AN: Okay, so I would like to take this time to point out that I am not English, have never been to England. I am from Alabama. I apologize in advance for any mistakes I make. If any English/British readers wish to correct me, feel free. I'm relying on Google for a lot of my information. Still, I hope you're enjoying the story despite my mistakes.
Three-and-half hours by train, a thirty-minute ride from the train station to Baker St. Four hours in which John could have done absolutely anything. God, she hoped he hadn't done anything stupid. She rushed to the door and rang the bell. Once. Twice. The door opened before she could buzz it a third, an elderly woman standing on the other side, looking irritated. Charlotte smiled sheepishly.
"I'm sorry, ma'am. I'm John's sister, he's not been answering his phone and I'm worried." She explained, somewhat impatiently. The woman frowned.
"The alcoholic?"
She shook her head.
"That's Harry. I'm Charlie, the other sister." She replied, wishing the woman would hurry up and let her in. The hair on the nape of her neck was standing on end and she had a horrible feeling in the pit of her stomach. The woman studied her for moment before stepping aside and allowing her in.
"Right upstairs, dear, first door you'll come to."
Charlotte smiled at her.
"Thank you."
She hurried up the stairs, not bothering with further pleasantries. She would apologize later and find out the woman's name. For now, she needed to get to John. She banged on the door when she reached it. Silence. She banged on it again. Then she was being gently pushed aside, and the door opened. Charlotte shot the woman a grateful look as she all but ran inside. The living room and kitchen were empty, and she looked hopefully at whom she assumed to be the landlady.
"John's room is upstairs, dear."
Charlotte nodded, taking the stairs two at a time in her haste to get to her brother. She didn't bother knocking, thankful when the door wasn't locked. She burst into the room and stilled in terror. John was lying on the bed, absolutely still. There was a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of prescription pills on the bedside table. She scrambled to the bed, grabbing his wrist and checking for a pulse. It was there, thank God, but faint. She called 999.
"What's your emergency?"
"My brother appears to have overdosed on sleeping pills. There's a prescription and alcohol on his bedside table. He's unconscious, breathing labored, and his pulse is slow."
"What's your location, ma'am?"
"221B Baker St."
"Do you know when your brother consumed the medication?"
"Sometime in the last four hours, but I'm not sure when exactly. I just got here myself."
"Okay. Help is on the way. Do you know if your brother is on any medications other than the one he took?"
"I'm not sure if he's still on it, but I know when he came back from Afghanistan, he was on a pain killer. I don't remember which one, though."
"Afghanistan? Was your brother injured in action?"
"Yes. He was shot in the shoulder and invalided home. He was an Army doctor."
"Has your brother been suffering from trauma or depression since being sent home?"
"When he first got home, yes, but that was over two years ago. He had been improving." She replied, her voice wavering.
"I see. Has anything happened recently to set him back?"
Charlotte exhaled explosively through her nose, irritation filling her. How was this relevant?!
"His flatmate committed suicide a few months ago. What does that matter? Where is the bloody ambulance?" she demanded.
"It's on its way, ma'am, but I need you to stay on the line until they get there."
"Why? How is talking to you going to help John?"
"John? Is that your brother's name?"
She let out a growl of frustration.
"Yes!" she snapped, "His name is John Watson!"
"Do you live with your brother?"
"No, I live in Carlisle. I came to check on him – see how he was doing with everything. I got worried when he wouldn't answer his phone. His landlady let me in the flat."
"Where in the flat are you?"
"We're upstairs in the second bedroom."
She heard sirens blaring. Finally.
"I can hear the ambulance." She told the operator, hanging up. She ran back down the stairs. The landlady was still in the doorway.
"John's overdosed on sleeping pills I've got an ambulance on the way. Can you let them in?" she asked pleadingly. She wanted to get back upstairs to John. The woman's eyes widened in concern and fear.
"Of course, dear." She turned and went back downstairs, just as a pounding began on the door. Charlotte ran back up to her brother. The next hour was a blur. The paramedics coming in and putting her brother on the stretcher, the ride in the ambulance, John being rushed off to have his stomach pumped. She was left to answer what questions she could about her brother's medical history while the doctor's tried to save his life. Now she was sitting in the waiting room, waiting anxiously for news.
"Ms. Watson?"
She shot to her feet, looking at the doctor expectantly. He was an older man with a kind face. He was smiling at her.
"Ms. Watson, your brother is going to be just fine, though we're going to be keeping him for the next week or two, just in case."
Charlotte nodded. She expected it. The doctor – Dr. Evan Thomas, according to his name badge, continued.
"As your brother's next of kin, I'm obliged to inform you that your brother has more health problems than just the overdose that brought him here."
