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random-imagines-blog · 10 months

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You Will See Me {Mycroft Holmes x Female!Reader Oneshot}

Requested by: Anonymous Wordcount: 4277 Summary: The last time you saw Mycroft, you had your heart broken. What happens when you’re confronted by him again? Notes: Not a happy ending.

It had been a long time since you had seen Holmes come up on your cellphone. Years, actually. You couldn’t remember the last time that one of those boys had any reason to call you. Mycroft, that bloody bastard, was off being the Queen’s hand or something like that, running the government from the inside. And then there was Sherlock, who was always in the papers for something or other, solving a case. You had nothing to do with either of their worlds anymore. And they had nothing to do with yours since the incident. There’s always a goddamn incident, isn’t there?

And yet, for some reason, you had kept both of their numbers in your phone. You haven’t texted, you haven’t called, you’ve skipped past them in your contacts multiple times without giving them thought. You were sure that Sherlock could tell you the reason why, though you couldn’t. He knew everything, especially about you. That’s what best friends did. They knew each other, they took care of one another. Although brother trumps best friend, and a brother is always on a brother’s side.

You thought about not answering Sherlock’s call. It was obviously a mistake of some sort. And if it wasn’t - bad news, surely. Something like a funeral invitation. No, no, Sherlock would have just sent something like that in the post. He wasn’t the personal sort. Knowing that it was going to bother you until you found out that it was a butt-dial, you answered it, keeping your tone as neutral as possible. “Hello?”

“Ahh, good, so you’re not that busy then,” Sherlock said, curt as ever. No hello, no greeting, just straight to what he is deducing from you. You hated when he did that. And you hated when he was correct because it was your one day off from work this week, and you were intending to spend it doing the ever-blissful nothing at all. The most action that you had taken today was getting out of bed and moving to your sofa, turning on the telly and making yourself a nice cup of tea. “Can you join me this evening?”

“I just want to make sure that you have the right number,” You said, leaning back against your cushions. “This is y/n, not John, or whoever it is that you are ordering around at this moment. Would that be all of Scotland Yard now?”

“Yes, I’d say it’s about all,” Sherlock said, and you could imagine his face getting a little smug at the admission. He did enjoy showing off how superior his intellect was, and using it as some sort of power trip. You put up with it in the past, but you haven’t had to in quite some time. It was more annoying and irksome than you remembered. “But I did call the right person, I don’t make amateur mistakes like that. You didn’t answer my question. Can you join me this evening?” And just as you were attempting to think up some sort of excuse, he added on, “Don’t come up with a lie. You know I’ll know if you do.”

“Fine,” You groaned in a very non-adult way. If you were going to be dragged into whatever it is, you had every right to act petulant. “Yes. I can join you this evening - depending on what we are doing. I’m not a detective, and I really don’t want to see any dead bodies -”

“I know you’re not. You used to get sick at the thought of maggots, you’d never be able to handle seeing them on a corpse,” He said, so matter-of-factly. “No bodies. Unless you are objecting to the animal kind. I was thinking dinner. Bring a guest, if you like. If you have one.”

The thought of Sherlock with a fishing pole came into your mind, wearing wellies because oh the man was fishing. You weren’t in any sort of mood to tell him that you had no boyfriend, no girlfriend, no partner of any kind. You debated on bringing a friend. Surely, Sherlock was going to be bringing John Watson with him. None of your friends would get along with Sherlock - it would be like mixing oil and vinegar together and expecting them to fuse.

“Dinner at your expense I hope?” You questioned.

“Yes,” He said, sounding annoyed for the first time in the conversation. That made you grin. That lightened up your mood a little. That irritation that you could drag out of him without getting insulted the way that everyone else did.

“Then absolutely. I’ll see you at dinner.”

As you attempted to pick out a dress from your closet - Sherlock had given you the address of a rather upscale place, a fancy steakhouse that was way above your budget on an ordinary day - you thought back to the last time that you had seen the Holmes boys. Years ago. Almost two decades. You were wearing a dress that was much like the one that you were picking out now - so you quickly returned it. The color red was gorgeous but it held so many negative emotions now. And then you decided - sod it. You weren’t going to let the color be ruined just because Mycroft had hurt you when you had worn it once. None of what had happened was Sherlock’s fault, and now that he had reached out, you weren’t going to take it out on him anymore.

You stepped into the dress, then pulled it up around your figure. It fit perfectly. It highlighted what you wanted to highlight and it hid what you wanted it to hide. As you looked in the mirror, you really came to grips with the fact that you weren’t the same young, naive woman that you had been when you last were around the Holmes. Your hair might be the same color that it was then, your eyes were still the same shade, but you had a few gray hairs now, a few small wrinkles. You were a professional with a career, not a student at college. The outer differences were slight but everything inside was completely was different. You had confidence. You had experience. You had -

The trauma of being in love with Mycroft Holmes.

Nope, nope, you weren’t going to go there. You were going to smooth the dress over yourself and put on small touches of make up so that you looked like a million bucks when you walked into that restaurant. Like you belonged there. Like you were completely happy to see an old friend and there was nothing at all mortifying about this. A touch of lipstick, swipes of mascara, putting earrings on, all while trying to keep your cool, all while trying not to think about the past but about what this could mean for the future.

