Hi guys. First time writing a Merlin AU fic. And it's insane. Literally. There's plenty of OOCness all around because it's an AU, but some their characterizations are still retained. And maybe a hint of reincarnation, too. The first chapter is a bit sluggish, because it's just some introductions into what the characters are like in this universe, but I hope you'd stick around for the later chapters to see what happens next :)
Prologue - Three Wise Men
.Holmes
As the last leaf of autumn kissed the earth, the first snowdrop of winter touched the cold wet pavement. As the last gasping breath left her body, the first tear of mourning rolled down his cheek. Holmes furrowed his brows and looked at the dumb ventilating machine as Arthur wept by his lifeless wife's bed. Holmes felt numb just standing there, didn't know whether he should put his flaky, alcohol-gelled hands into his surgical scrubs' pockets or not. He knew he should feel something for his friend's loss; an ounce of sympathy, or offer him words to sooth the pain. Holmes was tongue-tied; his feet were stuck to the squeaky linoleum floor. His throat felt as if it was filled with granite, and damn it was painful not to break the uncomfortable silence by clearing his throat.
And Arthur wept on; not loud but not silent – soft. Then he turned around to look at Holmes, his eyes welled up in tears. The smile on his face though, was hard for Holmes to forget. And that was when it all went spiralling wrong.
Seven months later Holmes found himself in a different hospital, in a different environment. The hospital itself was far from the city where Holmes was used to work in; there were no bumbling and bustling of cars and traffic and smoke and glass houses. There were no shades of grey here except for the hundred-year-old buildings the hospital consisted of. Everywhere Holmes looked there were the big cottony white clouds decorating the bright blue canvas of the skies, or the woolly white dots of little lambs decorating the green of the fields surrounding the hospital grounds. There was no rush here, just tranquillity with the occasional over-friendly hellos from the hospital's patients lurking between wards. He found himself saying hello back to them, with a friendly face and smile, as if he'd known them for years.
Arthur sat in the hospital cafeteria with a plate of chips, veg and beans on the table, telling Holmes squarely that he's got unescorted passes every lunch time for an hour, because he had been behaving himself. He told Holmes that he was a lot better than the last time Holmes visited him. The meds had helped, Arthur said. Holmes thought he had been saying that every time he came to visit, but this time it was clear that there was a change in his friend's attitude, otherwise he wouldn't have had been given one-hour unescorted passes every day. Arthur was telling Holmes about getting discharged and starting over. The small wonders of cognitive behavioural therapy, Arthur said solemnly; munching his hospital chips and swallowing his lukewarm coffee as if it was the best meal in the world. Holmes could only nod in agreement. If Arthur was really feeling better and not getting hung up about what had happened in the past, Holmes could only feel happy for him.
Holmes visited him again later in the days coming up to Christmas, for the last time. It had alarmed him how Arthur, in their conversation on the phone, was nonchalant about the recent anniversary of his wife's death. It was as if it hadn't precipitated his illness, or perhaps Arthur was truly in remission. Holmes chastised himself for being pessimistic and concentrated on his special plan about this visit, because Arthur would be discharged and return home. Holmes brought another friend along, someone Arthur hadn't seen for years since their bright, young, optimistic days. He quietly hoped that this was a good plan, because what if Arthur became overly stimulated and became manic? But the three of them had all practiced medicine before, and he'd told Arthur he had a surprise, and Arthur was still taking his meds.
It would be fine.
.Gwaine
The Austrian stole a glance at Holmes, who was humming (he wouldn't admit that he was humming) to the tune of The Lark Ascending, because Holmes was posh that way. What he didn't realize was that Holmes knew he was stealing a glance at him, because it was reflected on the train's window. They could've driven to the hospital but it was a) far from the city and b) Arthur was still afraid of cars after what happened a year and a half ago. Symptoms of post traumatic stress disorder combined with car phobia and weren't nice at all; Gwaine and Holmes could vouch for that. It was only that something awful happened to Arthur on a more personal level, and he broke down faster than Gwaine could say Schadenfraude. Gwaine couldn't blame Arthur for it. He'd gone through a lot, more than Gwaine and Holmes could ever imagine. And even the both of them had experienced a lot in their rapidly fading youthfulness.
