Wounded With His Wounded Heart, Ch. 3
Disclaimer: I do not own any part of Sherlock; it all belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, et al. I write these stories purely for enjoyment; no copyright infringement is intended.
Wounded With His Wounded Heart - Chapter Three
Before John could reply to Sherlock’s declaration, the snick of the door latch caught the attention of them both, and Mycroft strolled into the room, wearing an expression that was somehow affectionate and condescending at the same time.
“It’s really high time you two sorted that out,” he said pointedly, his eyes knowing and amused. “Tea?”
Sherlock scowled at his brother, and any worries John might have had about the kinder version of his - what was Sherlock to him now? Lover? Boyfriend? Partner? They really needed to talk about that - the kinder version of his best friend being on display for all were immediately set to rest. His glower was classic Sherlock animosity, as was the sarcastic, biting drawl that was only employed when Sherlock was at his most annoyed.
“Your timing is impeccable as always, brother dear,” Sherlock bit out, glaring daggers at Mycroft. “So kind of you to interrupt us.”
Mycroft merely smiled blandly, and John had the sudden urge to deck him. Mycroft honestly could be infuriating when he wanted to be.
“My apologies, but there really are a few things we must sort out,” Mycroft said, sitting down as a tea service was brought in by one of the attendants. When it was set on the table, Mycroft poured them all cups of tea, taking his black and giving Sherlock two lumps of sugar, and then unerringly giving John milk but no sugar in his own cup. John simply shook his head; trust a Holmes to remember how he took his tea after not seeing him for a year.
“First, there is Mrs. Hudson,” Mycroft went on. “She does not know you’re alive, Sherlock, and I hardly think it a good idea to simply spring you on her.”
“No, we can’t do that,” John said instantly. “She could go into shock, she could faint, she could have a heart attack - there are any number of things that might happen. She’s not a young woman - even though I would cheerfully bet on her chances against an assailant,” he grinned, prompting a smile in return from Sherlock as they both remembered their landlady hiding Irene Adler’s phone in her brassiere.
“Indeed,” Mycroft said dryly, “but her ignorance also means that 221B is out of reach, at least for the moment - and in any case I would prefer to keep you in sight, Sherlock, at least for a bit longer.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes, and John could already feel the impatience vibrating in his flatmate’s thin frame. “Moran is dead, Mycroft. He was the last of Moriarty’s close associates, and I do not fear that one of Jim’s minor employees will come after me - at least not before we hear something of it. You have tabs on all of them, and I seriously doubt that any of them are intelligent enough to be a serious threat.”
“I would prefer not to take chances, all the same - and you are still legally dead, Sherlock, so it would hardly do to suddenly be out and about in London, when you don’t have so much as an ATM card that you can call your own,” Mycroft said smugly.
John snorted. “As if he ever used it when he did have one,” he said, shooting a glance of affectionate exasperation at Sherlock, who pouted at him and gave him a half-hearted glare for teasing in front of Mycroft.
“Would it be too much to ask for you to speed that process along?” Sherlock asked, his icy sarcasm only matched by his distaste for being so dependent on his brother.
“Anthea is already working on it, but it will take several days,” Mycroft said, ignoring his brother’s hostility with the ease of long practice.
“Might I offer a suggestion, Mycroft?” John said politely, his brain having come up with an idea during the brothers’ bickering.
“I am all ears, John,” Mycroft said, looking at him attentively as he took a long swallow of his tea.
“Mrs. Hudson has been after me for months to move back into the flat,” John pointed out. Sherlock’s eyebrows went up, but he didn’t comment. “What if I do exactly that? It will give me a chance to get things settled for us, and then we can decide how best to talk to Mrs. Hudson. It might be better for you and I to speak to her first, Mycroft - she might think I’ve gone round the twist if I try to tell her myself, and we all seem to agree that it isn’t a good idea for Sherlock to simply appear at her door.”
Mycroft considered John’s statements for a moment and then slowly nodded his head. “Excellent, John. I think that will do nicely. And in the meantime, Sherlock,” he added, raising a hand to forestall his brother’s protests - “you can stay at the house. I have a room here that will be quite sufficient for a few days or so. No one else but Anthea and the guards know the house codes, and there is enough surveillance on it that we would know in seconds if anything was wrong.”
