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[personal profile] prettybirdy979
 Title: Burning Hearts
Fandom: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock
Gene: Crossover, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Mystery, Fluff
Character/s: Sherlock, Martin, Mycroft, John, Douglas, Carolyn, Arthur, Lestrade, Moriarty, OCs and other minor Sherlock characters
Rating: PG-13 
Summary: Round Two. Only this time, the stakes have changed... and so have the players.
Warnings: Violence. Bit of foul language. Spoiler for The Great Game.
Notes: Sequel to Thicker than Water. Reading that first will help understanding this fic.

Thanks to Elvendork for her betaing. 

John looked between Douglas and Mycroft, clearly torn between his current patient and the possible future one.

“Go on.” Mycroft said, surprising himself though he didn’t show it.

“What?” John asked, his eyes running up and down Mycroft’s body.

“I am mostly uninjured. It is logical you go to Mr Shappey’s aid.” Mycroft tried to stand but John put a hand on his chest to halt the movement.

“John, Arthur-” Douglas said, his tone scared and angry.

“Yes, John, do go tend to Arthur.” Mycroft snapped. John stared at him with wide eyes. “He lost consciousness approximately half an hour ago, his need for medical care is far beyond my few bruises. Now go!” Mycroft put every bit of his most commanding tone behind his last statement and John was halfway out the door before he seemed to realise.

“Thank you.” Douglas said before following.

Mycroft pulled himself to his feet and eyed the distance to the door. His leg throbbed at the  thought of moving that far but he took a deep breath and stepped onto the slightly injured leg.

It was only a small gash, no one needed to know it was there.


Sherlock felt John push past him but he didn’t see. His gaze was frozen on Arthur’s body, the rise of his chest the only indication he was still alive. Blood covered his forehead and the beginnings of bruises were visible on nearly all his uncovered skin.

There was a lot of uncovered skin, they had ripped his now bloody shirt and Sherlock could see the cuts on his body that matched some of the rips. Two of his fingers were bent in awkward directions and now Sherlock listened he could hear how Arthur’s breathing was shallow. Broken ribs, he thought and the way John carefully ran his hands over Arthur confirmed the thought.

Sherlock glanced at Arthur’s face again and for a moment he could see ginger curls instead of matted brown hair and high sharp cheekbones instead of Arthur’s open face. For a moment it was Martin lying close to death there and Sherlock couldn’t handle it.

He had to find his brother.

Raising his gun, he slipped out of the room while ignoring Douglas calls to come back.


John barely registered Sherlock leaving, his focus completely on his patient. Arthur was...not in a good way, to put it gently.

Breathing, bleeding then broken. Okay he’s breathing. Not responsive though, so possible concussion which is supported by that head wound. Cuts all over his chest and by the state of his pants, all over those as well. All shallow but there’s a lot of them. Broken ribs, 6th and 7th by the feel of it. Possible internal bleeding...

I’ve seen kids in Afghanistan in better condition. John grimaced at the errant thought and pushed it aside to see what help he could provide for Arthur. Carefully, he rolled him into the recovery position

“Will be he okay?” Carolyn asked and John could hear the tears in her voice.

“He needs a hospital now.”

“Right. You gr-”

John’s head snapped up to look at Douglas. He noted that Mycroft shuffled his way at that moment but his focus was mostly on the pilot.

“He can’t be moved! We have to keep him stable, there’s a risk of internal bleeding or of us causing it if we move him.”

“Look around you doctor.” Carolyn snapped. “This is not a place to keep anyone stable. We have to get him out of here.”

John was torn and turned to Sherlock to get his opinion only to remember he had raced out of the room. Swearing as only a soldier can, he stood.

“Okay. Carolyn, keep an eye on Arthur. Any changes and you call for an ambulance- In fact, here’s my phone. Call Lestrade, let him know where we are and get him to bring an ambulance.” John drew his gun.

“Where are you going?” Carolyn demanded as she dropped to her knees beside her son.

“Sherlock hunting. I’ll be right back.”


Mycroft and Arthur had had adjoining rooms as their cells. Sherlock quickly noted the other three doors on the hallway.

One was directly across from Mycroft’s cell, with it’s door slightly ajar and even before he entered it Sherlock knew what he was going to find. The room was deserted and judging by the layer of dust had been like that for an extended period of time.

The next door was ten metres down the hall and also slightly ajar. Sherlock could hear the voices in there as he approached.

Three people, at least. None of them are Martin. He eyed his gun. All probably armed. A gun fight now would not be a good idea.

Carefully, Sherlock slipped the gun into his pocket and pulled the door shut. When the note of voices inside didn’t change, he quickly searched his pockets for a way to jam the door.  He frowned as he found the wedge of wood left over from last month's experiment with splinters but he wasn’t that surprised.  His coat pockets were far larger than they seemed and he often put things in them and then for-deleted it. John had once witnessed him pull out a pair of shoes, five slides and a hairbrush from them while searching for his phone. John had declared the pockets to be “TARDIS” sized and refused to search for anything in them anymore, lest he get lost in them.

Shaking his head to remove his mind from the pleasant memory of John’s pretended outrage, he wedged the wood under the door to temporarily jam it.

He turned his attention to the only remaining door at the end of the hall.


The door opened and someone took a deep breath.

Martin ignored it. He went back to counting each breath and wondering which was going to be his last. Then there were a pair of hands on his and he flinched, eyes opening before he could stop them.

His eyes met Sherlock’s for a moment before he forced them away.

“Not real. You’re not real.”

A hand brushed his cheek. “Martin.”

Martin whimpered. “You can’t be real.” He whispered.

The hands started to pull at his ties and he only just suppressed the scream when it pulled on his broken arm. They stopped moving.


“Stop it. You’re not here! You’re not coming!”

A hand grabbed at Martin’s chin and forced him to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “I am here. I am real. Martin, it’s me. The brother who stole chocolate from Mycroft with you, who held you through the nights after your failed tests and who you held in return through the worst of my withdrawals.” He took a deep breath and Martin noticed something running down his cheek.

Sherlock was crying.

“Why are you crying?” He whispered, stopping the real tear with his newly untied hand.

“I thought I had lost you.” Then Sherlock was hugging him, taking care to mind his arm and Martin could feel the heartbeat.

He was real.

Sherlock had come.

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