Captain of All These Men of Death
Chapter 9
2015
Magnus Frater
Mycroft sat in the car idly playing with the handle of his cane, his attention lost in a mix of concern and frustration for his younger brother. The sky lit the evening in a yellow hue, pink clouds idly dotting the clean gradient from blue to orange above the irregular London skyline. He'd finally received a short call from Sherlock that afternoon informing him of his ailment, and they'd arranged for him to visit. Of course, he'd known of his brother's illness since he'd first been diagnosed a week ago and made the appropriate arrangements so he could safely visit him, but he appreciated the call nonetheless. Both of them knew full well that Sherlock would not willingly call his brother for anything less than self-oriented needs or case information, and Mycroft preferred to lean on more surreptitious methods of keeping track of him than simply asking about his week.
His melancholy was interrupted by his ever faithful assistant tying up her hair, revealing the nape of her neck as she leaned back against the headrest. A small section had managed to escape the confines of the tie, and curved down in a soft brown arc next to her face. Mycroft quietly resisted the urge to reach over and tuck it behind her ear.
Noticing the attention, she looked at him and smiled politely. "Everything alright, Sir?"
Mycroft nodded. "Of course. Have the driver drop you home after I leave. I won't be needing your service for the rest of the afternoon."
She smiled again. "Thank you Sir."
Mycroft nodded once, returning his attention to the metropolis moving swiftly past the window. Soon enough, the car pulled up outside 221B Baker Street. His cane felt reassuringly solid in the pommel of his hand as he waited for Mrs Hudson to open the door.
The stairs creaked as Mycroft ascended to his brother's questionable flat. He found Sherlock dozing on the sofa in the lounge wrapped in a thick duvet, a glass of water on the coffee table in front of him, a box of tissues on his lap, and a bucket on the floor by his feet. It was plain to see that Sherlock was deeply unwell. He'd lost even more weight, his skin was sallow and drawn, there were deep bags under his eyes, and his breath was shaky and uneven. A thin sheen of sweat reflected the evening light off his brow. Mycroft quickly shed his outer layers and rested his cane against John's armchair, before sitting on the coffee table opposite the sleuth and gently laying a hand on Sherlock's knee.
"Sherlock."
Sherlock stirred, cracking a bleary eye open and frowning at the man sitting opposite him. "Mycroft?" he mumbled.
"Yes Sherlock. It's me." Mycroft helped Sherlock sit up, handing him the glass of water and glancing around the room.
"It's there," Sherlock said weakly, gesturing a shaky hand to the armrest where a small electric thermometer sat. "And the ibuprofen is behind you. Two please."
Mycroft slipped the thermometer under Sherlock's tongue before reaching behind him and pushing two small white pills out from the blister packet. He placed them in Sherlock's palm just as the thermometer beeped. Sherlock handed his brother the thermometer before he took the pills with a tentative sip of water. He glanced up just in time to see Mycroft's face fully crumble into worry as he read the display and then look towards him, studying his face fully. Sherlock didn't doubt he looked as ill as he felt. He didn't try to hide it - just holding the glass steady was tiring him out.
"Sherlock… why didn't you call me sooner?" Mycroft asked, his voice unusually emotional.
"What could you have done?" Sherlock croaked, leaning back into the sofa. The glass of water in his hand began to list dangerously as he lost the fight with his limbs. Mycroft deftly plucked it from his hands.
"I could have had a specialist nurse here t-" Mycroft was silenced by the flash of disgust in Sherlock's face. "Alright then, I could have helped John and Mrs Hudson care for you."
"Well, you're here now." Sherlock mumbled. There was a pause before he spoke again. "…I'm sorry."
Mycroft let out a long suffering sigh, before getting up and putting the kettle on. He pulled two cups from the cupboards, idly opening the bread bin as he waited for the tea to stew and spotted one of Mrs Hudson's scones winking at him next to a loaf of bread. He brought the tea back into the living room, the scone balanced on his saucer, and ignored the smirk Sherlock shot him as he spotted the offending cake. Mycroft sat next to him and helped Sherlock sit up, before passing him his cup of tea. He watched as his younger brother took a tiny sip.
"So, what have you done today?"
Sherlock shot him a look. "Small talk?"
Mycroft met his gaze and smiled, his signature self indulgence oozing from his features. He sipped his tea. "Yes, small talk," he drawled. "Well?"
"Slept, vomited, slept, and watched daytime TV."
"Anything good?"
"There was quite an intriguing family on Jeremy Kyle - they came on to resolve whether the husband had cheated on his wife."
"And had he?"
"Oh yes, but they all failed to reveal they had in fact both cheated on each other with the same person - the wife's stepbrother."
Mycroft's eyebrows quirked as he sipped from his cup. "And how did you deduce this?"
"The wife obviously wasn't very invested in her appearance, but it was evident she had paid to have a set of acrylic nails in a rather lurid green. The colour exactly matched the shade of his t-shirt, and when he stepped onstage, they maintained eye contact for a second longer than normal. She leaned forward in her chair and placed her hand on her neck, with which of course she intended to guide his eye to the nape of her neck and then down to her cleavage. Though, quite frankly, I don't know why anyone would find such a view attractive." Mycroft suppressed a smirk at the slightly nauseated look on Sherlock's face.
"And the husband?"
"Massive hickey on his neck."
"Oh."
There was a long pause, the silence stretching between them like a fissure, before both of the brothers began to chuckle into their teacups. Sherlock's deep rolling baritone filled the room, offset by Mycroft's more modest laughter, before being sharply cut off as Sherlock began to cough. The hot tea splashed onto his lap as he lost control of his hands, his body overcome by the deep, rolling coughs that warped his frame. Mycroft balked at the sudden change. He quickly discarded his own cup of tea, pulled the sopping duvet away and leaned over his brother, a hand on his back, feeling the shudder that rolled through his body with each deep cough.