“Marvelous,” Sherlock said in exasperation, his irritation plain. John sympathized. Being constantly watched by Mycroft and his employees was not at all appealing, not least because he wanted to be truly alone with Sherlock. However, he understood the necessity - even Mycroft could not be everywhere at once, and it was better to have someone watching for any potential intruders. As diligent as Sherlock had been, one could never be entirely certain about anyone involved with Moriarty.
“John can come with you,” Mycroft responded mildly to his brother. “I’m assuming that neither of you want to be apart more than you have to be, and Anthea will see to it that you are not disturbed. I highly doubt that Baker Street is in a fit state to be lived in, at least right away. John can maintain the illusion that he is going back to his bedsit in the evenings until the flat is clean and manageable again, while he is really keeping you company. By the time he has made 221B habitable, we should be able to break the news to Mrs. Hudson, as you should be back in the land of the living.”
“So that takes care of one of our problems,” John stated. “What are the other things that need sorted?”
“Your Detective Inspector will want to know you are alive, I presume,” Mycroft said, arching a brow at Sherlock. “And Miss Hooper as well.”
Sherlock shut his eyes, and John watched as he rubbed a hand over his forehead in agitation. He didn’t want to have to explain, John knew - he hated displays of sentimentality as a general rule, despite his clear altering of those boundaries where John was concerned. Emotions were difficult for him, and it was going to be exhausting enough explaining everything to John - there were still so many things John wanted to know. He didn’t, however, want to put Sherlock through all of that more than once, and so he thought for a few seconds before squeezing Sherlock’s hand in reassurance.
“I don’t think Molly will be that difficult,” he said, speaking more to Sherlock than to Mycroft. “She already knew you were alive afterward; she knew you might be coming home. We can leave something nice for her at the lab, with a note that will let her know when to come round to the flat. It will give her a little time to get used to the idea before she sees you.”
Sherlock gave John a grateful look. “And Lestrade?”
John grinned mischievously. “We’ll get him to come back to Baker Street, too, but in a way that’s a little more fun for you.” He turned to Mycroft. “Mycroft, what would it take to get some of Greg’s cold case files from the last year, without him noticing?”
Mycroft smirked, looking a bit like the cat that ate the canary as he sipped his tea. “Very little, John. Very little indeed.”
As John began to explain his plan, a slow smile also grew on Sherlock’s face, and by the end he was grinning.
“It’s perfect, John. And thank heaven it saves me from having to explain myself yet again,” Sherlock said, maintaining a tone that suggested he thought it would be insufferably boring, but John saw the worry lurking.
“Exactly. Although goodness knows what Greg will do once he’s actually standing in front of you. Can’t predict that, really,” John said a bit apologetically.
Sherlock considered that. “He may punch me again - and I probably deserve it,” he acknowledged, “but I doubt he’ll do anything worse. Lestrade is not given to being irrational.”
“Because rationality plays a huge part in how people react to death, never mind resurrection,” John muttered, and he saw Sherlock’s lips twitch even as the detective tried to hide it.
“Very good,” Mycroft said in satisfaction. “I’ll make all the arrangements as soon as may be. John, if you would call Mrs. Hudson tomorrow, I’m sure she will let you in straight away. In the meantime, I’ll send someone to get some of your clothes and books out of storage, Sherlock, so that you are fit to be seen and have something to occupy yourself. I’ll have them brought over to the house. Of course, Lestrade’s cold cases should keep you amused for a day once we get them.”
John stared at Mycroft for a moment. “In storage. That was why you came yourself.”
To John’s surprise, Mycroft suddenly looked haggard again, and even a trifle embarrassed, which was not an expression John could ever recall seeing on his face.
“No,” he said quietly. “No, John, I was at Baker Street only about three weeks after the events at Bart’s. In fact, I simply felt it was . . . the right thing, the most respectful thing to do, and so I did. Neither Mummy nor I could decide what to do with everything straight away, and so we . . . didn’t do anything at all.”
John looked from Mycroft to Sherlock, and the shock that John was sure was written on his face was reflected on Sherlock’s. The detective was looking at his brother with a piercing stare of assessment that could not quite hide the surprise in his eyes.
Mycroft. Mycroft had been waiting, too, had been caught in the same kind of grieving stasis that John had found himself in. It was almost more than John could believe. It was true that he had been relieved of his grief much sooner than John, but the evidence of how hard he had worked since, how desperate he had been to bring Sherlock home safely, was all over Mycroft’s body.
