Notes:
A longish chapter this time-this section just seemed like it needed to be all of a piece.
Note-there is one brief scene where Sherlock's wound is being cared for that's fairly graphic, so you might want to scrolll down a bit if you're squeamish.
Chapter Text
Near Troyes, France
The total distance to his destination was 800 kilometers. He knew, though he had never been in this particular location before; his mental map of France was almost as complete as that of London. He had spent every summer here until he was 19, with many a family trip in between. If he simply got in the car and drove straight there, he could arrive in only 8 hours or so.
Unfortunately, that was not an option. He had perhaps an hour before Moran arrived, at which point the hunt would begin (though for "Hilaire", thankfully, rather than Sherlock Holmes). In that time, he must drive the car as far as he could, then dispose of it and find alternate transportation. He must also spend time muddying the trail and changing his appearance.
He drove first to Troyes, the nearest city of any size. Driving was very difficult, with only one arm and one damaged hand; holding the steering wheel against his swollen right thumb was excruciating, and his control was compromised. He had originally intended to steal a succession of cars, but now rethought that strategy.
He waited at the city outskirts until after sunup. Then, as a first step, he drove to the center of town, parked the car in the town square, left the keys in the glovebox and walked away. He played the tourist, wandering around with an admiring look on his face. When he encountered a street market he went in, purchasing food items and an old, heavy coat, two sizes too big. He found a stocking cap and bought that as well. Then he went into the public loo, took off his down coat and left it sitting by the bins, and changed into the "new" one and the hat, putting the food and his other items in the spacious pockets.
He had checked Deline's wallet earlier, and found nearly €200 inside. He took this money to the train station and purchased two cheap tickets to Paris. Then he went to the bus station nearby and purchased a ticket to Calais, leaving in an hour's time. He argued with himself a bit as to which mode to actually take (the options being intended to confuse any search), and ultimately decided on the bus. The train was more comfortable, but allowed fewer options to leave if necessary—there were only two stops between Troyes and Paris.
As it happened, he somewhat regretted his choice. The bus made 9 stops. It was cold, cramped and smelly. In all, it took 9 hours, and he reached Calais at 10 in the evening. He had asked 3 fellow riders about cheap accommodations, but went to none of them. Instead he walked for roughly 45 minutes until he found a youth hostel, at which point he purchased a spot, staggered to the waiting bed, and slept for 10 hours.
When he woke, the fever had started.
He forced himself to eat some of his sandwich from yesterday. He took more of his pain tablets (he was strenuously not thinking about the pain, which had taken his breath away when he woke) and drank as much of his bottle of water as he could stand. Then he wandered down to the common room to see what transportation came to hand. He knew that getting back on a bus was a bad idea; any determined tail would have found the bus ticket purchase, and would certainly canvas bus and train stations. So perhaps his fellow travelers might be a better resource.
He made himself as harmless, small and young as possible, which paid benefits. He introduced himself (still remaining "Hilaire") to an older couple, on a leisurely tour across France. They fell for his tale of being a graduate student on a biking trip. He used his sling as evidence of his "fall"—the result of being clipped by a hit-and-run driver—and claimed that most of his possessions had been stolen while waiting in A+E to see a doctor. He was so convincing he almost believed it himself. The woman, Celine, tutted and fussed like his mother, and her husband Rene tucked him into the rear seat of their car. They drove him all the way to Nantes.
It took most of the day—they were in no particular hurry, and stopped several times to sightsee or dine. He slept through all of it, rousing only to sip at water, visit the loo or eat some of the sandwiches and biscuits Celine brought back for him. He took more tablets, and thought the additional rest might help his condition.
When they got to Nantes, he discovered he was wrong. Grossly wrong.
Rene stopped the car at a charming hostel in the center of Nantes, and purchased spots for all three of them (Sherlock offered to pay and was rebuffed. It was just as well—it would have taken all of his remaining cash). They planned to meet their daughter there the following day. When he tried to get out of the car, he was horrified to discover that he could barely stand. His head swam and pounded in harmony with the agony throbbing in his left arm. Rene rushed over and laced his arm around Sherlock's waist, and basically carried him inside to a bed.
Celine came and sat on the edge of the bed, feeling his forehead worriedly. "My dear. Can we please call your parents for you? Or have you friends or family nearby? You simply can't continue as you are, and we can't leave you. We have a son about your age, and I would hope any other mother would do the same for him."
He tried to think rapidly, though his head felt filled with syrup. If he could get to Bordeaux, that might be close enough to hitchhike to his destination. So he crafted his lie as carefully as he could under the circumstances. "My parents are out of the country. But my grandmother has a cottage outside of Bordeaux. If I take the bus there, I'm sure she could have someone come get me."
Celine looked over her shoulder at Rene, who hovered by the door. They exchanged a wordless glance, and Celine nodded. "Very well then. We'll take you to Bordeaux, if you're well enough to travel tomorrow. We planned to go visit there at some point anyway, so it's no trouble." She smiled. Sherlock really couldn't tell if it was a lie or not, and in the end it didn't matter—he needed the help, and she wanted to give it.
