I tried to update yesterday but the system just wouldn't let me. (growls) I really, truly hope that it works now. It's... about five in the morning here and I'm really, really annoyed about all this. (pouts) I just want you to know that I tried.

A/N: Surprise! (grins) I know that it hasn't been five days just yet. But this chapter was born prematurely and I wouldn't have been able to update tomorrow, so I just didn't have the heart to make you guys wait until then. (blinks) What? I'm capable of being nice. (snorts at oneself) (Yeah, we'll see about that at the end of the chapter…)

THANK YOU, from the bottom of my heart for you reviews and listings! This story has received a ton more love than I would've ever dared to expect. So thank you! (GLOMPS) You're making me fall in love with Sherlock fandom even more than I already had.

Awkay… Because I'm always all fidgety when it comes to last chapters lets just cut the chase. I REALLY hope that you'll enjoy the chapter, guys!

Acceptance

When Sherlock reappeared into his life from the death, barged into his office without a knock, Mycroft Holmes wasn't surprised. He'd known that his brother was alive – Sherlock's ridiculous, ingenious plan wouldn't have worked without his interference. It wasn't until Sherlock tossed a bloodied scarf and a cut off finger to his desk he jumped, face blanching and exclaiming a stuttering demand to know what was going on.

'You screwed up', was Sherlock's hissed response. 'You and your useless men fucking screwed up. He… He's got John, Mycroft. He took John.'

With the little time they didn't really have they formed a hasty plan. A fool's plan. Armed with a gun he'd never get the chance to use and several tiny tracking devices Sherlock headed towards Baker Street, with Mycroft keeping an on his brother the best as he could. It took what felt like ages before the first blinking spot appeared. Sherlock was with John, then. The wheels were already beginning to turn until bureaucracy came crashing down on them. By the time all was finally settled the second light was already blinking, on the rooftop of a infamous hospital. Speeding to motion with his men Mycroft wondered if it was already too late. If he'd failed his brother again.

Whatever Mycroft expected to find upon dashing to the rooftop wasn't what he found. He froze, completely, his eyes flying wide. Cold shook his whole form.

Sherlock was slumped to the rooftop, a bizarre, animalistic look in his eyes. Far too pale and breathing like someone who was on the verge of having a panic attack. Lips forming a neverending flood of desperate words that didn't quite carry to where Mycroft stood. The detective's shaking yet determined arms were holding on to John as though for dear life. Held on although there wasn't a trace of awareness left in the doctor.

For one, absolutely sickening moment that'd be burned into his nightmares forever Mycroft thought that John was already gone. Because how could anyone who looked so beaten, so throughoutly smashed, be alive? But then he saw the frail, barely traceable rise and fall of the chest. Always the soldier. Too damn stubborn to give up.

Emitting a strange, choked sound the origin of which he couldn't pinpoint Mycroft peered over his shoulder and bellowed at the top of his lungs. "Get a doctor up here! Anyone! Now!" Satisfied with the bustling of activity his order caused he focused on the two men once more. It was at then he realized that Sherlock hadn't even noticed him. Usually he wouldn't have been surprised. Now chills went through him.

Perhaps John was the one who was hanging on to dear life tooth and nails. But it was Sherlock who'd slipped into a state of shock. Things wouldn't be pleasant when people would arrive to take John away.

Slowly and cautiously, not daring to even try and guess what kind of a reception he'd get, Mycroft approached his brother. "Sherlock." No response. No reaction. He decided to use the very tone of a voice that'd infuriated the younger since they were children. "Sherlock, snap out of it. Right now. This is an order." Well, that surely got Sherlock's attention. It was a small miracle that the detective didn't throw a punch. Mycroft swallowed, wondering how in the world he was supposed to say this. But John seemed to be losing the battle. There was no time to waste. "John… He's been hurt really badly. Do you understand? He needs medical attention."

