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Sherlock, with his usual ill-timing, fainted right as they were climbing aboard the train. Mycroft had noticed the precursory signs as they were waiting in Gare de l’Est: the pinched mouth, the slow careful breaths, the eyes that blinked rapidly to forestall dizziness, the progressive pallor that drained an already pale face off its last colours. All the while, Sherlock had been making composed, coherent conversation to Princess— to Xiao Wei, as if the pain and weakness were mere inconveniences.
Pointing it out would have been counterproductive. It would have agitated their mother, already overstrung from the recent events, and Sherlock, unused to so much fussing, would have been likely to pretend harder that he was fine. So Mycroft had elected to keep an eye on his stubborn little brother, waiting for when the demands of his body would overcome his not inconsiderable will. He saw the exact moment Sherlock’s foot missed the step and hurried to catch him, avoiding him a slip between the train and the platform that would have been disastrous.
“Sherlock? What’s happening?” came their mother’s anxious voice from where she stood on the platform. “Darling, are you all right?”
“A bout of dizziness, mother,” Mycroft answered in his brother’s stead, “nothing to be too concerned about. I’m helping him get on.”
He wasn’t the only one helping—young James Moriarty had slipped to Sherlock’s other side, supporting him. Together, he and Mycroft hauled Sherlock into the vestibule. Mycroft glanced sideway at his brother, trying to gauge his state of awareness. Sherlock’s eyelids were fluttering, and he was clumsily trying to move his legs under him, so he wasn’t all the way out, though his efforts were more of a hindrance than a help. He muttered something uncomprehensible, but that Mycroft understood to be reassurances that he was fine.
“Sure you are,” James said with a snort. “Never better.” Sherlock said something else equally muddled, but that James seemed to have no trouble picking up. “Well, right back at you, Shirley.”
They were welcomed on the train by a moustached man in a brown uniform, who checked their tickets and cast one aghast look at Sherlock. “My God,” he said in French. “Does he need a doctor?”
Sherlock made a sound of protest. “I think,” said Mycroft with equanimity, “that my brother needs to find a place to rest. Would you be so kind to lead us to our compartment?”
“Ah, right, of course!”
In the wagon-lits, Mycroft, Sherlock and James had a compartment of four beds to themselves, as the last bed didn’t seem to have been booked. Through a door, they could access the two-bed compartment where Mother and Xiao Wei would sleep. Mycroft noticed with some uneasiness that the connecting door had a lock on it. There was no comfort in knowing that his mother would be on the other side of that door with a woman whom they knew had killed multiple people and had shot Sherlock. Rightful as her cause seemed to be, he wasn’t sure how far they could trust her.
James had seen him cast a troubled look at the door. “If need be, I have this,” he said, lifting his jacket to show the gun at his side.
“Oh, wonderful,” Mycroft said faintly. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come down to this.”
The compartment, spuriously clean, was panelled with wood from top to bottom, green velvet curtains hanging at the window. A net was suspended above the window for luggage—not that any of them was very encumbered with traveling stuff—and a central tray table was affixed to the wall. There were bench seats on each side of the compartment, which would be converted into four beds for the night, and this was where Mycroft and James lay down Sherlock, who groaned in pain as they moved him.
“Oh, my darling boy,” Mother cried out, walking through the door between their compartments after only one perfunctory look at her own sleeping arrangements. “Sherlock, can you hear me?”
Sherlock was out cold by now and did not respond to their mother’s entreaties. The compartment felt crowded with four people standing between the two bench seats. Mycroft wished that James and Xiao Wei, who were not family, would exit the space, but James had planted himself firmly at Sherlock’s bedside, and Xiao Wei was demanding to examine Sherlock with such authority that Mother stepped away and let her kneel down.
“He’s warm,” Xiao Wei said in a brusque, matter-of-fact tone after laying a hand on Sherlock’s forehead. “He’s running a fever—but not too high for the moment.”
With no warning, she unbuttoned Sherlock’s waistcoat and pulled his shirttails out of his trousers, rucking his shirt up to access his bandaged stomach.
Mother emitted a little gasp of surprise, and James said, smiling mockingly, “Well, you don’t waste any time, princess. And in front of his mother, my, my.”
Xiao Wei shot him a look as sharp as a blade. “I need to look at his wound, see if there are signs of infection. Even if he survived the wound, the infection could still kill him.”