Sherlock slept for a time, then woke to Celine and Rene bustling around his bed. They had brought him dinner—a rich chicken soup, bread and a large bottle of apple juice. He managed, with some difficulty, to sit up long enough to eat perhaps a third of it. Rene then produced a large bottle of co-codamol, which Sherlock thankfully took (a double dose, actually—and much more effective on fever than the anti-inflammatories he had been using). He settled down once more, and quickly tumbled into oblivion.
He woke, burning and confused, at 4. He retained just enough sense to know that he had to get the fever down by morning, or Celine and Rene would not take him to Bordeaux (and might insist on taking him to hospital, with disastrous consequences). He took another double dose of co-codamol and drank a quarter of the bottle of juice, and tumbled back into sleep.
Rene came in promptly at 7 to wake him, and he was pleased to see the medicine had helped, at least temporarily. The pain was still there, still oppressive, but not the thumping agony it had been at 4. And the fever was down, to the point where Sherlock could at least consider walking. Rene, though, helped him carefully to the loo and waited right outside the door while Sherlock used the toilet and washed his face. He found himself smiling, oddly—it reminded him of John.
Over a breakfast of croissants and more juice, Celine and Rene pressed him again about calling his family. Too ill to argue any further, he agreed. He fished the burner phone out of his pocket and pretended to punch in a number. Grandmere, not surprisingly (since she was now almost 10 years gone) did not answer her phone, but Sherlock "left a message" asking her to pick him up at the bus station in Bordeaux. Celine wasn't happy, but it was the best he could do.
They were on the road by 10. The trip today was much quicker than the rambling journey to Nantes. Rene took the most direct route, and they made no extraneous stops along the way. They were clearly anxious to give him over to Grandmere's loving care. In a little over 4 hours they were there. Rene parked across the street from the bus station while Sherlock took another dose of co-codamol with the last of the bottle of juice. He knew he was going to have to walk into the bus station under his own power, or Rene and Celine would never leave him. That seemed problematic, as he was aware of the heat burning through his veins, and through his thoughts. Everything seemed a little dreamy and distant; even the ever-present pain in his arm had receded into the background.
He suddenly realized that Rene and Celine had both exited the car, and were waiting for him to do the same. He pulled himself as erect in the seat as he could, and fumbled ineffectually at the door latch for a moment before Rene, a concerned look on his face, pulled it open and poked his head inside. "Are you all right?" he said, his brows pulling together. It was clear he thought he knew the answer already.
Sherlock nodded (very carefully, since he had discovered that rapid movements of his head made him violently nauseous). He reached out with his good arm, pushed his feet over the sill, grasped the edge of the door, and hauled himself out of the car by main force. That was a success; what was less helpful was the fall to his knees that ensued when he tried to stand on the pavement. Celine gave a distressed chirp, and Rene hurried forward to lift him with a strong arm around his waist. He leaned against Rene's side for a moment before managing to pull himself upright, swaying a bit.
"Oh my dear," Celine began. "We can't leave you like this. We just can't. Please, let us drive you to your grandmere's house. It's not that far out of our way." And in a moment of weakness Sherlock considered it. He knew he was absolutely safe in their care; it was such a novel feeling after the past six months that he found himself reluctant to give it up.
But then reason interceded. If he allowed them to do this, he potentially put their lives at risk. He knew he would be pursued; it was an open question as to whether any pursuer would make it this far, given the totally random format of his movement, but he wasn't willing to assume that it couldn't happen. He wasn't going to endanger them.
He started to walk slowly towards the bus station, while attempting to smile at Celine. "I'm sure Grandmere will be here to collect me soon enough. It's only about an hour's drive." It was not quite true; in reality, given the small, narrow roads, it was closer to two hours. Celine and Rene followed him into the station, still talking. "But if it's that close, all the more reason we could take you."
Sherlock tried to think through the thick clouds currently resting inside his head. "I'll be fine." He thought a bit more. "I can always call my brother if my grandmother is delayed. He doesn't live here, but he would probably know where Grandmere is." He folded himself carefully onto an uncomfortable plastic bench, then made the mistake of trying to lean back. When his arm lightly touched the surface, he let out an involuntary cry and curled into himself, gasping.
Celine threw herself onto the bench beside him and patted his back fretfully. "You see? You can't do this." And Sherlock, at that moment, almost agreed with her. No, though—not safe.
"You know you need to be back in Bordeaux by this evening. I heard Rene say that your daughter was arriving at the hostel at 7," he offered. Celine was conflicted but determined. "Our daughter is 19. She will understand. I can try to call her and let her know we would be late." Rene stood behind her, in an agony of indecision. "Where is your grandmere's house?" Sherlock, brain running slower than ever, answered before he could censor himself. "Near Mimizan." Celine's face fell a little. "That's still 100 kilometers from here, isn't it?" Sherlock didn't dare try to nod right now; the juice and co-codamol were having an uneasy conversation in his stomach as it was. But his silence spoke for itself, apparently.
