Soldier's Heart Part 6 of 15
Jan. 4th, 2011 10:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
piploverTitle: Soldier's Heart Part 6
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes 09 and Canon
Rating: This chapter PG
Wordcount: 85,307
Parings: Holmes/Watson
Summary: After Holmes returns from his three years' absence, not everything is as it should be.
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
Author's notes: Thanks always forenkiduts ' help, encouragement, and brainstorming .
It was the sound of voices which brought him back to consciousness, a worried conversation in a too hushed tone that did not carry the words to where he lay. He did not doubt, however, that whatever was being said would be best overheard without detection.
It took more effort than he cared to think about to sit up, dislodging blankets and groaning as muscles protested the effort, straining as though he had gone ten rounds in the boxing ring. Standing was a bit easier, and he made his way unsteadily to the half-closed door, surprised to find that the sitting room was illuminated by the gas lamps and a crackling fire. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, engaged in a serious discussion, was Watson and, to Holmes’ astonishment, his brother.
Watson’s shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows and the first few buttons on his shirt had been loosened. His hair was disarrayed, as though he had been running his hands through it, and his expression was one of weary concern.
Mycroft, dressed in his usual impeccable fashion, was nodding at whatever the doctor was saying, tapping his chin with one thick finger.
“…I am concerned, but not overly so. Truthfully, Mr. Holmes, if your brother was in any danger of expiring, you would be the very first I would inform,” Watson was assuring softly, his warm voice floating through the door and leaving Holmes feeling more at ease than he had in a long while.
So he was not in danger of physical distress, which he had feared from his friend’s reluctance to commit to a diagnosis. He would have to corner Watson later to find out what, exactly, the doctor knew of his condition.
“I am relieved to hear that, Doctor,” Mycroft sighed deeply, and his brother’s weary tone brought his thoughts back to the immediate situation. “When I received the telegram I fear I had thought the worst.”
“Yes,” Watson agreed ruefully, running his hand through his hair in a confirmation of Holmes’ earlier deduction. “Jasper slipped out while I was doing an examination, before I could assure him Sherlock was in no immediate danger. I fear your brother is not going to be very pleased when he finds out the lad’s first reaction was to inform you he was dying.”
“No, I am not,” Holmes grumbled, opening the door completely and making his way out into the sitting room. He smiled at their startled expressions.
“Holmes!” Watson exclaimed, his face breaking out into a grin as he made his way over, steering Holmes into a seat by the fire. He frowned suddenly, observing the stiff movements with a critical eye. “How are you feeling?”
“Better,” Holmes promised, patting the hand resting on his elbow reassuringly even as he turned his attention to his brother, who was eyeing him much as he might a piece of succulent steak. “Mycroft, I must beg you to stop looking as though you wished to take a rather large bite from my calf,” he scolded.
For one moment his brother’s face lit into a glorious smile, an expression rarely, if ever, seen on his countenance. It did not last long, however, and was soon replaced by his usual dry air.
“How insulting, Sherlock,” Mycroft drawled. “As though there would be enough meat on your stick like appendages to sink my teeth into.”
Holmes pursed his lips in a moue of distaste before turning to cluck at Watson as a blanket was wrapped around his shoulders. “Please, mother hen, I’m much better now. No need to hover,” he chided, trying not to smile at the familiar scowl this engendered.
“Forgive me if I keep my own council on that, Holmes.” Watson paused a moment to squeeze his shoulder before turning back to Mycroft. “Supper should be up shortly. Perhaps it would be best to prolong the conversation until we have all eaten.” Though the words suggested an offer, there was no denying the doctor was putting his foot down on any further discussion for the moment.
“Of course,” Mycroft agreed, and Holmes sighed as he sank back into his chair.
“And it was barely past noon when I left,” he grumbled, looking heavenward in disgust. “I feel as though all I have done is eat and sleep today. How boring!”
“Hush,” Watson scolded absently, moving over to his own chair and waiting for Mycroft to sit his ponderous bulk on the settee before lowering himself down. “You could be doing worse things than eating and sleeping the day away.”
“That is true,” Holmes conceded, brushing non-existent lint from his nightshirt. “I could be back in that French village, playing the violin as mothers tried to foist their daughters onto me.”
“How horrid!” Mycroft gasped in a patently false voice. “Imagine, Sherlock, the thought of you married!”
“Yes, it quite sends shivers down my back,” Holmes agreed, ignoring the sarcasm easily. “Enough of this morbid talk. I can smell dinner is on its way up and I have no wish to spoil my appetite.”
Watson snorted at that, though he held his silence as a light rap at the door signaled the arrival of the food.
