Prompt: Mycroft learns a new skill, from mrspencil
Mycroft Holmes was not accustomed to interruptions while at home. Truthfully, he wasn't accustomed to interruptions anywhere; the Diogenes Club spoke (or didn't) for itself in that matter, and his secretaries knew to tell anyone who wished to meet with him of the importance of setting an appointment. This did not stop every self-important Prime Minister from thinking he could barge into his office without warning, but one icy glance from Mycroft was usually enough to take care of that. Few had ever repeated the offense.
Unfortunately, his younger brother remained both immune to his most hardened glare and insistent on turning up to see Mycroft whenever he wished, with no thought to what Mycroft might have been doing at the time. The elder Holmes brother had grown accustomed to coming home to find Sherlock already seated in the armchair next to the fire, brandy at the ready. He supposed continually getting past his security kept Sherlock in practice at breaking and entering, and gave Mycroft's guards something to do. He had grown equally accustomed to Sherlock barging into Whitehall or the Diogenes whenever he wished Mycroft to help him with some theory or another, or sometimes simply to complain about the competence of Scotland Yard.
It became so that Mycroft was hardly surprised at all when his brother showed up unexpectedly, and in fact, would have been more surprised if Sherlock had ever said he would arrive at a certain time and then proceeded to do so.
So the incessant knock on his door at one in the morning one night, which woke Mycroft from a very informative dream about the shipping news from Newfoundland (he did so much of his best work in dreams, when his unconscious mind could put facts together without interruption), was more an annoyance than anything else. The knock continued as Mycroft put on his dressing gown and ambled to the door. If he kept this up they would wake all the neighbors, and while the Baker Street neighbors might be used to such behavior, the denizens of Pall Mall certainly were not.
"Sherlock, you really must keep your unexpected visits to daylight- good gracious!" He stepped back automatically as Dr. Watson, supporting his unconscious brother, all but spilled into the entryway.
"Bring him to the sofa," Mycroft ordered. Dr. Watson hoisted Sherlock's thin frame over his shoulders once more and brought him to Mycroft's sofa. Mycroft followed, still somewhat in a state of shock, though unable to prevent himself from observing. It was an ability that he had never before wished he could turn off. Sherlock was more deathly pale than usual, his cheeks sallow in color, and his clothes covered not only in dirt and dust, but blood. Dr. Watson, meanwhile, was expertly ripping Sherlock's coat and shirt off, revealing a hideous stab wound.
"There are more," his brother's fellow-lodger said tersely. "I need hot water, a towel and needle and thread, if you have it."
Mycroft blinked - surely the doctor could not mean to tend to his brother on his sofa - when Dr. Watson looked up. "Now!" he said.
Mycroft hurried into the kitchen, where his cook, wakened by all the noise, was hovering worriedly. He informed her quickly of what was needed and went back to the sitting room. "What happened, Doctor?" he asked.
"We were caught," Dr. Watson said. "The reveal, you know. He was laying out the evidence so we might understand his reasoning when the fiend pulled out a knife and lunged. Too quickly to stop, though Lestrade admirably brought him under restraint immediately afterward. Thank you." This last was said to the cook, who brought a basin of hot water and a towel as asked.
Mycroft nodded vaguely, concentrating on the stab wound in his brother's side, which was bleeding profusely as Dr. Watson began to work on it. The doctor wet the towel and handed it to Mycroft, who blinked in confusion.
"Put pressure on it!" He said, then grabbed Mycroft's hand and held the towel in place roughly over the wound. "Harder. I will tell you when to move." He took another towel and washed his own hands with it before taking the needle and thread provided by the cook.
Mycroft watched, so fascinated he had to remind himself that this was not a mere demonstration, but his brother whose life might very well be in the balance. But still, he doubted he had ever seen Dr. Watson so masterful; usually the fellow was so in awe of his and Sherlock's observational powers that he barely spoke. In his own profession, though, he was confident and professional and Mycroft was suddenly very glad his brother's life was in such competent hands.
"Move farther down. No, like this!" Dr. Watson impatiently moved Mycroft's hands into a better position before he continued stitching. Even, straight stitches that would have made any young girl envious.
"Done," Dr. Watson said, and Mycroft sat back. Blood dripped down his fingers, and he swallowed. He had never minded blood before but there had been so much of it.
"There was another cut on his arm," Dr. Watson was saying. "Our quarry swung wildly as he pulled the knife back out." He pulled Sherlock's sleeve back and studied the wound. "Not as deep. If we merely wash it and apply pressure, it should be alright."
"Wash it?" Mycroft asked.
"Yes. You have heard of the theories of Louis Pasteur, Joseph Lister, John Snow?" Dr. Watson asked.
"Yes, that disease is caused by microscopic organisms, spread by water, or breath," Mycroft said. "It is my business to remain aware of discoveries such as that, Doctor."
"I was unsure. Your brother would not have known that," Dr. Watson said, with a quick smile.
"Sherlock is most obtuse when it comes to his fields of interest," Mycroft said. "How it has not occurred to him that any subject might be important when investigating crime is beyond my understanding." Yet he found fascinating topics so obscure they were not useful to anyone, such as the different types of perfume made in England and the runic alphabet of the ancient inhabitants of Britain.
"Yes, I have often thought so, but there is no telling him that," Watson said. Mycroft chuckled lightly; he still remembered an argument he had witnessed between his brother and his fellow lodger which had ended with Dr. Watson crying, "But it is the Solar System!" in exasperation. "Anyway, the logical extension of this theory is that we all carry these microscopic organisms on us, and that should any of them come into contact with an open wound, the patient is likelier to grow ill," Dr. Watson went on. "This is hardly accepted in most hospitals, but I have read some fascinating studies showing that wards who have strict cleanliness routines have better survival outcomes for their patients."
"Fascinating," Mycroft said. He would have to request some of these studies himself.
"It is only common sense. I saw for myself in Afghanistan how many men died of seemingly mild wounds that had become infected, and how many survived wounds that ought to have been fatal," Dr. Watson said. "The difference, in many cases, seemed to be which was kept cleanest. Anyway, I would not risk his life in such a way. Even if it does nothing, I would not like to take the chance." He sat back, at last finished. "He will be alright, provided nothing becomes infected."
"Thank you, Doctor," Mycroft said. It struck him how easily Dr. Watson could have brought his brother to his rooms to die instead of to be treated. "My brother is fortunate to share rooms with such a dedicated doctor."
"It is nothing. I was only glad I was able to help him so quickly. Had I waited until we reached a hospital, I fear it would have been too late," Dr. Watson said.
Curious, Mycroft asked, "Yes, how did you know to come here?"
"Holmes told me," Dr. Watson said. "Do forgive me. He said it might be useful for me to know where to find you, someday. Though I am sorry we interrupted your routine, and your sleep."
"Think nothing of it," Mycroft said. "I am glad he told you to come here. Who knew what might have happened had he not? Now, please, he will need rest, and I am certain you do as well. I must insist you stay the night."
"Oh, well, thank you," Dr. Watson said. "I would not want to impose but I also do not wish to move him tonight."
"Precisely why I suggested you stay," Mycroft said. "You shall have the honor of being my first houseguests." He had known that Sherlock would be his first, and he had thought, only, houseguest. The only surprise was that it had taken nearly a decade for his prediction to come true, and that Sherlock would arrive with a friend alongside him. But that was something neither of them had ever seen coming. "Incidentally, thank you, Doctor. Not only for saving my brother's life, but for your fascinating lesson on the causes of disease and your excellent practical demonstration on how to heal a wound. Most illuminating."
One never knew what he would need to know, in his line of work.