Fic: Little Boy Blue and the Man in the Moon - House-Sherlock crossover - 12/15
Title: Little Boy Blue and the Man in the Moon
Writer: Ariana
Alternate links: Catch up with the whole story on AO3
Status of work: WIP - chapter 12 out of ~15
Characters and/or pairings: Sherlock/John, Sherlock/Irene, Sherlock/OFC, most of the casts of House M.D. and Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Spoilers for House season 8 and Sherlock season 2. Includes frank discussions of sexual activity, but nothing on screen.
Length: 4185 words in this part
Author's note: crossover with House M.D. Based on the video “Cat’s in the Cradle” by daasgrrl. Spelling and punctuation follow the norms of the character who is speaking in dialogues, so both British and American conventions are used.
Betas: as usual, many thanks to rranne, emelye_miller, and zinelady, my muse as well as my beta (she says you can blame her for some of the delay because of all her bright ideas, but I say it's mainly me. :-)
Summary: Sherlock’s unexpected visit to Princeton-Plainsboro, ostensibly on a case, threatens to turn House’s life upside down as he has to face up to a secret he has kept for thirty years.
This week: As if he doesn’t have enough trouble already, House gets a visit from the rest of Sherlock’s family.
Apologies for the loooong delay in getting this out. RL has been a pain but I am still on track with where this story is going and optimistic that I can get this done within 15 chapters. Or maybe 16. Scenes tend to get longer than they were in my head when I’m actually writing them down!
Continued from Chapter 11
Chapter 12
“Um, Dr. House, Dr. Foreman wants to see you.”
House raised his head from the microscope and stared at Park for a moment. He realized that he had been so engrossed in his analyses that a whole hour had passed without him noticing. He glanced at the time on the clock on the wall. It had to be dawn by now, the first light of day breaking somewhere outside the hospital while he was ensconced in the dungeon of the lab.
“He said it was urgent?” said Park uncertainly.
“What the hell could be more important-” House broke off when he realized he was shouting. He didn’t shout. He didn’t usually lose control to that extent. “Tell him I’m busy,” he said in a more normal voice.
“He says it’s urgent because someone is demanding to see you,” she insisted. “About Sherlock.”
“Go tell him- wait, someone is demanding to see me?”
House smiled wryly and pulled himself to his feet. Why shoot the messenger when the actual culprit would be so much more fun to kill?
“Sure. Foreman wants to see me now. Why not?”
He picked up the printouts he’d been studying and stood up.
“House,” said Park. “I’m really sorry about Sherlock...”
House didn’t answer and grabbed his cane, wincing as his leg protested. He helped himself to a couple of Vicodin to get through the pain.
Foreman’s office was plunged in semi-darkness, lit only by the breaking dawn outside. House paused at the door when he saw the tall, thin man standing by the window, a backdrop of rain behind him as he leaned nonchalantly on an umbrella. Maybe this was going to be more entertaining than he’d expected.
“We meet again, Dr House,” said the man.
“That kind of works better when you’re holding a large cat… not a wet umbrella.”
“House, this is-” started Foreman, who looked as though he had been dragged out of bed for the occasion.
“Oh yes, we’ve met,” said House. “You’ve lost weight, Holmes. It doesn’t suit you. Makes you look anemic.”
“And you look like a man struggling with an addiction and losing,” said Mycroft Holmes suavely, as if he were paying House a compliment. “You went into rehab shortly after I last talked to you. I gather it wasn’t successful.” He looked House over with a sneer. “I understand better now why you avoid contract with your patients; your dishevelled appearance is hardly going to inspire confidence. And yet, this hospital gave you your job back despite your recent stint in prison. They really must be desperate; your working practices are hardly safe at the best of times and you were recently the subject of an investigation implicating your working methods in the near fatal stabbing of one of your collaborators. You’re lucky Dr Foreman here pleaded with his friend to be lenient.”
“I didn’t-” started Foreman. “How do you know that?”
Mycroft glanced at Foreman as if he were barely worth his attention. “I know many things: your recent affair with a married woman, for instance; your failed romance with a former work colleague who is now in a lesbian relationship; your deluded belief that keeping this deranged drug addict on staff is the only competitive edge you have in the marketplace that is healthcare in this country. At least I assume that is the reason; your predecessor’s motives were at least easier to understand, however lacking her taste in men may have been.”
He turned back to House. “I have made arrangements for my brother and his former... flatmate to be transferred to the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota. It is run by a friend of mine who will be joining us later today.”
“The Mayo Clinic?” exclaimed Foreman, his newfound business instincts no doubt roused by the idea of losing patients to one of PPTH’s major competitors. After all, fake company or not, ‘Albion Pharma’ had already paid significant sums for Watson’s treatment. “You can’t just move them-”
Mycroft smiled knowingly and House really wanted to wipe that smirk off his face. “I have chartered a private jet. If my friend from the Mayo Clinic deems them ready to travel, they will come with us. And if you’re going to engage in some petty dispute over guardianship, Dr House, I can assure you that I have enough paperwork to ensure that Sherlock is well taken care of whether you agree or not.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you have proof of ownership of your 35-year-old brother in triplicate,” snapped House.
“Who the hell are you?” said House, standing in the way of the large young man leading Sherlock out of his hospital ward. “And where are you taking him?”
“I am his brother and I am taking him home,” said the fat man with an English accent, drawing himself up to his full height.
House stared at him; despite his obesity, he was struck by the man’s resemblance to Margaret. So this was Mycroft, the little boy she had left behind in England when she was teaching at Johns Hopkins. Even after a bare couple of seconds of his acquaintance, House decided he couldn’t blame her.
The man walked past House but Sherlock stopped in the doorway of his ward, apparently continuing a conversation.
