Chapter Text
The bond between brother and brother was a unique relation. They had the right to tease and belittle each other relentlessly, a privilege no one else would ever be granted. They might hate and despise each other for years, but would come to one anothers aid within a moments notice. A bond built more upon shared experience than actual affection, but one that had served both Holmes and Mycroft well.
Their shared experience - built in silent glances and communication without words - had been a staple in their dialogue for as long as they could remember. Whispers might be heard, but glances and expressions could be seen without others understanding their meaning. Especially by a father who was quick to grab the riding crop for little reason.
With this secured to their belts as they took on the world, the two had often found themselves communicating as such; to speak without speaking. Their vocal conversation more for show than anything else. It was an advantage they had exploited more than once.
“You're ill,” Holmes said, voice bored, expression masked as he walked into his brother’s office. Mycroft looked up from his work with a sharp glare, but the effect was quite diminished by his over all appearance. He looked pale, his hand was trembling slightly where he held the pen, and his skin had a light sheen of sweat. Watson was close on his heels, and without looking Holmes could feel the light concern already radiating from his friend.
Mycroft waved a hand, “Just a light stomach flu,” he said.
Holmes raised an eyebrow, have you been to a doctor?
There was slight hesitation, accompanied by a weary glare, “My doctor said I should be fine by tomorrow.” he finally conceded.
Outside the summer warmth was radiant and shooting beams of light into the room. Holmes raised the second eyebrow and Mycroft sighed. “Summer flu's are not unheard of.” and quietly conveyed through a sharp glare, stop your mothering, and rubbed his brow, “What can I do for you and Doctor Watson?”
Holmes quickly pulled out the letter which was not a code per se, but clearly written in some sort of language of which he had no idea where to even begin to translate. Mycroft, being much better at deciphering these sorts of things, was just the man for the job, and Holmes told him as such. With a shaking hand his brother took the letter, inquiring as to its origin.
“A Lady Dianne who was found murdered two days ago,” said Holmes. “She had the letter in her hand, and was shot in the chest.” He paused, expecting Watson to expand upon the murder, as was his custom, but his friend remained strangely silent. Holmes spared him a quick glance, noting the light frown and continued, “Although Watson did note she was dead before being shot, and possibly passed from shock rather than the bullet wound.”
“I see,” said Mycroft, sitting back and wincing lightly. “Do you expect me to disregard my own obligations to fulfill something which is of no true consequence?” I am busy Holmes, when do you require it?
With a shrug Holmes said, “If you could so any time today or tomorrow would be sufficient. The matter is not pressing, more vexing.”
Mycroft snorted and placed the letter into his top drawer. “Wasting my time with trivialities.” - I shall see to it as soon as I am able.
A sharp smile, thank you, and a quick nod, Holmes spun on his heel, “Come along Watson!” and headed for the door.
All they could do now was wait, that was often the nature of such things, and although Holmes was not eager to sit and do nothing, he did wish to return to Baker street and possibly eat. The day had been long. He was nearly at the door when he realised with a sudden start his friend was not following, in fact he hadn't moved at all and was staring at Mycroft with a most intense expression.
Holmes paused, “Watson!” he called sharply, pushing his annoyance into his tone. His friend spared him a glance, tensed as if he wanted to leave but for some reason held his ground.
Mycroft, who had picked up his pen finally looked up to return the intense stare with some curiosity. “Was there something else, Doctor?”
Watson blinked, looked down briefly as if considering something important, and then turned back and said in a respectful tone; “Mr. Holmes...” he cleared his throat, “Would you permit me to check you over?”
Holmes blinked. Mycroft blinked. They both stared. Mycroft caught his eyes across the room, Is this normal?
Holmes shrugged, He tends to surprise.
But Watson squared his shoulders and pressed on, “I am a doctor, as you know, and I feel I must warn you; your symptoms are quite worrying -”
Snorting Mycroft sat back with another light wince, and shot Watson a most unfavorable stare, “My own physician said I was fine, why should I think you know better?”
That must have stung, and for a moment Holmes was certain his friend would simply give up on Mycroft as he had done upon occasion with Holmes. But Watson pressed on in the same measured, respectful tone.
“Then permit me one test.” he said, “If I am wrong, then I shall personally apologise to your physician and I shall do so in your presence.”
“And if you are right?”
Watson's smile soften, “Let's hope I'm not.”
A sudden tightness formed in Holmes' chest. Watson was above all things, a sensible fellow. For him to push something so personal could only mean he was truly worried. Mycroft was staring at him, frown in place and eyes calculating. When he turned his gaze to Holmes with another question Holmes offered only one answer;
Do as he says.
Mycroft's face said nothing.
If not for your sake, Holmes implored, then for mine.
Another few seconds ticked by in which Mycroft stared at Watson with a most fierce glare. But the good Doctor was not intimidated that easily. “Very well.” Mycroft conceded wearily, and Holmes knew it was more to get the unpleasantness over with than by any true belief in Watson’s prowess as a medical professional. He made to stand, but Watson waved him back down and came around the desk and placed a hand on the back of the chair.
“No need to stand, I’ll be but a moment.” Reaching around he placed his other hand on the left of his stomach. “Does this hurt?” he pressed down and Myrcoft sighed. “No, it does not.”
Watson nodded and brought his hand to the right, “And this?”
Instantly Mycroft gasped, lunging forward to grab the desk for stability. Holmes tensed, feeling his stomach twist. He'd once seen Mycroft sit through a dislocated shoulder without blinking. He had to be in pure agony.
“Watson?” Holmes had to know.