Just as Celine was drawing breath to resume their argument, though, rescue came from a very unexpected source. A woman's voice suddenly floated over from the next bench. "Did you say Mimizan?"
Celine and Rene both turned to meet the newcomer. Sherlock raised his head, very carefully, to look as well. Standing at the end of the bench were two nuns, wearing modest dresses and head scarves. The older of the two, the one who had just spoken, reminded Sherlock of Mrs. Hudson: seventy-ish, short and motherly. Her companion presented a complete contrast: tall, taller than Sherlock, in fact. Broad shoulders and rather heavy, though kind, features.
The older woman stepped forward. "I'm Sister Clothilde. My friend is Sister Agnes." The younger woman, who Sherlock strongly suspected had started life as Albert rather than Agnes, smiled and ducked her head. "We are going to our sister house in Mont-de-Marsan. We can easily take this young man with us; it's not far out of our way, after all," Sister Clothilde said. She beamed at Celine.
Celine and Rene looked at each other, looked at Sherlock, still crouched on the bench, looked at the nuns. Finally, "Are you sure?" she asked Sister Clothilde hesitantly. "Of course," said Sister Clothilde. Sister Agnes bobbed her head and smiled as well. Agnes apparently didn't talk much.
In the end, it was arranged. Celine and Rene insisted on buying everyone a late lunch, which Sherlock couldn't eat. Rene helped him walk to the toilets (since Sherlock would presumably struggle on his own, and would probably—definitely—be reluctant to ask a nun for help. Sherlock quite liked Rene). Then Celine and Rene walked with the sisters and Sherlock to their tiny, elderly car. Rene stepped forward to help Sherlock inside, but was gently nudged aside by the silent Sister Agnes, who essentially lifted Sherlock into the back seat before blushing and moving back behind Sister Clothilde again.
Celine and Rene bid him a fond farewell, Celine leaning into the car to kiss him on the forehead, tutting at his fever. They were turning, preparing to walk away, when Sherlock, driven by an impulse he didn't quite understand, spoke to Celine suddenly. "Can you give me your mobile number? I know my grandmere would want to speak with you, to thank you for all your help." He was never sure if he reacted properly in these circumstances; the social cues were difficult to read when he was at his best, let alone now.
But he had evidently chosen correctly, for once. Celine beamed. She dug into her handbag and pulled out a small journal, on which she wrote out their names, address and mobile numbers. "I expect to hear from you. I will worry until I do, Hilaire."
"I promise," he murmured, oddly embarrassed. Then they walked away, waving as they went.
The drive was physically uncomfortable, but not horrible. The sisters were not bad company; though Sister Agnes spoke rarely, and then only in monosyllables, Sister Clothilde kept up a lively conversation. They turned early to music; their trip to the sister house was for a large meeting of choirs from all over Europe. "Do you sing?" she asked, and without thinking about it, he said "I did."
She beamed, and fiddled with the surprisingly-modern sound system in the dash. Music swelled through the car, and the sisters began to sing. Sister Clothilde had a clear, lyrical soprano that was not yet dimmed by age; Sister Agnes a beautiful, rich contralto. They sang through one piece Sherlock was unfamiliar with, while he simply basked in the sound. And then, after a pause, something old and poignantly familiar began, as the sisters embarked on a Bach motet.
He didn't intend to sing. He didn't sing anymore, after all. But perhaps the fever made him forget, or maybe his current feelings of being completely, utterly lost played a part. Whatever the cause, he suddenly found himself humming along to this piece, one that he had sung many times in school. And, once Sister Agnes gave him an encouraging nod, he launched himself head-first into the complex melody, loosing his voice in a way he had forbidden himself to do for many years.
The beautiful music wove itself around him. The mathematical perfection of the progression of notes soothed his soul, and the interplay of trained voices was a pleasure he had long believed lost to him.
It ended, as all things do. Sister Clothilde reached over and turned off the sound system, and pulled the car over to the side of the road. Then she turned her head to him, with tears in her eyes. "I thank God on my knees for the opportunity to hear that. Where do you sing, child?" He couldn't think of a thing to say, beyond "I don't. Not anymore."
Now Sister Agnes was the one near tears. "But you must," she husked. "Your voice is a gift from God, and in denying yourself you deny Him."
And it was true, in one sense—he was denying himself, and he had never been entirely sure why. But his illness had him off-kilter, and he fell back on an answer he hoped wouldn't prove too offensive. "I'm sorry, Sister, but God and I have not been on speaking terms for some time."
The sisters, thankfully, were not exactly offended; rather, they seemed sad, which he found impossible to understand. Sister Clothilde reached back and patted his shoulder. "I am very sorry to hear that," she said simply. "We will pray for you." Sherlock, completely out of his depth now, paused for a bit too long, and finally nodded. Then he closed his eyes and hoped for sleep.