Shoes, check. Purse, check. A black-cab waiting outside of your flat to zoom you through the London streets towards the restaurant, check. Time to go.

No matter how much you tried, you couldn’t get Mycroft out of your head now. Sherlock had just brought it all coming back. All of the memories, all of the feelings that you had been burying for so long. Hurt always bubbles up to the surface. That’s what it does. Once a wound is reopened, the scar tissues takes even longer to make it heal. Even the passing streetlights coming on as dusk started to make the sky darker, turning it into a shade of indigo. How many evenings like this had you spent wasting your youth on a man that had been stringing you along? On one that didn’t love you? Too many. Way too many.

You grew up with the Holmes brothers. You were the same age as Sherlock, and Mycroft was the cool, smooth older brother. You grew up across the street from them, and unlike a lot of the other children in the neighborhood, you weren’t scared off by their intellect and naturally cold demeanor. You knew from the start that there was a warmth underneath there, you just had to stick around for the ice to melt. You might not have been as smart as them, and sometimes it was difficult to catch up to a lot of what they said but you showed an eagerness to learn. They appreciated that. They started to enjoy teaching you, not just calling you an idiot for it like they did the other kids.

Instead of hopscotch and football, it was crossword puzzles and University Challenge. It was a lot of reading outside with Mycroft while waiting for Sherlock to finish his violin lessons. That’s what you always liked about Mycroft. He didn’t have to sit out here and hang out with you. Most people didn’t do that with their kid brother’s friends. But he seemed genuinely interested in what you were reading, asking questions, telling you more information than what was in the book, always amazing you with how much stayed inside of his head. Even when high school was finished with, and you moved on to a college while Mycroft went to Cambridge, he stayed in touch with you. A little too in touch.

You met up for dinner one night. You had expected him to bring his surly brother along but no, it was just the two of you, at a rather nice Italian restaurant that you had always said you wanted to go to but could never afford. The kind with real breadsticks on the table, not ones out of a box. Where the waiters had uniforms and not just a dirty t-shirt with a washed out logo on it. He treated you to dinner, and a cheeky glass of wine, and listened to - or seemed to - you talk about your annoying dormmate and the lame parties that you had been invited to go to. He eventually got around to asking you if there was anyone interesting that you were seeing on campus. You found it hard to believe that he asked something so personal. He never asked about other friends, let alone boyfriends. The question made you nearly choke on your wine. He was there with a napkin which you gladly used to blot at your mouth.

“Oh um - well, there is one bloke I’ve been talking to a little bit, his name is Kevin, he’s really nice actually. He’s studying-”

“Oh, Kevin,” Mycroft said, the snobby voice starting to take effect. Oh yes, he had that since you two were children as well. There was no getting rid of it, as annoying as it sometimes could be. “Pedestrian name. Has he ever taken you to a place like this?”

You looked around, and had to admit that no. Kevin really hadn’t taken you to a place like this. “He hasn’t taken me to a restaurant, actually,” You admitted. “We went to a party, the one that I was just telling you about. But then he went to his friends and I went to mine...”

“Doesn’t sound much like a gentleman,” Mycroft mused. “If I were to go to a party with you, though I do find the idea of a party to be degrading and below the both of us, I wouldn’t leave your side. Especially not to go and talk to the sort of people that I’m sure that he considers friends.”

You continued sipping on your wine despite the fact that you were feeling rather confused. "Are you telling me that you want me to bring you to one of the college parties? I can’t even picture it,” You laughed. “But you do have a point. His friends are definitely chavs. I try not to speak to them really but-”

“No, I’m most certainly not asking to go to one of those depraved get-togethers,” He scoffed. “What I am trying to say is that you deserve someone who is not going to walk off once there are other options of people to talk to. Why, I’ve always found conversation with you to be quite stimulating. The person that you deem as your equal, as someone worthy of being in a flirtation with, let alone a relationship, should be seeking you out at a party. That is what I’m saying.”

Was it hot in the restaurant or was it just you? “A compliment from Mycroft Holmes. I can hardly believe it,” You chuckled over your wine, holding it in front of your face. “And one involving a party no less. Well thank you, Mycroft. I appreciate it. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Will you?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. “I do hope so. We’ve known each other all of these years and still keep in touch. You must know how rare that is for me. I do believe the word is ... captivated.”

That’s all it took. That’s all that it took for you to stop seeing Mycroft as just Sherlock’s brother, and as someone beguiling. The strawberry blonde hair that curled just above one eye, just short enough not to be annoying but also just long enough to get him a step away from the squeaky clean boy image that he had. You spent night after night with him, doing things that you wouldn’t regularly do. Sneaking onto the Cambridge campus for film nights, and then holding onto his arm as he walked you back to the bus stop, laughing about the historical inaccuracies. Walking past protests that were happening against Thatcher and talking about it. You sneakily pinned a ‘Down with Thatcher’ pin onto his jacket. Despite the fact that he would have realized quite early on that it was there, it wasn’t taken off until he switched jackets for the season.

