Hades Lord of the Dead's December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness 2014-2015 - 11th of December
[Prompt from TemporarilyAbaft]Prompt for the 11th of December From TemporarilyAbaft -Mycroft is forced to endure the company of _...
"Holmes..." groans Watson as he pinches the bridge of his nose. "Please do stop complaining. I know that you are bored, but if you would only keep your foot elevated above your hip..."
"Doing so is deucedly uncomfortable!" As anyone that has suffered a fractured ankle would know.
"I am sure that it is, old man, but it will help the swelling to go down and ease the pain."
I sniff disdainfully. "I cannot imagine that it is going to go down at all today."
"Well, no. Probably not. But it will go down considerably faster. Oh! Now what are you doing? You surely cannot possibly have to get up again."
Perhaps I would not have felt the need to move myself so frequently had I not been forced to keep my leg elevated. Surely, as a doctor, he must have encountered other uncomfortable and restless patients?
"I have to get dressed," is all that I say. "Mycroft is expecting me at the Diogenes Club. A matter of great national importance and all that."
Watson stops me from rising hastily. "You have a broken ankle!"
"Really Watson! When have you ever allowed your bad leg to stop you?"
He glares at me. Damn! I have most certainly said the wrong thing.
"I do not have a fractured ankle. If I did have, I would be doing my utmost to allow it to heal."
"But... This is incredibly dull!"
I glance in the direction of the washroom, wondering whether I would be able to sneak into my bedroom from there in order to dress.
"Are you all right, Holmes?"
No, the very idea is ludicrous. The doctor would have to assist me in changing my clothes anyhow. Even the simple act of washing myself is too awkward to be managed without assistance. It is galling!
"Why exactly does Mycroft wish to see you?" my companion enquires. "He knows that you are hurt."
"He and I agree that it is not very serious."
He snorts. "When you attempted to stand on it, you almost fainted."
I glare at him. "I did not mean to stand upon it - I was unprepared."
"The pain has been enough to make you nauseous - I very much doubt that you shall enjoy a cab ride."
That is very true and I cannot deny it. Damn! "But it could be of the utmost importance to the crown, Watson!"
"We shall have to hope that it is nothing that cannot wait. Why do you not allow me to go in your place, if you are feeling well enough to be left?"
I am not at all sure that I would like to be left. "You also have a bad leg."
"Indeed I do, but mine is not going to become worse if I were to stand on it - which is just as well, seeing as I have been required to carry your weight as well as my own."
That is unfair!
"Do you wish for me to attend the interview with Mycroft in your stead, or not?"
I shake my head. "No. It is terribly cold out and such weather will do you no good. We shall send Lestrade."
"Lestrade? Does Mycroft even know Lestrade?" Watson is staring at me as if I have taken leave of my senses.
I shrug. "Lestrade is the best of a bad lot."
"Your brother would never trust a Yarder! He would send for one himself if it was that sort of a problem."
I shrug and smile. "But a meeting between the two could prove interesting, do you not think?"
Watson snorts.
"Let me put it to you this way... I shall send Lestrade with a note. Said note will say 'if you wish to pique the interest of an injured detective, it would be advisable to tell him what the matter is'."
He snorts again. "And the next time, he shall do his utmost to pique your interest."
"Naturally. I very much doubt that he shall wish to suffer that Yarder's company more than once - you know how Lestrade talks!"
I chuckle to myself at the thought and close my suddenly heavy eyes as I lean back into the cushions at my head, carefully stretching my injured limb as I recline on the settee. Morphine. He has dosed me with morphine.
"Sherlock!"
I jerk awake as the door of the sitting room slams and blink up at the visitor standing before the settee as I attempt to give the appearance of alertness. My brother is puffing and blowing, his face flushed, and he is dabbing at his perspiring brow with his handkerchief.
"Mycroft, your brother requires rest and quiet," Watson scolds. "Mending a broken bone demands a lot of energy - Holmes might become unwell if he does not rest."
I sniff and sit up as straight as I can. "I feel perfectly well." Aside from the headache and persistent nausea, anyhow. Distraction is what I need.
Mycroft leans closer to me, his eyes blazing with cold fury, and I am suddenly all too aware of my vulnerable position.
"Never again," my brother growls dangerously. "Never again will you send Scotland Yard to my club. Do you understand me, Sherlock?"
I nod and avert my gaze.
"If that is all that you came for," Watson begins.
My brother waves a big hand. "I am leaving Doctor. I can see that my brother shall be of little use."
I attempt to leap to my feet in indignation. Fortunately, a cry of alarm from Watson is enough to cause me to check myself. Confound my damned leg! It is little wonder that my companion can become so frustrated with himself on occasion. I shall have to remember this helplessness and be kinder from now on.
"Good evening, Doctor Watson, Sherlock," my brother says in a pleasant tone, as if he has not been shouting or throwing insults at me. "I do hope that your poor leg feels better soon, brother mine."
