sh (humanerror) wrote in onewaythreads, @ 2017-08-08 22:30:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, john watson, mycroft holmes, sherlock holmes |
“Sherlock? I’m, uh… going to get some coffee? Do you want any?”
John’s forehead was deeply wrinkled with worry, both for his boyfriend and his brother, lying unconscious in the hospital bed. The monitor that Mycroft was hooked up to showed a steady, but weak heartbeat; he was in stable condition and was expected to make a full recovery, but the poison he’d ingested had certainly done a number on him. John and Sherlock had rushed to the hospital once they found out Mycroft had been taken in hours ago, and as a result, missed Moriarty’s parole hearing. John stood in the doorway, patiently waiting for Sherlock’s reply, though the stress of the day had made him exhausted.
It took Sherlock almost a full minute to process John's question. And then another minute to consider his answer. Don't leave was on the tip of his tongue, but he managed to bite the words back. It wasn't as if John would be gone very long — he'd calculated the distance between the hospital bed and the cafeteria in his mind, and knew that, logically, keeping the doctor prisoner would only make him stir-crazy. That wouldn't be helpful to either of them, even if he felt more lost and alone than he had in months. Not since ... "No," Sherlock said, cutting his own train of thought off. "I'm fine. Thank you."
He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms, attempting to appear irritated with the whole situation. How he really felt was anything but. Even now, though, after everything they shared together as a couple, Sherlock wanted to spare John from being too concerned about him.
John couldn’t help but be concerned, remained at the door, staring at Sherlock, glancing momentarily over at Mycroft. At home, they were intimate and loving, but in public, John was still skittish about coming out as bisexual, and so refrained from doing what he really wanted to do, which was comfort Sherlock with holding hands, embraces and kisses. Conflicted and guilty, he wavered on the spot, tilting side to side, angry with himself for being too much of a coward to show his true feelings to the world, but too anxious to do anything about it yet. He opened his mouth to speak, but didn’t know what to say, so he snapped his lips shut, while he stretched out the fingers of his left hand to shake off the tremoring that would often appear when he was nervous. Finally, he nodded and said, “Alright. I’ll… I’ll be right back. I urm....” he moistened his lips his tongue, “I may make a phone call?” Better to also tell Sherlock that, in case he’d get worried he was taking too long.
"That's fine," Sherlock said, so completely consumed with his own thoughts that he didn't notice the conflict in John. In fact, the detective didn't move at all — he continued to observe Mycroft sleeping, a sight he rarely had the opportunity to see. His brother was always so carefully put together, so tightly wound. That he could lay here in such a vulnerable state was disturbing to Sherlock on many levels, and for once, he realized what it might have been like for Mycroft to see him this way all those months ago.
He blinked, realizing that John might still be at the door, waiting for him to say more. Sherlock half-turned in his chair to look at the man, but no words came. What he really wanted was to squeeze John's hand. It was easier than trying to offer up reassurances that were ultimately meaningless. "You can go," he said instead. It was all he could offer: permission.
“Okay.” John didn’t sound okay, but it was all he could say under the circumstances. Pursing his lips together tightly, he turned and marched down the hall, both hands balled up into tight fists.
Minutes felt like hours, until Mycroft finally awoke with a sharp gasp, jarred from unconsciousness from a pain in his abdomen. His eyes opened into small slits, looking up at the ceiling, but his vision was still too blurry to see clearly.
Sherlock sat up the moment Mycroft made a noise, but he didn't dare approach the bed or crowd him. Fussing wouldn't help the situation at all. Instead, he squeezed his hands together tight enough that his knuckles whitened and forced himself to remain still. Best stick to what he could control, which was very little. "What do you need?" Sherlock asked, his voice surprisingly even.
The time it took for Mycroft’s gaze to shift from the ceiling to the fuzzy outline of his brother sitting nearby, he was able to deduce where he was, what happened, and most importantly, why. “Water,” he mumbled, his throat dry. He also wanted more medication for the pain, but that came second to knowing, “Moriarty’s parole hearing?” Were they able to prevent Moriarty from skipping out of his parole early?
