Holmes floundered out of the small train bed, determined to find out just exactly what was going on. He stumbled for a moment, trying to balance on his newborn foal legs. Eventually, he righted himself, holding onto a chair and desk for stability.
He reached the door to the hall way and yanked the door knob. It was locked. He tried throwing his weight against the seemingly weak door frame, but to no avail. He hadn't gained his full strength back yet and he wasn't able to force the hinge open. He pressed his face against the window in the door but saw no one. He battered the door loudly with his fist for a few minutes, but no one seemed to hear him.
Holmes went back to the bunk beds to try and deduce who his traveling companion was. The mattress on the upper bunk was flattened quite powerfully, and a two-step rested on the floor next to the lower bunk. Mycroft, of course. No one else could crush a bed like he could.
Why was Mycroft whisking him away, despite the fact that Sherlock was showing improvement? Holmes sat on the lower bunk, the different reasons running through his head like a marathon. Perhaps Mycroft didn't believe that he was improving, just delusional. Maybe Mycroft and Watson had discussed the situation and planned to send Holmes for temporary treatment. Maybe Mycroft was jealous of Sherlock's recovery and was sending him away so that Mycroft could remain the most brilliant mind in London, unrivaled.
Holmes shook his head in distaste. No need to get carried away. It was only Mycroft, after all.
Then, Holmes had a disturbing thought. Maybe he wasn't getting better. Maybe he was just delusional. Mycroft would have known right away if Sherlock had actually improved. Why had Mycroft left the room so swiftly? Why had someone seen fit to put Sherlock under the effects of a sedative to get him onto the train? Maybe everything, even the train car, was a delusion. Could he trust his own mind after what had happened to it?
The door squeaked open. Holmes hadn't noticed anyone approaching. Another sign that he wasn't recovered.
An unfamiliar gentleman, thin, short, came into the room with fresh towels. "Ah!" he gasped in surprise to see Holmes sitting up in the bed. "Mr. Holmes, we didn't think you'd be awake for ages. Can I get you anything? Are you all right?"
Holmes sneered at the man's tone. The man was patronizing him. "Where is my brother?" he said icily. His voice was no longer disloyal to his wishes. "I want to see Mycroft now."
"Uhh, M-Mr. Holmes cannot be disturbed right now," the wiry man stuttered. "I'm his traveling secretary, Blakesley. I can help you with anything you might need, sir…"
Holmes was dangerously close to hurling the bedside flower vase against the wall. Instead he rose masterfully to his feet, Blakesley shrinking back in astonishment. Holmes feinted right and then darted around the secretary and out the door.
"Mr. Holmes!" Blakesley cried. "Mr. Holmes, where are you going?"
Holmes didn't bother responding. He was two cars away before he stopped running and looked around. The passenger car. He could slip out the back door and hop off the train. There were several houses on the horizon that he had noticed out the side windows. Surely there would be some place for him to stay for awhile, just until he had evaded Mycroft.
The ill-conceived plan was decided upon. Holmes dashed to the door at the end of the car. Stepping onto the back balcony of the train, he noted that the train was ambling along at moderate speed. He would have to tuck and roll, and hope that he would get too badly banged up for his trouble. The door behind him creaked, which he mistook for the sound of it closing at his back. Suddenly, two words were spoken behind him and he froze. It was the most pleasing voice he had ever heard, the familiarity causing a hungry pang in his chest to shrink an infinitesimal amount.
"Holmes, don't."
If only he could believe that the voice was real.
/
Marill: It's not easy being this evil y'know...all right it is! (I think I'm turning into Moriarty, lol...Mariarty maybe?)