Quick Note: I apologize for skipping a day on all of you wonderful readers, but I have a really good excuse. I've just posted my first all-original short story on a writer's forum for critique and I am a bit nervous about it. No matter how well or badly it does, I want to thank you all for giving me the courage to even try!
Chapter Twelve: Miracle in My Life
Dr. Patel knocks lightly on the door to Evie's room before he enters with a small stack of papers in his hand. She gives him the best smile she can muster under the circumstances; it ends in a little wince when the stitches pull against tender skin. His brown eyes are kind as he hands over the paperwork for her to sign. She is relieved to finally be able to get of hospital, though feeling a bit of trepidation due to that fact that she isn't going home. She listens to what the doctor tells her about the after care for the stitches in her face, tells her not scratch underneath the cast on her leg and pretty much the rest is lost to the rush in her ears when her phone vibrates against the table next to it and she grabs it. She glances at the screen and her eyebrows crease; she pushes the delete button and looks up again at her welcoming party.
John has just entered the room pushing a wheelchair with Sherlock on his heels. He gives a brief smile in welcome to Dr. Patel and the two men shake hands. Evie notes the contrast between two shades of tan skin and her doctor's pristine white lab coat. Sherlock watches Evie intently over John's shoulder, his emerald hawk eyes taking in everything in a single glance. Evie meets the intense gaze with her own, having spent entirely too much time in their company over the past few days to be intimated. Her focus stills and then she searches behind them, waiting for the person that she really wants to see.
Mycroft finally appears, though he seems to freeze in the doorway; Evie takes it as an unspoken question May I come in? She cannot help the real smile that plasters itself across her face when she sees him. She thrusts the papers to Dr. Patel with one hand and holds out the other towards Mycroft. He steps in closer to the bed and Evie's hand rests against his waist. Without thinking about the audience, he leans down and places a soft kiss on the crown of her head exactly the same way he did the night that they sat here in this room and actually talked. Mycroft straights up and takes in her smile with a starving look on his face.
John studies the interplay between Mycroft and Evie; his burst of laughter is brighter than the fluorescent lighting, turning everything to gold that it touches. Evie and Mycroft both blush from the tips of their fingers to the roots of their hair while Sherlock looks from them to John with a wide-eyed expression of absolute disbelief. Naturally, this makes John laugh even harder until Sherlock huffs and drops into the wheelchair. Dr. Patel makes a short chuckle, tells Evie to take it easy and pretty much makes a break for the door before he loses his mind as apparently everyone in the room has done.
"Oy!" John shouts in between chuckles. He tips the chair as if to dump Sherlock on the floor. "That's not your ride, you lanky git!" Sherlock frowns at John but gets out of the chair in a hurry. Evie is laughing so hard that she actually snorts. That pretty much does it and even Sherlock cracks a smile.
They finally all get control of themselves enough for Evie to get into the wheelchair. John starts to push it until Mycroft walks up behind him and says very quietly "please." John nods his head and he and Sherlock lead the way down the corridor.
~o~o~o~
John and Sherlock are in the back of one of Mycroft's cars, headed home. Sherlock is exception fidgety this afternoon, even for him. He scratches at his leg, plays with a loose thread on the seat, fiddles with the hair at his temples and finally resorts to playing a tip-tapping melody against the window with his fingers.
"What is wrong with you?" John asks, turning towards his fidgety detective.
"Did you see that?" Sherlock answers with a question of his own.
"Yeah, I thought it was kind of cute, actually." John can't help but smile at the memory of Mycroft being tender and caring towards another human being.
"No. Not that. Her phone, did you see her face when the text message came in?
Sherlock dipped his head down and scowled into John's face at very close range.
"No, Sherlock, I am afraid I did not." John answers honestly. He had been preoccupied by his natural inclination to check the healing wounds on her face.
Sherlock sighs one of those dramatically drawn out you-see-but-do-not-observe sighs. John actually feels lucky for a few moments, it has been awhile since he was treated to one of those.
"Well, go on, you have something to say so say it." John scowls right back.
"The text message came in just as you crossed over the threshold. She picked up the phone, looked at the screen and then immediately deleted it. It must be from someone she doesn't know or doesn't wish to communicate with. I expect the latter, though I believe she knew exactly what it said because it is not the first time the person has tried to contact her." Sherlock finishes up by opening the door.
They step out into the parking garage and John pulls his key ring from his pocket. The gold keys make a one-note jangle as he matches Sherlock's strides. "So, obviously, you have a theory to whom the person sending the message may be." John states as they step into the lift in unison.
Sherlock does not say anything else until they are in the penthouse. Phoenix greets them at the door by winding herself throughout Sherlock's long legs. She is still so tiny that her head just barely reaches his shins. He pulls of his coat and thrusts it at the hook on the back of the door, then reaches down to pick up the kitten. She purrs loudly and bumps her head against his chest as he strokes her head with the other hand.
