Holmes fic: Come At Once
I knew almost immediately that I wanted to play on the "Come at once" note; the rest of the details filled in as I went. I found it interesting that movie!Watson won't talk to me in first person like canon!Watson and Granada!Watson (who is almost canon!Watson, really) do--but I did try!
Title: Come At Once
Universe: RDJ movies (post-movies AU)
Rating: G
Wordcount: 1100
Characters: Watson, Carruthers, Mycroft, Holmes
Summary: Watson returns home to find a note with familiar text.
A/N: Written for watsons_woes July Writing Prompt #22: JWP #22: While You were Out. Watson returns home after a long day to find a note pinned to his door. What is the note? Who left it? It's all up to you.
Additional note: I have moved the Diogenes from being "opposite Mycroft's rooms" as described in canon because the movies have never said where it is and it suited my purposes better to have it elsewhere. ;-)
It was very late, almost to the point of being early, when Watson finally headed back toward home and bed. A long day of patients had kept him out and about since breakfast, and he looked forward to at least a few hours' rest and the company of Mary.
As the cab pulled up before his home, he saw in the lamplight that something was fastened to the door. His heart sank; surely it was another summons to the bedside of some poor wretch brought low by the flu or some other malady making its round of the city. The thought briefly crossed his mind that he could ignore it, feign that the message failed to reach him before morning, but his sense of duty was too strong.
Wearily disembarking from the cab, Watson bade the cabbie to wait a moment. The paper was pinned to the wood by a tack, and when he unfolded it a chill went down his spine.
Come at once, if convenient. If inconvenient, come all the same.
Even as he remembered what followed those words the last time they had been left for him, he noticed the small M.H. in the bottom corner. There was no drawing or address left for him, but he had a very good idea where to start.
After a deep sigh and a moment of longing for bed and wife, he turned on his heel and returned to the cab. "Cabbie, the Diogenes, as quick as you can."
When he entered the club, he was greeted by the doorman and Carruthers, Mycroft's man. "Doctor," he said with a nod. "If you will follow me."
Following meant a brisk walk through the club to a back door, where an automobile was waiting. Watson wondered only for a moment if this was where Holmes' car had gone off to before he was climbing in beside Carruthers, who spoke not a single word after his initial greeting.
Like the cab ride, this trip was brief, but his mind traveled faster than the wheels. It must have something to do with Holmes, it had to, since they were the only ones to know the message of that earlier note. But how? It had been three long years since he'd received the package with Mycroft's missing supply of oxygen, and while he'd hoped Holmes was alive, the years of silence rather indicated the opposite.
Perhaps that same message had passed between the Holmeses at some point, and Mycroft thought nothing of using it, unaware of what had happened in the factory--Watson had told no one of the message, just the drawing. But what could be so urgent that Mycroft would summon him so precipitously?
Carruthers stopped the vehicle in front of a stately building in Pall Mall, then led Watson to a heavy wooden door, which he opened without knocking. The rooms he was ushered into were spartan, with limited furnishings and nothing that could be called decorative; they were definitely a bachelor's rooms, and they seemed the sort that a man like Mycroft might have.
His supposition was proven correct by the appearance of the man himself. "Doctor," he said with a nod, exactly the same way that Carruthers had not long before. "There is someone you will want to see."
Mycroft led the way down a short hallway to a closed door. "Mycroft, what is this about?" Watson demanded.
Mycroft turned and gave him a look that was hard to decipher, then opened the door. The bedroom that lay beyond was illuminated by a single lamp upon the bedside table. Watson's eyes fell upon the sleeping figure in the bed and his knees nearly buckled.
"I-impossible," he whispered, hardly able to breathe.
"Improbable," Mycroft corrected, much as his brother would have done.
His brother. Holmes. The man he'd thought dead for long years was lying in Mycroft's bed. "How long have you known?" Watson demanded, expecting to feel anger but feeling only numb with shock.
"That he lived? Almost from the beginning. But he has only been back in London for about six weeks."
