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lynndyreRepost from the kinkmeme, prompt was: John is injured very badly on a case and brought to the nearest hospital. While John is having the emergency operation, Sherlock freaks out in front of the ward - shouts at nurses, reduces other waiting parties to tears etc.
When Mycroft finally shows up, he takes one good look at the chaos and Sherlock's obvious state of panic and pulls Sherlock into a warm, brotherly embrace..
366 words, gen, no spoilers. It's fun making them hug.
Mycroft pulled off his gloves, finger by finger, and watched Sherlock pivot and snap at an old woman (married, but widowed, here waiting for a friend, not a family member). Against the far wall, a young husband with a small girl in his lap was on the verge of angry tears, clutching his sleeping daughter who he obviously loved despite their lack of genetic relation.
Mycroft made a quelling gesture to the receptionist, stilling her hand on the receiver of her phone, on the verge of calling in security. And then, fully thirty seconds after his entry, Sherlock spun about in a flair of bloodstained coattails and realized he was there.
Sherlock glared at him, but the intensity of it was not his familiar resentment. Instead his eyes showed desperation, and the edges of panic. His hands had been cleaned, but not thoroughly, and likely with nothing more than a wet wipe. Blood was still streaked up the outside of his right wrist, and the grooves of his knuckles were dark. Mycroft spared a thought to wish the surgeons success, John Watson was not a man whose existence deserved to be reduced to rusty stains on shaking hands.
Mycroft crossed the waiting room. Sherlock's hands clenched, and then released, but whatever he had begun to say caught behind his teeth and was swallowed again. Mycroft hooked his umbrella over his elbow and reached out, slow enough to be gentle.
"Come here."
Sherlock was stiff in his arms, and perhaps this was foolish, needlessly sentimental- Sherlock was all angles, and the last time he had consented to be hugged he had still been a foot shorter than Mycroft. But his breath was hot and damp against Mycroft's collar, and as Mycroft pulled him closer he could feel it hitch. And then long fingers were fastening onto the back of his overcoat, pulling him just a fraction off balance. Compensating meant wrapping his arms more firmly around Sherlock, steadying them both, letting his left hand come up to cup Sherlock's skull. His hair smelled of gunpowder.
"Shh. John will be alright."
If he is not, Mycroft has perjured himself before for far less. But the doctor is strong.
When Mycroft finally shows up, he takes one good look at the chaos and Sherlock's obvious state of panic and pulls Sherlock into a warm, brotherly embrace..
366 words, gen, no spoilers. It's fun making them hug.
Mycroft pulled off his gloves, finger by finger, and watched Sherlock pivot and snap at an old woman (married, but widowed, here waiting for a friend, not a family member). Against the far wall, a young husband with a small girl in his lap was on the verge of angry tears, clutching his sleeping daughter who he obviously loved despite their lack of genetic relation.
Mycroft made a quelling gesture to the receptionist, stilling her hand on the receiver of her phone, on the verge of calling in security. And then, fully thirty seconds after his entry, Sherlock spun about in a flair of bloodstained coattails and realized he was there.
Sherlock glared at him, but the intensity of it was not his familiar resentment. Instead his eyes showed desperation, and the edges of panic. His hands had been cleaned, but not thoroughly, and likely with nothing more than a wet wipe. Blood was still streaked up the outside of his right wrist, and the grooves of his knuckles were dark. Mycroft spared a thought to wish the surgeons success, John Watson was not a man whose existence deserved to be reduced to rusty stains on shaking hands.
Mycroft crossed the waiting room. Sherlock's hands clenched, and then released, but whatever he had begun to say caught behind his teeth and was swallowed again. Mycroft hooked his umbrella over his elbow and reached out, slow enough to be gentle.
"Come here."
Sherlock was stiff in his arms, and perhaps this was foolish, needlessly sentimental- Sherlock was all angles, and the last time he had consented to be hugged he had still been a foot shorter than Mycroft. But his breath was hot and damp against Mycroft's collar, and as Mycroft pulled him closer he could feel it hitch. And then long fingers were fastening onto the back of his overcoat, pulling him just a fraction off balance. Compensating meant wrapping his arms more firmly around Sherlock, steadying them both, letting his left hand come up to cup Sherlock's skull. His hair smelled of gunpowder.
"Shh. John will be alright."
If he is not, Mycroft has perjured himself before for far less. But the doctor is strong.
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Date: 2011-03-10 12:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-10 01:04 am (UTC)And I want to fix these two into liking each other again so badly.
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Date: 2011-03-10 01:48 am (UTC)How can people not love BBC-version Mycroft? This right here is basically what I saw in him immediately.
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Date: 2011-03-10 02:50 am (UTC)BBC Mycroft is wonderful.
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Date: 2011-03-12 02:03 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-12 03:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-21 02:16 pm (UTC)