***
Dinner passed quietly, with Holmes picking at his food under the watchful gaze of the two men and, when he could, slipping unobtrusive tidbits to Gladstone, who lay conveniently at his feet under the table.
“Sherlock, if you do not cease feeding that dog this instant I will be forced to resort to measures from our childhood!” Mycroft finally ordered in exasperation, slamming his hand down on the table with a resounding thud that shook the plates.
Holmes jumped in his seat, glaring at his brother sullenly as he brought both hands back to the table.
“If you tried anything of the sort you would squash me,” he snapped waspishly.
“Peace!” Watson ordered, raising the hand not currently holding a forkful of roast fowl. “Holmes, you know better than to feed Gladstone at the table. He has enough digestive troubles as is. And Mycroft,” he added in his most soothing tone, “please go a bit easier on him. He’s had a trying day and tends to revert to childish behavior when tired.”
“I do not,” Holmes muttered.
He scowled mutinously as twin glares turned on him.
“Yes, you do,“ Mycroft observed blandly before turning back to Watson. “Forgive me, Doctor. You are quite right.”
“If you two are quite through…” Holmes looked around the table before setting aside his fork. “I have had quite enough for now. If you’ll excuse me?”
He did not wait for an answer but pushed his chair back and stood in one smooth motion, retreating to his room and slamming the door behind him.
Silence fell between the two remaining diners before Mycroft cleared his throat.
“Truly, you should have seen him when he was a child. He has improved greatly.” His rueful expression conveyed the truth of his words, and Watson chuckled as some of his anxiety broke.
Before he could respond, however, the bedroom door opened again and Holmes emerged, dressing gown wrapped tightly about his wiry frame.
“Sit by the fire and read your newspaper,” Mycroft ordered before his sibling could speak. “We shall join you when we are finished, and not before.”
Holmes glared at his brother indignantly, crossing his arms tightly against his chest and pursing his lips in what would be called a petulant pout on another man. The two stared each other down in a battle of wills, the silence lengthening until it seemed to stretch, like a physical band, between all three men. Angry rebuttals and chastising rebukes passed between the siblings without a word being uttered, and Watson found himself caught in the middle, gaze ricocheting between the men before he turned it back to his plate.
“Very well,” Holmes finally agreed with a sniff, lifting his chin stubbornly as he attempted to gather up his dignity. He waited until Mycroft turned his attention back to his dinner before moving, though all three knew who had been the winner of that battle.
An uneasy silence descended over the room, and it was only after the plates had been stacked and all were sitting around the fire, cigars in one hand and brandy in the other, that the tension slowly began to dissipate.
“Doctor Watson has explained what happened today,” Mycroft began softly, the teasing tone of before replaced with one Holmes was much more familiar with. His brother’s eyes were filled with a grave concern, and though his expression remained neutral, Holmes could read clearly the distress he was hiding. “I must say, Sherlock, I do not enjoy being roused from a nap only to be told my brother is at death’s door. I hereby revoke my hold on the little monsters in your employ. They are entirely your own again.”
Holmes’ lips twitched at the small jest, though none of the men attempted to lighten the mood further, and for several moments the only sound was the crackle of the fire and the hiss of their cigars as they took long, drawn out pulls.
“Holmes, as your brother mentioned, the two of us were talking earlier,” Watson finally said, taking a small sip from his brandy and wetting his lips nervously with his tongue. The move reminded the detective of what had transpired earlier in his room, and he found he could not pull his gaze away from the other’s lush mouth until he spoke again. “We have both agreed that a - a holiday is in order.”
That brought Holmes’ head up, turning his accusatory look first to Watson, then Mycroft.
“And where am I to go on this Holiday?” he asked curtly, not even attempting to hide his annoyance. “Since I have only just returned and would find it a shame to revisit any of my previous destinations.”
“Oh, do be still, Sherlock,” Mycroft grumbled, shifting his bulk into a more comfortable position, his back firmly pressed against the arm of the settee so as to glower at his brother from a better angle. “Your doctor and I have agreed that a retreat to the Chichester Estate would do your constitution wonders. Besides,“ Mycroft continued shrewdly, his gray eyes twinkling. “You left in such a state last time that Mrs. Everman was quite worried about you. She’ll be much relieved to see you - well, looking considerably better.”
Watson did not miss the look Holmes darted his way, and despite the fact he could not rival his friend in deductive ability, something about the way Mycroft had worded that last statement had the doctor eying his friend narrowly.
“I told you, Mycroft, it was imperative I leave. Things were coming to a head and there was no time to waste!” Holmes snapped defensively, leaning further back in his chair, as though to escape the conversation he so obviously wished to steer clear of. He studiously avoided Watson’s gaze as he did so, keeping his eyes firmly on his brother.
