CHAPTER 7

One hand checked my pulse and the other held a thermometer.

Watson?

The hand checking my pulse shoved itself down my throat, my struggles against it ineffectual. Luckily, the hand was swiftly removed and I was left to vomit over the side of- what? A bed?

"Mr Holmes?"

Someone else. Not Watson. Of course not Watson. Their voice was as unfamiliar as their hands.

"Sherlock?"

Better, but still not Watson. Another brother instead.

"Sherlock!"

I ignored Mycroft's shouting. It only added to the stabbing pains in my head and sleep held a far greater appeal.


When I awoke, I realised immediately that I was not in my own bedroom. I was lying in a double bed, sheeted with far more luxurious material than I was used to. My head was pounding. My entire body ached in fact. I opened my eyes and struggled upward in the large bed, peering around me in confusion.

My brother was sitting in an armchair in the corner of the room - his room, I now realised - and he looked up from the sheaf of papers he had been reading. "You're awake!"

"A sterling deduction, Brother mine," I said, or rather, croaked. My brother promptly poured a glass of water which I accepted from him gratefully.

"I shall not ask how you feel," he said, watching as I drank my fill, "but I can assure you that you are looking far healthier than you did yesterday."

"How long have I been here?" I asked, trying to make sense of my muddled memories. "It was... Thursday afternoon, wasn't it?"

"It is now Saturday morning," Mycroft said. I took this in for a moment and he cleared his throat awkwardly. "Sherlock, there are many things I wish to discuss with you, but first I must say this." He took a deep breath, and plunged in. "Doctor Watson would not want you to give up, now that he is gone."

I was completely nonplussed. Surely he had not imagined I had been purposely reckless?

"Mycroft I assure you I have no intention of- of doing anything foolish!"

"Such as having lunch with an assassin?" His voice was hard. "I know I set you on the case Sherlock but I never- I never thought you would be so stupid as to..." Words had apparently failed him, a phenomenon I had never before witnessed. We sat there for a few moments, the silence thick between us. I looked up at him, but he avoided my eyes, his lips pursed and his hands clenched tightly in his lap.

"Mycroft," I said. "Please believe me I didn't- I wasn't... it wasn't some sort of- of suicide mission I set up for myself!" He opened his mouth, no doubt prepared to give an angry retort, but I pressed on anyway. "It was foolish, I grant you that. But not intentionally so." I sighed. "I suppose my usual faculties have been somewhat... compromised by recent events," I admitted. Then, quieter, "It has proven difficult to readjust to life alone. I'm unused to embarking on a case without Watson there to- to-"

I broke off, unable to sum up in so many words what my friend had been to me and took another sip of water.

"I am truly sorry, Sherlock," Mycroft said, his voice heavy with regret. I knew he meant his words but, in the childish way of grief, I found them of little comfort. They would not help to bring Watson back.

"I should leave you to rest." Mycroft rose to go but I leant forward and grabbed him by the wrist, holding him there.

"No, stay," I said. "Tell me what happened to Mr Montagna. And what it is about this case which has had you so rattled."

He stiffened a little. "What makes you think-"

"Please Mycroft, do not insult my intelligence. I may not be at my best currently, but you've been acting odd ever since you first gave me this case. I wish to know why." I smiled at him innocently. "My deductions are correct, aren't they?"

"Of course they are," Mycroft grumbled, but I saw the telling twinkle in his grey eyes. "You were taught by the best."

I snorted and pushed myself up against the bedstead, so that I would not be tempted to drift off. I felt inestimably weary and wanted to hear all that Mycroft had to say.

"I told you that I wanted to come to Doctor Watson's funeral," he began, slowly. "I was not lying. You see Oscar Long was murdered that morning."

"I take it he was important to the British government in some way?"

He shook his head with a small, sad smile. "No, Sherlock, nothing nearly so logical as that." He heaved a great sigh, looking toward the window. "He was an old friend, you see."

Of course... He had not given me the case to provide me with a distraction from my own grief, but because he had worried his own judgement might be clouded. That or he felt embarking upon the investigation himself would prove too painful.

"We had not spoken for many months," he continued, voice subdued. "Not through any falling out you understand. We are both - were both - solitary by nature. Not to mention very busy. I confess, it is something I regret that I did not make greater effort to keep in contact."

"Do you have any ideas as to why he was killed?" I asked. His expression darkened. "Mycroft?"

"It was his own brother, Sherlock." Disgust was evident in his voice. "His brother hired the assassin."


A/N - This was going to be longer, but I decided to split this explanation-ey bit into two chapters instead. Thanks to all of you who are reading, and have favourited/followed/reviewed and sorry for keeping you waiting so long!

ALSO I MADE BOOK COVERS FOR ALL MY STORIES! *SQUEE!*