“You’ve been eavesdropping on my private conversations again, Mycroft,” he said with something that sounded like admiration. “I suppose doing it via the Internet makes a change from simply reading my post after I’ve opened it or using that ridiculous device that makes a clicking noise on the phone. I’d like you to show me how you got access to our IRC chats though. Or does your boss have people to do that for you? Of course he does. You never were very into computers; you wouldn’t know where to start to even get connected to IRC.” He suddenly stopped to take his own pulse. “Also, you’re quite wrong about me, you know. No physical effects of thinking about Victor at all. As if I were capable of the same foolish emotions as normal people! I’m really not. I have far more important things to think about.”
“That remains to be seen,” said Mycroft impatiently. Both seemed oblivious to House still standing watching them. “It is perfectly obvious to me why you have ended up in hospital. Perhaps you should rummage around that ‘mansion’ of yours to see if you can find the reason too?” He glanced at the staff, patients and visitors around them. “Preferably without your version of the Robot dance.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes at Mycroft’s comment. “It isn’t a dance,” he said. “It’s perfectly normal self-stimulating behaviour to focus my senses and help me organise the thoughts in my mind. Any doctor will tell you that.” He blinked and seemed to notice House for the first time. “Oh, here’s one right here. House, tell him it’s normal behaviour to self-stimulate when you have a superior intellect.”
“Charlie, I told you. I’m not a psychologist,” said House.
“So you’re Gregory House.” Mycroft looked him over, his lip curling in disgust. “Good grief. You really are American, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. And you’re Mycroft. Charlie told me all about you. Pleased to meet you,” said House without sincerity. “You can’t just take him back to England. He’s barely recovered!”
“I think you’ll find I can, and I will. I hardly think you’re going to argue with me. I know my brother, Dr House. He would try the patience of a saint.” Mycroft gave House a disdainful look. “And I think based on what Sherlock-”
“Charlie!” interrupted Sherlock.
“Based on what Sherlock has told me, it seems he has been trying your patience to breaking point.”
“I can assure you that despite appearances, Dr. House is one of the best doctors in the United States-”
Foreman’s standard defense was interrupted when House’s phone rang. Making no excuses, House pulled it out and answered.
“Yes, Holmes with an L. Like Katie Holmes.” House saw a flicker of irritation on Mycroft’s face and grinned. His smile faded as he listened further to the very agitated nurse who had been tending to Sherlock. “Look, he hemorrhaged two hours ago and his colleague had a heart attack last night, you must have known…” He sighed. Mycroft was looking at him with concern; House gave him a grim look. “Yeah, I’m sure you did everything you could. I’ll get there as soon as I can.” House hung up and headed out of the room. “I really don’t have time for this.”
“House, what’s wrong?” asked Foreman. “Has something happened to Holmes?”
House wasn’t surprised when the other two followed him across the lobby. Foreman started babbling platitudes at Mycroft, possibly the spiel he had developed to try and stop people suing the hospital when their loved ones weren’t getting better, but Mycroft managed to shake him off with a mixture of threats and promises. When House walked into the elevator, he and Mycroft were alone.
“I want to see him,” demanded Mycroft.
House gritted his teeth and pressed the Basement button.
“Sure.”
He noticed an almost imperceptible hesitation on Mycroft’s part as they stepped out of the elevator, opposite a list of the departments on this floor. House led Mycroft down the corridor, needing no effort to keep his features grim. After a moment, Mycroft broke the silence.
“I was informed on my arrival that Sherlock had once again been hospitalised while in your care. I could write off one such incident as simple incompetence but twice suggests a certain whiff of criminal negligence.” Mycroft’s voice sounded almost as sarcastic and aloof as House remembered, but his eyes were scanning the nameplates on each door they passed. “I gather the police want to have a word with you too. I assume they will be revoking your parole.”
“We’ll see,” said House, pushing open one of the doors.
It was probably a tribute to Mycroft’s background or perhaps simply the phlegmatic nature inherited from his parents, but he barely flinched when he realized they were entering the morgue.
“House,” he started, and there was a hitch in his voice. “What happened to Sherlock?”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, Mycroft, your brother is an idiot with a death wish,” snapped House. “He picked a fight with the guy who poisoned Watson and got dosed with three times the amount that sent Watson into a coma. It took Watson two weeks to get to death’s door. It took Sherlock six hours. Six hours to liver failure and hemorrhaging and...”
House stopped. Not for dramatic effect, or because of the fear that he could see in Mycroft’s eyes. He just couldn’t continue.
“I need to see him,” said Mycroft, and maybe House was imagining it, but there seemed to be a pleading undertone to his voice.
“Yeah, you said.”
He pulled open one of the drawers in the morgue refrigerator at the back of the room. Mycroft took in a deep breath, clearly steeling himself.
“Is that him?”
Now that he had lost weight and aged, Mycroft’s resemblance to his mother was more pronounced. House remembered her arched eyebrows and lightly cleft chin, and the wistful way she had talked about her little boy back home who was so serious, just like his father. House relented a little; he glanced at the label on the drawer.
“Unless Sherlock had a sex change and turned into a 65-year-old female called Mrs. Leibnitz, no, it’s not him.”
House pulled the ball out from beside the bagged corpse of his erstwhile patient and showed it to Mycroft. “Left this here a couple days ago. I knew Treiber would hide it somewhere obvious.” He walked out, barely glancing at Mycroft as he left. “Let’s go see your brother.”
The brief look of surprise and relief Mycroft gave him was worth it, thought House with satisfaction. In fact, it almost cheered him up.
“Well played,” said the Englishman as they headed for the elevator again. “For one moment there, I actually believed- I assume we can call it a draw?”
“For three years of believing he was dead?” said House. “I don’t think so.”
