Sherlock (BBC) Fanfic - Survival - Chapter 8

Apr 09, 2012 17:16

Title: Survival (Chapter 8)

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters: Sherlock, John, Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Moriarty (men.), Homeless Network, Col. Moran
Genre: Drama, hurt/comfort, angst, friendship - there will be a great deal of bromance (or pre-slash, you can in fact read this one either way)
Rating: T
Chapter Length: 4,343 words
Spoilers: End of series 2, “The Reichenbach Fall”
Warnings: Spoilers, angst, some violence and mentions of drugs
Status: Incomplete

Summary: “Sherlock had never expected dismantling Moriarty’s empire would be anything less than gruelling, however he also never anticipated just how desperately he would miss home.” Post-Reichenbach to reunion; Sherlock’s p.o.v.

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7

A.N.: I am so, so sorry that this chapter is being posted late. It’s still Monday, so hopefully you can forgive me for it… I won’t bore you with the reasons for the delay, but coming back online to find such lovely responses to chapter seven has made a mostly horrid week a great deal better.

On that note, thank you so much for all the wonderful comments I’ve been left! Haha, I imagine I should be getting my head around the fact that some of you are genuinely enjoying this by now, but no - I still get all giddy and can’t quite believe it. So thank you very much!

As always, I need to offer a massive thank you to interjection, patchsassy, infinityuphigh and velveteenkitten, who are still being so very kind as to work with me on this lunacy. Their patience is boundless, and I still can’t quite believe that such brilliant (in every sense of the word) betas are willing to spend so much time on my scribbles. Thank you!




Cover by carolstime

ooo

SURVIVAL - CHAPTER 8

ooo

Brussels goes well, although the fortnight is singularly dull. It is filled with monotonous observation and deduction: a matter of collating enough evidence to prove what he already knows, nothing more. Sherlock watches and waits for hours on end, only to take three photographs, leave, and return the next day for more of the same. It makes sense to give him the task rather than disregard his specialities, but he cannot help wishing he could go housebreaking with Douglas just once to break the tedium. There are no surprises when he already knows what it is he is looking for, no real distractions, and his mind steadily tears itself to pieces.

He takes up smoking again. Just for something to fill his time. Sherlock knows what Mycroft would say, remembers John’s disapproval and seeing a matching nicotine patch to his own on Lestrade’s forearm, and he immediately buys four packets of the best cigarettes he can find. He can see their faces more vividly when he lights up, it seems.

Whykes and Douglas are good men, at least, and Vicker is tolerable knowing that there is an ending in sight. There are certainly worse people he could be working with, and the fact that they can generally get along makes living on top of one another far more bearable, but their persistence in trying to make him engage with them is grating. It is four long evenings before they begin to understand that he has no interest in exchanging stories of home, and it is two more before they finally stop trying to make ‘small talk.’ Vicker takes it as Sherlock disliking them and responds accordingly, but Whykes must see something in his face because he simply steps back and allows Sherlock the space he needs. He is animated enough during their briefings and intermittent tactical discussions, and that is all that is essentially required of him.

It is the night that they are due to leave, all four of them in the flat at once for the first time in thirteen days, when he lets his guard slip just a little and Whykes bumps into him in the corridor. Sherlock is just exiting the flat’s closet of a bathroom, finishing towelling his hair dry as he makes his way back to the living room; his colleague strides around the corner and knocks him sideways. Whykes is halfway through offering an apology when he spots the edge of a forgotten stitch. It has now been weeks since they should have been removed, and the expression on the younger man’s face makes it clear that he can tell. Sherlock raises his right hand, registering the slight tug of his muscles against his recently-healed ribs for the first time in over a week, and bites back a soft curse when he feels for himself the way that his skin has sealed over half of them. He realises with a start that in trying to avoid having to remove them himself or visiting an unlicensed clinic he has left them over a month too long - John would have a fit if he knew.

Douglas steps in before Whykes can really get going with his concerned tirade, instructing him to fetch the first aid kit so they can remove the sutures before heading their separate ways. Even Vicker offers a moment of concern, knowing what leaving such a thing for so long means in terms of Sherlock’s recent circumstances; he covers it swiftly a second later with a reminder that it will scar now. Sherlock must look far more concerned by that than he is, judging by the speed and insistence of Douglas’ reassurances that they will not have to open the full wound again.

“Just a couple of incisions, each half a centimetre at the most, lad,” the older man tells him. “The stitches’re tiny little buggers - whoever you had do them is bleedin’ good - so it’ll be no problem.”

