Fic: The Story of How Mycroft Holmes Got Demoted
Title: The Story of How Mycroft Holmes Got Demoted and Was Actually Quite Pleased About It
Rating: PG
Word count: ~1,800
Pairings: John/Sherlock implied
Warnings: None that I'm aware of
Summary: Dr. Watson is sick, Sherlock is a nuisance, and Mycroft intervenes.
Notes: BBC 'verse. I took some liberties with St Bartholomew’s Hospital and its ICU. Please forgive me for the sake of plot (parts of which have been nicked from The Dying Detective). Also, I'm very tired, so if there are any embarrassing mistakes in here I'd be grateful if you could point them out.
ETA: So the embarrassing mistake I made apparently concerns the British health care system. I appreciate the comments who kindly explained things for me. Thank you, and if you're reading this fic for the first time and I missed something during the edit, please pretend it's an AU. *slinks away, shame-faced*
~~~
Sherlock, Mycroft knows, has a habit of getting attached to the oddest things. His violin. The skull he stole from their father's collection to have someone to talk at. The idea that people are more relevant than the affairs of the state that governs them.
Sherlock's latest obsession is something of a novelty, and the fact that for once his interest is focussed on a single, ordinary man has Mycroft cautiously optimistic with regards to his brother's ability to live a normal life after all. Well, approaching normal, in any case; their family has never been what might be considered the British standard. But Dr. Watson has few remarkable features to distinguish him from the masses, yet Sherlock seems to find him endlessly fascinating.
Which makes Watson's impending demise even more regrettable.
Naturally, the cause is one of Sherlock's many cases. Culverton Smith, a somewhat mentally unstable specialist in tropical diseases has taken to murdering apparently random victims by infecting them with an exotic virus. The quick progress of the resulting sickness and the fact that Mr. Smith seems to be the only one in possession of the appropriate antiviral drug have led to the death of four victims by now, with Dr. Watson a likely fifth unless Sherlock can find Smith in time.
Mycroft could help him, of course. He has the technical expertise and the manpower, but the last time he tried to use his influence to assist his younger brother, the resulting fight had been spectacular enough to cause their mother's second heart attack. If Sherlock wants his help, he will have to ask for it.
"The police just arrested Culverton Smith," Mycroft's assistant says, and he nods in acknowledgement. He doubts that the press have even heard of the arrest yet, but she has a way of knowing things that make her one of the few people he can rely on. Of course, she does have her little oddities, like the way she picks another name for herself each Monday, going by alphabetical order. This week, her name is Kalliope. Mycroft anticipates the day she runs out of Xs with great curiosity.
"Very good. Dr. Watson is about to receive treatment, I presume?"
Kalliope pokes at her BlackBerry. "Yes, sir."
"And the chances of recovery?"
"Eighty percent, sir."
"Excellent." The case is solved, Dr. Watson is likely to recover, and Mycroft hasn't made a single appearance. All should be well in Sherlock's world.
Except it isn't.
"Sir?" Kalliope hovers in the doorway, looking concerned. "Your brother refuses to leave Barts before he's seen Dr. Watson."
Mycroft frowns at her. "And?"
"The hospital staff refuses to allow him into the ICU."
Ah. Mycroft purses his lips and wonders if there's a way to take care of the situation without his personal interference. He can think of several, but all of them take time. He sighs.
"Call the car, please."
He has some phone calls to make.
By the time the car pulls up at Barts, the NHS Trust has acquired half a million pounds of additional government funding - which is about the limit of what Mycroft can justify on such short notice - and the Medical Director will be delighted to take the Holmes brothers for a brief tour of the intensive care unit. Mycroft doesn't have the heart to separate Kalliope from her BlackBerry and leaves her in the backseat to wait for his return.
