Title: For Queen and Comrade, Part 3/3
Author: KCS
Characters: (this part) Holmes, Watson, Mycroft
Rating: K+
Word Count: 4594
Warnings: violence, hard choices
Summary: By request of PGF many months ago, to take one of her 221B drabbles (from Peek Through a Gaslit Window, if you want to go read it first, though the first few lines are basically verbatim) and make it into a full-blown angst story. I tried it, and shattered my writer's block when it took off in an unexpected direction. Which do you choose when your loyalties lie equally eith both?
Author's Notes: Yes, this is just mostly-pointless angst.
In a flash of cold fear that entirely drowned out the agony of my throbbing leg, I staggered to my knees and then my feet, balancing my weight upon the stock of the long rifle – and then I saw Jones, who had not moved, indeed still lay there clutching the rifle in his hands.
And now lay almost entirely without a forehead – he must have taken the brunt of the rifle blast when it went off. For the countless time that night I resisted the urge to be ill and instead limped over to see to Watson, who was now (thank heaven!) starting to sit up groggily, rubbing his ears and shaking his head. Stunned and partly deaf from the blast at close quarters, probably – I saw no blood other than on his sleeve from the dog's savaging.
He was already on his feet, wavering slightly before standing upright, when I suddenly slipped on a patch of wet earth and staggered, about to lose my balance. He turned in time to see me waving my arms wildly like a child on a play balance-beam, and the smile that crossed his face at my comical appearance and his small laugh as he jumped to catch me seemed a bit on the hysterical side.
Indeed, I felt weak and limp with relief myself, and a bizarre sort of amusement that we were both still alive, in a clearing with three dead men and two mastiffs, with the papers still safe, seemed terribly ironic for some reason. I choked back a laugh of my own as his strong arms hastily went round me and prevented my hundredth or thousandth fall of the night, and I clutched at the fabric of my now tattered Inverness, letting myself go completely limp against his shoulder in my relief and joy that he was still alive after that foolhardy stunt, as we more slid than knelt to the ground.
He was shaking even more violently than I, and nearly choking me to boot, so tightly was he holding me, his whole body trembling and not from the cold, though I was certain that was a part of it, and he was murmuring something almost incoherently.
"You said that rifle was jammed," I choked the accusation into his shoulder, trying to regain control of my rampant and completely frayed nerves and emotions.
"I know," he answered with a convulsive shudder, his arms tightening. "You wouldn't have let me do it otherwise."
"You're dead right I would not have!" I snapped viciously, fisting my hands into the fabric of my destroyed coat in lieu of throttling the man. "Just as I would never have allowed you to pull such a fool trick as this entire bloody escapade was! What the blazes did you think you were doing? When I woke up I thought you w-"
I clamped my jaw shut as I heard my voice crack and threaten to shatter just as my composure had already a moment ago. My injury forgotten, the stress of the last hour threatened now to crush my mind even as Watson's shivering grip was doing to my ribs (which hurt now, he needed to loosen up, in all seriousness), and my eyes were burning from something other than the chilly air.
"I – I'm sorry," he whispered helplessly, sadly, as I swallowed in a choking gasp, my breathing increasing far too quickly as my efforts to remain calm evidently were not working properly. "But I can't tell you I wouldn't do it again in the same circumstances…you've got to calm down, now, Holmes, you're breathing too fast. Easy now."
I could have told him that – I could barely keep conscious now, the nausea and the darkness that had continually threatened to claim me the last couple of hours suddenly looming over me. I released my grip on his – my – coat, and tried to breathe deeply as the pain from my leg began to pulsate oddly in my head and ears, making me sick and dizzy.
"That's better…now, let's see about that leg," he whispered gently, keeping one arm behind my back and putting the other under my knees to straighten them, helping me to lie back with my back against a tree and removing my own coat to put over my person.
I wanted to tell him his coat was just out in the woods, but found I could not do much more than move my hand weakly that direction. He nodded understandingly as always and caught my hand, putting it back under the coat and then moving to probe gingerly at my leg.
"Well, you didn't do it any good," he muttered testily, favouring me with a glare. "But the good news is apparently, though you've lost a lot of blood, there are no signs of serious damage yet. I'll wrap it back up for you, and you'll be forced to stay off it for several weeks."
I nodded weakly; for some reason this seemed like it was a good idea though I doubted I usually acquiesced that quickly. Watson left me for a moment to locate his own overcoat and came back with it and two straight sticks, with which he bound the ankle tightly in the rude splint, using my muffler and his under jacket, which had been ruined by the dog anyhow…the dog!