Grandmere's Cottage—near Mimizan, France
Sister Clothilde had insisted on delivering him directly to his door. "You are ill, my boy, and what would your family think if we left you to walk all the way from the village? Anyway, it's only a few miles out of our way." It wasn't true, but Sherlock was too exhausted to argue, and too grateful.
He had been somewhat anxious about his first glimpse of the cottage—he hadn't been here in 8 years, and wasn't sure he could handle seeing this place as a dilapidated ruin. Realistically he knew that couldn't be the case; Uncle Rudy had lived here full-time up until 2 years ago, and even now spent every summer. But he wasn't feeling realistic at the moment.
This house had always been a refuge, particularly once he reached his teens. When he was 20, he had shown up here, high and incoherent, after a devastating attempted intervention by his family. Grandmere wept, and made him eat, and wept some more, and tucked him into bed with a bin by his side. In the morning he came downstairs, penitent and mildly distraught, to hear her on the phone with his parents. He left without saying goodbye, and didn't return for almost 2 years.
He was profoundly reassured as they reached the end of the drive. The house was the same: white-washed stone walls, red shutters and door, rambling gardens on all sides. The bees lived out back—he couldn't see them, but he knew they were there, and well cared for. Rudy loved the bees—not as much as Sherlock did, of course, but he loved the bees.
He hauled himself, with some difficulty, out of the tiny car. Sister Agnes watched him carefully, prepared to pounce if he showed weakness. He straightened, and walked carefully to the door, concentrating on each individual step.
Mycroft had not changed the access code, thank God. The panel blinked green as the lock opened with a mechanical "thunk", and Sherlock pushed down the handle and stumbled inside. Then he turned back towards the driveway and his benefactors, stood as straight as he could, and gave them a carefree smile and wave. He waited until they had turned and driven away before closing the door and sliding to the stone tiles inside. His last thought was how lovely and cool they felt.
Mycroft arrived at his grandmother's house at almost 9 in the evening. He had flown by commercial aircraft on this trip; though he could certainly have accessed his private government jet, he wanted to emphasize to any observers that this was a private trip, just like the other trips he made to this house once or twice a year. Renting a car in Bordeaux had been a novel experience, though—he rarely drove himself these days, even on holiday, since he normally took at least part of his protection detail with him.
The current circumstances made that impossible; between the dual problems of his brother and the apparent mole within his command, he felt it best to minimize exposure on this trip. The mole issue would be resolved shortly, most likely within the next 24 hours. It remained to be seen what his brother's situation would require. The raid on the illicit laboratory in Verdun had been a stunning victory, but no trace had been found of either "Hilaire" or his assistant.
Mycroft had been profoundly worried by the time he finally received Sherlock's one-word message, at least four hours past the pre-determined response time. The form of the message itself, of course, added to that worry, since it exposed the rot within his own department. The deductions from the message were simple: that Sherlock did not use any of the standard codes, developed in advance, was prima facie evidence that Sherlock knew communications were compromised. The choice of "bees", the meaning of which would be known only to the two of them, also implied that Sherlock needed a refuge, which further implied injury of some sort and a need for assistance, sooner rather than later.
He examined the exterior of the house as best he could in the limited light of the moon. It was clear another car had been up the gravel drive in the past day; he couldn't estimate the time or size of vehicle. The house itself seemed undisturbed, the curtains all neatly in place and no lights shining inside. As he stepped onto the porch he observed that the security system was not armed; that really didn't argue for Sherlock's presence one way or the other. Certainly Sherlock knew the code, but so did several other people.
He considered drawing the gun holstered unobtrusively under his arm (carried in a diplomatic pouch for the trip), but decided against it. He didn't want to inadvertently shoot his brother (tempting though that was, at times). He walked into the chilly stone entranceway, leaving the door ajar behind him, deciding not to turn on any lights yet. Someone had been here—the braided rug that warmed the stone tiles underfoot had been roughly scuffed to the side.
He had just passed the dark open archway to the front parlor when an arm wrapped itself around his neck like a steel band. He reacted without thought, his lifetime of training leading him through instant countermeasures. It was a desperate, silent battle. His opponent was very good, but oddly not as strong as that wiry arm would have led him to suspect. Relatively quickly, he sensed his opening. He swept his legs in between those of his foe to set him off-balance and reached out, searching for an arm or a weapon.
His fingers latched onto an arm, wrapped thickly in fabric. Just as he grasped it firmly and started the violent shift that would dislocate said arm, his opponent let out a muffled shriek, and he suddenly felt the man collapse at his feet, motionless. He staggered, both physically and mentally, trying to avoid falling on his recumbent foe. He went swiftly to one knee, placing the other firmly on the back of the man's neck, while reaching up for the light switch just above him on the parlor wall. He felt his breath whistle out, abruptly, when the light revealed the unconscious body of his baby brother.
