Chapter Text
He hurt. Every molecule of his being hurt. His brain was slow. Too slow. Trying to catch up to the last place it had been when everything was still normal. When they’d turned down a ride from Lestrade in favor of grabbing a cab and getting home sooner. When he’d been hurrying down Rosary Gardens toward Fulham Road, cold hands burrowed deep in his pockets, collar turned up, hunched forward against the cold, John at his side.
John.
John, who was crumpled in a heap on the curb ten feet away, half illuminated by a feeble streetlamp
He struggled up to his hands and knees, feeling queasy and dizzy, biting back the urge to vomit. His skin was on fire, burning from the inside out. His joints throbbed.
Think.
He sucked in a breath, steeled himself. Scooted, rolled, army-crawled across the alley toward John. Every inch was unimaginable pain, liquid death. He was crawling through broken glass, suffering slivers of bamboo pushed deep beneath each fingernail.
Don’t be dead. Don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead.
The ground was electrified. Or the air. It was a freak accident, or a booby trap. It was the only explanation, short of something extraterrestrial or a secret experimental weapon. They’d been hit with an electric arc, a bone-burning shock. Flashes of light in green and white and red that came from nowhere and everywhere.
And John – John had jumped in front of him, had shouted something at their attacker. Had hurled the light back at him.
Had shouted at him in Latin.
Nothing made sense. Nothing.
Think!
He heard John’s laboured breathing , pulled himself even closer, struggled to sit. He held up his mobile, his hand shaking so badly he could barely press the single key needed to activate the flashlight app.
Blood. John’s shoulder was slashed, blood oozing out, soaking shirt and jumper. His eyes were closed, fingers twitching.
Not good. Fuck. Not good at all.
Sherlock reached for John’s wrist, shaky fingers closing around it, searching for a pulse. It was there, weak but true.
John’s hand was closed in a fist, closed around something – a stick. A length of wood. Sherlock frowned at it but didn’t release John’s hand as he turned his head toward the street.
“Help! We need help!”
He’d hoped to raise someone in one of the homes or businesses lining the street. But something huge and noisy and fucking purple appeared out of nowhere. Sherlock’s collapsed backward, rolling over John, eyes locked on the thing
Baskerville. Drugs. Hallucinogens. He closed his eyes – opened them. The only thing real was the solid and still warm weight of John’s body.
That thing – that purple monstrosity – was a bus. It settled in place, sinking marginally with the loud hiss of easing hydraulics.
“You blokes need help?”
An oddly-dressed man –in Victorian velvet clashing horribly with the purple bus behind him, looked suspiciously at Sherlock.
Steam punk? Cosplaying? No no no. Fucking hallucination.
“You do this to him?”
Sherlock shook his head. He couldn’t get words out. His arms were trembling now, his hands twitching. Nerve damage, his brain supplied.
“Attacked,” he managed at last as the man bent down and stared into John’s face. “Hospital.”
“Whatcha got, Sam?” someone called out from inside the bus.
“Two for Mungo’s!” shouted Sam. He was shining something – a torch? – into the alleyway they’d been crossing. “Wait – looks like a Muggle baiter in the alley – he’s down.”
“They ain’t Muggles.”
“They’re dressed like Muggles. One of them posh.”
There was a scuffle of noise and someone was bending over Sherlock, prying his arm off John’s wrist. He was vaguely aware that John was being carried away. The torch was on him now, and he tried to roll away from the light. “You see the bus? What color is it?”
Sherlock’s vision was swimming. “Purple,” he managed. A sharp cry escaped him when he was pulled up to a sitting position.
“Careful, Frank. He’s been Crucio’d. Get ‘im on board.”
An agonising minute later, he was lowered onto a bed beside John.
It was the most ridiculous sequence of events, the most horrid of hallucinations. Not real, he mentally chanted as the bus jerked forward, gaining speed more quickly than any vehicle should, then shuddering violently. He felt weightless for a moment, then jerked against John as the bus shuddered again and stopped. He wrapped his arms around John’s comforting weight, the only real thing in this world of madness.
“Two from Rosary Gardens, dressed as Muggles, downed by a baiter. One cut, one Crucio’d.”
Two real things. Rosary Gardens was real.
Sherlock watched in detached disbelief as two medics boarded the bus and approached them. Their scrubs were garishly green.
The hallucination turned itself on its head as one of them brandished a stick and his hold on John slipped away. He watched helplessly as John floated up off the bed.
Alien abduction? Fuck. Think! Something in the air? Gas? Chemicals? Dream?
Dream!
The feeling of floating was ethereal. He resolutely kept his eyes open.
No light from above. No movement upward toward a waiting ship. No government vehicles. No Mycroft.
Doors opened. Bright light from inside, a buzz of activity. More robed medics.
Hospital.
“John? Where are you taking John?”
He half-heard the replies. Human voices. British accents. Trauma. Blood loss. Family?