Then there was that night. That dark and fateful night, as a gothic novelist might put it. Where you put your favorite red dress on, with matching rouge upon your cheeks and lipstick upon your mouth, your best pair of heels and stars in your eyes. Stars and hearts both. This was going to be the night when you were going to tell Mycroft Holmes that you had fallen in love with him. This is the night where you were going to go back to the restaurant where he first paid you those compliments that you did keep in your mind, right at the front of it, repeating those words to yourself again and again whenever you had some alone time. Touching yourself to them. Quite stimulating indeed. You were going to confess your love and he would do the same and you would kiss, shamelessly. You would share a tiramisu dessert, noting that he quite enjoyed sweets.

That’s where the good ended. Right when you walked into the restaurant. Up until then, everything had been sublime. You even had been complimented by a couple of people on the subway. And not just leering perverted comments either. You looked lovely, you looked great, where did you get that dress, someone is going to have a good night. You were feeling it. And you had been trying to chase that confidence ever since.

“Ma’am?” The cab driver asked, bringing you out of your reverie. “We’re here.”

“Thank you,” You said, gathering yourself. You paid him with a hefty tip and then got out, and stood in front of the steakhouse. It was just Sherlock, surely. And John. And a chance to have a good meal on someone else’s dime, never anything wrong with that.

Shoulders back and stand up tall. There were workers right there at the doors who opened them with a greeting and a friendly smile which you returned. You gave your name to the host and he immediately brought you towards a table in the back. You smiled to yourself when you saw Sherlock’s messy head of curls. Some things would never change. The more that people tried to tell him to cut it, the longer he let it grew, until it annoyed only himself. The little rebel. And John, of course, whose blog you’ve perused once or twice - shorter than you imagined but pleasant nonetheless.

What did Sherlock need? He got straight to the point, or rather he did in his own sort of way. There was a lot of information being thrown at you but you remembered enough from your friendship days to sort through it and find what was important. An art piece had been stolen. He didn’t care much about art. But since you had gone to the college of the arts ... he needed your help. He wouldn’t say so upfront, but the way that he spoke made you feel like you were obligated to help him.

“It could be a homophobic attack,” You said, stroking your chin. “The artist was known to have some close male friends. Or it could have something to do with the Nazis. Everything always comes down to them but art theft - they hid so many masterpieces from the world, and some had yet to be discovered. This piece that was stolen is one of the recovered pieces. It could be some deranged supremacist trying to regain the lost collection.”

“Ahh, speaking of supremacist,” Sherlock said, his eyes now gazing above your head. A shadow had come over you, darkening your plate, your glass. You knew who it was by the silhouette.

“Apologies for being late - I didn’t wish to come,” Mycroft’s voice rang, as snobby as ever. It was such a him answer to give. You wish that you had thought of it. You were finding yourself wishing that you hadn’t come either, despite enjoying yourself a few moments prior, remembering why you and Sherlock had been friends in the first place. He walked around without greeting you, or even seeming to notice you - up until he sat across from you at the table. Whoever he might have been expecting to be sitting there, it wasn’t you, and for the first time, you saw surprise gleam across his eyes. And then - was that guilt? You could only hope so.

You were pleased to see that he had aged. That helped you a small bit. In your mind, he stayed in his early twenties, but here he was now, his hair thinning, hairline receding, wrinkles and all. It would have been better if he wasn’t still handsome despite this, but beggers can’t be choosers.

“Miss y/l/n,” Mycroft said, his voice raising as if he were asking a question more than a greeting. You decided not to respond, turning your head towards Sherlock, and bade him to continue, which he did without delay. Get him talking about a case and he can go on for hours. You attempted to enjoy your meal, all while trying your utmost not to look across from you but it was so damn hard. Seeing Mycroft hit you like a truck. It brought back all of those unpleasant memories.

You had walked into the restaurant, eager and ready. You thought that perhaps ... just maybe... this would be one of the best nights of your life. Mycroft, your partner, had admitted that he had been hiding something and was ready to come clean. You and your girl friends thought this meant that he was going to tell you that he loves you. You wore your best outfit, you had gotten your hair done, your make up was perfect. You were going to open your heart once he did and say those three words back.

You loved him, you loved him, you loved him. The way that he was so smooth. So debonair. So ambitious. He was going places. You were so proud of him for all of it. Every contact that he made, who he’d tell you about, getting excited like a child because he shook the hand of someone in parliament. He opened doors for you, he would ask you what you wanted at a restaurant and then order it for you, he’d send you flowers when you did well on an exam.

That wasn’t what it was at all. You were having your heart broken. Decimated. Crushed beyond recognition.

An experiment. For school. That’s what this whole thing had been. He’d been studying the psychology of romantic couples, and what better way was there to study than be a part of one himself? He proudly showed you the marks that he had gotten, the stacks of notes in case you wanted to read them over. He had only done a good job because he had a good partner. Well done. Cheerio. Claps all around.

