A/N: There are a few certain... "events" in this chapter that are based on real-life occurrences. See if you can figure out which ones they are ;)
"Go-od morning!"
That was the first thing I heard. Honestly, could this man not even wait for me to open my eyes to commence pestering me?
I dragged my lids open with intentional slothfulness, meeting the doctor's merry countenance with no less than a dead-on glare that could have melted steel. Steel, however, was sawdust as compared to the strength of his abnormally joyful demeanor.
"Oh, stop it. What am I: a doctor or an ogre?"
"Given the choice between the two of you..." I purposely trailed off, to which Stevenson only laughed.
"Claptrap. And I though you told me you weren't a friend of Victor Trevor?"
"I wasn't even acquainted with him until the start of this whole detestable business, thank you very much!" I retorted as Stevenson gave me a scrutinizing look before rather abruptly pressing a palm to my forehead before I could continue.
"Why so testy this morning? Look, your fever's even broken!"
"Indeed?"
"Why, yes. So now we can get you on some real food."
"Eugh, why the obsession with feeding me to the point of bursting, doctor?"
"I'm sure most medical circles would refer to what you denote by 'bursting' as normal."
"Right after they acclaim your groundbreaking thesis of the iced tea?"
"Exactly," he promptly responded, which startled me not a little until I realized he was joking. Again.
The entering click of a woman's footsteps brought my attention to the door, and the nurse peered in from around the fame.
"You have a visitor, sir," she said tersely, walking away without even making eye contact.
"Awfully early for Victor to be by, isn't it?" Stevenson asked, confused.
Not that it's any of your business.
"Indeed," I agreed. It was only half past ten, after all.
The sound of the nearing steps told a different story, however. It was sluggish and not very resounding, much unlike Trevor's quick, sharp stride. The question was solved, though, when none other than brother Mycroft proceeded to tap on my door frame and stick his portly head in.
"Good day, sir," he greeted the doctor in his low, husky but well-mannered voice.
"And good morning to you as well. I'm sure you will excuse me, I was just leaving."
"Of course," Mycroft replied as the doctor threw us each a courteous nod and departed.
"That was the 'very excellent physician from the United States?'" was his first snobbish, sneering question.
"Indeed, though one must first be in need of a physician in order to equitably judge, wouldn't you agree?"
"Oh, do stop it with the proverbs, Sherlock. And where's this throat infection you were so long-windedly telling me of?"
"Gone by now, thank heaven. Doctor Stevenson tells me the fever only broke just this morning."
"Oh, thank the heavens, indeed!" he cooed satirically.
"For the absolutely poisonous tone of that letter you sent had me thinking you to be at death's door. I really must thank you for that epic memo, by the way. I hadn't laughed so hard in approximately eighteen months. Certainly one worth archiving, that."
And to think I brought this on myself.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of the visit then, brother?"
"This Victor Trevor fellow you spoke of... is he a well-to-do man?"
"Yes."
"Mild-mannered, of a moderate temperament?"
"I would say so," I responded, failing to comprehend the point he was driving at.
"Intelligent?"
"Perhaps. Why all these irrelevant questions?"
"Honestly, Sherlock, would I be asking you anything at all were it not relevant? Anyway, I was saying that I have a fellow down on Wells Street who is willing to take care of this business at a reasonable price."
Now I was thoroughly confused.
"What? Mycroft, what ever are you on about?"
"A lawyer, Sherlock! Has five days in a hospital really made you so dense?"
"I certainly do not need a lawyer! And even if I did, I am not so 'dense' as to get one through you!"
"Then just how exactly do you plan to go about filing a proper lawsuit?"
"Haven't you already figured it out, Mycroft? I'm not suing."
His jaw went slack for a moment.
"What?"
"You heard me."
"And just why not?" he bellowed furiously, face flushing red with ire. It made him look rather like a watermelon, in all honesty.
"You read my letter, did you not? How could I have possibly made it more clear that the whole event was nothing more than an accident!"
"Oh, it was an accident that the mongrel was not tied on a leash? And only through pure coincidence that it viciously attacked you?"
"Neither of us knew the other was even there!"
"What difference does it make!"
"Mycroft. I. Am not. Suing. And that is final."
"Then why the devil did you even write me to begin with!?"
I shrugged.
"Does it look like there's much to do here?"
Mycroft turned away with a throaty, rasping growl that greatly reminded me of the hound itself.
"Brother mine," I chuckled, "you really must learn to control that temper of yours if you expect anyone to take you seriously. You are so funny when you're angry."