“Well then,” Mycroft said, clearing his throat and standing. “I will have Anthea and a driver take you over to my residence. John, do leave those notes with her, would you?”
“Of course, Mycroft,” John said politely. “And would it be possible to have us stop at my bedsit as well? There really are a few things I should grab.”
“Not a problem at all,” Mycroft nodded, and made a quick escape out the door, leaving John and Sherlock still on the sofa.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John. “Notes?”
“A few suggestions to keep your brother from keeling over and needing to be hospitalized,” John explained succinctly. “I chastised him, he said Anthea could take care of it if I told her what was needed, and I took him up on that unexpected offer.”
Sherlock gave him a look of wonderment. “He actually did mourn me, before he knew I was alive.”
“Sherlock, you’re his brother,” John stressed, leaning forward. “Mrs. Hudson had to remind me of that fact, as I was so angry at him for the first six months after you died that I frankly didn’t care if Mycroft was at the bottom of a well.” Sherlock let out a soft huff of surprised laughter before John continued. “I know the two of you don’t have the best relationship, but you are also probably the only two men in England who can understand one another intellectually. You share a history. Regardless of how much you might disagree, Mycroft cares about you. You said yourself that he did everything he could to help you once he knew you were still alive.”
“He did,” Sherlock said thoughtfully. “It’s just . . . unexpected. I always assumed I was an annoyance, someone he looked after for Mummy’s sake, up until the point where he actually needed my skills. Even then I thought he tolerated me more for what I could do than because I was related to him.”
“You didn’t see his face when I confronted him about what he had done,” John said. “That was before . . . it was after we had been at Kitty Riley’s, before I met up with you again - I’m assuming you went to talk to Molly?” he queried, and Sherlock nodded an affirmative.
“Well, I went to Mycroft because I had figured out that the only person who could have given Moriarty so much information on you was your brother. I laid into him, he acknowledged I was right and told me how it happened, and he was - devastated,” John said. “At the time I didn’t care, and frankly thought he deserved every bit of guilt that he could put on himself and that everyone else could hand him - but I could tell how upset he was,” John concluded. “I’m not sure I’ve forgiven him, but even I never doubted that he cares, even if he has a misguided way of showing it.”
Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin contemplatively, and just then Anthea came into the room, the ever-present Blackberry in her hand.
“Ready, boys?” she enquired, and both John and Sherlock rose to their feet. John took his jacket from the back of the chair, and to his surprise, Sherlock went over to a coat rack hidden in a corner, returning with the much-loved Belstaff coat in his hands.
“You still have it,” John said dazedly, and Sherlock, startled, looked over at him.
“Of course. It wasn’t at all suitable for some of the places I traveled, nor some of the disguises I had to assume, but Mycroft kept it safe,” Sherlock answered nonchalantly, pulling it on and retrieving a blue scarf - a newer one, John saw, but the same deep shade of blue - from the pocket.
John had to stop and blink back tears. Sherlock had been wearing the coat when he fell, but standing in front of him now was the Sherlock John saw in all of his memories - suit, scarf, and Belstaff, collar turned up and the coat swirling about him as they ran across London or flew through a crime scene.
“John?” Sherlock asked softly, quizzically, and John shook his head and tried to smile, though he knew Sherlock could see his emotion.
“Nothing, it’s - nothing. It’s brilliant. I missed you,” he managed, and Sherlock knit his brows, still puzzled, but took his hand in reassurance and pulled him toward the door.
Anthea had wisely kept silent, John noted gratefully, and as they approached, she tactfully changed the subject. He might have to rethink his impressions of Mycroft’s enigmatic assistant.
“Dr. Watson, I understand I am to get some medical advice from you?” she asked as she held the door open for them.
John nodded, his brain switching gears as he remembered his earlier diagnosis of Mycroft. “Right. Anthea, I don’t want to make him submit to IVs, because among other things I hardly think that would inspire confidence in him politically, should anyone find out. But he absolutely has to eat three meals a day. He has to be hydrated all the time - every time he empties a glass of water or a cup of tea, there should be another one in front of him, without him ever having to think about it. No caffeine, not even in his tea. It’s a diuretic, and I want his body to hang on to fluids. Make him take sugar in his tea for a few days, even if he usually doesn’t - it will help his energy levels. And seven hours of sleep, minimum, every night, for several weeks. Consecutively would be best, but if he can’t do that, make him take a kip in the middle of the day if you have to. If he doesn’t start taking care of himself right now, and I mean immediately, he could honestly collapse, and I don’t think any of us want the British Government in hospital. It’s going to be bad enough having one of the Holmes brothers in all the papers.”
