A/N: Enjoy!
May picked her way delicately through the seemingly endless racks of clothing she'd acquired, courtesy of Sherlock's mysterious older brother. She'd only met the man once, and not face-to-face. They'd spoken through a one-way glass, he could see her but not the other way around. For some reason, he hadn't wanted her to see him. But she'd never forget that voice. In many ways, it was similar to Jim Moriarty's. Quiet, yet powerful and completely able to command one's attention, charismatic, slightly sing-song in timbre, and deadly. It was different however, in the way that there was a small measure of compassion in the elder Holmes' voice. That aspect was entirely a foreign concept when it came to the consulting criminal.
A piece of paper was folded up inside one of the pairs of shoes. Extracting it gently, she leaned on her crutches and unfolded it, her eyes roaming across the cream-colored, expensive parchment. A sigh expelled from her lips as she read the fancy script.
Dinner for three tonight at 7:30 pm precisely. A car will pick up the three of you. I would deem it deeply unwise to refuse. ~MH
"Sherlock," she called out the door, a note of exasperation popping up in her tone. She did nothing to hold it back. What was it with the Holmes brothers and drama?
"What is it, I haven't left any—" he came into the room, an apologetic air already hovering in a faint cloud about his demeanor. May handed him the note, watching his face darken as he read.
"God damn it, Mycroft always has the worst timing," he muttered under his breath, pushing away the few curls that always fell into his eyes, no matter what he did.
"What did you think was in here?" May asked out of curiosity, thinking too late that she might not want to know, taking into consideration who she was speaking to.
"Oh, I had a couple of jars of tonsils I got from St. Bart's, wasn't exactly sure what I was going to do with them," he said nonchalantly, as though they were discussing little more than the weather. "It seems John cleared them out."
"Oh, that's—" May coughed, always having been a little squeamish about anatomy. Blood didn't really bother her. But put her in front of a preserved brain or something—as Sherlock had once attempted to do—and her vision would swim. "That's interesting."
"Judging by your reaction, perhaps it's a good thing he did."
"Yeah, probably."
A long, awkward silence passed between the two. May felt the back of her neck warm ever so slightly as his pale blue eyes burned into hers intensely. She was uncomfortable. That was a relatively new sensation concerning him.
Finally, he broke contact by clearing his throat and looking at the door frame. "I expect we ought to get ready for dinner. Knowing Mycroft, it will be an excessively expensive restaurant. And I'm sure Mrs. Hudson wouldn't mind looking after Charlie."
"I'll got ask her and then see if I can make any sense of all these clothes," May said, shifting her crutches under her arms. Sherlock stopped her.
"I'll go talk to Mrs. Hudson, you can start making your way through the clothes," he said, turning on his heel and vanishing. She sighed, shaking her head and making her way back over to the closet. Men could be confusing, but this man was the most confusing of all.
After looking through everything her new wardrobe had to offer, she selected a deep green, satin dress. Her usual style involved skirts that conformed closely to her legs because the more floaty ones made her feel slightly exposed, but she knew she had to accommodate her lack of mobility at that moment. And the rest of the dress made her want to fawn over it like a teenage girl buying her first prom dress, but she'd never tell anyone that. The bodice was a drop-waist and quite vintage looking with off the shoulder bands of material for sleeves and a v-shaped neckline that was mirrored in the back. Coupled with a relatively simple silver necklace, she felt slightly more confident.
In fact, she felt rather like an old-fashioned movie actress. She was just missing a grand banister or a wide, glowing hearth.
Her shoes were a pair, or rather half a pair, of simple flats. Heels had never been one of her favorite things and were quite frankly, entirely impractical given her current circumstances.
Her hair was tied back into a ponytail with two wisps of hair trailing down on either side of her face. As she looked in the mirror on the door of the closet one final time, her heart pattered nervously. Adrenaline made a sudden sprint through her veins.
"What are you nervous about?" she asked herself sharply. "It's just dinner, nothing more. You survived Moriarty—twice, no less—you can live through an evening with Mycroft... I hope."
Bending down over Charlie's bassinet one more time, she kissed the top of his head, smiling at the way his tiny hands moved slightly, grasping at nothing.
In the sitting room, John was wearing a deep blue suit and fussing with a tie he hadn't managed to get on correctly just yet. Sherlock wore his customary black suit and a scowl. He and Mycroft were clearly not on good terms, as ever.
"You look lovely," John said with a smile, nudging Sherlock with his foot sharply. The consulting detective agreed, the barest tremor of a smile passing over his lips.
