Soldier's Heart Part 2 of 15
Jan. 2nd, 2011 11:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
piploverTitle: Soldier's Heart Part 2
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes 09 and Canon
Rating: PG to NC-17
Wordcount: 85,307
Parings: Holmes/Watson
Warnings: Deals with the physical and mental aspects of PTSD
Beta and Brit-picker: Beta'ed by the lovely![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jenlee1 and Brit-picked by the wonderful nodbear
Mrs. Hudson had prepared a thick, hearty stew for their dinner, the aroma of which filled the rooms and roused Holmes before the slight tapping on the door. When Watson had relieved their landlady of the heavy tureen, he had given her a reassuring nod as her eyes drifted to the lazily stretching Holmes, earning a grateful smile and promise to bring the remaining dishes up.
“Come along, Holmes. This smells absolutely delicious, and even you must be starving with this to tempt your appetite!” Watson coaxed, grinning as Holmes’ stomach chose that moment to let out a rather impressive rumble.
Rather than be embarrassed by the noise, Holmes grinned widely in amusement. His face had regained some of its color after his rest and his cheeks dimpled with the smile as he made his way to the table.
“I do believe Nanny has outdone herself, “ he agreed, taking a deep breath in appreciation.
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson replied sweetly, entering the room with another tray filled with steaming bread, plates and bowls, and the makings for tea. “High praise indeed coming from you.”
The tray was deposited, and with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes she asked, “Is there anything else I can get for you two gentlemen?”
“This will be all, thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Watson answered hurriedly, seeing Holmes’ eyes narrow in preparation of a smart comeback. “Everything looks wonderful.”
With a nod and a graceful tilt of her head she swept out of the room, closing the door firmly behind her as she did and leaving the two men to dine in peace.
They set about filling up their dishes, Watson watching in satisfaction as Holmes dug into his meal with relish, and for nearly a quarter hour neither spoke, engrossed in their repast. It was only after Holmes had used his bread to mop up the remains of his bowl that he spoke, breaking the silence almost hesitantly as Watson sipped at his tea.
“Watson, I know that I promised to regale you with tales from my journey, but would you mind terribly if we put that off for one more night? There is a concert tonight, a Mendelssohn composition, that I would very much like to attend with you, if you are amenable.”
“That sounds like a lovely idea, Holmes,” Watson agreed, hiding his smile behind his cup at the wistful, almost childlike eagerness in Holmes’ voice.
“Good,” Holmes exclaimed, jumping up from the table with more energy than Watson had seen in him since taking down Moran. “We have just enough time to prepare, and then off to music land!”
Watson laughed as Holmes darted into his room, finishing his tea sedately before deciding on a course of action. He had already begun to move small items and some of his attire back to his old room, and he was almost certain his evening attire was hanging in his wardrobe.
Stacking the dishes neatly for Mrs. Hudson to collect, he limped upstairs to tidy and change, smiling at his reflection as he finished fastening his collar and taking stock of himself in the mirror.
It had been too long since the call of a symphony or the theater had interested him. After Holmes’ death, the world had seemed a flat, grey place, where little besides his work, his memories, and the quiet times with his wife, had mattered. Mary, rest her soul, had been unable to interest him in attending any sort of function on a regular basis, and more than once they had fought about his lack of interest in keeping up appearances for their friends.
His reflection smiled sadly, a turn of the mouth that did not reach the eyes as his fingers stilled, remembering the last time he had attended the opera, Mary frail and sickly by then, but her eyes gleaming with joy as she had listened to the music with rapt fascination. In many ways she had reminded him of Holmes at that moment, and it had left him with a painful ache in his chest which no amount of brandy or work could cure. It had been the last time he had attended a performance, a little over a year ago, now that he thought about it.
Shaking his head to rid himself of the maudlin thoughts, Watson finished dressing, admiring the way the dark blue jacket still fit his frame even after so long a time unused. Pressing his hands once down the front of his shirt, he made his way downstairs.
“Holmes, are you ready? We should be able to catch a cab and make it just in -” He stopped on the landing, taking in the figure before him with wide eyes.
Holmes smiled in amusement at the reaction, standing a bit straighter as Watson’s eyes took in his appearance. The detective knew he had been a bit disheveled of late, and it had felt wonderful to shave and pomade his hair into a slick shine. His black jacket fit him perfectly, as he had never been one to gain weight easily, and the shirt was one of Watson’s, conveniently left in his wardrobe before everything had fallen apart and still pressed neatly. Even his cravat, a deep burgundy, was perfectly tied.
“Are you ready, dear fellow?” Holmes asked, motioning towards the door as the doctor finished descending the stairs.
“Yes,” Watson breathed, still staring with overt appreciation. He came back to his senses with a cough, repeating, “Yes, let us go. We should be just in time.”
Motioning for the doctor to precede him, the two made their way down the stairs, Watson making sure to grab their umbrellas on the way out. As they reached the foyer Mrs. Hudson was closing the door, and she turned to look at them in surprised pleasure.
“Such lovely gentlemen,” she beamed, making her way over to them and examining them as a mother would her children before their first public outing. “I do hope you have a good evening.” She smiled as she handed over a telegram form to Holmes, explaining, “This arrived just a moment ago for you, Mr. Holmes.”
“Thank you, Nanny,” Holmes murmured, offering her one of his brief smiles as she left them, reading the form with a raised eyebrow.
“Anything the matter?” Watson asked, slipping his gloves on as he moved to the door, watching Holmes and gauging his reaction to whatever he was reading.
“No, no,” Holmes assured him, tucking the form into his pocket and slipping his own gloves on. “My brother just confirmed our lunch tomorrow, and has advised me that if I wish him to refrain from using the services of my Irregulars I shall have to keep him au courant on my physical condition and whereabouts, lest he remand me to his Chichester estate and the tender mercies of Mrs. Everman.” The shudder Holmes gave was not entirely for show, and Watson laughed at his rueful expression.
“Then I suggest you keep your brother current to avoid such a dire punishment,” he agreed, holding out his arm. Holmes tucked his hand into the crook of the doctor’s elbow, and the two of them made their way out into the blustery spring night, top hats held firmly in place with hands.
Hailing a cab was easy with most people avoiding the weather and off the streets, and they made it with plenty of time to spare. The seats were comfortably worn, and the strains of the orchestra limbering their fingers and tuning was a familiar, comforting background noise.
As the lights dimmed and the music began, Watson found his attention drifting to his friend, taking in the languid expression, closed eyes, and the softly waving finger. It may have been nearly a year since Watson had been to any kind of social event, but the thought of his friend, running for his life and unable to enjoy any of the pleasures he so relished, brought another lump to the doctor’s throat.
“He’s back now,” he told himself silently, blinking his eyes furiously and cursing himself for a sentimental fool. “He’s safe, and if he wants to listen to a thousand symphonies, then by God, we shall!”
Forcing himself to abandon such depressing thoughts and focus on the moment, Watson closed his eyes and allowed himself to relax back into his seat, enjoying the music and the company with a strange sense that all in his world was finally, at last, beginning to right itself.
***
The cab ride back to Baker Street was comfortably silent, the two men lost in their own thoughts as the hansom jostled and bumped along the cobbles. Holmes’ gaze remained fixed out the window, watching the darkness with a peaceful calm that he had not felt in far too long. The notes of the symphony floated around his head, and he found himself smiling, the peace of the night taking away some of the harsh sting that the day had brought. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Watson watching him, his own lips turned up in a fond expression that he might have termed sentimental if he had not known his doctor so well.