An avalanche of deductions rolled over him in that first panicked glimpse. Sherlock was clad in clothes he had been wearing for at least three days; he had a sparse crop of auburn stubble, and his hair was limp and greasy. Every bit of visible skin was flushed, and his breath was rapid and shallow. And his arm—something was very wrong with his left arm.
Mycroft abruptly stood, spun on his heels, and ran out to his car, throwing open the boot. He grabbed a large brown leather case and hurried back inside, dropping it beside his brother and popping the latches to spread it open. Inside was an impressive array of medical goods and equipment, the former contents of one of the standard field medical kits found in each of his normal chauffeured vehicles. When Sherlock's message came, he had suspected this might be needed, but didn't want to alert any watchers by loading a red kit with a medical cross on the side with his normal luggage. He had accomplished the switch by dropping the back seat to access the boot while already in the car with the doors closed, then packing the kit's contents into the extra, empty suitcase brought along with the rest of his luggage.
He shrugged off his jacket to free up his arms, and then eased Sherlock fully onto his back, straightening his arms and legs and tucking a throw pillow from the sofa under his head. He did a quick vitals check: heartbeat elevated, breathing still fast and shallow. Then he leaned over to take a very careful look at that worrisome arm.
Sherlock had wrapped the arm in a towel at some point, either to cover up its condition or to absorb bleeding. He gently unwrapped that layer, only to encounter a sight that took his breath away. The arm was easily twice its normal size, grossly swollen and hot to the touch. The thumb was obviously dislocated but the swelling was far too extreme to allow it to be reset manually at this point. Mycroft gently palpated the arm to see if he could detect a break, but the swelling made it very difficult to be sure. As he reached the elbow, though, the swelling took on a different feel—heavier, but with an odd "give" to it underneath.
He peeled back the jacket and shirt sleeves along the existing slit edges, noting the bandaging that began at the elbow. Reaching into the kit for bandage scissors, he worked the slits all the way up to the shoulder and then cut the sleeves completely off, baring the whole length of the hideously-swollen arm.
The bandages wrapped above the elbow were dark with old blood and damp with fluid. A palpable odor of infection was also present. Mycroft was suddenly aware that his own heartrate had increased dramatically. He took a moment to compose himself, and then carefully slid the scissors under the edge of the bandages and cut them loose. And there, before his horrified eyes, was a dark, round hole that appeared to go completely through Sherlock's arm. The area around the red, oozing hole was black, blue and purple; the remainder of the upper arm was swollen, red and shiny, as was most of the arm. He placed his hand carefully on an area of undamaged skin and felt the burning heat radiating from it.
"Oh, Sherlock," he breathed. "What do we do now?"
He knew this was beyond his own superficial medical knowledge. He also knew that this was severe enough that it could not wait the 24 hours needed before they could safely leave for experienced medical care. Delay could cost Sherlock his arm, if not his life. The only solution, then, would be an alternate access to experienced care, at least in the short run. He reached into his pocket for the new "burner" phone he had purchased at the airport in Bordeaux. No one knew the number, not even Anthea, making it virtually impossible that their mole could access it. He dialed a number he had memorized earlier in the year—the physician from the MI6 medical facility that had treated Sherlock during his bout with pneumonia in August.
Dr. Rand, sitting in his office at home, recognized both Mycroft's voice and the obvious urgency it contained. He also accepted without question Mycroft's blunt statement that Sherlock could not be moved for 24 hours. He first directed Mycroft to get a temperature reading: 39.8. Obviously not good, but not immediately life-threatening. The second order of business involved moving Sherlock to a working surface; easily solved by dint of picking him up and carrying him to the nearest bedroom. Mycroft quickly stripped off all bedding except the bottom sheet, removed Sherlock's shoes and the remaining pieces of his shirt and jacket. He went into the en suite and returned with a stack of thick towels, one of which he slid carefully under Sherlock's damaged arm.
He turned on the overhead light, and removed the shade from the bedside lamp to create as bright a work area as possible. Then he set the phone on the side table, moving the function to "speaker". Dr. Rand's voice rang in the small room.
Over the next 20 minutes, he followed the doctor's orders carefully as he washed the arm with a liquid surgical soap, and injected the inner side above Sherlock's elbow with a local anesthetic. He did ask, somewhat hesitantly, if he should give Sherlock a sedative of some type. "No!" said the doctor emphatically. "He's unconscious already, and the last thing we want to do is depress his breathing. The local should prevent any additional pain in the short run. We'll worry about pain management afterward." Mycroft huffed but subsided.
Finally, after allowing 5 minutes for the local to take effect, Mycroft reached reluctantly for the scalpel waiting on the towel set out for his materials. He asked the doctor to run through the procedure, and the necessary limitations, once more to have them clear in his mind, and then pressed the scalpel in a line 2 inches along either side of the puncture. He reluctantly pressed deeper, as blood welled up along the line, and then a little deeper yet. And suddenly he reached a reservoir of sorts, and a quantity of old blood and corruption poured out of Sherlock's arm and soaked the towel.
