A/N: I hope you enjoy this chapter – we are getting close to the end:D I plan on getting the next chapter up by the weekend if all goes well.
Thanks to mattsloved1 for reading this over:D
7. I'm Your Santa
performed by Li'll Ed and The Blue Imperials
I had a lot of difficulty falling asleep that night. I tossed and turned, but it was no use. Over and over again I replayed the kiss, Sherlock's look of sadness. It blended into waking daydreams of the kisses turning into something more, and I found myself, er, enjoying it a little too much, if you take my meaning. Afterwards, I was able to fall into a light doze, but woke early, not at all refreshed. I was anxious about meeting Mycroft properly. Anthea picked me up and drove me to the hospital. I was not looking forward to this at all. I arrived sometime after he had fallen asleep and missed a truly stimulating conversation between Mycroft and his mother.
"I have absolutely no memory of this man. Are you sure he isn't a spy?" Mycroft grimaced as the stitches tugged a little. Although his words were a little slurred and he was incredibly tired, his inborn sarcasm worked at optimum efficiency.
"Oh Mikey, you're always so dramatic. No darling, the doctor believes you have some memory loss. You are engaged to John Watson; he's a doctor and a former soldier, Captain in the army. Won't that put a bee in Mathilda's bonnet, always going on about her Geoffrey and how he caught himself a lawyer. As if you couldn't…"
"Mummy, I don't want to marry someone I don't know, don't remember and isn't even here so that you can get one up on Aunty Mathilda."
"But John is just so lovely. I am sure when he gets here, and you speak to him you will see." She patted her son's arm and then leaned over to poke her snoring husband in the chair beside hers. "Isn't that right, William?"
"Ahem, what's that?" he responded.
"About John, he's lovely and will be a good match for Mikey."
"Who?"
"John, dear, and Mikey."
"Of course, whatever you say." And he fell back to sleep.
"Honestly, how can he just drop off like that?"
"It must be the scintillating conversation." Mycroft fiddled with the morphine drip in an attempt to increase his dose, but Veronica grabbed his hand and patted it.
"You should know that John saved you life."
"Did he, hmmm? Has Anthea run a thorough check on him? Perhaps he was involved in the shooting."
"Don't be absurd. Of course, she has. John and Sherlock captured the shooter, some former aide posing as a cabbie or something."
"That settles it. If he was working with Sherlock, he must be involved in the shooting."
"Now then Mikey, don't be so cynical. Your brother has been worried about you."
A vague sort harrumph came from Mycroft, as he rubbed a hand over his forehead. "Mummy, I think I need to have a rest. If you don't mind." The wince in his smile could have been from his injuries or from dealing with his mother. It was a tossup. He closed his eyes and sighed. He cracked one open again when he realised his parents were not leaving. "No need to stay. I can rest without you hovering. I have no plans at the moment of shuffling off this mortal coil."
"I always said you should have gone on stage. Go to sleep. We will be right here, watching over you." She patted his hand again.
'That's what I was afraid of." He closed his eyes again and fell asleep. A few hours later he woke to find his parents gone and in their place, a small, rather attractive man in an oatmeal sweater, sat in the chair beside the bed. Anthea was also there, as ever, typing away on her Blackberry.
"Oh hello," said the small, rather attractive man with a slight nervous quality to his voice. "You're awake, I see. Good, that's good. Are you thirsty? Can I get you some water? Your parents went to grab something to eat, so I said I'd sit here with you, waiting."
Mycroft wondered if it was the drugs, for he found himself doing something he didn't normally do. He smiled and not his patented 'I am humouring you long enough to decide if you need eliminating or perhaps just relocating to Northern Canada' smile. It was an honest to goodness, real smile and it shocked him into fully waking up.
He cleared his throat. "Please". The small, rather attractive man poured a glass of water from the carafe on the bedside table and added a straw. He held it out to Mycroft but didn't let go of it completely to steady it for him. Mycroft touched the small, rather attractive hand holding the glass and there may have been a spark, or it could have just been static electricity. The air was very dry.
He smiled again, this time in thanks and said, "You must be John."
"Must I?"" A slightly more natural response and a bit of a cheeky grin. "Yes, I suppose I must. Sorry for all of this. It must be terribly confusing for you. I really don't know how to begin to tell you how sorry I am."
"Sorry for what?"
"For," and he paused, "for all the fuss and for …" and he waved his hand vaguely between the two of them.
"He means he is sorry you have been shot, sir, and he's been desperately worried. Isn't that right…other sir?"
