No triggers.

Chapter Forty Six

Leaving the doctor's surgery, having barely slept, and not eaten at all, for three full days – ever since Arthur went missing – Sherlock was feeling the effects, aided and abetted by the two large whiskeys he had consumed. Getting into the car, he caught the toe of his clumpy combat boot on the door sill and stumbled, lurching forward and landing heavily on the back seat.

'Shit!' he hissed, as the pain from his ribs overpowered even the effects of the liquid pain killer.

'You alright, mate?' asked John Watson, from his seat next to the driver. He had opted to wait in the car, rather than be a third wheel in the doctor's office. Mycroft, climbing into the car behind his brother, gave him a suspicious look. Sherlock ignored the look and John's enquiry and pulled the seatbelt across in front of him, making several attempts to push the fastener into the lock, before Mycroft took it from his hand and locked it into place.

'Are you sure you're alright?' the elder Holmes enquired.

Sherlock dismissed him with an imperious wave of his hand and turned to peer out of the side window at the passing streets, as the staff car moved off, making its way from Harley Street onto the main arterial route heading towards Hertfordshire. Lulled by the movement of the car, his eyelids drooped and he succumbed to sleep. His head nodded forward but then suddenly jerked upwards, causing him to stiffen and give a sharp gasp of pain.

This entire sequence was repeated several times before Mycroft finally gave in to the impulse to ask the obvious.

'Sherlock, are you hurt somewhere else, as well as your throat?'

'I'm absolutely fine!' Sherlock snapped, and immediately regretted the vocalisation, wincing and closing his eyes, to ride out the pain.

'You are clearly not alright,' Mycroft insisted. 'Where else does it hurt? And don't tell me, show me!'

Sherlock sighed with exasperation and tried to think up some clever flannel but his befuddled brain was incapable of coming up with anything remotely convincing so, reluctantly, he placed his hand on the right side of his rib cage.

'Oh, good god, Sherlock, why didn't you say something before?'

Holmes Minor gave a disdainful huff and pointed to his damaged larynx, in an exaggerated fashion.

'You could have written a note!' Mycroft retorted.

At that loud exclamation, John Watson, who was snoozing in the front of the vehicle, startled awake and looked around, disorientated.

'What? What? What's happening?' he gabbled.

'Nothing important, doctor,' Mycroft declared, 'just another example of my brother's utter disregard for his own well-being. You could have broken ribs, you know. Even a punctured lung! Have you considered that possibility?'

Sherlock, once again, waved a dismissive hand in his brother's direction and turned back to the window but, as the car went over a minor bump in the road, he tensed and gasped once more.

'Oh, here,' Mycroft insisted, unfastening his seat belt and moving across to the pull-down jump seat, with his back to the driver. 'Lie down, Sherlock! At least then you won't be thrown around so much. You really are the limit! You know that, don't you?'

Sherlock gave a disgruntled eye roll but accepted his brother's invitation to lie down. He went to slide along to the other end of the bench seat so he could lie on his left side but Mycroft put out an arresting hand.

'No, don't lie on your good side, lie on the injured side!'

Sherlock pulled a face at the utter illogicality of that suggestion. Why lie on the painful side, he thought, won't that be more painful?

'If you have a broken rib and if that rib has punctured your lung, and if that lung is bleeding and you lie with that lung uppermost, the blood will drain down into your good lung and you will have two dysfunctional lungs instead of just one!' Mycroft hissed, emphasising the key words of his monologue with a reflex clenching of his fists.

Sherlock was frankly too tipsy to argue. He just wanted to lie down and go to sleep, so he did – on his right side. John Watson, having observed this inter-sibling altercation with a smile of wry amusement, turned back to face the front, leant his head against the car door and went back to sleep, himself, leaving Mycroft to fume quietly at his brother's chronic inability to take proper care of himself.

ooOoo

An hour later, the car turned into the driveway at Colbert House, in Hertfordshire, and followed the gentle curve towards the stately building. The hour was late – after midnight – and all the lights in the upper story rooms were out except for the soft glow of a night light emanating from the Nursery windows, at the very top of the house. On the ground floor, the hall light was a warm, welcoming sight.

