Chapter Text
Doctor Withers was reaching an age where dying became a rather inviting prospect, where the after effects of bad choices wouldn't last too long. Of course, if he'd known then the repercussions he would get now, he would have changed his song in a heart beat.
The door to his consulting room flew open, and in stormed a man with a hawk-nose and eyes burning like fire. “I say!” Withers guffawed, rising much slower then he would have five years ago, “You can't just -”
Two hands grabbed him by the lapels, and he was dragged unceremoniously over the table, his feet leaving the floor with an unmanly squeeck. “Doctor Withers,” it growled.
It was surprising how one grabs for something you deemed unimportant in the face of losing it. His life had become dull, a wish to die second only for his wish to sleep, but being held by something so dreadfully angry made him appreciate every breath still owed to him.
By Jove! He would cooperate. “Yes!” he said, “I am Doctor Withers! Do I know you?”
The man smiled, baring teeth like a wolf, and Doctor Withers instinctively hunched his shoulders up, trying to hide his exposed throat.
“You don't know me,” he said, hands tightening in his lapels, “But you know my brother.”
Brother? For a moment sheer terror was shunned by blooming surprise. Brother? Whose brother? When had he even seen a man like this in his life? But slowly, like syrup creeping down his thoughts did small pieces begin to build a familiar picture. The nose, the eyes, the hair, cheekbones, good gods... “Mr. Holmes...?”
The smile widened and he was shoved backwards back into his chair. He'd barely regained his senses, when the chair was turned sharply, forcing him to face the madman head on - he was going to die.
“Who asked you?”
“What?”
The chair was shoved backwards, crashing into the wall, making him yelp, “Who asked you to kill Mycroft?”
Withers started with crystal clear surprise, “How did you -”
And for a brief moment the eyes softened, by a bitter cold fraction - “Because I don't believe a man who has served my brother for over ten years will do something so foolish without provocation,” only to let the anger return with a vengeance.
He swallowed, “The Drunken Rat, on cockbill street.” he said, his voice trembling, “They said, they said if I didn't help they'd – they'd hurt Alice.”
“Give me their names!”
“It was a hit on a government official!” he almost screamed, finding some courage buried beneath the raging terror, “They weren't exactly forthcoming with identities!”
Mr. Holmes suddenly stood back, eyes wide and fierce, breathing hard as if reeling something back in, and for a brief terrifying moment he was certain Mr. Holmes was about to strangle him. When he shot forward again, Withers flinched away, catching a scream in his throat, but Holmes instead slammed both hands on top of the armrests. And then said in a voice cold and low, and dangerous, “What else can you remember about them, Doctor Withers?”
Withers swallowed and stuttered past a sudden dry throat, “One had a-a glass eye, he looked like a dockworker....” he started shaking, his nails dug into the wood, “And um, the other had a tattoo on his left hand, it resembled a Dolphin, and he had red hair...”
For a full moment Mr. Holmes didn't move, eyes still burning into him, waiting, forcing him to think. Under such scrutiny he couldn't help but begin to babble, “They sent me a letter! They knew intimate details about my granddaughter! Said that if I didn't... remove Mr. Holmes, I would next find her floating in the Thames. So when he came in with appendicitis I -”
“Do you still have the letter?”
“Pardon?”
The hand slammed down on the window, “Do you have the letter!”
“Yes!”
With one more hard glare he finally stepped back, standing only one foot away, watching him like an angry wolf. He couldn't get wolf out of his head! Trembling, numb and feeling like a pot of poorly made jelly, Withers turned and reached out with slick hands to his desk drawer. He pulled out the letter and the man ripped it from his fingers before he could say a word.
His heart rammed and thumped in his chest, but he kept still, watching as Mr. Holmes read it carefully. Finally he placed it in his pocket and said, in a voice that made his spine go cold.
“Your services to my brother are no longer needed.” and he turned, but Withers couldn't let it go, he needed to know.
“Mr. Holmes!” he called, and surprisingly the man stopped, “Is your brother... is Mr. Holmes...?”
The silence stretched and Withers suddenly wished he'd kept his mouth shut. “My brother was seen to by a better doctor.” and he walked out with a final, “Good day to you.”
In the stillness Withers sat back in his chair, catching breath he didn't realise he'd lost in the argument. Perhaps he should visit his niece this afternoon. He only had so much time left, better make the most of it.
Wolf was not inaccurate. Holmes took to the streets like a man possessed, picking up trail after trail, the hours ticking down the afternoon and into the night when he finally found their names, and not long after their location. It would only take a message outlining the specifics to bring Gregson and six constables to the dreary old tavern.
After a short discussion, Gregson went inside with his men, and Holmes stood on the side, keeping his raging anger and need for retribution away from the situation. But when they dragged them Ricky, Bill and Julia into the open, and screaming into the wagon, Holmes was there, watching from the shadows.
He caught Gregson’s eye, who too stood watching the proceedings. After a long stare the two exchanged curt nods, and Holmes smiled. They would hang.
With a final glance he turned and left, his anger subdued by the knowledge that justice had been served, and his brother was safe once more.
The Clock tower chimed 12 by the time he reached Diogenes. He was let in without a word, and led down a corridor to a luxurious room, draped in red and furniture crafted from mahogany. It was warm and pleasant and when he stepped in he found Mycroft, much to his relief sitting up, despite the hour. Watson sat next to him, clearly tired, but conversing as best he could with the aloof and droll man.
“Holmes!” Watson said, having first spotted him. Holmes caught Mycroft’s eyes, his heart thumping, but his brother offered a weak smile.
I told you I’d be fine.
And all the tension fled. Holmes removed his scarf, grabbed another chair and placed it next to Watson’s, “I see you’re awake and well. Did you have time for the meeting?”
Mycroft glared, your brand of humor is unappreciated. Holmes suppressed a sharp smile.
“He will make a full recovery.” Watson piped in, giving a languid stretch. “But he will have to take it easy for a while.”
“Ha!” Mycroft barked, he’s making me stay in bed!
“Which is to say, he stays in bed. The wound needs to recover first.”
“I'm certain it does,” Holmes said. Mycroft shot him a look. They were both equally impossible when it came to their personal well-being, as Watson was sure to discover, if he hadn't already.
Watson suppressed a sharp yawn. It was clear his friend was done in, but like the soldier he was he wouldn’t relinquish his post until he was certain someone he could trust would take over. Holmes had never been more grateful to his friend.
Without really thinking, he reached out and touched his shoulder, “Thank you, Watson.”
Watson waved a quick hand, hiding his embarrassment, and offered a quick nod. “Did you find him?”
“Yes,” Holmes smiled when Watson suppressed another yawn, “But I shall tell you tomorrow, go and rest Watson.”
His friend did not argue, which only cemented Holmes’ assesment that Watson had reached his limit. “I'll leave you too it then,” he stood and headed out of the room.
The door closed, and Mycroft tuned to Holmes with a sharp smile. “He makes for a decent Doctor.” I like him.
“He is,” Holmes conceded. I like him as well.
The smile softened, “How well do you know each other?” When are you going to tell him?
“As well as we ever will.” Never.
Mycroft snorted and winced. Holmes sat down, taking the chair Watson had occupied, which was still warm. The second he sat down he realized just how tired he was. A soft hand brushed his own.
You should rest.
As should you, Holmes smiled back. He paused, then slowly turned his hand to hold the other, I am glad you're alright.
Mycroft nodded, squeezing back. And the two watched each other, reveling in the silence and words left unspoken, but never unheard. Just for them.