"Watson," I gasped, shocked at how weak my own voice was – I had lost more blood than I thought. "Your arm…"
"Is not serious," he assured me, though I was too muzzy to see if he were telling the truth or not.
He wrapped the arm in more of the makeshift bandages and then walked over to pocket the papers we had worked so hard and committed so many acts of violence to obtain, safely stowing them before coming back to my side where he collapsed for a moment on his knees, breathing heavily and still shivering. Surely we could not be far away from the edge of the forest, but I doubted I could walk any further on this blasted leg.
I said as much and received a look that told me in no uncertain terms that no, I was not going to be walking any more on it. I did not appreciate being hauled about over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes either, and told him so, folding my arms impassively.
"I can carry you without resorting to that method," he chuckled, buttoning his coat and sitting up at last, having regained his breath for the most part. "That was a battle-field carry, Holmes, where getting out of the danger zone is far more important than the patient's immediate comfort. If you can get to your feet for a moment I can carry you; we can't be far from the main road and perhaps we'll meet a farmer or something on the way to town."
I eyed his unsteady stance as he stood, his injured arm, and the fact that he was still wet from the knees down and shivering all over, but my protests died upon my lips as he crouched determinedly and slipped an arm round me, lifting me and helping me get my coat back on. I remained swaying unsteadily, feeling weak and dizzy, when we had finished, with my arm clutched about his neck to keep myself from keeling over or being sick right there.
"Ready?" he asked softly.
I managed a nod, squeezing my eyes shut against the pain as his injured arm went under my knees and lifted me with surprising gentleness, supporting my bad leg the best he could under the circumstances. And finally, I decided that it would be safe to allow myself to relax my hold upon reality and so finally let myself go limp against him, closing my eyes and allowing my head to slump backward against the warmth of his coat as the darkness finally took me with it.
--
To say that I was alarmed at my agent's sending for me when my brother and the Doctor did not return at the appointed hour is a most colossal understatement. When, fifteen minutes after my arrival, their trap came crashing into the inn yard minus the both of them, that feeling exponentially multiplied and I began making preparations for the fate of the world as we knew it, for it was obvious they had failed.
Therefore I was utterly unprepared for the Doctor, carrying my brother, to march into the shared sitting room where I was strewing papers about and gnawing my lip in worry. The man spared me a curt nod over my brother's head, kicked Sherlock's bedroom door open, and disappeared without a word, leaving both me and my agent (stupid slow fellow that he is, I assigned him to the foreign office now) staring after them.
I started into the room, wondering what was wrong with my brother for the both of them looked as if they had taken on the entire combined forces of Europe, and found my way blocked by the Doctor. Eyes glinting steely, his lips set in a thin line, he shoved a packet of papers – the papers – into my hands with no explanation.
"Get me hot water, my bag, and a change of clothing for your brother. Now," he ordered, shutting the door in my face without another word.
My agent began to snigger, after which I threw him out of the room to put the papers in the safe we kept in this place for such clandestine reasons. I myself sent for the water, rather irritated with the Doctor for his peremptory manner – but I well knew that particular look upon his face and it was like with one's bare hands taming a she-bear protecting her cubs if one crossed him in that state. I was neither that stupid nor that willing to have my head bitten off like only an ex-soldier could do.
When I had the items in my hands as a peace-offering, I opened the bedroom door and found the doctor cleaning mud off his hands and face in front of the wash-stand. He looked at me in the mirror.
"The bag and the water beside the bed, if you please. If you wish, you may change his wet clothing, but watch his left leg," he directed coolly.
I set the black case and the water-basin by the bed and looked down at my brother; the ghastly pallour of his face matched the sheets – he seemed a mop of unkempt black hair and everything else blended together.
"What happened?" I voiced the reasonable question.
"I will tell you everything at the official debriefing, Mr. Holmes, and not before," the Doctor snapped. "My first priority is seeing your brother remains alive after a massive bloodloss and with several fractured bones in his ankle. Either aid me, and remove his wet clothes to replace them with dry ones, or leave; but choose one for I haven't the time to stand here and exchange pleasantries with you."
My surprise at hearing the man use my title was only surpassed by his coldly stern attitude – one that would match my brother's or mine in its granite hardness. That was completely out of character; the man was obviously not himself and aware of it, keeping a tight rein upon his usually open emotions because of it.
I silently removed Sherlock's wet clothes and replaced them, rolling up the left trouser leg for the Doctor to examine properly. It appeared to me to be a mess of bloody, haphazard bandaging, but my brother was in no position to complain and I was not about to with the Doctor about to explode at the slightest wrong pressure.
