Chapter Text
“I’ve been sent to collect you, Mister Holmes.” A familiar, friendly cabbie stood upon the threshold of Sherlock Holmes’ room. His brown hair was stuck up out of place, clinging to the sweat on his brow. He breathed as though he had taken the stairs in a short sprint, so whatever his reasons were for being present in 221B were no doubt dire. Holmes was more alarmed by his appearance than I.
Naturally, he had likely seen far more than I had in him, but the expression worn upon Holmes’ thin features was one of fear. I hadn’t often seen him struck with such a look upon his countenance, but there could be no doubt as to the anxiety thrumming beneath his skin.
My friend sat upright in his chair, rigid, but leaning forward like a tiger ready to pounce upon its prey. He did not, however, do so. There was none of his usual vigour and excitement in his hunch of his back. Instead, judging from how his fingernails sunk deep into their grip on his knees, his urgency was rather fuelled by nerves than thrill.
“By whom?” The way Holmes asked his question made me think he already knew who it was but was hoping to be wrong.
“Your brother, sir.”
My heart sank, and I could see the same in Holmes’ eyes, too.
Mycroft had been unwell for the past few weeks. I had been in to see him once or twice, as Holmes had asked me to confirm what the other doctors had already told him. It seemed his age, and his habits of smoke and drink, were catching up to him. I had very little hope that he would make it through the next couple of months. This I had passed onto Sherlock, but he was quite stubborn in refusing the entire notion. Illogically so. I believed his response to be born of fear, for it should have been obvious even to someone with little experience in the medical field to see how he faded further and faster every day.
Holmes knew, and he rejected it. Grief clouded his judgement and he had buried himself in his work—he ignored every objection of mine and every recommendation I had put forth to him. Every time I had told him he should perhaps spend some time with Mycroft, he ignored it. A scoff, a wave of a hand, an instance that Mycroft would be fine as he always is. Yet, behind every confidant refusal of his, I could see clearly the avoidance that was buried beneath. Losing family is no easy thing, I should know, but Holmes sometimes acted as though he had nobody but his brother in the entire world that he could rely on. I couldn’t deny that Mycroft’s occasional input in cases had been more than a little beneficial. As well, he had once or twice come to see Sherlock at my own request when the man had become far too much for me to deal with alone. They argued and fought like brothers do, but Mycroft frequently established himself as one who could not be outdone by anyone on his stubbornness and Sherlock always caved to it.
Once again, he caved. After all my pressing, it had been Mycroft’s summons that finally spurred Holmes into action. He swiftly departed from his chair, took his coat from the hook by the door, and before he followed the cabbie down the stairs he turned to me.
“Watson,” he started, and perhaps I imagined the tremble in his voice, “will you come?”
My heart broke for him, and I couldn’t help myself but to put a comforting hand on his arm. He didn’t pull away from it.
“Of course.”
I watched a smile claw its way onto his features, but it hardly reached his eyes.
We journeyed together to the train station and then took the train out into the country. It was not so far from London that we would be terrible lost in the wilds, but enough of a distance that the houses were few and far between. It hadn’t been the journey I expected. I figured that perhaps we would be on our way to the hospital, where I had last seen Mycroft. When I asked Holmes where we were going, he informed me that Mycroft had decided to return home, and nothing more.
“Home?” I had asked, and Holmes turned to stare out of the window and watch the buildings and fields go by instead of answering.
Putting two and two together, I figured that Mycroft must have chosen to go back to his childhood home—likely handed down to him after the death of his parents. It made the most sense to me and added to the fact that Sherlock refused to fully acknowledge it. As far as I knew, neither of the two brothers had been back in decades. It reminded me of a myth that I had heard, of animals that would travel miles upon miles to go home and die. It was a terrible thought that I put to bed quickly, for the idea of Sherlock’s childhood home turning one day into a graveyard hurt me in ways I could hardly comprehend.