Mycroft found himself suppressing a gag. He managed, though, to get himself under control. He put the scalpel thankfully aside, and replaced the befouled towel with a clean one. Then he opened a bottle of liquid antiseptic and poured it into the wound, repeating the process until the fluid running out of the wound was largely clear. He replaced the towel again, and irrigated the wound with normal saline, put yet another towel underneath, and finally put all of his materials aside with a grateful sigh. Then he sat, watching Sherlock breath, until the hands resting in his lap stopped shaking.
Once he had packed the wound and bound it loosely with bandages, he pushed a syringe of broad spectrum antibiotics into Sherlock's hip, then covered him lightly with a blanket while bidding Dr. Ryan a good evening, noting that they would be seeing him tomorrow. The doctor reminded him of the requirements for Sherlock's care one more time and hung up.
Mycroft now found himself somewhat adrift. He had done everything he could for Sherlock now (Sherlock who, worryingly, had never once stirred). He wandered back out to his car and brought in the rest of his bags, as well as the food he had purchased in the village, and put everything away. He fixed himself a sandwich and a cup of tea, taking them with him back into Sherlock's bedroom. A wave of exhaustion washed over him suddenly; he considered ignoring it, then realized that Sherlock might need additional care soon, and he would be better able to offer it if he were well-rested. So he finished his Spartan meal, scuffed off his shoes, and climbed into the bed beside his brother.
He woke abruptly, disoriented and alarmed, unsure what had awakened him. A whimper from a foot away let everything slot into place; Sherlock was awake and in distress. He sat up and laid his palm on Sherlock's hot cheek. "Sherlock? It's me. Do you need something?"
Sherlock jerked and rolled his head over to stare at his brother. "Myc?" he whispered. "Why are you here? Where's Grandmere?" He turned his head back and forth on the pillow. "It hurts, Myc. Why does it hurt?" He whimpered again and moved fitfully, trying to get up. "I have to…it hurts," he moaned.
"I know, my dear. I'll fix it," Mycroft crooned, as he scrambled out of the bed and headed for the medical kit. He debated calling Dr. Ryan back; he was unsure which to deal with first—Sherlock's pain, or the fever which now had him clearly disoriented. He ultimately decided to address the pain first and was reaching for a syringe when Sherlock suddenly shouted and launched himself from the bed, crashing onto the rug with a cry of pain. "They're here," he whispered hoarsely. "I can hear them. Get Grandmere out, Myc. We have to get her out." He pushed himself up with his good arm, trying to rise.
Mycroft recalibrated. Fever first, then. He grabbed the digital thermometer, crouched over Sherlock and pushed it into his ear canal, while Sherlock moaned and flailed feebly with his good arm. He was appalled at the reading: 40.5. That, he knew, was an emergency. He rose quickly, giving Sherlock a reassuring pet across his curls, and hurried into the en suite. He turned the shower on and waited for the water to heat to a lukewarm level, then stripped off his own shirt and trousers quickly. He strode back into the bedroom where Sherlock now lay in a confused huddle, laced his arm around his waist and hauled him up and into the en suite. He swept back the curtain and moved both of them under the water.
Sherlock, weak as he was, fought. The water, tepid to Mycroft, no doubt felt like freezing rain to Sherlock. He shrieked, pushed ineffectually against Mycroft's chest, did his best to break free. But then he abruptly went completely limp. Mycroft moved him around until they were chest-to-chest, resting Sherlock's chin on his shoulder and draping Sherlock's good arm over his back, while supporting his weight with an arm around his waist. That weight, he noted, was significantly less than it should be. A discussion for another day.
After nearly ten minutes, Sherlock began to shiver. Mycroft assumed that was a sign of a much-needed drop in body temperature. He shut the water off with one hand and swept the curtain aside, then reached out for a bath towel, which he wrapped around his brother's back. He carried him back into the bedroom and laid him on the bed, then returned to the en suite for additional towels to work the worst of the water out of Sherlock's hair. He changed Sherlock's bandages, pleased to see that the seepage from the wound had nearly stopped.
He picked up the wet towels and placed them in the corner to be dealt with later, and then checked the drawers of the bureau in the corner. He was delighted to find several pairs of Rudy's pajamas. He pulled out two sets, then stripped Sherlock of his wet trousers and pants and pulled the pajama pants on before putting on the other pair himself. Then he climbed wearily back into the bed and pulled the duvet over both of them. He was asleep in minutes.
He awoke well after dawn, thirsty and still tired. He could feel the heat radiating from Sherlock's body; he rested his palm lightly on his brother's forehead. Less intense that last night, thankfully; he would administer another dose of antibiotics shortly and hope for the best.
When he wandered back into the bedroom from the loo he was startled to hear a raspy voice from the bed. "Put a shirt on," groaned Sherlock. "I'll go blind." Mycroft felt a broad smile sweep involuntarily across his face.