Without thought, Holmes reached his hand out and gently laid it atop the other’s, where it rested between them on the seat. Watson’s pulse was slow and steady beneath his fingers, and his friend did not change his position save to offer a subtle squeeze in confirmation of the gesture. It was only as the cabby slowed the horses that the two of them parted, Holmes exiting first and then offering the doctor his hand as he stepped down.
Watson waited just inside the door as Holmes paid the fare, and the two of them mounted the seventeen steps together.
“Care for a brandy?” Holmes murmured when they reached the landing outside their sitting room.
“Of course. See you in a few moments, “ Watson agreed, making his way up the stairs to his room and leaving Holmes to watch his retreating figure, marveling at the cut of the jacket on his friend‘s strong form.
The detective shook his head fondly as he made his way into his room, divesting himself of the clothes that, although still highly fashionable, felt more restraining than he had remembered, eagerly trading his dinner jacket for his nightshirt and dressing gown.
There was still a chill in the air despite the fire crackling cozily, and Holmes dragged his chair closer to the flames as he donned his slippers. He wiggled around in his seat until he was comfortable and sat for a moment, eyes closed as echoes of stringed instruments serenaded his thoughts.
“Holmes?”
The voice was soft, but it brought his eyes open immediately, and he smiled at Watson’s grin as the man stood in the doorway, leaning casually against the doorjamb.
“Still awake,” he confirmed, watching as Watson went to the sidebar and poured them both a brandy before digging around the coal scuttle for the box of cigars he knew would be there.
“Cigar?” he asked before handing one over, the two of them settling into their seats with the ease of long practice, and for several minutes the only sound was the crackling of the fire and the soft hiss of the cigars being gently inhaled.
When he spoke, breaking the companionable silence that had fallen, Holmes’ voice was low and husky with smoke. “There were some nights,” he began, taking a sip of his brandy as though to wet his throat, “that I wondered if I would ever be sat here again, warm and safe and with my dearest friend.”
Watson took a long pull on his cigar but did not interrupt, his eyes intent on Holmes’ face as the other man stared distantly into the fire.
“So many nights it was a wonder I saw the dawn at all, with Moriarty’s men still so damned intent on putting an end to me. But others… There were some sights I shall never forget, Watson. Stars so brilliant and untainted by London fog that it seemed as though I could reach out my hand and grasp them. A moon which hung over a lake so calm I could not tell where sky ended and earth began. Those nights were rare, and I think all the more amazing for it.”
Watson contemplated his words thoughtfully, sipping his own drink before speaking with careful deliberation.
“There were nights in Afghanistan like that,” he whispered, finally turning his gaze from his friend and to the fire, his own memories on the desert landscapes which had haunted his nightmares. “The sand was so fine and would get into everything, from your underclothes to your boots. When the wind had a hold of it, which was often, it would grind into your skin until you felt as though you would never be clean or abrasion free again. But when the moon hung heavy,” he breathed, the wonder and pain still fresh in his voice, as though he were seeing the scene before him and not several years past. “The stars filled the night, and it would be as though you were standing under a cold sun, it would be so bright. All that sand, reflecting, like so many diamonds. It drove some men mad, to be amongst all that nothing, but I always found it strangely beautiful.”
“I wish I had seen it,” Holmes murmured, and his voice was thick with something that brought Watson’s head up, his vision back into the present. Holmes eyes remained firmly fixed on the fire, though a suspicious glint mirrored the flames. “I attempted, once, to make it Egypt. But even there they found me, and some poor soul was shot down in the night as I escaped. I tried to avoid trains after that.”
“Did you have no peace, Holmes?” Watson asked softly, fighting the lump in his throat too fiercely to make his words louder.
“Oh, there were good days,” Holmes immediately assured, grinning his false smile that Watson hated when turned on him. “I found a lovely village in the north of France where I played fiddle for my room and board. I spent several months there, enjoying the fresh air and country life.”
“You hate village life,” Watson snorted, finishing the rest of his brandy with a long swallow. “You must have been miserable.”
Holmes laughed, one of his silent giggles that always set Watson off as well, the two of them chortling as the heaviness and weight of the moment slowly dissipated.
“Indeed,” Holmes finally managed to gasp as he finished his own drink and threw his cigar end into the fire. He wiped his eyes with his empty hand as he stood, retrieving Watson’s glass and depositing both on the dinner table. “It was hell on Earth, with every farmer’s wife determined to throw their unwed daughters my way and no escape save to flee after three months of endless boredom.”
Holmes did not return to his seat, but yawned and stretched his limber frame until he was nearly bent backward. “I am off to bed, old boy. See you in the morning.”
“Sleep well,” Watson called after him, the smile slowly fading from his face as he put his own cigar half in the ashtray to his left, staring in contemplative silence at the fire. He remained thus for nearly half an hour before the clock in the hall chimed, alerting him to the lateness of the night and the call of his own bed.
The mattress as he settled down beneath one of Mrs. Hudson’s Scottish quilts embraced him as an old lover, and though the bed was smaller than he was accustomed and the night sounds different, he drifted off almost immediately.
The next morning dawned crisp and clear, as was Spring’s mercurial habit. The sunlight streaming through his room woke Holmes before the clock could proclaim the hour, but from the sounds outside his window he doubted it was much before seven.
He curled his long frame into a smaller form, enjoying the warmth of the blankets around him and the mattress that had never felt so soft. The luxury of simply sleeping without worry or distraction still felt a novelty, and it was with reluctance that he wormed his way out of bed, hissing as his bare feet sought out slippers and he hastily wrapped his dressing gown around his shoulders.
When he rang for Mrs. Hudson he was not surprised to find her not only awake but bustling around the kitchen, preparing tea and breakfast. She had always been a much earlier riser than her tenants.
When Watson came down the stairs nearly an hour later, it was to find his friend sipping cocoa and languidly nibbling on toast, hair mussed and unshaven.
“Good morning,” Watson greeted, drawing his own dressing gown closer about himself as he sat down, pouring himself a cup of strong tea.
“Good morning,” Holmes answered absently, blinking suddenly as though only just aware that Watson had joined him.
Watson had to grin at the other’s expression, remembering with a small pang of nostalgia that it often took his friend longer than most men to leave his morning fog behind.
“I have several patients I must see to today, but I should be free for dinner around seven if you would like to go out,” Watson said, his smile growing as Holmes took a long sip of his cocoa before nodding.
“I am to meet Mycroft for lunch, and knowing my brother as I do, it may be some time before I feel up to more than a very light meal,” Holmes warned with a wry grin. “If he insists I eat as much as he feels I should you will find me a very easy dinner companion.”
Watson laughed as he prepared his plate, his worry over Holmes’ empty dishes assuaged with the knowledge of the upcoming meeting.
“He worries about you,” he said instead, grinning at Holmes’s snort. “A man of his size cannot help but be worried when his only sibling looks as though a harsh wind would blow him over.”
“Watson,” Holmes scolded, frowning. “Be assured, if I ate nearly as much as my brother and you seem to think I should, I would rival him in size and you would be sore pressed to get me out the door.”
“Holmes, the day you eat as much as I think you should is the day I know I can hang up my medical license, as I would have worked a miracle,” Watson teased.
Holmes’ answering grin was comment enough, and the two of them finished their respective breakfasts in quiet, only the occasional clink of fork against plate filling the silence.
***
The Diogenes Club had not changed in the three years of his absence, though Holmes would have been rather shocked if it had. Those who joined a club for the unclubable generally tended to abhor change, his brother more so than most, and the dim environs were as comfortable and welcoming a sight as Baker Street had been.
He was led immediately to the Stranger’s Room, where they could speak securely and not fear the wrath of the other club members. Their reunion, however, was not without its own silent communication.
