Sherlock was definitely sedated. He was pale and lifeless; his various bruises, cuts, and scrapes standing in stark contrast to his blanched skin. There were splints on his fingers and bandages wrapped around his torso, knee, and arm. He had been changed out of the clothing he had been wearing earlier in favor of what Greg recognized as some of his own sleepwear—a loose fitting t-shirt from university and cotton pajama bottoms. When Greg inquired as to the destiny of Sherlock's earlier attire, Mycroft confirmed that they would be incinerated without delay, and Greg couldn't be bothered to even feign surprise.

Sherlock was very still and his breathing was deep and even. He looked impossibly young and small, a shadow. True to his word, the doctor had set up an IV and it dripped a nutritional cocktail into Sherlock's bloodstream steadily. Greg was marginally curious how the doctor had managed to smuggle all of this medical equipment into the flat. He had only brought a small medical bag. But, the DI mused, I suppose he came prepared for everything.

Mycroft was situated very close to his brother when Greg entered the room. He had placed his hand on Sherlock's forehead and he brushed the unruly curls back with a gentle and steady motion, full of tenderness, as if too much pressure would break the younger man. The image struck Greg as particularly private. He stood on the threshold, feeling absurdly that he had intruded on something and cleared his throat to announce his presence.

Mycroft startled and withdrew his hand as if scalded, sitting ramrod straight in his chair, as if caught doing something shameful and eager to pretend that it hadn't happened.

"How's he doing?" Greg inquired softly. He wasn't sure why he whispered, Sherlock was so heavily sedated it would take a troop of stampeding elephants to rouse him.

"He is sleeping," Mycroft whispered back and unspoken "obviously" hung in the air, "It would seem he is the same."

"Well, that's something…I guess," Greg suggested, setting the plates on the nearest table and pulling up a chair beside Mycroft. They sat in companionable silence, knees brushing. After several moments, Mycroft leaned over and laid his head on Greg's shoulder. The DI startled for a second before slipping an arm around his partner.

"It's strange to see him like this," the elder Holmes admitted quietly. Greg looked at Sherlock, clearly injured and ill. That was most certainly not unusual. It had happened enough over the years that they both knew exactly what it looked like.

"Asleep," Mycroft amended, feeling Greg stiffen and sensing his confusion, "Peaceful."

Greg squeezed Mycroft's shoulder in reassurance, "He doesn't slow down much, that's true." It only takes tranquilizers to make him relax a bit, he added mentally.

"He has always been that way," Mycroft continued softly, and Greg rested his head atop his partner's. Neither of the Holmeses spoke of their shared childhood with any degree of frequency. Mycroft's mentions of it were few and far between and often came seemingly out of the blue. Sherlock only ever made oblique references that were cryptic for everyone but his brother. However, using his detective skills, Greg had managed to piece together a relatively accurate picture over the years. At the very least, he knew that when Mycroft wanted to share something of that nature, it was best to be quiet, and allow him to divulge what he would in his own time.

"Yeah?" He offered to indicate his willingness to listen. "I can believe that." Greg could easily picture a smaller, healthier, version of the consulting detective darting around the Holmes estate with maniacal energy.

"Even as a child…always running about, so curious, getting into mischief," Mycroft murmured, voice quite even, "He hated sleeping, positively abhorred naps. It was as if he were terrified that he would miss something important," he paused and they both watched Sherlock's deep breathing and listened to the steady drip of his medications.

"I would find him collapsed in the library or the garden, completely exhausted and I would put him to bed," he sighed, "of course, he would protest the entire way that he wasn't 'the slightest bit sleepy.' Obstinate…even then," he sighed deeply and Greg imagined a younger Mycroft, still a child himself, taking far better care of his brother than either of their parents, nannies, or tutors.

The elder Holmes continued, "I suppose some things never truly change. We came to an agreement regarding bedtime eventually. It involved lengthy negotiations," Greg smiled, "He had such political promise, but, I digress. We agreed that if he would come to me when he was tired, I would read to him until he fell asleep. Botany, history, chemistry, literature, politics, he was allowed to choose, provided he could justify his preference. He was positively enamored with Machiavelli when he was around six or so. I would read to him and he would eventually drift off. I would mark the page and continue the following evening."

Mycroft trailed off and they sat in silence for several minutes.

"You were good to him, My," Greg could somehow easily imagine a teenaged Mycroft with his small brother clinging to his side, making careful selections together in the library. The image was poignant and painful.

