Worth the Wounds continuation

Although it pained him to admit it Sherlock's plan, no matter how brilliant the genius was, was not going to work. John could feel it in every fiber of his being. And it saddened his heart to know that he would soon be deployment back out into Afghanistan to the horrors waiting there. He sighed and wriggled slightly. He knew this was a bad idea.

Having a disgustingly influential brother in the British government, (who also may or may not have access to very personal information about the current Commander in Chief of the British armed forces,) comes in useful when trying to ensure that ones army doctor, flatmate, good friend and potential lover is not deployed back into Afghanistan. All it would take is a short visit from a trusted advisor of the army. Theoretically, simple.

John sat on the sofa, his left leg propped up on the coffee table and his lower lip jutting out in a petulant pout that in any other circumstances would have made a sulking consulting detective proud. Except currently, the detective was standing to the side admiring what a fine job he had done in bandaging John's thigh beyond recognition where McCarthy had shot him. Or rather, at him. From a medical point of view the wound was healing nicely, but John had received earlier instruction from a frantic detective to 'look as frail as possible' while Sherlock had bandaged his leg with a solemn reverence in his eyes which had frightened John a little. So he was to do as he was told. Excpet now the bandages were becoming increasingly itchy.

"Don't look like that, John. You know as well as I do that we will have to..." Sherlock pursed his lips, his hand flouncing in the air as he searched his palace for the right word.

"Lie." John unhelpfully supplied.

"Bend the truth. Hyperbolise, overemphasise, if you like, the small gunshot wound to your leg."

"As suffered in great and courageous pursuit of McCarthy." John muttered as Sherlock continued sprouting out a thesaurus worth of words.

"Accentuate."

"It won't go well."

"Lay it on thick."

"They'll find out - it could be seen as cowardice. Jesus, they'll kill me."

"This isn't the early twentieth century, John, and I'm not the Almighty. They can't kill you for cowardice."

So he was listening. "Can't they?" John questioned doubtfully, one eyebrow raised.

Sherlock's teeth snapped shut, unsure whether they could or not. He frowned and shook his head. Surely not. "We'll cross that bridge if we come to it. For now, we just have to convince this," he pulled a piece of paper from a pocket inside his suit jacket and carefully pulled it open, "Murray, that you are unfit for duty due to an injury sustained whilst doing your both difficult and dangerous job of consultant police work alongside myself. Have him sign you off and then-" He trailed off and dropped his head. His voice had debentures its string self assured tone, but now it lowered, dropped to a quiet reverence. "And then I get to keep you safe with me."

Sherlock understood what he was asking of John, to give up serving his beloved county. He knew it would be difficult for John to do because the doctor was such a good man, a man of his word and for a long time his loyalty lay with the army. But since his last tour, and the wound that almost killed him, John himself doubted his own resolve and faith in the army. But John did not lament that loss, it was worth the shoulder wound to be brought to Sherlock's side. And now it was worth his thigh wound, that silently seeps blood through the bandages, to lose his unlamented allegiance to the armed forces and stop risking his life away from Sherlock when he could risk it next to him.

John raised his head in time to watch Sherlock's internal torment flash briefly across his face. The good doctor raised his hand out to Sherlock's and brushed their fingers together. If that was how Sherlock was feeling, wanting to keep John safe, John too was immeasurably grateful to be able to stay besides his detective to keep him out of danger. His head still bent, Sherlock's fingers moved to meet John's, tangling and squeezing briefly.

The doorbell rang. Their hands dropped.

"Show time."

Murray turned out to be well build man of average height, shorter than Mycroft and Sherlock but a little taller than John, Sherlock presumed. It was difficult to tell when the detective was too busy bristling at how comfortable the armed forces advisor looked in his beloved leather chair. Murray ran short stubby fingers over the slight bristle of his chin, (assumably against regulation, but then the stern looking advisor did have a desk job now) before touching them to the arm of the chair as he leaned forwards to speak to Mycroft, Sherlock glowered.

"It does seem apparent to me, Mister Holmes, that Captain Watson here is unsuitable for deployment to the front line." Murray looked across to John who was still on the sofa next to Sherlock. Captain Watson had taken on a distant detached look in his eyes, staring eerily into the empty fireplace as if fascinated by ghostly flames, unseen to others.