He finds Sherlock easily enough; while the occasional scream might be expected in a hospital, shouting is generally frowned upon. Not that Sherlock has ever cared much for propriety, much to their mother's despair, but he usually vents his frustration and resentment by cutting into his opponent with a few sharp observations rather than raising his voice. That he is yelling at the nurse who is presumably keeping him from Dr. Watson increases Mycroft's worry, although he knows better than to show it. He merely taps the floor with his umbrella - unneeded for its support now that his own health has improved, but some habits are hard to break - and it's enough to make Sherlock break off mid-word and turn around.
Mycroft keeps his expression carefully blank. Sherlock looks like a manic ghost, white-faced and hollow-eyed and twitching with desperate energy. He looks like a man who hasn't slept in far too long and is planning to push the envelope even further until he either gets what he wants or falls over dead from exhaustion. He looks terrible.
"Mycroft," he says, and even that one word sounds wrong. Sherlock's voice holds no trace of the familiar antagonism, only a tired, anxious expectation. It's startling to realise that for all the things that went wrong between them, Sherlock still has some modicum of faith in Mycroft's willingness and ability to help him.
Mycroft purses his lips. "Come with me," he says, walking away from the red-faced nurse without attempting to apologise on his brother's behalf. He wouldn't be doing anyone any favours. "I know you won't give it any rest before you get your bedside visit."
Dr. Ryan, the Medical Director, is a grey-haired man brimming with enthusiasm. He shakes Mycroft's hand, takes one look at Sherlock, and quickly ushers them toward the ICU.
"We have recently restructured this wing," he says, leading them to a wall made entirely of glass, "in a way that allows us to visually monitor our patients while minimising their exposure to pathogens. Our survival rates are excellent."
Mycroft nods and compliments the Trust Board's foresight after a brief glance at the small number of unconscious people on the other side of the glass. One of them is Dr. Watson, grey-skinned and with a tube down his throat, and Mycroft spends the next four minutes chatting with Ryan about Watson's improving condition, and how the attending physician is confident that Watson should regain control over his respiratory functions over the course of the following day. All the while, Sherlock stays silent, his hands jammed into the pockets of his coat as he stares at Watson with a focus that is more than a little disconcerting. There's a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead, causing Mycroft to wonder if he'll be forced to have his brother put into a bed next to Watson's to make sure he survives the night.
Finally, Ryan runs out of medical details and clears his throat. "Well," he says, turning to Sherlock, "shall we get you suited up then?"
For the first time since they stepped up to the observation wall, Sherlock tears his gaze away from Dr. Watson. "Pardon?" he asks with a frown.
"It would hardly be a bedside visit," Mycroft says with some exasperation "if all you did was look in through the glass." All those infamous observational skills, and somehow his brother still managed to miss the obvious. Dr. Watson's bed is the only one with a chair beside it, for goodness' sake.
Even so, it takes Sherlock a moment to get it, his mind slowed down for once by sheer exhaustion. But then his eyes widen, just a fraction, and he stares at Mycroft with an expression that is also something of a novelty.
Gratitude.
Mycroft finds himself strangely unable to keep eye contact, and so he lowers his gaze to the floor as if he might find something of interest there. Unsurprisingly, he doesn't, but Sherlock knows a refusal to engage when he sees it and brushes past him, following Ryan into the next room to 'get suited up'.
Five minutes and thirty-seven seconds later, Mycroft watches as Sherlock steps into the ICU. He looks ridiculous, wrapped in plastic as he is with a full-body suit, mask, gloves; even his shoes are covered up. He walks up to Watson's bed and stands beside it for a moment, looking down at his flatmate before he sits on the simple plastic chair. Mycroft watches him, sitting there with his hands in his lap and his eyes closed, head tilted slightly as if listening to the sounds of Watson's continued survival. On the other side of the glass wall, Mycroft can only imagine the beep of the heart monitor, the rhythmic hiss of the ventilator, but he can see that although his brother has yet to reach out for Dr. Watson, he has found some comfort in there.
