(no subject)
Title: Trust Issues (2/9)
Series: BBC Sherlock
Word count: 1,379
Category: Angst, friendship (but you can certainly don your slash goggles if you wish)
Rating: G
Warning: None
Summary: Mycroft has delivered bad news about Sherlock. Now he wants John to make a choice.
Thanks, once again, to verityburns for encouragement and feedback.
"I have them if you wish to see them," Mycroft offered.
"Sherlock's medical records? No. Thank you."
Mycroft shrugged and began to answer but John cut him off.
"Look, I do want to know. It's just... I can't look at a man's medical records without his permission. I realize it must seem a fine line to you, now that you've told me, but it's a line I'd rather not cross."
"But you do want to know what we're dealing with?" Mycroft asked.
John sighed in frustration, torn between his desire to respect Sherlock's privacy -- never mind his obligation to uphold his oath as a medical professional -- and his need to know what was happening to his friend. "Yes. Dammit. Yes. Tell me."
"It's in his frontal lobe. He's experienced loss of smell, a ringing sensation in his ears, and some loss of coordination." Mycroft paused. "He's also had a seizure, though that was just this past week."
John felt nauseous. Sherlock had been uncharacteristically clumsy the past several weeks, but he'd been working on a case, his nose constantly in some tome or another and John had written it off as a side effect of reading while walking. But a seizure?! How in the hell had he missed that? He fought to quell the panic rising within his chest. And he was ashamed to realize that a second emotion was doing battle with the fear over Sherlock's wellbeing. Hurt. Why had Sherlock not trusted him with this? How could he have kept this hidden from him? He had thought their bond unassailable. He had been willing to die for this man.
And, once again, Mycroft read his mind, at least what was on the surface. "The seizure happened at night. It was brief and not terribly severe. He recovered quickly."
John ran one hand over his face, still very much in shock. "What do you want me to do, Mycroft? Why are you telling me this? He obviously didn't want me to know."
"Sherlock doesn't know what's good for him right now," Mycroft answered sharply. It was the closest thing to real anger, or even frustration, really, that John had ever seen Mycroft display. He had not always thought the best of Mycroft. The man was just a bit too Machiavellian at times, a trait John was equally uncomfortable with in Sherlock. But it was clear that he was deeply concerned for his brother.
"He's not thinking clearly anymore. The doctors - and he has got more than one opinion - have all recommended surgery. The tumour appears very contained and they are confident they can get all of it. But there is a small chance that the operation will, as I've said, alter him. He'd rather die, apparently, than take that chance. You have to convince him otherwise, John."
John gaped at the man sitting across from him. "He didn't even tell me this was happening, Mycroft. What in the world makes you think he'll take my advice?!"
"Because he trusts you, John." He plowed on before John could voice the rebuttal on his lips. "I know it doesn't seem that way, but I have known him all his life, and you have got closer to him than nearly anyone else. I suspect he didn't tell you because he knew you'd tell him what he didn't want to hear. What he knows is the truth. He's already heard it from me. But he can dismiss me far more easily than he can you. "
"Wait," John sputtered. "He already knows you've seen his medical records?"
"Oh, yes," Mycroft answered. "He was none too pleased about it. And he made me promise I would not divulge his condition to you. But when he made it plain that he did not intend to take his doctors' advice, I felt that was not a promise I could keep."
John was reeling now, unsure of what to think or what to do.
"Mycroft," he began, trying to gather his thoughts, "I can't make Sherlock get an operation he doesn't want. I can express my opinion, but he has the right to make his own decisions, provided..." He stopped. The thought had occurred to him unbidden and he bit it back, reluctant to give voice to it. Could Sherlock truly be impaired? Looking back over the preceding weeks, John could think of nothing that indicated the detective was not in a position to make his own medical decisions. But if he were impaired, and Mycroft could prove it... No. He would not allow himself to think about it further.
Mycroft sighed. "I've considered that as well, John. It is not a course I wish to take."
"You know, it really drives me round the bend when you do that," John said.
Mycroft chuckled softly. "My apologies, Dr. Watson, but you are rather easy to read. For example, I can see that you care deeply for my brother, that he is vitally important to you. Believe me when I tell you that while he may never say it in so many words, you are of equal importance to him. You are perhaps the only person in this world he will listen to. He certainly will not listen to me. I am asking you to help me, John. I do not wish to lose my only brother."
John swallowed hard. There were a million conversational scenarios he would have predicted taking place between him and Mycroft Holmes before this one. He was unsure how to respond either to Mycroft's sincerity or his assessment of John's importance to Sherlock.