Charlotte frowned.
"Such as?"
"He's severely underweight, for one. I believe your brother has been eating poorly the last few months. For another, his liver has suffered. Nothing that can't be fixed – at the moment. I would caution him against drinking any alcohol for the foreseeable future. He's also dehydrated. We have him on fluids at the moment."
She nodded.
"Thank you." She said sincerely. He smiled reassuringly at her.
"I'm merely doing my job, Ms. Watson. Now, your brother is asleep. I don't think he'll wake until sometime tomorrow. I recommend going home and getting some sleep. It's late, and visiting hours are almost over." He added sternly when it looked like she would protest. She sighed, running a hand through her hair.
"Alright. Thank you." She repeated. "I'll be back in the morning." She added determinedly. Smiling amicably, he nodded.
"Of course. I'm sure he'll be happy to see you."
Charlotte snorted. She doubted that, but she didn't voice her thoughts as she turned to leave. John would be furious and guilty when he woke up. She sighed to herself as she hailed a cab.
The landlady was still up when she returned to Baker St. Anthea had apparently dropped her things off before leaving. She smiled tiredly at the woman.
"John's going to be fine. The hospital is keeping him for the next couple of weeks for observation. I'm going back in the morning to see him."
She nodded.
"Where will you be staying, dear?"
Charlotte shrugged.
"Probably find a hotel nearby, at least for the next few days. Start looking for flat in the area."
She looked at her hesitantly.
"I have another flat, in the basement. You'll need to provide the furniture, and it's a bit damp, but you could rent it if you like." She offered. Charlotte smiled.
"That would be lovely. I can look at it after I visit John tomorrow – he'll eventually have a hissy fit and kick me out." She added, grinning tiredly at her confused look. The older woman shook her head.
"That man really does have a terrible temper."
Charlotte snorted. She was aware. But his temper was nowhere near as bad as their father.
"He comes by it honestly. What's your name? I've been terribly rude this evening." She added, changing the subject abruptly.
"Martha Hudson, dear. You said your name is Charlie?" she looked hesitant and rather confused. Charlie chuckled.
"Short for Charlotte. Everyone's just always called me Charlie. Do you happen to know where I can find a hotel at this hour?" she asked curiously. Mrs. Hudson shook her head.
"I'm afraid not dear, but feel free to kip up in your brother's room for the night." She offered gently. Charlie smiled wanly at her.
"Bless you, Mrs. Hudson, that would be fantastic."
Mrs. Hudson smiled and bid her good night. Charlotte kept the smile on her own face until the woman's door closed. Once Mrs. Hudson was out of sight, her expression dropped, and she scrubbed a hand down her face. She grabbed her bag and headed upstairs. She sat it down by the door and flopped on the couch, pulling out her phone. She sent a single text.
Thank you. -CW
She searched her bag, glad to find she hadn't forgotten her charger in her haste. She plugged up her phone and lay down on the couch. Sleep was a long time coming, but she did finally start to drop off. Just as she lost consciousness, she heard her phone ping. She would answer it in the morning.
She woke up late. Later than she meant to, anyway. It was ten before she finally regained consciousness. At least it was still morning. She had taken a cold shower, too impatient to wait for the water to warm up and grabbed a muffin from a bakery on the way to the hospital. It was nearly lunch time before she arrived. Thankfully, the nurse directed her to her brother's room without any trouble. She was unsurprised to see her brother away when she entered the room. She grinned at him without mirth.
"'Lo, Johnny! How's tricks?" she asked cheerfully. He had a hard expression on his face.
"Charlie. What are you doing here?"
She raised her eyebrows, sitting in the chair next to him.
"Straight to it, then?" she asked dryly. He nodded, once, sharply.
"If you don't mind."
She nodded as well.
"Well, Johnny, it started about two years ago, when you first moved into Baker St." she began, dragging another chair over and kicking her feet up, crossing her arms over her chest. "I got a call late in the evening, as I was getting ready to leave the office. Bloke telling me he had concerns about you and your living arrangement. Said he had a car waiting for me and told me to get into it. I get in the car and end up in Middlesbrough. That's a near two-hour drive. Stop at this real nice brick house in the suburbs. Man inside, waring a suit, got an umbrella propped up against his chair. Tells me 'bout how you've moved in with his brother, and how he's concerned for his brother. We come to an agreement. We help each other help the two of you. Kept this arrangement up for two years. Three months ago, the bloke goes silent. Until last night. Last night, I got a text, telling me you were about to do something 'rash'. I packed my shit and hopped the first train over here. I buzzed your doorbell 'til Mrs. Hudson answered it, then ran up and banged hell out your door until Mrs. Hudson pushed me out the way and unlocked it. She directed me to your room, and I found you, unconscious on your bed. I'm sure you can guess the rest from there." She finished sardonically. Their family really wasn't good with the whole 'feelings' shite. It was part of why she had become a therapist in the first place. John was watching her impassively.
