The door to the landing abruptly disappeared, stripped away as if in a mighty wind. I found myself back on the settee, this time with my face in the cushion. My blanket had disappeared, and Holmes roughly pulled on my arm.
"Watson?"
Moisture traced cold lines down my face and wet the pillow. I made no reply, too busy making use of the handkerchief I already held in one hand. Nightmare or not, he did not need to see that.
"Watson, are you awake now?"
A quick gesture waved him away. He knew I could not always speak directly after the more vivid nightmares. The silent thanks should have sent him back to whatever he had been doing.
It did not, naturally. "Answer me."
"'M 'wake."
The reply came out closer to a mutter than I intended. His tightening grip announced he had noticed.
"What were you dreaming?"
I waved him away again. He did not need to know that either. "Jus' a nightmare. Th-thank you for waking me."
"No." He tried to move to where he could see my face. "That was not 'just a nightmare,' Watson. What about that dream made you toss your wallet towards the fireplace?"
My wallet?! Surely I had not—
I had. A quick search found no sign of the leather wallet I had shoved into my pocket early this morning, but I still made no answer. Holmes probably had it for now, and he had given it back once before. I would need to find a different place for that scrap of paper—preferably somewhere a dream could not destroy it.
"Watson?"
No. I ignored him, rolling over to hunt for my blanket. We did not need to discuss this. It had been a dream. Nothing more. He had not found a new partner. He had not denied our friendship. He had not declared me too crippled to help. None of it was real.
Except maybe the part about him working alone. I would consider that "unproven" until shown otherwise.
The hand moved to my shoulder to give me a firm shake. "I will not let you ignore me. I already told you that everything Mrs. Hudson relayed referenced wanting your ribs to heal. Why will you not believe me?"
Because she had not heard half of it. Holmes had never mentioned my injury, but he had explored multiple ways to keep me at home so he could "work alone." If my injury had been the sole focus, he would have mentioned more than simply his cases.
"You are irritatingly stubborn." My pillow suddenly disappeared, impatiently snatched out from under me. He waited for me to direct a scowl at him before he continued, "Why do you think I will ask you to leave?"
"I don't. 'T was just a nightmare."
I honestly did not. Not fully. His biggest reason for going separate ways would have been Switzerland, and he had already absolved me of fault. Whether I agree with him or not, he did not see my actions as a betrayal.
But while that would not affect his decisions now, it did not prevent other things from doing so. I fell sick far more often than he did, felt every changing weather pattern, and occasionally could not leave the flat. I moved slower than most people, but Holmes moved faster. Whatever friendship we had would not prevent him from growing tired of waiting on me. Once I caught up on sleep, he would quickly run out of other reasons to keep me at home. I would find out soon enough if he had decided that he preferred to work alone.
"I will not."
I blinked, finding myself staring through him. A raised eyebrow quickly shuttered my expression.
"I will not do that," he said again. "Whatever you are thinking."
I doubted he knew exactly what I had been thinking, but I also did not ask, sitting up to reach the blanket Holmes had dumped on the floor. Nightmares or no, I wanted to go back to sleep.
He kicked the quilt further away. "We are not doing this every hour. What do I need to do to convince you?"
Nothing. Only time would show which words his actions matched, and I glared at him but pulled the throw off the back of the settee rather than try to stand. The quilt was warmer, but even the thinner blanket would be better than nothing.
He stole that, too, smirking at the look of annoyance I provided in reply. "You are not going back to sleep until we solve this," he informed me. "I will not leave, and I will not ask you to leave. That promise goes both ways."
What promise?
"To protect. To guard. To help. To be there." He had obviously gathered that question, and he reclaimed his chair though his attention never left me. "You swore it to me first years ago and again more recently. You know how easily I can read your thoughts."
Yes, I did, though how he had gathered even that much of that oath I had no idea. He had just quoted the shortened version of the promise Harry and I had made as boys—and that I had first silently directed at Holmes shortly after Harry's death.
It was kind of him to voice it, but the shortened version said little more than I already knew. We protected, guarded, and helped each other on every case I joined—and several I did not. I doubted he knew what that oath fully meant.