With a stiff back his friend straightened and when he met his eyes, Holmes knew he was looking at the Doctor and not the comrade. “It's appendicitis, and from the look of it it's close to bursting.”
“His appendix?”
Mycroft was slowly regaining his breath and he sat back, shooting Holmes a hard stare. This is all your fault.
Holmes ignored him.
“Send for my bag.” Watson said, tone matter of fact and Holmes felt some of the tension leave at that. He sometimes forgot how calm his friend could be in a crisis. “And then help me get him to a bed. I'll have to operate immediately.”
“Operate?” Mycroft cried, incredulous, “I have a meeting in 15 minutes!”
“And you’re more than welcome to attend it, Mr. Holmes” Holmes heard Watson say as he walked out the door, “As a corpse.”
He knew it was Watson's way of teasing, of getting Mycroft to stop being a stubborn fool. But the words may as well have been a punch to the gut. When he stormed outside he spotted one of the Arabs and quickly snapped at them to get the doctor's medical bag and bring it to him within five minutes.
The boy took off like the devil when Holmes said something about a sovereign. Returning to the office he found his brother – with help from Watson and a clerk – was steadily making his way to the couch where quite a few white sheets were being drawn over by servants.
“This is ridiculous!” Mycroft muttered even as his legs dragged from the pain. They lowered him on the couch carefully and Holmes moved in to help him get settled. Mycroft muttered curses all the way through, especially when Watson removed his vest and shirt. He stood back, and the door opened revealing more servants this time with hot water and towels.
Watson went over to direct them where he wanted what, and Holmes tentatively walked closer to Mycroft, already feeling his heart ramming in his throat. This close he could see that the sweat had multiplied, that he was pale, and yet fever bloomed on his cheeks. Unbidden his hand reached out to touch his firm shoulder. Mycroft's eyes flew open to meet his.
You need to be alright, Holmes tried to convey.
Mycroft blinked, I will be.
His hand tightened, You must be.
And Mycroft reached up to grab his hand, squeezing it lightly.
“Holmes?”
He started but carefully stepped back, letting his brother's hand slide from his grasp, feeling oddly cold. His dear friend touched his shoulder, caught his eye and nodded once before letting go. “Al right, Mr. Holmes. I'm going to put you under a good dose of anesthesia, you'll sleep through the whole operation, and won't feel a thing.” and Doctor Watson took over to start the operation.
For his part Holmes sat and watched as his brother fell under the drug. He watched as Watson removed the rest of his brothers clothes and started the incision. Every action would be burned and seared into his memory. And no matter how it pained him to watch, nothing could make him leave that room. When the appendix, red and inflamed was pulled out from the body Holmes felt a sudden rise of violent anger. He hated feeling useless, feeling like the floor was falling out from under him. He had to hate something.
As illogical as it might be.
And then the wound was stitched, Watson was cleaning his hands, and his brother was still sleeping.
It took no more than ten minutes. For Holmes it had felt like a lifetime. As Watson dried his hands he finally propelled himself from the chair to come and stand next to him. Watson, bless him didn't need to be asked. Holmes didn't know where his voice had got to.
“We removed it in time, and he is sleeping for now.” he dropped the bloodied towel in a basin. “He is sporting a high fever, but it should go down soon. He'll be fine.”
Holmes released a breath at those last words and grabbed Watson's shoulder, voice tight in his throat, “Watson...” his friend touched his arm, and Holmes looked up, “Thank you.”
With a gentle nod Watson squeezed his arm and Holmes made to let go, but Watson held him tight, “Holmes.” there was something in his voice, something which made his heart clench all over again. Was there something wrong? Did he see a future problem? No, no, Watson was honest, if he said his brother would be fine, then he would be fine.
“Watson?” he implored when his heart couldn’t take the beating anymore. His friend blinked and with a quick glance at his patient he pulled him away to a corner of the room, and that in of itself made him worry further.
“I don’t wish to make trouble where there might be none,” when their eyes met, Holmes could see the underlining worry in his expression. “But, Holmes, I need to say this.”
“Then say it,” he implored, “You would not do so if you did not feel it needed to be done.”
Watson offered a soft smile, which faded under the weight of his thoughts. “Appendicitis is something even a fool could diagnose, there is not a doctor in this city who could would have missed this.”
Under all the emotional turmoil, it took him a full moment to understand the implications of what Watson was saying. He frowned and instantly turmoil faded in the wake of pure unadulterated anger. “This was deliberate?”
Watson looked at Mycroft. “I don't know.” he shook his head, “In my experience as a doctor I’ve only seen true amateurs make such mistakes. And a fine doctor, as I’m sure your brother employs, could not have missed such obvious symptoms.”
And his mind whirled at the implications, at the thought that someone, that a doctor had been conniving enough to try and kill his brother in such an underhanded way. If he had not visited him, if Watson had not been here. His eyes drew close and instantly his mind focused on the immediate problem. When they opened his emotions were buried.
He turned and headed for the door.
“Holmes!”
“Stay with him,” he called over his shoulder, hoping in some way the coldness did somehow convey how much he needed Watson there. How desperately he needed someone he trusted to look after one of two things in his life he treasured. When he stepped outside and Watson was not by his side, he knew his friend had understood.
Outside he found a cab and as it took off he felt his body grow cold and his mind turn to sharp focused. Today a doctor was going pay for trying to take him away from Holmes, for assuming he could
He hated Mycroft more than he let on, and cared even more than that. His brother was a bane and a balm, a soother and an aggravator in equal measures. But above all else, Mycroft was his.