"Yes, I do." His baritone voice seems to echo throughout the quiet flat. John knows better than to push for an answer, Sherlock will give it to him only when he decides. He has always been one to wait quietly for Sherlock's answer; mostly anyway. John sits down on the couch and takes his shoes off. Phoenix thinks this looks like great fun and jumps down to swat at John's shoe laces.
"You little stinker." John picks her up and she reaches out her head; he nods his in return and Phoenix gives him a little head bump above his eyebrows. He leans into the sofa and stretches his legs out in front of him. He waits for Sherlock to speak. Sherlock does not answer straightway though, instead pulling on John's shoulders until they are face to face, and then proceeding to kiss John's lips, nibble a little on his earlobe and rubbing his face against Johns; he pretty much acts like a giant version of the kitten in John's hands to get attention. John just smiles in between kisses and goes along for the ride.
Eventually, they are too close for Phoenix to be comfortable so she vacates her spot. John clutches at Sherlock's shoulders, reeling him in for what turns out to be a fantastic but very short lived snog. When Sherlock's phone chimes, John has one hand buried in the glorious dark curls and Sherlock has leaned down with both arms around John's neck; their mouths are open against one another in two-four time as their hearts pound out a combined beat against their ribs. The chiming continues for another fifteen seconds until they finally pull apart with no small amount of irritation.
John leans back against the couch while Sherlock answers the call. Sherlock's eyes narrow and then a bored expression settles in. So much for that, John thinks. Sherlock's eyes flick toward him, an argument brooking in the depths of the emerald irises. John is startled to still see a smoldering desire there, even with the interruption. Sometimes he wonders why it took all that time to realize that the heaviness of that gaze was doing more than taking him apart.
"D.I. Pritchard, an imbecilic trained chimpanzee could have seen the fingerprints in the dark." Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes in a dramatically slow manner. John snickers behind one hand. "Yes, yes, I am sure that is very interesting. I am too busy at the moment to explain to your forensics team how to get fingerprints off of the glass light cover in the ceiling without a fuming hood. Much too busy; after all, they are your team, right?"
John can clearly hear the newest D.I.'s voice getting louder and louder. He really likes the woman, though he thinks she tends to rely on Sherlock too much. He grabs the phone from Sherlock and says simply: "Goodnight, D.I. please don't call again until you have a real problem to solve, we are busy. Thank you!" He pushes the 'end call' button and then powers the phone down. After that they get back to their business of a more personal nature.
~o~o~o~
Evie is really rather enjoying the huge television in Mycroft's sitting room. She is settled into one of a pair of large recliners with her legs up, a small stack of pillows under the cast, and a huge red bowl of popcorn in her lap. Mycroft comes through the French doors between the sitting room and the kitchen carrying two glasses: one with red wine for himself and the other with a very light rum and cola for her. She takes it from him, carefully handling the fancy glassware. She takes a sip and smiles, resting her head against the back of the chair. He sits down in the recliner next to hers and kicks the footrest up. He has removed his shoes but is still wearing thin black socks and his suit; though his tie is nowhere to be seen. He is pushing at buttons on the remote when her telephone buzzes to let her know she has a new text message.
Evie hurriedly sets her glass down and some of the drink sloshes over the edge onto the table. She mumbles "sorry" and then clicks the phone on. Since it's the same message she keeps getting, she quickly deletes the text and then puts the phone back on the side table, face-down. She turns her head and finds herself pinned to the chair by Mycroft's eyes. He does not say a word but he does quirk an eyebrow. She meets his gaze with her own, desperately hoping that she is giving nothing away. He has done enough for her and this is not his problem. She is hoping that if she ignores the text messages that the problem will just disappear.
Mycroft watches Evie's face closely. Her brows knit together to form a line between them and her cheeks color up when she turns back to face him after laying the phone down. He does not break the silence but does lean in towards her. She makes no move to get away; she seems to be only waiting. When he does finally kiss her, it is a soft touching of lips. She closes her eyes and slips one hand around his shoulders, wanting to draw him in closer in that moment, even with the pressure against her stitches. Mycroft pulls away, grasping both of her hands in his own.
"You do not owe me anything. That is not my intent." He states calmly but commanding her entire focus. She can feel the heat of his palms against the back of her hands; he is a powerful force of nature.
"I understand. The accident did not change my feelings or the way I felt about you that first day." She blushes fiercely.
Mycroft lets go of one of her hands to brush back a stray lock of hair. "I truly do not know what to say to that." His hand gently caresses the unhurt side of her face as he kisses her forehead, a little off center to avoid the sutures. For a moment Mycroft considers that he could simply carry her to his bed and have his way with her. He finds, however, that is very much not what he wants; a very strange feeling indeed. He wants her, of that there is no doubt, but not like this when she is completely vulnerable. A strong partner is always a better match. He returns to his seat. When he settles, he pushes his hand under her arm and they proceed to spend a companionable evening watching an old American TV show about Army surgeons in Korea in the 1950's.