A/N: For something I'm not entirely sure how it's going to end (or fully develop), it keeps going. -csf
2.
Chandler is a thin, wiry man, his age further along than his greying hair. Mycroft found him through an old bank transaction John did when he first returned to London, long before he crossed paths with the Holmes family. Sherlock got this enigmatic man to make a home visit to Baker Street, it wasn't nearly as difficult as he would have thought, once John's name was mentioned over a phone call. The mystery remains, however. This man is a retired general practitioner, just a family doctor, and John is possibly wasting away with some recurring bout of illness in their living room sofa right now. Why would John think this old physician could help him? Had the fever been high enough to impair mental cognition?
'Sherlock Holmes? John has spoken a lot about you.'
'John enjoys worshipping me as a hero.'
John, the gregarious fool. He'll praise Sherlock to the aliens if he ever goes on a space ship to Mars.
Immediately the detective smothers the jealousy rising within him. That this man knows John, knows them, and Sherlock couldn't know less about him.
No, not true. Sherlock always knows, he deduces. Widowed, two cats, sits every morning reading the newspaper by a easterly facing window, mild laundry detergent rash around the collar line.
'From the picture he painted I pegged you as an overbearing, egotistical man-child.'
'We all have our days. John included.'
Insulting, assuming; this is familiar territory for the detective. His mind still whirls fast deductions in the background, while he feels the need to protect John from this circumspect imbecile in a corduroy suit.
Slight American accent undertones, possibly spent some time abroad, but not recently. Familial accent tones from Canterbury.
'Mr Holmes, I will be quite frank. John has asked me not to disclose any medically relevant information with you. On several occasions he has asked me to keep secrecy about his medical records. And I will honour that, Mr Holmes.'
'Then why are you here?'
The detective regrets this now. Oh why would he listen to John's febrile speech? Why would John think he'd never want to trust anyone with his medical records, that he could never befriend someone like Sherlock and share his life with them? Why, oh why, won't Mycroft just get them for Sherlock?
Straight black coffee three hours ago, left the house straight for the train to Charing Cross. Economy class ticket, facing forward.
'I'm here to treat John. Any conversations remaining must be done between the two of you, and make sure you do that with John. This farce has been going on long enough as it is.'
Travelled light, not expecting to stay over—
'Farce?' Sherlock interrupts himself. The old doctor snaps closed the clip on his leather bag.
'John is a healthy man now, Mr Holmes. But when I first met him, he was much the opposite of that. He went through a very rough time. Never complained. Never a sign of weakness. Never even a mutter. I would have much preferred that. I would have expected some turbulence. You don't lose function in your dominant arm without it causing a spot of mental anguish. And yet, John was exemplary as a patient. He showed up for every therapy session, he worked harder than prescribed, he had the tenacity of a single-minded fighter. He rebuilt himself, not for the first time.'
'John is a fighter, Mr Chandler.'
The man ignores the missed title in the address.
'John has gone through a very difficult traumatic experience, recovering from his wound and the war. And yet he has internalised the trauma and moved on, refusing to fully acknowledge it. If you are indeed his friend, Mr Holmes, it would be wise for you to help. John is on the run. Whenever dark times befall on him, John shuts down, he runs away from his traumas. He calls them the monsters he left behind. Unattended they will fester in the darkness, you know. Monsters do that. They lurk in the shadows and come back when you least expect.'
'How melodramatic! Have you ever considered a career in theatre?'
'Mr. Holmes—'
'You mustn't think you need to tell me about John. I know John Watson better than you'll ever know', the detective snarls.
'That sounds like a threat.'
'Take it as you wish.'
Chandler snaps his bag shut. Sherlock briefly wonders how come this man is still there.
'Make sure John takes his medication, Mr Holmes. Make sure he rests. John will let you know when he's ready to talk. Just listen. Listening can make a very big difference for someone like John. He isn't used to it.'
The doctor's hands reach for his coat. He offers to leave 221B unescorted. It's only a turn of the stairs. Mrs Hudson soon will make sure he leaves the building. So Sherlock leaves him to it. His heavy eyes searching John's face. He looks so peaceful, sleeping soundly right now.
Sherlock promises himself a prime spot fighting John's imaginary monsters. The ones that should never trap a man like John.
.
John shrugs casually and refuses to identity the particular infection that nearly had him gone once before. All he admits is sometimes having lingering echoes of it – side effects? recurrences? – and that they come in the form of overall weakness rather than the performance in his left shoulder. Which, going by the number of times John shrugs without showing signs of frailty, should be fairing well nowadays.
Sherlock fumes when confronted with the lack of information, and it only gets worse as he notices John's effort to consume his breakfast – dutifully, but without signs of enjoyment.