With that he begins, using a scalpel and tweezers to pick the threads out of Sherlock’s skin whilst Vicker holds his head still. Even without the benefit of anaesthetic (unnecessary) Sherlock barely feels a thing, distracted by Whykes’ rambling as he clatters about the kitchenette making coffees, and it is over quickly.

Molly had indeed done a wonderful job, judging by the presence of only minimal infection even after Sherlock’s disregard; a quick flush with salt-water and some antiseptic is all that is required for Douglas to deem him safe from further problems. The tiny cuts made to free the thin surgical thread are not worth the use of a bandage or adhesive strips. Still, there will be a couple of tiny, blanched scars left behind.

Sherlock finds himself almost coveting them already. They will be reminders that he is here, alive, and all of a sudden he discovers that he understands John’s duplicity in his attitude regarding the scars on his shoulder a great deal more. The doctor had always fluctuated in his reactions to comments and queries, as though forever straddling the line between distaste and pride, and Sherlock knows that he will soon do so as well. These scars are not like the others dotted here and there on his flesh; they are the result of both failure and victory, a reminder that he is fallible and a danger to those he loves as much as they are a testament to his superior intelligence and bravery. Thinking of them as he sips his coffee, he cannot help but be a little delighted. He has been told more than once that he is not a good man, that there is something inherently cruel and selfish and ‘wrong’ about him, but proof to the contrary is now written into his skin.

The four men do not waste time with goodbyes, instead simply drinking their coffees and allowing the stress to drain from them in the quiet of the flat. The small space has not allowed for any of them to properly unpack, so as each man drains his mug he picks up his bags from ‘his’ corner, offers the others a nod, and disappears down the stairs to the street. Sherlock finds it almost fascinating, the way that his colleagues do not babble on, communicating everything with just that one nod. From their gratitude for the coffees they have been made and the blankets they have been lent to their heartfelt wishes that they all finish this ‘campaign’ healthy and happy… Not that it should still surprise him. They have been sharing a matchbox of a one-bed flat, running a schedule to decide who gets the bed, the sofa or the floor any given night, for the past two weeks. Such an arrangement will always breed a degree of familiarity and casual understanding.

Sherlock is the third to depart, leaving Whykes to close everything up securely. The four of them have been living on Rue de l’Etuve, less than twenty yards from the Manneken Pis and above a waffle shop Sherlock has become very fond of - he may be running his body as though on a case but it would seem that fresh Belgian waffles with strawberries, cream, and white chocolate are an exception to his usual inclinations. It is a shame he does not have the opportunity to indulge one last time.

Despite overhearing Vicker deriding the Manneken for being a disappointment, the temptation to finally take a quick look is enormous. It is just after midnight, the street still busy with tourists although the shops have been closed for hours, so he could almost certainly get away with it, but he refrains. Instead he makes his way through the thickening crowds to the Grand Place, indulging in one short bout of tourism. He has wanted to see the square for years, with its many guildhalls and the Maison du Roi.

The walk takes less than five minutes and the square is impressive to say the least, but the architecture fails to hold his attention. Everywhere he looks there are couples and groups of friends, and Sherlock sticks out like a sore thumb without any company of his own. He moves along quickly, only pausing to buy another keyring for John on his way to the station as he fumes. It is maddening that he still feels this damnable loneliness. He had thought - hoped - that his time with Mycroft’s agents would have alleviated it, at least temporarily, but instead it feels stronger than ever; the three men are by no means the company he wishes for, but their habits had held military influences. It has been somewhat soothing to find the cupboards organised the same way John preferred, to see the washing-up piled so carefully, to look across at the papers on the dining table and see the same patterns he always saw on the coffee table at 221B.

It will be Christmas in under five months. With Mycroft and his team helping, he just has to hold on until then.

ooo

After Brussels comes a week in Gothenburg, his poor Swedish proving less of an issue than he had feared when it turns out he is required to speak less than ten sentences. From there he flies to Esbjerg, where he spends almost a month trying very hard not to shoot the imbecile Mycroft is forcing him to work with (the gene pool would thank him - he failed to notice the cerise stains when Sherlock began experimenting in the sink, for God’s sake). Then Athens, Sydney, Hong Kong; the weeks and months soon start blurring together, no matter how hard Sherlock tries to compartmentalise each city within his brain. The haze is broken only by periodic discussions with Mycroft.

