Brother
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
KS: Halloa! Welcome to the ninth chapter of Brother. This is really getting good, apparently, if anything's to be told by your reviews. I'm sorry I got much less done to-day than I had hoped. I did NOT expect for so much sickness to grasp my family so quickly.
Well, enjoy the chapter!
Sherlock Holmes was speeding along the darkening streets of London in a hansom cab, racing toward the hospital, the bitter wind biting his face with its chill.
He clenched and unclenched his hands nervously. He had been right. Mycroft was worse than he would say. But how bad was he now…?
He felt sick.
Half of his mind was screaming out to go to Watson, half of his mind was screaming out for his brother. Both could be in danger.
He scowled as he saw the speed they were going. It did not seem nearly fast enough. He had promised a guinea if the cabby could get him there as quickly as humanly possible…
"Come! Faster, if you can!!" Holmes cried out, knocking on the roof of the cab.
The cabby whipped up the horse further, increasing their speed a little bit.
Holmes's heart was racing. Perhaps he shouldn't have drunk that much coffee while he was waiting for the telegram.
Blast that second telegram! Why did this have to happen now, of all times!?
If it had occurred during a normal case, which would not suffer for being left alone for a while, it would have been fine. It had to happen now…during this one…
In a few minutes, the hansom pulled up to the hospital, and Holmes immediately jumped out, tossing the fare to the driver. He raced inside and found a doctor.
"Excuse me," Holmes said, almost breathlessly. He paused for a moment, regaining as much of his calm composure as he could. It would not do to be out of sorts in a crisis. That he knew. "I received a telegram about Mycroft Holmes—"
"Ah, you must be his brother. So you're the famous Sherlock Holmes?"
"Yes," Holmes said, the impatience unmistakable in his voice, "Is my brother all right?"
"Ah, I'm afraid not, but he's still awake—"
Holmes had grown tired very quickly of this man. When hearing that his brother was awake, he marched off toward his room, and hurriedly went inside.
"Mycroft!" he cried.
The elder Holmes looked up in surprise. "Sher—" He had started to speak, but he was cut off by a round of painful-sounding, deep, shaking coughs, but quickly caught his breath this time. "Sherlock, what are you doing here?" Mycroft demanded.
"I received a telegram from the hospital," Holmes replied, walking over to his brother's bedside. "What is wrong with you, brother? I demand you tell me now."
Mycroft, now looking very ill, sighed as he wiped the perspiration from his forehead. "Those nurses—I told them not to wire you unless I worsened!"
"That's what the telegram said."
Mycroft sighed again. "Well, I am worse…but this is not what I meant."
"But what is the matter, Mycroft?" Holmes asked again, more firmly than before.
"…I came in with pertussis, and now I have pneumonia. Please, Sherlock, do step back."
"Pertussis?" Holmes asked. "Whooping cough? And it has progressed into pneumonia—how severe?"
Mycroft coughed a little again, clearing his throat of the heavy phlegm that had accumulated in his bronchi.
"…Severe enough. But I shall be fine, Sherlock. Go see about Dr. Watson."
"No, brother, I mean……" Holmes stopped and sighed loudly. "The doctors felt you were bad enough to warrant sending me a wire, so tell me! How ill are you? Please, Mycroft." He shouted, his voice softening at the end.
The two Holmes brothers locked eyes for a moment in silence.
"The doctors say that it doesn't look good for me, Sherlock." Mycroft finally said.
Holmes's face fell.
"But surely it's treatable." he said softly.
"Please, Sherlock. Don't look that way." Mycroft said. He paused. "They say there is little they can do."
Holmes swallowed, his face deadly pale. He sat down heavily in the seat beside his brother's bed and said nothing for a while, but just stared blankly at the wall. He ran a thin, clammy hand over his face.
"I have time." Mycroft continued. "You can go and rescue the doctor, and I will still be here when you return."
Holmes was quiet a few moments more.
"But, Mycroft…" said he at last, turning. "…God help me, I know I want to go rescue Watson. But I cannot just leave you…" He ran his hands through his hair, and then sat his elbows on his knees and sunk his face into his hands. He stayed there, absolutely unsure, until a violent fit of coughing from his brother began.
"Mycroft!" Holmes said, sitting up with a start.
Mycroft waved Holmes off, trying to cover his mouth. He grabbed his side in pain as he continued; the fit lasted for some minutes, with few chances for breath in between. Finally, the coughing ceased, and the elder Holmes gasped for air.
"Mycroft! Are you all right?" Holmes asked.
Mycroft nodded. His fleshy face was flushed and again, it was covered with profuse sweat. He wiped it off with a handkerchief and sighed when he had regained his breath.
"I did not vomit this time—that's always a relief." He said. He turned his grey eyes on his younger brother. "I-I will be fine until you return, Sherlock. You must go."
Holmes slowly nodded, then stood. "Please, Mycroft, know that I am not abandoning you. I just have to save Watson right now—before it's too late. I will be back soon, with Watson."
"Good-bye, Sherlock. And be careful, please."
"Good-bye, Mycroft. I will."
And Holmes walked to the door. He opened it, stepped out, and turned once more to face Mycroft.
"Good-bye, brother."
Jackson Hughes walked into the room where they were holding Watson.
"So," the sinister man said loudly enough to wake the dozing Watson, "How are we faring in here?"
Watson sat up with a start, but soon was at his senses enough to know who was talking to him, and glared at the man.
"Feeling all right, Doctor?" Hughes asked, standing before him.
Watson, truly, was not feeling all that great. He was well-bruised in several places, and blood was dried on his face, not to mention the soreness from having to sit, restrained, in the same position for hours on end.
"I suppose not." Hughes said, seeing that Watson wasn't going to answer. "It's well past time that we got you something to eat, isn't it?"
Hughes leaned in to Watson's face. "You probably haven't had anything to eat in a while…it was past lunch when you left Baker Street, and we haven't fed you anything."
Watson still said nothing. He didn't want to give Hughes the satisfaction. Hughes stood up straight again, setting his hands on his hips.
"Well, you don't have to be so amiable." He turned and nodded to a man nearby, who brought over a tumbler full of water. "I'm still not going to feed you, of course. But I'm not as cruel as all that, so you will get some water."
The man held the glass to Watson's dry lips, and Watson drank. He knew it could be drugged, and he did contemplate spitting it out at Hughes, but he refrained from doing so. They could easily kill him other ways, and if he was going to last this out, he would need to be hydrated. And he was very, very thirsty.
"Good, good, at least you'll drink. We don't want you to get too badly off before your friend arrives."
A warning flashed in Watson's head. There were those same sorts of words… Essentially, that he was to be saved from mistreatment for the most part until Holmes arrived. Watson knew that meant something…but he could not piece together what the significance was. How he wished his friend was here!
How long was it going to take before Holmes found where he was being kept? Surely, as he first thought, it would not be long. This was obviously Hughes's home.
But what sort of a chance would Holmes have when he arrived? From what he had seen and heard, this place is certainly well-guarded. He might be captured as well.
Hughes leaned upon a table, crossing his arms against his broad, muscled chest and stared down at Watson with sharp green eyes.
"Well, Doctor, I recommend that you sleep some more. It will pass the time until your friend arrives…when he finally gets here."
He cocked his head. "And I'm sure he will." He flashed another devilish grin.
Please, Holmes, Watson thought, Do be careful with this devil…
KS: Ah, whooping cough is quite hellish if it's bad enough, especially if you get pneumonia as a complication…Poor Mycroft…
Well, that answers the question of what's wrong with him, at least, for those who asked.
Thank you for reading. Please, don't forget to review!