Then Dr. Ryan comes back and launches into an elaborate spiel about independent research and funding, and Mycroft gratefully returns his attention to Ryan's advertising. For all that he used to wish that Sherlock were less unorthodox, it's disquieting to see his brother act so human. If it's this or the relentless antagonism, Mycroft will have to look for a way to infuse their ongoing feud with more venom.
He excuses himself as fast as he can while still remaining polite, trying not to think about the way that Sherlock, the self-proclaimed sociopath, seems to rely on Watson's well-being for the sake of his own. Mycroft thought that the good doctor would be either Sherlock's making or encourage him to even more outrageous antics, but now he wonders if they're going in another direction entirely. Interesting, yes, but not something he anticipated. He isn't used to not anticipating something, especially where his brother is concerned.
Kalliope is waiting for him, offering a welcome distraction in the form of budget plans and troop movements in Afghanistan. Mycroft shoves all thoughts of Sherlock and that soldier of his aside in favour of focussing on more important things. If somewhere in the back of his mind his mother's voice insists that family is more important than anything, he just has to remind himself that she was talking to Sherlock, not to him.
A week passes. Kalliope - Loreley - informs him that Dr. Watson's recovery is progressing quite nicely, but Mycroft doesn't ask for details. He doesn't hear anything from Sherlock, either, but that is no surprise. It's not as if he expected a thank-you.
Except that eight days after buying Sherlock entrance into the Barts ICU, Mycroft gets a text message.
Am sorry to say you're no longer archenemy. Dinner Sunday? Watson's sister coming.
SH
Mycroft blinks at the phone. Then he sighs and shakes his head, trying to stop his lips from twitching into a smile. Demoted and invited to what appears to be the first joint Holmes-Watson family gathering in a note that makes Twitter look talkative. How typical.
The potential for disaster is immense, of course. However, Mycroft finds that he's looking forward to meeting his younger brother, especially now that they might actually attempt a conversation that won't end in mutual disappointment.
It would be something of a novelty. But Mycroft is cautiously optimistic.
Rating: PG
Word count: ~1,800
Pairings: John/Sherlock implied
Warnings: None that I'm aware of
Summary: Dr. Watson is sick, Sherlock is a nuisance, and Mycroft intervenes.
Notes: BBC 'verse. I took some liberties with St Bartholomew’s Hospital and its ICU. Please forgive me for the sake of plot (parts of which have been nicked from The Dying Detective). Also, I'm very tired, so if there are any embarrassing mistakes in here I'd be grateful if you could point them out.
ETA: So the embarrassing mistake I made apparently concerns the British health care system. I appreciate the comments who kindly explained things for me. Thank you, and if you're reading this fic for the first time and I missed something during the edit, please pretend it's an AU. *slinks away, shame-faced*
~~~
Sherlock, Mycroft knows, has a habit of getting attached to the oddest things. His violin. The skull he stole from their father's collection to have someone to talk at. The idea that people are more relevant than the affairs of the state that governs them.
Sherlock's latest obsession is something of a novelty, and the fact that for once his interest is focussed on a single, ordinary man has Mycroft cautiously optimistic with regards to his brother's ability to live a normal life after all. Well, approaching normal, in any case; their family has never been what might be considered the British standard. But Dr. Watson has few remarkable features to distinguish him from the masses, yet Sherlock seems to find him endlessly fascinating.
Which makes Watson's impending demise even more regrettable.
Naturally, the cause is one of Sherlock's many cases. Culverton Smith, a somewhat mentally unstable specialist in tropical diseases has taken to murdering apparently random victims by infecting them with an exotic virus. The quick progress of the resulting sickness and the fact that Mr. Smith seems to be the only one in possession of the appropriate antiviral drug have led to the death of four victims by now, with Dr. Watson a likely fifth unless Sherlock can find Smith in time.
