FILL: Second Chances 5b/?ancalime8301April 4 2012, 00:51:56 UTC
Holmes began climbing out of bed and looked around frantically for his clothes and his pack. His wounds burned as he moved, but he ignored them.
Mycroft pushed him back onto the bed. "You are not yet well enough to travel and there is nothing you could do for them even if you were."
"But I should be there. I should have been there some time ago."
"That can't be helped. You were doing what needed to be done."
Still Holmes hesitated on the edge of the bed and Mycroft sighed.
"I will make arrangements for our departure, but we will allow this doctor to have the final say as to when we leave."
Holmes reluctantly agreed.
The aged doctor objected strenuously to the proposal, insisting that Holmes ought to convalesce at least another week, and preferably two, before attempting to travel. But Holmes was insistent and at length the doctor agreed that he could leave when his fever had been entirely absent for two consecutive days.
They left three days later on the evening train. Mycroft reserved an entire compartment so Holmes could stretch out on one of the benches and rest. Holmes did lie down, but discomfort and thoughts of what he might find in London kept him from sleeping. By the time the train made its stop in Canterbury, he recognized the signs of his fever returning. When they disembarked in London he could not hide the renewed trembling in his limbs and Mycroft frowned at him. The journey from the train platform to his bed at Mycroft's home was a blur, as were the days that followed.
He lost four days to the relapse.
When he finally threw off the fever dreams and woke properly, the first thing he said upon seeing Mycroft was "Watson?"
Mycroft shushed him and pressed him to drink broth and tea. He would not speak of Watson until Holmes refused to cooperate until he was told of Watson's health. "He has prevailed over his illness," Mycroft said evasively.
Something in Mycroft's expression filled him with apprehension. "But?"
"He has lost both wife and child and is sick with grief."
A lump lodged in Holmes' throat, a weight settled on his chest, and he struggled to breathe. "I must see him," he choked out, clutching the bedclothes in frustration at the profound weakness that chained him to the bed.
Mycroft pushed him back onto the bed. "You are not yet well enough to travel and there is nothing you could do for them even if you were."
"But I should be there. I should have been there some time ago."
"That can't be helped. You were doing what needed to be done."
Still Holmes hesitated on the edge of the bed and Mycroft sighed.
"I will make arrangements for our departure, but we will allow this doctor to have the final say as to when we leave."
Holmes reluctantly agreed.
The aged doctor objected strenuously to the proposal, insisting that Holmes ought to convalesce at least another week, and preferably two, before attempting to travel. But Holmes was insistent and at length the doctor agreed that he could leave when his fever had been entirely absent for two consecutive days.
They left three days later on the evening train. Mycroft reserved an entire compartment so Holmes could stretch out on one of the benches and rest. Holmes did lie down, but discomfort and thoughts of what he might find in London kept him from sleeping. By the time the train made its stop in Canterbury, he recognized the signs of his fever returning. When they disembarked in London he could not hide the renewed trembling in his limbs and Mycroft frowned at him. The journey from the train platform to his bed at Mycroft's home was a blur, as were the days that followed.
He lost four days to the relapse.
When he finally threw off the fever dreams and woke properly, the first thing he said upon seeing Mycroft was "Watson?"
Mycroft shushed him and pressed him to drink broth and tea. He would not speak of Watson until Holmes refused to cooperate until he was told of Watson's health. "He has prevailed over his illness," Mycroft said evasively.
Something in Mycroft's expression filled him with apprehension. "But?"
"He has lost both wife and child and is sick with grief."
A lump lodged in Holmes' throat, a weight settled on his chest, and he struggled to breathe. "I must see him," he choked out, clutching the bedclothes in frustration at the profound weakness that chained him to the bed.
"I have invited him to stay here," Mycroft said.
"Thank you," Holmes said breathlessly.
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Why does it stop there??
*tears thread apart looking for more*
*waits for new installment, obsessively hitting F5*
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