"Breathe, Sherlock. Breathe," Mycroft found himself murmuring as he rubbed small circles on his back, realising there was little he could do to help quell the coughing fit. After what seemed like an age, the fit finally abated, and Sherlock slumped over his knees, completely exhausted from the effort. Mycroft gently leaned his brother back against the sofa, his stomach dropping through the floor when he spotted the flecks of blood on his brother's lip. "Sherlock, you're coughing up blood!"
Sherlock nodded weakly. "Have been for the last couple of days." He mumbled. "John says it's from the force of the coughs."
"Is there nothing that can be done to resolve the issue?"
Mycroft only received a small shake of the head. He sighed. "I'm going to sort this out," he said, gesturing to the tea soaked duvet by Sherlock's feet. "Blanket?"
"In my wardrobe."
Mycroft nodded, swiftly stripping the duvet of its cover before hanging the duvet over the shower rail in the bathroom, and stuffing the cover into Sherlock's wash basket. He located 2 blankets in the wardrobe, and returned to the living room to find his brother had fallen asleep. He draped them over him before standing back, observing the pitifully weakened figure, the two blankets swamping his thin frame. It was such a drastic change from Sherlock's typical rambunctious, arrogant persona that it deeply unnerved Mycroft. He never thought he'd wish his brother would pickpocket him again.
He sank into Sherlock's wide, leather armchair and pulled out his phone, his elbows on his knees as he scrolled through his contacts and dialled the number of Dr. John H. Watson.
"Come on, John! Hurry up or I'll start the programme without you!" Mary called to her husband.
"Give me a chance to pee in peace, won't you?" John called back. Mary chuckled, taking the chance to devoid herself of her slippers and tuck herself onto the sofa. She heard the toilet flush and the sound of the tap running, an evil glint in her eye as she pressed the play button and increased the volume to ensure John could hear the opening credits. She was rewarded with the hurried thump thump of footsteps on the stairs, before John rushed into the room and plopped down on to the sofa next to his wife. "Oh, don't wait for me after all then," he said huffily, before Mary leaned over to kiss him on the cheek.
"Come off it. It's only the intro," she said, swatting at his arm.
John smiled, before lifting said arm up to allow Mary to lean against his chest. They sat in comfortable silence in front of the television, their hands idly resting on top of one another on Mary's swollen stomach. His thumb traced circles on Mary's hand, and her head rested comfortably in the juncture between his shoulder and chest. The living room was warm and cosy, and John soon found the quiet murmur of the television and Mary's even, relaxed breathing lulling him to sleep. As he succumbed to drowsiness, Mary chuckled.
"Are you asleep?"
"Definitely not," he murmured, not opening his eyes.
"Liar," she replied quietly, burrowing further into the crook of his arm. "I'm the one who should be tired, not you."
"Who says I'm tired?" John slurred, his voice tapering off at the last syllable as he slipped into sleep. Mary just smiled, turning down the television a few notches as John's breathing deepened below her. She ignored the first time that John's phone vibrated on the sofa armrest, preferring to watch television. The second time it rang however, she reached for it.
"Mycroft?"
"Ah, Mary."
"Hello. Is everything alright?"
"It's… been better. Can I speak to John, please?"
"Is it urgent? He's asleep."
"Yes, it is rather urgent. It's regarding Sherlock."
Mary's expression darkened. "Hang on." She didn't hesitate to poke John hard in the rib, making him yelp in surprise as he was forced awake. John blinked slowly at his wife, his expression a mix of confused and betrayed. In different circumstances, Mary would have laughed. Instead, she pushed the phone into John's hand. "It's Mycroft."
John's eyes cleared quickly and he put the phone to his ear. "Hello, Mycroft?"
Mary watched as John sat up, his expression alert as he listened to Mycroft, before he stood and left the room, glancing back to smile some reassurance to Mary before he crossed the threshold. John returned his full attention to the Holmes brother when he entered the hallway.
"Sorry, Mycroft. Carry on."
The older Holmes cleared his throat before continuing. "Like I said, Sherlock is not in a good way, and from my observations, he seems to be getting worse rather than better. You are aware he is coughing up blood, of course."
"Yeah, it started a few days ago. TB is a very hard disease to kill, and it's not unusual for a person to become more unwell before they improve, but I've also got the same concerns you do. I think he needs more intensive care than we can manage. He really should be in a hospital."
"When I arrived this afternoon, his temperature was 39.2."
John mutely watched Mary as she joined him in the hallway, her expression sombre as she leaned on the wall opposite him and watched her husband's brow furrow. "That's higher than the midday reading Mrs Hudson did. Did you get him to drink anything?"
"A little water and tea - he spilled most of that on to his lap during a bought of coughing. He fell asleep afterwards - that was about 10 minutes ago."
There was a long pause, and John could sense that Mycroft was studying his ailing brother. His voice once more permeated the line. "John, I don't want him to be by himself tonight. You are a qualified doctor, and I would feel much more comfortable knowing you were with him."
There was a long pause as John looked across at his wife, a resigned look in his eyes. "Fine. Stay there until I arrive. If he gets worse, call me." John ended the call, and slumped bodily against the wall. He lifted his face to Mary, his face marred with worry. "He's getting worse," he said, inwardly shocked at the audible cracks in his voice.
"Then go and care for him, doctor." Mary said swiftly. She stepped towards him and enveloped him in a tight hug. John's head drooped forward to rest on her shoulder. "He'll get better," she murmured into his neck. "He's Sherlock Bloody Holmes, the most stubborn man on earth. He'll get better."
John wished he could believe her words.
Translation for this chapter - Big Brother.
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