A part of John is still lost in the labyrinths of his mind, where those so-called monsters lurk. If John won't open the door, won't let Sherlock in, how can the detective help him? Even a renowned investigator needs clues, evidence, data to work on. John's blank expression is carefully crafted to appease Sherlock and lull him into ignoring John's needs. Sherlock refuses to be deceived by John like this. John's selflessness a weapon turned upon himself.
Sherlock is John's friend, and that should mean something to John.
It means a lot to Sherlock.
.
'Got any new cases going on, mate?'
'None whatsoever.'
'Really?' John is clearly taken back.
Sherlock is looking focused, intent, serene. He never looks that way unless all his mental cogs are aligned to solve a case.
'Tea, John?'
It's not beneath the investigator to distract his flatmate, the focus of his current deductions over his new case – John. He feels bad about scrutinising John when he so clearly dislikes being under the microscope lens, but, again, it's not like John shouldn't know better.
The blonde man swallows dry by automatic response. Sherlock takes that as a victory. There was once a time when his tea making skills were so bad that John could pass the offer without the slightest anguish. Usually followed by volunteering to do it himself.
'I'm alright, you know? I don't need you to take care of me.'
There's a steel edge to John's tired voice, that causes Sherlock to want to retract inside self-righteousness. But this is John and he counts to five, before turning around and piercing the man with a hard glare.
Again John swallows dry.
'It was just some nightmares, Sherlock. I'm sorry you had to witness that because you were working through the night. I should at least have gone to my room.'
'Those were more than nightmares, John. Those were past memories resurfacing.'
'Thank you for that, Herr Freud!' Sarcasm drips from John's cold words and he crosses his arms for good measure. This time, though, Sherlock can see the tiny flinch the movement causes in the unprepared doctor.
'John, do stop doing that before you inflict more harm upon your shoulder.'
The doctor blushes violently and looks away.
'It's just my shoulder, it's nothing, mate. I could do with some spare parts', he laughs drily, forcibly. Sherlock is still intensely scrutinising him.
It's a stalemate and they both know it. One side advocates for his privacy, and the other for his right to know. Both right, both wrong.
Sherlock slowly sits down at the kitchen table, where John still stubbornly looks away, counting all the sea form green tiles on the opposite wall.
'You don't know what those memories mean', Sherlock deduces. 'You've cast them away from your mind for so long, you don't remember what they meant. If you ever found out.'
John's hands fall to his lap. He looks a bit small, a bit haunted. Sherlock fights an instinctive urge to reach out to his friend, balling his fists to keep them from travelling.
'I loved my grandfather very much. I know he was a good man.' Cobalt blue eyes look up full of pain and confusion. 'I don't even know if those are real memories or if I just made them up, I was a kid. He was very private about his work and I may have made it all up in my head, I probably did. I mean, if he had been a serial killer or something like that my parents wouldn't have protected him, would they?'
The investigator takes up the other chair, just next to his friend.
'You told me he was a doctor, a healer, John.'
'Yeah, so what? So was I, and we both know I've been to war.'
'John', the younger man admonishes.
'It's alright, Sherlock. It's alright.'
'But is it, though.'
'No, I guess it isn't.' John sits up straighter, purses his lips into a grim line of determination, and he finally, finally, looks Sherlock straight in the eye.
'Will you take my case? I think I need to know, Sherlock. I need to know if the man who shaped me as I am today was a good man or a monster.'
Sherlock heart cracks the slightest bit at the bravery of a man who holds himself to the highest accounts, and who can believe genetics may yet prove him a monster too. Sherlock absolutely refuses to accept that.
He'd go through John's grandfather's grave to make the old man pay if it turns out he wasn't good enough to be John's idol.
.
'Poor Sherlock, is all I can say.'
Mycroft Holmes has been listening to Mrs Hudson's speech with the disdainful impatience of a man who can anticipate any conversation path in any conceivable scenario, up to this point. He manages to both frown and raise his eyebrows in a contortion that challenges his physiognomy to something close to aghast.
'I'm afraid you lost me, Mrs Hudson', he says politely but firmly. 'John is the one with the nightmares and the old war wound. My brother is just fine.'
She tuts away, while grabbing the tea tray. Mycroft has appropriated the Holmes armchair and has lorded over tea and biscuits while waiting on her boys to return home. Mrs Hudson is not shy to remove the biscuits saucer before Mycroft can snatch a last coveted one.
'John is hurting, and he's a fool, pushing away Sherlock like that. We both know Sherlock, he's always a bit unsure about himself when he's around John.'
'I assure you, my brother has hunted and stared down the most vicious of Moriarty's men without flinching.'
