A/N: Taking some slight liberties with this too, so more of a prequel aspect, I suppose.
Prompt 09: From trustingHim17 – Given how close Watson and Holmes are, Watson would have more and more exposure to Mycroft over the years. Explore their friendship.
Healing
Seven months following his return from Switzerland, Watson was called out to Whitehall.
He woke to a sharp rapping sound, gunfire or pursuing footsteps across a station platform or knuckles on wood, hard to decipher, and he started upright in bed, his heart turning slowly in his chest.
The maid stood outside, her face pinched in apology as she informed his services were required with utmost urgency. She looked terribly young, standing there with her hands clasped behind her back, cheeks smooth as rosy marbles, and Watson could not find it in himself to feel annoyed. Mary had had a fondness for her, something she likely imparted to Watson after her passing.
"It is quite all right," he said. "Will you please ask Matthew to call for a cab?"
Thirty minutes later he found himself in Pall Mall, the gas-lamps pulsing weakly as he stepped from the hansom, orbs of floating orange amidst a sky the colour of charcoal.
A boy in buttons greeted him, shiny dots across his coat glinting like miniature train tracks. "Mr. Melas is within, sir."
Watson had not seen the Greek interpreter since they had first been introduced prior to Holmes's death. The man was precisely as Watson remembered, save the thin layer of perspiration which coated his olive skin, clammy to touch when Watson ghosted his fingers down the man's cheek.
"It is the delicacies of barely passable indulgence which ails me, Doctor," Mr. Melas groaned. Watson was relieved beyond measure he was lucid. "Never shall seafood pass my lips again!"
Watson offered him a small smile. "You may change your view when you are well again, sir."
Mr. Melas regarded him wearily. "Perhaps. Here I thought it was the abominable waiter, come to take revenge when I refused to tip. Yet who would reward such abysmal service, I ask you? The food was warm at best."
"Are you much in pain, Mr. Melas?"
"None to the extent as before, Doctor," said he, and both knew to which occasion he referred. Then he added, warmth in his voice, "However, as it was then, I entrust myself to your care in full."
Touched by the man's words, Watson remained by his bedside, tended to his needs and offered what pain relief he could. Mr. Melas slept little and seemed appreciative of conversation, so they spoke of his ventures since the business at The Myrtles, the unusual requests of his clientele and the hotels he had frequented recently.
Watson stayed until a thin golden line appeared on the floor, pale morning light creeping inside the room. He left Mr. Melas under the careful watch of the landlady, stepped outside Pall Mall to the murmur of the city stirring, people passing by with swift footsteps. He saw a hansom approaching, stepped forward to wave it down, when someone spoke behind him.
"Good morning, Doctor Watson," said a familiar voice, so achingly familiar that Watson froze with his hand raised. Rushing water echoed in his ears, a dam bursting to flood his veins with liquid ice.
That he would run into Mycroft Holmes was inevitable with him residing in rooms beneath Mr. Melas, however it was a surprise all the same.
"Mr. Holmes," he greeted, lowering his arm.
"I trust Mr. Melas is faring well," said Mycroft Holmes, tone cordial but without a hint of a question in it.
"He is improved, and should recover within a few days."
"Perhaps he will choose his eating establishments with more care in future."
It was not said in malice, mere factual observation, so like his brother that Watson could only nod in reply. Holmes's cigarette case suddenly felt like lead in his coat pocket, a cold weight against his thigh. He wanted to touch it but refrained from doing so, curled his fingers around the handle of his cane instead.
Mycroft Holmes studied him openly, the pale grey eyes scouring every inch of skin until Watson felt quite uncomfortable, like a piece of fruit peeled and laid bare. Conscious of the man's extraordinary deductive skills, Watson fancied Mycroft could see each one of his thoughts passing over his face like ink, the morning sun drawing them out until Watson felt itchy under his collar.
He cleared his throat. "I should–"
"You have had a long vigil, Doctor," said Mr. Holmes suddenly, gaze drifting over Watson's shoulder before returning to his face. "You would not object to sustenance, I take it."
He laid out the words like questions were not a common visitor to his vocabulary, a note of authority colouring his tone which was in keeping with his mannerisms.
A polite refusal was on Watson's lips when Mycroft Holmes inclined his head, said, "This way, Doctor," and took off down the street with a speed Watson would not have credited him. He followed, too exhausted to query this strange turn of events.
An hour later, he left the Diogenes Club with a full stomach and an open invitation to access the facilities whenever he deemed fit. Despite the generous offer, Watson had no intention of doing so.
However, the following two years would see him frequent the club twelve times, converse with Mycroft Holmes during five of them. A thin chain of comfort would be soldered from the elder man's words, see him through the darker days, a spark of friendship burning the black grief that encased Watson's heart.
End