Mycroft rolled his eyes, apparently fully recovered from the experience. “You barely knew him,” he said coldly. “I hardly think two weeks of feeding him recreational drugs followed by fifteen years of desultory email conversations qualify as a cosy father-son relationship. You didn’t even come to the funeral.”
“I was in rehab,” said House shortly, though that had been a feeble excuse even at the time. There was little doubt that the clinic staff would have let him go if he’d explained the situation. He just hadn’t wanted to explain the situation. “Anyway, seeing as you grew up with him and you still treat him like some kind of scientific curiosity, I don’t think you’re in a good position to say anything about my relationship with Sherlock.”
“At least grant me the fact that he never ended up in hospital because of me,” said Mycroft calmly. “Let alone twice.”
“That’s not what he told me,” said House in a sing-song voice.
From: lhw16@cam.ac.uk
To: greghouse@aol.com
Date: Sat, 18 May 1996 01:27:59 +0100
Subject: haemolytic anaemia
What would cause haemolytic anaemia in a 20-year-old male?
SH
From: lhw16@cam.ac.uk
To: greghouse@aol.com
Date: Sat, 18 May 1996 01:29:36 +0100
Subject: FW: haemolytic anaemia
Never mind. Worked it out. How is Stacy? Still with you?
House stared at the emails. He hadn’t heard from Sherlock since his abrupt departure the year before. In fact, aside from a few photographs Stacy had taken at the time and developed a few months later, it was as if Sherlock had never been. Back in those days, it was still uncommon to receive unsolicited emails and House stared at the signature and the top-level domain for only a moment before hitting reply.
From: Greg House
Date: Sat, 18 May 1996 20:30:12 -0400
To: lhw16@cam.ac.uk
Subject: RE: haemolytic anaemia
Charlie, is that you?
Stacy is fine and yes, she is still with me. How is your charming brother?
I guess from your email address that you took the place at Cambridge in the end?
House
It was several days before House got a reply.
From: lhw16@cam.ac.uk
To: “House”
Date: Sun, 2 June 1996 03:59:02 +0100
Subject: RE: haemolytic anaemia
Yes, studying at Cambridge like Mummy. This is one of the teachers’ accounts. He let me borrow it because he doesn’t know how to use his computer. PC unfortunately. Even worse than the one you had.
From: lhw16@cam.ac.uk
To: “House”
Date: Sun, 2 June 1996 04:21:12 +0100
Subject: RE: haemolytic anaemia
Not talking to Mycroft. I fell out of a window disconnecting a camera he installed. He took me to hospital. They kicked me out before they even looked at me. Imagine!
From: lhw16@cam.ac.uk
To: “House”
Date: Sun, 2 June 1996 04:22:03 +0100
Subject: RE: haemolytic anaemia
You never did reply about the haemolytic anaemia, BTW.
Mycroft pursed his lips and House led him to the ICU, neither of them saying anything more as they walked side by side, Mycroft’s umbrella tapping the floor in sync with House’s cane.
“Here.” House opened the door to the room next to Watson’s.
“Where the bloody … hell have you been, House?” demanded Sherlock breathlessly as soon as he opened the door. “I’ve been waiting … for those lab results … for over an hour! And how is John?”
“Alive. Asleep,” said House, raising an eyebrow when he saw Sherlock’s predicament. “You should take a page out of his book. I see you’ve decided to skip the unconsciousness phase. Anyway, you have a visitor.”
Despite his greenish yellow skin and hoarse voice, not to mention his inability to move, Sherlock managed to put on an impressive display of utter irritation when he saw his brother walk in.
“Oh God,” he moaned huskily. “Just when I thought … things couldn’t get any worse!”
“Yeah, my feelings exactly,” muttered House.
Mycroft said nothing for a moment, surveying his brother with polite curiosity.
“House. Why is my brother restrained?” he asked.
“Perhaps his lovely wife came to visit. I understand she’s into that kind of thing.” House undid the restraints on Sherlock’s wrists. “Or a nurse tried to stop him getting out of bed. I had to actually sedate him to get him into the gown.”
“Yes, I was wondering how you had managed that,” said Mycroft with a half smile.
“I told the nurse...” started Sherlock slowly, his voice croaky and hesitant as he rubbed his wrists. Talking was clearly painful and exhausting, but he was apparently unable to stop. “... I was going to find you, but apparently, I’m not allowed to ... disconnect any of this equipment. He called three ... orderlies to help him, and me a dying man!” Sherlock grabbed his oxygen mask and breathed heavily into it, though his expression was thoughtful. “Maybe I shouldn’t have ... mentioned that his boyfriend ... is cheating on him.”
“No,” agreed House. “I’m surprised he didn’t gag you as well. He was so upset he called me to complain.”
“I see that the passing years have made Sherlock older and still no wiser,” said Mycroft, settling in the chair by the bed. “I have often thought it a shame that he wastes his talents on insulting people at the least opportune time, when there is so much more to be gained by waiting for the ideal moment.”
“I’m not like you two … I don’t enjoy hurting people,” said Sherlock ruefully. “It’s not my … fault everyone is so … bloody sensitive. And I’m amazed. People really do talk ... about you in the third ... person when you’re in a hospital bed.” He raised his left hand. “House. The analyses.”
Sherlock clutched the printouts and dropped his arm as soon as House handed them over. He was breathing heavily, exhausted by the small effort. He covered his weakness by scowling at Mycroft.
“What the bloody … hell are you ... doing here anyway, Mycroft? Surely not coming ... to take me home like last time? I’m a bit old for that...”
“You’re apparently never too old for your brother to take you away,” said House. “He has chartered a jet to take you to Minnesota.”
“I hope it isn’t that cheap jet your friend Birling ... recommended. You know the first officer ... stole that whisky.” Sherlock looked at the papers he was holding. “Aha. I was right about the Bot … Botulinum. A minute amount … but unmistakable. I could feel it.”