“Hello, brother,” Sherlock greeted as he entered the room, making his way to the stately figure which had yet to assume a seat, embracing the large form of the only man as dear to him as his doctor.
“Sherlock,” Mycroft answered, his large hand patting his sibling’s back gently, as though quite aware of the strength contained within his person and uncertain of that within the other man. “It is good to see you looking so well.”
Holmes’ eyebrows rose as he stepped away, regarding the corpulent man before him fondly. His expression, however, spoke more eloquently than any words as it appeared to say, “I am quite aware you have been spying on me, and I’m only here to make sure you cease. I am alive and well, so quit hovering.”
Mycroft’s left eyebrow rose slowly as he gestured to their seats, as though to reply, “I am your older sibling, it is my job to hover. And you may look fine today, but last time we met you looked half dead.”
Sherlock’s brow furrowed in answer. “What are we having for lunch today, Mycroft? I’m actually quite famished,” he asked aloud as he took his place at the table, rubbing his hands together eagerly.
“A lovely roast duck with asparagus and beautifully cooked potatoes,” Mycroft answered, though his own brow conveyed a different message. It said quite plainly, “You are only humoring me, and I know you know I know you are humoring me. Be thankful I have not put a doctor on retainer and trust your friend with your health as I do.”
“That sounds lovely.”
“Yes, the cook does a masterful job. We were quite lucky to acquire him last year.”
There was another moment of silence as they settled and the first dishes were brought in, a palate cleanser of celery soup that steamed appetizingly as it was placed before them. For several minutes the only sounds were those of spoons clinking and soft slurping.
“I must say, Sherlock, it is good to see you looking so much recovered and eating like a normal person,” Mycroft murmured as he finished his bowl, looking fondly at his brother as Holmes continued to eat slowly.
Sherlock’s eyebrows rose slowly as he took another spoonful, the expression clearly saying, “I know you have been spying on me, you old goat, so don’t think I am fooled for a moment. I will tell you in good time what you wish to know.”
The elder Holmes’ right eyebrow rose to his hairline and his brow furrowed, as though to ask, “You went to your doctor friend yesterday and were there for quite some time during his business hours, suggesting you were not there for idle chit-chat. My little spies were not able to obtain the nature of your complaint, but you do not seem about to expire, so what is wrong with you?”
Sighing, knowing he could not hope to outmaneuver his brother or avoid the topic much longer, Holmes admitted, “I have been feeling a bit under the weather, actually. I went to see Watson yesterday, and we spent a pleasant afternoon at his practice. It would have been a very enjoyable time if not for a small interruption.”
Holmes stopped playing with his spoon, which he had been swirling around in the dregs of his soup, and met his brother’s gaze full on, his eyes narrowing and his mouth pursing. Though he did not give voice to his thoughts, Mycroft understood him clearly.
“The Irregulars are mine,” the look said. “You took very good care of them while I was away, and I thank you for that. But leave them to me, now, and stop using them to spy on me.”
Mycroft raised his brows innocently, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he said, “I do hope whatever it was that disrupted your time with the doctor did not detract from the day.”
“Not at all,” Holmes assured him pleasantly, smiling as the servants retrieved their dishes and the savory aroma of duck wafted into the room. “It was a slight misunderstanding with one of my lads. I’m certain it is not something I will have to concern myself with in future.”
“Yes, some boys do require more tending to than others,” Mycroft agreed, returning the smile with one of his own. For a moment, any who looked in upon the scene would have had no trouble discerning the family resemblance between them despite their respective sizes. “It is always a delicate balance to watch over them without rousing their ire.”
“Quite so,” Holmes agreed, his smile softening as he added, “It can be difficult when they don’t always know what is best for them.”
“Such is the dilemma for all those who care greatly for another,” Mycroft sighed, his own expression becoming something much more tender.
“I do not know what is wrong with me,” Holmes whispered, his smile falling as he turned serious, putting their game to a rest for the moment. “Watson is certain he knows what it is, though he has not divulged that information yet. He has recommended a long rest and plenty of quiet, with no cases to hinder my recovery.”
“Then you should listen to your doctor and do as he says,” Mycroft agreed, just as softly and seriously. “You look better today than when we last saw each other, but that does not mean you look particularly well. My Chichester estate is always at your disposal, as you well know.”
“I do,” Holmes agreed, his lips turning up slightly as he added, “Though I do not think I am quite ready to brave Mrs. Everman just yet.”
“Nonsense,” Mycroft laughed, the seriousness of the moment departing as quickly as it had descended. “She is as lovely and tender as always.”
“Mycroft, she did unspeakable things to my person the last time I visited and forced vile concoctions down my throat!” Holmes protested.
“She gave you a sponge bath while you were near delirious with fever and then gave you the medication the doctor had prescribed. Really, Sherlock, you are too much sometimes,” Mycroft chided, his face lighting up as the doors at the far end of the room opened and several servants entered bearing their plates and the main dish. “But let us put aside such distasteful talk for now and enjoy this repast, shall we?”
“Of course,” Holmes agreed, though his eyebrows lowered in one last rebuke, his gaze clearly saying, “I am keeping myself as well as can be expected, so stop spying on me and I will keep you informed. Deal?”
Mycroft’s grin widened in answer, and there was no more talk as the two set about enjoying the meal before them.
***
They spoke of lighter things as they ate, of events that had happened in Holmes’ three year absence, and the positions Mycroft had found for those Irregulars who had grown too old to be considered harmless children any longer.
“Mick Wiggins has taken to the telegram office splendidly,” Mycroft assured Holmes, his eyes laughing even as his expression remained wry. He had always found it amusing how children and small animals congregated around his brother.
“Squeaker and Toad?” Holmes asked, his lips twitching with amusement at the names bestowed upon the young ladies by the other lads.
“Sarah and Antonin are housemaids in Lady Katherine Harberg’s house. She was quite taken with them and refused to split them up, the little darlings. I must say, Sherlock, you did train them rather well. They had her eating out of their hands within moments,” Mycroft chuckled, shaking his head in wonderment.
“Haha!” Holmes crowed, slapping a hand on the table in his delight. “I always knew those two would manage, little manipulators that they are.”
“Oh, yes. They also, to be sure, eased the way for young Adam Delshire to be admitted to Lord Smyther’s house, as he heard nothing but praise from Lady Katherine on their performance. He has advised me that if I have any other such treasures tucked away I am to give him first chance to acquire them, as Adam seems to make a splendid stable hand.”
“Oh, yes. He was always quite curious about the cab horses, asking questions until he was shooed away. I do believe he would often help with their upkeep in the winters to make some extra money. Resourceful bunch, my little band,” Holmes sighed, his expression at once fond and regretful as he turned back to his plate and seemed to force another bite of duck into his mouth.
“You did what was necessary.” Mycroft’s voice was stern as he poked his brother in the shoulder with his oversized finger, earning an exasperated eye roll. “I swore the children would be taken care of, and they have been. They knew the situation as well as any could, and not a one of them shall ever regret their service to either of us. Thanks to your efforts, Sherlock, not a single Irregular has ended up in the dock once they’ve outgrown the streets. You know better than I what an accomplishment that is.”
“Yes, I do,” Holmes agreed, twitching his lips into a tight smile as he narrowed his eyes at his brother. “But I am back now, so no more commandeering them for your own gains. I am their general, and as such they take their orders from me!”
“So you have said,” Mycroft agreed, the noncommittal answer earning another narrowing of the eyes from his brother. “Now hush,” Mycroft continued before any more could be said on the matter, “You have eaten more than your usual two bites, for which I am extremely happy, but your plate still has an overabundance of food. Do try and finish your lunch.”
