Chapter Eleven: Change My Life
"Get the hell out of my room!" Evie shouts at the top of her lungs and clutches blindly at the table next to the bed. Her face is red and streaked with tears. Her trembling hand finds purchase on something big and heavy and she launches it overhand across the room, directly at Mycroft's head. The plastic water pitcher arcs into the air, its contents a miniature torrent of rain that lands on the white comforter, the floor and straight across Mycroft's cream colored waistcoat and dark blue silk tie, leaving a darker slash from shoulder to hip. He is stunned to find that no sound will come out of his mouth. It strikes Evie that this fool looks like a stupid fish that is unaware that it is no longer in water. She closes her mouth and stares at him, her own mouth hanging open as she struggles for breath.
The horrible lighting of the room gives her skin a green tint and for a brief moment Mycroft thinks that he is facing one of the Furies. "Evie, I…." Mycroft's voice is a squeak when he finally finds it again. He frowns and takes two steps across the room, holding the bouquet of violets out in front of him in what he hopes is supplication.
"Don't you DARE!" Evie snarls. Mycroft freezes and considers that perhaps looking down the business end of a sniper rifle is easier than facing an angry, injured woman whose pride he has just managed to damage by what he thought was a simple solution to her current problem. Evie's mobile goes flying past his face; it makes a sickening smashing thud at his feet the way a watermelon would sound if he was dropped from a five-story rooftop.
"Evie, it was a logical solution. You obviously have no one to help out after you are released; my house is big enough and the staff…." Mycroft starts again, trying out his I-know-best voice and stepping carefully over the broken phone without sparing it a second look.
The look falls flat when an empty food tray flies very close to his temple and smacks against the wall with a clang. Mycroft looks down at it like it is an alien with three heads. His eyes widen and he gently sets the bouquet down in one of the empty visitors' chairs then pretty much high tails it from the room, trying desperately not too lose too much more face. He slips out of the door and leans against it, trying to gain control of his racing heart. He rubs one hand against the metal door and then holds it up to his face: his palms are sweating! What the bloody hell! He closes his eyes and uses the door for support. There is the tiniest movement in the hallway and when Mycroft opens his eyes he is facing John Watson.
"Hrgg." The sound that comes out of his mouth when he opens it sounds so ridiculous that Mycroft actually blanches. How does he admit how out of his depth he is here?
John cracks a sideways smile and tilts his head as if Mycroft is a new specimen of insect that Sherlock discovered on an outing and had to drag home to show John. John takes in Mycroft's rapid breathing, the tiny beads of sweat above his upper lip and water-stained waistcoat, thinking that at least he won't shed scales and wings everywhere. He crosses his hands over his chest, sighs and says simply: "Hmmm." He has never been one for kicking someone when he's down, though it does occur to him that Mycroft looks like he's been on a three-day crash course in humility. John is just slightly too polite to say it, however he thinks Mycroft can understand anyway.
Mycroft can feel his eyes widen. It is almost impossible, but John looks so much like Sherlock at that very second: as if a shorter, lighter-haired version of his brother just appeared standing in front of him in a antiseptically scented hospital corridor. John is even wearing his own version of the Sherlockian-I-know-everything sneer. It is seriously disconcerting on top of the emotional outburst from the injured woman in the suite behind the door he is using to keep himself upright.
John clears his throat. They size each other up. Mycroft has a sudden flash of light-this is John! Three Continents Watson! Surely he can help. Now he just has to figure out how to remedy this situation without admitting that he is the one who caused it.
"Mycroft, give it up. Just tell me what you did and I will go in and talk to her." John takes his phone out of his pocket and sends a quick text off to Sherlock to let him know that John may not be able to catch up with him at the library. Sherlock is currently trying to track down a mediocre case theft and has been digging through the old stacks of microfiche since early that morning. John desperately needed a break. This, however, is certainly not what he had in mind. He was looking forward to a short visit with a friend, not a run-in with an absolutely terrifying member of the government who is shaking like a junkyard dog on a short leash and wearing a guilty as hell expression all over his face.
"John, I've…." Mycroft pauses and runs his fingers through his hair then tugs on his waistcoat. John knows those nervous little ticks all too well. It's Mycroft's turn to clear this throat, which he does at the same time he straightens his tie. He lets a long stream of air out of his nostrils and seriously considers trying to find someone to bum a cigarette off of. One look at John's face, though, and he bins the idea. He is a leader, for god's sake, and here he stands in the hallway hiding from a woman! He is seriously swinging between disgust at himself and irritation at Evie for not being able to see that his ideas are simply the best solution.
Even stranger, the angle at which he is seeing John has changed. He then realizes that he has actually slid down the door and is sitting on the floor. John doesn't seem to be either surprised or amused. As always, John meets him on equal ground no matter where he stands, or for that matter, happens to sit. Well then.