That sobered James right away. Mycroft wrapped an arm around his mother’s waist; she looked on the verge of tears and leaned into his side. Mycroft did his best to ignore the painful twinge in his stomach that Xiao Wei’s words had caused. He knew, of course, that she was right, but when Sherlock had woken up in the hospital and then almost immediately started scheming, it had been easy to convince himself that the worst was behind them.
Xiao Wei removed the dressing, and Mycroft forced himself to look at the wound that Xiao Wei had unveiled, though it made him queasy. It was about an inch long, with black thread crisscrossing in a line. The skin around it was rosy and slightly puffy, looking like it would be painful to the touch.
“No sign of pus,” Xiao Wei said, examining the wound critically and then leaning down to sniff at it. “It smells fine. The wound looks like it’s healing normally. He probably just overexerted himself.”
Mycroft refrained from saying that the reason his brother had overexerted himself was because she had showed up at his sickbed with proposals for an alliance. It wasn’t quite fair, because no doubt that Sherlock would have done nothing different had she not come to him. Finding their father was of the utmost importance for them to have a chance of ever reuniting with Beatrice.
“I need warm water and clean bandages so I can dress his wound again,” Xiao Wei said.
“I’ll ask the conductor,” James said, clearly eager for something to do.
After James was gone, Sherlock started to stir. Immediately, Mother was kneeling and stroking his face, coaxing him to wake up further. “There you go, darling. Open your eyes for me.”
Sherlock frowned in confusion. “Mother? What are you doing in my room?”
Mother shared a worried look with Mycroft. Was Sherlock delirious from the fever?
“We’re on the train, my love,” Mother said gently, rubbing her thumb across his cheek. “Remember?”
“Oh, right. The train. We’re going to Constantinople. I remember.” He lifted a shaky hand to rub his face, then looked down at his unbuttoned waistcoat and untucked shirt. “I seem to be in a surprising state of undress. I don’t remember doing this myself.”
“I had to look at your wound to check whether it was getting infected,” Xiao Wei explained.
“Oh.” Sherlock’s pale cheeks coloured slightly. “Thank you, I suppose.” He darted a look around the compartment with sudden alarm. “Where’s James? He’s coming with us to Constantinople, isn’t he? I remember that he was—”
“He’s just gone and fetched some water and clean bandages for your wound,” Mycroft hurried to explain before Sherlock could work himself up further. “He’ll be back in but a moment.”
“All right,” Sherlock said, relaxing visibly. His eyes were closing on their own, but he was fighting it. “How long have I been out? Has the train left Paris? We should—”
“Shh, shh, my love, calm yourself,” Mother said, petting his head the way she had done when he was sick as a much smaller boy. “We’ll be on the train for a few days. You have time to rest. Close your eyes and go to sleep.”
When James came back with a basin of water, some bandages, as well as a pillow and a folded blanket, Sherlock was unconscious again, which allowed Xiao Wei to dress his wound without him fussing.
“He woke up briefly,” Mycroft said to James, whose eyes were unerringly following Xiao Wei’s hand movements as she bandaged Sherlock. “He asked after you; he seemed worried that you had not embarked on the train with us.”
James glanced up at him. “Did he? He should know better.” Like a compass needle pointing north, James’ eyes drifted back to Sherlock’s unconscious form. “Last time I left his side, the idiot got himself shot in the stomach.”
Mycroft studied him for a moment, this young Irish lad that had appeared at Sherlock’s side out of nowhere and now looked as though he had been there for a decade. Why was he traveling across Europe, risking his life and freedom, for no reason that Mycroft could fathom? Sherlock had always preferred his own company—even as a small boy, he’d had to be coaxed by his parents or siblings so he’d come out and play. The two young men, too clever by half, had flocked together like birds of a feather, and Mycroft had yet to decide whether it was a good thing or not.
“We should let him rest,” Xiao Wei said once she was done with her ministrations. “But he won’t be able to rest if we’re all sitting in this narrow space, watching him sleep. One of us should stay with him, though, to watch whether he gets better or worse.”
“I’ll stay,” James said before Mycroft had the time to speak.
“Oh, I should be the one staying with him,” Mother protested. “I’m his mother.”