“For your information I have a dinner arrangement with Watson tonight. I would like to be able to do more than simply gaze at the poor chap as he eats, Mycroft.”
“Yes, well, in that case you may be forgiven your appalling lack of appetite,” Mycroft relented.
The elder Holmes watched in silence for a few moments as his brother nibbled on his potatoes, knowing the effort he was making to please his sibling and appreciating the attempt. When he spoke next, his voice was slightly hesitant, belying his reluctance to bring up the topic.
“Tell me, Sherlock, how your doctor is faring.”
“Watson appears to be in wonderful health,” Holmes answered slowly, eyes focusing on his brother with a sharpness that many found intimidating. “His leg has been troubling him slightly due to the weather, but he appears none the worse for it.” He paused, setting down his silverware and clasping his hands before him on the table, fingers to his lips. “Why do you ask?”
In a rare show of prevarication, Mycroft took a large drink from his wine glass, wiping his mouth delicately before he answered in a tone deliberately neutral.
“He had not been faring well, some few months ago. The children were quite worried about him, as his health seemed to be taking a turn for the worse in his grief. However, I am much delighted to hear that the upcoming anniversary is not affecting him overmuch.”
For one moment Sherlock’s puzzlement shone through, his expression openly questioning before his brother’s words registered and the pieces connected themselves.
“Next month it will be one year,” Holmes whispered, dropping his eyes and staring at the tablecloth with unnatural determination, as though ashamed to meet his brother’s gaze any longer.
“Yes,” Mycroft agreed, softly, regretfully. “He did not take her passing well, though I believe his mourning was already quite established, and her death was but one more sorrow he struggled to deal with.”
Throughout his life, Mycroft Holmes had never wished to harm his brother by either word or deed. That he had done so now he knew by the shaking of slender shoulders and tightly clasped hands.
Without speaking he covered those delicate fingers with his flipper-like appendage, keeping his grasp firm until Sherlock lifted his eyes to meet his gaze.
Mycroft had known his words would produce a painful reaction, for which he was immensely regretful. But as one who had borne the weight of being Sherlock Holmes’ protector, he also knew that sometimes the one his brother needed protecting from was himself. Without being forearmed with the knowledge of his doctor’s sorrow, it would be all too easy for his younger sibling to wound without meaning to. And some hurts were not easily able to be mended.
He gazed into his brother’s eyes, knowing he could never say with words what he hoped was discernible from his expression. “I did not tell you this to hurt you, nor do I want you to dwell on this. Think, before you speak, and treat your doctor with the gentleness he has shown you. Give him your time and patience, and be gentle on yourself, as well".
The lines around Sherlock’s eyes softened for a moment as he regarded his older sibling, taking in the gray hair, the rounded stomach, and the expression of fond worry which seemed to fill the care-worn face. He nodded, once, the barest tilting of his head, and was rewarded with a twitch of the lips and a gentle squeeze of his hands before Mycroft sat back.
“Now then, we shall speak no more of such things, for I fear I have put you off your feed. Please, dear boy, do try and finish at least what is on your plate. You are wasting away before my eyes,” Mycroft scolded, setting an example by spearing a potato and eating it happily.
Holmes smiled indulgently at his sibling, though his stomach was already feeling uncomfortably distended and he knew better than to try and force more food down his throat.
“I believe I had best leave off for now,” Sherlock murmured softly, his cheeks dimpling as he smiled in rueful good humor. “I would not wish the doctor to dine alone tonight, and I am feeling quite full. If I don’t make a token effort at whatever we shall have, he will be most worried.”
“Two meals in one day! Good heavens, Sherlock, whatever shall you do?” Mycroft teased. “Tell me then, how was your concert last night? We have not spoken of such things lately, and I am much interested in hearing your account.”
Smiling, relaxing fully back into his chair, Holmes launched into a glowing review of the previous evening, his eyes alight as his hands motioned gracefully to emphasize his points.
For the remainder of their lunch they spoke of such inconsequentials, and when Sherlock left his brother dozing in a chair, it was with a faint smile about his lips and a lightness to his steps.
***
He spent the better part of that afternoon curled up on his bed under a warm quilt, napping peacefully. When Mrs. Hudson woke him a little after five, tapping at his door with a broad smile on her face, he could not help but return the expression as he stretched languidly and set about preparing himself for that night’s supper.
He made it to the restaurant ten minutes before seven, freshly scrubbed, shaved, and wearing one of Watson’s finer shirts and waistcoats that no longer fit him. Though by no means robust, Watson had gained half a stone in Holmes’ absence, and to the detective’s eye his frame looked all the healthier for it.
When the doctor joined him a few moments later, dressed in his black frock coat and white shirt which he tended to favor when ministering to his patients, Holmes smiled brilliantly up at him.
“I had wondered if you would find those two a fit,” Watson grinned as he sat, eyeing his friend’s svelte frame appreciatively. “I must say, they look better on you than they ever did on me.”
“Nonsense,” Holmes teased. “You just lack the appropriate essence to fill them out correctly.”
“Well, I can certainly attest to the fact that you are filled with something,” Watson agreed, straight faced. “Though whether that adds to the clothing or not is another matter.”
Holmes gave a mock glare as the waiting staff descended, and dinner passed quickly amongst their friendly banter and meandering discussions. Though he had intended to eat only slightly, Holmes found himself once more uncomfortably full at the end of the meal.
He blamed Watson entirely for this fact, which he made sure to voice as they left the crowded building and stepped out into the cool night air.
“How so?” Watson demanded, donning his gloves as they spent a moment breathing in the thick, coal scented night.
“If you hadn’t kept demanding I try bites of your supper, I would not nearly be so full,” Homes chastised, rubbing his stomach slightly. “Honestly, Watson, I think I ate more of your dinner than my own.”
“Nonsense,” Watson scoffed, though his lips twitched under his mustache and he looked away, coughing into his hand suspiciously. “I merely wanted you to try the beef, and you have to admit that bread was simply wonderful.”
“Yes, quite so. And so were the greens you insisted I attempt and the mushrooms,” Holmes agreed wryly.
Watson grinned at him, and for one moment it felt as though Holmes could not breathe, so open was the happiness on his friend’s face.
“Are you staying at Baker Street tonight?” he asked after a moment, eyes wandering over those who milled about with them, waiting for cabs or simply enjoying the night air after their meal.
“Not tonight, old cock. I’ve only a day or two left at Cavendish Place and I - I have a few things to tidy up before I turn it over to the new doctor.” Watson’s voice faltered, though only for a moment, and his expression became neutral once more.
For Holmes, who knew every facet of his friend, the unspoken message was quite clear. Watson had begun his married life in that home, and had seen its end there as well. If he wished to say his farewells in private, Holmes was not going to make the task any more difficult than necessary.
“Understood, old boy,” he agreed quietly, touching Watson’s arm briefly above the elbow in sympathy. “Baker Street will be waiting when you are ready.”
Watson smiled thankfully as he covered Holmes’ hand with his own, the two of them silent amongst the noises of the world around them.
Clearing his throat, Holmes patted the doctor on the shoulder lightly and said, “I had best be off to home, then. I fear I am unaccustomed to so much food and shall end up asleep on my feet.”
“Then be off with you, and I’ll see you Saturday. Most of my things are boxed up and waiting, and the movers should have no trouble.”
“On Saturday,” Holmes agreed, and the two separated, Holmes to walk the short distance to Baker Street, and Watson to hail a cab.