Sherlock focused on him for a second before looking towards John once more. One unsteady hand was placed precisely where the doctor's heart was beating. (Their heart.) "He's been poisoned. Moriarty… Moriarty's got the antidote. John needs the antidote."

Panic shot through Mycroft like a jolt of electricity. Shit…! How much time did they have? And Moriarty had just slammed to the pavement. What if…? "Okay." He forced himself to sound a great deal calmer than he felt. With all the horrors he'd faced during his career and before that it was easy to slip on the steel hard front. (The Holmes brothers were marvelous actors.) "The doctors… They'll do everything they can. But you'll need to let them do their work. Do you understand that?"

Sherlock shook his head. That animalistic look in those eyes turned into something that would've broken anyone's heart. "I… He's not going to leave me. He can't leave me."

Mycroft shivered. For the first time in ages he felt the desire to cry. If a small army of health care professionals hadn't arrived just then he might've very well shed a tear or two.

Damnit, John…!

In the end it took Mycroft and three of his men to control Sherlock when the strangers began to work on John, their moves experienced and swift. Over Sherlock's struggling and screams Mycroft told them about the poison. Then did something he'd never done before in his life. He pleaded with them. For John's life. And Sherlock's.

(Because dear God, if they'd lose John they'd lose two people.)

A painfully young woman – Beck, M, MD. – gave him a look that held pity, resolve, undestanding and a hint of fear that chilled him. "We'll do whatever we can. I promise." And so John disappeared. With a heavy heart and a huge blockage in his throat Mycroft wondered if he'd see the former army doctor ever again.

Eventually they had to sedate Sherlock. They couldn't have someone in such a unstable state of mind in the hospital yet it was exactly where the detective needed to be. Feeling more helpless than ever in his life Mycroft kept a firm hold on his brother as the detective first struggled against the substance, then – very slowly – became dead weight in his arms. (The mere thought made him want to throw up.)

The staff was surprisingly discreet, considering that Sherlock had succeeded in punching two nurses who'd been blocking his path to follow John. Mycroft followed with heavy, slow steps as they took his brother to a private room. When they began to examine Sherlock for physical injuries he retreated from the room, but not before catching a unwanted glimpse of several large bruises and a far too thin form. His hand was shaking so badly that he almost dropped his cell phone upon taking it.

Five missed calls from Lestrade. He took a deep breath before calling back. "What?"

"Where have you been? Never mind, never mind." There was a deep breath. "Moriarty's really dead this time. Along with three of his men."

Mycroft gritted his teeth, glancing towards the closed door of Sherlock's room. He could've sworn that he heard a whimper. "Good."

He was about to hang up when Lestrade went on. "One more thing. There was… a broken test tube, or something, in Moriarty's hand. Most of the stuff inside was spilled but there was still a little bit left. The lab's trying to figure out what it is."

Mycroft's eyes widened a fraction. A surprisingly mild reaction, considering that his legs nearly gave out. It took far too long before he managed to talk. "Tell them to hurry up, alright? Tell them to figure out as soon as possible what's in it."

"Why is it so important?"

Mycroft swallowed, a bitter taste sitting firmly in his mouth. The image of a half dead John Watson refused to leave his line of vision. "It's a matter of life and death."

Mycroft was exhausted but couldn't fall asleep. His mind was spinning, fuming. A part of him wondered if that was how Sherlock felt all the time. No wonder his brother barely slept.

He shivered when there was a tiny, almost hesitant knock on the room's door. In a moment the same doctor who'd taken John away peered in, gesturing him to follow her to the hallway. There was a infuriatingly unreadable look on her face.

Carefully making sure that Sherlock was still sleeping – more or less peacefully, for it looked like the younger Holmes was in the grips of a nightmare – Mycroft hauled himself up and made his way to the hallway. It wasn't until he stood he realized how stiff his muscles were. How long had he been in the hospital?

It felt like this whole nightmare had continued for a decade.