“You’re telling me,” Anthea agreed, in what was probably the closest thing to an honest opinion John had ever gotten from her. “I’ll see it’s done, Dr. Watson.”
“Get some blood tests done in about three weeks - glucose, iron, Vitamin D, calcium, all the usual - to make sure his levels are back up to normal, or at the very least going up,” John instructed. “I know you probably have ways of doing that with discretion, but make sure it happens. If there’s something else going on, if all of this mistreatment of his body has caused some other problem, his treatment might have to be altered in some way.”
Anthea tapped quickly on her Blackberry as they arrived at the car, and when they had all clambered in the back, she reached out and laid her hand on John’s forearm. “Thank you, Dr. Watson,” she said sincerely.
John gave her a brief but honest smile. “You’re welcome,” he said, and Anthea smiled back at him before sitting back and resuming her typing.
“The next thing you know, Mycroft will have hired you as his private physician,” Sherlock said acerbically, and John turned to him with a stern glare.
“You’re getting subjected to the exact same thing once we get home, and so help me, Sherlock Holmes, if you argue with me I will treat you by force. Don’t think I can’t. Right now just about anyone could take you down with the right pressure points, and I am not just anyone,” John snapped. His anxiety over Sherlock’s physical state was very real, and he knew from long experience how terrible Sherlock was at taking care of himself.
He was expecting an argument, but Sherlock merely smiled and closed his eyes, leaning his head against the headrest. “I wouldn’t dream of it, my dear doctor,” he murmured. “I could never mistake you for just anyone.”
Warmth coursed through John at the endearment, and he looked out the window with a small smile, studiously avoiding Anthea’s raised eyebrows - but his hand found Sherlock’s again, hidden underneath the folds of the Belstaff, and they stayed that way quite comfortably until the car arrived at their first destination.
Chapter Four
Wounded With His Wounded Heart - Chapter Three
Before John could reply to Sherlock’s declaration, the snick of the door latch caught the attention of them both, and Mycroft strolled into the room, wearing an expression that was somehow affectionate and condescending at the same time.
“It’s really high time you two sorted that out,” he said pointedly, his eyes knowing and amused. “Tea?”
Sherlock scowled at his brother, and any worries John might have had about the kinder version of his - what was Sherlock to him now? Lover? Boyfriend? Partner? They really needed to talk about that - the kinder version of his best friend being on display for all were immediately set to rest. His glower was classic Sherlock animosity, as was the sarcastic, biting drawl that was only employed when Sherlock was at his most annoyed.
“Your timing is impeccable as always, brother dear,” Sherlock bit out, glaring daggers at Mycroft. “So kind of you to interrupt us.”
Mycroft merely smiled blandly, and John had the sudden urge to deck him. Mycroft honestly could be infuriating when he wanted to be.
“My apologies, but there really are a few things we must sort out,” Mycroft said, sitting down as a tea service was brought in by one of the attendants. When it was set on the table, Mycroft poured them all cups of tea, taking his black and giving Sherlock two lumps of sugar, and then unerringly giving John milk but no sugar in his own cup. John simply shook his head; trust a Holmes to remember how he took his tea after not seeing him for a year.
“First, there is Mrs. Hudson,” Mycroft went on. “She does not know you’re alive, Sherlock, and I hardly think it a good idea to simply spring you on her.”
“No, we can’t do that,” John said instantly. “She could go into shock, she could faint, she could have a heart attack - there are any number of things that might happen. She’s not a young woman - even though I would cheerfully bet on her chances against an assailant,” he grinned, prompting a smile in return from Sherlock as they both remembered their landlady hiding Irene Adler’s phone in her brassiere.