***
Part 3
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes 09 and Canon
Rating: PG to NC-17
Wordcount: 85,307
Parings: Holmes/Watson
Warnings: Deals with the physical and mental aspects of PTSD
Beta and Brit-picker: Beta'ed by the lovely
jenlee1 and Brit-picked by the wonderful nodbear Mrs. Hudson had prepared a thick, hearty stew for their dinner, the aroma of which filled the rooms and roused Holmes before the slight tapping on the door. When Watson had relieved their landlady of the heavy tureen, he had given her a reassuring nod as her eyes drifted to the lazily stretching Holmes, earning a grateful smile and promise to bring the remaining dishes up.
“Come along, Holmes. This smells absolutely delicious, and even you must be starving with this to tempt your appetite!” Watson coaxed, grinning as Holmes’ stomach chose that moment to let out a rather impressive rumble.
Rather than be embarrassed by the noise, Holmes grinned widely in amusement. His face had regained some of its color after his rest and his cheeks dimpled with the smile as he made his way to the table.
“I do believe Nanny has outdone herself, “ he agreed, taking a deep breath in appreciation.
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson replied sweetly, entering the room with another tray filled with steaming bread, plates and bowls, and the makings for tea. “High praise indeed coming from you.”
The tray was deposited, and with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes she asked, “Is there anything else I can get for you two gentlemen?”
“This will be all, thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Watson answered hurriedly, seeing Holmes’ eyes narrow in preparation of a smart comeback. “Everything looks wonderful.”
With a nod and a graceful tilt of her head she swept out of the room, closing the door firmly behind her as she did and leaving the two men to dine in peace.
They set about filling up their dishes, Watson watching in satisfaction as Holmes dug into his meal with relish, and for nearly a quarter hour neither spoke, engrossed in their repast. It was only after Holmes had used his bread to mop up the remains of his bowl that he spoke, breaking the silence almost hesitantly as Watson sipped at his tea.
“Watson, I know that I promised to regale you with tales from my journey, but would you mind terribly if we put that off for one more night? There is a concert tonight, a Mendelssohn composition, that I would very much like to attend with you, if you are amenable.”
“That sounds like a lovely idea, Holmes,” Watson agreed, hiding his smile behind his cup at the wistful, almost childlike eagerness in Holmes’ voice.
“Good,” Holmes exclaimed, jumping up from the table with more energy than Watson had seen in him since taking down Moran. “We have just enough time to prepare, and then off to music land!”
Watson laughed as Holmes darted into his room, finishing his tea sedately before deciding on a course of action. He had already begun to move small items and some of his attire back to his old room, and he was almost certain his evening attire was hanging in his wardrobe.
Stacking the dishes neatly for Mrs. Hudson to collect, he limped upstairs to tidy and change, smiling at his reflection as he finished fastening his collar and taking stock of himself in the mirror.
It had been too long since the call of a symphony or the theater had interested him. After Holmes’ death, the world had seemed a flat, grey place, where little besides his work, his memories, and the quiet times with his wife, had mattered. Mary, rest her soul, had been unable to interest him in attending any sort of function on a regular basis, and more than once they had fought about his lack of interest in keeping up appearances for their friends.
His reflection smiled sadly, a turn of the mouth that did not reach the eyes as his fingers stilled, remembering the last time he had attended the opera, Mary frail and sickly by then, but her eyes gleaming with joy as she had listened to the music with rapt fascination. In many ways she had reminded him of Holmes at that moment, and it had left him with a painful ache in his chest which no amount of brandy or work could cure. It had been the last time he had attended a performance, a little over a year ago, now that he thought about it.
Shaking his head to rid himself of the maudlin thoughts, Watson finished dressing, admiring the way the dark blue jacket still fit his frame even after so long a time unused. Pressing his hands once down the front of his shirt, he made his way downstairs.
“Holmes, are you ready? We should be able to catch a cab and make it just in -” He stopped on the landing, taking in the figure before him with wide eyes.
Holmes smiled in amusement at the reaction, standing a bit straighter as Watson’s eyes took in his appearance. The detective knew he had been a bit disheveled of late, and it had felt wonderful to shave and pomade his hair into a slick shine. His black jacket fit him perfectly, as he had never been one to gain weight easily, and the shirt was one of Watson’s, conveniently left in his wardrobe before everything had fallen apart and still pressed neatly. Even his cravat, a deep burgundy, was perfectly tied.
“Are you ready, dear fellow?” Holmes asked, motioning towards the door as the doctor finished descending the stairs.
“Yes,” Watson breathed, still staring with overt appreciation. He came back to his senses with a cough, repeating, “Yes, let us go. We should be just in time.”
Motioning for the doctor to precede him, the two made their way down the stairs, Watson making sure to grab their umbrellas on the way out. As they reached the foyer Mrs. Hudson was closing the door, and she turned to look at them in surprised pleasure.
“Such lovely gentlemen,” she beamed, making her way over to them and examining them as a mother would her children before their first public outing. “I do hope you have a good evening.” She smiled as she handed over a telegram form to Holmes, explaining, “This arrived just a moment ago for you, Mr. Holmes.”
“Thank you, Nanny,” Holmes murmured, offering her one of his brief smiles as she left them, reading the form with a raised eyebrow.
“Anything the matter?” Watson asked, slipping his gloves on as he moved to the door, watching Holmes and gauging his reaction to whatever he was reading.
“No, no,” Holmes assured him, tucking the form into his pocket and slipping his own gloves on. “My brother just confirmed our lunch tomorrow, and has advised me that if I wish him to refrain from using the services of my Irregulars I shall have to keep him au courant on my physical condition and whereabouts, lest he remand me to his Chichester estate and the tender mercies of Mrs. Everman.” The shudder Holmes gave was not entirely for show, and Watson laughed at his rueful expression.
“Then I suggest you keep your brother current to avoid such a dire punishment,” he agreed, holding out his arm. Holmes tucked his hand into the crook of the doctor’s elbow, and the two of them made their way out into the blustery spring night, top hats held firmly in place with hands.
Hailing a cab was easy with most people avoiding the weather and off the streets, and they made it with plenty of time to spare. The seats were comfortably worn, and the strains of the orchestra limbering their fingers and tuning was a familiar, comforting background noise.
As the lights dimmed and the music began, Watson found his attention drifting to his friend, taking in the languid expression, closed eyes, and the softly waving finger. It may have been nearly a year since Watson had been to any kind of social event, but the thought of his friend, running for his life and unable to enjoy any of the pleasures he so relished, brought another lump to the doctor’s throat.
“He’s back now,” he told himself silently, blinking his eyes furiously and cursing himself for a sentimental fool. “He’s safe, and if he wants to listen to a thousand symphonies, then by God, we shall!”
Forcing himself to abandon such depressing thoughts and focus on the moment, Watson closed his eyes and allowed himself to relax back into his seat, enjoying the music and the company with a strange sense that all in his world was finally, at last, beginning to right itself.
***
The cab ride back to Baker Street was comfortably silent, the two men lost in their own thoughts as the hansom jostled and bumped along the cobbles. Holmes’ gaze remained fixed out the window, watching the darkness with a peaceful calm that he had not felt in far too long. The notes of the symphony floated around his head, and he found himself smiling, the peace of the night taking away some of the harsh sting that the day had brought. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Watson watching him, his own lips turned up in a fond expression that he might have termed sentimental if he had not known his doctor so well.
Without thought, Holmes reached his hand out and gently laid it atop the other’s, where it rested between them on the seat. Watson’s pulse was slow and steady beneath his fingers, and his friend did not change his position save to offer a subtle squeeze in confirmation of the gesture. It was only as the cabby slowed the horses that the two of them parted, Holmes exiting first and then offering the doctor his hand as he stepped down.