No matter. If Holmes no longer wanted my help with cases—or perhaps just with every case—I would simply start accepting more patients. I would still have time if he decided to include me, but I would not rely solely on him for my income.
He kicked my pillow out of reach as well. "What did I do to make you so distrust me?"
Distrust him? I finally looked up, frowning at the traces of hurt sparking in his gaze.
"I trust you."
"Then why do you not believe me?" He scanned me, noting everything from my heavy fatigue to the confusion I made no attempt to hide. "You muttered that oath one night when you were reading," he answered part of my curiosity, "and I found it on a scrap piece of paper that same week. Several months later, a scratched watch provided context." His keen gaze never stopped studying me. "You swore it to your brother, did you not?"
"I did."
"And to me?"
I nodded. "Yes."
"But then—" He faltered, still staring. Silence stretched as he sought the words he needed.
"It's alright, Holmes," I said when nearly a minute passed with only his reddening ears announcing his increasing discomfort. "I know. Don't worry about it."
Discomfort became frustration. "You do not know," he nearly snapped, "not when even voicing the sentiment does not convince you. Did I quote it incorrectly?"
"No. You got it exactly right." I forced a smile. "Seriously, Holmes. I know, and I appreciate it."
I did know. The many other scraps of paper had all but confirmed that he saw me as much more than just a convenient flatmate. I knew he accepted—sometimes even valued—my presence, and I trusted him to watch my back just as I watched his. He did not need to fight so hard to put it into words. I reached for the second, harder cushion at the other end of the settee. If I could not go back to sleep, perhaps he would let me move the conversation along.
He shoved the pillow out of reach before I could throw it at him. "May—" The sentence broke, his ears brighter than I had seen them in years. "You could not hear me earlier, could you?"
When? During the dream? I had not paid attention to most of the "hallucination," and I doubted the rest had infiltrated accurately.
Only an obvious, concentrated effort prevented him from shifting in place. He opened his mouth, then closed it when the words refused to form. "You have heard Mycroft complain about having two younger brothers," he said instead.
Yes, I had, and Holmes usually shot back some subtly witty reply. He knew and at least partially accepted my view of our friendship. What about it?
My silence prompted another scowl. "Do I really have to walk you through this?"
Apparently so. Whether my fatigue or simply not enough information, I still did not know what else he could be trying so hard to convey.
"If Mycroft has two brothers, how many do I have?"
That finally clicked, and I stared at him. Did he mean that the way it sounded?
No. Not possible. Holmes despised anything to do with emotions—or sentiments. He might consider me a friend—had asked years ago what it meant to be a friend—but he could not consider me family. Just because Mycroft considered us brothers did not mean Holmes did.
Except…that would match the typewritten scrap, would mean that he had not written that knowing I would find it. I would never have to worry about him desiring my absence, nor would he be likely to abandon me again. Could I let myself believe that possibility?
No. Not without proof. Hoping for the best only ground me to pieces when something proved it wrong.
He still scowled at me, but instead of calling me on whatever so displeased him, one hand retrieved my wallet from the nearby table. "You would not have had time to go to your room," he recalled accurately. "Where did you hide it when I returned from the publisher's office?"
"My journal." Checking once that the scrap remained in its place, I slipped the faded leather into a different pocket. It would go under my pillow when I returned to sleep. "I moved it to my wallet the next time I went upstairs."
"How badly did you aggravate your ribs picking everything up?"
"Not much." I had been too engrossed in reading each piece to realize just how much my ribs had protested the leaning and bending. I had not so much chosen the settee that night as been confined to it, but I saw no reason to admit that. It had not set my healing back by any significant amount.
He gathered enough to frown at me, "I should have known you had read a few when I found them in that basket. Why did you not say anything?"
I shrugged. "Why would I?" Either discussion would have prompted an awkward conversation—as this had quickly become. Why did it matter so much?