You couldn’t breathe. You felt like you were drowning, you just wanted to flail, to kick, to pull yourself up into the air but you were also terrified of making a scene in the restaurant, of having everyone look at you and know immediately that you were nothing more than a grade, not good for anything else. Wasted time, wasted effort, wasted love.

“Excuse me,” You said, throwing your napkin down on your half-finished meal and you departed. You didn’t go to the bathroom, you walked home. All fourteen blocks. Your heels clicked and clacked against the London streets, and you hadn’t paid any attention to anyone who walked past you. You think, perhaps, someone had asked you if you were alright? But you weren’t. You just kept walking until your feet hurt, and then you took off your shoes, carried them in your hands, and kept on walking. You had dropped one. You got home with only one of them but you didn’t care. You dropped into your bed and stayed there for two full days.

Mycroft tried to call a couple of times. You kept the phone off the hook. He tried to call some of your friends, but after they had found out what had happened, they said such scathing things that he hadn’t dared to call again. A part of you was hoping that he would show up at your dorm, or at one of your classes and tell you that he knew he had made a mistake, but that was not something that a Holmes would ever do. As far as you knew, he had never showed up.

Time went on, life went on, but you never forgot the pain. You never forgot Mycroft. You tried to go on dates with other men, your friends setting you up, dating apps, people from work, but it never felt right. If they didn’t open the doors for you, or offer to order for you, it felt like you weren’t being treated quite right. If they did do those things, since there are still gentlemen left in the world, you couldn’t trust that there was some ulterior motive. That this was a study. A joke. Nothing ever got past a first date. A spinster by twenty-five.

You hated how much you looked at him while you were trying not to. Out of the corner of your eye, there he was. In the reflection of your knife. Of your wineglass. Every time that you heard his voice, you remembered the sweet nights, the old dates. The conversations that lasted for hours. You tried to focus on what Sherlock was saying, but it felt impossible. You were trying to overcome that feeling of drowning again. Trying to keep in control and not just walk out like you had the last time.

But when it came down to it, you were still just help in a study. Whether it was for school, or for a case, it was all the same.

When the waiter came around with the bill, you jumped at the chance to leave at an appropriate time. You went through your purse, dug out some notes, and put them onto the table. “Well, gentlemen, it has been a lovely evening.” Your voice was shaky, giving you away. You did your best to ignore that. Pretend it didn’t happen. Pretend a lot of this didn’t happen, for your own sake. “I’m glad you have been of help, and I hope all goes well.”

“So you do still love him,” Sherlock said, making all eyes at the table, including yours, turn to him. And then six were right back on you.

“P-pardon?” You asked, hoping you heard him incorrectly.

“You’re flushed, your palms are sweaty,” Sherlock started to list.

“It’s warm in here.”

“Your voice went higher once he came in-”

“Did not.”

“The complete and utter avoidance while you were still mirroring his movements,”

“We’re at a restaurant, everyone is eating here...”

“And you’ve been fidgeting for the past half hour,” Sherlock finished.

“How do you know I don’t just fidget all of the time?” You argued.

“Pardon, I forgot becoming defensive.”

You couldn’t take anymore. You finally looked right over to Mycroft. Stared into his blue-gray eyes. And then yours narrowed. “I’ll never forgive what you did to me, Mycroft Holmes. Not for any of it.”

And you stood up then. No one tried to stop you this time around. Sherlock didn’t have anything witty to say, or if he did, it blended in with the rest of the noise of the restaurant. You took your leave. You stepped out into the gloomy London evening, raised your arm and fetched yourself a cab. You got into it slowly, situating yourself, looking towards the door of the restaurant, hoping and also dreading that he might come out. That Mycroft is going to run out and apologize and grovel at your feet. No. He didn’t happen. So you gave your address to the patient cab driver and made your way home.

At least you had both shoes on this time.

#Mycroft Holmes #Mycroft Holmes x reader #Mycroft Homes oneshot #Sherlock #Sherlock oneshot #BBC Sherlock #BBC Sherlock oneshot #oneshot #one shot #x reader #request #mycroft #mycrofts

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sandcobangevent · 16 hours

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All in the Family

by emilycare and alastor watson-holmes Read the fic and view the art on AO3!

“John, we should go.”

Mariana stood, pulling her coat off the back of the chair and slinging her purse over her shoulder.

John stayed where he was.

The monitors whirred, a slight beep sounded. The wheels on a gurney rattled in the hall. The sound grew louder momentarily as a nurse passed the room Sherlock had been checked into, receded to a low rumble, and then was gone.

Mariana put a hand on John’s shoulder gently. “You need to get some rest. There’s nothing more we can do now. The doctors have things well in hand.” She smiled at him. “You know that better than I.”

John sighed. His shoulders slumped. He tore his eyes away from the quiet figure on the bed and looked up at Mariana.

“Of course, you’re right. They’ve stabilized him, and his numbers are much better.” He nodded at a display, but his hands continued to grip the sides of the plastic chair beneath him. His eyes drifted away from Mariana’s gaze and shifted right back to where they had been for the past hour: where Sherlock had lain since leaving the critical care unit.