“Indeed,” Mycroft said dryly, “but her ignorance also means that 221B is out of reach, at least for the moment - and in any case I would prefer to keep you in sight, Sherlock, at least for a bit longer.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes, and John could already feel the impatience vibrating in his flatmate’s thin frame. “Moran is dead, Mycroft. He was the last of Moriarty’s close associates, and I do not fear that one of Jim’s minor employees will come after me - at least not before we hear something of it. You have tabs on all of them, and I seriously doubt that any of them are intelligent enough to be a serious threat.”
“I would prefer not to take chances, all the same - and you are still legally dead, Sherlock, so it would hardly do to suddenly be out and about in London, when you don’t have so much as an ATM card that you can call your own,” Mycroft said smugly.
John snorted. “As if he ever used it when he did have one,” he said, shooting a glance of affectionate exasperation at Sherlock, who pouted at him and gave him a half-hearted glare for teasing in front of Mycroft.
“Would it be too much to ask for you to speed that process along?” Sherlock asked, his icy sarcasm only matched by his distaste for being so dependent on his brother.
“Anthea is already working on it, but it will take several days,” Mycroft said, ignoring his brother’s hostility with the ease of long practice.
“Might I offer a suggestion, Mycroft?” John said politely, his brain having come up with an idea during the brothers’ bickering.
“I am all ears, John,” Mycroft said, looking at him attentively as he took a long swallow of his tea.
“Mrs. Hudson has been after me for months to move back into the flat,” John pointed out. Sherlock’s eyebrows went up, but he didn’t comment. “What if I do exactly that? It will give me a chance to get things settled for us, and then we can decide how best to talk to Mrs. Hudson. It might be better for you and I to speak to her first, Mycroft - she might think I’ve gone round the twist if I try to tell her myself, and we all seem to agree that it isn’t a good idea for Sherlock to simply appear at her door.”
Mycroft considered John’s statements for a moment and then slowly nodded his head. “Excellent, John. I think that will do nicely. And in the meantime, Sherlock,” he added, raising a hand to forestall his brother’s protests - “you can stay at the house. I have a room here that will be quite sufficient for a few days or so. No one else but Anthea and the guards know the house codes, and there is enough surveillance on it that we would know in seconds if anything was wrong.”
“Marvelous,” Sherlock said in exasperation, his irritation plain. John sympathized. Being constantly watched by Mycroft and his employees was not at all appealing, not least because he wanted to be truly alone with Sherlock. However, he understood the necessity - even Mycroft could not be everywhere at once, and it was better to have someone watching for any potential intruders. As diligent as Sherlock had been, one could never be entirely certain about anyone involved with Moriarty.
“John can come with you,” Mycroft responded mildly to his brother. “I’m assuming that neither of you want to be apart more than you have to be, and Anthea will see to it that you are not disturbed. I highly doubt that Baker Street is in a fit state to be lived in, at least right away. John can maintain the illusion that he is going back to his bedsit in the evenings until the flat is clean and manageable again, while he is really keeping you company. By the time he has made 221B habitable, we should be able to break the news to Mrs. Hudson, as you should be back in the land of the living.”
“So that takes care of one of our problems,” John stated. “What are the other things that need sorted?”
“Your Detective Inspector will want to know you are alive, I presume,” Mycroft said, arching a brow at Sherlock. “And Miss Hooper as well.”
Sherlock shut his eyes, and John watched as he rubbed a hand over his forehead in agitation. He didn’t want to have to explain, John knew - he hated displays of sentimentality as a general rule, despite his clear altering of those boundaries where John was concerned. Emotions were difficult for him, and it was going to be exhausting enough explaining everything to John - there were still so many things John wanted to know. He didn’t, however, want to put Sherlock through all of that more than once, and so he thought for a few seconds before squeezing Sherlock’s hand in reassurance.
“I don’t think Molly will be that difficult,” he said, speaking more to Sherlock than to Mycroft. “She already knew you were alive afterward; she knew you might be coming home. We can leave something nice for her at the lab, with a note that will let her know when to come round to the flat. It will give her a little time to get used to the idea before she sees you.”
Sherlock gave John a grateful look. “And Lestrade?”
John grinned mischievously. “We’ll get him to come back to Baker Street, too, but in a way that’s a little more fun for you.” He turned to Mycroft. “Mycroft, what would it take to get some of Greg’s cold case files from the last year, without him noticing?”
Mycroft smirked, looking a bit like the cat that ate the canary as he sipped his tea. “Very little, John. Very little indeed.”