“You had been fevered and very nearly dead for the better part of a fortnight! She had barely nursed you back to health when-”
“That is enough, Mycroft!” Holmes nearly yelled with unusual ferocity. “I’m certain the doctor has no wish to hear this, and I think you have overstayed your welcome!”
“Actually, Holmes, I think I would very much like to hear this,” Watson interrupted, noting with satisfaction the flush that came to Holmes’ face. “And your brother is welcome to stay for as long as he wishes. Please, Mr. Holmes, continue. I am very much eager to hear the story. I’m afraid Sherlock is rather close- mouthed about certain things, his health being one of them, apparently.”
“You mean he has not told you?” Mycroft asked, genuine surprise coloring his tone as both men turned to stare at the man in question.
“It was not important, Mycroft,” Holmes said firmly, a look of betrayal flashing across his face as he eyed his brother balefully. “I’m certain Watson does not wish to be bothered with such an inconsequential matter. Truly, Watson, I will assuage your curiosity later.”
“Inconsequential?” Mycroft demanded, and Watson watched with alarm as the fleshy cheeks flushed a dark red with anger. “Sherlock Emerson Scott Holmes, you were delirious with fever from a gunshot for a fortnight! I will not have you trivialize such an event! I have no doubt you took several years off my life when I found you prostrate against my doorway, and Mrs. Everman completely went to gray taking care of you whilst I was detained!”
“Mycroft!” Holmes hissed, throwing his cigar end into the fire and casting a furtive look towards his friend, who was staring at him much the way a wolf would eye its prey.
“Holmes, be quiet. Mycroft, please, continue. I fear that this is one adventure your brother has neglected to inform me about,” Watson urged evenly, not removing his gaze from the detective.
“You did not - Sherlock!”
Rarely had Sherlock Holmes ever heard such a bellow from his brother, and even now they could hear hurried footsteps running up the stairs.
“Mr. Holmes? Doctor Watson? Is everything all right?” Mrs. Hudson asked through the door, refraining from opening it only due to long association with strange sounds and odd conversations under her roof.
“Everything is fine, Mrs. Hudson!” Watson called back, standing as he did so and finishing his drink. “Please don’t concern yourself, and have a good evening. We’ll keep it down.”
“I’ll just put the cotton in my ears then. Good night, gentlemen.” Only after the sound of retreating footsteps did Watson make his way over to Holmes‘ chair, taking a position behind him and resting a hand on his shoulder.
“Please, continue,” he urged Mycroft, who watched him with knowing eyes and a twist to his lips which could only be described as a sympathetic grimace.
“He did not tell me the details of what transpired, Doctor; you will have to ask him for those yourself. What I can tell you is that he had been shot some days previous to when he turned up on my threshold, the wound infected. Knowing his life was still in danger, and not knowing his plans regarding yourself, I called my personal physician to tend to him. After a week his fever broke, and the doctor assured us he was past the danger point. At that time, I fear I was called away on a matter of grave importance of which I could not avoid. My lovely housekeeper tended to him in my absence, but I fear she was out of practice in dealing with my brother. When I returned two weeks later I found he had departed without a by-your-leave, and Mrs. Everman was beside herself with worry. You see, Doctor, as she put it, he was ‘weak as a newborn bairn and too skinny to match.’ A sentiment I fear she will continue to harbor when we visit.”
All through his narration, Watson’s hand had tightened on his friend’s shoulder by increments, until Holmes was certain the flesh would be a livid bruise by morning and he was hard pressed not to grimace.
“Watson, dear boy -” he began, voice tight with pain despite his efforts.
Amazingly, the hand tightened further.
“Do go on, Mr. Holmes,” Watson ordered, and despite the anger clearly simmering beneath his cool surface, his voice did not waver. “I fear your brother has neglected to tell me any of this, and it may have a distinct bearing on his current health.”
“It was months before!” Holmes protested hotly, trying to squirm away from the vice-like grip, only to have Watson tighten it further and shake him slightly in rebuke.
“Watson, please,” he finally asked, allowing some of his pain to show through in his voice. “I would very much like to play the violin again, and I fear I may lose all feeling in my fingers if you do not relax your grip enough for the blood to flow!”
Immediately the pain lessened, and Holmes slumped back in his chair, attempting a glare at the man behind him, only to have any protests quickly banished by the look of pure fury in the usually gentle blue eyes.
“When I gave you your physical that day in my office, Sherlock Holmes, which part of ‘Please tell me about anything significant that may pertain to your health,’ did you not understand?” Watson growled.
The doctor’s voice contained none of its soothing cadence. Had, actually, dropped into a husky timbre which at once sent a shiver up Holmes’ spine and had him slinking further back in his chair. He did not think, in all his vivid memories of their time together, he had ever seen him so very angry before. It was an experience he was not certain he would wish to repeat.