Sherlock does not follow his brother’s ‘instructions’ with any level of deference; however, he no longer openly argues either. For the most part his brother’s men understand the situation: they will not be told just who this mysterious ‘Robert Clarke’ is, but he holds their boss’ respect and care in ways no one else seems to and is therefore afforded a certain amount of leeway during their interactions. Understanding, however, does not mean that they accept it.

The expected finally occurs when Sherlock is in Cuba. The man is in his thirties, a former Captain (just like John) who had been wounded badly but remained far too exceptional to live a quiet life, resulting in an invitation to join Mycroft’s little Members Only task force. He has not yet quite come to the realisation that Mycroft does not actually require protection or defence, his soldiers being little more than decoration, and when Sherlock snarls a threat wrapped in a paragraph of insults he does not hesitate to “try teaching him some manners,” as they say in all those films John enjoys.

He is halted almost immediately by the rather violent use of an umbrella and Sherlock has no doubt that he will never seen this particular gentleman again. Still, he has learned a little about the occasional need for caution and sycophancy when being observed by his brother’s lackeys.

There is one benefit to working with Mycroft, aside from the obvious emotional advantages of a familiar face and news of his home and loved ones: the time spent in each city. Sherlock is assigned to the most challenging observations, the ones where no one else can possibly connect the necessary dots to see what data is relevant and what is acted or leaked as cover. There are no more instances of sleeping in three cities in a week. He spends over three weeks in Sydney alone, and almost a month each in Havana and Morelia. It does not make him miss London any less, but it at least allows him to focus more on the task at hand than the logistics for his next move. The offices and agents he investigates are more interesting, too - they do not make stupid mistakes or rely on hideously muscular doormen to protect them. They are subtle and deeply menacing behind the slick smiles, running any number of schemes both beneath and above the radar with the confidence of those who know they cannot be touched.

Or could not, before Sherlock became involved.

ooo

Despite all his hopes and exemplary work, the weeks and months soon pile up. Sherlock does not make it home for Christmas.

Instead, he spends the holiday period tucked carefully out of sight in Dublin’s Mespil Hotel. It is the closest he has been to home in six months and, despite the frigid temperatures and overly exuberant crowds, Sherlock cannot help wishing that he could leave for more than ten minutes at a time when fetching the odd meal. The short walks around the corner to Tin Tin’s or Eddie Rocket’s are a genuine delight - hearing his own language, regardless of accent, has become a luxury - and even as little as five extra minutes outside would be a blessing. Unfortunately, Sherlock knows what the consequences of such an indulgence could be. Not to mention that he is very much aware that those five minutes would inevitably become a half-hour stroll around Merrion Square Park. He takes to leaving the television on constantly as an alternative, even whilst he sleeps, the volume lowered until he can just make out the words; it is easy enough to remain ahead of the Gaelic programming after the first couple of days.

His hotel room is of average size, but after nine days of being essentially trapped within it Sherlock feels as though the walls are closing in on him. Had he been here for a purpose it would have been awful enough; in this particular case, though, Sherlock is on standby, waiting as back-up in case the original team encounters serious difficulties. In the months he has been working with Mycroft there has not been a single instance of the support operative being called in, and the idea of being left to rot here for however many weeks makes him feel sick and anxious (long-term stress catching up with him due to inactivity and lack of distraction). By the time Mycroft shows up, unplanned and unannounced at his door on Christmas Eve, Sherlock is suffering from his first cold in four years.

Mycroft steps past him without a word, not waiting to be invited in. Had he done so eight months ago Sherlock would have shouted, done his best to cause a scene, but today he swallows his irritation and just appreciates his brother’s company. Not least because he knows the older man will have news of London (of John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade) to impart.

He is not disappointed.

“All internal inquiries at Scotland Yard have been completed,” Mycroft begins, “and DI Lestrade will be keeping his job. I believe I’ve managed to partially salvage his reputation as well, you’ll be pleased to hear - consider it your Christmas present.”

“Thank you.” There is a part of Sherlock’s mind shouting that he should be responding with a barb of some sort, but Mycroft is not being cruel or sarcastic. He has done his best to save the career of Sherlock’s friend as a kindness to him, and is offering both the fact and the piece of mind it brings as a gift. Sherlock is quite content to simply express his gratitude humbly, if only this once.

Silence settles between them quickly and almost easily, although Sherlock glowers when Mycroft moves to switch off the television. The older man sighs but takes a seat instead - the volume is barely above a whisper, and no impediment to conversation between the brothers.