It was a task Sherlock felt relieved to have. He stood and retrieved the glass a nurse had left, pouring his brother fresh water from a pitcher on the table nearby. No answer came in response to Mycroft's question, and that would, likely, be answer enough. Sherlock returned to his brother's side and offered the glass with a straw in it so the man wouldn't have to hold it himself. And if this very rare imbalance in their relationship registered for Sherlock, he certainly didn't show it — his face was almost entirely blank.
The silence told Mycroft everything. The look he gave Sherlock as he approached with the water was one of frustration and anger, but he accepted the straw in his mouth to take a much needed sip, before saying, “You left the hearing before it began, once you discovered I’d been poisoned, and without our testimony, Moriarty is free.”
"I thought he killed you," came Sherlock's reply, and although it was spoken in that same even tone, his voice broke on the last word. Sherlock stood there, staring at the glass between them. "All we knew was that you'd been rushed to the hospital. That you'd been poisoned." He set the glass aside once Mycroft was finished with it and sat, heavily, on the bed, still not quite looking at his brother. If he didn't see him, he could still pretend this was just an awful nightmare, one he'd had often enough before. "It was either you or him. I didn't need time to consider the choice."
Mycroft was too spent to react with anything besides shutting his eyes and turning his head away. A reverse situation played out in his memory, when it was Sherlock lying in the hospital bed; he’d been shot (by John’s wife, no less) and had died on the operating table, but his heart miraculously started beating after it had stopped. Months later, Mycroft told his brother that he didn’t want him taking an undercover offer from M16 that would be the death of him, and confessed to Sherlock that losing him would’ve broken his heart, to which Sherlock nearly choked. What the hell am I supposed to say to that? Sherlock said. It had been a bitter conversation, where both were skirting around their feelings for one another, but one which Sherlock here in Preya knew nothing about, since he hadn’t experienced any of that, yet.
All this was going through his mind, and with his defenses lowered, he huffed a resignated sigh, and without saying another word, he weakly lifted his hand, palm upward, for Sherlock.
The flash of movement caught Sherlock's attention, and for a second, he was too shocked by the offer to even react to it. He isn't angry with me flashed through his mind, and that's when the tears started. Sherlock grasped Mycroft's hand and squeezed so hard he knew he was probably hurting his brother, and much to his dismay, he broke down. All of his walls crumbled with the silent sobs, his whole body shaking with the effort not to make a sound. I almost lost you, Sherlock thought, horrified and relieved at the same time. I almost lost you and I haven't told you how I really feel. It was one thing to risk his own life for his friends, but it was quite another to have their lives threatened. He was seeing that now. Slowly, with difficulty, but he was.
"Sorry," Sherlock choked out, wiping his eyes with his free hand. It was humiliating even if he felt a little better for having gotten it out. He still hadn't let go of Mycroft yet.
Mycroft’s face pinched at how hard Sherlock was grasping his hand, but he bore it, masking the pain by relaxing his muscles, telling himself it would be over soon, and it was what Sherlock needed. What he didn’t anticipate was how much he needed it, as well. His grip was weak, but his fingers curled to enclose his brother’s hand, and though his eyes remained closed to prevent Sherlock from further embarrassment, he could hear the depth of emotion in the sobs. A grimace prevented him from making a scene, himself, though he came close to joining in. Had he been feeling stronger, he just might’ve done so, but instead he internalized his grief as he always did.
“Don’t be,” was Mycroft’s reply. He did not attempt to pull his hand away.
Sherlock's grasp on his brother's hand eased quite a bit, but he didn't let go completely. The two of them really were damaged. He realized that now in the way they couldn't even look at one another in the eye, privately — and separately — dealing with their own emotions. Perhaps he wouldn't have noticed any of this had Harry not moved in with them, but now the Watson twins were everywhere in his life, and it had taken a near-death experience for Sherlock to admit to himself that he wanted Mycroft to be part of their little self-made family, too. What a strange thing to think about one's own brother. So he sucked in a shaky breath and finally looked at Mycroft in the eye, threading their fingers together at the same time. "You scared me," he admitted, and although the tears didn't fall a second time, he had to bite back the urge to cry. It was a difficult feat.
