Disclaimer: I don't own "Sherlock Holmes" or any of its characters. That all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Guy Ritchie, etc.
Inspired by: "All I Ask of You" from the musical The Phantom of the Opera.
September 30th, 1893
The atmosphere surrounding 221B was tense, if Watson were to choose the right descriptive word. It had been since he'd walked through the door to visit with Holmes. It was an afternoon in which Madeline was actually not dancing attendance to her man. She'd left for Kent, on a holiday to visit her friend Mrs. Tyler. With Sherlock potentially ready to strip the boards off the walls in ennui, he thought it wise to spend a few days at the residence, his son welcomed as well. The little boy was off with his nanny at the park, and for a moment, John was envious of William.
Warily he eyed his companion, the impatient strides of the darker man setting the doctor on edge. The detective had been that way since John had come up, the newest copy of The Strand under his arm and an apologetic look on his face. But strangely enough, it wasn't the literature that had Holmes teetering on the brink.
"Your deplorable stories never affect me thusly," he'd remarked when asked, brown eyes rolling in exasperation. "No, no, it's nothing to do with you, old boy."
"Do tell, then, what it is," Watson nearly begged, settling into a chair and watching his friend tap at a stack of papers with his foot until it toppled over. A grin flashed briefly on Sherlock's lips; the décor of the flat been improved yet again. Then agitation would take over, and back to the pacing he would go.
"Brother Mycroft is delivering me something of the upmost importance in a matter of minutes, and I am…curious as to whether everything will go according to plan," he confessed, tugging on the sleeves of his ratty smoking jacket. Swooping down, he retrieved his clay pipe off the floor and began to fiddle with it. Magically he'd found and stuffed some tobacco into it, and soon enough had it lit and was puffing great clouds of smoke.
Coughing at the ghastly shroud, John threw open the windows.
"Is that all? What, is it necessary to any ongoing investigations you haven't told me about?"
'Or bothered me with in the middle of the night with,' the doctor grumbled inwardly. Holmes had developed the annoying habit of knocking him up occasionally, asking for his assistance on a case, after midnight. His patients had begun prescribing him their own sleep medications; he'd begun to look so haggard. Thankfully Holmes shook his head, relieving him of any possible deductive duties.
"No. Besides, my brother and I have an understanding in that department: I never bother him with my livelihood unless it is absolutely vital to do so."
"And what are the consequences of breaking said understanding?"
Sherlock snorted. "Brotherly torture. What else?"
Watson smiled, thinking back on his own escapades with his own brothers. Unwritten rules that were broken had the required punishment of brawls until Father or Mother pulled them apart. The whole situation stank of the "don't nag me or I will pound the daylights out of you" edict, and so he began to chuckle.
"Here I thought the Holmes brood was above familial hostility, and yet you've proven me wrong," the doctor replied, noting the sleuth's halfhearted nod and shrug. Finally the bell by the front door rang, and Mrs. Hudson's weary voice carried through the floorboards. The answering party responded softly, before heavy footsteps up the stairwell indicated Mycroft's arrival outside the door. He entered without permission or preamble, an almost troubled look upon his features.
The older Holmes had put on a bit more weight since the last time Watson had seen him, the crow's feet had grown wider and the jowls pronounced, but he still carried himself like his brother did: a hint of swagger inside self-assured pride.
"Hello, brother," Mycroft remarked, awkwardly going over to Sherlock and clapping him on the shoulder. The younger Holmes returned the gesture, and then made a sweeping movement towards the last empty chair. Gratefully Mycroft nodded his thanks and sat quickly. "And good day to you as well, doctor."
"I'm pleased to see you again, sir," John murmured, sitting up in his chair and trying to not seem too intrigued by the matter that would eventually be addressed. Pleasantries were made, comments about the weather exchanged, and Sherlock's foot tapped faster and faster.
"Come now, Sherlock, it's hardly proper to be this irritated and impatient," his brother rebuked him mildly. "Although I gather you're not merely keen, but anxious about the events after this afternoon's altercation, and nervousness…can you truly think I would not have kept it, or is it that you doubted I would bring it to you safely?"
