear the hum of voices, and the soft patter of footsteps up and down the corridor outside, but it doesn't intrude. The pain flares, and he wishes it did, if only to give some distraction.

He shifts again, knowing he shouldn't but unable to stop himself, as he tries to move away from the pain, but it rushes through him again. His breath is becoming laboured and he can feel the beginnings of panic stir, but he can't stop moving.

There's a flare of agony in his side, sharper and deeper than the rest, and he gasps as he twists his fingers in the sheets. He knows that pain isn't good; he knows it means that he's burst the stitches and the flood of warmth on his skin confirms it. He's gasping for air now, unable to catch enough breath even to scream and the edge of his vision is blackening.

The pain is so overwhelming, so agonisingly deep and encompassing, that he barely hears the alarms on the heart-monitor sound. He doesn't see the door fly open and slam off the wall as doctors and nurses flood to his side. And he doesn't see the tall man, standing at the doorway, eyebrows drawn together and a blue umbrella clasped tightly in his hand.

Consciousness, it seems, is quite forceful when it wants to be. It reaches into your mind and dreams, and drags you up, towards the light. John struggles, because he remembers the pain and the terror pressing down on his chest the last time he was awake, and he dreads it. But consciousness cannot be denied, and he finds his eyes fluttering open.

He blinks rapidly against the harsh light in the hospital room, but this time everything is different. There is a tube down his throat, and no pain. His doctor-brain automatically fills in the reasons (probably shock and a particularly nasty post-traumatic seizure going by his last few moments of consciousness) and perversely he feels himself relax. When he turns his head to the side, he's surprised to see Mycroft, sitting in the same position as before, but this time he looks different.

It takes John a moment to figure out why, but then he realises that Mycroft is in the same suit as the last time John saw him, his shirt is rumpled and he looks tired.

John's mind immediately turns to Sherlock. His alarm must show on his face, and Mycroft is quick to lean forward, already knowing the cause for his concern.

'Sherlock is fine, John.' He murmurs, and reaches out his hand. Long fingers trace down John's cheek, and the doctor feels his heart flutter. Unfortunately, so does the machine, and it lets out a bleep of alarm. John feels the heat rise to his face, but Mycroft just smiles slightly.

'You, John.' He says. Two words, but it's all John needs to know why Mycroft looks the way he does, and he leans in to the hand at his cheek. His eyes flicker shut, heavy with tiredness, and he drifts off to sleep again, knowing that Mycroft will be there when he wakes.

He's intubated only for a few days, and he coughs the tube from his throat with a grimace. He's sitting up in bed now, feeling less hazy with his lowered medication dose and the absence of Mycroft. The man has been at the hospital like clockwork - arriving when John wakes, leaving two hours later.

Today, however, he woke without Mycroft at his bedside. Instead, sitting curled up with her legs tucked under her body, is Harry. She is another regular visitor, although it's strange to think that this is what will bring their relationship back on track. She smiles when his eyes flicker open.

'Good morning, sleepy.' She teases gently, tucking her long blonde hair out of her face as she leans over to kiss him on the cheek.

'How are you feeling today?'

John smiles slightly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

'Better,' he admits, 'I feel like I can think clearly again. I dread to think how Sherlock's been getting on with medication.'

Harry grins. The last few days, the days since the breathing-tube was removed, have given the Watson siblings a chance to talk and reconnect, and Harry knows everything about Sherlock; just as John knows everything about Clara and the AA meetings.

'Has he been to visit you yet?'

John wrinkles his nose slightly.

'No. Apparently he can't stay in bed long enough for the cut on his leg to heal. Mycroft has forbidden him to leave the house until it stops reopening.'

Harry's eyes brighten when John mentions Mycroft. John has been subtle, saying nothing of the very different circumstances he's found with Mycroft since waking up, but Harry can tell something is up, and her smile turns mischievous.

'And has Mycroft been in to see you?' She asks, laughing as John feels the heat rush to his face, making him blush like only Harry ever could. He's missed this; the playful side to his sister and the relationship they used to have before the drinking started. Harry is still giggling when the noise of a throat being cleared comes from the doorway, and John closes his eyes in mortification.

Harry, however, is delighted.

'You must be Mycroft.' She announces, deducing in a very Holmesian way. The man himself smiles back at her infectious mood.

'And you must be Harriet. Harry.' He corrects himself straight away as her eyes narrow playfully.

Harry throws John a look, then smiles disarmingly at Mycroft.

'We were just talking about you.'

John just groans, and Mycroft laughs.

'I heard.'