“Not that I am failing to appreciate your company,” Sherlock begins a few minutes later from his perch on the bed, “because I’ve been more bored than I thought possible this past week, but why are you here?”

“It’s Christmas Eve, Sherlock. Is it so surprising that I would like to spend the afternoon with my little brother?” Mycroft replies, without even a twitch.

RTÉ announces a Gaelic sitcom, but Sherlock leaves it on; in all honesty, sixteen serial killers, nine chemists and The Woman herself could prance through the room dressed as Muppets and Sherlock’s glare would not shift from his brother. After three minutes, Mycroft swallows a little awkwardly, diverting his gaze for a split-second rather than offering an explanation.

Sherlock seethes. “We haven’t celebrated Christmas once since Mummy was alive to insist, and you’ve never had any problem with that before today. Why are you here, Mycroft?”

A sigh, and then Sherlock wishes he had let the subject slide. “You’ve been using it as motivation, Sherlock. What was it?” the older man muses, pulling a small, moleskin notebook from his inside pocket. “’Tea and biscuits with John on Christmas Day’?”

“How dare - !“

“If you will insist upon muttering to yourself where you surely realise I have cameras in place, you should not be surprised when I know more than you feel I should,” he snaps. Sherlock’s response is no more coherent than a snarl. “I thought you would appreciate a familiar face and some news,” he continues, sounding just a touch uncertain and almost gentle behind the irritation.

Regardless of the undertone, there follows a terrible moment when brogued feet slide backwards as though ready to take Mycroft’s weight, during which Sherlock honestly believes that his brother will stand and leave. The thought of being alone again, caged in this one room for the foreseeable future, is awful enough in itself. What sends horror ricocheting down his spine, however, is the knowledge that he will not be able to let the other man walk by. His fingers are already spasming where they rest on the chocolate coverlet, and he can feel the building plea like a lump in his throat. As much as he will hate himself for it, if Mycroft moves to leave, Sherlock knows he will not be above begging.

Fortunately, the elder Holmes chooses to settle a little deeper into the chair instead. Sherlock clamps down on his relief quickly and hopes it was missed. Which is unlikely, of course - his brother’s eyes are equal to Sherlock’s own - however, the illusion allows him to keep his pride. The sneeze that creeps up on him dents it regardless. Mycroft refrains from fussing, although his desire to do so is obvious. He relaxes and trusts Sherlock’s judgement that the slight cold is nothing to worry about when he makes each of them a coffee, reassured by the undiminished speed and steadiness of his pale fingers, and their conversation becomes less halting as they discuss recent progress.

When talk eventually, inevitably, turns to further news of John and the others, Sherlock is grateful that Mycroft does not do him the disservice of lying. The amount of comfort that lies - even those of simple omission - could bring him is debateable at best. Even Sherlock himself has no inkling as to what he would wish to hear, aside from that they are all healthy and safe (which is the truth anyway, unless he has mysteriously lost the ability to read his brother). Hearing that they are in pain, missing him all the more with the arrival of Christmas, is torturous and not at all what he wants for them; in spite of this, Sherlock knows that he is a selfish man and would not be above bitterness if they were entirely happy without him. It is a horrible contradiction, but there is little he can do about it.

It is a tad ironic that the longest, most civil conversation the Holmes brothers have had since Sherlock’s childhood is being held after he has been declared legally deceased. They manage a full two hours, the flow of their exchange only ending when interrupted by a sharp knock at the door. Sherlock does not flinch. Mycroft is unsurprised and the knock was smart, military - the likelihood of it being Major Lucas at the door is over eighty percent. Sherlock lets him in with a huff of annoyance and the Major grins at him indulgently.

“Merry Christmas, ‘Rob,’” comes the bright greeting.

“Indeed,” is his deadpan response. The soldier has a bag in his left hand (paper, but not crumpled by impacts against the carrier’s thigh, so it contains something of importance), which Sherlock reluctantly accepts.

Tea. Expensive tea - an exclusive blend of lightly spiced Darjeeling, which Sherlock has never tried but will love, if the scent is anything to go by. A carefully-wrapped packet of biscuits, compiled of lemon thins and squishy chocolate cookies, is tucked down one side.

Sherlock could cry. He is touched and hurting and utterly furious. He could throttle Mycroft, he really could, but his brother would not have given him these. Mycroft would have brought him either White Peony tea or some expensive coffee, and insisted upon a miniature Christmas cake or Yule log. This gift is not an ill-conceived consolation from him.