The next words were harder to get out. He hadn't said them since he was a preteen, and they'd been flung at his brother like a barbed weapon — the usual way Holmeses offered up sentiment. Sherlock hoped Mycroft knew he was sincere now. He hoped this counted, because by God, he'd been so terrified he'd never get the chance to say it again. "I love you."
Threading fingers, Sherlock? Isn’t that a bit too much? was what Mycroft’s expression conveyed, but his hand was pliable and easily manipulated, offering no resistance. He told himself he was too physically drained, but had he really wanted to thwart Sherlock’s foolish display of emotions, he probably could. Actually, his unfortunate circumstance gave him something of an excuse to react in such a way that he ordinarily wouldn’t have done, although he answered Sherlock’s first statement in typical Holmesian fashion, with sarcasm. “I shall make every effort not to do so, again.”
The second statement was by far more problematic. Mycroft hadn’t heard Sherlock say those words for so long, they sounded like a foreign language. How do I respond to that?, he thought, his tongue rolling in his mouth, his forehead wrinkling with concern. It wasn’t so much the words, but the amount of earnestness backing them; it was unsettling. Mycroft always liked to think that he told his little brother how much he loved him by the myriad of ways he did to protect him, to make his life simpler so Sherlock could go about and do as he liked, but to actually say that he did was difficult, albeit unsurprising. A series of responses flashed through his mind, most of them critical, and frankly inappropriate to the current situation, but all of them were to maintain the impregnable wall surrounding his heart. To recognize the effort Sherlock took to make the step by saying I love you, Mycroft choose the reply that he thought was the least offense, but was still clinical and observational.
“Preya has changed you,” he said in a soft voice. It was true. The Sherlock he knew from home would never have told his brother he loved him. It was also of interest to note that Mycroft did not comment on whether or not the change was for the better or worse - that was something Mycroft was still trying to decide upon.
Sherlock's brow knit. It wasn't as though he'd needed to hear Mycroft repeat the words back to him — he knew his brother felt the same, and it would honestly be suspicious if I love you ever came out of his mouth. His reaction had more to do with the fact that he'd expected Mycroft to be ... crueler. Harsh. Even a flicker of sentiment usually ensured a negative response from his brother, and when it didn't come this time, he hardly knew what to do. Sherlock had braced himself for the inevitable and found he'd quite underestimated Mycroft. Or misread the entire situation. He couldn't tell, and that was concerning.
"No, it hasn't," the detective said, because there was really nothing else to say. The answer was obvious to him: "John has." It always led back to John, the real reason why Sherlock found himself growing increasingly comfortable with who he really was — not the man he'd tried to shape himself to be in his brother's likeness. And he wanted Mycroft to know that new person. To be part of his journey. But Sherlock still didn't have the words to articulate that, so he relied on the only territory they could both handle with relative confidence.
"We need to move. If he's loose now, I want to live closer to you. It has been getting crowded in our flat, and there are brownstones available nearer to yours." Although it sounded like Sherlock had already made up his mind, just telling Mycroft about his plan was a question in disguise. Would he want his brother living anywhere near him? Could the Holmes siblings even manage that maturely?
Mycroft nodded once to acknowledge Sherlock’s correction, and turned his head to the side on the pretense of resting. His hand remained held with his brother’s, however, finding unspoken comfort there. “I know the where you’re talking about,” Mycroft said, after a sigh; he’d never agree to living with his little brother and the domestic life he set up for himself, but living closer was an amiable concession. They’d never be safe with Moriarty around, it gave them the illusion, which looked like what Sherlock needed. “They’re a bit pricey, but… I’ll speak to the owners. Being a Council Member has its advantages.” The corner of his mouth quirked into half a smile. Again, actions like these showed his love where words failed.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he was too relieved by Mycroft's unspoken concession to push the issue. At least it broke the tension just a little bit. "I need to speak with them first," he said, not bothering to identify the two obvious parties. "And we'll need a realtor. I've honestly no idea what either of them are looking for." In truth, Sherlock had never actually gone flat-hunting before in his life. Mrs. Hudson's offer had come after he'd assisted with her case, and upon arriving in Preya, Mycroft was the one to secure his latest residence. To actually have to speak to building owners sounded so horrifyingly pedestrian that Sherlock cringed at the thought. He'd changed, but not that much.