“I will tell you the moment he wakes up, or as soon as anything changes in his state, good or bad,” James assured her. “But I think Sherlock is more likely to tell me if he starts feeling worse rather than his mother. No offence.”
“He’s always been a wilful boy,” Mother said ruefully, before she turned a trusting face toward James. “You will come and get me, will you, James?”
“Of course, Mrs Holmes. You have my word.”
Their mother seemed to have welcomed James into the family fold without reservation, so Mycroft couldn’t really object. Not that he had any reason to distrust James; his overall motivations might be murky, but his affection for Mycroft’s brother, though recent, certainly looked sincere.
“You’ll monitor his fever,” Xiao Wei instructed James. “If it gets higher, if he has chills, or if the pain of his wound becomes suddenly sharper, then it might mean that an infection is setting in.”
“You know a lot about wound care,” James remarked.
“I had to learn,” Xiao Wei said, her face a mask.
Mother tenderly covered Sherlock with the blanket that James had brought, then lightly kissed the top of his head. Once they were in the corridor, she clasped Mycroft’s arm and said, “I know Sherlock is in good hands. James is such a nice young man, and he’s so fond of your brother. Isn’t it wonderful that Sherlock has made a friend, darling?”
Mycroft glanced back at the compartment door as it closed, and through the diminishing gap in the doorway, he saw James slip a pillow under Sherlock’s head.
“I’d go as far as calling it a miracle, mother,” he said.
---
The wagon-restaurant was divided into three compartments. Only the third one was the restaurant proper; outside of mealtimes, the other two were a smoking area and a lounge area with tables and comfortable armchairs. The carpeted floor was plush and dampened footsteps. The ceiling, slightly curving, was decorated with lovely floral motives and the walls were covered with sumptuous tapestries. On the wall that divided the compartments, large mirrors had been installed, widening the space and making one forget the narrowness of the train coach.
Out of the window, Cordelia watched the French countryside unfold, the green fields and the groves of trees and the pretty little villages with their churches’ sharp steeples. The rhythmic clack-clack and the whirring of the moving train, intermingled with the low-voiced conversations of the other passengers, were a comfortable background music. Mycroft was reading a newspaper, or at least pretending to be reading, but in fact was resting his eyes more often than not and probably dozing off lightly. Xiao Wei sat in front of Cordelia across a table, and the two of them had been mostly ignoring each other. Cordelia didn’t want to seem rude, but it was hard to know how to behave with the woman who had shot her son. At the same time, she sympathised tremendously with the young woman’s quest, and she appreciated her taking care of Sherlock’s wound earlier.
Well, maybe that should be a starting point. “Thank you,” Cordelia said. “For tending to Sherlock.”
“You hardly need to thank me,” Xiao Wei said in her blunt manner. “I was the one who shot him.”
That couldn’t be denied, though Cordelia hadn’t expected the young woman to put it so plainly, and she floundered to find a way to politely overcome that conversation hurdle.
“I… suppose you didn’t mean to hurt him. Did you?”
“No, I didn’t. I have no desire to see him dead. I have enjoyed our interactions.”
Cordelia’s ears pricked up at that statement. Might it be that Xiao Wei harboured some feelings for Sherlock? As far as she knew, her son had never showed special interest for any girl—not that he would share this with his mother—but if he was making friends now, maybe it meant that he was also ready for romance. That it should happen with a Chinese swashbuckler on a revenge quest who had almost killed him was less than ideal, but not surprising for Cordelia’s wayward boy.
“Not many people find Sherlock amiable,” she said. “I’m his mother, and I know he’s a good boy at heart, but he is, how shall I put it—”
“Oh, I wouldn’t have called him ‘amiable’. He’s interesting, rather. A mind like few others.”
“He has such a mind, does he,” Cordelia said, smiling fondly as she remembered her little boy, aged five or six and unusually solemn, working on his sun-powered steam engine. “Would you… I mean, who knows what’s going to happen once we have found Silas in Constantinople, but if this does have a happy ending for all of us, would you like to maintain a friendship with Sherlock?”
“If this all ends well, I’ll likely go back to China and my own little village.” Xiao Wei smiled suddenly, which lightened her previously severe expression with mischief. “But yes, I’d like for us to be friends. For anything beyond friendship, I unfortunately think that Sherlock wouldn’t be agreeable to it.”