He thanked me perfunctorily and then set about ignoring me, arranging bottles of disinfectant and other supplies within his reach on the table.
"You may want to find him a set of crutches, Mr. Holmes," the man said calmly. "I doubt he will want to stay on bed-rest for the remainder of the necessary four weeks. Now I must ask you to leave the room whilst I attend to your brother."
"I beg your pardon?" I retorted with some irritation, for that was going entirely too far even for that man.
"You heard my orders, Mr. Holmes," Watson snapped, glaring at me over my brother's bed. "And if you do not follow them I have his right as the attending physician to throw you out. I suggest you do not push me to an extreme this morning, as the night has done enough to do that already."
My mouth opened and shut as my mind for once was at a loss as to how to counter this unusual personality in front of me – never before had I seen such a cold smouldering rage in the man's eyes, specially directed at anyone he usually regarded as an ally. Something had gone wrong, that was plain, and what's more he blamed me for it apparently.
There would be time enough to thrash that out after that horrible mess of Sherlock's leg had been attended to.
"I will be outside, waiting for your report, Doctor," I said through my teeth, striding to the door and shutting it resoundingly behind me.
I sent the returned agent for a pair of crutches and a good solid breakfast and a pot of tea – I was going to need both of the latter I fancied.
--
It was an hour later that the Doctor opened the door of the room and gestured me in, looking no less strained than he had before. I walked over to where my brother lay, his ankle and leg wrapped in a plaster cast and elevated on a spare pillow. His face was still a deathly white, and he had not regained consciousness.
"A steel-jawed trap," the Doctor said flatly. "Snapped around his ankle. Missed the tendo Achilles but fractured four of the smaller bones in his ankle and foot. The breaks in the skin have been cleaned and sutured, but if infection sets in the cast will have to come off. He cannot – and I repeat, cannot – move from that bed for a week at least, if that is the case. With the cast on, he may move about on crutches for the next four weeks."
I glanced at the ankle the man indicated and nodded, knowing my brother was going to be a holy terror by that point in being so incapacitated. And I did not want to know how he had been caught in a steel animal trap.
"He also has several bruises, no doubt from falling, and various minor cuts and scratches from the forest brambles and so on," the Doctor continued in the same eerie detached voice. "I shall watch him to see that he does not start fevering. Were the papers all in order?"
I nodded. "Quite, Doctor. Safe where they belong and will be speeding to Whitehall with all haste as soon as daylight is upon us and they can be done so safely."
"You will need to dispatch a team of agents to clean up Jones's house," the man stated, corking his antiseptic and calmly replacing it with the unused supplies into his bag.
"I beg your pardon?" I queried with some wariness.
"Between the two of us we were forced to kill four mastiffs…and their owners," he said blankly. "Jones, his butler, and two servants. There was no alternative. You will find them all in the forest surrounding the estate."
I stared in some immediate concern at the Doctor's uncharacteristic apathy about the matter. Something was not right about the whole affair.
But I had not the opportunity to further question the man, had I been brave enough to, for my brother suddenly shifted upon the pillow, murmuring something unintelligible. The Doctor instantly sat upon the edge of the bed whilst I went to the other side of it, and he patted my brother's shoulder with a great gentleness.
"Holmes? Are you awake, old man?" he asked softly.
Sherlock blinked once, twice, and then his eyes, dulled by the pain reliever the Doctor had given him, sharpened into focus. He looked at the Doctor, and they softened, and then he glanced at me.
"Got us safely back across our own lines, then," he muttered wearily.
I was surprised at the military analogy, but then they both had been rigorously drilled in the requirements of such an important military and governmental matter so it probably was on both their minds.
"How are you feeling?" I asked.
"Like something took a bite out of my leg," he grumbled, glancing down at the cast encasing the offending limb.
"Something did," the Doctor replied with a faint smile.
"But you accomplished your mission, Sherlock," I told him with a deal of pride. "Her Majesty will personally wish to thank you, no doubt, for your service."
"No." I was startled at the flat denial in my brother's voice.
"What?"
"No. Mycroft, this mission was a disaster from first to last," Sherlock spat with more fire than I would suspect from a man who had lost that much blood. "And I never want you sending us on such a mission again, do you hear me, brother?"
I felt my eyes widen, for never had he used that tone with me before. What was the matter with both of them?
My brother winced as he moved, and an expression of pain crossed his features as he looked to the Doctor for explanations, his eyes sliding closed in weariness. I looked at the Doctor, and was met again with that cool hazel gaze that was far more unnerving than Sherlock's little tantrums could ever be. The man had firsthand seen war and everything it entailed, and sometimes he frightened those of us that never had.