He'd crossed the English Channel for this reunion of sorts. He had been there at Arthur and Gwen's wedding three years back. He'd never seen Arthur since. Just sent his condolences through a card and a Skype phone call that lasted less than five minutes because Arthur was 'busy'. Everyone thought Arthur had been bereaving normally then, because he had seemed to move on rather well. His colleagues had assumed that when he went to work as usual, he was back to being the usual broody Arthur that they knew. He'd always been that, they said. Broody. They had assumed, and they didn't ask questions. Some assuming bunch of colleagues they were.
Because broody was the last word Gwaine would ever describe him as.
Sometimes Gwaine wondered if real friendships could really stand the test of time and distance, because he could swear that Holmes and Arthur were his closest friends. Colleagues.
Well.
It had been 10 years since they first met; Arthur the fresh, young, high-spirited anaesthetist, Holmes the misanthropic, introspective obstetrician, and Gwaine himself – the charming surgeon. The three of them – volunteers, were dispatched to various parts of the world, treating refugees and victims of major natural disasters. Confronted with diseases rarely heard of in the developed world, children made literally of nothing but skin and bones, infants swarmed by flies. The general population merely sat in front of their television screens and watched adverts begging for donations to help (but did nothing but blinked blindly and switched the channel to another same old brand new episode of their favourite talent show). Gwaine, Holmes and Arthur were there, their feet stuck deep in mud, or flood, or the barren earth. Fought with mosquito and flies and slugs. Smelled the rot, witnessed the putrefaction. Evaded bullets and bombs, survived diarrhoea and dehydration. Life and death unfolded in front of their eyes as if they were twins born minutes within each other. Invisible scars had mutilated their souls to the point where adding salt to the injury didn't hurt anymore.
Arthur had become more withdrawn then. Holmes was as stoic as a Holmes could be. Gwaine had been struggling to maintain his first marriage. It had stung when she finally filed for divorce and took custody of his beloved German Shepherd in the process. Years rolled by and Arthur started to look even older than his age. Holmes became the brother Arthur never had. Gwaine (according to gossip) became known as the philanthropic son of a Bavarian count (he wasn't – but he still had a respectable inheritance) who was in the process of divorcing his second wife. He'd felt nothing, as if he had been anaesthetized.
By alcohol. Lots and lots of it.
.Arthur
He'd left London and fled to Holmes's home way up, up north. Confessed to the old man about his obsessions, because he knew that as much as Holmes had difficulty empathizing, Holmes would not be judgmental. And when one's obsession was about stealing anaesthetic drugs from hospital cabinets to commit suicide, Arthur wasn't too proud to seek help. He had nobody left in this world after his wife and daughter's death in that devastating car crash, of which he was only too lucky (or unlucky?) to survive. He'd felt guilty that his life was spared by a thread, as if every day was going to be a reminder of how his life had no meaning – and his day job was mocking him to feel as numb as the people he sedated.
He voluntarily admitted himself to a hospital even way up north, where there was little chance of people he had worked with to find out what had happened to him. He'd received treatment, and now he felt a lot better. And Holmes had promised to pick him up and bring him home. To Holmes's house, where he'll be staying. And Holmes had promised a pleasant surprise.
Arthur packed up his bags and bid goodbyes to the nursing staff who had congratulated him on his recovery. They'd wished him well and hoped that everything would be as normal as a normal life should be. He'd gone as far as not being afraid of cars and modern transportation on the whole. He had tried going on buses and trains. He preferred trains because they move on tracks and not traffic roads. He had the worst phobia of being trapped in cars, though, as if the whole mean machine was going to chew him up and tear him into pieces. He wasn't afraid of cars per se. Just the sensation of being stuck in a moving road vehicle made him feel sick. Unwanted flashbacks would recur. The tablets helped, but he hadn't fully conquered his weakness.