Mycroft reached out to shake Sherlock's shoulder. The recumbent man groaned and opened his eyes.

'We're home,' Mycroft explained.

As the car reached the top of the drive and circled on the forecourt to pull up opposite the front door, the noise of tyres on gravel roused the other sleeping passenger, John Watson, who sat upright, blinking.

The driver jumped out to open the near side rear passenger door and Mycroft stepped out, striding towards the front door which was now also open, courtesy of Andrew Lewis, Mycroft's butler cum valet.

'Good evening, sir. The staff are all so relieved that Mr Arthur is safe, now,' said Andrew, taking Mycroft's proffered umbrella from his hand and placing it in the hall stand before turning to take the party's bags from the driver.

John Watson climbed out of the car and opened the rear passenger door. Sherlock was still lying across the seat.

'Do you need a hand?' he asked.

Sherlock waved him away. He was working up the courage to sit up and didn't particularly relish doing it in front of an audience.

'Alright, I'll leave you to it but don't say I didn't offer.'

He went into the house and greeted the butler.

'Good evening, Dr Watson. You and Mrs Watson are in Byron and Miss Lily Rose is in Lamb. I will show you to your rooms in a moment…'

'Not necessary, Andrew, thank you. I know the way,' John replied, picking up his own bag from the hall floor. Turning to his host, he said,

'Do you want me to take a look as His Nibbs' ribs?'

Mycroft glanced through the doorway to see Sherlock extricating himself from the staff car by rolling sideways off the seat onto his knees then climbing gingerly to his feet.

'No thank you, John. Perhaps in the morning,' he replied.

'Good night, Mycroft,' the doctor said and set off up the main staircase. He had called Mary while Sherlock was being examined by Levite, to let her know he was on his way, and they had made certain promises to one another that he was rather keen to fulfil.

Sherlock passed his brother in the hall and followed John upstairs. Mycroft watched his careful progress, lips pursed disapprovingly, before turning and heading for his study. He had no immediate plans to go to bed. The courier was due to arrive in a couple of hours with the infamous 'sex tapes'. They would comprise his late night viewing.

ooOoo

At the top of the stairs, Sherlock walked along the landing, past Nelson, to Hamilton and slipped quietly into the room. As soon as he opened the door, he caught the aroma that made his heart swell and brought a lump to his throat. It was subtle mixture of laundry detergent, baby shampoo and that indescribable something that was the scent of his sons.

Closing the door softly, behind him, he stepped across the floor to William's side of the antique double bed, where he could see the tumble of dark curls against the pale backdrop of the pillow slip. On reaching the bedside, he went down on one knee and leaned in to drop a gentle kiss on the child's sleeping head but, as he did so, William's eyes popped open and he blinked a few times, registering the presence that had broken his dream.

As recognition dawned, William launched himself from the bed and threw his arms around Sherlock's neck, burst into tears and sobbed,

'Daddy! Daddy!'

Sherlock wrapped his arms around the crying child, rocking him back and forth, whispering,

'Shush, shush, little man, please don't cry.'

It took several minutes for William to vent all the stress and tension of the past three days but at last, with a few final shuddering sighs, he sat upright in his father's arms and whispered,

'Are you alright now, Daddy? Mummy said you hurt your throat.'

Sherlock nodded and pointed to his Adam's Apple then did the universal 'thumbs down' sign.

'Can you talk?'

Sherlock whispered his reply,

'I can but I'm not supposed to. It hurts when I do.'

William placed his finger tips against his father's lips.

'Don't talk, then. I don't want you to hurt yourself.'

Sherlock smiled and held up a finger then reached into his pocket and took out the pad and pen. He sat William on the side of the bed, to give himself two free hands, then turned to a clean page and scribbled a note. He showed William what he had written.

I know you've been worried about me and I'm very sorry about that but I'm back now so there's no need for you to worry any more.