When he raises his head, the Major has horrified confusion written all over his face and Mycroft obviously has no idea what to say or where to look. Sherlock manages to choke out a thank you before any last vestiges of dignity are lost as his own expression crumples.

“Fucking Hell!” Lucas bursts out, perplexed guilt seeping into his voice. “I’m sorry, sir. I just thought - I mean, you’re stuck in here on your own - It’s Christmas, for God’s sake, I just wanted to - “

Mycroft raises a hand, halting the upset rambling. “We know, Major, and the gesture is considerate and duly welcome. My brother’s reaction is neither your fault nor a reflection on your choice of presents.” He stands, readying himself to leave before continuing in an unusually kind tone, “Sherlock, I believe it would be prudent for me to take my leave. I don’t want you feeling obliged to share.”

Sherlock nods, taking the ‘out’ the older Holmes is offering. “Thank you for visiting, and for the news,” he replies, before turning to the fidgeting soldier on his right. ”Merry Christmas. I appreciate the gift,” he tells him, awkward and terribly formal, as he places the bag carefully on the desk.

“You’re welcome,” the Major mumbles, for lack of anything else to say. “Hope you enjoy ‘em,” he calls over his shoulder as he moves hesitantly towards the door (respectful of his need for privacy, but uncertain about leaving him in such a state). Mycroft ushers him the final few steps out of the room with a last, apologetic glance Sherlock’s way.

He waits, trembling, until he can no longer hear the pair’s footsteps in the long hallway before allowing himself to keel over. The fact that the large double bed takes up more than half the room finally proves to be an advantage; he lands atop it rather than crashing to the floor, and twists to bury his face in the soft pillows. He had thought he could cope with this disappointment, had decided that he would not allow it to distress him. He will still eventually get home. It is only Christmas - a day like any other as far as Sherlock had been concerned, only recognised at the behest of Mummy until John insisted on tinsel, lights and all the trappings of the holiday season. It should mean nothing to him.

It did mean nothing to him. Even last year, when John insisted that they throw that ill-fated get-together, Sherlock had little to no interest in any of the celebrations. The ‘special’ biscuits Mrs. Hudson went to the trouble of making for them were enjoyable, he will admit, and the opportunity to play the violin had been pleasant enough. Being limited to festive tunes had been a tad insulting, but the applause had proven worth it. It had been quite nice to give and receive gifts for the first time in so long too, particularly when he had chosen so well for Lestrade that the man had choked on air in outright shock when he had unwrapped the offering.

Still, they were small actions; any one of them could have occurred on any other day of the year, if Sherlock decided it should be so.

The truth is that he has used the day as an unofficial deadline for all his efforts, hanging all his hopes on it because it made an effective marker and a six-month time limit had seemed so very reasonable. This Christmas matters because Sherlock promised himself that he would be home, that he could apologise for his actions and put Moriarty and his impact on everyone’s lives firmly in the past. It matters all the more because he is not and cannot. And to return to 221B now, when the job is only half-done… If he were to return now, what would be the point of the last six months? What explanation would he give for remaining away, for not returning and putting a stop to the grief that he has left in his wake, when he would be invalidating his reasoning by being there to provide it? At least if he completes his task he can offer their safety as recompense for the trouble (and continued suffering, if Mycroft is to be believed) he has caused them.

It may well be true that he will return to London at a later date, that he just has to hold on for a little longer, but he does not want to wait. Sherlock desperately does not want to spend more weeks and months in hotel rooms in foreign countries, regardless of how ‘pretty’ they may be or how interesting his assignment is. He wants to be home with John, watching crap telly or allowing Angelo to feed them for free yet again. Until then, he feels as though he is still trapped beneath dear Jim’s thumb, no matter how cold and dead it may be.

Sherlock clutches at his too-short hair, buries his face a little deeper in the cotton of the pillowcases, and screams and sobs his way into blessed unconsciousness.

ooo

Thank you, as ever, for reading! Hopefully I've yet to disappoint anyone... And, once again, I’m sorry for the delay. I’ll do my best to ensure it doesn’t happen again! If you have the time, I would love to hear what you thought. No flames, please, but con-crit is always welcome.

Continue to Chapter 9...

[genre] hurt/comfort, [main] mycroft holmes, [genre] angst, [multi-chap] survival, [genre] drama, [main] sherlock holmes, !fanfic, [series] sherlock (bbc), [genre] friendship, [rating] t, [status] in progress, [main] john watson

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