With that, Mycroft bounded back around (well, as quickly as a hippopotamus can move) and grabbed the rope to the stent on which my ankle was elevated, glaring menacingly at me.
"Utter one more word and you will not walk for a year."
"Splendid. I'll save the lawyer 'till then. Your office down at the Diogenes will do very nicely as my personal laboratory."
With that, his grimacing glare melted into a haughty sneer as he turned on his heel and prepared to withdraw.
"Well, at least I am once again taller than you."
"For now. And brother mine!" I called after him as he stepped out, causing him to about-face once more.
"I appreciate your concern."
With one last pompous "h'rmph" and accompanying snub, he pivoted and finally left.
C6H5N2 + 3KOH + _____ — C6H5 + 3KCl + 3H2O
One part aniline combined with three parts potassium hydroxide and one part of the unknown substance yields one part phenylisocyanide, three parts potassium chloride, and three parts water.
The missing reactant must have three units of chlorine to balance the product, which leaves only one part hydrogen and one carb—
"Hello, Holmes."
I started.
"Oh... Hello, Trevor."
What time is it?
It was already ten minutes after five, but I really had no recollection or sense of the passing time. It was beginning to grow dark out, and I was taken aback to find that the usual luncheon of stew and tea was sitting on my table.
Who put that there, and when?
"Did I interrupt you?"
"Well... it's of no consequence. Er... Won't you sit down?"
It was an embarrassingly stupid thing to say, but I had nothing else with which to somewhat appease him for being so completely oblivious to his presence. I had been very much engaged with my chemistry books once again, going through them and simply placing a finger over one reactant in any chemical equation I could find in order to balance it myself. Knowing Trevor as little as I did then, I figured he could have been standing there a good three or four minutes waiting for me to notice him.
"Thank you," he replied, dragging the stool over the few feet from the end of the bed and sitting. The aged piece of furniture so conveniently picked a wonderful time to give a loud crack as he sat.
"Comfortable?" I could not help but ask sardonically as he looked down at the stool with some concern.
"It's softer than the dormitory beds."
That did much to dissolve the awkwardness and give us something to snicker over.
"And oddly enough, I'm pleased to inform you that it finally happened," he declared with a satisfied smirk.
"What finally happened?"
"Professor Cavendish's chair. It broke right in the middle of class."
"No!"
Professor Cavendish was one of the mathematics instructors. The man really was unfortunate, for if he had been four or five inches taller than he was, he might have gotten away with a having physique somewhat resembling that of Mycroft—hefty, but not bloated and round. However, this was not the case, for he in fact had a physique resembling something more of a large punch bowl.
Bearing this in mind, it would only make sense that the powers at the university would provide the man with a chair that was in at least somewhat better shape than the very stool that Trevor sat upon, but once again, this was not the case. And every time he sat down, every last one of us, the students, would practically hold our breaths as the thing wobbled and creaked beneath him. A few jokers even had a pool going on when it was finally going to give out.
But I'm rambling. Trevor sat there snickering as my mouth hung open briefly before joining him shortly thereafter.
"Good God," I choked, "what happened?"
"There was just a snap as soon as he hit the chair... and the whole back came off."
"So the man fell backwards?" I gaped, picturing the scene all too clearly.
"He rolled!"
This time, I was as bad as Trevor, (if not worse), who was on the brink of crowing, at least until Stevenson himself walked by. He didn't come in, but merely paused and shot me a rather queer look before shaking his head dismissively and moving on. Trevor didn't even notice.
"Ah," he said as we began to regain control of ourselves after such an outburst.
"Poor Mister threes-" He halted abruptly.
"What did you say?"
"Well," he began in a hushed manner, flushing to the roots of his blonde hair and glancing around before continuing.
"It's... well, I suppose you could call it an inside joke. You see, shortly after his introduction to Euclidian geometry, I started calling him," another snicker, "I started calling him... Mister three-sixty."
If I had not the excellent self-control that I did, (even if I had not chosen to use it before) I surely would have burst into another fit of laughter before my gentlemanly temperance could come back and kick me. As it was, we only snickered for a minute or so.
"Infantile, I know," Trevor admitted.
"Perhaps, but not an inaccurate analogy."
"You certainly picked a good week to miss classes, Holmes," he chuckled. Not half a second later, however, he practically choked, flushing crimson this time instead of scarlet.
"I didn't pick it at all, Trevor. I believe I rather have more of you to thank for that."
"I-I know, Holmes, I mean I-I-I'm sorry. I realize how that sounded," he sputtered so quickly I'm surprised I even understood him.