“I did not think it was relevant,” Holmes finally muttered, turning his gaze deliberately to his brother, who was watching the scene with amusement clearly writ across his face. He scowled, crossing his arms tightly and wincing as Watson’s hand tightened once more in warning.
“Is there anything else I should be made aware of?” Watson snapped, turning his glare from one brother to the next.
“None that I can think of, Doctor,” Mycroft demurred immediately, his amusement not dimmed by the doctor’s anger. “However, as Sherlock had not seen fit to even inform me of what happened to procure such a wound in the first place, I fear you will have to drag what answers you can out of him. He is most stubborn, as you know, but I think with the proper incentive he may be convinced to release some of his secrets.”
“Oh, for-!” Holmes snapped, finally standing and breaking Watson’s hold entirely. He stood before the fire, two blooms of color on his otherwise pale face, glaring at everything he cast his gaze upon, from his brother and Watson to the plates sitting innocently on the table.
“I was running for my life!” he shouted, lines of tension around his eyes looking darker and more pronounced in his agitation. “Did you think that involved holidaying at inns and enjoying romping about the countryside? Of course there were problems! If I related every single event when my life was placed in danger I fear another year or so may pass before you were both satisfied! I survived the ordeal and that should be all you concern yourselves with!”
“Holmes, calm down!” Watson urged in alarm, his anger subsumed by concern as he watched the other man’s svelte frame sway with his distress.
“Perhaps it would be best if my brother were to retire for the night. I fear we may have upset him,” Mycroft suggested, standing with some difficulty and moving ponderously to take his brother by the arm. “Come, Sherlock. If you would like I shall rub your back for you to help you sleep.”
“I am not a child!” Holmes yelled, shaking off the other’s grip and stamping his foot in frustration as he glared furiously.
Silence descended as a dark blush rose across his cheeks at his actions, and the hands crossed against his chest tightened further.
“We know you are not a child,” Watson soothed, moving to rest his hand gently on Holmes’ elbow. “But you are overwrought, and your nerves are in shreds. You have had a most trying and frightening day, and now we have made you relive an experience I can see still troubles you. Please, Sherlock,” Watson murmured, and the use of his given name had the detective’s features softening slightly. “Try and get some more rest, and in the morning I promise we will speak more of this, after we have both had time to calm down.”
At his friend’s continued reticence, Watson asked, softly, “For me? I fear I will not rest easy tonight if I know this lies between us. Let us put it aside and sleep, and discuss is when both our heads are a bit clearer.”
Relaxing his tight stance slightly, Holmes relented, nodding his head once as he allowed himself to be led back to his bedroom. Mycroft watched as dressing gown and slippers were removed, then entered the room to stand beside the doctor as covers were pulled up to a chin still clenched firmly in annoyance.
For what must have been several minutes he stared at his brother, an expression of such fondness and concern on his features that Watson did not have the heart to break the silence which had fallen, but merely moved to stand in the doorway.
Finally, with a sigh which seemed to come from the very center of his considerable bulk, the elder Holmes sat gingerly on the edge of the bed with a creak of springs. Holmes, seemingly against his will, found himself resting his head on Mycroft’s thigh as a large hand rubbed soothing circles over his back.
“I am not a child anymore,” Holmes repeated petulantly, though there was no bite to his words, his eyes shutting in weary resignation.
“You shall always be a child to me,” Mycroft murmured, continuing to run his large flipper of a hand over his brother’s back. “Please try to remember that not all of us are as young as we used to be. Nights of listening to you cry in distress have long since lost their appeal. Do as your doctor says and regain your health. For my sake, if not your own. I am too old for this.”
Holmes snorted, though his eyes remained closed. “You are only a little older than me,” he mumbled.
“Hush now, and go to sleep. When you wake, all will be better,” Mycroft whispered hoarsely, and if there was a hint of ritual to the words, Watson did not comment.
He stood in the doorway, one hand clenched tightly against too strong emotion, and wiped his eyes surreptitiously with the other. Nothing more was said as Holmes’ breathing slowly evened out, and only after both men were certain that he had fallen asleep did they leave.
Watson pressed his hand gently to Mycroft’s as the large man donned his hat and gloves, and was rewarded with a gentle smile.
“I know he is in good hands under your care, Doctor. Please,” Mycroft urged softly, opening the sitting room door. “Be gentle with him when you can. He is all I have left in this world.”
With a silent nod, Watson watched the other man disappear down the steps and into the night, sighing mightily as he closed the door and leaned his forehead against it.
“Goodnight,” he finally sighed into the grain of the wood.
After a few seconds he moved, leaving the strong support of the door to turn down the gas before retiring to his own bed.