“Why would you think this?”
Sherlock had seemed so comfortable interacting with the woman who had shot him, that Cordelia couldn’t understand why Xiao Wei was convinced of Sherlock’s lack of interest. They had been sitting very close in Gare de l’Est, now that Cordelia thought about it, intimately so.
Xiao Wei was still smiling, as though amused by something unfathomable. “There are things that are not mine to share, Mrs Holmes, especially since they are mere observations. I’m not sure how well Sherlock knows his own mind and heart. He’s still very much a boy.”
Cordelia wasn’t sure what to reply to that; by her side, Mycroft had obviously come out of his doze and while he had his eyes fixed on his newspaper, she could tell he was listening.
Fortunately, James came in at that moment. Cordelia and Mycroft were immediately out of their seats.
“He’s awake,” James said, smiling at them. “It doesn’t feel like his fever is any worse, though he’s still a little too warm.”
There was a pinched weariness at the corners of his eyes, despite his genial expression. Cordelia had noticed it at the hospital in Paris, but she didn’t know whether this was simply worry at Sherlock’s injured state, or if there was something more to it. In a surge of motherly affection—the poor boy had lost his own mother, so he needed some affection—she took his hand and squeezed it between both of hers.
“Thank you so much, James,” she said heartily. “Sherlock is very lucky to have you as a friend.”
“Mrs Holmes, you’re too kind. I haven’t done much.”
“Not done much! How many friends would have stuck with him through thick and thin, given all the trouble he gets into! And all this family drama doesn’t really concern you, so it’s a testament to your steadfast loyalty to my son that you’re still here with us.”
James reddened, looking uncharacteristically bashful. “I, uh—” He patted her hands and then gently extracted his own hand from her grip. “I’m glad I’m here. There’s nowhere else I’d like to be.”
He sounded earnest, and it was heart-warming to know that Sherlock had someone like this caring for him. But for a strange reason, Xiao Wei’s earlier words on how her relationship with Sherlock couldn’t progress beyond friendship came back to Cordelia in a flash. It stirred up a peculiar feeling in her, something that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. The last few days had been rich in ups and downs, and she was exhausted, physically and emotionally. She would most likely figure it out once she had rested and wasn’t so wrung out with anxiety about Sherlock.
---
James would not have admitted it for anything, but after Xiao Wei and the Holmeses had vacated the compartment, he’d spent some time standing next to Sherlock with a hand on his chest, counting his heartbeats. Once he felt he’d humiliated himself enough, he’d torn himself away and had gone to sit on the opposite bench.
He might have volunteered for it, but watching over Sherlock was a boring task. Watching him breathe, watching his eyes move behind their eyelids, the flush on his face from the fever, the occasional wince even in sleep—all of it mind-numbing, but also soothing in some strange way. James was trying to avoid other thoughts from crowding his mind, so it was best to focus on Sherlock and stay on the lookout for any change that might indicate he was getting worse. From time to time, he stood up and went to rest a hand on Sherlock’s forehead, checking his temperature. The fever wasn’t letting up, but it wasn’t rising either, so James always went back to his seat and kept on with his watch.
At some point, he fell asleep—the recent days had been draining for him too, and it was hard to fight sleep when nothing stimulating was happening. He was a light sleeper, though, and startled awake as soon as Sherlock made a sound. He was on his feet before Sherlock had even opened his eyes.
“James,” Sherlock said, blinking up at James.
“Good to know that the fever hasn’t cooked your brain,” James said.
“I have a fever?” Sherlock frowned. “Hmm, I suppose I do. Have we been gone for long? No, daylight hasn’t changed much.”
“Tell me as soon as you need me for this conversation.”
Sherlock’s eyes swerved back to James. “You were asleep. Did I wake you up?”
“I wasn’t asleep.”
“The collar of your shirt is creased: your head lolled to the side as you slept. You’re blinking as though you’re still waking up.”
James chuckled. “All right, you’ve made your point. Nothing escapes your eagle eye. You’re at full capacity, nothing to worry about.”
“Well, I rather think that the worst is behind me.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” James said, before he unceremoniously pulled down the blanket covering Sherlock and pushed his clothes out of the way so he could examine Sherlock’s wound.
“That’s awfully forward of you, James,” Sherlock commented. “With my own mother and elder brother on the train with us. Think of my reputation.”
