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It is very strange, this feeling. It is most definitely not one that I would have chosen, and yet when I compare it to the alternative, that terror of sinking deep beneath the waves... I find that I do prefer this drifting feeling. I am a cloud in the sky with the sun at my back. I am a bird on the wind. There are no black thoughts, and the shadows fade when I put any attention to them.
The door opens, but I am content to float in the open air, unconcerned with the sound of heavy footsteps. "How fares my brother?"
My eyes remain closed, but I can hear my dear John pause at his typewriter. "Now I understand where Sherlock learned his habits," he mutters. "Did your parents have not the time to teach you manners, sir? You might announce yourself before you enter a private room."
"Oh, forgive my impertinence, Doctor! Why, despite being your benefactor while my brother is incapacitated, I should certainly knock."
Mycroft's sarcasm rings across my vision. I think his voice is beautiful and I laugh quietly. I have oft hated that voice, yet now, with all the darkness flown far away, I find my appreciation.
"Doctor, my presence in the rooms I am paying for is not some privilege, it is a right. And with my brother lying insensate, I further claim it is an obligation. Again, I ask: how fares my brother?"
I can hear the scowl in John's voice. "He is sleeping."
I feel a presence standing over me, a shadow that blocks the light, and Mycroft's voice is stern and scornful. "He is pretending to sleep. Open your eyes, Sherlock."
Am I pretending? Or do I sleep? I am... uncertain. Mycroft's words disturb me, and I drift down towards the vast ocean below. Why is Mycroft angry with me again? I have tried his way, but I do not fit. My eyes are too heavy. I must make some discontented noise, for John hushes me and fusses until I rest once more on wisps of cumulonimbus.
"What's wrong with him?"
"He is resting, Mycroft."
I imagine my brother stamping his foot in anger, though he would never do such a thing. "You mean, he does not wish to speak with me."
I hear a rumble from my dear friend John, the sound of thunder in my ears. "Then perhaps I should not either." Doctor Watson's fingers are once more at his writing. It is so orderly and pleasant, echoing in the drifting vapours. "It seems quite rude to speak of him this way. It is as you say. He is awake."
Awake, asleep... I have never heard such meaningless words. The corners of my mouth lift in a smile.
Without warning, Mycroft's hand is on my head. I know it is his because it has the calluses of a writer and not a surgeon. I hear a whine, and I wonder if it is my own, but then the floating sensation evens everything out.
"I read a report," says Mycroft quietly, "that the sea rose up, intent on dashing everyone at Ardnamurchan against the rocks."
"You had... people you know there?"
"Hm. Even I cannot have connections everywhere. But there are... acquaintances of acquaintances." I hear a chair being dragged towards me, and the sound of my brother's corpulent body squashing the fabric.
I cannot help but giggle. Corpulent. Corporeal. Corpuscles. Corpse... So many corpses. My breath hitches. The waves are so close.
"My brother has long been afraid of the water," Mycroft says, heedless of my internal strife. "The report that crossed my desk about this incident says that a man stood atop the lighthouse and waited for the wave until another man pulled him inside. Was it him up there?"
"Yes."
"Then you saved his life."
Mycroft's voice is strangely breathy. I wonder, has he ever visited the sky? I think he has always left his feet on solid ground. He sees the world as I do, but often chooses not to observe. I imagine his face on a cloud, but it darkens and rains. Why must you rain, Mycroft? I do not like the rain.
"And yet I see his condition now," continues Mycroft, tired and quiet, "and I wonder what you have saved."
He stops writing again. John, I mean. I hear the scrape of his chair against the floor. I know I could open my eyes, but I do not wish to do so. It is nice to hear the sound of the wood and the carpet. It is nice to feel the words. There is no thought, only existing and drifting.
"Your brother is alive, Mycroft."
"He is. I do appreciate that." His sigh is like a gentle breeze against my cheek. "He has the most peculiar relationship with water. Did you know that someone once tried to murder him in a pond?"
"Yes. His mother. He's spoken of it." I am falling, falling through the sky, back down towards the great darkness of the ocean. John soothes me with a gentle touch. "There, there, Sherlock. It's all right..."
"It is a particular responsibility, Doctor. Pulling Sherlock from the water, watching him struggle for breath, pale and cold as the dead. I have struggled with it all my life." Mycroft takes my hand and squeezes it. I try to squeeze back, but I am limp and weak, and I do not think he feels it at all. "He finds himself at the water's edge with surprising regularity."
"I— Mycroft. I know you care for him. Show it to him instead of me."
"I am hardly a demonstrative man, Doctor. Sherlock can attest to that. When I try to modify my nature, Sherlock finds reasons to disbelieve my motives. He twists my words to ones that suit him."
He is right, of course. I cannot believe Mycroft for a minute. He drags me down. We drag each other down. We drown together. It is a burden he has carried since I was a child, and one that I have shared since Cordona: our mutual drowning is just as mother would have wanted. The water covers my eyes and chokes me, but Mycroft squeezes my hand again until I float on the surface.
I hear Mycroft take a deep breath. "You say I am not his father, and I cannot deny your words, but I have spent years trying to hold back the water. If I am to abdicate this responsibility, what do I find in return? Doctor, I scarce know what dry land is... I fear you would have to— direct me in my efforts."
"Did you not say that you two are beyond counseling?"
"Perhaps I spoke in haste. I... I wish only for my brother's return. Do you think it possible for me to be his friend?"
I cannot think to speak, but I hum at him. I attempt to hum Paganini, but the notes flutter away. I do not think either of them notice it, for John speaks as though I have done nothing at all.
"I cannot say. There is much between you."
Mycroft is quiet and I continue to hum. I should try something simpler. Mozart, perhaps? Something as pleasant as the sky above me. It is pleasant just to drift on the surface of the water. Mycroft quietly folds my hand up and puts it on my chest. Such an odd feeling, to be manipulated without a care. To feel at peace, to find the words of anger and fear lie silent at his touch.
"How fares my brother, Doctor Watson?" asks Mycroft, his voice subdued.
"He is sedated. He is calm. He can rest."
"But will he recover?"
"He is a brilliant man, Mycroft, one with strengths that you have not seen. Give him time, sir. Give yourself time." The fabric moves again as Mycroft stands, and I can hear the creaky floorboard again. "Mycroft, bridges can be rebuilt, even those that span such waters as you fear."
"Hm." Mycroft's voice is far away, coming to me as the light of a rainbow. "I hope so. Good night, Doctor."
"Good night."
The door closes. The typing resumes.
And I drift away.