He had a feeling tomorrow was going to be trying.
***
Part 7
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes 09 and Canon
Rating: This chapter PG
Wordcount: 85,307
Parings: Holmes/Watson
Summary: After Holmes returns from his three years' absence, not everything is as it should be.
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 Author's notes: Thanks always for
enkiduts ' help, encouragement, and brainstorming . It was the sound of voices which brought him back to consciousness, a worried conversation in a too hushed tone that did not carry the words to where he lay. He did not doubt, however, that whatever was being said would be best overheard without detection.
It took more effort than he cared to think about to sit up, dislodging blankets and groaning as muscles protested the effort, straining as though he had gone ten rounds in the boxing ring. Standing was a bit easier, and he made his way unsteadily to the half-closed door, surprised to find that the sitting room was illuminated by the gas lamps and a crackling fire. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, engaged in a serious discussion, was Watson and, to Holmes’ astonishment, his brother.
Watson’s shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows and the first few buttons on his shirt had been loosened. His hair was disarrayed, as though he had been running his hands through it, and his expression was one of weary concern.
Mycroft, dressed in his usual impeccable fashion, was nodding at whatever the doctor was saying, tapping his chin with one thick finger.
“…I am concerned, but not overly so. Truthfully, Mr. Holmes, if your brother was in any danger of expiring, you would be the very first I would inform,” Watson was assuring softly, his warm voice floating through the door and leaving Holmes feeling more at ease than he had in a long while.
So he was not in danger of physical distress, which he had feared from his friend’s reluctance to commit to a diagnosis. He would have to corner Watson later to find out what, exactly, the doctor knew of his condition.
“I am relieved to hear that, Doctor,” Mycroft sighed deeply, and his brother’s weary tone brought his thoughts back to the immediate situation. “When I received the telegram I fear I had thought the worst.”
“Yes,” Watson agreed ruefully, running his hand through his hair in a confirmation of Holmes’ earlier deduction. “Jasper slipped out while I was doing an examination, before I could assure him Sherlock was in no immediate danger. I fear your brother is not going to be very pleased when he finds out the lad’s first reaction was to inform you he was dying.”
“No, I am not,” Holmes grumbled, opening the door completely and making his way out into the sitting room. He smiled at their startled expressions.
“Holmes!” Watson exclaimed, his face breaking out into a grin as he made his way over, steering Holmes into a seat by the fire. He frowned suddenly, observing the stiff movements with a critical eye. “How are you feeling?”
“Better,” Holmes promised, patting the hand resting on his elbow reassuringly even as he turned his attention to his brother, who was eyeing him much as he might a piece of succulent steak. “Mycroft, I must beg you to stop looking as though you wished to take a rather large bite from my calf,” he scolded.
For one moment his brother’s face lit into a glorious smile, an expression rarely, if ever, seen on his countenance. It did not last long, however, and was soon replaced by his usual dry air.
“How insulting, Sherlock,” Mycroft drawled. “As though there would be enough meat on your stick like appendages to sink my teeth into.”
Holmes pursed his lips in a moue of distaste before turning to cluck at Watson as a blanket was wrapped around his shoulders. “Please, mother hen, I’m much better now. No need to hover,” he chided, trying not to smile at the familiar scowl this engendered.
“Forgive me if I keep my own council on that, Holmes.” Watson paused a moment to squeeze his shoulder before turning back to Mycroft. “Supper should be up shortly. Perhaps it would be best to prolong the conversation until we have all eaten.” Though the words suggested an offer, there was no denying the doctor was putting his foot down on any further discussion for the moment.
“Of course,” Mycroft agreed, and Holmes sighed as he sank back into his chair.
“And it was barely past noon when I left,” he grumbled, looking heavenward in disgust. “I feel as though all I have done is eat and sleep today. How boring!”
“Hush,” Watson scolded absently, moving over to his own chair and waiting for Mycroft to sit his ponderous bulk on the settee before lowering himself down. “You could be doing worse things than eating and sleeping the day away.”
“That is true,” Holmes conceded, brushing non-existent lint from his nightshirt. “I could be back in that French village, playing the violin as mothers tried to foist their daughters onto me.”
“How horrid!” Mycroft gasped in a patently false voice. “Imagine, Sherlock, the thought of you married!”
“Yes, it quite sends shivers down my back,” Holmes agreed, ignoring the sarcasm easily. “Enough of this morbid talk. I can smell dinner is on its way up and I have no wish to spoil my appetite.”
Watson snorted at that, though he held his silence as a light rap at the door signaled the arrival of the food.
***
Dinner passed quietly, with Holmes picking at his food under the watchful gaze of the two men and, when he could, slipping unobtrusive tidbits to Gladstone, who lay conveniently at his feet under the table.