He was settled on a narrow bed. He lost track of John. Lost track of time. Refused to drink from the glass vial pressed against his mouth. Found himself drinking and swallowing even though his brain said no, even though he knew it was a bad idea. Vaguely wondered how they’d manipulated his mind. Found it fascinating, in a detached way,
Pain was beginning to subside.
Wondered if he could get out of bed unnoticed, find John, get in bed with him, hold him, an anchor to lost reality. Or if this was reality, bear it, suffer it, enjoy it with him.
“One more, sir, for the pain.” Another vial – large test tube. He looked up into warm brown eyes. Human woman. No data. Query returned no results. Impossible.
“What was the first one, then?” he managed, pushing back the mind-numbing shock of synapses not completing, deductions not made.
“Anti-Cruciatus. It may take a few hours to repair all the nerve damage – you had several sustained hits, sir. The pain will increase as the potion works. You’ll want this one – really.”
His hands were folded across his stomach. He stared at them, struggling with what was missing. No IV.
Nerve damage can’t be repaired in a few hours.
He rolled to his side with difficulty.
“Where’s John?”
She smiled. Good sign. “Mr. Watson? Oh, he’ll be fine. Give him a bit for the blood replenishing potion to work then he’ll be in here, I’m sure.” She laughed. “He’s causing a bit of an uproar – keeps insisting we transfer you to St. Bart’s.” She shook her head and patted his knee. “Muggle hospital. Now swallow.”
He swallowed.
Relief was immediate. Fuck morphine – this – this elixir was like magic. Tingling rush from gut to extremities. Arms and legs heavy and weak but nearly pain-free. Flesh no longer burning, skin no longer on fire. Mind clearer. He watched the – nurse? Yes, nurse. Nearing thirty. Married. Hides her smoking habit. Pregnant – first child.
“Are you feeling well enough to give a statement to the Aurors?” she asked. He didn’t protest as she eased him onto his back again and worked two pillows under his head and shoulders.
Aurors? He ticked the unfamiliar word away with the others. Muggle. Potion. Cruciatus.
He focused on the part he did understand. Statement. “Lestrade. Call Lestrade.”
She shook her head fondly. “We don’t get to choose who the Ministry sends, dear. Now, that was a class four pain potion. It will make you a bit woozy for an hour or two.”
He watched her leave the room. Squinted at her back. Not scrubs – more like an overly-long lab coat. Horrifyingly lime green. He glanced around the room. Muted light coming from nowhere. No tubes, machines, blood-pressure cuff, call button. No monitors. No electrical outlets or light fixtures. No window. Nothing attached to him. Nothing in him. Pleasant painting on the wall. Oil. Good – very good. Street scene. Old-fashioned store fronts.
He turned his head, stared at the ceiling, head swimming pleasantly.
Class four pain potion?
He filed it with the previous data in the realm of impossible and tried another self-assessment.
He was dressed. His Belstaff hung on a hook beside the door. He didn’t recall anyone removing it, or his shoes either, but they sat on the floor below the coat. He wiggled his toes. They moved reluctantly. Socks still on. His limbs were heavy, sluggish, but painfree. The dizziness was abating.
He took a full minute to sort, classify and store before trying to move again.
Secret government-controlled facility. Non-intrusive remedies to treat – what? Attacks from extraterrestrials? A criminal underground armed with lasers? Transportation by means of a giant purple bus with beds where seats should be?
His limbs would not cooperate when he tried to sit up, so he gave it up and ran through it all again.
They’d been walking – he and John – from the scene of an apparent homicide-suicide, walking up Rosary Gardens toward Fulham Road, where they’d grab a cab and get back to Baker Street and collapse in a heap in bed. It was cold and windy, and they’d been walking side by side, hands in pockets, collars turned up, heads tipped down against the wind.
They’d been crossing an alleyway when something had flashed, a streak of light in his peripheral vision, and John had grunted in pain, spun on his heel and charged forward into the alley, cursing.
John had shouted something. Something…in Latin?
Bad Latin. Expelliaramus?
Then – this memory was clear. “Get out of here, Sherlock! Go!”
More flashes before he could react. Something hit him, a crush of pain, unbearable agony. He barely remembered crumpling to the ground, hitting his head on the pavement. Another blast. Excruciating. Bone-melting pain. He recalled screaming. Wanting to die. Waiting to die. Then it stopped, the flashes and the screaming, but he was still writhing, arms jerking, and when he’d finally been able to roll over, John was down.
John had known. John had been surprised by the attack but he’d known – something. Had been familiar with the attacker, or his weapons.
Only one way to make the pieces connect. John was on the inside, part of whatever this was. This operation.
Mycroft.
John was working for Mycroft.
No.
Yes.
Doing what? Protecting him? Spying on him?
Sharing his bed. Sitting on the edge of the bathtub while he shaved in the morning. Snogging him against the wall after a successful case.
No!