Mycroft could help him, of course. He has the technical expertise and the manpower, but the last time he tried to use his influence to assist his younger brother, the resulting fight had been spectacular enough to cause their mother's second heart attack. If Sherlock wants his help, he will have to ask for it.
"The police just arrested Culverton Smith," Mycroft's assistant says, and he nods in acknowledgement. He doubts that the press have even heard of the arrest yet, but she has a way of knowing things that make her one of the few people he can rely on. Of course, she does have her little oddities, like the way she picks another name for herself each Monday, going by alphabetical order. This week, her name is Kalliope. Mycroft anticipates the day she runs out of Xs with great curiosity.
"Very good. Dr. Watson is about to receive treatment, I presume?"
Kalliope pokes at her BlackBerry. "Yes, sir."
"And the chances of recovery?"
"Eighty percent, sir."
"Excellent." The case is solved, Dr. Watson is likely to recover, and Mycroft hasn't made a single appearance. All should be well in Sherlock's world.
Except it isn't.
"Sir?" Kalliope hovers in the doorway, looking concerned. "Your brother refuses to leave Barts before he's seen Dr. Watson."
Mycroft frowns at her. "And?"
"The hospital staff refuses to allow him into the ICU."
Ah. Mycroft purses his lips and wonders if there's a way to take care of the situation without his personal interference. He can think of several, but all of them take time. He sighs.
"Call the car, please."
He has some phone calls to make.
By the time the car pulls up at Barts, the NHS Trust has acquired half a million pounds of additional government funding - which is about the limit of what Mycroft can justify on such short notice - and the Medical Director will be delighted to take the Holmes brothers for a brief tour of the intensive care unit. Mycroft doesn't have the heart to separate Kalliope from her BlackBerry and leaves her in the backseat to wait for his return.
He finds Sherlock easily enough; while the occasional scream might be expected in a hospital, shouting is generally frowned upon. Not that Sherlock has ever cared much for propriety, much to their mother's despair, but he usually vents his frustration and resentment by cutting into his opponent with a few sharp observations rather than raising his voice. That he is yelling at the nurse who is presumably keeping him from Dr. Watson increases Mycroft's worry, although he knows better than to show it. He merely taps the floor with his umbrella - unneeded for its support now that his own health has improved, but some habits are hard to break - and it's enough to make Sherlock break off mid-word and turn around.
Mycroft keeps his expression carefully blank. Sherlock looks like a manic ghost, white-faced and hollow-eyed and twitching with desperate energy. He looks like a man who hasn't slept in far too long and is planning to push the envelope even further until he either gets what he wants or falls over dead from exhaustion. He looks terrible.
"Mycroft," he says, and even that one word sounds wrong. Sherlock's voice holds no trace of the familiar antagonism, only a tired, anxious expectation. It's startling to realise that for all the things that went wrong between them, Sherlock still has some modicum of faith in Mycroft's willingness and ability to help him.
Mycroft purses his lips. "Come with me," he says, walking away from the red-faced nurse without attempting to apologise on his brother's behalf. He wouldn't be doing anyone any favours. "I know you won't give it any rest before you get your bedside visit."
Dr. Ryan, the Medical Director, is a grey-haired man brimming with enthusiasm. He shakes Mycroft's hand, takes one look at Sherlock, and quickly ushers them toward the ICU.
"We have recently restructured this wing," he says, leading them to a wall made entirely of glass, "in a way that allows us to visually monitor our patients while minimising their exposure to pathogens. Our survival rates are excellent."
Mycroft nods and compliments the Trust Board's foresight after a brief glance at the small number of unconscious people on the other side of the glass. One of them is Dr. Watson, grey-skinned and with a tube down his throat, and Mycroft spends the next four minutes chatting with Ryan about Watson's improving condition, and how the attending physician is confident that Watson should regain control over his respiratory functions over the course of the following day. All the while, Sherlock stays silent, his hands jammed into the pockets of his coat as he stares at Watson with a focus that is more than a little disconcerting. There's a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead, causing Mycroft to wonder if he'll be forced to have his brother put into a bed next to Watson's to make sure he survives the night.