"John, I've had female lovers, assistants and even enemies." Mycroft explains. John nods and then sits down next to him. Mycroft does not take the time to be amazed, he just plows ahead. "I'm not sure what Evie is to me at this point. Friend, perhaps, or maybe the burden of guilt that rests on my shoulders is heavy enough to make me feel responsible for her welfare. I suggested that her circumstances have changed considerably in the past few days and that she should give up her little flat over the motorcycle shop. She could stay at my house; I have staff there that could help her and until she is fully recovered and able to return to her day-to-day life…" he pauses. John doesn't say a single word. "I am more than willing to shoulder the burden of this entire state of affairs. I told her that I checked into her monthly budget and I could offer to more than cover her outstanding debts and bills…"
John holds up his hand; he has heard enough. Mycroft actually shuts up. John rubs his forehead and wonders how it is that someone so intelligent can be so very, very stupid. "Mycroft you are an idiot."
Mycroft blinks.
"First, I am not entirely sure how you can have a single shred of guilt because Evie was in an accident. For her sake, it was actually a good thing that you showed up when you did…"
"No. I was there the entire time, John. I suggested the race." Mycroft studies the tiles on the floor like they are the most interesting things he has ever seen. He runs his index finger in between them; the coolness of the little squares a direct contrast to the heat that is emanating from every pore in his body.
John does a double-take. He really does not have time for this. It will only be minutes before the texts from Sherlock start coming in like clockwork. All he can say to that is "You?"
Mycroft nods, running his fingers between his neck and collar; he is pretty surprised himself.
"Alright. We can deal with that later. Let's just clean up one mess at a time, yeah?" John suggests, his head resting against the door. He is pretty sure that he can hear Evie crying from the crack under the door and knows that the time for damage control has come. "Mycroft." Mycroft brings his gaze back up from the floor to his brother's lover, giving John his full attention. John has seen that look before: the one that admits nothing but positively shouts confusion. He is beginning to feel like a guru to the Holmes family in matters of the heart. He sighs as his phone vibrates in his pocket. He pulls it out and reads the text then quickly sends out his reply without bothering to return it to his pocket.
"Here's what you are going to do, Mycroft. You are going to walk in there and apologize for being a horse's arse. Then you are going to tell her that you think of her as a friend and that you are only offering to help because that's what friends do. Let me finish." The hand goes up again as Mycroft starts to speak. "Good. You are then going to apologize for hacking into the poor girl's private information and you are going to mean it. After that, you are going to sit down with her and have a bloody real conversation about how she feels. Have you got that?" Captain John asks as he stands up, wiping the dust off the rear end of his jeans. He holds out one hand and Mycroft grasps it, pulling himself from the floor. "Lastly, you do not ever tell someone that you care about that their life is a burden to you. Got that?" John regards him coolly, waiting on some argument from the older man as the phone in his pocket is going crazy. He shakes his head and pushes open the door. "Hi, Evie!"
She is sitting up in the bed with her own arms crossed. She is no longer crying but John can feel the tension pouring off of her in waves from the doorway. Her eyes are bright and everything about her screams "insulted!" Her hair has been pulled back in a make-shift ponytail though some of it has escaped and is hanging down over the side of her face that has the stitches. It has been three days and John can tell that the skin is still red but is not as puffy. She is healing well. He gives her a little wave with his phone. "I am going to send Mycroft back in now. Could you please not kill him too much, eh?" He gives her a huge grin and steps back. She returns the smile with a small weak one of her own. Mycroft moves past him and John reaches out and pats him on the back, just a little touch that says you made your bed, now sleep in it. He is receiving yet another text as he heads towards the exit.
Mycroft studies John as he walks down the hallway. John strides with purpose, without a single wasted movement, most likely still leftover muscle memory of long marches. He takes heart from it and squares his shoulders, grabs the chair with the flowers in it and drags it over next to Evie's bed where he proceeds to apologize profusely and mean it.
Evie holds her ground, glaring at Mycroft, though her expression begins to soften when he tells her about his past lovers, his brother, and their parents. By the time he's done talking, two hours have passed and she has moved close enough to him to lay one hand on his arm. She is starting to see where he's coming from. She understands the fear that goes hand in hand with loss of control. She tells him about her grandfather, the motorcycle shop and how she was raised in a house full of brothers. As Mycroft listens, he sees many of his own fears reflected back in her eyes.
Another hour passes. Evie's nurse comes in and checks her vitals, asks about her pain level. Mycroft goes down to the cafeteria and brings back two cups of tea and a packet of strawberry-filled biscuits. The nurse has situated the violets into the water pitcher and placed them on the bedside table. Mycroft can't help but compare the contrast of the soft color of their petals to Evie's eyes. For the first time, he does not berate himself for such frivolous thoughts.
They talk long into the night, until he finally becomes aware of her exhaustion. He excuses himself like a gentleman and simply cannot help it when he places a soft kiss on the top of her head. Her eyes go wide but she doesn't say anything, only smiles as she settles back against the pillows that he straightened for her. He leaves the hospital in a decidedly better mood than he was in when he arrived that afternoon with promises that he will return in a few hours to allow her some time to rest.
Mycroft sits in his car with his phone is his hand, staring down at the screen and going over several ways that he is going to announce to his staff that he is taking some time off. After all, it has been six years since he even had an entire day off. He composes a text message and then sends it to all concerned parties, carbon-copies it to his own email and then proceeds to send it to even more important parties. Mycroft leaves the parking lot of the hospital with a much lighter heart.