Sigurd was known for speaking great speeches of Shakespeare at moment's notice. It hardly mattered if it was in the shops, or hanging the wash ('Out, damn spot' often came up) or in the middle of his local village. Mycroft and Sherlock did their best to humor their father, now especially since Sigurd Holmes was a widower. If he went off on a long speech or soliloquy, one or the other would gently remind the eldest Holmes that perhaps that moment was not the best time to quote the Bard.
"Why?" Sigurd would ask. "Your mother loved my quoting."
"I like it too," Molly said, and Sigurd would beam, and Molly with a twinkle in her eye, would stretch out her arm, taking a dramatic pose "I would call him a thing divine, for nothing natural I ever saw so noble!" and Sigurd would offer a sweeping bow, cheeks tinged pink. Sherlock quirked a smile at this. It seemed lately only Molly could bring a smile to Sigurd Holmes face.
"Most sure, the goddess on whom these airs attend!" was often his standard greeting when Molly entered a room. Violet had died when Molly was only five months pregnant and never got to meet her grandson. Seeing Molly did remind Sigurd that there is no great loss without some gain, and he looked forward to the arrival of his first grandson.
"I think we should see father," Sherlock said one afternoon. Molly looked up from her paperwork, frowning.
"What's wrong?"
"Can't I suggest a quiet holiday in the country for my family?"
"No…"
"Well I am now," he said. "Nicholas is old enough to travel, and the Lake District is particularly lovely this time of year."
"Sherlock," her tone was warning and he rolled his eyes, sighing.
"Mycroft tells me our father is not…well…" he pursed his mouth, brow furrowed.
"You mean he's sick?"
"I don't know," Sherlock answered. "According to my brother, a nurse has been seen coming and going from the house."
~O~
Lake District – The Family House
Waiting at the door, Sigurd stood, thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, beaming at them.
"Here it comes," Sherlock said, bags under his arms, Molly, bearing Nicholas hence, smiled at her father in-law. He spread his arms to her,
"See where she comes, apparell'd like the spring, graces her subjects,
and her thoughts the king of every virtue gives renown to men!"
Molly had reached him by now and he happily cupped her face, pressing her cheeks,hardly pausing in his speech to do so.
"Her face the book of praises, where is read nothing but
curious pleasures, as from thence sorrow were ever razed
and testy wrath could never be her mild companion."
"That will do, father," Sherlock said. Sigurd only smiled and waved them in, greeting them in turn.
"I hope it isn't an imposition, having us for three weeks,"
"If my son can spare himself for so long from London," Sigurd said, leading the way to the guest room. Sherlock and Molly both looked around the house, noticing more papers than usual, books, maps and bric-a-brac lying around.
"It's starting to look like Bag-end in here," Molly commented aloud and Sigurd chortled.
"Why shouldn't it? I think I should be a Hobbit, had I the time and foot-size."
"How are the hives?" Sherlock asked, changing the subject.
"Very well indeed. If Molly will settle down for a rest with my grandson, we might take a walk out to them."
"I'll put the kettle on and put my feet up, go play, you two,"
"When did you suffer a stroke, father?" Sherlock asked point-blank. The room was suddenly still, and Sigurd did not know where to look for a moment. He was reminded of how Violet always knew when something was wrong, even without him saying so. Sherlock and Mycroft were just the same, picking up on things.
Molly spoke first, quite upset at him.
"Sherlock!"
"It's nothing," Sigurd said quickly, batting at the air. "Slept on one side all night, eye is swollen is all, happens sometimes. Perfectly normal!" Molly was frowning, looking at Sigurd. She'd noticed the slight drooping of his face earlier. How had they not known?! How had Mycroft not heard about it? He would be furious that Sigurd had hidden something like this from them. She was reminded of how old Sigurd Holmes was, and that he was alone. Molly squeezed Sherlock's arm, as if to calm him.
"When did it happen?" Sherlock asked, gentler this time.
"Few weeks after your mother died," Sigurd responded. "Been working with physical therapist, gotten most of my mobility back, nurse comes during the day to look after me," With his good arm, he cuddled Nicholas, smiling at the three-month-old.
"I wish you'd called us," Molly said finally, her voice soft.
"I didn't want to worry you."
"This is much better, quite right," Sherlock muttered under his breath.
"Your mother wasn't here," Sigurd said with a shrug. "I can't ring you every time I need something. I can manage perfectly well on my own. That's what I'm supposed to be doing, isn't it? Getting on alone?"
"Not with something like this,"
"Stop it," Molly said to both of them. She set the kettle down on the stove. "Sherlock, he's right, he has managed very well, remarkably well considering the severity of the stroke, and he was right to find a nurse to help out during the days." Sherlock sulked in his chair. "But Sigurd, you should have told us, it might have made things easier,"
"No," Sigurd answered, quite firm. "I won't have pity. You can't help me without looking at me and remembering what I was. An aid doesn't." Molly sighed heavily; Nicholas began to fuss.
"That's family, for you," she said, a touch of hurt in her voice. "How dare we love each other as we do?" she stalked out, leaving Sigurd and Sherlock alone. With a grunt, Sigurd got to his feet, handing Nicholas to his father.
"I'll go, you drink your tea."
~O~
Molly sat on the bench on the edge of the orchard, eyes blurry. She wasn't quite sure why she was so upset. Sigurd wasn't even her father. But he was like her father. Especially towards the end. Bumbling and smiling, except when it got down to serious things. Nobody should worry; no one should make a fuss, and heaven help you if you pitied them, pitied them for remembering how they used to be, and how little they could do now.
"It's a fine orchard," she felt the bench squeak a little as Sigurd eased himself down.
"Very nice, I'm sure," she answered.
"I'm sorry…I didn't tell anyone," she looked at him, quite startled. He smiled in return. "Didn't know a Holmes could apologize, did you? Well, I've had more practice than my sons, to be sure. You learn that it's the fastest way to make amends, and make things right again."
"Thank you," she said, and took his hand. "I'm sorry if we shouted at you as well. You're an adult, and you've the right to do things as you please." He nodded his thanks. "That said,"
"Oh, you sound just like Violet," he laughed, and then quieted, waiting for her to continue.
"We're still family, and we are always going to care about you, we'll always worry, and we'll fuss over you. I've already lost one father who refused to tell us when something was wrong until it was too late. I won't go through that again, not if I can help it." Squeezing his hand, she sighed. "Just please, promise me you'll call if something goes wrong or if you're not feeling well."
"I won't be a burden," he answered stoutly.
"Family isn't a burden." Molly returned his gaze. After a moment, Sigurd nodded his mouth quirked in a smile.
"So it isn't," he said and kissed her forehead. "Come inside now, and we won't have any more upsetting talk."