"Well, brother mine," he said, walking over to sit on the side of the bed. "This is a tad more drama than I am quite comfortable with." His brother looked at him, making no attempt to move just yet.
"It was not intentional," he finally muttered.
Mycroft suddenly found himself wrong-footed. "I was not serious, Sherlock," he said uncertainly. "I'm by no means blaming you for anything."
Sherlock gave a bitter laugh. "Don't concern yourself. I am quite content to accept it. As John has been known to point out, when something goes tits-up I am generally at least partly to blame." He opened his mouth to continue when he inadvertently rolled onto his bad arm. The resultant choked gasp of agony had his brother shifting immediately off the bed towards the medical kit.
He scrabbled around for the morphine tablets and paracetamol for the fever, then hurried into the loo again for a glass of water. He gave the tablets to Sherlock and then supported his head while he took the pills and gulped the entire glass before asking for more.
When Sherlock finished, they shared an unpleasant experience of dragging him to the toilet. Mycroft had to take most of his weight, supporting him while wiping a wet flannel over his face, neck and hand. Sherlock sweated and shook through most of it. He insisted on trying to brush his teeth; when he abruptly stopped and gagged, Mycroft took the brush from his hand and hauled him back to bed, then gave him another injection of antibiotics.
Mycroft headed into the kitchen to fix breakfast for both of them. When he came back, Sherlock was sound asleep again, his mouth slightly open. Very reluctantly Mycroft patted his cheek until those pale eyes slowly opened. The confusion was back, it seemed, the medication compounding the effects of the fever. "Why… what are we doing?" he said groggily.
Mycroft reduced it to its simplest form. "You are very ill," he said. "You need to eat something for me so that you can get better." He was also worried about the effects of the tablets on Sherlock's empty stomach, but kept that to himself.
In the end, Mycroft had to feed him. He propped Sherlock up a bit on pillows and spooned scrambled eggs into his mouth, followed by tea which Sherlock drank thirstily. He made a mental note to offer water on a regular basis.
After his meal, Sherlock immediately dropped back in to a heavy sleep. Mycroft took the opportunity to clean himself up, and felt much more in control once he was finished. He called Dr. Ryan and gave him an update, then made a very carefully-worded call to Anthea. He was extremely pleased at the result.
When Mycroft returned to the bedroom several hours later, Sherlock's lunch in his arms, he was surprised and pleased to see his patient awake and more alert than he had been so far. Before he could speak, Sherlock took the initiative. "How long have we been here?" he asked. "I seem to…I can't quite remember you arriving, or how I ended up in bed wearing Rudy's pajamas." He paused a minute, uncertain and clearly worried. "Did we…did I hit you?"
Mycroft snorted, genteelly. "You certainly tried to," he sniffed. He smiled, to make his feelings clear (since Sherlock was very much off-key with his emotions). "When I arrived you were evidently prepared to repel all boarders, so to speak."
Sherlock's eye roll eased his brother's heart a bit. "You do like to milk that pirate story, don't you? And I obviously wasn't very successful in repelling you, after all."
Mycroft smiled again. "You never have been, unless I wished to be repelled." He sat on the edge of the bed and held up the tray. "And now I come bearing gifts, so…" Sherlock smirked, but obediently ate the stew his brother offered. He willingly swallowed his medication as well, which would have been worrisome if it wasn't so necessary.
Once the tray was cleared away, Mycroft came back and settled in the chair across from the bed. "Are you up to discussing what will happen now? And perhaps a bit of what occurred after your departure from Verdun?"
Sherlock froze, and Mycroft cringed. Yet another misstep, it seemed. He was out of practice in editing himself for his brother. He readjusted his parameters and continued as if the last few moments had never happened.
"We will be helicoptered out of here in roughly six hours. You will be meeting up with an old friend, then—I'm afraid your arm will require surgery, so you will be spending time with Dr. Rand once again."
Sherlock edged cautiously back down in the bed before replying. "I assumed something of the kind." He hesitated, then continued in a studiously detached tone. "Will I lose the arm?"
And there it was—that, then, was what had Sherlock wound so tightly, not just his recent experiences. Mycroft put every bit of austere reassurance he could into his voice. "No, of course not. Especially not after my foray into minor surgery earlier." He then proceeded to ignore Sherlock's sudden silence and hitching breaths.
To give Sherlock more time to compose himself, he launched into a description of the actions taken after he received Sherlock's one-word message. After a time, he was aware that he once again had his brother's full attention.
"It made for an interesting few days, certainly," he continued. 'Once I had narrowed the potential mole down to three candidates, I left Anthea in charge of that aspect of the operation, and then moved to plans to come to your aid. Under the circumstances, the medical kit seemed a wise precaution."
"But how could you be sure I had made it this far?" Sherlock interjected, his voice hoarse but controlled. "I intended to send another message when I arrived, but by the time I got here I was no longer capable of creating a safe phrase to use."