“My brother must the only scientist in the world who can identify a poison through its effects on his own body,” said Mycroft wryly.
“Next page,” ordered Sherlock, dropping the papers he was holding. House grudgingly moved the analysis of one of the potential antidotes to the top.
“I ask myself how someone with Sherlock’s exceptional observational skills might have missed the fact that his assailant was about to poison him,” continued Mycroft, steepling his fingers.
House looked at Sherlock again as realization dawned. “You did that on purpose. You wanted a fresh sample and you thought you’d be able to analyze it better if you tried it on yourself.”
“I doubt that was his only motivation,” commented Mycroft.
House ignored him. “You really are my son, aren’t you?” he exclaimed with delight.
Sherlock pouted and shuffled the papers with his left hand. “That’s not the right formula for the antidote.”
House reorganized the papers so Sherlock could read the analyses of each possible antidote, but he noted with concern that Sherlock, who was normally right-handed, didn’t seem to be using his dominant hand at all.
He pulled out the ball he had retrieved from the morgue and threw it lightly at Sherlock’s right hand. Sherlock just watched it land by his fingers and roll off the bed with irritation.
“Sherlock, you can’t move your right hand,” exclaimed House.
“Of course not,” said Sherlock as if that was obvious. “My right side stopped … working just after you handed me the papers... Feels quite numb too.”
“You’ve had a stroke, you dumbass!” said House, pulling out his pager to call in more staff. “You didn’t think it was important to mention that?” He laid Sherlock’s bed flat and started testing the reflexes in his left side. Although Mycroft remained seated, there was plain fear in his features now. “The poison disrupts your blood’s ability to clot. If you have bleeding on the brain, we might need to operate to relieve the pressure. Every second counts!”
“You ... wouldn’t have let me read the papers,” said Sherlock, speaking rapidly even though the stroke was beginning to affect his speech. “Numbers 5 and 6 are placebos; 1 and 3 would interact ... with the poison to make … the patient worse. It’s 2 or 4.” He squinted thoughtfully, ignoring the medical staff pouring in at House’s page. “Number 2. That’s the one ... Do John first ... more likely to survive.”
From: “Sherlock Holmes”
To: “House, Gregory”
Date: Thu, 25 June 2009 11:19:27 +0100
Subject: RE: Tobacco ash
> so like I said, you might as well rewrite the whole essay, because nobody is going to care about 240 types of tobacco ash
243. And as I said before, you are a medical doctor and you therefore know nothing about the world of forensic science or the precise techniques required for the analysis of vital evidence.
In any case, the point is moot as John said no-one would read it so I have deleted it. Apparently, more people were reading his blog than my carefully researched monograph.
Thank you for the explanation regarding the effects of small-cell carcinoma. I almost missed it, coming as it did after the lengthy rant about your boss and its pointless expression of your poorly suppressed desire to have a romantic relationship with her (rather than just sex as you allege).
Must go because John is cooking me breakfast.
From: “House, Gregory”
To: “Sherlock”
Date: Mon, 29 June 2009 08:17:09 -0400
Subject: RE: Tobacco ash
Quick email. In the middle of a case.
1. Of course I want to have sex with Cuddy.
2. Who is John? And why is he cooking you breakfast?
From: “Sherlock Holmes”
To: “House, Gregory”
Date: Mon, 29 June 2009 17:56:19 +0100
Subject: RE: Tobacco ash
John cooks me breakfast because we live together.
Happy birthday, btw.
From: “House, Gregory”
To: “Sherlock”
Date: Tue, 30 June 2009 08:15:36 -0400
Subject: RE: Tobacco ash
When did that happen? You didn’t mention that when you called from Minsk!
Still, congratulations. Make sure you nominate him for a sainthood.
Birthday was 3 weeks ago but thanks.
From: “Sherlock Holmes”
To: “House, Gregory”
Date: Tue, 07 July 2009 00:14:12 GMT
Subject: RE: Tobacco ash
John just gave me a lengthy lecture on not letting people think we’re a couple. He’s very keen for everyone to know that he is straight. Particularly women, I should imagine.
So no sainthood required.
I’m closing my site, btw, so you can join all the people who found his blog more interesting than tobacco ash: http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/
From: “House, Gregory”
To: “Sherlock”
Date: Thu, 9 July 2009 08:26:19 -0400
Subject: RE: Tobacco ash
> http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/
I take it back. He doesn’t deserve a sainthood. Anyone who thinks you’re “charming” needs to be certified!
Also, are you sure he’s not gay?
Sherlock hadn’t responded to the email and mentioned Watson only in passing after that, though House had continued to read Watson’s blog with amusement. But that all seemed like a lifetime ago; before House thought Sherlock was dead. Before Sherlock really was nearly dead… apparently for Watson.
“I always knew you were a hopeless romantic at heart, but surely this pushes dedication to a new extreme,” said Mycroft, addressing Sherlock directly for the first time as they left the room on their way to the MRI.
Sherlock turned to look at the room next to his as they passed. Watson’s slumbering form was just visible through the vertical blinds.
“No, I vuzjust-” Sherlock stopped talking when he realized he was slurring his words. “Ididn’t…accident.”
“You didn’t think I was working hard enough on Watson,” said House, realizing what Mycroft was getting at. “You thought I’d work harder to save you.”
“Tsnature,” said Sherlock. “Gotantidote.” The words were barely intelligible and he gave House a look of pure panic. “Can’t... can’t...”
“I know. The stroke is affecting your facial muscles,” said House, swallowing his own sense of panic. “Try not to talk. Just for once,” he snapped as Sherlock tried to say something more. “Don’t worry. I’ll fix this. You’ll be back to your usual self in no time.”