A thought occurred to him.
"You won't hate me living closer to you?" He gazed at his brother suspiciously now, an expression that was partly ruined by the fact that his eyes were still red and puffy from crying.
Opening his eyes and turning to look at Sherlock, he frowned and said, “I’m offering to make it easy on you, and you still want to do it the hard way. I know you don’t want to deal with realtors.” He rolled his eyes. “Go ahead and speak with them.” Mycroft automatically knew Sherlock was referring to the twins - who else would he be speaking about? Honestly, sometimes Sherlock could be so dense. “Why would I be opposed to you living closer to me? It isn’t as though you and your Watsons will be sharing a flat with me?
There were the barbed words he'd been expecting. It was almost comforting in a way because it meant that Mycroft wasn't too badly injured, but it still stung as it always did. The Your Watsons comment was the only thing that helped to soften the blow a bit. He liked the sound of that even if he knew it wasn't entirely true. They didn't belong to him just as no one did, but he couldn't be faulted for feeling just a little pleased.
Sherlock still scowled. "Don't test me. Closer proximity means it'll be easier to break in and steal your milk," he pointed out, a feat he'd managed successfully not too long ago. "Or I can play the violin loud enough to wake you up. You really haven't thought this through, have you?" He probably shouldn't be trying to instigate an argument right now, but he still felt lost and confused and scared, godammit. This was normal. Comforting, even. And he'd only feel worse later.
Quirking a single eyebrow up, Mycroft regarded Sherlock with patient frustration, but backed with amusement to play along with his Sherlock’s banter as a way to help him recover from the emotional outburst he had earlier. “So that’s where my milk has been going. I should’ve known. What are you planning to do? Break into my apartment at 3:00 in the morning to serenade me?” Mycroft shifted his weight in bed to try to make himself more comfortable. “I suppose that means I must make an extra effort to prevent you from getting in.” This was spoken as a challenge, knowing that Sherlock would rise to the bait and not only serve as a further distraction, but would suggest that he really wasn’t disturbed by having his brother live nearby.
John came through the door, cup of coffee in one hand, his cell phone in the other, tucking it into his trouser pocket. “Oh,” he said, immediately noticing Mycroft and going into doctor-mode. “You’re awake! How are you feeling?” The fact that Mycroft and Sherlock were still holding hands had been initially overlooked.
“Miserable,” came Mycroft’s reply. “The threadcount on this sheets are unbearable. I don’t know how anybody can recover under such horrid conditions.”
Sherlock didn't get a chance to respond to Mycroft's challenge because the door was already opening behind him, but he did narrow his eyes. It was a clear message: this isn't over. "He's experiencing pain in his abdomen," Sherlock explained, having deduced the reason for his brother's sudden consciousness long before. The comment about the hospital bed's suitability didn't warrant any reaction because he agreed with his brother. It looked horrible, and he sympathized. "I gave him water," the detective continued, his hand still in Mycroft's almost defiantly. He wouldn't be the first one to let go. So there.
If the tension in his shoulders eased upon John's arrival, well. Sherlock wasn't aware of it. He was still too emotionally overwhelmed to struggle through that level of self-awareness right now.
For a long while, Mycroft recognized how Sherlock’s demeanor subtly changed when John was in proximity. John changed him, Mycroft thought, and not a moment too soon. This was a good development, despite his negative comments about sentiment and emotions. Sherlock was always the one who carried his heart on his sleeve, and Mycroft sought to protect him from the cruelties of the world that treated Sherlock wrong for being different. Now Sherlock had somebody else to take care and protect him, with love and affection, which Mycroft couldn’t muster to provide. But the difference in Preya was that here, Sherlock and John were fortunately able to acknowledge and act on their feelings for one another, instead of skirt around the issue. Preya might have its faults, but at least this was one very positive outcome. Mycroft was satisfied, albeit for some reason that he didn’t want to dwell upon, melancholy.