"I did have some confirmation," Mycroft admitted. "I added a monitoring system when Rudy decided to spend most of his time in Paris rather than here. It notified me as soon as you disengaged the lock. At least I hoped it was you; it seemed very unlikely that anyone else would have made the connection to your message, at least not this quickly."
Sherlock nodded, then hesitated before speaking again. "There are…I would like you to do something for me, since I suspect I will be of very little use for the next week or so." He abruptly looked away from his brother again, but kept speaking. "There is an abandoned chateau currently under renovation, about 45 kilometers northeast of Troyes. On the first floor, in a small room, is the body of a young woman. I would appreciate your handling the recovery of her remains. You should be able to establish her real name, though I'm sure she didn't give it to me. Her wallet is somewhere in this house; I had it with me when I arrived, I know."
Mycroft thought very, very carefully before speaking. "Do I need to be concerned about evidence pointing to your involvement in her death?" he said, in a completely neutral tone.
Sherlock's head whipped back over, red-rimmed eyes furious. "No! Of course not. I…no." He trailed off, grappled with himself, then spoke again, trying for detachment, and failing. "She was not a good person. I know that. But she didn't deserve what happened to her."
Mycroft added this to the lengthening list of things he needed to ask his brother about, once he recovered. For now, though, he contented himself with a simple reply. "Of course, brother mine. I will see it to as soon as possible."
Sherlock dropped back into a heavy sleep shortly thereafter, and Mycroft busied himself with coordinating the final cleanup of the mole situation, as well as a host of other small issues that needed to be dealt with before he accompanied Sherlock back to Paris for surgery. He checked on his brother several times without waking him over the next few hours, and was disheartened to note that the fever appeared to be rising again. The sooner the helicopter arrived, the better.
He fixed himself another sandwich roughly an hour before their transport was due, and went back to the bedroom, intending to wake Sherlock and ask if he felt he could eat. He stopped in the doorway, though, arrested by a small sound filtering into the hall. His chest clenched when he realized it was his brother, and he was weeping, very quietly.
Mycroft held a brief, internal battle with himself; he knew that part of Sherlock's emotional upset stemmed from his illness—he was very weak and in pain. And under normal circumstances Sherlock would violently reject any effort at comfort. But, but…
In the end, he followed his instincts, the ones that had led him to a lifetime of caring for his obstreperous younger sibling. He found himself, almost involuntarily, shucking off his shoes and climbing back onto the bed. He carefully scooped Sherlock up against his chest, feeling the heat radiating from his skin, and began to talk.
"I would give a great deal to take this from you. You know that, yes?" He waited, and the dark head nodded slightly. "I wish with all my heart that I had followed my instincts, when first I met James Moriarty, and had him killed." Cold comfort, he knew—but very much true.
Sherlock had quieted briefly, but now that hopeless weeping had started again, and Mycroft's heart shriveled in his chest. "I want to go home, Myc," came a hitching whisper. "I want to go home."
And Mycroft could do nothing but hold his brother, and wait, bleakly, for the helicopter.
"I spent 2 weeks in hospital," Sherlock said finally, into his knees, picking fretfully at the seams of his dressing gown. "The surgery was of no particular significance, but the infection took quite some time to resolve. Septicemia."
John flinched internally but tried not to react. "That's…that's a very serious infection. You could have died without quick treatment." He reached over and patted Sherlock's shoulder lightly. "Have to thank your brother for that one."
The corner of Sherlock's mouth twisted in distaste. "Of course, out of all of this, that's what stuck with you," he sighed.
He was calmer now, able to respond with a small amount of snark, at least. They had had to take a break earlier. The account of the death of Deline had ended with Sherlock sobbing violently into his duvet-covered knees while John crouched beside him, rubbing his back and feeling profoundly useless. It took nearly 10 minutes before he was calm enough to continue.
Now, clearly, he was feeling unsure and a little embarrassed, and John wanted to nip that in the bud. He had made it very clear that he was proud of Sherlock for being willing to talk, and he planned to reinforce that at every opportunity.
Sherlock gave a little jerk as something came to mind. His head came up and he grinned at John. "I just remembered. You may recall that I asked Celine and Rene for their contact information. I'm not honestly sure why—I suppose I thought that they might ultimately need protection, if any pursuers came their way. It made sense at the time," he said with an airy wave of his hand. "But in the end, I made Mycroft write them a message and send them a box of chocolates. And he had to write it in my grandmother's voice. I made him change it twice," he said with a wicked grin. He paused then, and pursued his mouth in displeasure. "Of course he did insist on including a picture of me in hospital, and he made me smile."
John rolled his eyes. "Oh, the horror…"
"Well, it was pointless," Sherlock sniffed. "I mean, they already knew what I looked like, after all. And what value would they receive from a picture of someone they barely knew in a hospital bed?" And on that, he was genuinely confused. He thought a minute, then looked over at John, eyebrows raised. "Sentiment?"
John smiled. "Sentiment."