As John began to explain his plan, a slow smile also grew on Sherlock’s face, and by the end he was grinning.
“It’s perfect, John. And thank heaven it saves me from having to explain myself yet again,” Sherlock said, maintaining a tone that suggested he thought it would be insufferably boring, but John saw the worry lurking.
“Exactly. Although goodness knows what Greg will do once he’s actually standing in front of you. Can’t predict that, really,” John said a bit apologetically.
Sherlock considered that. “He may punch me again - and I probably deserve it,” he acknowledged, “but I doubt he’ll do anything worse. Lestrade is not given to being irrational.”
“Because rationality plays a huge part in how people react to death, never mind resurrection,” John muttered, and he saw Sherlock’s lips twitch even as the detective tried to hide it.
“Very good,” Mycroft said in satisfaction. “I’ll make all the arrangements as soon as may be. John, if you would call Mrs. Hudson tomorrow, I’m sure she will let you in straight away. In the meantime, I’ll send someone to get some of your clothes and books out of storage, Sherlock, so that you are fit to be seen and have something to occupy yourself. I’ll have them brought over to the house. Of course, Lestrade’s cold cases should keep you amused for a day once we get them.”
John stared at Mycroft for a moment. “In storage. That was why you came yourself.”
To John’s surprise, Mycroft suddenly looked haggard again, and even a trifle embarrassed, which was not an expression John could ever recall seeing on his face.
“No,” he said quietly. “No, John, I was at Baker Street only about three weeks after the events at Bart’s. In fact, I simply felt it was . . . the right thing, the most respectful thing to do, and so I did. Neither Mummy nor I could decide what to do with everything straight away, and so we . . . didn’t do anything at all.”
John looked from Mycroft to Sherlock, and the shock that John was sure was written on his face was reflected on Sherlock’s. The detective was looking at his brother with a piercing stare of assessment that could not quite hide the surprise in his eyes.
Mycroft. Mycroft had been waiting, too, had been caught in the same kind of grieving stasis that John had found himself in. It was almost more than John could believe. It was true that he had been relieved of his grief much sooner than John, but the evidence of how hard he had worked since, how desperate he had been to bring Sherlock home safely, was all over Mycroft’s body.
“Well then,” Mycroft said, clearing his throat and standing. “I will have Anthea and a driver take you over to my residence. John, do leave those notes with her, would you?”
“Of course, Mycroft,” John said politely. “And would it be possible to have us stop at my bedsit as well? There really are a few things I should grab.”
“Not a problem at all,” Mycroft nodded, and made a quick escape out the door, leaving John and Sherlock still on the sofa.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John. “Notes?”
“A few suggestions to keep your brother from keeling over and needing to be hospitalized,” John explained succinctly. “I chastised him, he said Anthea could take care of it if I told her what was needed, and I took him up on that unexpected offer.”
Sherlock gave him a look of wonderment. “He actually did mourn me, before he knew I was alive.”
“Sherlock, you’re his brother,” John stressed, leaning forward. “Mrs. Hudson had to remind me of that fact, as I was so angry at him for the first six months after you died that I frankly didn’t care if Mycroft was at the bottom of a well.” Sherlock let out a soft huff of surprised laughter before John continued. “I know the two of you don’t have the best relationship, but you are also probably the only two men in England who can understand one another intellectually. You share a history. Regardless of how much you might disagree, Mycroft cares about you. You said yourself that he did everything he could to help you once he knew you were still alive.”
“He did,” Sherlock said thoughtfully. “It’s just . . . unexpected. I always assumed I was an annoyance, someone he looked after for Mummy’s sake, up until the point where he actually needed my skills. Even then I thought he tolerated me more for what I could do than because I was related to him.”
“You didn’t see his face when I confronted him about what he had done,” John said. “That was before . . . it was after we had been at Kitty Riley’s, before I met up with you again - I’m assuming you went to talk to Molly?” he queried, and Sherlock nodded an affirmative.
“Well, I went to Mycroft because I had figured out that the only person who could have given Moriarty so much information on you was your brother. I laid into him, he acknowledged I was right and told me how it happened, and he was - devastated,” John said. “At the time I didn’t care, and frankly thought he deserved every bit of guilt that he could put on himself and that everyone else could hand him - but I could tell how upset he was,” John concluded. “I’m not sure I’ve forgiven him, but even I never doubted that he cares, even if he has a misguided way of showing it.”
Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin contemplatively, and just then Anthea came into the room, the ever-present Blackberry in her hand.
“Ready, boys?” she enquired, and both John and Sherlock rose to their feet. John took his jacket from the back of the chair, and to his surprise, Sherlock went over to a coat rack hidden in a corner, returning with the much-loved Belstaff coat in his hands.
“You still have it,” John said dazedly, and Sherlock, startled, looked over at him.
“Of course. It wasn’t at all suitable for some of the places I traveled, nor some of the disguises I had to assume, but Mycroft kept it safe,” Sherlock answered nonchalantly, pulling it on and retrieving a blue scarf - a newer one, John saw, but the same deep shade of blue - from the pocket.
John had to stop and blink back tears. Sherlock had been wearing the coat when he fell, but standing in front of him now was the Sherlock John saw in all of his memories - suit, scarf, and Belstaff, collar turned up and the coat swirling about him as they ran across London or flew through a crime scene.
“John?” Sherlock asked softly, quizzically, and John shook his head and tried to smile, though he knew Sherlock could see his emotion.
“Nothing, it’s - nothing. It’s brilliant. I missed you,” he managed, and Sherlock knit his brows, still puzzled, but took his hand in reassurance and pulled him toward the door.
Anthea had wisely kept silent, John noted gratefully, and as they approached, she tactfully changed the subject. He might have to rethink his impressions of Mycroft’s enigmatic assistant.
“Dr. Watson, I understand I am to get some medical advice from you?” she asked as she held the door open for them.
John nodded, his brain switching gears as he remembered his earlier diagnosis of Mycroft. “Right. Anthea, I don’t want to make him submit to IVs, because among other things I hardly think that would inspire confidence in him politically, should anyone find out. But he absolutely has to eat three meals a day. He has to be hydrated all the time - every time he empties a glass of water or a cup of tea, there should be another one in front of him, without him ever having to think about it. No caffeine, not even in his tea. It’s a diuretic, and I want his body to hang on to fluids. Make him take sugar in his tea for a few days, even if he usually doesn’t - it will help his energy levels. And seven hours of sleep, minimum, every night, for several weeks. Consecutively would be best, but if he can’t do that, make him take a kip in the middle of the day if you have to. If he doesn’t start taking care of himself right now, and I mean immediately, he could honestly collapse, and I don’t think any of us want the British Government in hospital. It’s going to be bad enough having one of the Holmes brothers in all the papers.”
“You’re telling me,” Anthea agreed, in what was probably the closest thing to an honest opinion John had ever gotten from her. “I’ll see it’s done, Dr. Watson.”
“Get some blood tests done in about three weeks - glucose, iron, Vitamin D, calcium, all the usual - to make sure his levels are back up to normal, or at the very least going up,” John instructed. “I know you probably have ways of doing that with discretion, but make sure it happens. If there’s something else going on, if all of this mistreatment of his body has caused some other problem, his treatment might have to be altered in some way.”
Anthea tapped quickly on her Blackberry as they arrived at the car, and when they had all clambered in the back, she reached out and laid her hand on John’s forearm. “Thank you, Dr. Watson,” she said sincerely.
John gave her a brief but honest smile. “You’re welcome,” he said, and Anthea smiled back at him before sitting back and resuming her typing.
“The next thing you know, Mycroft will have hired you as his private physician,” Sherlock said acerbically, and John turned to him with a stern glare.
“You’re getting subjected to the exact same thing once we get home, and so help me, Sherlock Holmes, if you argue with me I will treat you by force. Don’t think I can’t. Right now just about anyone could take you down with the right pressure points, and I am not just anyone,” John snapped. His anxiety over Sherlock’s physical state was very real, and he knew from long experience how terrible Sherlock was at taking care of himself.
He was expecting an argument, but Sherlock merely smiled and closed his eyes, leaning his head against the headrest. “I wouldn’t dream of it, my dear doctor,” he murmured. “I could never mistake you for just anyone.”
Warmth coursed through John at the endearment, and he looked out the window with a small smile, studiously avoiding Anthea’s raised eyebrows - but his hand found Sherlock’s again, hidden underneath the folds of the Belstaff, and they stayed that way quite comfortably until the car arrived at their first destination.
Chapter Four