Work Text:
Mr. Holmes had to stop at the end of the street to look up the directions to the hospital again.
“It’s right there in London, you honestly cannot miss it,” his wife had insisted, amused at her husband’s confusion.
“Alright,” he said to himself, starting up the car, and taking a bite of his breakfast before heading off.
He was going to bring his younger son home from the hospital for the holidays, after a quite terrifying ordeal leaving a long-term wound in his upper body. Sherlock had been shot, and by whom, no one appeared to know; Mr. Holmes did not put it past his sleuth of a son to have figured it out or- he had to. Because Sherlock could figure out anything. He knew it. He’d always known, ever since he had been very young.
Sherlock did not always welcome this confidence and support, “shying” away from affection, as Mrs. Holmes and other relatives often said. Mr. Holmes chuckled at this; for all of Sherlock’s life, he usually came across as being cold or distant, not to mention slightly (“slightly?” Sherlock’s nice flat-mate might say) arrogant, perhaps even disconnected from much that surrounded him. But regardless of his son’s failings and flaws and spectacular gifts, he could not help but feel a love of the deepest kind for him.
As he pulled into carpark for St. Bart’s at last, Mr. Holmes reached into the backseat to pick up the loose pajama shirt he had brought for Sherlock to wear home; he was already wearing comfortable cotton pants, and his coat was somewhere in the corner of his hospital room.
After inquiring at the front desk of which floor Sherlock could be found on (he had been there multiple times already, but in your old age, you couldn’t help but forget these things), he headed on up. Passing the gift shop, a sliver of a thought entered his mind of purchasing some nice flowers or some sort of gift to cheer him up quickly faded. Sherlock wouldn’t be appreciative of that sort of thing.
“Ah, hello Mr. Holmes!”
The elderly man turned on his heels to meet the cheery young nurse he’d talked to when Sherlock was first admitted.
“Yes, ah- hello. Might I-?”
She grinned at placed a hand on his shoulder. “Right this way, over here.”
They walked over to a doorway amongst the common noises heard in any hospital: strange machines, the hurried sounds of medical staff walking this way and that; the occasional cough.
“Now, he’ll still be a bit drowsy, so go easy on him. Don’t let him get up to any mischief.” She laughed at that, and Mr. Holmes joined in for a moment. Mischief. If only that.
She continued talking once they reached the door and Mr. Holmes glanced in to see a thin figure dressed in a flimsy hospital gown fiddling with a mobile phone, now completely free of any I.V.’s or strange tubing.
“Good afternoon,” he said upon entering the room with a friendly smile. At first he only earned a small acknowledging grunt from the clearly grumpy patient, but their eyes soon met and Sherlock greeted his father.
“Come to take me away? Please do, it’s getting unbearable, you would not believe.”
His father came and sat on the side of the rickety hospital bed. “Feeling better?”
Sherlock scoffed. “Better than leaving recovery, I suppose. Now that was a nightmare- constant body heat hovering over me, asking how I was every waking moment, when all I wanted to do was sleep.” He blinked heavy eyelids and sighed deeply. After a moment of silence between the two of them, he made movements to attempt to get up.
“Ah, ah ah- here we go.” His father put an arm around his shoulders and helped him to sit up.
“How about we get you dressed and you can sleep at the house all you want while your mother makes something to eat.” A loving grin followed by no reaction. He should know better. A grunt as a response again. His father handed him the shirt he’d brought and couldn’t help but grin at Sherlock’s look of disgust as he felt the stubble on his face.
“I’ll have to shave as soon as possible.”
“I like it; makes you look a bit older.”
A hint of a smile could be seen on Sherlock’s face just then, disappearing much too quick. It’d be a game then, thought Mr. Holmes. He would make his son smile today.
“We’ve just got to visit the pharmacy in the lobby to get your prescription, then we’ll head home; you’ll be needing those painkillers.” This was evident even though Sherlock was barely off morphine and he winced when his father helped him into his coat.
“Nice look, those pajama bottoms and the Belstaff,” Mr. Holmes quipped as they walked slowly to the elevator down the hall, after they had checked with the nurse to make sure it was alright to leave and Sherlock was free to be discharged. Sherlock nearly sighed. He could tell his father was trying to be a step higher than his usual, friendly conversational self. Maybe it was the morphine wearing off, perhaps how stiff his entire upper body felt; but he was not in the mood. The next thing he knew- when had they even gotten down to the lobby? – he was helped into a nice, comfortable chair in a dimly-lit waiting room. He could see his father hazily somewhere off in the distance, waiting in a line. An arm on his shoulder, a hovering thought of if John were his doctor, he would feel perfectly fine and healing wouldn’t be nearly this irritating.
“Come on, into the car you go. You can nap all the way home.”
Sherlock grumbled and crouched down to make it into the passenger’s seat, letting out a huge breath upon making himself comfortable and leaning back into the seat. A huge smile in the corner of his eye.
Before Mr. Holmes began the drive home, he sat there, watching Sherlock’s eyelids flicker and eventually come to a close, listening as his breaths got heavier, and he couldn’t help but smile. This was his favorite thing, and had been since Sherlock was a child; after days of rambunctious play or large amounts of study, he would pass out on someone’s lap, on the ground, rarely in his own bed. That racing mind finally at peace.