“Sherlock!”
John was pushing his way past a doctor? – nurse? – same green lab coat– in the doorway.
“Sherlock.” The look of relief on John’s face was genuine. “Are you all right?”
Sherlock stared at John’s injured arm. He remembered blood. A lot of blood. John adjusted it self-consciously when he noticed Sherlock’s stare. His jumper was torn and blood-stained but his arm wasn’t even bandaged. “It wasn’t as bad as it looked,” he said.
The feeling in the pit of his stomach was foreign. It felt like betrayal.
“You’re working for Mycroft,” Sherlock stated. His voice was calm. He hoped he’d managed to internalise this very surprising information. But it was more likely that the concoction he’d swallowed was responsible for his even temper.
“What?” John sat down beside the bed on a chair that was decidedly not there a moment before. “What are you talking about? I’m not….” John’s voice trailed off and he groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “No – Sherlock. No. I know what it looks like, but it’s not what you think.”
“Right. This isn’t an experimental medical facility with no obvious source of power and we weren’t brought here on a gigantic purple bus with beds instead of seats.”
John said nothing. Sherlock had expected something – denial at the very least. But John was staring at Sherlock, mouth agape.
“Who told you that?” he managed at last.
“Told me what?” Sherlock retorted, frowning at John.
“The bus. The Knight Bus.”
“Told me? No one. I saw it. Couldn’t exactly help it – it filled the entire street.”
“You saw the Knight Bus.” John annunciated each word, watching Sherlock closely.
“I was checking your pulse – and I called for help. The bus simply appeared. It seemed to grow out of the pavement.” He lifted a hand and held it in front of his face, studying it with interest. “A hallucination, of course. Buses are not purple. Buses do not have beds. Buses do not grow out of the pavement.”
“You summoned the Knight Bus. Sherlock – you summoned the Knight Bus.”
John seemed half frantic. He pushed back from the bed and hurried into the corridor. Sherlock heard him conversing with the nurse. When he came back, he nearly launched himself at Sherlock.
“They gave you potions. Potions!”
“Anti-Cruciatus and a class four pain potion,” Sherlock clarified. “Highly effective. I’ll have to persuade Mycroft to procure some of the pain remedy for me. It’s better than morphine.”
“You – you think I’m part of this – this thing. With Mycroft.” John collapsed back onto the chair. Sherlock idly noticed it was now an upholstered wingback. John was staring at him, the barest hint of a smile on his face. “Where did you go to school, Sherlock? Before Uni, I mean. Public school?”
Sherlock looked at the wall behind the bed. Questions about his past always made him vaguely uncomfortable.
“Somewhere in France, I’m told,” he answered. “Boarding school.”
“France,” repeated John. “You’re told? You don’t remember seven years of boarding school?”
Sherlock shrugged. He certainly didn’t want to discuss this with John – or anyone – and hardly saw how it could be relevant.
“You deleted it.” The look on John’s face was – well, remarkable. He stood, staring at Sherlock in wonder. Awe. The look was disconcerting. “Your parents, Mycroft. Sherlock – where did they go to school?” He was standing against the bed now, and his hand, his fingers, were on Sherlock’s face, grazing his jaw. “Sherlock. Come on. Think. This is important.”
“Mycroft attended the same school. Mummy went to a boarding school in Scotland. Father –” He paused, frowned. He knew this, didn’t he? There was something different about his father. “I don’t recall.”
“Healer Barnes!” John startled him as he spun on the spot and called out for the nurse.
A woman appeared at the door, dressed in the same atrocious clothing as all the others. “Mr. Watson – really. All this fuss….”
“Does the name Mycroft Holmes mean anything to you?” asked John. He’d turned away from Sherlock, but his hand had moved to Sherlock’s arm and rested there still.
“Mr. Holmes is the Ministry’s Magical-Muggle Liaison,” she said. “Is there a problem? Should I contact the Ministry?”
But John was laughing. No – crying? Shoulders shaking. Wiping away tears. He’d collapsed onto the chair again. Sherlock idly wondered if the chair could possibly get any larger and more comfortable. Alice in Wonderland, he thought. He closed his eyes as his fingers tingled. Eat me.
“Contact Mr. Holmes and tell him his brother is at St. Mungo’s with John Watson,” John instructed. He laughed. Only it wasn’t a laugh. The sound that escaped him was half maniacal, half disbelieving.
“His brother?” The healer’s eyes popped open wide and slid over to Sherlock. Sherlock could feel those eyes on him, though he determinedly ignored the woman’s presence.
“Sherlock. Look at me.”
John had his hand now.
“Beauxbatons?”
“The bad Latin was enough, John. Don’t start butchering French too.”
John frowned, but then his face quickly relaxed into an amused grin.
“Ah – in the alley. Sorry about that.” His hand on Sherlock’s tightened.
“You deleted it, didn’t you?” he asked softly. “You fucking deleted magic.”