"Thank you," she said. "Everything in that closet fits exactly. I appreciate it, but at the same time I've got a case of the shivers. He's only seen me once, at a distance."
"As I've said, he practically is the British government, among other things," Sherlock said, not bothering to mask his dislike at all. May supposed a few choice expletives would sum up the man's description of his brother quite well.
"Shall we, then?" asked John reluctantly, tugging at his tie nervously. Sherlock looked like he wanted nothing more desperately than to punch the first thing presented to him. Hard.
"If there's no avoiding it," May trailed off, brushing a wayward strand of hair out of her eyes. It was a futile effort, it came right back within seconds. She sighed, abandoning the effort.
"I hardly suppose there is, considering it's Mycroft," Sherlock muttered. He tugged at his suit jacket to straighten it out and made his way to the stairs, offering his arm to May. Resolutely, she hopped right past him, making her way down the steps slowly. She heard him sigh in annoyed defeat behind her and she would've giggled if she hadn't been so focused on not falling down the stairs and causing herself further injury.
Once outside, they saw a sleek black car waiting for them. It looked like it was probably the latest model and cost thousands of pounds. Well, of course it did. Just as Sherlock liked the finer things in life when it came to his science equipment, May supposed it was only natural that the elder Holmes would enjoy the flashy cars, silky, expensive clothing, and fine, matured wine. "Show-off," she heard Sherlock petulantly mumble behind her. She also could tell John was holding back a sigh with little success.
"Sherlock, I know this is like what thinking of climbing Mount Everest must be to most normal people," John began, speaking quickly so as not to be interrupted by the consulting detective, "but could you please consider trying to be at least marginally civil to your brother? In the interest of keeping this dinner short and to the point?"
"If he holds his tongue, I shall do my best to hold mine," Sherlock said. "If he does not, I make no promises about the level of my civility."
May felt a touch of despair settle in. It was about as likely for the Holmes brothers to be amiable as it was for a person to enter a pit of vipers and exit unscathed, or even alive. They'd been arguing over one thing or another since Sherlock could speak at all according to the younger of the two. It was simply how their relationship worked out.
The car ride was absolutely silent. The driver hid behind a hat pulled low over his eyes and a woman sat in the passenger seat, her thumbs flying incessantly over the keys of her Blackberry. No doubt updating her boss on what was taking place—or at that moment, what wasn't—in the vehicle. How could one person text so fast? Even May, who considered herself fairly handy with the mode of contact due to her profession, couldn't even come close to typing at that speed.
She was sandwiched between John and Sherlock, thinking it best to keep the two separated at least a little for the time being. The taller of the two stared moodily out the window, drumming a hand on his knee intermittently. His lips were pursed tightly, appearing as scarcely more than a taut line. She herself was not entirely free of nerves and found her left leg was bouncing up and down as it always did when she was feeling anxious about something.
At long last, the car came to a stop in front of an opulent restaurant that appeared to be completely empty, save one lone figure obscured by the low candlelight. "Here goes," John said, as much to the others as to himself, opening the door and exiting the car. May passed her crutches out in front of her before sliding out and reclaiming them, situating them under her arms and swinging herself out of the way.
Sherlock emerged from the car, giving the restaurant a haughty once-over. "Always with the dramatic flair," he complained, nose nearly comically far in the air.
"Because you never go for the dramatic when you have the chance," John retorted dryly.
"I think it's a Holmes thing," May whispered in John's ear, drawing a scowl from Sherlock and a smile from the doctor as she made her way into the restaurant. The woman from the front seat opened the door for her. A wave of air conditioning made her hair flutter a little.
Suddenly, a tall figure stood at a bit of a distance so his face still remained shrouded in darkness. "Ms. Harrison, I presume?" There was no mistaking the voice for anyone else's but Mycroft's.
"Mr. Holmes," May nodded curtly, feeling Sherlock and John come up behind her and flank her from both sides. She repressed a grin; they probably looked like 1930's gangsters from America. Mycroft found it less amusing. His lips thinned into an impatient line.
"Indeed. I'm sure your ankle is hurting you, please, sit down. All of you, in fact. The food will be out shortly." May remained where she was and her two companions made no move to sit down. Mycroft sighed loudly. "There is no cause for all of you to be so tediously stubborn. I can see, especially in Ms. Harrison's wide, nervous eyes that you would all like nothing more than for this to be a short venture. It can be, but only if you are willing to be mature and sit down." His voice lowered ominously. With a huff, she swung herself forward and lowered her body into a chair. John and Sherlock also sat down, once again on either side of her.