Mycroft narrowed his eyes. Even on drugs (and they were most excellent drugs) he knew something was off here, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.
John smiled, a tight, slightly distressed smile and nodded. He also clenched his left hand and rubbed his leg. "Right. I have been worried and am very glad you're awake again." His smile morphed into something a little more friendly, and there was a twinkle in his eye. "Your family has been worried sick, and they have been taking it out on me." His laugh was pleasant, and Mycroft felt his eyes widen a little, and he was sure the heart monitor speed a bit faster. But it could also be that the morphine was wearing off.
"All right there?" John asked.
"Quite. I am terribly sorry, but I do not remember you. I would think that a significant event like meeting you and asking for your hand in marriage would have stuck in my head. Please forgive me, I mean no insult but f you don't mind my saying, you don't seem to be the type of person I would marry."
"Well…"
"Sir, the doctor feels your memory loss has something to do with the shooting, the fact that Dr. Watson saved your life and shock. It was shock, isn't that correct, Dr. Watson?"
A small sighed escaped from John, and he looked terribly resigned. "Yes, I suppose it is. Can I…can I get you anything? Are you hungry? The food here is bog standard hospital fair I am afraid. Or something to read?"
"No thank you. Everything is satisfactory for the moment. Do you mind, telling me how we met? If we talk about it, perhaps I will remember."
"Er."
Anthea walked over to Mycroft's bed, fiddled with the drip, plumped his pillows and pulled up the blankets. "There you are, sir. All ready for a story?" She smiled at him, and he smiled back. There was far too much smiling going on. It was not like him at all.
"There isn't much to tell, really." John looked at his hands. "I, uh, I first saw you coming out of that Criterion you go to. And I couldn't help thinking you always looked so happy. It made me happy, too."
"Ah, yes, they do have the best pastries there."
"So, well, one thing led to another, and you and I sort of…"
"You fell, sir, the moment you saw him," piped up Anthea.
"Er, yes, I guess you could say that. Look are you sure I can't get you anything?"
"I would like my own clothes."
"That umbrella of yours, that's, er, that's pretty nice."
There was a knock on the doorframe and John breathed out.
"May I come in?" Lestrade stood there. Mycroft's monitor might have squawked.
"Of course, Gregory. It is nice of you to stop by." This smiling simply had to stop and in front of Anthea. He would have to have a word with her about not telling the rest of the staff.
"I think I will leave you two alone for a bit. Stretch my legs."
"John."
"Greg. Back in a mo'."
"You're looking not too shabby. All things concerned."
"Yes, thank you."
"So, uh, John. He's a great guy."
"I really wouldn't know. I remember nothing about him."
"Well, he is really great."
"So you said."
"Look, Mycroft, he's super nice, and he's funny, and he's a doctor and a soldier. The whole family just loves him. I think he's, uh, perfect for you." Greg cleared his throat. "You know, and since, well, things didn't work out between us, there's no other chap I'd rather see you with. You know forget about before. Start fresh, get to know him all over again. I'm telling you, once you spend an afternoon chatting with him, you will fall in love with him, all over again, just like, just like I…we fell in love…with him, I mean."
Taken back by Gregory's speech, Mycroft just stared at him for a moment.
"You really think I should?" He asked, his voice quiet.
"Oh yeah, sure I do. I think…I think it's great. Look, I have to go. Work, murders and, uh, things. I'll see you later, okay? I'm glad you're feeling better. Take care." Gregory hurried out of the room.
"Bye Gregory."
Mycroft may have had an eyelash in his eye. He rubbed at it a bit, cleared his throat and turned to Anthea, who wore a benevolent look on her face. "Yes, well, bring me the file on Dr. Watson when you have a chance, my dear and is there any way you can smuggle in a pastry?"
"I will bring you the file shortly, sir, but I am afraid the doctor has left strict instructions regarding your diet."
"Bugger the doctor," he muttered.
"Sir?"
"Nothing, fine, when you have a chance, thank you."
When John had left the room, he spent the next few minutes walking up and down the corridor. He didn't notice Greg leave, but he did jump rather high when Anthea tapped on his arm some time later. He'd been deep in thought.
"Oh, for the love of…do not sneak up on someone like that."
"I think that went rather well, don't you?"
"Rather well? Rather well! No! I do not think so at all. It was a complete farce. I have never had a more painful conversation!"
"Shh, keep your voice down. This is a hospital. Patients resting and all. Look we know it wasn't going to be perfect, but I think if you give it some time, he'll come around."
"No, no way, I am not going to do this. We need to tell them. Have I not been saying that clearly enough? And did you see the look Mycroft and Greg gave each other? Those two are still in love! We cannot, I cannot do this to them."
