To The Inevitable Dusk
Our brothers and sisters are there with us from the dawn of our personal stories to the inevitable dusk. - Susan Scarf Merrell
"What do you want me to do about it?"
The azalea bushes made for an odd sort of field hospital. Sherlock and John were curled up within them, ignoring the numerous branches poking into their backs in light of more painful matters - Sherlock's hand was beginning to swell dreadfully, and he was having a mighty time not scratching it.
"I don't know! Just do something - Mother will flay me if she finds out."
"You sort of brought this upon yourself, you know…"
"How was I to know the blasted things were poisonous?"
"I do believe that's why Father keeps a botany encyclopedia."
"I haven't got time to - agh! John!"
The boy smiled as he took his brother's hand, but the expression fell after a moment. "I really don't know what to do, Sherlock. We're going to have to show Mother," he said with as much sympathy as he could muster.
Sherlock hissed, cradling his hand as though he had been mortally wounded. "I do hope you'll miss me."
"Perhaps a little," John commented, trying desperately to hide the grin that was threatening to surface at Sherlock's murderous look.