When Holmes appeared at the ward doorway, he didn't recognize the man walking right behind him. It was as if his vision had betrayed his memories. Apart from the peppery shades of grey in his hair, Gwaine hadn't aged a day since he last saw him, while Arthur spent his days catching his reflection in the mirror by accident and discovered that he was turning into a carrot-topped giant wrinkly pink raisin. There was something different though.
Gwaine was more suave, more elegant, like he had done really well for outdone himself. It made Arthur look so inferior in comparison. He always knew that Gwaine would always be outstanding in his career and/or social department. And now Gwaine had that designer beard on his face which made him look even more all-important than he already was, that Austrian bastard. But even that Armani suit and those Gucci shades he wore on his head now couldn't shield Gwaine from his real reaction – sympathy, perhaps – for Arthur, who was currently skulking by the hospital bed, shoving personal effects into his bag. Mostly books, because he was bored in the ward and he needed to do something to kill time. He saw Gwaine's eyes trailing his movements as he chucked the novels carelessly; two, three at a time. Murakami, McEwan, Gabriel Marquez. Two old copies of Red Arrow comics and one glossy, relatively new one about The Avengers; left two weeks ago by the kid who occupied the bed next to him. Will, his name was. He promised to send Arthur news about the latest alternate universe X-Men comics soon. And Arthur wasn't even into comics, or thought he could ever be. Arthur could feel Gwaine's eyes burn through the colourful pages of the comics as he placed them on top of the book pile in his bag, before he zipped them up. It was funny how they hadn't said a word to one another yet. Maybe he was ashamed of what had happened to him. The promises of what could have been for his own medical career. It was supposed to flourish. Gwaine should have stumbled upon him in a proper medical conference in Zurich or something, not in a dingy general psychiatric ward surrounded by psychiatric patients.
"Arthur," Holmes finally spoke. Relieving the silence that hung heavy between the three of them, his voice cracking. "Arthur Pendragon, mein Freund," Gwaine repeated his name, as if he had difficulty believing that yes, I am Arthur Pendragon, your friend standing before you in a dingy psychiatric ward – yet Arthur could only sniff a little and nodded a fraction, still barricaded behind the other side of the bed because he couldn't possibly stand closer to this man whom he had not seen for years because the shame he held in his heart; as if the creaking hospital bed was the shield which would save him from Gwaine's judging eyes, his legs stiff and his voice gone. Silently he cursed Holmes for bringing Gwaine here, but at the same time he thanked Holmes for bringing him back to reality. For it was the likes of Gwaine that he would soon see in the real world instead of psychiatric patients and psychiatric nurses and psychiatrists and Holmes.
The bed remained the barrier between him and Gwaine now, but the Austrian was making his way round the bed towards Arthur. Gwaine bit his lower lip; Arthur's eyes searched Holmes, as if asking him 'What is Gwaine going to do?', but Holmes merely shrugged.
Gwaine spread his arms out like peregrine wings and wrapped them around Arthur, stiff as a Roman pillar; awkward. He couldn't remember the last time anyone hugged him. It must have been Gwen, he thought. Or Ailsa. His sweet angelic little daughter with small hands and feet and butterfly kisses. But this was Gwaine, his Austrian friend whom he hadn't seen in ages, that faint smell of alcohol still lingered on his skin despite the aftershave – oh, this was Gwaine, alright.
Arthur lifted his heavy arms and patted Gwaine's back, trying to remember how to return a friend's embrace. And when Gwaine finally let go, they parted and Arthur felt as if the heavy burden from his heart had disappeared. When he looked at Gwaine he finally knew why – it was as if they were all turned into tears that had formed in Gwaine's eyes.
And Gwaine was not someone who would easily shed tears for anything. Or anyone.
A/N: And that was the first chapter. Please tell me what you think of it and whether I should continue. :)