The doctor offered him a tiny, somewhat pale smile. "We didn't do proper introductions the previous time. I'm Dr. Maria Beck, from the ICU. I'm the one in main charge over Dr. Watson's treatment."

Honestly, Mycroft couldn't have cared less about her name. He folded his arms with a deep frown, probably making himself appear ten years past his actual age. "How is he?" His voice sounded choked. He was surprised that he even got the words out.

Dr. Beck inhaled deeply but there was a light in her eyes that gave a cautious promise. "The laboratory sent us something that might be the antidote. Usually I'd prefer testing it more throughoutly first but in this situation… Frankly, I don't think that pretty much anything could've made his situation worse than it was." She gave him a moment before continuing. "The antidote was given to Dr. Watson only thirty minutes ago so it's a little early to tell if it's affective. Right now his breathing and heart rate aren't as stable as we'd like, which is why he needs to stay in the ICU. If his condition improves and if he responds well to the medication we may be able to transfer him to a ward in a couple of days."

Those were quite massive 'ifs' in Mycroft's book. He shivered before daring to ask more. "What about the rest of the damage?"

"A concussion. And so far we've managed to detect six broken bones. Our main concern are three broken ribs, one of which looks like it broke during a particularly rough attempt of CPR. It's hard to tell yet if they'll cause complications. We'll have to wait and see." She offered him a tiny smile. "It looks like he put up quite a struggle before he was taken. That doctor is one hell of a fighter."

The frail smile that appeared to Mycroft's face was a bitter one. "Yes. I know." He felt the need to lighten the situation a little bit. "He's Sherlock's best friend. He needs to be a fighter."

Once Dr. Beck left, swearing to let him know if there were any news at all, Mycroft had to gather himself for a long while before he found the strength and will to re-enter the room. By the time he did Sherlock had turned so that the detective's back was towards him. He took a breath, preparing himself for a hurricane. "So you're awake, then. The sedative wore off faster than they assumed." He took a step closer, no more. "They said that you're fine, save some bruises." No reaction. To be honest he hadn't expected one. "I have a feeling that you heard me and the doctor. John… He's going to be fine. It's going to take some time to recover from an attack like that but he'll pull through."

And as expected, the tornado struck. Sherlock bounced to a sitting position in a flash and a blazing gaze clashed with him. Cut right through. "Stop! Stop talking about him when it's your fault that he's here! Just… Just stop talking altogether! Shut the fuck up!" The detective's eyes were sharp, hazardous. To anyone else they would've been terrifying. "You…", the detective growled. "You let them knock me out!"

Mycroft wasn't fazed by the rage thrown right at him. He'd faced a pissed off Sherlock too many times in his life. This was all giving him a headache, though. "You were attacking the staff, Sherlock. Something had to be done or you would've ended up into a huge trouble."

Sherlock looked away, something unreadable in those eyes. Fists balled so tightly that knuckles turned white. "John needed me!"

Those words, or rather the sheer and unmasked despair behind them, stung Mycroft. He had to use all his willpower to remain in control over himself. "He needs you with a clear head – well, as clear you can manage. And some bloody self control. He needs you to be strong. Can you do that for him?"

Sherlock wasn't finished. Far from it. "He needed you, too, Mycroft! He needed you to do one fucking thing right – he needed you to find him!" I needed you! "Where the hell were you? Why the fuck did you take so long?"

For a moment, just a moment, Mycroft's self control cracked. The words escaped without any control. "Do you have any idea of how hard it is to arrange a rescue mission with a supposedly dead person involved? Do you have any idea of how big of a mess you've made?" And then all anger drained, along with fight. His shoulders slumped. "I'm sorry."

At first Sherlock just stared at him, appearing more dazed and lost than after any amount of substance abuse. For a moment Mycroft worried that his brother might pass out. Instead, as per usual refusing to function according to expectations, Sherlock did something much more heartbreaking.