"Do I have to tell you the answer, really?" Holmes smirked, shaking his head.
"Ah, the latter, then."
'This conversation is maddening already,' John mused, rubbing a single finger against his temple. He kept his mouth shut, though. One false word and he could be pushed out the door and the secretive goings-on would remain a mystery forever. He must've groaned, though, because suddenly two sets of eyes, dark brown and deep blue, were searching him over.
"Groaning indicates a desire for us to get to the point," Sherlock surmised.
'Oh Lord, here we go…'
"Therefore logic would denote that he has no idea of what we speak and wants to know the truth," Mycroft rejoined promptly. "Interest is piqued, which is a feat considering the lack of sleep and the wandering eyes. Caused most likely by your nighttime visits, which is also a feat because of-"
"Please, brother, that's hardly something to bring up in polite conversation. Especially since the party of whom you were about to speak is not present."
A wink flew in the detective's direction. "Apologies."
"I can feel a headache coming on," groused Watson as he rose from his chair and turned his back on the Holmes boys. "Your business has nothing to do with me, so please go on as if I am not here."
A moment of silence fell, and though he couldn't see them, John had the distinct feeling that the brothers were both holding back large grins at his frustration.
"Very well…are you totally certain you want it, Sherlock? This is the first time you've ever requested me to retrieve something of this nature, and I have confess I have a few questions," Mycroft broke the quiet, his eyes sweeping back to his little brother. The younger man nodded and inclined his head, essentially telling him to ask away. "What brought this about?"
"Something I never thought would be present in my life," Sherlock told him, molding his words into a puzzle that the good doctor could not decipher.
"Have you thought it through? This is no trivial matter."
"Do I not always think things through to their logical conclusion?"
"There is nothing logical at all about this. At least, not in the sense of living out the pursuit. You can think about it all you want, but this is going to affect every facet of your life. Tell me, can you go through with this?"
The impact of a bottom smashing into a chair's seat was the only sound for a few minutes, before the sleuth's voice cut the air.
"As far as I can recall, I've never made a decision quite like this. Everything is orderly, in its proper place…but this breaks my order and my strictures. I comprehend that going down this path is not something to be taken lightly, and it is going to change things, no matter how much I despise change when it concerns me. The fact remains, though, that this is the path I want to take."
Risking a glance over his shoulder, Watson saw that the brothers were facing one another, one contemplative and the other wide-eyed.
"Is that a satisfactory answer, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked lightly, pulling his smoking jacket straighter and sitting forward in his seat. He locked his gaze onto his brother's until the older Holmes glanced at the floor. Fishing in a pocket of his own jacket, Mycroft merely let out a breath.
"Mum would be turning over in her grave if she knew."
"If Mum knew, I suspect she wouldn't let me have it at all," quipped the detective, causing his sibling to laugh. A small package emerged from the pocket, and was shuffled onto the nearby end table. In a strangely humble tone, Sherlock continued, "Thank you, by the way."
Mycroft smiled lazily, pushing himself onto his feet. "I had no use for it, and having it sit tight in a lockbox for years wouldn't have done anyone any good."
With a nod to the doctor and a wink shot at his brother, the older Holmes departed without another word. As the door shut, the younger Holmes hesitantly touched the package left behind. The brown paper and string ties belied its very real importance, the commonplace coverings of a monumental gesture.
"What did he bring you?" Watson cut to the chase, peering down his nose at the item. Swiftly Sherlock stuffed it into his trouser pocket.
"It's nothing. Nothing to do with you, like I said before," he responded cheekily.
For once, he was going to enjoy shocking Watson when he discovered the truth.
xXxXxXx
October 2nd, 1893
For two days, he had to sit on it.
Sherlock Holmes, a man of infinite patience and a practitioner of peace while deducing the world's greatest mysterious, was hopelessly wracked with nerves. His muscles were so tightly wound that only a visit to the boxing ring got him to relax, to clear his mind. What he was about to do was totally out of his character, completely against his own code…
But then again, what cared he for codes? To hell with it; he could decide his course, he would rearrange the rules.