Watson waited just inside the door as Holmes paid the fare, and the two of them mounted the seventeen steps together.
“Care for a brandy?” Holmes murmured when they reached the landing outside their sitting room.
“Of course. See you in a few moments, “ Watson agreed, making his way up the stairs to his room and leaving Holmes to watch his retreating figure, marveling at the cut of the jacket on his friend‘s strong form.
The detective shook his head fondly as he made his way into his room, divesting himself of the clothes that, although still highly fashionable, felt more restraining than he had remembered, eagerly trading his dinner jacket for his nightshirt and dressing gown.
There was still a chill in the air despite the fire crackling cozily, and Holmes dragged his chair closer to the flames as he donned his slippers. He wiggled around in his seat until he was comfortable and sat for a moment, eyes closed as echoes of stringed instruments serenaded his thoughts.
“Holmes?”
The voice was soft, but it brought his eyes open immediately, and he smiled at Watson’s grin as the man stood in the doorway, leaning casually against the doorjamb.
“Still awake,” he confirmed, watching as Watson went to the sidebar and poured them both a brandy before digging around the coal scuttle for the box of cigars he knew would be there.
“Cigar?” he asked before handing one over, the two of them settling into their seats with the ease of long practice, and for several minutes the only sound was the crackling of the fire and the soft hiss of the cigars being gently inhaled.
When he spoke, breaking the companionable silence that had fallen, Holmes’ voice was low and husky with smoke. “There were some nights,” he began, taking a sip of his brandy as though to wet his throat, “that I wondered if I would ever be sat here again, warm and safe and with my dearest friend.”
Watson took a long pull on his cigar but did not interrupt, his eyes intent on Holmes’ face as the other man stared distantly into the fire.
“So many nights it was a wonder I saw the dawn at all, with Moriarty’s men still so damned intent on putting an end to me. But others… There were some sights I shall never forget, Watson. Stars so brilliant and untainted by London fog that it seemed as though I could reach out my hand and grasp them. A moon which hung over a lake so calm I could not tell where sky ended and earth began. Those nights were rare, and I think all the more amazing for it.”
Watson contemplated his words thoughtfully, sipping his own drink before speaking with careful deliberation.
“There were nights in Afghanistan like that,” he whispered, finally turning his gaze from his friend and to the fire, his own memories on the desert landscapes which had haunted his nightmares. “The sand was so fine and would get into everything, from your underclothes to your boots. When the wind had a hold of it, which was often, it would grind into your skin until you felt as though you would never be clean or abrasion free again. But when the moon hung heavy,” he breathed, the wonder and pain still fresh in his voice, as though he were seeing the scene before him and not several years past. “The stars filled the night, and it would be as though you were standing under a cold sun, it would be so bright. All that sand, reflecting, like so many diamonds. It drove some men mad, to be amongst all that nothing, but I always found it strangely beautiful.”
“I wish I had seen it,” Holmes murmured, and his voice was thick with something that brought Watson’s head up, his vision back into the present. Holmes eyes remained firmly fixed on the fire, though a suspicious glint mirrored the flames. “I attempted, once, to make it Egypt. But even there they found me, and some poor soul was shot down in the night as I escaped. I tried to avoid trains after that.”
“Did you have no peace, Holmes?” Watson asked softly, fighting the lump in his throat too fiercely to make his words louder.
“Oh, there were good days,” Holmes immediately assured, grinning his false smile that Watson hated when turned on him. “I found a lovely village in the north of France where I played fiddle for my room and board. I spent several months there, enjoying the fresh air and country life.”
“You hate village life,” Watson snorted, finishing the rest of his brandy with a long swallow. “You must have been miserable.”
Holmes laughed, one of his silent giggles that always set Watson off as well, the two of them chortling as the heaviness and weight of the moment slowly dissipated.
“Indeed,” Holmes finally managed to gasp as he finished his own drink and threw his cigar end into the fire. He wiped his eyes with his empty hand as he stood, retrieving Watson’s glass and depositing both on the dinner table. “It was hell on Earth, with every farmer’s wife determined to throw their unwed daughters my way and no escape save to flee after three months of endless boredom.”
Holmes did not return to his seat, but yawned and stretched his limber frame until he was nearly bent backward. “I am off to bed, old boy. See you in the morning.”
“Sleep well,” Watson called after him, the smile slowly fading from his face as he put his own cigar half in the ashtray to his left, staring in contemplative silence at the fire. He remained thus for nearly half an hour before the clock in the hall chimed, alerting him to the lateness of the night and the call of his own bed.
The mattress as he settled down beneath one of Mrs. Hudson’s Scottish quilts embraced him as an old lover, and though the bed was smaller than he was accustomed and the night sounds different, he drifted off almost immediately.
The next morning dawned crisp and clear, as was Spring’s mercurial habit. The sunlight streaming through his room woke Holmes before the clock could proclaim the hour, but from the sounds outside his window he doubted it was much before seven.
He curled his long frame into a smaller form, enjoying the warmth of the blankets around him and the mattress that had never felt so soft. The luxury of simply sleeping without worry or distraction still felt a novelty, and it was with reluctance that he wormed his way out of bed, hissing as his bare feet sought out slippers and he hastily wrapped his dressing gown around his shoulders.
When he rang for Mrs. Hudson he was not surprised to find her not only awake but bustling around the kitchen, preparing tea and breakfast. She had always been a much earlier riser than her tenants.
When Watson came down the stairs nearly an hour later, it was to find his friend sipping cocoa and languidly nibbling on toast, hair mussed and unshaven.
“Good morning,” Watson greeted, drawing his own dressing gown closer about himself as he sat down, pouring himself a cup of strong tea.
“Good morning,” Holmes answered absently, blinking suddenly as though only just aware that Watson had joined him.
Watson had to grin at the other’s expression, remembering with a small pang of nostalgia that it often took his friend longer than most men to leave his morning fog behind.
“I have several patients I must see to today, but I should be free for dinner around seven if you would like to go out,” Watson said, his smile growing as Holmes took a long sip of his cocoa before nodding.
“I am to meet Mycroft for lunch, and knowing my brother as I do, it may be some time before I feel up to more than a very light meal,” Holmes warned with a wry grin. “If he insists I eat as much as he feels I should you will find me a very easy dinner companion.”
Watson laughed as he prepared his plate, his worry over Holmes’ empty dishes assuaged with the knowledge of the upcoming meeting.
“He worries about you,” he said instead, grinning at Holmes’s snort. “A man of his size cannot help but be worried when his only sibling looks as though a harsh wind would blow him over.”
“Watson,” Holmes scolded, frowning. “Be assured, if I ate nearly as much as my brother and you seem to think I should, I would rival him in size and you would be sore pressed to get me out the door.”
“Holmes, the day you eat as much as I think you should is the day I know I can hang up my medical license, as I would have worked a miracle,” Watson teased.
Holmes’ answering grin was comment enough, and the two of them finished their respective breakfasts in quiet, only the occasional clink of fork against plate filling the silence.
***
The Diogenes Club had not changed in the three years of his absence, though Holmes would have been rather shocked if it had. Those who joined a club for the unclubable generally tended to abhor change, his brother more so than most, and the dim environs were as comfortable and welcoming a sight as Baker Street had been.
He was led immediately to the Stranger’s Room, where they could speak securely and not fear the wrath of the other club members. Their reunion, however, was not without its own silent communication.
“Hello, brother,” Sherlock greeted as he entered the room, making his way to the stately figure which had yet to assume a seat, embracing the large form of the only man as dear to him as his doctor.
“Sherlock,” Mycroft answered, his large hand patting his sibling’s back gently, as though quite aware of the strength contained within his person and uncertain of that within the other man. “It is good to see you looking so well.”