A tear rolled, soon followed by another. Mycroft could safely say that it was the first time he ever saw his brother cry and the sight hurt. When more tears spilled despite Sherlock's best efforts the detective scrambled out of the bed, blatantly ignoring the fact that it was idiotic to get up after the horseload of sedatives that'd been pumped into the skinny body.

"Sherlock!" was all Mycroft had the time to yelp before the bathroom's door had been slammed shut, shielding him out.

When Sherlock emerged, what felt like a lifetime later although it was closer to five minutes, the detective's eyes were red and puffy but dry. With a brand new frown Mycroft observed his brother's unsteady steps. "Are you… okay now?"

Sherlock nodded, a distant look in his eyes. It was obvious that the answer that came wasn't for the latest question. "Yeah. I… believe that I can do that, now. I mean, be strong. For him."

Mycroft stared for a second. What was he supposed to say to that? "Good", was what he managed.

Sherlock slumped heavily – without a doubt being purposefully dramatic – to the hospital bed and shifted pointedly so that the detective's back was once again towards him. Silence took over the room while minutes ticked by. Neither brother fell asleep, for they were both waiting for the nightmare to finally end.

Five days slipped away. Five endless, horrific days. Five days with John in a slumber the end of which was nowhere in sight, or that's what it felt like. Five days during which Sherlock drove the whole ICU-staff to the edge of insanity. (Three nurses pleaded to be re-stationed. One doctor delivered a resignation form.)

Mycroft sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he leaned heavily against the elevator's cool wall. His head felt like a bomb had just gone off inside it and his hand was far from as steady as he would've liked it to be. His body was, apparently, very well aware of how unpleasant the oncoming visit would be.

Mycroft hadn't actually met his brother in person since day one in the hospital with the whole chaos' aftermath keeping him busy. But Lestrade, who spent every possible minute with John despite or because of Sherlock's obvious displeasure, kept him reported. The detective refused to leave John for even a second, especially after the complications began to appear. Pneumonia. Infection. Fever. A brief cardiac arrest that most likely scarred Sherlock for life. But by some miracle the doctor was still fighting and Sherlock was determined to make sure that it'd stay that way. On day two the staff finally gave up and brought in a bed that wasn't supposed to be used anymore. ('This is easier than having a new patient when he finally collapses', a grumpy looking nurse explained. Mycroft sympathized.) In the end Lestrade began to bring in food for Sherlock and himself. The two of them learned to tolerate one another's presence. John kept sleeping, fighting, recovering, surviving. In many ways Sherlock was fighting the same battle.

Mycroft swallowed. That sour taste was back, it seemed. Sherlock was never, ever going to forgive him for this.

The elevator gave a uncomfortably loud 'bing' and the doors opened. Mycroft found his way through after some hesitation. Following Sherlock's voice made it easier. " … supposed to be professionals? It's your job to explain this stuff to me!"

Mycroft scowled. He was getting too damn old for this… "Sherlock, stop antagonizing the staff before they put you down again!" he bellowed as soon as he reached the scene. A timid, young girl who had to be a nursing student took this as her chance to run for cover.

Sherlock gave him a moody look and scoffed. The man looked like a pouting child with a five o'clock shadow. "They are supposed to explain that damn gibberish they're babbling."

Mycroft arched an eyebrow but didn't have the will or energy to jump into the fight his brother was luring him into. His eyes strayed towards John's painfully still, still intubated form until he couldn't face it any longer and focused on the empty chair beside the bed instead. "Where's Lestrade?"

Sherlock's eyes darkened. It wasn't hard to notice that they wouldn't stray from John for longer than five seconds at a time. "Went to a loo. Thirty-eight minutes ago. When they announced that they're bringing down John's anesthesia."

That almost brought Mycroft to the floor. The look on his face was most likely priceless. "What?" So finally, after five days…

He glanced towards Sherlock and this time he was the Holmes deducing. For most the detective's expression might've been impassive. Even bored. But he noticed the tightness of the jaw. The changed breathing pattern. The gleam in those eyes that hadn't been seen since this whole chaos began – hope. He also saw how Sherlock held John's hand, so hard that the supposed sociopath's knuckles had turned white. "John… They said that he should wake up, any moment now. So… Whatever the hell it is that you've come for… It can wait. I'm not interested."