“If they knew what’s left of your virtue,” James retorted absent-mindedly, most of his attention on the bullet wound.
It didn’t look redder than it had been earlier, and it wasn’t seeping anything foul. James brushed a finger against Sherlock’s bare stomach, and Sherlock shivered.
“How are you feeling?” James asked, pulling Sherlock’s clothes back in place. “And no lies or obfuscation—we don’t want you fainting again when we face your father in Constantinople. Imagine how embarrassing that would be.”
“I feel fine.” James raised a sceptical eyebrow, and Sherlock sighed. “As fine as I can be, given the circumstances. I know I have a fever: my mouth is dry, I’m sweating too much, my head is aching. But I also know what to look out for; I don’t have chills, or joint aches, my thoughts aren’t muddled, and my wound is painful, but no more than it has been since I woke up in the hospital. That’s what I meant by ‘fine’.”
“All right. You should probably go back to sleep. There’s nothing else for you to do but rest for now.”
But Sherlock was shaking his head, stubborn arse that he was. “I dislike lying down when it’s not nighttime,” he said, pushing himself up in a sitting position, then shifting so he had his own back against the backrest of the bench seat.
The effort made him sweat and breathe hard, and once he’d settled into a position that suited him, he closed his eyes and leaned his head back. The hair falling across his forehead, matted with sweat, looked darker than the rest.
“I hate this,” he murmured.
“Getting shot? Find me a fellow who’d enjoy it.”
“No, I mean, the pain is unpleasant, but it’s this… this weakness. I abhor it. I can’t be like this when we reach Constantinople. Even now, we should be thinking and planning, instead of giving me time for a nap.”
“Want my advice? Next time, don’t get between a woman with a shotgun and her target,” James said gruffly, punching Sherlock’s shoulder.
Sherlock opened his eyes slightly, letting James see a sliver of irked blue grey. “Should you be punching a wounded man?”
“This wounded man thinks he’s so tough, so he can take it.”
James grabbed Sherlock’s chin, lifting his face for a rough kiss. Sherlock tolerated it for a few seconds before he gave James’ shoulder a shove.
“Imagine my mother walking through the door right this instant,” he said.
“Ah, I think you don’t give your mother enough credit. Maybe she’d take it in stride, like she has with everything we’ve done since we’ve left your home.” This was bravado on James’ part, because in truth, the thought of how Cordelia Holmes might react if she saw him defile her darling boy was giving him cold sweats. “Or maybe I should ask her for a kiss?”
This time it earned him a punch in the stomach, though it barely hurt, as Sherlock couldn’t put much strength behind it. James groaned theatrically in mock pain, clutching his hands to his stomach as if he’d been grievously injured.
“I told you to stop this and I meant it, James,” Sherlock said primly. “This is not funny in the least.”
“I find it a little funny,” James said, smirking. “Relax, Sherlock. Nothing untoward is happening. Your mother thinks I’m a lost little boy in need of maternal attention.”
“Yes, and you lap it up.”
“What’s your objection, really? Are you afraid I’ll steal your mother’s attention away from you? Or are you jealous that I—”
He should have been expecting it when Sherlock grabbed his tie and yanked at it, but he hadn’t, and he almost lost his balance, catching himself on the back of the bench seat with one hand. Sherlock kissed him deeply, thoroughly, pushing his tongue in James’ mouth. He felt feverishly hot, and despite James’ underlying worry, this was a little arousing. The two of them were breathing hard when they parted.
“I know exactly where we stand with each other,” Sherlock said; his flush was darker than previously, but probably not from the fever. “But my mother has been through a lot, and she is not to be played with.”
“I wouldn’t,” James said earnestly. “Your mother has shown me nothing but kindness. Believe me, there aren’t a lot of people of whom I can say the same.”
“Good.” Sherlock’s eyes drifted shut.
“Should I get your mother and brother? They were very anxious for me to tell them of any change about you. They’ll be glad to know you’re almost back to your troublesome self.”
“Yes, thank you, James.”
As James moved away, Sherlock snatched his hand, preventing him from going further. James waited to see whether he wanted something, but Sherlock’s eyes were closed and he simply held James’ fingers for a moment, before releasing him.
James huffed a breath, helpless to contain a smile. “I’ll be back right away,” he said.