Holmes’ eyebrows rose as he stepped away, regarding the corpulent man before him fondly. His expression, however, spoke more eloquently than any words as it appeared to say, “I am quite aware you have been spying on me, and I’m only here to make sure you cease. I am alive and well, so quit hovering.”
Mycroft’s left eyebrow rose slowly as he gestured to their seats, as though to reply, “I am your older sibling, it is my job to hover. And you may look fine today, but last time we met you looked half dead.”
Sherlock’s brow furrowed in answer. “What are we having for lunch today, Mycroft? I’m actually quite famished,” he asked aloud as he took his place at the table, rubbing his hands together eagerly.
“A lovely roast duck with asparagus and beautifully cooked potatoes,” Mycroft answered, though his own brow conveyed a different message. It said quite plainly, “You are only humoring me, and I know you know I know you are humoring me. Be thankful I have not put a doctor on retainer and trust your friend with your health as I do.”
“That sounds lovely.”
“Yes, the cook does a masterful job. We were quite lucky to acquire him last year.”
There was another moment of silence as they settled and the first dishes were brought in, a palate cleanser of celery soup that steamed appetizingly as it was placed before them. For several minutes the only sounds were those of spoons clinking and soft slurping.
“I must say, Sherlock, it is good to see you looking so much recovered and eating like a normal person,” Mycroft murmured as he finished his bowl, looking fondly at his brother as Holmes continued to eat slowly.
Sherlock’s eyebrows rose slowly as he took another spoonful, the expression clearly saying, “I know you have been spying on me, you old goat, so don’t think I am fooled for a moment. I will tell you in good time what you wish to know.”
The elder Holmes’ right eyebrow rose to his hairline and his brow furrowed, as though to ask, “You went to your doctor friend yesterday and were there for quite some time during his business hours, suggesting you were not there for idle chit-chat. My little spies were not able to obtain the nature of your complaint, but you do not seem about to expire, so what is wrong with you?”
Sighing, knowing he could not hope to outmaneuver his brother or avoid the topic much longer, Holmes admitted, “I have been feeling a bit under the weather, actually. I went to see Watson yesterday, and we spent a pleasant afternoon at his practice. It would have been a very enjoyable time if not for a small interruption.”
Holmes stopped playing with his spoon, which he had been swirling around in the dregs of his soup, and met his brother’s gaze full on, his eyes narrowing and his mouth pursing. Though he did not give voice to his thoughts, Mycroft understood him clearly.
“The Irregulars are mine,” the look said. “You took very good care of them while I was away, and I thank you for that. But leave them to me, now, and stop using them to spy on me.”
Mycroft raised his brows innocently, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he said, “I do hope whatever it was that disrupted your time with the doctor did not detract from the day.”
“Not at all,” Holmes assured him pleasantly, smiling as the servants retrieved their dishes and the savory aroma of duck wafted into the room. “It was a slight misunderstanding with one of my lads. I’m certain it is not something I will have to concern myself with in future.”
“Yes, some boys do require more tending to than others,” Mycroft agreed, returning the smile with one of his own. For a moment, any who looked in upon the scene would have had no trouble discerning the family resemblance between them despite their respective sizes. “It is always a delicate balance to watch over them without rousing their ire.”
“Quite so,” Holmes agreed, his smile softening as he added, “It can be difficult when they don’t always know what is best for them.”
“Such is the dilemma for all those who care greatly for another,” Mycroft sighed, his own expression becoming something much more tender.
“I do not know what is wrong with me,” Holmes whispered, his smile falling as he turned serious, putting their game to a rest for the moment. “Watson is certain he knows what it is, though he has not divulged that information yet. He has recommended a long rest and plenty of quiet, with no cases to hinder my recovery.”
“Then you should listen to your doctor and do as he says,” Mycroft agreed, just as softly and seriously. “You look better today than when we last saw each other, but that does not mean you look particularly well. My Chichester estate is always at your disposal, as you well know.”
“I do,” Holmes agreed, his lips turning up slightly as he added, “Though I do not think I am quite ready to brave Mrs. Everman just yet.”
“Nonsense,” Mycroft laughed, the seriousness of the moment departing as quickly as it had descended. “She is as lovely and tender as always.”
“Mycroft, she did unspeakable things to my person the last time I visited and forced vile concoctions down my throat!” Holmes protested.
“She gave you a sponge bath while you were near delirious with fever and then gave you the medication the doctor had prescribed. Really, Sherlock, you are too much sometimes,” Mycroft chided, his face lighting up as the doors at the far end of the room opened and several servants entered bearing their plates and the main dish. “But let us put aside such distasteful talk for now and enjoy this repast, shall we?”
“Of course,” Holmes agreed, though his eyebrows lowered in one last rebuke, his gaze clearly saying, “I am keeping myself as well as can be expected, so stop spying on me and I will keep you informed. Deal?”
Mycroft’s grin widened in answer, and there was no more talk as the two set about enjoying the meal before them.
***
They spoke of lighter things as they ate, of events that had happened in Holmes’ three year absence, and the positions Mycroft had found for those Irregulars who had grown too old to be considered harmless children any longer.
“Mick Wiggins has taken to the telegram office splendidly,” Mycroft assured Holmes, his eyes laughing even as his expression remained wry. He had always found it amusing how children and small animals congregated around his brother.
“Squeaker and Toad?” Holmes asked, his lips twitching with amusement at the names bestowed upon the young ladies by the other lads.
“Sarah and Antonin are housemaids in Lady Katherine Harberg’s house. She was quite taken with them and refused to split them up, the little darlings. I must say, Sherlock, you did train them rather well. They had her eating out of their hands within moments,” Mycroft chuckled, shaking his head in wonderment.
“Haha!” Holmes crowed, slapping a hand on the table in his delight. “I always knew those two would manage, little manipulators that they are.”
“Oh, yes. They also, to be sure, eased the way for young Adam Delshire to be admitted to Lord Smyther’s house, as he heard nothing but praise from Lady Katherine on their performance. He has advised me that if I have any other such treasures tucked away I am to give him first chance to acquire them, as Adam seems to make a splendid stable hand.”
“Oh, yes. He was always quite curious about the cab horses, asking questions until he was shooed away. I do believe he would often help with their upkeep in the winters to make some extra money. Resourceful bunch, my little band,” Holmes sighed, his expression at once fond and regretful as he turned back to his plate and seemed to force another bite of duck into his mouth.
“You did what was necessary.” Mycroft’s voice was stern as he poked his brother in the shoulder with his oversized finger, earning an exasperated eye roll. “I swore the children would be taken care of, and they have been. They knew the situation as well as any could, and not a one of them shall ever regret their service to either of us. Thanks to your efforts, Sherlock, not a single Irregular has ended up in the dock once they’ve outgrown the streets. You know better than I what an accomplishment that is.”
“Yes, I do,” Holmes agreed, twitching his lips into a tight smile as he narrowed his eyes at his brother. “But I am back now, so no more commandeering them for your own gains. I am their general, and as such they take their orders from me!”
“So you have said,” Mycroft agreed, the noncommittal answer earning another narrowing of the eyes from his brother. “Now hush,” Mycroft continued before any more could be said on the matter, “You have eaten more than your usual two bites, for which I am extremely happy, but your plate still has an overabundance of food. Do try and finish your lunch.”
“For your information I have a dinner arrangement with Watson tonight. I would like to be able to do more than simply gaze at the poor chap as he eats, Mycroft.”
“Yes, well, in that case you may be forgiven your appalling lack of appetite,” Mycroft relented.