Finally, Ryan runs out of medical details and clears his throat. "Well," he says, turning to Sherlock, "shall we get you suited up then?"
For the first time since they stepped up to the observation wall, Sherlock tears his gaze away from Dr. Watson. "Pardon?" he asks with a frown.
"It would hardly be a bedside visit," Mycroft says with some exasperation "if all you did was look in through the glass." All those infamous observational skills, and somehow his brother still managed to miss the obvious. Dr. Watson's bed is the only one with a chair beside it, for goodness' sake.
Even so, it takes Sherlock a moment to get it, his mind slowed down for once by sheer exhaustion. But then his eyes widen, just a fraction, and he stares at Mycroft with an expression that is also something of a novelty.
Gratitude.
Mycroft finds himself strangely unable to keep eye contact, and so he lowers his gaze to the floor as if he might find something of interest there. Unsurprisingly, he doesn't, but Sherlock knows a refusal to engage when he sees it and brushes past him, following Ryan into the next room to 'get suited up'.
Five minutes and thirty-seven seconds later, Mycroft watches as Sherlock steps into the ICU. He looks ridiculous, wrapped in plastic as he is with a full-body suit, mask, gloves; even his shoes are covered up. He walks up to Watson's bed and stands beside it for a moment, looking down at his flatmate before he sits on the simple plastic chair. Mycroft watches him, sitting there with his hands in his lap and his eyes closed, head tilted slightly as if listening to the sounds of Watson's continued survival. On the other side of the glass wall, Mycroft can only imagine the beep of the heart monitor, the rhythmic hiss of the ventilator, but he can see that although his brother has yet to reach out for Dr. Watson, he has found some comfort in there.
Then Dr. Ryan comes back and launches into an elaborate spiel about independent research and funding, and Mycroft gratefully returns his attention to Ryan's advertising. For all that he used to wish that Sherlock were less unorthodox, it's disquieting to see his brother act so human. If it's this or the relentless antagonism, Mycroft will have to look for a way to infuse their ongoing feud with more venom.
He excuses himself as fast as he can while still remaining polite, trying not to think about the way that Sherlock, the self-proclaimed sociopath, seems to rely on Watson's well-being for the sake of his own. Mycroft thought that the good doctor would be either Sherlock's making or encourage him to even more outrageous antics, but now he wonders if they're going in another direction entirely. Interesting, yes, but not something he anticipated. He isn't used to not anticipating something, especially where his brother is concerned.
Kalliope is waiting for him, offering a welcome distraction in the form of budget plans and troop movements in Afghanistan. Mycroft shoves all thoughts of Sherlock and that soldier of his aside in favour of focussing on more important things. If somewhere in the back of his mind his mother's voice insists that family is more important than anything, he just has to remind himself that she was talking to Sherlock, not to him.
A week passes. Kalliope - Loreley - informs him that Dr. Watson's recovery is progressing quite nicely, but Mycroft doesn't ask for details. He doesn't hear anything from Sherlock, either, but that is no surprise. It's not as if he expected a thank-you.
Except that eight days after buying Sherlock entrance into the Barts ICU, Mycroft gets a text message.
Am sorry to say you're no longer archenemy. Dinner Sunday? Watson's sister coming.
SH
Mycroft blinks at the phone. Then he sighs and shakes his head, trying to stop his lips from twitching into a smile. Demoted and invited to what appears to be the first joint Holmes-Watson family gathering in a note that makes Twitter look talkative. How typical.
The potential for disaster is immense, of course. However, Mycroft finds that he's looking forward to meeting his younger brother, especially now that they might actually attempt a conversation that won't end in mutual disappointment.
It would be something of a novelty. But Mycroft is cautiously optimistic.