Mycroft shot a glance at Sherlock, looking concerned. His attention flickered back to Murray. "Yes, it is true that he has not been 'all there', shall we say, since his return previously. Unfortunately, my brother and I never knew his merits beforehand, but I've spoken to his sister, Harriet. She informed me what he was like before, growing up and the like. Wonderful man."

"I love him regardless." Sherlock said, his voice soft but firm in the quiet living room.

John's eyes widened imperceptibly.

"Of course.". Murray watched Sherlock with narrowed eyes as the detective reached for John's hand where it sat, inanimate, his his lap. He gave it a squeeze which seemed to break John's ghostly stare. The captain looked to Sherlock and smiled weakly.

"Mister Holmes may I speak to you in the hallway?" Murray asked, standing. Both brothers stood and looked at each other before turning to Murray with almost identical looks of questioning. "The elder." Murray clarified, leading the way in front of Mycroft into the hall. The door clicked shut behind them and was followed by eery quiet.

"Bollocks." John muttered softly, breaking for his facade, "Do you think-"

"Shhh." Sherlock had his head cocked to one side and his ears pricked, if he had been a Labrador, his ears would would have picked up and his tongue would have lolled from the side of his mouth. John smirked at the imagery.

"Can't hear a blasted thing." The detective huffed and sat down, leaning back into the sofa with furrowed brow and nibbling on his lip.

John kept quiet for a moment, listening, but also thinking to himself. Had that meeting gone well enough to ensure him to remain in England? Why was Murray only speaking to Mycroft, and what were they saying? It had started well enough, he supposed. Murray had arrived punctually, had been welcomed and made tea. John had half got up to make the tea before realising that he could not due to his leg and shortly thereafter took up his facade of the blank staring.

Post pleasantry exchanges where John had kept reasonably quiet and winced every time he moved slightly had lead to Sherlock explaining, rough at least, what had happened. Thus prompting Murray to conclude that he was't all to fit for duty. Now all they could do was wait for the advisor and Mycroft to renter the room.

Mycroft had followed Murray curiously into the hallway and pulled the door shut behind him until it clicked with an odd air if finality in the silent hall. "I would appreciate our voices being kept rather low; my brother has a keen sense of hearing as well a tremendous aptitude for poking his nose where is does not belong." Mycroft's tight smile was met by a matching one, humourless, from the shorter man.

"Mycroft, do you trust Sherlock?" Murray's voice was quiet and careful, measuring each word's weight on his lips before speaking in received pronunciation. Mycroft also noted that it was the first time the advisor had used their given names.

It was not a question that was asked often, whether one trusted the man you grew up next to, your own flesh and blood. In many cases it is assumed that people would do anything for their family, their siblings and parents and children. For the rare few, however, family ties are completely irrelevant despite blood being thicker than water. In cases such as these, brother would betray brother, divulging information to those who wish to do harm.

Mycroft Holmes is not a man who would betray his brother. Whether than be by divulging intelligence or even merely telling that Sherlock stole the last cupcake. Despite their differences they had been a team growing up, perfecting distract and attack tactics on the kitchen staff at the manor house, and sharing their booty of treasure upstairs. When Sherlock had come to him, asking for help and using his old nickname, Mycroft's heart had ached for their bond, weakened by time.

Mycroft Holmes is not a man who would betray his own brother, no, in fact he would do anything for him in all his power. But he is also a very proud man, and would never tell Sherlock this.

When he spoke Mycroft's voice was soft but steady and firm in a way almost haunting with his command, his gaze fixed on the large dark circles of Murray's pupils in the dim hall.

"Jonah, I trust Sherlock with all my worldly being. If I were murdered tomorrow, I'd want him and no one else in all of time to crack the case."

Murray held the gaze for a moment before nodding briefly once, in true military ship shape and Bristol fashion. "Captain Watson's second primary gunshot wound injury and clear detached nature do both suggest to me that he would be an unfit officer to have on the front line. He may be called at a later date for desk work but that would be in country at the local base. "

Regardless of a lack of uniform, Murray's feet came together and he stood slightly taller as he saluted Mycroft. "Mister Holmes."