“Sherlock, if you do not cease feeding that dog this instant I will be forced to resort to measures from our childhood!” Mycroft finally ordered in exasperation, slamming his hand down on the table with a resounding thud that shook the plates.
Holmes jumped in his seat, glaring at his brother sullenly as he brought both hands back to the table.
“If you tried anything of the sort you would squash me,” he snapped waspishly.
“Peace!” Watson ordered, raising the hand not currently holding a forkful of roast fowl. “Holmes, you know better than to feed Gladstone at the table. He has enough digestive troubles as is. And Mycroft,” he added in his most soothing tone, “please go a bit easier on him. He’s had a trying day and tends to revert to childish behavior when tired.”
“I do not,” Holmes muttered.
He scowled mutinously as twin glares turned on him.
“Yes, you do,“ Mycroft observed blandly before turning back to Watson. “Forgive me, Doctor. You are quite right.”
“If you two are quite through…” Holmes looked around the table before setting aside his fork. “I have had quite enough for now. If you’ll excuse me?”
He did not wait for an answer but pushed his chair back and stood in one smooth motion, retreating to his room and slamming the door behind him.
Silence fell between the two remaining diners before Mycroft cleared his throat.
“Truly, you should have seen him when he was a child. He has improved greatly.” His rueful expression conveyed the truth of his words, and Watson chuckled as some of his anxiety broke.
Before he could respond, however, the bedroom door opened again and Holmes emerged, dressing gown wrapped tightly about his wiry frame.
“Sit by the fire and read your newspaper,” Mycroft ordered before his sibling could speak. “We shall join you when we are finished, and not before.”
Holmes glared at his brother indignantly, crossing his arms tightly against his chest and pursing his lips in what would be called a petulant pout on another man. The two stared each other down in a battle of wills, the silence lengthening until it seemed to stretch, like a physical band, between all three men. Angry rebuttals and chastising rebukes passed between the siblings without a word being uttered, and Watson found himself caught in the middle, gaze ricocheting between the men before he turned it back to his plate.
“Very well,” Holmes finally agreed with a sniff, lifting his chin stubbornly as he attempted to gather up his dignity. He waited until Mycroft turned his attention back to his dinner before moving, though all three knew who had been the winner of that battle.
An uneasy silence descended over the room, and it was only after the plates had been stacked and all were sitting around the fire, cigars in one hand and brandy in the other, that the tension slowly began to dissipate.
“Doctor Watson has explained what happened today,” Mycroft began softly, the teasing tone of before replaced with one Holmes was much more familiar with. His brother’s eyes were filled with a grave concern, and though his expression remained neutral, Holmes could read clearly the distress he was hiding. “I must say, Sherlock, I do not enjoy being roused from a nap only to be told my brother is at death’s door. I hereby revoke my hold on the little monsters in your employ. They are entirely your own again.”
Holmes’ lips twitched at the small jest, though none of the men attempted to lighten the mood further, and for several moments the only sound was the crackle of the fire and the hiss of their cigars as they took long, drawn out pulls.
“Holmes, as your brother mentioned, the two of us were talking earlier,” Watson finally said, taking a small sip from his brandy and wetting his lips nervously with his tongue. The move reminded the detective of what had transpired earlier in his room, and he found he could not pull his gaze away from the other’s lush mouth until he spoke again. “We have both agreed that a - a holiday is in order.”
That brought Holmes’ head up, turning his accusatory look first to Watson, then Mycroft.
“And where am I to go on this Holiday?” he asked curtly, not even attempting to hide his annoyance. “Since I have only just returned and would find it a shame to revisit any of my previous destinations.”
“Oh, do be still, Sherlock,” Mycroft grumbled, shifting his bulk into a more comfortable position, his back firmly pressed against the arm of the settee so as to glower at his brother from a better angle. “Your doctor and I have agreed that a retreat to the Chichester Estate would do your constitution wonders. Besides,“ Mycroft continued shrewdly, his gray eyes twinkling. “You left in such a state last time that Mrs. Everman was quite worried about you. She’ll be much relieved to see you - well, looking considerably better.”
Watson did not miss the look Holmes darted his way, and despite the fact he could not rival his friend in deductive ability, something about the way Mycroft had worded that last statement had the doctor eying his friend narrowly.
“I told you, Mycroft, it was imperative I leave. Things were coming to a head and there was no time to waste!” Holmes snapped defensively, leaning further back in his chair, as though to escape the conversation he so obviously wished to steer clear of. He studiously avoided Watson’s gaze as he did so, keeping his eyes firmly on his brother.
