I don't own all those characters…

Wow - thank you for all your support and positive feeback! Really, thank you! and now I hope I'm not going to disappoint anyone with what's to follow...

Oh, and this one will contain John, of course.

Of Concussions and Army Doctors

Part 2. Army Doctors

John had been panicked since the moment he had realised that something must have happened to Sherlock.

While it was quite common for his sometimes insensitive flatmate to dump John or to completely miss anything John told him, it was highly unusual for Sherlock to not answer his phone or to not react to a text. Or rather, to a dozen texts sent within the ten minutes in which John had started to worry.

Lestrade had known nothing, nothing about a case, nothing about a kidnapping. When John had resumed to call Mycroft and Sherlock's older brother did not answer his phone either, he knew that something was seriously wrong.

Sherlock had intended to meet his brother, a few hours ago, and now none of them was answering his phone. A bit not good. Something was definitely and absolutely wrong.

His mobile rang just in time to stop him from dialling Lestrade's number for the forth time that day, wanting to know if there were any news. News on Sherlock whom John had reported to be missing earlier.

"Yeah," he answered.

"Doctor Watson," an eloquent voice said on the other end of the line. "A car will be at your flat in five minutes. Do not ask question. Get into the car."

John almost dropped the phone. "What? What's going on? Who is that?"

But the call had already been ended.

Simply assuming that this was Mycroft's doing or at least one of his employees, John did as he was told, his gun securely tucked under his belt, his mobile in his hand.

On the backseat, he was greeted by a familiar face.

"Anthea," he remembered her name.

She gave him a polite smile, her eyes never leaving the screen of her blackberry.

"Where I am going? What is that? Is this Mycroft's doing?" he bombarded her with questions as the black car headed for the main road.

"Come on, tell me! Where's Sherlock? Is he alright?"

Finally, he indeed managed to trigger a reaction. A sigh. "We're driving to Southwark where we'll meet a few dangerous people and will hopefully find your flatmate again."

Realising that this was all the information he was going to get, John nervously started tapping his fingertips onto the leather seat. Not even trying to understand what was happening, he just wanted to get Sherlock back.

John's nervousness increased with each minute that passed while they were driving with a speed far higher than permitted by speed limits, reaching its climax when the sleek car came to a stop in front of an old and empty looking building, four other equally posh cars already being parked in front of it.

"Stay here," Anthea ordered, still typing on her blackberry.

John didn't even think about it. Pulling his gun free, he had left the car before Mycroft's PA or whatever she was could utter another syllable.

How could he sit there and wait if Sherlock was in danger? Might be in danger?

The ground before him was clear, the long corridor he was running along. A man in a suit, but nonetheless armed with one handgun and a MG gestured him the correct way.

John was out of breath when he finally reached a room where four men were lying on the floor, their hands already neatly tied together behind their backs, three of them knocked out.

"Where's your boss?" John asked one of the suited men guarding them.

"Next room," was the answer.

Next room. Next room with a probably thick door where another suited man and another thug were wrestling with each other, it being clear who would have the upper hand.

John watched the suit knock the thug unconscious with a precise blow to the neck and in the same instant noticed the umbrella leaning against the wall. Mycroft's umbrella.

Sherlock had to be there.

"Where's the key!" he yelled at the suited man who promptly showed him what he had requested and immediately, after having made sure that his opponent was truly out of it for a while, started unlocking the door.

John was the first to storm inside, his gun clutched firmly in his hands, but stopped dead in his tracks.

Later, he could never tell what had been the more frightening sight in that moment: The image of Sherlock, his head bloodied and face pale, leaning seemingly unconscious against his brother, or the image of Mycroft Holmes, the British government himself, sitting on the dirty floor of some filthy room, without his suit jacket that was draped across Sherlock's shoulders, holding his limp brother in his arms.

"Ah, John," were Mycroft's first words. "Finally. I am under the impression that my brother might need you."

Minutes later, John was inspecting Sherlock's head wound, a nasty gash caused by the umbrella, according to Mycroft.

"He vomited, you said?" he asked Mycroft while placing Sherlock, muttering something incomprehensible under his breath, on his right side, in recovery position.

"Repeatedly," Mycroft remarked, his voice an odd mixture between worried and strangely amused.

"John…," Sherlock slurred only seconds later.

John, carefully keeping his face plain, patted him softly on the shoulder. "It's alright, Sherlock. I'm here. Try to stay awake, if you can, you hear me?"

"Sir," one of the suited men approached Mycroft. "Would you prefer the subjects to be eliminated immediately?"

Mycroft straightened his tie. "No. Take them to basement 2."

"John…," Sherlock mumbled again, rolling onto his back and gagging at the same time.

"Oh, no, no, no, Sherlock, don't," John breathed and pushed him back – right in time before Sherlock started retching. "I see," John mumbled. "Mycroft," he addressed Sherlock's brother, not caring if he was interrupting a conversation. Mycroft had to bloody care about his brother. "He needs to go to hospital. They have to do a CT, just to be sure and rule out any brain swelling. Would you…"

Mycroft nodded shortly. "Of course, John. Six, we will need one of your cars. Tell your driver he will take Doctor Watson here and my brother to the nearest hospital. Now."

"Yes, sir," the man nodded and left.

"Lestrade… the case… Miller… John… Mycroft…," Sherlock muttered unintelligibly, his eyelids fluttering.

For a moment, John thought Mycroft would bend down and stroke his brother's hair. "Take care of my brother, John," he said instead. "I trust to be informed as soon as you have got any news."