The elder Holmes watched in silence for a few moments as his brother nibbled on his potatoes, knowing the effort he was making to please his sibling and appreciating the attempt. When he spoke next, his voice was slightly hesitant, belying his reluctance to bring up the topic.
“Tell me, Sherlock, how your doctor is faring.”
“Watson appears to be in wonderful health,” Holmes answered slowly, eyes focusing on his brother with a sharpness that many found intimidating. “His leg has been troubling him slightly due to the weather, but he appears none the worse for it.” He paused, setting down his silverware and clasping his hands before him on the table, fingers to his lips. “Why do you ask?”
In a rare show of prevarication, Mycroft took a large drink from his wine glass, wiping his mouth delicately before he answered in a tone deliberately neutral.
“He had not been faring well, some few months ago. The children were quite worried about him, as his health seemed to be taking a turn for the worse in his grief. However, I am much delighted to hear that the upcoming anniversary is not affecting him overmuch.”
For one moment Sherlock’s puzzlement shone through, his expression openly questioning before his brother’s words registered and the pieces connected themselves.
“Next month it will be one year,” Holmes whispered, dropping his eyes and staring at the tablecloth with unnatural determination, as though ashamed to meet his brother’s gaze any longer.
“Yes,” Mycroft agreed, softly, regretfully. “He did not take her passing well, though I believe his mourning was already quite established, and her death was but one more sorrow he struggled to deal with.”
Throughout his life, Mycroft Holmes had never wished to harm his brother by either word or deed. That he had done so now he knew by the shaking of slender shoulders and tightly clasped hands.
Without speaking he covered those delicate fingers with his flipper-like appendage, keeping his grasp firm until Sherlock lifted his eyes to meet his gaze.
Mycroft had known his words would produce a painful reaction, for which he was immensely regretful. But as one who had borne the weight of being Sherlock Holmes’ protector, he also knew that sometimes the one his brother needed protecting from was himself. Without being forearmed with the knowledge of his doctor’s sorrow, it would be all too easy for his younger sibling to wound without meaning to. And some hurts were not easily able to be mended.
He gazed into his brother’s eyes, knowing he could never say with words what he hoped was discernible from his expression. “I did not tell you this to hurt you, nor do I want you to dwell on this. Think, before you speak, and treat your doctor with the gentleness he has shown you. Give him your time and patience, and be gentle on yourself, as well".
The lines around Sherlock’s eyes softened for a moment as he regarded his older sibling, taking in the gray hair, the rounded stomach, and the expression of fond worry which seemed to fill the care-worn face. He nodded, once, the barest tilting of his head, and was rewarded with a twitch of the lips and a gentle squeeze of his hands before Mycroft sat back.
“Now then, we shall speak no more of such things, for I fear I have put you off your feed. Please, dear boy, do try and finish at least what is on your plate. You are wasting away before my eyes,” Mycroft scolded, setting an example by spearing a potato and eating it happily.
Holmes smiled indulgently at his sibling, though his stomach was already feeling uncomfortably distended and he knew better than to try and force more food down his throat.
“I believe I had best leave off for now,” Sherlock murmured softly, his cheeks dimpling as he smiled in rueful good humor. “I would not wish the doctor to dine alone tonight, and I am feeling quite full. If I don’t make a token effort at whatever we shall have, he will be most worried.”
“Two meals in one day! Good heavens, Sherlock, whatever shall you do?” Mycroft teased. “Tell me then, how was your concert last night? We have not spoken of such things lately, and I am much interested in hearing your account.”
Smiling, relaxing fully back into his chair, Holmes launched into a glowing review of the previous evening, his eyes alight as his hands motioned gracefully to emphasize his points.
For the remainder of their lunch they spoke of such inconsequentials, and when Sherlock left his brother dozing in a chair, it was with a faint smile about his lips and a lightness to his steps.
***
He spent the better part of that afternoon curled up on his bed under a warm quilt, napping peacefully. When Mrs. Hudson woke him a little after five, tapping at his door with a broad smile on her face, he could not help but return the expression as he stretched languidly and set about preparing himself for that night’s supper.
He made it to the restaurant ten minutes before seven, freshly scrubbed, shaved, and wearing one of Watson’s finer shirts and waistcoats that no longer fit him. Though by no means robust, Watson had gained half a stone in Holmes’ absence, and to the detective’s eye his frame looked all the healthier for it.
When the doctor joined him a few moments later, dressed in his black frock coat and white shirt which he tended to favor when ministering to his patients, Holmes smiled brilliantly up at him.
“I had wondered if you would find those two a fit,” Watson grinned as he sat, eyeing his friend’s svelte frame appreciatively. “I must say, they look better on you than they ever did on me.”
“Nonsense,” Holmes teased. “You just lack the appropriate essence to fill them out correctly.”
“Well, I can certainly attest to the fact that you are filled with something,” Watson agreed, straight faced. “Though whether that adds to the clothing or not is another matter.”
Holmes gave a mock glare as the waiting staff descended, and dinner passed quickly amongst their friendly banter and meandering discussions. Though he had intended to eat only slightly, Holmes found himself once more uncomfortably full at the end of the meal.
He blamed Watson entirely for this fact, which he made sure to voice as they left the crowded building and stepped out into the cool night air.
“How so?” Watson demanded, donning his gloves as they spent a moment breathing in the thick, coal scented night.
“If you hadn’t kept demanding I try bites of your supper, I would not nearly be so full,” Homes chastised, rubbing his stomach slightly. “Honestly, Watson, I think I ate more of your dinner than my own.”
“Nonsense,” Watson scoffed, though his lips twitched under his mustache and he looked away, coughing into his hand suspiciously. “I merely wanted you to try the beef, and you have to admit that bread was simply wonderful.”
“Yes, quite so. And so were the greens you insisted I attempt and the mushrooms,” Holmes agreed wryly.
Watson grinned at him, and for one moment it felt as though Holmes could not breathe, so open was the happiness on his friend’s face.
“Are you staying at Baker Street tonight?” he asked after a moment, eyes wandering over those who milled about with them, waiting for cabs or simply enjoying the night air after their meal.
“Not tonight, old cock. I’ve only a day or two left at Cavendish Place and I - I have a few things to tidy up before I turn it over to the new doctor.” Watson’s voice faltered, though only for a moment, and his expression became neutral once more.
For Holmes, who knew every facet of his friend, the unspoken message was quite clear. Watson had begun his married life in that home, and had seen its end there as well. If he wished to say his farewells in private, Holmes was not going to make the task any more difficult than necessary.
“Understood, old boy,” he agreed quietly, touching Watson’s arm briefly above the elbow in sympathy. “Baker Street will be waiting when you are ready.”
Watson smiled thankfully as he covered Holmes’ hand with his own, the two of them silent amongst the noises of the world around them.
Clearing his throat, Holmes patted the doctor on the shoulder lightly and said, “I had best be off to home, then. I fear I am unaccustomed to so much food and shall end up asleep on my feet.”
“Then be off with you, and I’ll see you Saturday. Most of my things are boxed up and waiting, and the movers should have no trouble.”
“On Saturday,” Holmes agreed, and the two separated, Holmes to walk the short distance to Baker Street, and Watson to hail a cab.
***
Part 3
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Date: 2011-01-03 04:24 pm (UTC)It's also a lovely balance between canon and movie-canon. I can see the movie characters, but you've drawn in so many elements of the original canon I don't necessarily have to.
I'm definitely looking forward to more.
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Date: 2011-01-03 08:49 pm (UTC)I will be posting more tonight after work!
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Date: 2011-01-03 08:18 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-03 08:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-10 11:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-11 06:22 am (UTC)