"Thank you very much Leiutenant Murray. I expect the paperwork to go through as soon as possible. Goodbye now."

The elder Holmes received another brisk nod before Murray stood down and descended the stairs quietly.

Mycroft smiled.

Meanwhile back inside 221b, Sherlock was pacing. "If this has not worked and you are still... Cruelly ripped from my side..." He broke off, not even bothering to finish that thought. "And why was Mycroft here anyway, we never expected him. Oh but he probably assigned himself to settle his own 'concern'." Sherlock's nose wrinkled at the idea and he turned and strode back to the corner between the kitchen arch and the mirror.

During this fiasco, John continued to sit inanimately, leg still up and a blank expression schooled onto his face. If Murray were to burst in again, he couldn't be standing on his leg and arguing with Sherlock. John took a deep breath to remain calm and the door gently swung open.

Mycroft clicked in with his slightly heeled Italian leather shoes and the drop of his umbrella on the floor. Sherlock and John both looked up expectantly, the detective's face dropping to a frown when his brother was not accompanied by the advisor. John pulled his leg from lying uselessly and stood up as Mycroft nodded to Sherlock and turned his attention to John.

The elder Holmes delivered his news with a small note of happy satisfaction to his voice. "Captain Watson, John, you have been cleared as unfit for active service and deployment. You shall stay in country, and may later be called upon to serve through a desk job locally. But you get to stay home."

There was silence. John's exhale of relief was accompanied by a click of Sherlock's bedroom door as the detective disappeared inside.

"How did you do this, Mycroft?" John asked quietly.

"This will not get back to my brother?" John shook his heads agreeing to the terms. "When I arranged an advisor to meet and clear you, I specifically asked for Johan Murray. He was indebted to me a long time ago for reasons I would prefer not to divulge. I knew that he would not question my request to clear you. The thing is, when Sherlock asked for my help his anguish broke my heart, something not easily done as Holmes men are renowned for not having hearts. I couldn't keep the pair of you in that sort of limbo." He shook his head slightly. "Goodbye for now, Doctor."

John didn't miss that Mycroft had changed his address from Captain to Doctor, signifying his release from the armed forces. A loss he did not lament.

Unsure with what to do with himself, John took a seat in the kitchen and with a clear mind and conscious, cut the bandages from his leg. He pulled some soft trousers on from the clean laundry and sat still.

The flat was silent, Sherlock having retreated to his room and not left since Mycroft had departed a short while ago. One window, which John could not see from where he was, was cracked open and he could hear bird's padding steps on the sill outside and the honk of taxi horns in traffics jams on the main road. Life was continuing as normal. Even though his own had been rescued, saved from slipping into a futile blip of existence.

John breathed a sigh and stood, going to Sherlock's door and knocking quietly. No answer.

"Sherlock, love." John twisted the handle to the door and winced as it squeaked before pushing it open and peering round.

Sherlock lay on the bed in his immaculate room. Curled on his side facing the door with his wide eyed gaze fixed on where John loomed. His eyes were rimmed red ever so slightly like he had been crying and when John caught his eye line, his eyes snapped shut tight, little crinkly lines forming around them.

In that instant those tiny lines became evidence of both their ageing and the fragility of human life. John winced inwardly at just how little time on this planet they got, shortened by tragedy in many cases as well, and tainted by facades of strength that he and others defended themselves with. But he knew that he had been given this opportunity to spend the rest of his life with another who seemed so strong but in reality was more fragile than John himself was.

The doctor took the short steps to the bed and toed off his shoes. He crawled up the length from the end and settled on his side behind Sherlock, curling his body around the detective's and pressing his nose into the curls of hair at the base of his neck. He took a breath and exhaled gently to ruffle Sherlock's curls as he did. A small noise akin to a sob broke from Sherlock's chest before he stiffened and became silent again.

Reminiscent of the night that they found out he would be deployed. The night their lives tore apart and the nightmares returned.

John could understand. The force of such relief at Mycroft's delivery of good news had been too much for Sherlock's own strength facade. Liquid relief had stung and fell from the detective's eyes and now he simply needed John's presence; his warmth against him and the assurance that he was not going anywhere.