"Six w-- why didn't you send for me before?" Now Watson felt the stirrings of rage. Six weeks Holmes had been in that very city and neither of them had thought to contact Watson?
"I would not have you think him found only to lose him again." Mycroft's tone was measured, but the weariness in his face spoke volumes. "He has been quite ill."
Watson's gaze returned to the sleeping Holmes, now looking past the familiar features to the wan, gaunt face, the overgrown stubble and hair. His breathing was labored, and Watson's mind began sorting through the various diagnoses that would match what he already knew. He tentatively approached the bed, his eyes never leaving Holmes' face.
A chair had been pulled up to the bedside, and Watson sat on the edge of it, then reached out and gently touched Holmes' hand. It was warm and unyielding and Watson took hold of it without thinking, feeling rough, dry skin rub against his own. "Holmes," he murmured, hoping for some sort of response from that too-still form.
He got one. Holmes' head shifted slightly in his direction, and Holmes took a slow breath that was released as a sigh. "Watson." Another breath, and his eyes flicked open. "Hullo, mother hen," he said, his voice rough. A shadow of one of his cocky grins flitted briefly across his expression. "Expected you sooner."
Watson huffed in indignation. "I would have come sooner if I had known!"
"I sent the note hours ago."
"I was with patients until a half hour ago. And you didn't write that note."
"I dictated it."
That explained much, but not the things that really mattered. "Where have you been, Holmes?"
"Finishing what Moriarty started," Holmes said cryptically. He gestured dismissively with his fingers. "I'll tell you about it later. You've had a long day already."
And you don't have the strength to tell tales, Watson thought sorrowfully. Holmes' entire body seemed to be drooping with exhaustion, and Watson knew it was only by strength of will that his eyes were still open. "It seems you've had many long days."
"Hm."
"Go to sleep. I will be here."
Holmes' fingers briefly gripped his, then went slack again as his eyes closed. Watson waited until he was certain Holmes was fully asleep before releasing Holmes' hand and standing.
Watson left the bedroom and closed the door before he turned to Mycroft, who had been lingering in the doorway. "You have a lot of explaining to do."
Title: Come At Once
Universe: RDJ movies (post-movies AU)
Rating: G
Wordcount: 1100
Characters: Watson, Carruthers, Mycroft, Holmes
Summary: Watson returns home to find a note with familiar text.
A/N: Written for watsons_woes July Writing Prompt #22: JWP #22: While You were Out. Watson returns home after a long day to find a note pinned to his door. What is the note? Who left it? It's all up to you.
Additional note: I have moved the Diogenes from being "opposite Mycroft's rooms" as described in canon because the movies have never said where it is and it suited my purposes better to have it elsewhere. ;-)
It was very late, almost to the point of being early, when Watson finally headed back toward home and bed. A long day of patients had kept him out and about since breakfast, and he looked forward to at least a few hours' rest and the company of Mary.
As the cab pulled up before his home, he saw in the lamplight that something was fastened to the door. His heart sank; surely it was another summons to the bedside of some poor wretch brought low by the flu or some other malady making its round of the city. The thought briefly crossed his mind that he could ignore it, feign that the message failed to reach him before morning, but his sense of duty was too strong.
Wearily disembarking from the cab, Watson bade the cabbie to wait a moment. The paper was pinned to the wood by a tack, and when he unfolded it a chill went down his spine.
Come at once, if convenient. If inconvenient, come all the same.
Even as he remembered what followed those words the last time they had been left for him, he noticed the small M.H. in the bottom corner. There was no drawing or address left for him, but he had a very good idea where to start.
After a deep sigh and a moment of longing for bed and wife, he turned on his heel and returned to the cab. "Cabbie, the Diogenes, as quick as you can."
When he entered the club, he was greeted by the doorman and Carruthers, Mycroft's man. "Doctor," he said with a nod. "If you will follow me."