Mycroft stared at the two of them, his heart heavy in his chest. They'd been through hell, both of them. How was he supposed to deny them a single moment of relief? He couldn't. He wasn't the heartless bastard Sherlock probably often considered him as.

He just couldn't tell Sherlock that Sebastian Moran was still on the loose.

That just two hours ago a post had been added to John's neglected blog. 'Did you really think that it's over? M'

Mycroft just couldn't bring himself to say that as soon as John's health would allow it the doctor would be transferred to another, unknown hospital, far away. Then into a safehouse the location of which only a witness protection unit's agent knew.

He couldn't tell Sherlock that now that John was waking up, getting better, there was no telling when his brother would get to see his faithful blogger again.

Since he couldn't tell any of those things Mycroft took a deep breath, then turned around and began to walk away. Leaving those two tormented souls to have at least a moment together. After all, it'd have to be enough to carry them for who knows how long.

Just before he'd walked off, though, Mycroft peered over his shoulder. Unable to resist the painful temptation. What he found broke his heart.

In the bed John's eyelids first fluttered, then opened halfway with evident effort. The doctor frowned, even appeared panicked for a moment, before focus seemed to return. Slowly, slowly, the still bleary eyes traveled from Sherlock's hand to the detective's face. And despite still being intubated, despite the pain that just had to be there, John's eyes softened and a spark lit up into them while the doctor's fingers curled ever so slightly. And on his seat Sherlock's whole face – entire being – lit up into the kind of a smile Mycroft had never, ever seen before. Once the instant shock had faded away a little bit Sherlock leaned towards John, whispered words only the doctor would ever get to know.

At that point Mycroft turned away. Partially because he didn't want to intrude a obviously private moment, partially because he just couldn't bear watching any longer. Wiping nonexistent moisture from his cheeks he did something he hadn't done since the beginning of this hell. He sent out a prayer.

End.

A/N: Trust those two to lose even this second chance. (winces) How mean! But at least they're both alive. There's still hope.

So, the thing is… I'm toying with the idea of a sequel. At the moment I'm testing if the idea that's trying to clear itself in my head wants to come out. If the story actually agrees to come out, would you like to read it? (I believe that anyone who's read even one of my stories knows the risks involved.)

For now, though, THANK YOU, from the bottom of my heart and soul, for all your love and support! You've been amazing readers. (GLOMPS) This was my first 'Sherlock' chapter fic so your support means the world to me. Thank you! (showers you with virtual cookies) And most of all, thank you for reading!

Who knows, maybe I'll be seeing you guys again later. As it is, ta-ta!

Take care, and much love!

Guest: I'm trying to update, but the system won't let me. (growls) I'm trying to replace the content - AGAIN. Whoever knows, maybe the time of miracles is at hand and I'll succeed. (sighs)

HUGE thank yous for the review! It means a lot to hear that you're out there, waiting for an update. (hugs)

Nana: Awww, hun, it's not unforgivable! I totally understand how hectic life can be. (winces and hugs) I'm just really happy that you're on board now!
I'm glad to hear that you've had a good ride thus far. (beams) Things do seem a bit bleak right now, don't they? (winces) We can only hope that Moriarty's plan fails somehow and those two haven't used up their share of miracles. They'd really need this one more! Because there's no way Sherlock would just bounce back if he'd lose John after all this.

Massive thank yous for the review! Perhaps I'll see you around chapter 5, that is whenever I actually get it out.

Sue: Oh sweetie, I'm trying. But the system's blocking me. I think I've been trying for eight hours, now. Let's hope that they'll fix it soon! This is beyond annoying.

It feels really good to know that you're out there waiting, though. (grins from ear to ear)

Colossal thank yous for the review!