Mycroft sighed deeply, "It was much easier when we were children."

Greg kissed the top of his head, I don't think you were ever really a kid, My, he thought but did not say aloud.

"When Sherlock was a child," Mycroft amended, perhaps sensing Greg's thoughts, "It was simpler. It was easier to prevent these things."

"I know it pains you, My," Greg whispered, "but you can't hold yourself fully responsible for this…He can go out into the world and make stupid decisions all on his own. He's an adult."

"He certainly doesn't act like one," Mycrof dissented, "what do you call this?" He waved a hand to incorporate Sherlock's sleeping form, the wounds invisible and apparent to the casual observer, "These are not the actions of a responsible adult. They are the choices of an impetuous and foolhardy boy."

Greg gripped Mycroft's shoulder more tightly, "Or a very loyal friend and brother."

Mycroft pulled back suddenly, so that he could better observe Greg's face. The DI held up his hands in surrender. Mycroft's glare was downright vicious, "I'm not defending him," he assured his partner before he could launch into the verbal assault that was so clearly waiting in the wings.

"Are you quite certain of that?"

"Yes."

"That is certainly judicious of you because Sherlock's behaviors, in case it has escaped your notice, are bordering on suicidal, Gregory," Mycroft was seething. At least he was seething quietly. Sherlock stirred slightly, and then both turned to stare at him, before realizing that he was unlikely to wake.

"I have noticed that, thanks," Greg returned pointedly in the face of Mycroft's mounting ire and narrow-eyed hysteria. "I'm just saying that maybe his heart is in the right place?" Greg's statement came out as a question, and he recognized the very tenuous thin ice on which he was treading.

Mycroft's face clearly indicated that he thought that Greg had completely lost his mind. And he said as much, "Have you taken complete leave of your senses?" he hissed, "My brother has demonstrated, quite clearly, and repeatedly, I might add, that he has little to no concern for his own life." Mycroft was breathing heavily and Greg felt the pressure of his gaze like a physical weight.

"And that is a fucking terrifying thing," He agreed completely, "It makes my blood run cold. My, I actually feel like I'm going to fucking be sick from it. Be he does care about you and me and John and that is the reason he's doing all this and that should count for something…right?"

Mycroft sighed heavily, "I cannot believe that you are attempting to justify his atrocious behavior. Gregory, I agree that he would irreparably damage himself in a misguided attempt to protect John and yourself," Greg noted that he had not included himself on the list of people that Sherlock would die to protect, "That is true, but he continually fails to realize that his well-being is intricately tied to our own. Until he acknowledges this, I am afraid that he should not be allowed out of our sight…I just don't understand where he came up with this foolish notion. And I blame myself. Thankfully," Mycroft looked dark and determined, "thankfully, we have enough time to correct this oversight."

"My," Greg choked a little bit, "My, this is not your fault. It's not. You raised him and he is brilliant, but you can't blame yourself for the things he's done." He forced Mycroft to meet his gaze, "I'm serious; you just can't."

Mycroft clearly didn't believe or agree with him, and Greg did not know whether it would be worth it to force the issue.

"My," Greg reasoned, changing tactics. He was experiencing a great deal of difficulty articulating this point, "A year ago, he would have killed himself trying to prove that he was clever. He takes his life in his hands like it's a throw away piece of paper every day. And I'm not blaming you for that and I'm sure that he wouldn't either. John sure wouldn't," Greg paused, taking a moment of silence to appreciate the fact that John would be absolutely beside himself if he could see Sherlock right now. Greg shifted his thoughts away from that as quickly as he could. There was only so much guilt and worry that he could manage at any one moment and adding John to this mix would give him that final push over the edge and into insanity, "All I am saying, is that there's a bit more altruism in the self-destruction these days. That's got to count for something." He was grasping at straws and he knew it.

Mycroft stared, "Gregory, my dearest, most beloved Gregory," terms of endearment flashed like a warning side in Greg's head as he braced himself. "You know that I typically find your particular brand of optimistic pragmatism endearing. Indeed, I believe that these qualities, in you, are genuinely charming and quite heartening," Here it comes, Greg thought, "However, at present, I must confess that I find your attitude vaguely disturbing. The motivations hardly matter if Sherlock continues to behave in such a caviler manner with regard to his own life, health, and safety." Mycroft spoke slowly, in clipped tones that emphasized his bewilderment and displeasure.

