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Sherlock blinked. He was face down on the carpet, for some reason, and he was deaf. Somewhere far away a high pitched tone like a mechanical scream whined a continual D minor three octaves above middle C. Some amount of time had passed. He blinked again in the near dark, saw the expanse of carpet now mostly white and grey with a thick layer of debris: plaster dust and chunks of charred wood and cloth. He lifted his head and caused a rain of debris to slide off his head and neck .Also a deep throb in the back of his skull.
He groaned.
Deaf. Right. He couldn't hear the sound, although he could feel it in his throat, along with smoke and the dust and the familiar bitterness of expended nitrates and magnesium. His head gave another sharp throb, which was annoying, and he pushed himself up to hands and knees, ignoring the sting and crunch of more debris under palms and shins as his head tried to clear.
Something, it clamoured. *Something*. He gave it a shake. It throbbed angrily but something clicked back into place and he could feel his brain come back online.
Right, he thought, and: Something…
Oh! An explosion. Yes, of course. Something had exploded. Here? Not here. The smoke was coming through the window, not the floor.
Yes, he thought, triumphantly. Something interesting at last!.
*
Before he had a chance to investigate, however, there were faint sirens and flashing lights and a good deal of muffled thumping followed by a host of excited intruders. Firemen, paramedics, police..all yammering indistinct questions and orders and attempting to manhandle him hither and thither.
It was tiresome, both literally and figuratively, and no one seemed inclined to believe that he was fine, perfectly fine, or to leave him alone in his own home.
He was almost relieved when Mycroft made his inevitable appearance at the door. Mycroft ignored the flood of questions immediately turned his way and studied Sherlock from across the room. Sherlock, for once, simply let him, having faith that, whatever conclusion he came to regarding Sherlock's well being, he would deem himself the best possible caretaker, thus reducing the number of people between Sherlock himself and this… something.
Mycroft did not disappoint. Within minutes the apartment was empty but for the two of them, and quiet enough that Sherlock realized that the deafness had abated to the point of being merely D minor ringing in his ears.
"Now," Mycroft began but his voice lacked it's usual parody of gravitas. In fact he sounded like he was at the bottom of a very deep well and the idea pleased Sherlock so much, he giggled. Mycroft's smooth, high forehead wrinkled with concern. Sherlock rolled his eyes, which was very much a mistake as his throbbing head informed him. The debris-floured armchair was in his immediate reach and Sherlock saw no harm in resting his hand there. Mycroft's concern turned quickly to annoyance.
"You are not fine," Mycroft continued in his tinny, faraway voice. "You are at the very least mildly concussed."
"Nevertheless…" Sherlock replied, his own voice sounding just as far away and small,
"Don't be absurd, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "What are you planning to do here… tidy the flat? A bit of hoovering, perhaps?"
"I hadn't decided yet," Sherlock said. "I'll let Mrs. Hudson advise me on the matter."
"Mrs. Hudson has very sensibly gone to the hospital."
Sherlock felt the flat sway a bit. Structural damage? He had thought it unlikely, but Mrs. Hudson…
"Is she--?"
"Fine," said Mycroft. "Safe in the loving arms of the NHS. Now, will you stop staggering about and let me take you somewhere you can get some sleep and a shower whilst my people do something about this mess?"
"No," Sherlock said, vehemently, wincing as his left ear popped. He swallowed against a gentle swell of nausea. Ridiculous body. What had happened to it? Nothing. Struck by a puff of air and a few small shards of glass and look at it: paling and sweating and yes, all right, staggering against a completely imaginary spin…
His vision tunnelled.
"Oh, bugger…" he said, weakly.
He didn't faint. Not quite. Or perhaps he did, because although he didn't feel as though he'd lost any time, Mycroft was suddenly right beside him. He'd managed to get an arm around Sherlock's waist, and was in the process of pulling Sherlock's left arm across his shoulders.
"Come on," Mycroft said. "Let's get you sorted."
"Don't want sorting," Sherlock said, or rather muttered into the silky fabric of Mycroft's jacket.