Marian gave his shoulder a pat. “Alright.” John looked at her again. She gave him an earnest look. “It’s going to be alright. He’s going to be alright.”

John flashed her a grimace of a smile. “Of course he is.”

Mariana sighed and let her hand drop to her side. “Don’t forget to eat something for dinner. There is a café downstairs. They have bacon butties, which I know you love. John?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. Bacon butties. Butt-butt-buttery. Butt-tastic. I’ll be sure to go right down and get one. In a bit.”

“Uh huh. Well, I’ll see you later then.” She looked from John to Sherlock. “And don’t worry about Archie.”

John’s eyes snapped around to meet Mariana’s. “Oh! Thank you so much.” He stood, touching her elbow. “I’m so sorry to put you to the trouble, Mariana—”

“John,” Mariana interrupted. “It’s no trouble. He’s my dog, too.” She gestured to Sherlock. “We all love him.”

“I know, and I appreciate it,” said John. He mopped his hand across his forehead and through his hair, leaving it tousled. “Oh, perhaps I should go, too.” He tugged at the ends of his short hair, his other hand perched on his hip, staring back at Sherlock again.

Mariana said, “Stay, John. It’s obvious that you want to.”

John looked at her. His fake smile was gone now. In his eyes she saw the exhaustion, the fear, the loss that she’d been feeling, too. Since she received the call from John that Sherlock had been attacked in the park. That he was being rushed to hospital.

She had been shocked: the case was over. But somehow the sister of the person they’d most likely put in prison for life had tracked them down. She followed them as they left Baker Street, and ambushed Sherlock with a knife.

Sherlock had been taken by surprise. Wearing his ear defenders and concentrating on some lose ends about the case they’d not been able to tie up, he was unaware of his attacker. John had not been at his side. When it happened, he was standing in line to get them both ice lollies, allowing Sherlock to avoid the crowd.

“It wasn’t your fault, you know,” Mariana said as John saw her to the elevator.

John’s shoulders tensed. “And whose fault is it then?”

“This woman, the sister. Sherlock said she was accomplice to the murder, right?”

“Yes,” said John, turning another shade of pale. “As he lay there bleeding out, the git was deducing her.” John gave a disbelieving laugh. “He honestly was so happy with himself. I had to force him to stay still so I could put pressure on his wound.”

“I cannot believe that—what am I saying, of course, I do. It’s Sherlock.”

They both chuckled. Mariana’s elevator arrived.

“So, thank you for watching Archie,” Johns said. “Thank goodness he was back at the flat when everything happened.”

Mariana stepped into the lift. She looked back at John. Something in his expression made her stop the door from closing.

“John, do you want me to stay? I could call someone else to look after Archie. There are plenty of dog watchers in London.”

“What? No, go home, get some rest.”

“But,” Mariana hesitated. “I don’t know if you should be alone right now. You’ve been through a lot, too.”

John put out a hand and touched Mariana’s. He shook his head. “It’s fine. I’m fine. I just…I really don’t want him to be alone. Don’t want him to wake up from the anaesthesia and not know what’s going on.” He glanced back down the hall.

Mariana squeezed John’s hand. She nodded.

“Go.”

“Thanks, Mari,” John said. Then he gave the first real smile she’d seen on him since the attack. “Besides,” he tapped his recorder. “I’ve got plenty of company, right here.”

Some time later, after several nurses had been in to check Sherlock’s temperature and IV, someone came by with a packet of Sherlock’s things they had stripped from him prior to surgery. John set them down and pulled his chair out of the way. He turned the lights up and started adjusting Sherlock’s dressings. John averted his eyes as Sherlock’s gown was untied to replace it. Another smiling nurse joined the first, and nodded to John as she pulled the privacy curtain closed.

John hummed to himself and pulled out the recorder. Checking the battery level, he saw that it was charged. He pushed record. Settling in on the chair once more, he narrated the actions of the nurses, the summaries given by the surgeons who had worked on Sherlock earlier, and described their surroundings for the listeners at home.

“..It’s really rather a nice hospital. If you like those kinds of things. I mean, who really likes a hospital though? I mean, but I have had some hospitals I’ve come to feel quite partial to. Bart’s, for one. Of course. Lots of good memories there with Stamo. And the boys, back in uni. And well, the girls, too. I mean, the women. Ladies? No, women, surely. And other folks, of course. Now what do I call nonbinary blokes? Um, mates? Mates is good, that’s not gendered, is it? What do you think, podpals? Is ‘mate’ generic? What do you use to refer to your non-, fluid-, other- questioning- or variously other gendered palsy-walsies? Oh, Christ, John. Palsy-walsies? They’re not 3 years old. I am sorry, listeners. Oh, bollocks. Maybe I should just erase all this and start over—”

John’s rambling was interrupted by a buzzing sound. He looked around.

“Sorry, my good podlings. Wait—podpals, we’ve already got a fine little moniker there, don’t we? Gender neutral with the best of them, I would say. What was I saying? Oh right!” John reached pulled the bag to him. “Unh. I mean, there’s a call coming to Sherlock’s phone.” He glanced at the recorder, weighing out whether he should stop the recording, then rolled his eyes, leaving it rolling and pulled open the plastic bag.

