Promise to the Living

Chapter Thirteen

When the Audi purred to a stop outside the manor, which was ablaze with light, the front door flew open and the private team of doctors and nurses hurried down the steps. John was able to walk unaided but after grumbling that he was "fine", Mycroft fainted a second time and had to be carried into the house by a male nurse who could have been a Schwarzenegger body double.

"One would think the Prime Minister had been shot," Lestrade exclaimed, blinking in awe at the bright lights and mad activity.

"That's not too far from the truth," John replied.

To his relief, he and Mycroft were treated in the same room- the spacious chamber where they'd dueled over breakfast that morning. Only now the long wooden table was pushed against the wall and two gurneys stood in its former place with a medical supply cart between them.

While his arm wound was stitched, John watched three doctors hover over the unconscious Mycroft, prodding his ribcage and cleaning the caked blood from his hair and face. Noticing his scrutiny, one of the physicians said, "He's going to be all right, Dr. Watson. His left arm is sprained, and he has three cracked ribs and a concussion, but barring unforeseen complications, he'll recover."

"Hell, John." Lestrade shook his head. "He's as disaster-prone as Sherlock was."

John opened his mouth to object, but had to concede the truth. Mycroft routinely courted annihilation, just as Sherlock had. The elder brother might not have played poison pill games or chased giant Czech hit men through dark tunnels, but he ran in circles that left him vulnerable to the assassin's bullet or a car bomb or men like Sebastian Moran. And if he was anything like Sherlock in that respect, he wouldn't have it any other way.

Mycroft regained consciousness while the doctors were applying tape to his ribs. He moaned loudly in pain until his sense of dignity kicked in. Then he bit his lip and hissed, "Fuck, that hurts."

John had never heard him swear before: the pain must have really been horrific. "It's alright, Mycroft. Cracked ribs are a bastard. They'll get you sorted with some painkillers."

"That would be lovely." The elder Holmes tried to sit up but collapsed against the pillows with an agonized grimace. "Suspended animation until it all passes would be even better."

Lestrade smiled at that. "Suspended animation sounds perfect right about now. Another reason I'm up here, John: the Superintendent is being an arse, has been for months, and I needed a vacation. I've got a room at an inn in Harrogate for the next two weeks. You should come for a pint when you're feeling up to it."

John realized that as recently as this morning, he would have welcomed Lestrade not merely as a friend, but as a rescuer. In fact, if he tried to leave with the DI now, it was debatable whether Mycroft would try to stop him. But he couldn't bring himself to take that first step.

He wanted –no, needed - to stay with Mycroft. They were essential to each other's healing. He saw the red welts that still dotted the older man's bare chest and something within him clenched.

"I'd be happy to take you up on that offer, Greg. Maybe in a couple of days."

"You've got my number." Lestrade rose, rubbing at his eyes. "It's late, and I'd best be getting back. Maybe I'll drop by tomorrow, Mr. Holmes, if that's all right?"

"Mycroft, please. And yes. Of course."

John stood too. As he extended his hand, he said, "Thanks for coming. It really means a lot. I know I've been worrying my friends for a long time."

Lestrade accepted the handshake. "Yeah. You have. But I can tell you're going to be all right now."

John nodded. "I think so too."

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John Watson had a lot of healing to do in the days that followed. His arm bothered him, but his real suffering continued to be mental and emotional: every night he dreamed about Sherlock, and couldn't shake the persistent feeling that his best friend was still present and watching him. Once he woke up at midnight and actually smelled Sherlock's cologne in the room.

Or thought he did, anyway.

As Mycroft had promised, it did get easier. Not as quickly as John would have liked, but any progress was better than the black depression that had nearly killed him. He voluntarily took anti-anxiety medication, conceding that it allowed him to think more clearly and process his grief without destructive impulses rising to the forefront. He also went for long walks on the grounds, sometimes alone but usually with Mycroft, who listened to him talk and commiserated when appropriate.

After verifying that Mycroft had indeed been right about the jeweler's death, Lestrade began sending other challenging case files via fax or e-mail attachment. John would grab the printouts and peruse them, focusing on the forensic reports. He was pleased to discover that his medical expertise and familiarity with Sherlock's methods allowed him to see things that the police investigators didn't. But when something didn't make sense- even if it was just a small, niggling detail- he showed the file to Mycroft, who invariably explained its significance and, when he was in a spoilsport mood, solved the case entirely.

"Transparent," he would drawl. Then he'd close his laptop or lay his mountain of paperwork aside and they'd talk some more. About Sherlock. About John's feelings. About the future.

John believed that these chats benefited Mycroft as much as they did him. Before Sherlock's death, Mycroft had limited all conversation to the matter at hand. John always assumed that the genteel abruptness had been a personality flaw or the result of bureaucratic brainwashing, but now he recognized it for what it was: a shield. A fence that kept everyone else out of Mycroft's own mind palace. When he and John were alone, the drawbridge was lowered, and the elder Holmes exhibited normal, even enthusiastic behaviour: showing teeth when smiling, sitting in a chair with his legs tucked beneath him, and laughing with genuine warmth.

They were better for each other than any psychiatrist could be.

"I'd like you to work for me, John," Mycroft said one afternoon.

"Doing what?"

"This sort of thing." The elder Holmes waved gracefully over the police reports. "The matters that I'm required to deal with are not only dangerous but highly confidential in nature, and I can trust you in a way that I can few others. You don't have to decide now, but do give it some thought."

"You just want someone to do your legwork," John kidded him. But he knew what his answer would be when his left hand steadied.

The following afternoon, Molly drove up from London for a visit, bringing Mrs. Hudson with her. After greeting John with a huge hug, she excused herself for twenty minutes, saying she needed to speak to Mycroft. John enjoyed an emotional reunion with his former landlady until she returned.

"Mr. Holmes says that you're helping out Scotland Yard with cases again," Molly said cheerily as they sat around an elaborate tea spread.

"A bit."

"Just like old times," Mrs. Hudson sighed. "Except for Sherlock-" She caught herself. "I'm sorry, John."

"Don't be."

Molly regarded him solemnly. "He's proud of you, you know. Sherlock."

John smiled wistfully, but Mrs. Hudson frowned. "Don't you mean 'was', dear?"

"Sorry?"

"You said Sherlock is proud."

"Oh." Molly flushed, and gave her trademark nervous giggle. "I'm sorry. Poor choice of tenses."

"It's all right." John touched her hand. "I didn't even notice. I don't know if it's this place having an effect on me, but I sense him everywhere. Sometimes I'm okay with it, other times I just want to…." He trailed off.

Mycroft came in then, moving gingerly because of the stiff tape wrapped around his ribs. "You want to, but you don't do it, John," he said as he sat down. "That's progress."

"It feels more like coping."

Mycroft smiled and exchanged an indecipherable look with Molly. "Sometimes they're one and the same."