Following meant a brisk walk through the club to a back door, where an automobile was waiting. Watson wondered only for a moment if this was where Holmes' car had gone off to before he was climbing in beside Carruthers, who spoke not a single word after his initial greeting.
Like the cab ride, this trip was brief, but his mind traveled faster than the wheels. It must have something to do with Holmes, it had to, since they were the only ones to know the message of that earlier note. But how? It had been three long years since he'd received the package with Mycroft's missing supply of oxygen, and while he'd hoped Holmes was alive, the years of silence rather indicated the opposite.
Perhaps that same message had passed between the Holmeses at some point, and Mycroft thought nothing of using it, unaware of what had happened in the factory--Watson had told no one of the message, just the drawing. But what could be so urgent that Mycroft would summon him so precipitously?
Carruthers stopped the vehicle in front of a stately building in Pall Mall, then led Watson to a heavy wooden door, which he opened without knocking. The rooms he was ushered into were spartan, with limited furnishings and nothing that could be called decorative; they were definitely a bachelor's rooms, and they seemed the sort that a man like Mycroft might have.
His supposition was proven correct by the appearance of the man himself. "Doctor," he said with a nod, exactly the same way that Carruthers had not long before. "There is someone you will want to see."
Mycroft led the way down a short hallway to a closed door. "Mycroft, what is this about?" Watson demanded.
Mycroft turned and gave him a look that was hard to decipher, then opened the door. The bedroom that lay beyond was illuminated by a single lamp upon the bedside table. Watson's eyes fell upon the sleeping figure in the bed and his knees nearly buckled.
"I-impossible," he whispered, hardly able to breathe.
"Improbable," Mycroft corrected, much as his brother would have done.
His brother. Holmes. The man he'd thought dead for long years was lying in Mycroft's bed. "How long have you known?" Watson demanded, expecting to feel anger but feeling only numb with shock.
"That he lived? Almost from the beginning. But he has only been back in London for about six weeks."
"Six w-- why didn't you send for me before?" Now Watson felt the stirrings of rage. Six weeks Holmes had been in that very city and neither of them had thought to contact Watson?
"I would not have you think him found only to lose him again." Mycroft's tone was measured, but the weariness in his face spoke volumes. "He has been quite ill."
Watson's gaze returned to the sleeping Holmes, now looking past the familiar features to the wan, gaunt face, the overgrown stubble and hair. His breathing was labored, and Watson's mind began sorting through the various diagnoses that would match what he already knew. He tentatively approached the bed, his eyes never leaving Holmes' face.
A chair had been pulled up to the bedside, and Watson sat on the edge of it, then reached out and gently touched Holmes' hand. It was warm and unyielding and Watson took hold of it without thinking, feeling rough, dry skin rub against his own. "Holmes," he murmured, hoping for some sort of response from that too-still form.
He got one. Holmes' head shifted slightly in his direction, and Holmes took a slow breath that was released as a sigh. "Watson." Another breath, and his eyes flicked open. "Hullo, mother hen," he said, his voice rough. A shadow of one of his cocky grins flitted briefly across his expression. "Expected you sooner."
Watson huffed in indignation. "I would have come sooner if I had known!"
"I sent the note hours ago."
"I was with patients until a half hour ago. And you didn't write that note."
"I dictated it."
That explained much, but not the things that really mattered. "Where have you been, Holmes?"
"Finishing what Moriarty started," Holmes said cryptically. He gestured dismissively with his fingers. "I'll tell you about it later. You've had a long day already."
And you don't have the strength to tell tales, Watson thought sorrowfully. Holmes' entire body seemed to be drooping with exhaustion, and Watson knew it was only by strength of will that his eyes were still open. "It seems you've had many long days."
"Hm."
"Go to sleep. I will be here."
Holmes' fingers briefly gripped his, then went slack again as his eyes closed. Watson waited until he was certain Holmes was fully asleep before releasing Holmes' hand and standing.
Watson left the bedroom and closed the door before he turned to Mycroft, who had been lingering in the doorway. "You have a lot of explaining to do."