John finds himself wishing the floor would open up and swallow him. Instead, he opts for the next best thing, and sinks carefully down in his bed, and pulling a pillow across his face. He immediately thinks better of it, and pulls the pillow away, only to be met with a horrifying sight - Harry, taking down Mycroft's number and promising coffee. It's almost enough to make him wish he hadn't survived. But only almost. Not quite.

'Hello, Mycroft.' He says instead, and is rewarded with that smile turning in his direction.

'Good morning John. You're feeling better.' The words are a statement, not a question, and his voice is the softest John has ever heard. They look at each other for a moment, before the moment is broken by Harry shuffling her feet.

'I'm going to go.' She states, and grabs her bag and coat from the chair. John starts to protest, but she holds up a hand and smiles.

'I'll be back tomorrow. I have to go and see Clara.' John quiets at this, and nods. Harry darts to his bedside and leans over, kissing his cheek and whispering in his ear; 'Good catch, Johnny,' and then she's gone with a smile at Mycroft, leaving John blushing in her wake.

Mycroft moves towards the bed, and sits in the chair at the bedside. John watches him for a moment, wondering how he could have read him so wrong at the beginning because this man is both everything and nothing that John thought he wanted. Mycroft looks up.

'I have a rather pleasant surprise for you.'

'Sherlock has managed to stay in bed for a night?' John asks, more out of needless hope than actually belief. Mycroft laughs.

'No, I don't believe that will ever happen.' He replies, and John silently agrees. 'No, not that. You're going to be discharged tomorrow.'

The news is a surprise, and John raises his eyebrows. He had thought he was still at least one week from being released, not one day, and although the news is welcome - very welcome because he hates hospitals - he finds his stomach twists slightly in apprehension. His emotions must show on his face, because Mycroft leans forward.

'John?' He asks, voice questioning concerned. John just shakes his head, and smiles; it's mostly genuine.

'Wonderful. I'll ask Harry to help me back to Baker Street.' But Mycroft is shaking his head before he even finishes his sentence.

No, John. Sherlock is not moving from my house until I am sure he won't damage himself further, and that is where you'll be staying as well.'

John feels a twist of irritation at the instructing tone, but he pushes it down hard, because he has a niggling suspicion that the only reason he's being released is because of Mycroft.

'John.' He looks up from his fingers twisting in the bed sheets and into Mycroft's unwavering gaze. The look is all he needs, and he sighs and nods, because Mycroft seems to have some hold over him. John thinks he imagines the soft exhale, and breathed thank you, but he knows he doesn't imagine those fingers as they trace down his face.

John closes his eyes and leans in to the touch, his breath shaking and uneven as the fingers map his skin. Then they're gone, but there's the rustle of cloth and the soft rush of air on his face and John stops breathing altogether as lips press against his own. They're still for a moment, but then Mycroft moves and John gasps into him, his hand moving to touch cautiously at the warm skin above him.

The kiss ends all too soon, but Mycroft doesn't move away. John opens his eyes and looks up into those above him, darkened with emotion and he reaches a hand out to touch his cheek. They stay like that for a minute more, and then Mycroft shifts. He presses a kiss to John's forehead and moves away, his hand closing around the umbrella propped up against the bedside table.

'I have a lot to prepare.' He murmurs at John's questioning look, because he's only been there twenty minutes or so.

'I'll be here as normal tomorrow.' He smiles warmly, and then is gone; footsteps tapping away down the corridor, and John is left stunned.

It takes effort and a lot of strength to move John to Mycroft's house. John has been dosed up on painkillers, but his injuries are still painful; the burns on his legs pull under their bandages, the long cut on his head throbs, and the wound in his side still aches deeply inside, but he is determined to leave the hospital. He holds on tightly to the porters as they move him to the wheelchair.

John is breathing hard, but he's controlled as his hands clench in to fists in his lap. The transfer from the wheelchair to the car that is taking him to Mycroft's house is harder, and his vision swims as he finally leans against the back of the seats in the car.

John has seen Mycroft's expression as he was moved from the chair to the car; he's seen the tightening of skin around his eyes and the way that his knuckles have turned white as he grips his umbrella. John flashes him a tired grin as the man ducks in to the car through the opposite door, and once again those long, warm fingers trail down his face. Mycroft's voice is deep and soothing as he speaks.

'Relax. It'll be a while before we arrive.' The fingers dancing across his skin still, and the palm of Mycroft's rests for a moment on his head before moving away. John keeps his eyes closed, and feels himself drifting as the gentle rock of the car sends him to sleep.