Chapter Four

Mycroft sat with his back to the window; he was not interested in the goings on of the outside world. He was aware of Sherlock's illness and he was aware Watson was trying to keep it from him. He understood that: still there was not much he could do other than ensure secrecy. He remained motionless in his chair; the good thing about the Diogenes club was that it did allow a person to think. He now understood why Sherlock had never collected the money he had sent or taken the flat he had offered. His state of mind would not allow it. Watson had given away glimpses of his concern for Sherlock, he had mentioned something about Sherlock imagining Moriarty still alive and Watson himself had even talked of someone following them. Mycroft did not believe it, although he also could not be sure that all of Moriarty's men were caught. He grunted in his anguish. An elderly looking gentlemen seated across the room looked up angrily at him for disturbing the peace. Mycroft again lowered his head. He knew what he must do, he could do very little sitting still, he must see Sherlock. Having made up his mind, he struggled to his feet, his body rebelling against this sudden movement. Putting on his coat he exited this realm of peace and went into the cold autumn night to face his brother, something that, until now, he had never been unwilling to do.

Watson felt his eyelids drooping and he shot his head back to keep awake. Holmes was asleep opposite him but Watson never slept at the same time. Holmes' nightmares were too violent, something could happen. He ran a hand across his brow and sighed quietly. He was not sure how much longer he could keep Holmes' condition a secret. It was too hard for only himself to cope with. Holmes had consulted on cases and to all intents and purposes he was the Holmes of old, his eccentricities were well known to the society of London so when Sherlock Holmes did something unusual the London papers were not interested; it was his behaving normal that they picked up on. That thankfully Holmes was not doing. Watson smiled at the paradox. But here in the privacy of their rooms, Holmes succumbed to his demons. The nightmares were more frequent and often ended with his screams; Watson soothed him with words and morphine, the only thing strong enough to contain his fits. The morning that followed was always calm, Holmes was cheerful and nonchalant. Only his eyes betrayed his gratitude to his friend, the one who had kept him alive through the night. Watson was thankful for these glimpses of his friend, the one he remembered, however brief. He was just beginning to drop off again when he heard a carriage pull up outside the door. He stood up, glancing at his friend as he moved to the window, looking out he was staggered to see Mycroft emerge and rap at the door. Watson ran out into the hall to greet him, Holmes did not stir.

"Mycroft." Watson's voice was tight as he held out his hand to his friend's brother. Mycroft took it and shook it gently.

"Doctor, how is he?" Mycroft's eyes went up the stairs, Watson followed them.

"He is fine, why should he not be?" Watson attempted to keep his voice calm.

"You don't need to pretend Doctor; I know his state of mind. I say again, how is he?"

Watson sighed, he had feared as much.

"Tired, the nightmare's he suffers are becoming more frequent, and I am afraid to say more violent."

"I will see him," Mycroft headed up stairs when Watson placed a restraining hand on his arm.

"He is sleeping, for the first time, without morphine, I don't think…" Watson was cut off by a loud scream for above; they both raised their eyes in fear at the sound. Mrs. Hudson appeared from the kitchen, sadness in her eyes; she too knew the state of affairs, she was a woman with too much sense not to.

"Doctor.." She began faltering.

"Everything is perfectly alright Mrs. Hudson, we will see to it. Do not worry." He offered her a smile which she feebly returned as she turned away from them. Dr. Watson watched her go through the kitchen door then followed Mycroft up the stairs. He entered the sitting room to find Holmes curled on the floor in his brother's massive arms. Mycroft held his brother's head against him and whispered to him. Sherlock nodded, Watson could not decipher what was said but it seemed to calm Sherlock and he ceased to shake. Mycroft helped him to his feet and sat him down.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft searched his brother's eyes and despaired to see the coldness there, "Can you understand me?"

Sherlock nodded, his eyes staring ahead of him.

"Look at me as I talk to you."

Sherlock brought his eyes to meet his brother's. He seemed to recognise him and for a fleeting second Watson saw his friend's eyes return. Mycroft smiled.

"Welcome back."

Sherlock smiled,

"Take me away." His voice was cracked with emotion, Mycroft merely nodded as he stood. He turned to Watson,

"Fetch Mrs. Hudson, have her make up a bag of his things; enough for a week."

Watson could do nothing but nod; he resented Holmes being taken from him but saw the necessity of it. His brother after all was a better person for him to be with. Watson walked mournfully downstairs where he delivered his orders, and then he waited by the front door. The autumn air cooled him and his thoughts calmed. Not long after, Mycroft came down, followed by his brother. Holmes looked more himself than Watson had seen him in weeks. As Mycroft passed through the door, he gave Watson a brief glance that betrayed nothing, not even gratitude for the man who had saved his brother's life. Sherlock followed, he stopped by the door and took Watson's hand; his eyes said all his lips could not.

"It won't be for long Watson." He attempted to smile, but it died. Watson did smile back, grasping Holmes' hand tighter.

"No, not for long." He held back the tension in his voice. Holmes said nothing but released Watson's hand, following Mycroft into a waiting carriage. He did not look back as the carriage drew away; Watson had already shut the door.