"The mission was a disaster, as he said, Mr. Holmes," the physician recited almost mechanically. "I disobeyed the orders of a commanding officer –"
"We both did," Sherlock interjected with spirit, glaring at his friend.
"We both did," the Doctor amended automatically. "We disobeyed orders for the sake of seeing the other to safety. In a military situation that is grounds for dishonourable discharge, to discard a mission for one man's life. For that reason the mission was nearly a disaster – I refused to obey Holmes's orders in favour of keeping him alive. And what's more, I am not sorry for it in the least." This last was declared in a fit of temper, as if he were daring me to challenge his choice. The man was treating this like a military assignment, which it was – but for heaven's sake, it was not strictly protocol!
"And I in turn had the plans in my possession and could have returned with them intact and unharmed," my brother added softly. "Instead I turned back and nearly lost them again trying to extricate this idiot from the certain death he had imposed upon himself."
"This idiot was attempting to balance his duty to his country and to his comrade, thank you very much! There was no alternative! This was not an assignment with clear values of right and wrong – you've no idea what it's like to be in that position, either of you!" the Doctor snapped angrily, bringing his fist down with force upon the bedside table in a fit of temper at my brother's words.
I started and Sherlock sat up, swaying on one elbow when the man gave an exclamation of pain and gasped, cradling the arm close to his chest with his eyes tightly clenched shut.
"Doctor, you are injured as well," I stated the obvious in some concern, for the man looked positively ill.
"It is nothing," he gasped, forcing his head up and blinking back reflexive tears of pain. "I shall deal with it when we are done here." He stood in definitive defiance, replacing the remaining items in his bag.
"You need to deal with it now, Watson – and you're still wearing those soaked clothes!" my brother said, with more concern than I had seen from him in many a month.
"I have been ever so slightly busy!" the man shot back at the both of us, snapping his bag shut.
The Doctor began to pick up the pitcher of water, now soiled with muddy silt that he had cleaned from my brother's face and hands during his care for him, and even as Sherlock gave a cry of alarm I saw his friend suddenly replace the heavy pitcher shakily on the table, putting a hand to his eyes and swaying dizzily before giving a small gasp and falling heavily – headed straight for the floor had I not moved faster than any being of my bulk ever should, to catch his arms as he collapsed.
"Good heavens…Doctor, are you quite all right?" I asked in genuine concern, my irritation with the man disappearing instantly at the sight of his flushed face as I helped him limply back to his chair and pushed his head toward his knees.
Sherlock had scrambled into a position despite his obvious discomfort where he could lean on one elbow, catching his friend's wrist with the other and gripping it tightly as the man gasped, trying to catch his breath.
I had thought my brother to be making a kind gesture but upon his look of alarm I realised that was not the only reason.
"Mycroft – he's fevering, that mastiff attacked him last night and tore up his arm – it's burning," he snapped, indicating the bag the Doctor had just foolishly put away. "The fool didn't even care for it yet. Get it."
"No," the man in question gasped faintly, jerking his head up with a deeper blush suffusing his face. "I am…quite all right…just dizzy for a moment…"
"Shut up," Sherlock said rudely, moving over to the other side of the bed and pointing sternly to the remaining portion of the thing. "Mycroft, make yourself useful, fetch his dressing-gown and some warm clothes from the other room. Watson, sit."
"You are not doing anything of the kind –"
"Sit! I may have lost a bit of blood last night but I've still enough to intimidate and, if necessary, physically overpower a man with a chronic bad shoulder and leg, a wounded arm, and a knock on the head that he still hasn't had treated!" my brother snapped, his worry sharpening his voice into a razor's edge.
The Doctor choked out a laugh and moved over to sit on the bed beside Sherlock, leaning with a sigh back against the pillows my brother shoved against the headboard and obediently rolling up his sleeve whilst my brother poked curiously about in his medical bag.
"Now…where is that stuff that stings so when you put it on…" he muttered, clinking bottles around.
"Watch it! It's called antiseptic, and I'm almost out – don't spill it," the Doctor growled testily as I tried not to laugh and exited, going into the other room and returning with clean clothing for the Doctor to put on.
I left to go see about another pot of tea, and by the time I had returned my brother had apparently done a passable job of getting his friend into dry, warm clothes and was finishing up cleaning the nasty-looking gashes on the Doctor's arm with a practised ease that told me they both had done this on more occasions than I could count.