"Then perhaps it might do you some g-g-g-good to think before you s-s-s-speak," I retorted mockingly, though I vow it was only in jest. Trevor, however, evidently took my icy stare as a sign that I spoke with the utmost seriousness, and his mouth hung slightly agape as he fumbled and failed to try and find words and averted his eyes completely. I fully admit without reluctance or shame that it was rather difficult for me not to burst out laughing for the thousandth time that night as Trevor floundered, though I do grant that just the slightest pang of guilt poked at me as Trevor moved to get up from the chair and presumably leave.
"Hold on a moment!"
He finally looked at me once again.
"You do know that I was only joking, Trevor?"
His eyes widened as his lips ceased their trembling.
"...Just now?"
"My, my, you are a basket case, Trevor. What would Doctor Stevenson say?"
"He would probably remind me that he gave me his full authority to strike you; and that chemistry book which you hold so conveniently looks right heavy, I might add. Or better yet, where's that basin?"
"Would you hit an invalid?" I asked half-seriously.
"Having just forced the foremost aggressor of the boxing club to willfully call himself a cripple, I personally don't see the need."
"I would ask you to withdraw that statement, but seeing as where I won't be stepping anywhere near the ring for the next two months, I'm afraid it would be rather ineffectual."
"They say the pen is mightier than the sword."
"Nay, nay, I am also a rather dexterous fencer, if I do say so myself."
"Tell you what. In two months, we'll meet in the ring, us two, and you bring your sword, but I'll write a note to everyone else telling them to bring their swords."
"Be my guest, Trevor! Your scheme is delightful. But I'm afraid the gymnasium will be rather a mess by the time I get to you."
"You cannot possibly be so cheeky, Holmes," he said with an amused snicker.
"Arrogance has nothing to do with it, Trevor. I speak the truth without regard to egotism. But your rather imaginative scenario is really quite refreshing to picture."
"What an odd conversation this is we're having, Holmes. I mean, really."
"We could have gone on pretending it was commonplace if you hadn't said something."
"Just as long as one of us is normal enough to realize it," he muttered quietly, and it was such a dramatic change from his zany, ribald tomfoolery that I quickly opted to try and reflect on what I had said to offend him so.
"What ever do you mean?"
"Hm? Oh, nothing... nothing, Holmes." He replied, turning his wandering gaze back in my direction. It was only then that I realized that when he had said 'as long as one of us is normal,' he had been excluding himself from that category, and not I. And truth be told, it startled me not a little.
"Are you quite well, Trevor?"
"Yes, of course. Why do you ask?"
"Ah, no reason," I insisted, marveling at how quickly he had reverted himself to a perfectly normal and content countenance.
"I had that letter sent to your brother, by the way."
"Ah, yes, I know. Thank you, Trev... Trevor, how the deuce did you know Mycroft was my brother?"
"You told me, Holmes."
"What?"
"You told me the letter was to a Mister Mycroft Holmes. I," he colored, "...I... well, rather pryingly, inquired as to whether the relation was your father. You told me he was your brother."
What? He knew about Mycroft? I had told him about Mycroft?
It is not that I terribly minded the fact that he inquired as to the recipient of the letter. Had it been any other man, of course, but Trevor did not grate upon my nerves. If I had been in my right mind, I know I simply would have politely discounted his query and said no more.
But no, I had actually gone on to tell him that I had a brother?
"Trevor, I must be losing my mind. I have absolutely no recollection of—"
"No need to be so embarrassed, Holmes. Do you remember that you were practically unconscious by the time I left the room?"
"I was tired, I remember that. Between the fever and whatever medicine they have me on... yes, I remember now. I was quite gone before I even saw you out the door. I have never slept so much in my life," I added with a hint of disgust.
"It'll probably do you some good."
"Why does everybody seem to think I purposely deprave myself of everything and anything I can for the pure mirth of it? If I need to sleep, then I'll sleep! Is it really that difficult to comprehend?"
"N-n-no, Holmes, of course not."
He was stuttering again, a surefire sign I'd made him nervous. Again.
In all seriousness man, I could not help but berate myself, once is to be expected. Twice is unfortunate, but three times won't do. I will not stand for nearly scaring the man out of the room again.
"Did I just snap at you, Trevor? My apologies. It is just that you seem to share the same opinion of my habits as the good doctor so clearly does."
"I would not have commented on the matter had your appearance had not improved so drastically from the last two nights."
Pardon me? Honestly, I might not be the best-looking chap in London, but I am far and away not the worst! And I doubt a few winks of sleep of all things has done anything to improve that.
"I wish I could say the same for my leg."
"Have you moved it at all?"
"Only once, barely. Doctor Stevenson was not pleased."
