"Dear God," the agitated voice startled Holmes from his exhausted stupor. Mycroft stood in the doorway, aghast and increasingly outraged.
Holmes knew that he was probably quite a sight, indeed, lying strapped to the bed, covered in sweat, his wrists and ankles black with bruises.
Mycroft took all this in, combined with the dark circles and worry lines across his brother's face. "I know that Dr. Watson has been grieving, but that is no excuse for keeping you in this condition." The elder brother went to the bedside, beginning to loosen the straps on Holmes' ankles. "To think that he was cross with me when I allowed the hospital to tether you to keep you from harming yourself. If I had known he'd be keeping you here like a prisoner…" Mycroft's voice broke off when he reached for his brother's wrist. He saw the angry scratches and stab wounds on the underside of Holmes' arm and his eyes flinched.
Holmes swallowed past the pain in his throat, mouthing words that would not come forth. Mycroft, please he wanted to say don't blame Watson. I'm alive, thanks to him, and I am getting better.
"My dear Sherlock…" Mycroft whispered, lightly touching the marred wrist. "You will be taken care of from now on, brother mine. I promise you that much."
Holmes shook his head angrily, trying to force a logical syllable out of his mouth. He descended into coughs from the effort, however, and Mycroft steadied him with a hand on his back.
"Sherlock, do be calm. We have a long journey ahead of us this afternoon. We'll be overnighting in Brighton and then taking a boat to France in the morning." Mycroft released Holmes' right wrist. "I'll stay with you in Angers to help you settle in. Everything will be much better one you're settled into your new home," he assured Holmes, releasing the left wrist.
Suddenly, Holmes grabbed his brother by his shirt collar with both of his free hands. Mycroft gasped out, "Sherlock!" with great surprise.
Holmes pulled his brother closer to him, so that they were nearly touching noses. "Watson," Holmes grazed the word out. "Now."
Mycroft attempted to calmly gain back control of his neatly pressed collar. "Sherlock," he said, gently, as if he were calling his brother a pet name. Holmes fumed at the insinuation. "Dr. Watson cannot be disturbed. He is a man grieving his young bride. We cannot upset him further with dramatic displays like this."
Holmes released Mycroft and fell back across the bed, exhausted from even this small show of exertion. "My'roft…" he croaked. "You don't…und…er…stand…"
Mycroft read into his brother's defeated demeanor. "Sherlock…" he said, slowly. "If I were to ask you who XXV was, who would you answer?"
A fragment of a memory suddenly existed. Two young boys, one thirteen and husky, the other six and lean, were sitting down at a table. The older child had a very intricate map of letters and numbers written out on a piece of paper. He was explaining the coded messages to the younger boy, who was rushing the explanation. The six year old already knew everything his brother was telling him.
"CCE," Holmes responded, chafing his throat. Clare Evans, and the middle C stood for her job, the cook.
Mycroft's eyes betrayed every emotion he hadn't allowed himself to express in many years. "Sherlock…" he said, nearly a whisper. "How long have you been recovered?"
Holmes shook his head in frustration. Leave it to Mycroft to ask unimportant questions. "Wa'son," he implored, the reserves of his strength quickly depleting.
"Sherlock," Mycroft said sternly, "you must rest now, you're clearly overwrought. I will advise Dr. Watson of your improvement delicately. But for now, I beseech you, brother, lie still and sleep."
Holmes would never have given in under normal circumstances. His days lying in bed, immobile, as well as his sudden rush of activity, however, had drained him of his will to argue or protest. His last glance before falling asleep was of Mycroft ambling across the room and out the door.
/
When Holmes awoke, he felt as if his bed were moving. It was moving, he realized, as he sat up in surprise. He only managed to stun himself further by knocking his head into a very solid wooden structure directly above him. He groaned in annoyance and some pain.
Holmes blinked away the stars in his vision and looked out the window next to him. He was moving. Quickly.
He suddenly realized that he was in a sleeping car on a passenger train. From several observations of the area swiftly passing by and some debris inside the car, he deduced that the train was headed for the south coast.