The scratches were not wide but a few were fairly deep, and all looked painful. Despite the relative protection of an overcoat, it had to have hurt like all blazes – and from the inflamed state of the wounds it was no wonder the man was both slightly off his normal control and also feverish.
Indeed, by the time my brother was gently wrapping the entire area in clean white bandaging, the poor fellow was leant back against the pillows, his eyes closed and his rather flushed face drawn with pain. Sherlock finished, tied a neat double knot in the bandaging, and rolled the sleeve of the Doctor's shirt back down, receiving a whispered word of thanks which he waved off brusquely. He then struggled to lean down despite the cast to pull the blankets up over his motionless friend, scowling as he could not quite reach the coverlet.
I stepped forward and accomplished the task for him, before making certain Sherlock re-elevated his ankle on the provided pillow and lay back himself on the other side of the enormous four-poster bed. I pulled a chair round to his side and sat upon it, looking at my brother with that glare that indicated I wanted a full, off-the-record explanation of the night's events.
The story he told was both a shock, for I had no idea the mission would become that deadly and I freely admitted my costly error, but also rather predictable – for I well knew that in such a situation neither of them would have left without the other, Empire at stake or not. Such was the risk of sending a team like that into the business, a fact which I had taken care to point out when I was told to engage my brother. The powers that be would not be denied, however, and the case was set. I knew when we sent them off that either both of them and the papers would return, or none of them.
When I said as much, Sherlock stared at me most rudely, and the Doctor's fever-bright eyes slitted open to look at me incredulously.
"Yes, Doctor, I do not fault either of you for it – in fact I rather expected something of the sort," I sighed sadly. "You've no call to be ashamed of the case, either of you, for it was a rousing success."
"There are four men dead," the Doctor said flatly, closing his eyes again in a definite gesture of finality.
"And one more that would have been were it not for you," Sherlock interjected gently, putting a hand on the man's shoulder as he shuddered visibly.
"And one of them I killed with no weapon," the Doctor suddenly whispered, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his hand in the coverlet. "In the dark, after I'd killed the dog…he jumped me with that rifle, and all I had was a tree branch…I had no idea I even had until I tried to find his pulse in the dark…heaven forgive me, I killed him…"
The poor fellow blanched as white as my brother at the words, and Sherlock instantly covered the Doctor's trembling fingers with his at this bit of news, which had obviously happened before he had reached the Doctor in the forest.
"It's all right, old chap," he whispered softly, gently patting his friend's unsteady hand. "We all know there was no viable alternative."
"This should not have been such an ordeal," I agreed with the physician's previous sentiments as gently as I could. "It was not supposed to be of that magnitude – and for that I apologise, Doctor. The decision to take a life in the interest of justice should never fall upon a volunteer civilian." Personally I was of the opinion that it had been a clear case of self-defense, but I knew the Doctor was thinking otherwise.
"No, it should not," the man breathed softly, sadly, turning on his side toward my brother – purposely seeking his comfort and no one else's? – without opening his eyes, squeezing them shut against pain or mental disturbance.
"That's enough, Mycroft," my brother sighed, watching his friend with a face creased in concern, and gently laying a hand on the Doctor's burning forehead. "Would you be so kind as to fetch a cold wet cloth for me?"
I nodded and retrieved another pitcher of clean water, setting it within Sherlock's reach for it was obvious he had no intention of leaving the Doctor alone at the moment, despite the fact that I could see he was himself in a deal of pain. I could only prop him into a comfortable position beside his friend and leave them, knowing that would be the best thing for the both of them after what they had endured last night, unfortunately at my direction. A mistake I would not make again, nor allow anyone else to do so for me – and one I wished had not been made the first time. The sordid affair had ended most deplorably, and it was simply not fair to the men who had agreed to serve their country at a nasty personal cost.
But when I returned to the room an hour later to check on them and found them both asleep, Sherlock's limp hand resting upon the Doctor's shoulder and the latter sleeping peacefully in my brother's protective (if asleep at the moment) care, I was indeed grateful that neither of them had followed orders last night.
The Doctor sighed uneasily, shifting slightly on the mattress, and Sherlock's hand tightened unconsciously in his sleep upon his friend's shoulder, whereupon the man lay still again, the lines of pain and illness in his face fading slightly.
For though I would die a thousand deaths rather than admit the fact, I did not think I could stand losing either of them, much less both of them. All the glory, power, and supremacy of the government and its agencies could never replace a family, whether it be blood or surrogate.
A truth which the two of them had learnt better than I, apparently. I closed the door silently, for I had a deal of serious thinking to do myself.