Four hours later, John found himself on the backseat of the same black car that had taken Sherlock and him to the nearest hospital, this time on their way back to 221B.

One of Mycroft's suit-clothed employees had helped him drag Sherlock to one of the waiting cars and place him on the backseat, his head lolling against John's shoulder. John had been worried about Sherlock being so incoherent, about him having been unconscious for more than half an hour after the blow to the temple, and had urged the driver to go faster - which he did.

Severe concussion, at least, John had assumed, and had found himself praying silently for Sherlock's brilliant brain to have remained unscathed.

Two CT scans at the hospital had relieved John – concussion, yes, but no brain swelling or any bleeding. Good. Which meant that Sherlock was finally allowed to sleep.

He had nodded off, in fact, exhausted, in a hospital bed, clad in a hospital gown. Only to wake two hours later, still confused, calling John's name, but adamantly demanding to go home.

And John, seeing the somewhat lost look in Sherlock's eyes, had agreed and discharged his incoherent and concussed flatmate from hospital, without even knowing what had originally happened.

The black car had still been waiting, the driver ready to take them home.

And now John was in the car again, with Sherlock having fallen asleep almost immediately, napping on John's shoulder.

"Sherlock, wake up," he demanded as soon as they had reached 221B. He carefully shook Sherlock's shoulder. "Come on, we're home. Wake up."

"Mhm," Sherlock simply moaned.

John got out of the car and opened the door on Sherlock's side, grabbing his arm. "Come on. Upstairs."

With the help of Mycroft's employee, but without Sherlock complying, but simply hanging limply, they got upstairs, placing Sherlock on the sofa.

"Thank you," John said breathlessly. "Ahem… thank you."

The suit man left, and John found himself confronted with a almost knocked out flatmate on the sofa, still wearing his coat and the hospital gown, together with his own trousers, shoes and scarf. Carefully, he removed the scarf, the coat and the shoes, turned Sherlock on his right side again, his back towards the wall, and covered him with one of Mrs Hudson's blankets.

"John?" Sherlock mumbled.

John rested his hand for a moment on Sherlock's shoulder. "It's alright, Sherlock. I'm here."

"John… Think I don't feel too fine."

Sherlock's tone almost broke John's heart. Sherlock Holmes simply wasn't supposed to sound that… lost.

His eyes grazing the neat white plaster on Sherlock's left temple and the one on his throat, covering a small cut, he awkwardly patted Sherlock's shoulder. "I know," he said. "Sleep. It will get better."

Surprisingly enough, Sherlock's eyes fully closed, and a few minutes later his breathing had evened out.

It was going to be a long night, John thought with a sigh. Since Sherlock was likely to vomit again, he was not intending to leave his friend's side. Not ever.

Mycroft had been quite surprised, as he had to admit, about the amount of relief he had felt when John had called him from 221B to tell him that Sherlock was going to be fine, that it was just a concussion, no brain swelling. That his brother was even sleeping peacefully now.

He spent his night with studying the five thugs his MI6 men had captured, the men who had in fact been keen or stupid enough to lay hands on his brother. He had not yet decided what to do with them.

Later, he determined, and after changing into a fresh three piece suit, he sent for a car to take him to 221B Baker Street.

Upon entering – of course he had his own key to his brother's flat – he found Doctor Watson on the floor, with his back to the sofa, snoring softly. His brother, however, was lying on the sofa, in something akin to recovery position, on his right side, breathing, as Mycroft made sure. A bucket was placed next to his head. Newly cleaned, apparently, so he had vomited again. Severe concussion, as John had told him.

Mycroft took a seat in one of the two armchairs in the flat, watching both his brother and his sleeping flatmate.

Sherlock would be fine. Again. This time. Mycroft made a mental note to not leave a trace that he had been here.

Maybe he would not treat the thugs too cruelly. They had to be eliminated, yes, but the way of their end was still debatable. He had to think about it.

Suddenly, Sherlock stirred and even opened his eyes, a confused look in them. "John…," he slurred.

Mycroft hesitated for a moment.

For a long moment.

Sherlock moaned again.

"Ssh," he made, approaching his little brother and gripping one of his hands. "He's here, Sherlock, it's alright."

"Mycroft," Sherlock mumbled. "Head hurts."

Oh. Still not entirely coherent, his dear brother. Otherwise he would never utter such a remark.

Mycroft had of course spotted the pack of pain medication on the table. "Stay here. I'll get you something."

Moments later, he returned with a glass of water, handing his brother one of the pills against the headache. "Swallow it and then drink," he ordered, and to his surprise, Sherlock complied. "And now sleep."

As Mycroft resumed his position in the armchair, watching his brother and the former army doctor napping on the floor once more, he could not help but contemplate the puzzle John Watson was to him. Loyal to his brother, of course. Loyal to the point of… For once, Mycroft was lacking the appropriate word.

One day, he might have to explain to his brother's flatmate what had happened yesterday since Sherlock, concussed as he was, was highly unlikely to remember much. The initial kidnapping, maybe. But certainly not – luckily not – Mycroft babbling, rambling, being obviously worried, or Mycroft stealing one of the kidnappers' mobile in order to be able to call his faithful PA and have her organise the… rescue mission.

But then, he assumed, it was probable that he would never have to explain any of this. Not to Sherlock, too proud to ask, and neither to John, deeming anything else but Sherlock's well-being unimportant.

So be it, Mycroft decided when he made ready to leave the flat, taking the glass he had brought for Sherlock and cleaning it. Leaving no traces that he had ever been here.

Leaving no trace of caring, as he always did. For this, he had figured a long time ago, his brother now had John Watson.

Thank you for reading!