“You had been fevered and very nearly dead for the better part of a fortnight! She had barely nursed you back to health when-”
“That is enough, Mycroft!” Holmes nearly yelled with unusual ferocity. “I’m certain the doctor has no wish to hear this, and I think you have overstayed your welcome!”
“Actually, Holmes, I think I would very much like to hear this,” Watson interrupted, noting with satisfaction the flush that came to Holmes’ face. “And your brother is welcome to stay for as long as he wishes. Please, Mr. Holmes, continue. I am very much eager to hear the story. I’m afraid Sherlock is rather close- mouthed about certain things, his health being one of them, apparently.”
“You mean he has not told you?” Mycroft asked, genuine surprise coloring his tone as both men turned to stare at the man in question.
“It was not important, Mycroft,” Holmes said firmly, a look of betrayal flashing across his face as he eyed his brother balefully. “I’m certain Watson does not wish to be bothered with such an inconsequential matter. Truly, Watson, I will assuage your curiosity later.”
“Inconsequential?” Mycroft demanded, and Watson watched with alarm as the fleshy cheeks flushed a dark red with anger. “Sherlock Emerson Scott Holmes, you were delirious with fever from a gunshot for a fortnight! I will not have you trivialize such an event! I have no doubt you took several years off my life when I found you prostrate against my doorway, and Mrs. Everman completely went to gray taking care of you whilst I was detained!”
“Mycroft!” Holmes hissed, throwing his cigar end into the fire and casting a furtive look towards his friend, who was staring at him much the way a wolf would eye its prey.
“Holmes, be quiet. Mycroft, please, continue. I fear that this is one adventure your brother has neglected to inform me about,” Watson urged evenly, not removing his gaze from the detective.
“You did not - Sherlock!”
Rarely had Sherlock Holmes ever heard such a bellow from his brother, and even now they could hear hurried footsteps running up the stairs.
“Mr. Holmes? Doctor Watson? Is everything all right?” Mrs. Hudson asked through the door, refraining from opening it only due to long association with strange sounds and odd conversations under her roof.
“Everything is fine, Mrs. Hudson!” Watson called back, standing as he did so and finishing his drink. “Please don’t concern yourself, and have a good evening. We’ll keep it down.”
“I’ll just put the cotton in my ears then. Good night, gentlemen.” Only after the sound of retreating footsteps did Watson make his way over to Holmes‘ chair, taking a position behind him and resting a hand on his shoulder.
“Please, continue,” he urged Mycroft, who watched him with knowing eyes and a twist to his lips which could only be described as a sympathetic grimace.
“He did not tell me the details of what transpired, Doctor; you will have to ask him for those yourself. What I can tell you is that he had been shot some days previous to when he turned up on my threshold, the wound infected. Knowing his life was still in danger, and not knowing his plans regarding yourself, I called my personal physician to tend to him. After a week his fever broke, and the doctor assured us he was past the danger point. At that time, I fear I was called away on a matter of grave importance of which I could not avoid. My lovely housekeeper tended to him in my absence, but I fear she was out of practice in dealing with my brother. When I returned two weeks later I found he had departed without a by-your-leave, and Mrs. Everman was beside herself with worry. You see, Doctor, as she put it, he was ‘weak as a newborn bairn and too skinny to match.’ A sentiment I fear she will continue to harbor when we visit.”
All through his narration, Watson’s hand had tightened on his friend’s shoulder by increments, until Holmes was certain the flesh would be a livid bruise by morning and he was hard pressed not to grimace.
“Watson, dear boy -” he began, voice tight with pain despite his efforts.
Amazingly, the hand tightened further.
“Do go on, Mr. Holmes,” Watson ordered, and despite the anger clearly simmering beneath his cool surface, his voice did not waver. “I fear your brother has neglected to tell me any of this, and it may have a distinct bearing on his current health.”
“It was months before!” Holmes protested hotly, trying to squirm away from the vice-like grip, only to have Watson tighten it further and shake him slightly in rebuke.
“Watson, please,” he finally asked, allowing some of his pain to show through in his voice. “I would very much like to play the violin again, and I fear I may lose all feeling in my fingers if you do not relax your grip enough for the blood to flow!”
Immediately the pain lessened, and Holmes slumped back in his chair, attempting a glare at the man behind him, only to have any protests quickly banished by the look of pure fury in the usually gentle blue eyes.
“When I gave you your physical that day in my office, Sherlock Holmes, which part of ‘Please tell me about anything significant that may pertain to your health,’ did you not understand?” Watson growled.
The doctor’s voice contained none of its soothing cadence. Had, actually, dropped into a husky timbre which at once sent a shiver up Holmes’ spine and had him slinking further back in his chair. He did not think, in all his vivid memories of their time together, he had ever seen him so very angry before. It was an experience he was not certain he would wish to repeat.