'Oh, please! That makes Sherlock tough? It's John that Sherlock fears hurting or losing. Your brother wouldn't waste time thinking about the dangerous criminals he left somewhere in Europe. They don't matter. John does.'
Mycroft chews the inside of his cheek for a second. 'Mrs Hudson, if you believe for a second that my brother's emotional needs are subject to his flatmate's—'
He doesn't quite finish what he was about to say. The front door downstairs creaks in its hinges just as Sherlock and John's voices are heard in what could correctly be interpreted as a shouting match. 'Good grief!' he shakes his head at the distasteful argument.
'Oh, my boys are back!' Mrs Hudson smiles. 'Good, I was feeling a bit tired of being the only clever one in the room', she confides, sauntering away.
'Mrs—!'
Mycroft never finishes his protest. Sherlock is bounding up the stairs two at a time and John follows, albeit slower.
'No, you cannot – absolutely not! – call my sister to ask her questions about our grandfather.'
'Would that be generally speaking, or only while she's back in rehab?'
'What do you mean, she's not touched a drop of alcohol in the last year!'
'Thirteen hours sober and counting. She's not bound to last long either.'
They barge through the kitchen in stomping, aggressive footsteps. John drops a bag of groceries on the kitchen table, Sherlock another.
'Sherlock, don't say that. She's my sister!'
'Is the fact that Harry's your sister allowed to change the evidence of the facts?'
'You've got no evidence!'
John marches down the hall towards the bathroom, Sherlock follows closely.
'She stammered and drawled, like she always does when she hits the gin.'
'Sherlock, you better not have called my sister!'
'Of course not. It'd be impolite. She would be drunk and loud phones ringing wouldn't appeal to her. I went to her flat and knocked.'
'You didn't!'
The bathroom door bangs shut harshly. On the corridor, Sherlock leans in towards the door and takes his forehead towards the cool wood.
'Did you know she's going out with a blonde bombshell?'
'That's her PA, Sherlock!'
'Not a regular PA she's not, going by the ligature marks on her wrists.'
The bathroom door violently opens and John stomps past Sherlock, back up the corridor.
'You know what? Stop it! Just stop it. Stop speaking to my sister, stop speaking to her PA, if you have questions, from now on you need to speak to me!'
'Would you really answer my questions, John?' Sherlock derides, loudly, just as they both reach the living room and recognise Mycroft and Mrs Hudson.
They both stop dead on their tracks.
John mutters some mumbled profanity and Sherlock immediately assumes a cold, distanced posturing to greet his sibling.
'What do you want, Mycroft?' he says despite his arrogance.
Mrs Hudson gives the older Holmes a meaningful glance and offers: 'The kettle's just boiled. I'll be downstairs if you need me. John, will you help me put out the rubbish? The bag is a bit heavy for me and my hip's been playing up. '
John knows he's being lured away and finds he can't refuse Mrs H's request regardless. With one last dirty look towards Sherlock, he accepts to meekly go down to 221A with their landlady, leaving the two brothers free to conspire.
The doctor's steps die down on the stairs before Mycroft opens the conversation.
'I can't possibly betray John's privacy and give you his medical files. You know the important things, Sherlock. It will have to suffice.'
'Why would you hide it from me?'
'John wouldn't like it if I did what you ask.'
'You don't really care.'
'Indeed I don't. But I enjoy seeing you squirm, brother dear.' Mycroft gets up from the chair and for a moment the two brothers face each other like opponents. It's not until Mycroft steps forward that they stand side by side, facing the living room mirror, situated above the fireplace. The lint on Mycroft's three piece suit is completely imaginary as it's brushed away.
'John has had a remarkable recovery by all standards. You watch him move and can hardly notice he's once had a bullet through his shoulder.'
'Damp and cold can surface some discomfort, at times.'
'Perhaps sunny Kent would be the place to visit at this time of the year, then. I hear it's very popular among seven year olds. Perhaps you should check that rumour with John, I trust he might give an informed opinion on the matter.'
'John has an opinion about anything. The only thing he seems to be in permanent disagreement is with the weather.'
'Indeed. It's been ghastly. You should go very soon.'
'Have you got me the address?'
'Oh no, I wouldn't do that. You'll have to coax that out of John, I'm afraid. I wouldn't breach he confidentiality of John's records like that.'
'Are you a little bit scared of John finding out?'
'Naturally not! Although the man's got a ghastly temper. I don't know how you manage to live with him, Sherlock, I really don't.'
'John is a better distraction than I ever had before', Sherlock comments, off-handedly.
Somehow the mirror over the fireplace picks up on a hint of a smile in Mycroft's face.
.
TBC