At one point, upon deciding a quick stop at the grocery store to be necessary, Mr. Holmes quietly exited the car to the sound of Sherlock’s soft snores. His visit to the shop was fast, a few small purchases necessary for things he was sure the boys would like for a holiday dinner. Soon, the car ride resumed and Sherlock slept on.
Pulling into the drive, he snuck out of the car with the bags in hand and entered the house.
The first one to the door was John.
“Where’s Sherlock?”
Mr. Holmes took in the hint of fear in Dr. Watson’s voice and suppressed one of his frequent grins.
“In the car, lad. I wanted to bring in the groceries first and then help him out. He’s sleeping.”
John’s lips curved ever-so-slightly to bring about the strangest blend of a sad smile thrown in with a loving one, Mr. Holmes couldn’t be sure. He could never be sure. He liked to think John cared for his son quite a lot; while he was related to Sherlock by blood, John was not. You absolutely had to care about someone like him quite a lot in order to put up with all of that.
John watched Mr. Holmes walk out of the door with his hands firmly in his pockets. He realized he’d been staring at the ground intently for a rather long moment before coming back to reality and locking eyes with Mrs. Holmes, who had the biggest grin upon her own face as she was laying out a pillow and some blankets so that Sherlock could be comfortable on the couch.
John shook his head in confusion and went to sit down near where Mycroft was currently flipping through the paper.
Back by the car, Mr. Holmes pulled the passenger door open as quiet as he could, chuckling at the napping figure slumped over emitting pleasant snores.
“Come on now, inside with you. We’re home now.” He nudged Sherlock’s leg carefully, causing him to wake with a start, a look of pure alarm on his face and his breath now becoming short and ragged.
“It’s fine, you’re alright. We’re home,” he repeated, putting a hand to his son’s face. “Ah, you’re cold. Here, come on- let’s get you up and inside and you can sleep again, sound good?”
Sherlock looked at him with a calm series of blinks and allowed himself to be helped out of the vehicle. The two of them made their way to the door, Mr. Holmes’s arm around Sherlock’s waist, feeling him tremble and shake as he struggled to remain standing upward.
“Not feeling too well again?” Sherlock shook his head and made a sharp intake of breath, swallowing afterwards.
“You can take one of- wait, er, sorry two? Yes, two of these pills with water and you’ll be feeling a bit better. What?”
Sherlock had stopped moving, anchoring them both into the ground.
He gave his father a genuine smile accompanied with a soft chuckle.
“Nothing,” was all he said. When Mr. Holmes remained standing there with his mouth slightly open awaiting a more elaborate response, Sherlock ‘tsked’ and threw back his head a little. “It was … I don’t know, you were talking so fast, Mummy does it, as does Mycroft and I … sorry, forget it.”
“No, no,” Mr. Holmes said, feeling strangely successful. When my boys aren’t running the government or off getting shot family life can feel quite normal, can’t it? He thought after they’d made it inside, watching as all but Mycroft sprung to their feet.
“Come along, dear,” Mrs. Holmes chirped, leading Sherlock to the dysfunctional bed she’d created on the couch.
Sherlock shed his heavy Belstaff and rested his head and long body down with a noise of comfort. “Nice to be home,” he said, covering his body with his choice of the many blankets within his reach.
“Hm, it’s probably what’s left of the morphine talking,” said Mycroft. Mrs. Holmes grumbled at him, changing the manner of her expressed emotions drastically as she came over to Sherlock’s makeshift bedside holding the medicine bottle his father had picked up earlier, along with a small glass of water.
“Here we go.” She popped off the top and placed two in her youngest son’s palm, tilting her head and eyeing Sherlock in a clear, telling manner of the love she always felt for him. “Do get more sleep and feel better, Sherlock.” He raised his eyebrows and pushed the medicine into his mouth, downing the glass.
He wasn’t sure if it was the morphine talking (it had to be all out of his system by now) or if the new pain medicine was affecting him so quickly (hadn’t he just taken it?) but Sherlock tried again and again to lift his legs with no avail, struggling against the sheets, feeling trapped.
“Hmmmp,” he ‘said’, blinking wearily.
“Oh for goodness sake,” came the voice of his older brother. “Just fall asleep and stop making such a racket.” This was followed by a scolding by one of their parents and Mycroft soon became absent from the room.
“Hey, there, Sherlock, er- I’m not sure if you’ll remember this in times of better coherency, but I’m just…I’m glad. I’m glad you’re alright. Please don’t…don’t ever do this to me again, I already had to...” The voice was warm and familiar, and a slight heat came into contact with his forehead for a fraction of a second. Lips.
“Sherlock.” A different voice, bringing different memories to his hazy mind.
“You are so loved, please know that. It’s been difficult, to say the least. But these people that love you, they’ll never go away. We’ll never leave you.”
Mr. Holmes knelt down to give his son a gentle hug, ruffling the soft curls on his head. That curly hair, they’d never know where Sherlock had gotten it from. He was always the different one. And that was always quite alright with his family and friends.