“I did not think it was relevant,” Holmes finally muttered, turning his gaze deliberately to his brother, who was watching the scene with amusement clearly writ across his face. He scowled, crossing his arms tightly and wincing as Watson’s hand tightened once more in warning.
“Is there anything else I should be made aware of?” Watson snapped, turning his glare from one brother to the next.
“None that I can think of, Doctor,” Mycroft demurred immediately, his amusement not dimmed by the doctor’s anger. “However, as Sherlock had not seen fit to even inform me of what happened to procure such a wound in the first place, I fear you will have to drag what answers you can out of him. He is most stubborn, as you know, but I think with the proper incentive he may be convinced to release some of his secrets.”
“Oh, for-!” Holmes snapped, finally standing and breaking Watson’s hold entirely. He stood before the fire, two blooms of color on his otherwise pale face, glaring at everything he cast his gaze upon, from his brother and Watson to the plates sitting innocently on the table.
“I was running for my life!” he shouted, lines of tension around his eyes looking darker and more pronounced in his agitation. “Did you think that involved holidaying at inns and enjoying romping about the countryside? Of course there were problems! If I related every single event when my life was placed in danger I fear another year or so may pass before you were both satisfied! I survived the ordeal and that should be all you concern yourselves with!”
“Holmes, calm down!” Watson urged in alarm, his anger subsumed by concern as he watched the other man’s svelte frame sway with his distress.
“Perhaps it would be best if my brother were to retire for the night. I fear we may have upset him,” Mycroft suggested, standing with some difficulty and moving ponderously to take his brother by the arm. “Come, Sherlock. If you would like I shall rub your back for you to help you sleep.”
“I am not a child!” Holmes yelled, shaking off the other’s grip and stamping his foot in frustration as he glared furiously.
Silence descended as a dark blush rose across his cheeks at his actions, and the hands crossed against his chest tightened further.
“We know you are not a child,” Watson soothed, moving to rest his hand gently on Holmes’ elbow. “But you are overwrought, and your nerves are in shreds. You have had a most trying and frightening day, and now we have made you relive an experience I can see still troubles you. Please, Sherlock,” Watson murmured, and the use of his given name had the detective’s features softening slightly. “Try and get some more rest, and in the morning I promise we will speak more of this, after we have both had time to calm down.”
At his friend’s continued reticence, Watson asked, softly, “For me? I fear I will not rest easy tonight if I know this lies between us. Let us put it aside and sleep, and discuss is when both our heads are a bit clearer.”
Relaxing his tight stance slightly, Holmes relented, nodding his head once as he allowed himself to be led back to his bedroom. Mycroft watched as dressing gown and slippers were removed, then entered the room to stand beside the doctor as covers were pulled up to a chin still clenched firmly in annoyance.
For what must have been several minutes he stared at his brother, an expression of such fondness and concern on his features that Watson did not have the heart to break the silence which had fallen, but merely moved to stand in the doorway.
Finally, with a sigh which seemed to come from the very center of his considerable bulk, the elder Holmes sat gingerly on the edge of the bed with a creak of springs. Holmes, seemingly against his will, found himself resting his head on Mycroft’s thigh as a large hand rubbed soothing circles over his back.
“I am not a child anymore,” Holmes repeated petulantly, though there was no bite to his words, his eyes shutting in weary resignation.
“You shall always be a child to me,” Mycroft murmured, continuing to run his large flipper of a hand over his brother’s back. “Please try to remember that not all of us are as young as we used to be. Nights of listening to you cry in distress have long since lost their appeal. Do as your doctor says and regain your health. For my sake, if not your own. I am too old for this.”
Holmes snorted, though his eyes remained closed. “You are only a little older than me,” he mumbled.
“Hush now, and go to sleep. When you wake, all will be better,” Mycroft whispered hoarsely, and if there was a hint of ritual to the words, Watson did not comment.
He stood in the doorway, one hand clenched tightly against too strong emotion, and wiped his eyes surreptitiously with the other. Nothing more was said as Holmes’ breathing slowly evened out, and only after both men were certain that he had fallen asleep did they leave.
Watson pressed his hand gently to Mycroft’s as the large man donned his hat and gloves, and was rewarded with a gentle smile.
“I know he is in good hands under your care, Doctor. Please,” Mycroft urged softly, opening the sitting room door. “Be gentle with him when you can. He is all I have left in this world.”
With a silent nod, Watson watched the other man disappear down the steps and into the night, sighing mightily as he closed the door and leaned his forehead against it.
“Goodnight,” he finally sighed into the grain of the wood.
After a few seconds he moved, leaving the strong support of the door to turn down the gas before retiring to his own bed.
He had a feeling tomorrow was going to be trying.
***
Part 7