House glanced at Mycroft. Mycroft didn’t look at all convinced; and for once, House wasn’t entirely convinced either.
Writer: Ariana
Alternate links: Catch up with the whole story on AO3
Status of work: WIP - chapter 12 out of ~15
Characters and/or pairings: Sherlock/John, Sherlock/Irene, Sherlock/OFC, most of the casts of House M.D. and Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Spoilers for House season 8 and Sherlock season 2. Includes frank discussions of sexual activity, but nothing on screen.
Length: 4185 words in this part
Author's note: crossover with House M.D. Based on the video “Cat’s in the Cradle” by daasgrrl. Spelling and punctuation follow the norms of the character who is speaking in dialogues, so both British and American conventions are used.
Betas: as usual, many thanks to rranne, emelye_miller, and zinelady, my muse as well as my beta (she says you can blame her for some of the delay because of all her bright ideas, but I say it's mainly me. :-)
Summary: Sherlock’s unexpected visit to Princeton-Plainsboro, ostensibly on a case, threatens to turn House’s life upside down as he has to face up to a secret he has kept for thirty years.
This week: As if he doesn’t have enough trouble already, House gets a visit from the rest of Sherlock’s family.
Apologies for the loooong delay in getting this out. RL has been a pain but I am still on track with where this story is going and optimistic that I can get this done within 15 chapters. Or maybe 16. Scenes tend to get longer than they were in my head when I’m actually writing them down!
Continued from Chapter 11
Chapter 12
“Um, Dr. House, Dr. Foreman wants to see you.”
House raised his head from the microscope and stared at Park for a moment. He realized that he had been so engrossed in his analyses that a whole hour had passed without him noticing. He glanced at the time on the clock on the wall. It had to be dawn by now, the first light of day breaking somewhere outside the hospital while he was ensconced in the dungeon of the lab.
“He said it was urgent?” said Park uncertainly.
“What the hell could be more important-” House broke off when he realized he was shouting. He didn’t shout. He didn’t usually lose control to that extent. “Tell him I’m busy,” he said in a more normal voice.
“He says it’s urgent because someone is demanding to see you,” she insisted. “About Sherlock.”
“Go tell him- wait, someone is demanding to see me?”
House smiled wryly and pulled himself to his feet. Why shoot the messenger when the actual culprit would be so much more fun to kill?
“Sure. Foreman wants to see me now. Why not?”
He picked up the printouts he’d been studying and stood up.
“House,” said Park. “I’m really sorry about Sherlock...”
House didn’t answer and grabbed his cane, wincing as his leg protested. He helped himself to a couple of Vicodin to get through the pain.
Foreman’s office was plunged in semi-darkness, lit only by the breaking dawn outside. House paused at the door when he saw the tall, thin man standing by the window, a backdrop of rain behind him as he leaned nonchalantly on an umbrella. Maybe this was going to be more entertaining than he’d expected.
“We meet again, Dr House,” said the man.
“That kind of works better when you’re holding a large cat… not a wet umbrella.”
“House, this is-” started Foreman, who looked as though he had been dragged out of bed for the occasion.
“Oh yes, we’ve met,” said House. “You’ve lost weight, Holmes. It doesn’t suit you. Makes you look anemic.”
“And you look like a man struggling with an addiction and losing,” said Mycroft Holmes suavely, as if he were paying House a compliment. “You went into rehab shortly after I last talked to you. I gather it wasn’t successful.” He looked House over with a sneer. “I understand better now why you avoid contract with your patients; your dishevelled appearance is hardly going to inspire confidence. And yet, this hospital gave you your job back despite your recent stint in prison. They really must be desperate; your working practices are hardly safe at the best of times and you were recently the subject of an investigation implicating your working methods in the near fatal stabbing of one of your collaborators. You’re lucky Dr Foreman here pleaded with his friend to be lenient.”
“I didn’t-” started Foreman. “How do you know that?”
Mycroft glanced at Foreman as if he were barely worth his attention. “I know many things: your recent affair with a married woman, for instance; your failed romance with a former work colleague who is now in a lesbian relationship; your deluded belief that keeping this deranged drug addict on staff is the only competitive edge you have in the marketplace that is healthcare in this country. At least I assume that is the reason; your predecessor’s motives were at least easier to understand, however lacking her taste in men may have been.”
He turned back to House. “I have made arrangements for my brother and his former... flatmate to be transferred to the Mayo Clinic in Minnesota. It is run by a friend of mine who will be joining us later today.”
“The Mayo Clinic?” exclaimed Foreman, his newfound business instincts no doubt roused by the idea of losing patients to one of PPTH’s major competitors. After all, fake company or not, ‘Albion Pharma’ had already paid significant sums for Watson’s treatment. “You can’t just move them-”
Mycroft smiled knowingly and House really wanted to wipe that smirk off his face. “I have chartered a private jet. If my friend from the Mayo Clinic deems them ready to travel, they will come with us. And if you’re going to engage in some petty dispute over guardianship, Dr House, I can assure you that I have enough paperwork to ensure that Sherlock is well taken care of whether you agree or not.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you have proof of ownership of your 35-year-old brother in triplicate,” snapped House.
“Who the hell are you?” said House, standing in the way of the large young man leading Sherlock out of his hospital ward. “And where are you taking him?”
“I am his brother and I am taking him home,” said the fat man with an English accent, drawing himself up to his full height.
House stared at him; despite his obesity, he was struck by the man’s resemblance to Margaret. So this was Mycroft, the little boy she had left behind in England when she was teaching at Johns Hopkins. Even after a bare couple of seconds of his acquaintance, House decided he couldn’t blame her.
The man walked past House but Sherlock stopped in the doorway of his ward, apparently continuing a conversation.