"I wish you would trust me when I say everything is going to work out fine. I know what I am doing."
"Do you? Really? Because it's not fine where I'm concerned."
"Go in, sit beside Mr. Holmes, tell him about yourself. I'll bring you both something to eat. It will be okay."
"And when are we going to tell him and his family? On our twentieth wedding anniversary?"
"Trust me."
"Fine, fine, but Anthea. I cannot walk down the aisle and marry Mycroft Holmes. He doesn't love me. And I…I don't love him."
She patted his arm and shooed him off. John walked into Mycroft's room and sat beside his bed once more.
The afternoon wasn't perfect, but they did find some common ground. Mycroft, surprisingly, had a thing for spy novels and once he discovered that, they hit it off rather well.
"Oh, but From Russia, With Love, now. If it weren't for James Bond and Ian Fleming…"
"While Fleming did have a certain way with words, his books were rather childish, don't you think, Dr. Watson? I stand by my reasoning that Buchan's The Thirty-Nine Steps is the best. It was one of the first true spy novels."
"Okay but what about le Carré?"
"Too close to home."
"I'm sorry to interrupt what must be a very important discussion, but I came to see how you are. How are you Mycroft?"
"I was fine until moments ago. Darkening my doorstep, once again, Sherlock?"
"It pains me to have to, but Mother insisted."
John felt like Sherlock was avoiding eye contact.
"I am fine, Sherlock. Thank you."
"Whatever for? You're not getting maudlin are you?"
"Don't be stupid. Thank you for capturing the man who shot me."
"Well yes, it was rather fun. I do hope you thanked John here. Couldn't have done it without him. All right then. I should be off. Leave you two to it."
"No, don't go. I should be off. I, uh, have some errands. Goodbye, Mycroft. It was nice. I'll be back later." It was a bit awkward, but there was no way he was going to kiss Mycroft on the cheek. He put his coat on and left.
"You two seem rather chummy."
"Let's not get into that now. What do you think of Doctor Watson? And you can be honest."
"Oh, John. He's splendid. You two should be perfectly happy together, picking out china patterns, going on trips, solving world crises, that sort of thing." Sherlock brushed imaginary dust off of his coat, put his hands behind his back and grimaced.
"Yes, we shall see. I truly do thank you. If it hadn't been for you and for Doctor Watson, who knows…"
"Mycroft," Sherlock looked down, frowning. "As much as it pains me to say, if something had happened to you, your loss would have broken my heart."
"What the hell am I suppose to do with that?"
Sherlock looked up a real grin on his face. "Deal with it. Shall we play cards?"
"Very well."
Later that night John was attempting, unsuccessfully to read From Russia With Love for the hundredth time, when someone knocked. He sat up and crossed the floor and opened the door.
"Sherlock, hi. Uh, what can I do for you? Come in?"
"No, no thank you. I just stopped by for a moment, to drop off a gift for you. An engagement present, I guess, seeing as how I missed it earlier. Or late Christmas gift, if you'd rather."
"You? Bringing me a present. Seems rather unlikely, doesn't it?" John teased him.
"I do hope word doesn't get out. Reputation and all." He was holding a wrapped present in his hand, and he thrust it at John
"Shall I open it?"
"That's generally what one does with a present."
John smiled and tore off the paper. "Oh! Oh, Sherlock, that's great! How on earth…? I don't know what to say." John held the hardcover book in his hand. It was a copy of From Russia, With Love.
"It's signed, too. Not to you, naturally, Fleming being dead and all, but I found it today in a bookshop. I thought you might like it."
"I do. Thank you so much. I am really touched. But this must have cost you a fortune.
"No, no it's okay. Owner owed me a favour. He had it hidden way in the back."
They stood there awkwardly for a moment.
"I'd better get going. Shall I see you tomorrow? Mycroft hinted he might want to talk to you about something, something big."
"Oh? That's…nice, I guess."
"Well, then. Bye."
"Sherlock, Sherlock wait! Can you think of any reason why I shouldn't be engaged to Mycroft?"
"I can't.
"Okay, then."
"Good night, John. Just think this time tomorrow you could be re-engaged to Mycroft, all ready to be happily married. And you'll never be alone again." Sherlock's voice was off. There was a bite to it.
John took a deep breath. If that's the way, he was going to be. "You have no idea, Sherlock, what it's like. I have no one. Good night. See you tomorrow."
The door slammed in Sherlock's face. He stood there for a moment longer and walked away, pulling his coat tighter as he did.