"What did he threaten you with that time?"
"He didn't need to. The fact that I might potentially condemn myself to another day or two in here was enough to deter me."
"You mean you wouldn't enjoy an extra day of the good doctor's company?" he smirked.
"I accede that he is a kindly fellow, Trevor, especially for a man holding such a profession that requires him to see all kinds of gore and horrors, but he is happy all the time. I simply do not understand it... What?"
The question was asked upon the realization that my analysis of the doctor was causing Trevor to chuckle more and more as I went on.
"You don't have to understand it, Holmes. He's a cheery fellow by nature, and that is all. What's not to understand?"
"People are not just happy because they can be, and that is a fact. I cannot begin to describe to you how perfectly I can just picture this man whistling while in the process of amputating a man's arm."
Trevor sprung upright in the chair and began to motion as if holding something in place and slicing into it with a saw.
"Well, you've officially become left-handed," he smiled merrily in an impressively well-enacted American accent, "but at least you can tell people that you lost it while pulling two children out of a burning building."
The roars of laughter that followed were enough to draw the attention of a passing nurse, who ducked her head in for a moment and raised a finger to her lips before departing as quickly as she had arrived.
"Miserable old fishwife," Trevor muttered.
"Will you stop!" I fairly yelled, trying desperately to quell the new wave of amusement that came over me with his last statement.
"Honestly, Trevor, did you come here to-night with the sole intention of entertaining me?"
"No, but you look like you could use it, anyway, Holmes."
"Oh, so now I'm a gloomy misanthrope who doesn't get enough sleep."
"An anorexic misanthrope who doesn't get enough sleep!" an intruding response rang from the hall as Stevenson passed by again and evidently could hear our discussion very clearly.
"Idiot," I hissed when I was sure he was gone.
"Have you read Charles Lasgue's book?" *
"L'anorexie Hysterique, indeed. Though if you ask me, this 'condition' is nothing more than another one of the many unfounded and irrational paranoid sensitivities of women."
"Your compassion is touching."
"Well it is true."
"Excuse me, sir."
Both Trevor and I looked up in unison to find the nurse standing just inside the doorway.
"Yes?" Trevor replied, for apparently she had been addressing him.
"It is six-thirty. Visiting hours are over."
As if on cue, Trevor and I reflexively looked back at each other, stunned, before our eyes darted to the clock. Surely enough, it was half past six.
Impossible!
"Well... so it is," Trevor mumbled, rising from the chair.
"I truly did not realize I kept you for well over an hour, Holmes," he stated with some embarrassment.
"Kept me from what?"
"Well... good point. But really, Holmes, if I-"
"Honestly, Trevor, where would you get the notion into your head that you were unwanted here?"
It was the closest I ever came to truly thanking him.
"Well, Holmes, I..." he trailed of nervously for a moment, but my last statement had clearly and for an unknown reason had some sort of softening effect on him, making me grow the slightest bit uneasy.
"I had just hoped I hadn't been pressing on your nerves any."
"Not at all, Trevor, really," I tried to wave him off with a bored, uninterested air.
"Well, in any case, I will see you tomorrow."
"Good night, Trevor."
"Good night, Holmes and... Good evening, madam."
The latter was, of course, directed to the nurse with an accompanying grin and tip of the hat. I rolled my eyes at the scene as the blushing nurse showed Trevor out of the room, who looked back at me once more with a smirk and a sly smile and one eyebrow devilishly quirked.
"Rake," I muttered as he disappeared, but I made certain he heard me. The need to go chasing around every female one lays eyes on is certainly a shameful masculine weakness.
Victor Trevor. He might have had more money than he knew what to do with, but he was no gentleman!
Because we all know that Holmes is man-orexic XD
And we've even got a bit of Mycroft thrown in there, too.
Interesting fact: the first case of anorexia nervosa was documented in 1873 by the aforementioned psychologist Charles Lasgue in his book L'anorexie Hysterique. I'd love to provide a functioning link to the article I found this on, but FF feels the need to butcher links, unfortunately, and will not let subscript numbers get by, either, so my chemical equation looks rather messy. Here is a rather mind-boggling quote from the article:
"... This history of anorexia reaches into Victorian times. Girls felt cultural pressure to be thin just as they do now in the 21st century. During the Victorian era, mothers and daughters avoided food to avoid giving off the impression that their physical appetite linked to their appetite for sex. During those times, it was commonly thought that should a woman eat more, she in turn had a greater sexual appetite."
If you want to read the rest of it, delete the spaces in this link:
http:// www. /anorexia/ history of anorexia. Htm