Once he got the phone out of the bag, John paused. The nurses were finishing up with Sherlock. One pulled open the curtain as he watched. She gave John a bright smile.

“Your fellow’s doing fine. No need to worry.”

“He’s—” John paused, both not wanting to make the wrong impression, and also not wanting to come off like a homophobic arsehole, hurrying to deny any possibility of them being mistaken for lovers.

She tutted sympathetically. “You’re looking worse for wear. Would you like me to make arrangements for there to be a bed pulled in here, tonight? We sometimes make exceptions to the visiting hours for partners. And I can see you’ve had a right fright with this one.”

“Erm. That would be—I mean, we are partners.”

“Fine then,” she said brightly. “Don’t you worry about it. We’ll take care of it.”

They trundled away in a flurry of bustle, taking their antiseptic atmosphere to the next room down the hall.

“Well, podpals. Looks like we’ve gotten ourselves into a fine one, haven’t we,” John said, a new cheer in his voice evident. “What do you think? Would Sherlock mind that I’ve implied we are…intimate in order to keep him company here? Honestly, I don’t think he would mind. But what’s that you’re all shouting at me from the pod-void? What was I doing just a minute ago, and what’s happening on Sherlock’s phone? Well, wait no more faithful listeners. Here we are, I’ve got Sherlock’s phone now, and it says that Sherlock had a call from one—wait for it—there was a call from someone called the ‘British Government’… Erm, well. I guess that should be no surprise, when we’ve actually had Barack Obama in the flat. And there’s a text coming in now from that same account. Well, sorry to rouse your curiosity, but surely this is private. We’ll just put that phone right back down.” John set the phone on the table by Sherlock. Then drummed his fingers on the edge of the bed as he heard it buzz once more. He knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't help himself. He reached over, picked up the phone and read the most recent text.

The British Government: We do hope you will respond, eventually.

John scrolled up to prior messages and found similar expressions of impatience. Several from the last few minutes. Others from prior days. He smiled, thinking that his business partner had put the affairs of the private citizens they’d just helped over some toff from the government. But John dutifully thumbed a message, letting them know that the detective was injured and not consulting presently, but that he or an associate would be in contact when he was well enough to consider their case.

“Whatever case it is that they want to consult with our Sherlock on will just have to wait. Perhaps it’s something to do with national security? Or maybe someone stole some of the crown jewels? Or robbed the British Museum. Wouldn’t be the worst thing, that. I mean, I might lend a helping hand if certain parties came to us wanting to liberate some of the treasures rotting behind glass in our country for some godforsaken reason, when they really belong back where they came from. Oh, the purloined flowers of colonialism, eh? What do you think, Sherlock? That a nice little phrase there?”

John addressed Sherlock in the bed, leaning closer. He lowered his voice as he came near. Sherlock twitched, his shoulder hitching up slightly. John thought he saw movement of eyes beneath closed eyelids. But Sherlock made no response to John otherwise. Sherlock’s hands lay limp and heavy on the tightly made sheets.

John rested his hand on the bed. The energy that had briefly animated him seemed to depart. He sighed.

“Well, podpals,” he said in a hushed voice. “I’ll be talking with you again later. Seems like we’ll be on a bit of a hiatus from cases. But I’ll be sure to give you updates on Sherlock’s condition. And I hope you all won’t forget about us in the meantime.”

John turned off the recorder and put it away with some finality.

“Well, mate,” John said. “It’s just you and me now. I hope this place isn’t driving you batty.” Sherlock took a slightly deeper breath, and John went on, encouraged. “I’ll see if we can get your weighted blanket in here. Though they’ve got you tucked in so tight, might well not need it. You can adjust that bed up and down when you want. Wonder if you’ll want us to get you one for home? Not sure how we’d get it up the stairs, but anything’s possible… Oh, mate. Sherlock. You’ve got to hang in there, right? I don’t think... I mean. I don’t really want to think about what it would be if you didn’t do well. I mean, we’ve just caught our stride, right? After the Silver Blaze thing, and all, I mean. We’re just right together. Don’t you think? And well, I mean, I’m sure I’m not alone, but I just think that the world kind of needs you. And well, maybe…”

John had leaned closer as he spoke, his hand resting now on Sherlock’s wrist, lightly. Sherlock’s hand moved beneath his, and John pulled away.

Even more quietly, John said, “I’ll let you rest. Heal up. Sherly.”

Moving the chair back, as far as he could in the small room, John pulled out his phone and caught up on messages. Mariana had reached home by now and sent a picture of Archie on their sofa. John smiled at the image of the dog lying belly-up for scritches. A warm feeling in his stomach chased away the chill that he’d been feeling. He checked his emails, and comments on Twitter, Discord and the Patreon blog, not replying to the folks who had questions about the case as yet. Unsure what to say.

Sherlock’s phone buzzed.

John opened an app on his phone and started playing the latest mindless game he’d become addicted to.