The little secret was burning a hole in his pocket, twisting his sanity as the time ticked by. Madeline had promised to come to him that night…three more hours…two…twenty minutes…
The nearly imperceptible swing of the front door crashed through his concentration, and Holmes was back on his feet again. It was so strange to be this riled up over a woman. She wasn't just a woman; this was a person to whom he'd bonded intellectually, emotionally (shockingly enough), and physically. His blood ran in her veins; her essence invaded his life.
He prepared for her, squaring his stance and raising his chin. Sherlock was ready as she flew through the door, but her bright smile and glowing eyes caused a foreign feeling to course through his body: apprehension.
Could he really do this?
Throwing her arms around him, Madeline pecked him on the cheek.
"I've missed you."
His arms stole around her waist, and he pretended to listen to her outpouring of how Julianne was thoroughly scandalized by her husband's affair with the housekeeper's daughter and Madeline dueling challenge to a prominent fencer in the area (he tuned in on that part at least), but he chastised himself for his loss of nerve.
'Shame on you, old chap! You have been through worse incidents, made more harrying decisions. Buck up and do it, already.'
"I…" he started, only to be interrupted by Madeline's urgent kisses. He was taken aback by this sudden outpour of affection; she must've truly missed his company.
"I hate being in the company of morons. You've utterly spoiled me for life," she muttered, trailing her lips down his throat.
'Spoiled you for life?'
Well…perhaps it could wait until later…
xXxXxXx
At midnight, Madeline felt something pressing around one of her fingers. Her eyelids fluttered open, taking in the darkened room and sighing happily. Even though she was gone for a few days, she'd longed for the chaos of Holmes' abode, the dark stacks of paper and evidence, the knife driven into the mantle, the heavy shades blocking all but one window. In the midst of their activities, they had made their way to the bed, and she was cozy beneath the sheets.
Her absence at her own house was making an impression on her staff, but she couldn't be there for longer than a few hours anymore. It just…didn't feel right. Here, with Sherlock, in his mess, in his bed did she feel like she belonged. She felt at home.
A single candle was lit and balanced on the footboard precariously, its low light stretching towards her weakly. Sitting up, she noticed her lover propped up beside her, his hand curled around hers. Tightening the sheet around her naked torso and smiling at him, she realized something about her left hand.
On the third finger sat a ring. A gold band with three small diamonds.
Time froze, indeed her very blood seemed to stop flowing. Impossible…it was impossible…
Taking in her quivering lips and surprised blinking, Holmes began to idly stroke her forearm. His dark eyes bore into her, and he let her mind wrap itself around the band.
"Will you?" he whispered, seriousness weighing heavily on the words. It was a proposal that wasn't really a proposal; how very like Sherlock to pose the question in such a way, she reflected with some amusement. Madeline thought back, remembered the last time this question was asked. It had led to a time inhabitated by misery and ended by premature death, which she would've endured better had she loved the man she was with. Could she do it again, with another man? Another man who lived a dangerous life, a maddening life?
Sherlock was like no other man she'd known. In her heart, she knew that the last time would never really compare to the future. So there really was no question of doing it again. It was really a question of starting anew, of starting with love.
What other answer could she give?
"…Yes."
Author's note: I know…I know, a lot of you out there are Holmes purists and think the guy should never marry an OC. Well, Laurie R. King did it, and there was a forty year age difference. Plus, Mary Russell was basically Holmes' female clone, and I've tried to make Madeline not like that. So if you guys hate this turn of events, I'm sorry, but A)I've kinda been building up to it for twenty-odd chapters, and B) Keep in mind that the story's almost over.
On that note, I will say that this is the second-to-last chapter of "Blood Bond". I'll say my good-byes next chapter, but I will tell you all thank you for sticking with me this far, and lending my advice when I really needed it, as well as encouragement. So thanks for reading, PLEASE review, and I'll see you all for the final chapter next week!