"What is all of this about, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked bluntly, folding his hands on top of the table and scrutinizing his brother closely.
His hands spread out to the sides a little, as though he thought it would put them at ease. May knew he was perfectly aware a mere gesture would not make the three trust him any more than they did at that moment. "It's been a year since I've seen Ms. Harrison properly and I thought it might be a good idea to get... reacquainted."
"Or... you wanted to bombard me with questions concerning my service under one James Moriarty to decide whether I was trustworthy and perhaps throw in a few questions about my son," May butted in, tired of how Mycroft beat around the bush. A proper politician, that one, she thought in annoyance. "I am many things, Mr Holmes, but an idiot I am not." Her voice remained at a low volume, spitting out consonants like they tasted sour.
"I never indicated anything of the sort." His tone was an attempt at placating. "But you do understand, of course, that in the interest of national security I must ask you about the most wanted criminal in the more private circles of the government?"
"I will readily answer any questions pertaining to Moriarty," May answered, "but as you've said that's all you wanted, I will answer questions about my son at my own disclosure."
Sherlock made no attempt whatsoever in keeping a chuckle to himself. John typed something on his phone and showed it to her. It said, kick him for me, please. May bit her lip to hide a smile, obliging and gently nudging Sherlock's ankle with her toe. She couldn't get any good leverage under the table.
Once again, Mycroft showed no amusement. "Fair point, miss." He stopped speaking long enough for four plates to be set on the table. A piece of chicken, smothered in delicious herbs and surrounded by mashed potatoes and asparagus sat on each plate. May's mouth watered, but she was wary about eating any of it, lest an unfriendly substance have been out into it. The one man British government showed no such reservations, taking a few bites of chicken before continuing. "How long did you work for James Moriarty?"
"Two years," May responded, tapping her thumb on the handle of her fork.
"And your ex-fiancé, how long was he employed?"
"Still is, which would mean he's been working for him for about four years now. And that's a long time to be working for that man."
Beside her, John decided he probably wouldn't die if he ate the food, so he picked up his knife and fork and began cutting into the chicken. The knife scratching against the plate made a tinkling noise.
Mycroft leaned forward. "Really. Is there a reason for that?"
She nodded. "The employees have a rough go of it. Getting killed in action is not unusual at all, if you try to leave the punishment is death, and if you manage to leave, if you're found you're killed. But not right off. No, by the time he's done with you... I've heard death sounds like the biggest mercy in the world." Her voice fell to a low volume, sinking with each word. John patted her arm softly, a small but comforting gesture.
"And your friend... Laura, is it? She was recently killed in action, if I'm not mistaken?" May didn't know how the man could be so nonchalant when speaking of death. Especially the death of a person she'd been close to.
"I don't know how the hell you know that, but yes. She was." Hot tears stung her eyes, but she refused to let them fall and took a bite of the mashed potatoes to displace the sudden lump in her throat. "She was killed trying to protect Sherlock and me."
A long silence was broken by the sound of Sherlock beginning to eat some of the food on his plate. That was odd. It was the second time she had seen him eat without encouragement or threats. She had to practically get down on her hands and knees and beg to get him to put any amount of nourishment in his body when they'd been together the first time. Because apparently, food was 'boring'.
He asked a few more questions pertaining to Moriarty's establishment, which May answered to the best of her ability. He seemed to be rushing a little, as though he were worried about running out of time. She wondered why. It wasn't as though they could just up and leave.
And then he started asking questions about Charlie. "Now, what is your son's name?"
"Charles Jackson Harrison," she replied, setting down her fork and taking a dainty sip of her water.
"But he does not belong to one Jack Graeber?" Surely he knew that. He probably knew all along, from the moment she and Sherlock had parted ways.
"Why are you asking? You know he's my child, Mycroft," Sherlock interjected, his tone edged with the very faintest touch of tight anger, like the beginnings of frost on a window pane in late fall. And just as cold.
"Yes, but I wanted confirmation," he replied to his brother. "You were not aware you were carrying my brother's child when you parted ways with him a year ago?"
May frowned. "No, I was not. But I cannot see what sort of relevance this has in your questioning."
He simply smiled and folded his napkin over his plate, which was promptly whisked away. "If you had known this particular piece of information, would it have changed your mind about leaving?"
May froze, her hands dropping to her lap. Why would he want to know that? John stopped eating and also laid his fork down, eyes narrowing in question. A thunderous glare was brewing on Sherlock's face.