“You’ve been eavesdropping on my private conversations again, Mycroft,” he said with something that sounded like admiration. “I suppose doing it via the Internet makes a change from simply reading my post after I’ve opened it or using that ridiculous device that makes a clicking noise on the phone. I’d like you to show me how you got access to our IRC chats though. Or does your boss have people to do that for you? Of course he does. You never were very into computers; you wouldn’t know where to start to even get connected to IRC.” He suddenly stopped to take his own pulse. “Also, you’re quite wrong about me, you know. No physical effects of thinking about Victor at all. As if I were capable of the same foolish emotions as normal people! I’m really not. I have far more important things to think about.”
“That remains to be seen,” said Mycroft impatiently. Both seemed oblivious to House still standing watching them. “It is perfectly obvious to me why you have ended up in hospital. Perhaps you should rummage around that ‘mansion’ of yours to see if you can find the reason too?” He glanced at the staff, patients and visitors around them. “Preferably without your version of the Robot dance.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes at Mycroft’s comment. “It isn’t a dance,” he said. “It’s perfectly normal self-stimulating behaviour to focus my senses and help me organise the thoughts in my mind. Any doctor will tell you that.” He blinked and seemed to notice House for the first time. “Oh, here’s one right here. House, tell him it’s normal behaviour to self-stimulate when you have a superior intellect.”
“Charlie, I told you. I’m not a psychologist,” said House.
“So you’re Gregory House.” Mycroft looked him over, his lip curling in disgust. “Good grief. You really are American, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. And you’re Mycroft. Charlie told me all about you. Pleased to meet you,” said House without sincerity. “You can’t just take him back to England. He’s barely recovered!”
“I think you’ll find I can, and I will. I hardly think you’re going to argue with me. I know my brother, Dr House. He would try the patience of a saint.” Mycroft gave House a disdainful look. “And I think based on what Sherlock-”
“Charlie!” interrupted Sherlock.
“Based on what Sherlock has told me, it seems he has been trying your patience to breaking point.”
“I can assure you that despite appearances, Dr. House is one of the best doctors in the United States-”
Foreman’s standard defense was interrupted when House’s phone rang. Making no excuses, House pulled it out and answered.
“Yes, Holmes with an L. Like Katie Holmes.” House saw a flicker of irritation on Mycroft’s face and grinned. His smile faded as he listened further to the very agitated nurse who had been tending to Sherlock. “Look, he hemorrhaged two hours ago and his colleague had a heart attack last night, you must have known…” He sighed. Mycroft was looking at him with concern; House gave him a grim look. “Yeah, I’m sure you did everything you could. I’ll get there as soon as I can.” House hung up and headed out of the room. “I really don’t have time for this.”
“House, what’s wrong?” asked Foreman. “Has something happened to Holmes?”
House wasn’t surprised when the other two followed him across the lobby. Foreman started babbling platitudes at Mycroft, possibly the spiel he had developed to try and stop people suing the hospital when their loved ones weren’t getting better, but Mycroft managed to shake him off with a mixture of threats and promises. When House walked into the elevator, he and Mycroft were alone.
“I want to see him,” demanded Mycroft.
House gritted his teeth and pressed the Basement button.
“Sure.”
He noticed an almost imperceptible hesitation on Mycroft’s part as they stepped out of the elevator, opposite a list of the departments on this floor. House led Mycroft down the corridor, needing no effort to keep his features grim. After a moment, Mycroft broke the silence.
“I was informed on my arrival that Sherlock had once again been hospitalised while in your care. I could write off one such incident as simple incompetence but twice suggests a certain whiff of criminal negligence.” Mycroft’s voice sounded almost as sarcastic and aloof as House remembered, but his eyes were scanning the nameplates on each door they passed. “I gather the police want to have a word with you too. I assume they will be revoking your parole.”
“We’ll see,” said House, pushing open one of the doors.
It was probably a tribute to Mycroft’s background or perhaps simply the phlegmatic nature inherited from his parents, but he barely flinched when he realized they were entering the morgue.
“House,” he started, and there was a hitch in his voice. “What happened to Sherlock?”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, Mycroft, your brother is an idiot with a death wish,” snapped House. “He picked a fight with the guy who poisoned Watson and got dosed with three times the amount that sent Watson into a coma. It took Watson two weeks to get to death’s door. It took Sherlock six hours. Six hours to liver failure and hemorrhaging and...”
House stopped. Not for dramatic effect, or because of the fear that he could see in Mycroft’s eyes. He just couldn’t continue.
“I need to see him,” said Mycroft, and maybe House was imagining it, but there seemed to be a pleading undertone to his voice.
“Yeah, you said.”
He pulled open one of the drawers in the morgue refrigerator at the back of the room. Mycroft took in a deep breath, clearly steeling himself.
“Is that him?”
Now that he had lost weight and aged, Mycroft’s resemblance to his mother was more pronounced. House remembered her arched eyebrows and lightly cleft chin, and the wistful way she had talked about her little boy back home who was so serious, just like his father. House relented a little; he glanced at the label on the drawer.
“Unless Sherlock had a sex change and turned into a 65-year-old female called Mrs. Leibnitz, no, it’s not him.”
House pulled the ball out from beside the bagged corpse of his erstwhile patient and showed it to Mycroft. “Left this here a couple days ago. I knew Treiber would hide it somewhere obvious.” He walked out, barely glancing at Mycroft as he left. “Let’s go see your brother.”
The brief look of surprise and relief Mycroft gave him was worth it, thought House with satisfaction. In fact, it almost cheered him up.
“Well played,” said the Englishman as they headed for the elevator again. “For one moment there, I actually believed- I assume we can call it a draw?”
“For three years of believing he was dead?” said House. “I don’t think so.”
Mycroft rolled his eyes, apparently fully recovered from the experience. “You barely knew him,” he said coldly. “I hardly think two weeks of feeding him recreational drugs followed by fifteen years of desultory email conversations qualify as a cosy father-son relationship. You didn’t even come to the funeral.”