Greg was flummoxed, "Of course his motivations matter, My." How could they not?

"So speaks the Detective Inspector," Mycroft quipped dryly.

Greg took Mycroft's hands in his own and held fast to them. He had to get this out. It was important. It was the only thing that was keeping him from teetering over that edge. He needed to believe that there were reasons that Sherlock was doing what he was doing and that there was a way that he could forgive him for treating himself in such a terrible way. "No," he spoke firmly, "so speaks your husband and your partner" Mycroft typically responded very strongly and affectively to the "husband" card in moments of strife. It drew him back to the heart of their relationship and Greg used it sparingly and strategically, only in moments of extreme duress and strife. He clearly had Mycroft's attention and so he continued, "so speaks Sherlock's—" He trailed off. God, it would be so much easier if there were a word for this. If there were a title that he could rightfully claim.

"Parent," Mycroft suggested and Greg blinked quite frankly derailed by this response.

"What?" Greg's eyes snapped to meet Mycroft's as if magnetized. The elder Holmes smiled small, but warmly. The first such expression that Greg had seen since they had begun this discussion. No, even earlier than that. Since they had spoken to the doctor and heard the news regarding Sherlock's health. It had only been hours, but it certainly felt more like years. Greg was going to have to write some sort of book about the way that time could speed up and slow down in moments of crisis. God knows I've had enough practice.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Mycroft said, "don't look so shocked. The expression is fairly adorable, but it's hardly warranted. You think of Sherlock as your own and you care for him more than our own father ever did. That is incontrovertibly clear to anyone with eyes. You are allowed to claim the distinction of parentage."

Greg wasn't sure how to respond. They had never discussed this so directly. "It isn't really my place, My."

"Don't be ridiculous, Gregory, of course, it is your place…he loves you as well. In so far as he is capable of doing so," Mycroft paused for the briefest moment, giving Greg the necessary time to absorb this information and attempt to process it. "Now, you were saying?"

"Oh, ah, right," Greg stammered, "all I mean is that, well, that he might be making poor—" Mycroft glared, impressive in his incredulity, "—all right, bloody awful life decisions," Greg corrected. He certainly thought that the revision was fair, given the things that Sherlock had done to himself in the past month alone, "but his heart is, at least, in the right place…I think…"

"Provided that he doesn't carve it out of his chest in his next attempt to articulate his self-loathing and frustration," Mycroft replied, his tone dry.

Greg groaned and placed a hand over his eyes to shield himself from that image. It wasn't working. "I was being metaphorical," he groaned.

Mycroft didn't twitch or waver, and the fact that he seemed to not even be joking was worrisome in the extreme, "Yes, I am aware of that. I elected to respond literally."

"Yeah, I got that," Greg rolled his eyes, "I don't think he's self-loathing."

Mycroft raised his brows, "No?"

Greg hesitated, "Not exactly, anyway," Sherlock did not have contempt for his own mind or intellect. God knows he boasts about them enough. Nor did he necessarily harbor contempt for his body exactly. It was more that he loathed his mortality, his humanity and would do whatever he could to transcend that dreaded condition. Did that count as self-loathing? Greg couldn't quite be certain, but he had a sneaky suspicion that Mycroft might be right. The things that he did to harm himself so often were methods of escape of distancing himself from his physical condition…Sherlock had many inner demons and Greg only knew that smallest fraction of them.

"Whatever his motivations may be," Mycroft seemed to realize that Greg was experiencing some sort of painful epiphany, "and however deeply seated his issues are, we will be watching him closely until and especially after he recovers."

"Agreed," Greg promised.

AN:

Bless me readers for I have sinned, it has been more than two weeks since my last update…In all seriousness, hi everyone. Thanks for joining me for Chapter 29 (holy godtiss on toast! How the hell are we on Chapter 29?!). If you are still reading this tale, you deserve several gold stars and a huge hug. I do apologize for the delay in the update, the first few weeks of term have been rather busy for me. I also apologize for the level of incoherency in this chapter because it was very much written in exhausted snatches of stolen time between reading historical tomes. That being said, I am hoping to have a new chapter up (in which Sherlock shall be conscious and John will make an appearance) within the next ten days at most. Until then, my dearest readers, please, take the opportunity to leave me a review; they do so encourage me to keep writing, and I love hearing what you think. Much love.