"Oh, brother you've been getting lazy," he drawled. "You don't expect her to answer the question, what you wanted to do was give her the time to realize we've all been drugged. There was a moderate sleeping powder in the herbs and the potatoes."
"What the hell?" John asked, his indignation tainted with a slight slur. She looked over to see his eyelids begin to flutter. Her own eyelids were becoming heavier by the second and she could feel her heart beating more slowly, like it would if she were in a deep slumber. Sherlock was nodding closer and closer to the table.
"Why?" May managed to make the words stumble off her tongue drunkenly. It felt like she'd received a large dose of Novocain.
The bastard was still smiling. "I had a theory I wanted to test. It seems to be going in the direction I expected it to."
Before she slumped back in her seat, succumbing to the drug, she had time to fleetingly wonder one thing.
If Sherlock knew about the drug, why did he eat anyway?
An unidentifiable length of time later, May woke up screaming from a nightmare. It seemed the drug had managed to heighten the fright she felt from seeing Laura fall dead from a gunshot, the sound of Charlie crying filling her ears. But when she got to the body and rolled it over, it wasn't Laura's face she saw, but Sherlock's. A tiny trail of blood ran from a gash on his hairline. Her breath caught sharply in her throat.
Abruptly, she was being shaken awake. "May, wake up!" A harsh, groggy sounding voice was in her ear. "Whatever it is, it is not real."
She grabbed at the figure restraining her, finding their face and stopping dead. There was only one person who had cheekbones like that... It was Sherlock. "Sherlock?" she whispered hoarsely, her throat raw from screaming. Her surroundings came hazily back into view. They were back in 221b. Or more specifically, her temporary bedroom.
"Yes," his tone held none of the usual sarcasm. "What made you scream?"
"What do you mean?"
She could feel him roll his eyes. There was the Sherlock she knew. "You were screaming and thrashing, there must have been something you were dreaming about to cause it. Most people don't scream over nothing."
She decided to be bold. "I saw you," she whispered. "And you were dead, you'd been killed."
"I'm right here, clearly I've not been killed," the dryness and sarcasm was back with a vengeance.
Now it was her turn to sigh in exasperation. "Really. And here was me thinking I was clutching at the face of a corpse."
"That brings a question to mind; why are your hands still on my face?" He was clearly confused. She scooted closer, her ankle twinging in complaint.
"I thought you were gone," she repeated.
He frowned. "You said that. I still fail to see—"
"Why it would make me so upset?" she interrupted. "Because it made me realize that, and God only knows why, I still care about you and I don't ever want you to get hurt or killed." Her brain was fogged up as a lasting effect of the drug and her mild panic attack, so she wasn't exactly sure what possessed her to release his face and press her own into his warm chest. "Don't you dare die on me, Sherlock Holmes," she whispered. His arms seemed like they didn't quite know what to do with themselves as they slowly encircled her body in a rather stiff hug.
"I shall do my best not to," he said, one hand rubbing a slow circle on her back. She let out a strangled laugh and pulled away enough to look at him. His head was lowered enough that they found themselves staring nose to nose with one another.
It was impossible to say who had initiated the kiss, but their lips touched hesitantly, awkwardly. It was much different from the passionate kisses of their relationship of a year earlier, almost like Sherlock had forgotten how. Or perhaps, deleted how to kiss. But it was in its' own way, better. She wasn't quite sure how, but it was.
May woke the next morning to find Sherlock still wrapped protectively around her. His arms curled loosely around her torso and his face was buried in her hair. A small smile crossed her face. He looked so peaceful in sleep, even if this particular slumber was probably induced from the lasting effects of Mycroft's drug. How she disliked that man.
She was just falling asleep again, scooting closer to Sherlock's warmth, when her mobile buzzed. It was a text. The number was blocked, but she had no doubt who it was from.
"Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. All the king's horses and all the king's men, couldn't put Humpty together again." But who was he falling for?
She threw the phone into the drawer on the night table, heart thudding against her ribs. He knew. But how? Beside her, Sherlock sleepily stirred. "What was that?"
"Nothing," she said quickly. "Just a text from my job. They're wondering when I can come back."
"You're a terrible liar," he stated, sitting up and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. "Your entire body is quaking with fear. A text like that wouldn't have upset you like this."
"I know," she sighed. "Forget it, all right?"
"Hmm," he muttered, rolling out of bed and stretching.
She was a horrible liar and needed to stop lying to herself about one thing in particular.
It wasn't safe to stay in 221b. Baker Street any longer. Not for her, not for their son, not for Sherlock.
A/N: I'm expecting one more chapter at most. Review, please? :)