“I was in rehab,” said House shortly, though that had been a feeble excuse even at the time. There was little doubt that the clinic staff would have let him go if he’d explained the situation. He just hadn’t wanted to explain the situation. “Anyway, seeing as you grew up with him and you still treat him like some kind of scientific curiosity, I don’t think you’re in a good position to say anything about my relationship with Sherlock.”
“At least grant me the fact that he never ended up in hospital because of me,” said Mycroft calmly. “Let alone twice.”
“That’s not what he told me,” said House in a sing-song voice.
From: lhw16@cam.ac.uk
To: greghouse@aol.com
Date: Sat, 18 May 1996 01:27:59 +0100
Subject: haemolytic anaemia
What would cause haemolytic anaemia in a 20-year-old male?
SH
From: lhw16@cam.ac.uk
To: greghouse@aol.com
Date: Sat, 18 May 1996 01:29:36 +0100
Subject: FW: haemolytic anaemia
Never mind. Worked it out. How is Stacy? Still with you?
House stared at the emails. He hadn’t heard from Sherlock since his abrupt departure the year before. In fact, aside from a few photographs Stacy had taken at the time and developed a few months later, it was as if Sherlock had never been. Back in those days, it was still uncommon to receive unsolicited emails and House stared at the signature and the top-level domain for only a moment before hitting reply.
From: Greg House
Date: Sat, 18 May 1996 20:30:12 -0400
To: lhw16@cam.ac.uk
Subject: RE: haemolytic anaemia
Charlie, is that you?
Stacy is fine and yes, she is still with me. How is your charming brother?
I guess from your email address that you took the place at Cambridge in the end?
House
It was several days before House got a reply.
From: lhw16@cam.ac.uk
To: “House”
Date: Sun, 2 June 1996 03:59:02 +0100
Subject: RE: haemolytic anaemia
Yes, studying at Cambridge like Mummy. This is one of the teachers’ accounts. He let me borrow it because he doesn’t know how to use his computer. PC unfortunately. Even worse than the one you had.
From: lhw16@cam.ac.uk
To: “House”
Date: Sun, 2 June 1996 04:21:12 +0100
Subject: RE: haemolytic anaemia
Not talking to Mycroft. I fell out of a window disconnecting a camera he installed. He took me to hospital. They kicked me out before they even looked at me. Imagine!
From: lhw16@cam.ac.uk
To: “House”
Date: Sun, 2 June 1996 04:22:03 +0100
Subject: RE: haemolytic anaemia
You never did reply about the haemolytic anaemia, BTW.
Mycroft pursed his lips and House led him to the ICU, neither of them saying anything more as they walked side by side, Mycroft’s umbrella tapping the floor in sync with House’s cane.
“Here.” House opened the door to the room next to Watson’s.
“Where the bloody … hell have you been, House?” demanded Sherlock breathlessly as soon as he opened the door. “I’ve been waiting … for those lab results … for over an hour! And how is John?”
“Alive. Asleep,” said House, raising an eyebrow when he saw Sherlock’s predicament. “You should take a page out of his book. I see you’ve decided to skip the unconsciousness phase. Anyway, you have a visitor.”
Despite his greenish yellow skin and hoarse voice, not to mention his inability to move, Sherlock managed to put on an impressive display of utter irritation when he saw his brother walk in.
“Oh God,” he moaned huskily. “Just when I thought … things couldn’t get any worse!”
“Yeah, my feelings exactly,” muttered House.
Mycroft said nothing for a moment, surveying his brother with polite curiosity.
“House. Why is my brother restrained?” he asked.
“Perhaps his lovely wife came to visit. I understand she’s into that kind of thing.” House undid the restraints on Sherlock’s wrists. “Or a nurse tried to stop him getting out of bed. I had to actually sedate him to get him into the gown.”
“Yes, I was wondering how you had managed that,” said Mycroft with a half smile.
“I told the nurse...” started Sherlock slowly, his voice croaky and hesitant as he rubbed his wrists. Talking was clearly painful and exhausting, but he was apparently unable to stop. “... I was going to find you, but apparently, I’m not allowed to ... disconnect any of this equipment. He called three ... orderlies to help him, and me a dying man!” Sherlock grabbed his oxygen mask and breathed heavily into it, though his expression was thoughtful. “Maybe I shouldn’t have ... mentioned that his boyfriend ... is cheating on him.”
“No,” agreed House. “I’m surprised he didn’t gag you as well. He was so upset he called me to complain.”
“I see that the passing years have made Sherlock older and still no wiser,” said Mycroft, settling in the chair by the bed. “I have often thought it a shame that he wastes his talents on insulting people at the least opportune time, when there is so much more to be gained by waiting for the ideal moment.”
“I’m not like you two … I don’t enjoy hurting people,” said Sherlock ruefully. “It’s not my … fault everyone is so … bloody sensitive. And I’m amazed. People really do talk ... about you in the third ... person when you’re in a hospital bed.” He raised his left hand. “House. The analyses.”
Sherlock clutched the printouts and dropped his arm as soon as House handed them over. He was breathing heavily, exhausted by the small effort. He covered his weakness by scowling at Mycroft.
“What the bloody … hell are you ... doing here anyway, Mycroft? Surely not coming ... to take me home like last time? I’m a bit old for that...”
“You’re apparently never too old for your brother to take you away,” said House. “He has chartered a jet to take you to Minnesota.”
“I hope it isn’t that cheap jet your friend Birling ... recommended. You know the first officer ... stole that whisky.” Sherlock looked at the papers he was holding. “Aha. I was right about the Bot … Botulinum. A minute amount … but unmistakable. I could feel it.”