Neither spoke for several seconds, until the silence was broken by a faint beep from within Mycroft's jacket. He removed his phone and checked the message that had come in, looking up quickly with an expression of dismay and what seemed to John like confusion. "How the devil...?" Mycroft exclaimed.
"What? What is it?" John asked, sitting forward in response to Mycroft's obvious distress.
"He's..." Mycroft began.
"Already home," growled Sherlock.
John whipped around to see his flat mate standing in the doorway to the sitting room, a deep scowl spread across his thin features.
How Sherlock had managed to evade Mycroft's lookout, let alone make it up the stairs without alerting either of them to his presence was beyond John, and he suddenly understood Mycroft's confusion. Sherlock swept into the room, his normally pale blue eyes darkened to gunmetal gray with anger.
"Get out," he spat and for the briefest of seconds, John wasn't sure if he was addressing himself, Mycroft, or both of them.
He and Mycroft glanced at one another; Mycroft's face registered genuine sadness before settling into its usual imperturbable countenance.
"Sherlock," he said, "Please do be reasonable."
"I am being entirely reasonable. More than reasonable, in fact. You've come into my home uninvited and taken my friend into your confidence, a confidence you had no right to share in the first place. One that I explicitly requested remain private. But in your continuing wisdom, you have once again overruled my wishes. So, I think we can both agree that I am well within the limits of reasonable when I tell you to get the hell out of my flat." Sherlock, drawn up straight and fairly quivering with rage, was unquestionably imposing. "Now," he added, holding his arm out toward the door in invitation.
Mycroft seemed to be gauging something -- whether or not to stand his ground, John supposed. He looked from brother to brother, not entirely sure what to expect. After a few seconds, Mycroft made his decision, gathering up his umbrella and jacket, and moved toward the door. As he passed Sherlock, he stopped and placed one hand on his brother's chest, their family's signet ring on his little finger catching the light. For a moment, John thought the younger Holmes would step away from his sibling's touch but he merely stiffened, his almond-shaped eyes narrowing further.
"I know you don't believe me, Sherlock, but everything I have done has been for your sake. You may hate me if you wish, but do not blame Dr. Watson for my actions."
With that, Mycroft covered the last few steps to the door and disappeared down the stairs of 221B.
John heard a faint, "Good evening, Mrs. Hudson," before the front door quietly closed, leaving him in uncomfortable silence with his friend and partner.
Series: BBC Sherlock
Word count: 1,379
Category: Angst, friendship (but you can certainly don your slash goggles if you wish)
Rating: G
Warning: None
Summary: Mycroft has delivered bad news about Sherlock. Now he wants John to make a choice.
Thanks, once again, to verityburns for encouragement and feedback.
"I have them if you wish to see them," Mycroft offered.
"Sherlock's medical records? No. Thank you."
Mycroft shrugged and began to answer but John cut him off.
"Look, I do want to know. It's just... I can't look at a man's medical records without his permission. I realize it must seem a fine line to you, now that you've told me, but it's a line I'd rather not cross."
"But you do want to know what we're dealing with?" Mycroft asked.
John sighed in frustration, torn between his desire to respect Sherlock's privacy -- never mind his obligation to uphold his oath as a medical professional -- and his need to know what was happening to his friend. "Yes. Dammit. Yes. Tell me."
"It's in his frontal lobe. He's experienced loss of smell, a ringing sensation in his ears, and some loss of coordination." Mycroft paused. "He's also had a seizure, though that was just this past week."
John felt nauseous. Sherlock had been uncharacteristically clumsy the past several weeks, but he'd been working on a case, his nose constantly in some tome or another and John had written it off as a side effect of reading while walking. But a seizure?! How in the hell had he missed that? He fought to quell the panic rising within his chest. And he was ashamed to realize that a second emotion was doing battle with the fear over Sherlock's wellbeing. Hurt. Why had Sherlock not trusted him with this? How could he have kept this hidden from him? He had thought their bond unassailable. He had been willing to die for this man.
And, once again, Mycroft read his mind, at least what was on the surface. "The seizure happened at night. It was brief and not terribly severe. He recovered quickly."
John ran one hand over his face, still very much in shock. "What do you want me to do, Mycroft? Why are you telling me this? He obviously didn't want me to know."
"Sherlock doesn't know what's good for him right now," Mycroft answered sharply. It was the closest thing to real anger, or even frustration, really, that John had ever seen Mycroft display. He had not always thought the best of Mycroft. The man was just a bit too Machiavellian at times, a trait John was equally uncomfortable with in Sherlock. But it was clear that he was deeply concerned for his brother.