John was oblivious to all of this, and was only concerned about what Sherlock has said, “Do you need me to get one of the nurses?”
“Please do. And while you’re at it, tell Sherlock he can stop clinging to me. I’m not going to fall out of bed.” Mycroft gave his brother a sarcastic look.
The thing that Mycroft wasn't taking into account — and, in truth, this was something Sherlock had yet to verbalize — was the fact that he'd changed his brother, too. By caring for him and listening to him as a child, Sherlock received far more support than he ever would have from their parents. He'd been given the tools with which to navigate a strange and unforgiving world, and although he'd perhaps taken them a bit too far, they were still invaluable resources. Memories that shaped the man he became. And right now, the two most important people in Sherlock's life were in the room with him, and they were safe. That was what truly helped keep him grounded. Everything else could be handled.
Sherlock flicked Mycroft's nose for the nasty comment, amusement and even a bit of fondness glittering in his eyes. "Shut up and go back to sleep. I liked you better when you were unconscious." A lie, and they both knew it, but an attempt to lighten the mood all the same.
“Oh my God!” Mycroft continued with exaggerated indignation, then addressed John, “Do you see what I’ve had to put up with all my life? Unconsciousness is infinitely preferable.” Despite his words, he gave Sherlock’s hand a very brief squeeze before letting go, and closing his eyes.
Recognizing the banter for what it was, John smirked a little and said, “Do you want to get something quick to eat and come back, Sherlock? After Mycroft’s rested?” It would be good for Sherlock to get some rest, too; he’d been frazzled ever since the message came about his brother’s hospitalization, and John was concerned for his health and well being.
Sherlock grinned, but only when Mycroft closed his eyes. It wouldn't do to give himself away entirely, even if the hand squeeze told him his brother knew he was only messing around. "Don't get too comfortable. We'll be back soon," he promised. It took every ounce of his self-control to leave that bed, but he did, knowing full well that Mycroft wouldn't appreciate being crowded for long. He might even have his little brother forcibly removed from the premises if he had to, and Sherlock wasn't about to push his luck that far. So he left the room with John and tried not to feel like he'd failed so utterly that more people would be threatened in the coming months. It was a losing battle.
"Did I make the right choice?" Sherlock asked, apropos of nothing, while he and John stepped out into the glaring sunshine. It was a rhetorical question. He'd do it again if he had the chance, but maybe part of him needed validation in order to come to terms with that. Maybe it was just talking for the sake of talking. He didn't know.
John turned his head upward to let the heat of the sun warm his face - it had been a long, tiring day, and he felt as though the problems were only just beginning. So much for a new beginning in Preya, he thought. His pessimism was interrupted by Sherlock’s question. “Leaving the courtroom to be with Mycroft?” Of course that’s what Sherlock meant.
Becoming thoughtfully silent, John slowly, carefully, he dropped his arm to slide his hand beside Sherlock’s, not to hold it but to discreetly link their pinkie fingers together. The question that John had asked himself was would he have done the same thing if it were Harry who’d been poisoned, instead of Mycroft? And the answer was, “Yes.” He looked over a Sherlock. “Yes, you did.” He then shrugged. “Besides, do you think Moriarty being off parole will be that much of a difference? He always found ways to getting around the system, anyway. He’s still a danger.”
"True," Sherlock agreed, fully recognizing and appreciative of the fact that John linked their fingers together. It meant a lot to him that his boyfriend would risk this gesture when he needed the support most. He didn't quite look at the doctor, but his facial expression had softened quite a bit. "Quite clever of you, actually," the detective commented before leading them away from the hospital and down the street. Sherlock wanted a pastry, dammit, and he thought he could get away with it if John was so insistent on him eating. He walked with the doctor, allowing himself a brief moment of respite before the coming storm. Because it would come. And soon.