Captain Of All These Men Of Death
Chapter 14
2015
Mortis Album
Mycroft stepped from the car outside UCLH. The temperature was mild despite the lateness of the hour, and Mycroft found himself tugging his high shirt collar off his neck as he climbed the steps towards the front entrance of the brightly lit hospital. The smell of disinfectant assaulted his nostrils and a gust of warm air greeted his arrival as the glass doors slid open.
Mycroft had always disliked hospitals. At any opportunity possible he would avoid them, not hesitating to spend his hard earned money to stay out of the hot, bustling hubs of sickness and noise. Trust Sherlock to push him past his boundaries.
He gave a cursory smile at the receptionist as she directed him to Sherlock's room. His umbrella tucked under his arm, he stepped aside to allow a bed to be wheeled out of the huge lift before stepping in himself. The burnished steel walls blurred his reflection, and Mycroft found his mind wandering as he stared at the figure of himself, briefly allowing worry to seep into his demeanour. The lift pinged and Mycroft made a beeline to his brother.
The scene he encountered was peaceful enough: Sherlock lay in the bed, breathing shallowly, a drip in his arm and an oxygen tube at his nose. John and Mrs Hudson sat in chairs beside him. Mycroft's keen eyes and practiced ability to read situations told him otherwise, however. All was not as it seemed.
"John, Mrs Hudson." Mycroft greeted as he entered, hanging his umbrella smoothly on the coat rack in the corner as he passed. "What happened?"
John didn't bother questioning how Mycroft knew something had happened. "Sherlock had a seizure."
The older Holmes didn't realise he'd quickened his pace until he found himself by the bedside, peering at Sherlock. His hand found his little brother's shoulder. He could feel an abnormal heat through the gown, his eyes studying Sherlock's pallid features, pale lips and sickly, flushed cheeks.
"Is he alright?" Mycroft asked, inwardly glad his voice managed to retain some dignity, even if his actions did not.
"He's alright." John said. "His temperature climbed too high before the drugs had a chance to kick in. It's already dropping, and his blood oxygen levels are better too."
Mycroft nodded, eyes still trained on his little brother. He sighed, his shoulders drooping. 'This is all too much'. He'd have to take a day off at this rate.
John watched Mycroft's carefully constructed mask crack at the sight of Sherlock. He knew that the man would never admit it, but John suspected that Mycroft was taking his little bother's illness a lot harder than he was letting on. He stood.
"Mycroft, would you like to sit down? I need to call Mary." He glanced at Mrs Hudson, who caught his eye and made to stand.
"Would either of you like a tea, dears?" She asked the room, joining John at the door. Both nodded and she smiled sweetly. John accompanied her out.
Mycroft quirked an eyebrow at their backs as he watched them leave, nonplussed. 'Did they prearrange that?' He made himself comfortable in John's chair, and settled himself to watch over his brother for the foreseeable future. He had to admit, it was nice just to sit in silence for a little while. He watched as Sherlock shifted in his sleep.
John sat in the waiting room. The quiet, warm ward was starting to affect him, and he could feel his eyes drooping as he sank down into a chair. He hadn't really slept yet, after all. He pressed his fingernails into his palm to try and stay awake while he listened to the dial tone. A tinny click, and the sound of his wife filtered down the line.
"John?"
"Sorry, darling. Did I wake you?"
"Yeah, but I wanted to be woken. How's Sherlock?"
"He's…"
"What happened?"
"He had a seizure-"
He was cut off by a gasp. "Sherlock! Is he alright?"
"Yeah, he's fine. But it gave us all a scare."
"It would give anyone a scare. How long do you think he'll be in for?"
"If his temperature drops and stays down, he'll probably be discharged tomorrow at some point. If not… well, I don't know."
There was a pause, and John could imagine the look on his wife's face. He found himself wishing he could hug her.
"Come home soon, alright John? Even just for a little while."
John hummed in agreement, and Mary chuckled.
"I'll even go against all of my natural instincts and save you a crumpet."
"Well, how can I refuse now?" John laughed. "I'll try and be home for breakfast."
The two said their goodbyes and John ended the call, slipping it into his pocket. His body craved a drink, and suddenly imagining Mrs Hudson struggling through the hallways with three full cups of tea, he made his way down to the canteen to try and intercept her journey.
Sherlock felt as though he'd been dragged backwards through a thick fog. His head was stuffy, his mind limp and tepid. He was cold, but his skin felt sticky with sweat. He could feel a strand of curly hair poking at his eye. As he slowly began to take notice of his surroundings, the smell of disinfectant and the sounds of someone breathing next to him filtered through the haze.
"Sherlock?" A familiar voice next to him spoke.
His brows knitted together and he turned his head away. 'No. Go away.'
"Sherlock. I know you're awake."
Sherlock grunted, and took a deep breath to sigh, but it caught in his throat. "Damn, bad idea…' His mind observed as he began to cough deep, rattling coughs that forced his body forward and pulled at something on his face. His hands scrabbled for the object under his nose but they were pulled away. Suddenly someone grabbed his shoulder, and he felt a heavy thump on his back as they hit him hard. One, two, three.
The beats certainly worked. Sherlock found his breath. He opened his eyes to the face of a smiling nurse. "Are you alright?" She asked, her hand casually taking his pulse while she checked his pupils. Sherlock nodded, rubbing his chest gingerly as she helped ease him back down to the bed. She chuckled. "Nothing beats a good NHS thump on the back!"