"He's not thinking clearly anymore. The doctors - and he has got more than one opinion - have all recommended surgery. The tumour appears very contained and they are confident they can get all of it. But there is a small chance that the operation will, as I've said, alter him. He'd rather die, apparently, than take that chance. You have to convince him otherwise, John."
John gaped at the man sitting across from him. "He didn't even tell me this was happening, Mycroft. What in the world makes you think he'll take my advice?!"
"Because he trusts you, John." He plowed on before John could voice the rebuttal on his lips. "I know it doesn't seem that way, but I have known him all his life, and you have got closer to him than nearly anyone else. I suspect he didn't tell you because he knew you'd tell him what he didn't want to hear. What he knows is the truth. He's already heard it from me. But he can dismiss me far more easily than he can you. "
"Wait," John sputtered. "He already knows you've seen his medical records?"
"Oh, yes," Mycroft answered. "He was none too pleased about it. And he made me promise I would not divulge his condition to you. But when he made it plain that he did not intend to take his doctors' advice, I felt that was not a promise I could keep."
John was reeling now, unsure of what to think or what to do.
"Mycroft," he began, trying to gather his thoughts, "I can't make Sherlock get an operation he doesn't want. I can express my opinion, but he has the right to make his own decisions, provided..." He stopped. The thought had occurred to him unbidden and he bit it back, reluctant to give voice to it. Could Sherlock truly be impaired? Looking back over the preceding weeks, John could think of nothing that indicated the detective was not in a position to make his own medical decisions. But if he were impaired, and Mycroft could prove it... No. He would not allow himself to think about it further.
Mycroft sighed. "I've considered that as well, John. It is not a course I wish to take."
"You know, it really drives me round the bend when you do that," John said.
Mycroft chuckled softly. "My apologies, Dr. Watson, but you are rather easy to read. For example, I can see that you care deeply for my brother, that he is vitally important to you. Believe me when I tell you that while he may never say it in so many words, you are of equal importance to him. You are perhaps the only person in this world he will listen to. He certainly will not listen to me. I am asking you to help me, John. I do not wish to lose my only brother."
John swallowed hard. There were a million conversational scenarios he would have predicted taking place between him and Mycroft Holmes before this one. He was unsure how to respond either to Mycroft's sincerity or his assessment of John's importance to Sherlock.
Neither spoke for several seconds, until the silence was broken by a faint beep from within Mycroft's jacket. He removed his phone and checked the message that had come in, looking up quickly with an expression of dismay and what seemed to John like confusion. "How the devil...?" Mycroft exclaimed.
"What? What is it?" John asked, sitting forward in response to Mycroft's obvious distress.
"He's..." Mycroft began.
"Already home," growled Sherlock.
John whipped around to see his flat mate standing in the doorway to the sitting room, a deep scowl spread across his thin features.
How Sherlock had managed to evade Mycroft's lookout, let alone make it up the stairs without alerting either of them to his presence was beyond John, and he suddenly understood Mycroft's confusion. Sherlock swept into the room, his normally pale blue eyes darkened to gunmetal gray with anger.
"Get out," he spat and for the briefest of seconds, John wasn't sure if he was addressing himself, Mycroft, or both of them.
He and Mycroft glanced at one another; Mycroft's face registered genuine sadness before settling into its usual imperturbable countenance.
"Sherlock," he said, "Please do be reasonable."
"I am being entirely reasonable. More than reasonable, in fact. You've come into my home uninvited and taken my friend into your confidence, a confidence you had no right to share in the first place. One that I explicitly requested remain private. But in your continuing wisdom, you have once again overruled my wishes. So, I think we can both agree that I am well within the limits of reasonable when I tell you to get the hell out of my flat." Sherlock, drawn up straight and fairly quivering with rage, was unquestionably imposing. "Now," he added, holding his arm out toward the door in invitation.
Mycroft seemed to be gauging something -- whether or not to stand his ground, John supposed. He looked from brother to brother, not entirely sure what to expect. After a few seconds, Mycroft made his decision, gathering up his umbrella and jacket, and moved toward the door. As he passed Sherlock, he stopped and placed one hand on his brother's chest, their family's signet ring on his little finger catching the light. For a moment, John thought the younger Holmes would step away from his sibling's touch but he merely stiffened, his almond-shaped eyes narrowing further.
"I know you don't believe me, Sherlock, but everything I have done has been for your sake. You may hate me if you wish, but do not blame Dr. Watson for my actions."
With that, Mycroft covered the last few steps to the door and disappeared down the stairs of 221B.
John heard a faint, "Good evening, Mrs. Hudson," before the front door quietly closed, leaving him in uncomfortable silence with his friend and partner.