I growl something scathing in Latin at his retreating back. Tonight, it is the best that I can manage.
"Holmes..." groans Watson as he pinches the bridge of his nose. "Please do stop complaining. I know that you are bored, but if you would only keep your foot elevated above your hip..."
"Doing so is deucedly uncomfortable!" As anyone that has suffered a fractured ankle would know.
"I am sure that it is, old man, but it will help the swelling to go down and ease the pain."
I sniff disdainfully. "I cannot imagine that it is going to go down at all today."
"Well, no. Probably not. But it will go down considerably faster. Oh! Now what are you doing? You surely cannot possibly have to get up again."
Perhaps I would not have felt the need to move myself so frequently had I not been forced to keep my leg elevated. Surely, as a doctor, he must have encountered other uncomfortable and restless patients?
"I have to get dressed," is all that I say. "Mycroft is expecting me at the Diogenes Club. A matter of great national importance and all that."
Watson stops me from rising hastily. "You have a broken ankle!"
"Really Watson! When have you ever allowed your bad leg to stop you?"
He glares at me. Damn! I have most certainly said the wrong thing.
"I do not have a fractured ankle. If I did have, I would be doing my utmost to allow it to heal."
"But... This is incredibly dull!"
I glance in the direction of the washroom, wondering whether I would be able to sneak into my bedroom from there in order to dress.
"Are you all right, Holmes?"
No, the very idea is ludicrous. The doctor would have to assist me in changing my clothes anyhow. Even the simple act of washing myself is too awkward to be managed without assistance. It is galling!
"Why exactly does Mycroft wish to see you?" my companion enquires. "He knows that you are hurt."
"He and I agree that it is not very serious."
He snorts. "When you attempted to stand on it, you almost fainted."
I glare at him. "I did not mean to stand upon it - I was unprepared."
"The pain has been enough to make you nauseous - I very much doubt that you shall enjoy a cab ride."
That is very true and I cannot deny it. Damn! "But it could be of the utmost importance to the crown, Watson!"
"We shall have to hope that it is nothing that cannot wait. Why do you not allow me to go in your place, if you are feeling well enough to be left?"
I am not at all sure that I would like to be left. "You also have a bad leg."
"Indeed I do, but mine is not going to become worse if I were to stand on it - which is just as well, seeing as I have been required to carry your weight as well as my own."
That is unfair!
"Do you wish for me to attend the interview with Mycroft in your stead, or not?"
I shake my head. "No. It is terribly cold out and such weather will do you no good. We shall send Lestrade."
"Lestrade? Does Mycroft even know Lestrade?" Watson is staring at me as if I have taken leave of my senses.
I shrug. "Lestrade is the best of a bad lot."
"Your brother would never trust a Yarder! He would send for one himself if it was that sort of a problem."
I shrug and smile. "But a meeting between the two could prove interesting, do you not think?"
Watson snorts.
"Let me put it to you this way... I shall send Lestrade with a note. Said note will say 'if you wish to pique the interest of an injured detective, it would be advisable to tell him what the matter is'."
He snorts again. "And the next time, he shall do his utmost to pique your interest."
"Naturally. I very much doubt that he shall wish to suffer that Yarder's company more than once - you know how Lestrade talks!"
I chuckle to myself at the thought and close my suddenly heavy eyes as I lean back into the cushions at my head, carefully stretching my injured limb as I recline on the settee. Morphine. He has dosed me with morphine.
"Sherlock!"
I jerk awake as the door of the sitting room slams and blink up at the visitor standing before the settee as I attempt to give the appearance of alertness. My brother is puffing and blowing, his face flushed, and he is dabbing at his perspiring brow with his handkerchief.
"Mycroft, your brother requires rest and quiet," Watson scolds. "Mending a broken bone demands a lot of energy - Holmes might become unwell if he does not rest."
I sniff and sit up as straight as I can. "I feel perfectly well." Aside from the headache and persistent nausea, anyhow. Distraction is what I need.
Mycroft leans closer to me, his eyes blazing with cold fury, and I am suddenly all too aware of my vulnerable position.
"Never again," my brother growls dangerously. "Never again will you send Scotland Yard to my club. Do you understand me, Sherlock?"
I nod and avert my gaze.
"If that is all that you came for," Watson begins.
My brother waves a big hand. "I am leaving Doctor. I can see that my brother shall be of little use."
I attempt to leap to my feet in indignation. Fortunately, a cry of alarm from Watson is enough to cause me to check myself. Confound my damned leg! It is little wonder that my companion can become so frustrated with himself on occasion. I shall have to remember this helplessness and be kinder from now on.
"Good evening, Doctor Watson, Sherlock," my brother says in a pleasant tone, as if he has not been shouting or throwing insults at me. "I do hope that your poor leg feels better soon, brother mine."
I growl something scathing in Latin at his retreating back. Tonight, it is the best that I can manage.