Sherlock’s phone buzzed again. It shuddered on the table. John looked over at it. The light flashed on the screen and he peered curiously. Then he shook his head, stood briefly and turned the phone upside down.

Over the next few minutes it buzzed again once, then twice. Then several times in succession. John paused in his game each time.

Sometime later the phone buzzed again several times in a row. He almost went to pick up the phone again, then stopped himself and moved closer to Sherlock instead.

Sherlock was lying still, breathing easily, a canula positioned beneath his nostrils blowing oxygen steadily. John laid his hand on Sherlock’s arm, feeling the cool skin beneath his.

“Mate, you’ve really got to wake up soon. I mean, Archie is going to miss his favorite place to nap. And Mariana will absolutely lose the plot if we don’t get another case with an actual client soon. You know, the kind that hire us, rather than us wandering in on them and telling the police what’s what. Turns out it’s kind of slightly expensive to live in central London. Who would have guessed?”

The phone buzzed again, then went silent.

“And there’s this,” John said. He reached over now and did pick up the phone. “Somebody’s missing you. Not really sure who, since Mariana knows you’re not in any shape to be answering. And I’m right here. Guess it could be some past clients. Or,” John made a face. “whoever it is that provides your little pick me ups, or whatever you call them.” John gave a long sigh. He picked up Sherlock’s hand in both of his and chafed it. “I really, really, just need to know you’re coming back. Because, I don’t think I can handle this on my own. And more than that, I just miss your wise-arse self. I mean, I’d be happy to come running right now to, I dunno, watch you learn to juggle? Set up a beehive? You’ve done with ants, maybe it’s time to graduate to the big time.”

Sherlock turned his head, his chin dipping down as it came into contact with the tube connected to his face. The hand in John’s resisted his grip, and his eyes rolled slightly, showing some agitation.

“Hey, mate,” said John, “are you waking up?” He pushed the button to call an attendant, then put a hand on Sherlock’s cheek to still his motions. “It’s all right, Sherlock. You’re fine.” John took Sherlock’s hand in his again, interlacing their fingers.

He heard footsteps at the door. John kept his eyes on Sherlock, but addressed the arrival, “Heyyy, I’m so glad you could come so quickly. Sorry to trouble you, but he’s just gotten restless and I was worried he might pull something out of him if he woke up in a panic and—”

John broke off. Instead of the familiar figures in green and blue scrubs, there was a tall, imposing figure in a three piece suit standing at the door. Dark eyes stared at John where he stood by the bed, fingers interlaced with Sherlock’s.

“Oi,” barked John. “This is a private room.” He peered past the man, but saw no nurse responding yet. He pointed with his chin. “Reception’s that way. They’ll help you find who you need.”

Rather than leaving, the man stepped into the room, walking over to the bed. He raised his eyebrows as he came closer.

“Erm, can I help you?” asked John. He gave his best dismissive glance to the stranger, but suddenly the motions Sherlock had been making ceased, his body relaxing back into stillness, and the change brought John’s full attention back to his friend.

The door opened once more, and two nurses entered. “Doctor Watson?” one asked.

“He seemed to be waking.” John dropped his hand from Sherlock’s lax one. “I don’t know what happened. All of a sudden he just fell back asleep.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” the nurse said. “May we help you?” she addressed the newcomer.

“Possibly. But it’s my brother that needs the assistance presently.”

“Your brother?” John asked.

The man inclined his head. “Indeed. Why wasn’t I informed?”

The nurse looked at the clipboard on the end of the bed. “Mr Holmes listed Doctor Watson, his husband," she nodded to John, "as his emergency contact. The hospital leaves it to the family members to inform one another. You’ll excuse me.” She closed the curtains around them once more as they checked on Sherlock.

“Husband?!” said the stranger.

“Erm,” John put out his hands. “Well, they may have assumed, and it was easier to let them think that.”

“You’re impersonating my brother’s spouse?!”

“No, really, it’s not like that at all. I just said the truth, I told them I was his partner, and well, they assumed something different. Meant I could stay here later, and honestly, I just thought he might be upset if he woke up somewhere strange, alone. It’s so bright here, and never really quiet. I just didn’t want him to not have a familiar face with him. And you know, I didn’t know if he had any family to be here for him, so well, we’re it.”

“Could you take this outside?” said the nurse. “He does seem to be still asleep, so we don’t want to disturb him.

“Certainly,” said the stranger, with a flick of a cold glance at John.

“Of course,” said John, huffing at the thought that it was him who was disturbing Sherlock.

“Mr Holmes,” said John as they awkwardly stood together outside of the room. “Shall we have a cup of coffee and start over.” John held out his hand. “The most important thing is that we are both here for Sherlock. Now.”

Holmes shook John’s hand. “Certainly. My brother never mentioned me?”

“No,” said John, thinking of Victor Trevor’s words to the same effect.

“Well, I have you at the disadvantage. I know that you’re a doctor, and served in the military—officially and unofficially. You share a flat and a business with my brother. You have a dog and suffer from PTSD.”

John had frozen at the mention of his military history and stood staring up at the man. Holmes’ eyes had the same faraway look that Sherlock’s would get during a case.