"Of course not," Mycroft sighed. He took more of Sherlock's weight and balanced him between his body and the chair. He sounded out of breath. Sherlock liked that. He liked anything that put Mycroft out of sorts. Another little laugh slipped out. Mycroft, who had been speaking quietly into his phone, turned back abruptly and gave him a narrow, squint-eyed stare. Whatever he saw, his expression softened.
Sherlock loathed that tender, *affectionate* look. It made him feel unpleasantly young and weak: an open wound of need. He closed his eyes. The headache throbbed, Sound rose and ebbed in waves. He refused to fall.
He was bundled into Mycroft's faceless black limousine where he curled on his side, his head supported, if not pillowed on Mycroft's thin, hard thigh. He drifted, feigning unconsciousness. Mycroft knew, of course, and yet at some point his fingers fell lightly on Sherlock's hair, idly stroking it and picking out stray bits of plaster and glass.
Sherlock would have stiffened except it would give away the game. Besides, it was not unpleasant, the natural movement, the coolness of Mycroft's fingers. The points of muscle tension that told him Mycroft was preoccupied, staring unseeingly out the window and not at him.
It was… allowable, Sherlock decided.
The car moved smoothly through London, and eventually Sherlock felt well enough to be bored.
"What blew up, then?" he asked, without preamble or moving his head off of Mycroft's lap. Mycroft's hand stilled, but did not leave his hair.
"There was a gas leak in the building across the road."
"Is that the 'official' word?"
"Of course," said Mycroft.
Sherlock thought about that. There was something… But no, no there wasn't. There was a big blank wall in his mind that blew up in silence and flying debris every time he approached it.
He thought about sitting up. But, for no reason he could fathom, Mycroft began carding fingers through his hair again
Manipulative prick, Sherlock thought, but there was no heat in it, and he dozed.
*
In the morning he woke clear headed, his headache ignorable and his ears only slightly cottony. His memory of the night before was sharp enough -- Mycroft's driver had escorted him a guest room at the Diogenes Club and Sherlock had dismissed him. Shutting the door, he stripped off his disgusting bathrobe and pyjamas and crawled into the bed.
There was a knock at the door and, Sherlock realized, that it was knocking that had awoken him. He rose, wrapping the sheets and blanket around him, and answered the door. It was Mycroft's driver with a clean suit of clothes, his own. The driver informed him that his flat had been cleaned and Mr. Holmes was waiting for him in the dining room.
Sherlock took his time showering, happily imagining Mycroft surrounded by food he could not eat and drumming his fingers ever more impatiently on the tablecloth. Eventually, however, he was clean and dressed. He let himself out and stepped brightly down the stairs to the dining room.
*
By the time they were back in the limousine on their way to Baker Street, however, Sherlock's mood had soured. Not only was he unable to remember what it was he had noted about the explosion, but somehow he'd allowed Mycroft to take charge of his transportation, which in turn meant spending more time in his brother's dangerous company.
The thought of falling back into the habit of needing Mycroft filled him with a bristling anger and distracted him enough that he almost missed the other thing. Fortunately, his brain was able to work at speed no matter how distracted he was by emotional turmoil.
"Say that again?" he asked.
"Which part?" Mycroft asked. "You've been woolgathering for the last seven miles."
Hah, Sherlock thought. Mycroft was stalling, he was most definitely onto something.
"The part where you travelled from Pall Mall to Westminster in less than twelve minutes," Sherlock said. "I didn't know the old Bentley could do 300 kph."
"She *is* a good old girl," Mycroft said, patting the leather seat.
"So what is it?" Sherlock asked, bitterly. "Someone you wish to blackmail? A government you need destabilized? An orphanage burned to the ground?"
"Really Sherlock," Mycroft said disparagingly. "You know I keep the orphanage burnings for myself." Sherlock felt the corner of his mouth start to lift in amusement and covered it with a snort of disgust.
"As it happens, you are correct," Mycroft went on, pulling a file folder out of his jacket. "I *was* on my way to your flat before I heard of the explosion, because I have a job for you." He held out the folder. Sherlock ignored it.
"Not interested," he said, brightening. Familiar ground, on which he'd won many a battle. There was nothing in Mycroft's line of work that could possibly tempt him, and Mycroft *hated* that.
Perhaps it was going to turn into a good day after all.