“My brother must the only scientist in the world who can identify a poison through its effects on his own body,” said Mycroft wryly.
“Next page,” ordered Sherlock, dropping the papers he was holding. House grudgingly moved the analysis of one of the potential antidotes to the top.
“I ask myself how someone with Sherlock’s exceptional observational skills might have missed the fact that his assailant was about to poison him,” continued Mycroft, steepling his fingers.
House looked at Sherlock again as realization dawned. “You did that on purpose. You wanted a fresh sample and you thought you’d be able to analyze it better if you tried it on yourself.”
“I doubt that was his only motivation,” commented Mycroft.
House ignored him. “You really are my son, aren’t you?” he exclaimed with delight.
Sherlock pouted and shuffled the papers with his left hand. “That’s not the right formula for the antidote.”
House reorganized the papers so Sherlock could read the analyses of each possible antidote, but he noted with concern that Sherlock, who was normally right-handed, didn’t seem to be using his dominant hand at all.
He pulled out the ball he had retrieved from the morgue and threw it lightly at Sherlock’s right hand. Sherlock just watched it land by his fingers and roll off the bed with irritation.
“Sherlock, you can’t move your right hand,” exclaimed House.
“Of course not,” said Sherlock as if that was obvious. “My right side stopped … working just after you handed me the papers... Feels quite numb too.”
“You’ve had a stroke, you dumbass!” said House, pulling out his pager to call in more staff. “You didn’t think it was important to mention that?” He laid Sherlock’s bed flat and started testing the reflexes in his left side. Although Mycroft remained seated, there was plain fear in his features now. “The poison disrupts your blood’s ability to clot. If you have bleeding on the brain, we might need to operate to relieve the pressure. Every second counts!”
“You ... wouldn’t have let me read the papers,” said Sherlock, speaking rapidly even though the stroke was beginning to affect his speech. “Numbers 5 and 6 are placebos; 1 and 3 would interact ... with the poison to make … the patient worse. It’s 2 or 4.” He squinted thoughtfully, ignoring the medical staff pouring in at House’s page. “Number 2. That’s the one ... Do John first ... more likely to survive.”
From: “Sherlock Holmes”
To: “House, Gregory”
Date: Thu, 25 June 2009 11:19:27 +0100
Subject: RE: Tobacco ash
> so like I said, you might as well rewrite the whole essay, because nobody is going to care about 240 types of tobacco ash
243. And as I said before, you are a medical doctor and you therefore know nothing about the world of forensic science or the precise techniques required for the analysis of vital evidence.
In any case, the point is moot as John said no-one would read it so I have deleted it. Apparently, more people were reading his blog than my carefully researched monograph.
Thank you for the explanation regarding the effects of small-cell carcinoma. I almost missed it, coming as it did after the lengthy rant about your boss and its pointless expression of your poorly suppressed desire to have a romantic relationship with her (rather than just sex as you allege).
Must go because John is cooking me breakfast.
From: “House, Gregory”
To: “Sherlock”
Date: Mon, 29 June 2009 08:17:09 -0400
Subject: RE: Tobacco ash
Quick email. In the middle of a case.
1. Of course I want to have sex with Cuddy.
2. Who is John? And why is he cooking you breakfast?
From: “Sherlock Holmes”
To: “House, Gregory”
Date: Mon, 29 June 2009 17:56:19 +0100
Subject: RE: Tobacco ash
John cooks me breakfast because we live together.
Happy birthday, btw.
From: “House, Gregory”
To: “Sherlock”
Date: Tue, 30 June 2009 08:15:36 -0400
Subject: RE: Tobacco ash
When did that happen? You didn’t mention that when you called from Minsk!
Still, congratulations. Make sure you nominate him for a sainthood.
Birthday was 3 weeks ago but thanks.
From: “Sherlock Holmes”
To: “House, Gregory”
Date: Tue, 07 July 2009 00:14:12 GMT
Subject: RE: Tobacco ash
John just gave me a lengthy lecture on not letting people think we’re a couple. He’s very keen for everyone to know that he is straight. Particularly women, I should imagine.
So no sainthood required.
I’m closing my site, btw, so you can join all the people who found his blog more interesting than tobacco ash: http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/
From: “House, Gregory”
To: “Sherlock”
Date: Thu, 9 July 2009 08:26:19 -0400
Subject: RE: Tobacco ash
> http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/
I take it back. He doesn’t deserve a sainthood. Anyone who thinks you’re “charming” needs to be certified!
Also, are you sure he’s not gay?
Sherlock hadn’t responded to the email and mentioned Watson only in passing after that, though House had continued to read Watson’s blog with amusement. But that all seemed like a lifetime ago; before House thought Sherlock was dead. Before Sherlock really was nearly dead… apparently for Watson.
“I always knew you were a hopeless romantic at heart, but surely this pushes dedication to a new extreme,” said Mycroft, addressing Sherlock directly for the first time as they left the room on their way to the MRI.
Sherlock turned to look at the room next to his as they passed. Watson’s slumbering form was just visible through the vertical blinds.
“No, I vuzjust-” Sherlock stopped talking when he realized he was slurring his words. “Ididn’t…accident.”
“You didn’t think I was working hard enough on Watson,” said House, realizing what Mycroft was getting at. “You thought I’d work harder to save you.”
“Tsnature,” said Sherlock. “Gotantidote.” The words were barely intelligible and he gave House a look of pure panic. “Can’t... can’t...”
“I know. The stroke is affecting your facial muscles,” said House, swallowing his own sense of panic. “Try not to talk. Just for once,” he snapped as Sherlock tried to say something more. “Don’t worry. I’ll fix this. You’ll be back to your usual self in no time.”
House glanced at Mycroft. Mycroft didn’t look at all convinced; and for once, House wasn’t entirely convinced either.