The Holmes’ household was just a short walk from the station, conveniently placed for access to the benefits of London without being near enough to experience its shortcomings. I t was a modestly sized country home, with a quaint garden in front bordered by low stone walls. I could tell that at one point the garden had been well-kept, but the flowers that had once lined the walls and the front of the house were now either overgrown or dead. The grass had also grown to beyond acceptable levels. The front door was painted white, but the paint had chipped off over the years, and the same for the windowsills. It needed some love, was my feeling, and it would be beautiful. It must have remained abandoned after the death of Sherlock’s parents—which I had never questioned him about, so could only assume it must have been over a decade ago.
The house seemed to back into a patchy but sprawling forest; I could see a silver birch had toppled and broken into the back garden. The trees around it seemed to still be standing tall, so I couldn’t for the life of me figure out exactly what had caused it to fall. Perhaps it was more fragile than the rest.
I followed Sherlock into the building in solemn silence, and he stepped aside for me and held the door open despite everything going on. I could tell he was eager to see his brother, anxious that any delay may mean he would not see him again, but he still made time to offer me the occasional kindness.
I thanked him with a smile, and he nodded at me, and then began to guide me through the house. The small corridor that greeted us split off to the left and the right into cramped rooms filled with tables and books and chairs. One of the rooms was clearly used for musical practices—I could see more than one sheet stand in the corner of the space and a closed case for what I assumed to be a wind instrument or another resting on the floor by them. Covered in dust.
I heard Holmes chuckle a little to himself, and it was the first time I had heard him laugh in at least a few days in any way that wasn’t bitter. I turned my gaze to him and found him watching me, and without saying a word I knew that he was allowing me to explore the place to my heart’s content.
He gave me a nod and then left me standing in the corridor like a child at a fairground. Of course, he was well aware that I would enjoy being allowed to see more of his childhood and his life before we met, but it weighed heavily on me that I was here to support him and not to fulfil my own fantasies. So, I put my curiosity aside and hurried after him down the hallway, past a set of stairs, and into a room at the back of the house. I assumed at once that it was a sitting room of some description, but chairs had been pushed back against the walls and instead there was Mycroft—lying in a bed in the centre of the room, facing windows that lead into the back garden.
It wasn’t a terrible place to be. There was another man in the room, one who I recognised from my occasional visits to Mycroft in the hospital. A doctor that was dedicated to Mycroft’s individual care. As if upon an invisible instruction, however, as soon as he saw us enter the room he stood and came over to us. He spoke to me, more than he did to Sherlock, as he told us of Mycroft’s condition and how he suspected that he wouldn’t live more than a couple of weeks.
He gave me some instruction on his care, shook my hand, and seemed to consider offering the same to Sherlock. Clearly, he thought better of it when he noticed the vacant look in my friend’s eyes. He chose to leave us, instead. I had the distinct impression that he wasn’t coming back, and that I was now solely responsible for Mycroft’s help. Whilst I was happy enough to be here and to help, I was rather unhappy at having not been consulted before being dropped into it.
But we were here, and I was hardly going to leave either of them in such a position.
Mycroft coughed weakly from where he lay, but he tried to sit up in his bed and reach a hand out for Sherlock. I watched my friend, and he didn’t respond immediately. In fact, he seemed somewhat unsure of himself. The most I could do was touch his hand with a gentle encouragement, and it was enough to spur Sherlock forward to Mycroft’s side. The man in the bed curled his fragile fingers around Sherlock’s wrist to pull him inwards, and Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed by his side.
It felt wrong, almost, to be here for this moment, but I could not leave. So, I hovered near the doorway and waited as Mycroft said a thing or two to his brother in a voice so hushed I could barely make out a word. Sherlock didn’t answer him at all, though I could see in his eyes the silent acknowledgement and acceptance. Even dying, it seemed that Mycroft could not put down his responsibilities as an older brother. He comforted him, in his own way.