"That's why you sent me that text, asking if I knew Mycroft." It wasn't a question. She nodded anyway.
"Yeah."
They sat in silence, neither willing to speak first, both letting their anger build. Finally, Charlotte broke it.
"What the hell were you thinking, Johnny?" she demanded harshly. He glared at her, his jaw clenched defiantly. But she could see the guilt in his eyes. She glared back. He looked away first.
"It's my fault." He said quietly. She frowned.
"What are you talking about? What's your fault?"
He looked back up, desperation on his face.
"Sherlock. It was my fault."
Her eyes widened.
"Wait, wait, wait. How do you figure that one? According to Mycroft, Sherlock jumped off of Bart's due to something to do with Moriarty." She said firmly. He shook his head.
"Before he jumped. We had an argument. I called him a machine. I left to cool off. I came back, and he made me watch him jump. He was punishing me, for what I said."
Charlie shook her head.
"Okay, calling him a machine was shit, but so was him making you watch him jump. And honestly, I think you got the worst end of that deal. But regardless of what was said beforehand, I find it hard to believe that he killed himself because of one little argument. You'd had worse ones before – you told me about them."
He shook his head.
"It was different. I'd always stood by him. Then that damned article came out, and we were arrested. Then there was the fake Richard Brooks. And in that last conversation, I was no better than any of the others."
Ah. He felt guilty about the lack of solidarity. She sighed and shook her head, setting her feet on the floor and leaning forward, looking at her brother earnestly.
"Johnny, that wasn't your fault. Everyone says things they don't mean when they're angry. I doubt you meant it – you once told me that Sherlock Holmes was the most emotional man you'd ever met. I doubt you changed your mind over the course of a night."
He shook his head.
"I hadn't. I didn't. I didn't mean it. I would give anything to take it back." He told her miserably. She sighed again and reached out to take his hand. She gave it a squeeze.
"You can't take back what he said, but you can make sure his death wasn't for nothing." She stated gently. She knew there were still large groups of people that believed the younger Holmes a fake. He frowned at her.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, clear his name. Prove that he wasn't a fake. Show everyone the man you knew." She told him. He stared at her for a brief moment. Then a small, almost shy smile pulled at his lips. He started nodded.
"I can do that. I will do that." He frowned, "As soon as I get out of this bloody hospital."
She snorted.
"Yeah, you'll be in here for another fortnight, mate." She told him, amused. He scowled at her.
"I'm fine!"
Charlotte sobered and she glared at him.
"You tried to kill yourself last night, John!" she snapped, he looked away again, shame overtaking his expression, "You're under observation until they feel it safe to send you home again. And they won't be sending you alone."
He frowned at her.
"What do you mean?"
She leaned back in her chair again.
"I'm going back to Baker St. in a bit to look at the basement. Mrs. Hudson says she's willing to rent it out to me. It'll take about a month, probably – I'll have to deal with the damp that's set in down there. I'll start looking for a new job tomorrow and quit the one I've got at home. Sell the house in Carlisle, have my furniture shipped her with the rest of my shite." She told him casually. He stared at her with guilt and not a little bit of horror. There was a small hint of indignation there as well.
"I'm not a child, Charlotte! I can damn well take care of myself!"
"Oh, because you've done such a bang-up job so far!" she retorted sarcastically. That stopped him up short. Likely because he didn't have a counter. "I'm moving to Baker St., John, and that's the end of it." She told him sharply. He scowled at her. She rolled her eyes and stood up.
"Since you're so cheerful, I'm going to go look at that basement and start making arrangements. I'll see you later, John. Let me know if you want anyone else to visit while you're here, I'll let them know." She told him. Ignoring his scowl, she kissed his cheek before leaving the room.
As she was leaving the hospital, she felt her phone – which she had put on vibrate before entering – go off in her pocket. She took it out. Two messages from Mycroft, the first from last night, and one just now. She opened them.
Think nothing of it. -MH
Would you like help moving? -MH
She raised an eyebrow.
What do you want in exchange? – CW
Tea, Thursday evening. I'll send a car for you. – MH
She chuckled.
Must you always kidnap me for us to have a conversation? – CW
It's hardly kidnapping if you come willingly. – MH
She laughed, imagining his indignant expression. She'd gotten to know Mycroft quite well over the past two years. They usually had tea a few times a month. That had stopped after Sherlock's death. It seemed they were going to start them up again.
I look forward to it. - CW