“How did you know all of that? No, wait. You saw some dog hair on my coat, didn’t you? And did you guess about my stint in the army from how I walk? Sherlock tells me my injury still shows. But how could you possibly know about my PTSD?”

“Oh, Doctor Watson, your life is an open book. Since you met my brother, I hear of Sherlock everywhere. And I thought it prudent to learn a bit about someone who has brought him so much attention and notoriety.”

“So, you listened to the podcast,” John said. “Of course, I should have realized. No one can do what he does.”

“On the contrary,” said Holmes. “My brother was always a bit slower on the uptake. He has this trouble concentrating, you see.”

“You mean his ADHD. Can just call it that, you know.”

“Apparently that is what my brother is convinced is the case.”

“Hey, are you insinuating he doesn’t know what’s going on in his own head?”

“No, Doctor Watson. I merely mean that he has come to these conclusions on his own. There is no formal diagnosis.” He quirked his eyebrow again at John. “I had thought that if he had taken up with a medical practitioner that might mean he was pursuing something a bit more rigorous.”

“He’s perfectly capable of taking care of himself, thank you very much. Doesn’t need me around to take care of him. And apparently doesn’t need you nosing about his business, since I hadn’t even heard of your existence until today. And he’s being called on by Presidents and heads of state.”

Holmes gave a small, sad smile. “I know. I’m most proud of him.”

John was taken aback. “Well,” he said, still standing on his dignity. “You should be. He’s remarkable.”

Mycroft flashed a smile at John. “He is, isn’t he?” The door opened to the room, a nurse gesturing for them to return inside. Holmes gestured to John, letting him lead the way.

They were informed that Sherlock was resting peacefully once more. That the doctor on shift would be by soon to inform them about the recovery procedures, and most importantly, when he was likely to be released. John listened raptly, asking questions and forgetting for a moment that the brother was there at all.

“Did you have any questions, Mr Holmes?” asked the nurse when John was done with his cross-examination.

“No, Doctor Watson has been most thorough. I can see that Sherlock is indeed in good hands.”

The nurse smiled, patting John on the shoulder. “He’s a very lucky man, your brother, to have a partner as knowledgeable and caring as he is.”

John’s face turned pink. “Well, about that—”

Holmes spoke swiftly, “Thank you, I agree wholeheartedly. And I’m very glad that you’ve made arrangements for him to be able to be with my brother overnight.” He gave a meaningful look to John. John closed his mouth, and the pink tinge crept up to his ears.

After she left, John and Holmes stood by the bed. Another silence ensued, the awkwardness tenfold deeper than before. John racked his brain wildly for what to say.

Holmes relieved him of the necessity. He put out his hand for John to shake once more.

“It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Doctor Watson.”

“John, please.”

“John, then. My name is Mycroft. And here is my number.” He held out a business card. “Please don’t hesitate to call me should you need anything. I’ll make arrangements to be sure my brother’s insurance payment is in order.”

“Uh, that’s—I mean, thank you very much, but that won’t be necessary. He is—we all are—covered through the business.”

“Of course, you are.” Holmes smiled again, this time with a mischievous glint. The expression changed the look of his features. Now John could see the resemblance. “Not covered through spousal military benefits, then?”

John rolled his eyes. “No, of course not, I told you—”

“Not to worry, good doctor. Please give my greetings to your other business partner, Señora Ametxazurra,” Mycroft said, his pronunciation impeccable.

“Of course. Of course, I will.”

Mycroft nodded and left. John stood, staring after him, musing, until a voice spoke, startling him.

“John,” said Sherlock. His voice gruff with sleep.

John leapt at the sound. “Sherlock!”

“Is he gone?”

“Who? Your brother? Wait, were you just faking it this whole time?”

Sherlock shrugged. He tugged at the line connected to his nose. “Is this really necessary?”

John pulled Sherlock’s hand away from the tube. “Course it is. Standard procedure. But wait, you’re awake. How did the nurses not realize?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’ve been to university, and suffered through having an overbearing older brother and family. I’ve had plenty of opportunities for practice.”

“Well, mate. I’m just glad you’re awake now.” John pulled up a chair. “I’m sure you’ll want an update. And I’d like to hear how you’re feeling. Lestrade came by earlier to check on you. Brought you some flowers. Lovely. And Mariana was here most of the day. She’s with Archie now. He sends little snuffles of love by the way. Misses you, apparently.”

“Does he?” Sherlock said doubtfully, but with a smile.

“Absolutely. Place isn’t the same without you to drool on. I heard it from the horse’s mouth itself.”

“Don’t you mean the dog’s mouth?”

“I guess I do. So, I’ll fill you in. But is there anything you need.”

“There is one thing.”

“Name it.”

“When I woke, I had a pleasant sensation of pressure.”

“Did you? I was wondering if these blankets would do it for you. We can have Mariana bring over your weighted blanket if you want, though.”

“No, that is now what I was referring to. Although that is…adequate.”

“What then?”

Sherlock held out his hand.

“Oh,” said John, blushing once more. “Didn’t really think you’d notice that. Being asleep and all.”