William read the note and pursed his lips, thoughtfully, then took the pen and pad and wrote back.

I forgive you, Daddy, and smiled.

Sherlock gave his eldest son a hug and tucked him back into bed, pressing a kiss to his forehead. He walked round to the other side of the bed and kissed Freddie, too, who continued to sleep, blissfully unaware of the emotional exchange between William and his dad. Sherlock crossed to the door of the Jack and Jill bathroom that linked Hamilton to Nelson, turned to wink at William and left the room.

In the bathroom, Sherlock looked at his reflection in the mirror over the basin. His eyes were blood shot, with dark shadows underneath, and his neck showed signs of emerging bruising, from its encounter with the heavy's forearm. He peeled off the black t-shirt and raised his right arm, to survey the damage to his ribcage. It was much as he had expected – angry red, deepening to blue and purple, from his underarm to his waist. No wonder it hurt so much! But he didn't think his ribs were broken or even cracked. These were soft tissue injuries, so no risk of a punctured lung.

He stripped off the rest of his paramilitary clothing and pulled on his dressing gown, hung considerately behind the bathroom door by Molly, he presumed. He brushed his teeth, washed his face and ruffled his hair, so that it flopped over his forehead again. Washing out all the hair gel would keep until morning. He turned to the door into Nelson, with a feeling of trepidation. He had to face Molly, now, and somehow he doubted she would be as quick to forgive him as William had been.

ooOoo

Molly had been lying awake when she heard the sound of a car approaching the house, and the room was briefly illuminated by a flash of headlights as the staff car carrying Mycroft, John and Sherlock turned onto the forecourt and stopped by the front door. As she hopped out of bed and ran to the window, she heard the engine cut out and the sound of doors opening and closing. Looking down from the first floor window, she saw Mycroft step briskly from the back of the car, leaving the passenger door open, and disappear in the direction of the front hall. Next, John got out of the Shotgun Seat, opened the other rear door, leaned in then stood upright again, slammed that door shut and walked round the back of the car, following Mycroft into the house.

Molly watched and waited. From her bird's eye perspective, she could not see what was going on inside the car but she saw the driver collect three bags from the boot and carry them towards the house. Finally, at long last, she saw Sherlock climb very stiffly from the back of the car and slowly stand up. He put his hand on the roof of the vehicle then, with great determination, walked towards the house.

Molly crossed to the foot of the bed to check on Violet, sleeping peacefully in her travel cot. The baby girl had been far less fretful since Mary and Lily Rose had arrived. Not teething again, then, just missing her midnight playmate. Well, he was back now, though in what sort of condition remained to be seen. He obviously had more than just an injured throat, if his exit from the car was anything to go by. She climbed back into bed and sat hugging her knees, waiting.

She knew he would go to see the boys first – he always did, when he got home after bedtime. When she had gone in to William earlier, he had been wide awake. Although their eldest son was so like his father, in looks, in intellect and in personality, there were a couple of things that she and William had in common – they were both very light sleepers, even at the best of times, and neither of them slept at all well when Sherlock wasn't there.

No doubt. William would wake up when Sherlock came into the room, and be reassured by seeing his father in the flesh. Molly could picture that reunion in her mind's eye, as clearly as though she were a fly on the wall. There would be tears, of that she was certain. Freddie would sleep right through and be pleasantly surprised, in the morning, when he discovered that his errant father was back, at last. He would make some casual remark, like Daddy! You're back! And then carry on as though nothing had happened.

The mantle clock ticked away the seconds, as Molly waited. She heard the far door to the bathroom open and close, heard the light switch click on and saw the door on the Nelson side illuminated in relief. She heard rustling and a few grunts and groans, as clothing was removed. The light at the base of the door was obscured, momentarily, as Sherlock walked over to collect the dressing gown that she had hung there, three days ago. A tap ran and teeth were brushed, water was splashed and there were a few more grunts and groans. And a sigh. Then the light went out and the door opened.

ooOoo

I want to do their 'little talk' justice so I hope you don't mind waiting just a little longer... :)