Sherlock watched her bustle around the room as he tried to regain full control over his breathing. Noticing for the first time his brother sat next to him, he turned, inwardly smirking at the shellshocked expression on Mycroft's face as he eyed the nurse. "Mycroft." Sherlock croaked, his voice ropy.
"Sherlock. How are you feeling?"
"Death warmed up."
Mycroft frowned. "That's a little… less inventive than usual."
"Not feeling very inventive at the moment."
"Well, I'm not surprised."
At that moment, John and Mrs Hudson re-entered the room, their faces lighting up at the sight of an awake Sherlock. They joined him and Mycroft around the bed.
John handed Mycroft a cup of tea and looked back at Sherlock. "How do you feel?"
"Fine." Sherlock croaked, wincing as the sound scraped at his sore throat. He was aware nobody believed him. He didn't believe himself.
"Do you remember how you got here?"
Sherlock shook his head. John took a breath. "Your temperature climbed above 40 and you couldn't wake up, so I called an ambulance. We came with you - yes, I know that's obvious Sherlock - and then when you arrived here, you had a seizure."
Sherlock stopped mid eye-roll, his expression flickering from exasperated to surprised. "A seizure?"
"Don't worry dear. There are no negative side effects, but you scared us aplenty." Mrs Hudson said, her small hands finding Sherlock's closest to her and squeezing. Sherlock squeezed back, his eyes softening as he looked at the old woman. He turned back to John.
"So when are we leaving?" He husked.
"Not at least until you can speak, little brother." Mycroft drawled.
Sherlock let out a wheezy grunt. "Stop enjoying yourself, Mycroft."
"Try it."
John pushed his key into the front door. The lock let out a satisfying click as it opened. He sat on the bottom step and unlaced his shoes, smiling when his wife Mary came into the hallway to greet him.
"Hello."
"You look… tired."
"Well, I only managed a couple of hours last night."
Mary pouted and joined him on the step, resting her head on John's shoulder as he slumped against the wall. She patted his leg comfortingly, and they sat for a moment in silence until Mary spoke.
"I would happily sit here all day with you… but I just made a tea and it's getting cold."
John smirked. "Tea is important."
"It is. Which is why you should help me up so I can drink it."
"Only if you make me that crumpet you promised."
Mary mock sighed. "Fine. I left you the crossword."
"Wait, what?!" John cried. "The crossword?"
"Serves you right for not being here in time for Sudoku!"
John frowned. "Remind me why I love you again?"
"You don't," Mary cackled. "Serves you right for putting a bun in the oven."
John smirked. "Oh, you've done it now. I'm leaving you on this step forever. I'll drink your tea."
"You wouldn't!"
"Watch me."
Mary grabbed the banister and heaved herself up, placing herself between John and the kitchen, turning her body sideways so her stomach blocked the hallway. "Hah."
"Scuppered." John stood, a warm smile on his face - something which he'd noticeably lacked in the past few days. She pulled him into a tight hug, burying her head into his neck, one of her hands gently carding through his hair. John's arms snaked around her body, and he pulled her as close as her bulging stomach would allow. She felt his warm breath. After a few moments, she lifted her head a little.
"Tea."
"Yes, yes."
Mycroft signed the documents needed to allow Sherlock to leave the hospital. His car was already waiting, and the nurses had helped Sherlock into a wheelchair, much to his chagrin. Mycroft looked over his brother angrily gripping the armrests. "It's just a wheelchair, Sherlock. It's not like you'd be capable of making it to the car under your own steam."
Sherlock let out a humph and turned away, pouting.
"Sulk all you like." Mycroft sighed, before beginning to push his brother out of his ward room and into the hallways. Sherlock pulled up his mask as they left the isolation ward, and Mycroft wheeled him through the hospital and out int the open streets. The cooler air caught in Sherlock's throat, and he stifled a cough as they came alongside his black car.
"Ready to move?" Mycroft asked, and Sherlock nodded, readying himself for a shift. He braced his arm against his chair as Mycroft held out a hand, and together they heaved the skinny sleuth up and into the car seat. Mycroft folded the wheelchair, handed it to the driver, and joined Sherlock in the back. Sherlock had already spotted Mycroft's little 'gift'; his trusty blue scarf was wound around his neck. He watched his brother gaze languidly out of the window as they pulled away from the hospital.
"Stop staring, Mycroft." Sherlock mumbled, his voice still hoarse. "I'm not a circus attraction."
Mycroft shrugged a little and turned away, still casting perfunctory glances at his brother at regular intervals. He looked so frail - it was unnerving to say the least. Though he knew it was irrational, he felt the need to check that the movement of the car hadn't caused him to break clean in two.
They arrived at Sherlock's flat, Sherlock mutely complying with Mycroft's requests, until he saw the wheelchair.
"No. I am walking across my threshold."
Mycroft groaned. "Come on, Sherlock - don't make this harder than it already i-"
"No!"
Sherlock's flatly adamant expression told Mycroft that it would probably be quicker just to let him walk. He sighed bodily, before helping him out of the car and slinging one of Sherlock's delicate arms over his shoulder. They made the slow journey into the house and up the stairs, Sherlock stopping for breath twice on the way up. A sheen of sweat shone on both of the men's brows when they finally reached the sofa. Mycroft deposited John unceremoniously onto the squashy piece of furniture, and went to put the kettle on.
By the time he returned with two cups of fresh tea, Sherlock was asleep.
The meaning of this chapter is White Death, which was a popular term used in the 1800's to describe TB.
As per demand, here is a present day chapter :) I hope you liked it!
I may update soon… I may not. It's nice to have some mystery in life.
Please review! I appreciate every single one so much 3