He let out a faint harrumph, fidgeting in his chair again before realization crossed his face, followed quickly by an idea. He stood to rummage through his desk, and less than a minute later, he returned with a different, longer scrap in hand, obviously intending it to answer my silent question. My breath caught at the first words.
"I swear to protect you from danger," I read in my own handwriting, "to guard your sleep, to help you in trouble, be there when you weep. My neighbor, my brother, my family, my friend. Not by blood but by bond, may my oath never end."
He—
I kept my eyes on the paper, staring at the words I had scribbled on a nearby scrap shortly after Harry's death. He knew the full oath. Just as Holmes' pleas might have accurately filtered into my nightmare, so he had not blindly quoted the shortened version. He knew the full oath.
Could that mean—
I halted the thought. Just because he knew the full oath did not mean he knew that the shortened version was supposed to communicate the same thing. This scrap had only the full text. He would have no way of knowing that one tied to the other.
Would he?
"Turn it over."
"To protect. To guard. To help. To be there," Holmes had written on the back. "Muttered while transferring the oath to paper. Shortened version? Need more information."
Below that, and obviously several weeks later, he had added, "Shortened version, said to his brother, probably from childhood. Oath modified from a novel."
I stared for several long seconds. If he knew they both—
"It meant something to you." He had apparently tired of waiting for me to look at him. "You know I will not make a promise I cannot keep."
Yes, I did know that, but I had not known he had been paying attention even back then. My brother had passed the winter before I met Mary, and Holmes had been on the continent when the news came. He had not returned until several days after I pulled out of the initial pain of loss.
He still watched me when I finally looked up, a sorrow in his eyes I did not expect—and certainly did not expect to see. "I do not know exactly what you have persuaded yourself in the last week," he told me quietly, "but it is not true. I meant what I said, Watson. I am not going anywhere."
And if I tried, that promised, he would probably follow. I nodded, gently tracing the hurried script.
You're my brother, Johnny. Forever and always and no matter what. Remember that book I read you? Come on. Say it with me. 'I swear…'
If he thought of me like a brother, a simple argument would not make him leave or ask me to leave. If he valued my presence as I did his, he would not care how slowly I walked or how often the weather kept me at home. If he preferred my company instead of merely accepting it, he probably would not want to work alone most of the time.
If he had sworn that oath, I did not need to worry about anything he had said in that fever dream.
The fear that had been nagging me all week finally eased. It had been a fever dream, nothing more. Holmes did not say what he did not mean, and even I could see that he meant that promise. Whether he had truly been focused on my injury or on something else, he had not been searching for ways to exclude me from his—our—work. I would not find myself left at home when he resumed taking cases.
The scrap landed on the end table, nearby but out of range in case of another nightmare. I doubted I would have to worry about that either, though. Lack of worry combined with fatigue to render me as light as a feather, drifting from here to there in a room that tried to shift beneath me. He frowned at how heavily I relaxed into the returned pillow.
"Watson?"
I pretended not to hear. The vertigo would ease when I caught up on rest, but his frown deepened when I slipped my wallet beneath my pillow.
"I am right here."
"I kn'w." I blindly felt for his hand, my eyes closing as sleep turned my tongue to lead. "'N it's n't in my pocket. All the dr'ms have it in m' pocket."
He grumbled something about mulish Boswells but made no reply. He knew as well as I did that I was unlikely to dream. My primary worry alleviated, I was too tired to dream. I simply hoped I woke before Edward arrived. I had no illusions that this would diminish Holmes' hovering, and the dual attention would only drive me up a wall.
Not that I minded overmuch. Better a hovering brother than an absent one.
Aaaaand, finished, finally, with this monster story. My longest yet, I hope you enjoyed :D Thank you to everyone who reviewed! The comments mean the world :)
Fireguardian 22: good catch! Yes, this was supposed to be the non-AU version of that conversation in Court of Minds. A careful eye might have noticed a few other nods to that AU, such as Mrs. Hudson's husband :)
Corynutz: Did you find your chocolate? I'll admit I needed some, too, after I realized just where this story insisted on going, lol
MHC1987: Thank you for the compliment! And great metaphor. Yes, emotions are all too often just like that.