This one-shot explores what might have happened during the weeks we didn't explicitly see in His Last Vow - this story, in particular, deals with the Holmes parents (for whom there aren't, sadly, character tags) and naturally their two sons, and is basically an embodyment of my own little headcanon. Said headcanon unfortunately didn't supply me with first names for Mr and Mrs Holmes, and since I did not have the audacity to invent some, their first names are simply never mentioned here. As you might notice, I have developed something of a soft spot for the Holmes father - please forgive me for that.
Then, dutifully: I don't own any of the characters I write about, nor do I have any association with the actual episode.
And finally, on a side note - I am currently more or less looking for a beta reader - so if you happen to be interested, please don't hesitate to send me a PM.
And now, please enjoy! (Oh, and I apologise for any spelling mistakes!)
Late Night Cigarettes
They are just having breakfast in their double room in that nice little hotel Mycroft has booked for them when the phone rings.
She answers the call, she always does, even at home. He smiles silently to himself as he takes another bite of his meal, whatever it is supposed to be.
"Oh, hello!" she begins, mouthing 'it's Mycroft!' towards him. Surprising, though, because their older son has already got over with his weekly duteous phone call. "Mycie, this hotel is just…," she goes on, quite cheerfully, only to fall silent seconds later. Normally, she does most of the talking on the phone. "Tell me what's happened."
Something has to be wrong then, at home, with their boys, if his wife's face changes expression so quickly and loses colour so drastically.
And since it's Mycroft calling, that only leaves Sherlock. He stops chewing.
"Yes," she says, her voice unusually dim. "Yes, alright. Yes," she repeats. "Two hours, yes. Yes, of course I've got the address! Yes. Yes. We'll be there."
He is on his feet before she even ends the call, breakfast forgotten. He may not be the fastest mind on this planet - lest alone in his own family! -, but he knows his wife, and his sons, and he can tell when something is wrong.
"Sherlock's been shot," she says, her face blank, and the phone clutters to the floor.
-O-
They forget half of their things in the hotel, they are rather sure of that, and agree that it doesn't matter. Check-out happens to be a bit of a blur, as is the ride in a taxi to the airfield where a private jet is supposed to take them to London.
She hardly ever cries, and she doesn't in the car, but reaches for his hand and doesn't let go, and that alone is telling enough.
"He'll be alright," he attempts to soothe her, and she nods, her jaw set.
Of course, it doesn't really do anything to calm them down.
By the time they have boarded the jet and are about to take off, she still clings to him, and they are busy trying to extract as much information as possible from the few words Mycroft has uttered.
Sherlock, being in hospital. Having been shot. Something, quite blurred in her memory, about complications, and surgery, and stable, now - which makes both of them wonder how long it has been. How long, and why Mycroft has only been calling them now.
Mycroft hasn't said where, or when, or what has happened afterwards.
She blames herself, now, of course, that she hasn't thought about asking, about details, more precise information, but…
He understands, completely, because the words Sherlock and hospital in one sentence are enough to terrify both of them - and Mycroft - immediately.
"Mycroft sounded so… tired," is what she whispers mid-air, staring out of the window. She doesn't look at him on purpose, he knows that, because she doesn't want him to see the tears in her eyes. "What if…," she swallows, painfully, and her fingers clench his, "what if he dies? We'll be stuck in this bloody plane for hours, God knows what…"
He hears her suck in a sharp breath, and then she has pulled herself together, has put the mask on her face she always uses when she can't cope with her own anxiety, and turns towards him. "I'm sorry," she mutters, her bright eyes red from unshed tears.
"He won't die," he tells her, his voice steady and firm, despite everything. Their boy, their stubborn, bright, brilliant little boy? No. "He's got so many people who care for him, remember? No."
No, because he believes in their younger son.
"But…," she whispers, and hearing the trembling in her voice is very difficult to bear.
"No," he repeats, gripping her hand, if possible, even more tightly. "No."
-O-
Their older son awaits them at the airfield when they land, in the middle of the nigth after a terrifying and arduously long ten-hour flight.
"I'm so angry at him," she growls as she almost storms down the stairs, towards their son.
He follows more slowly, fully aware, after more than forty-five years of marriage, that her rage is only there to cover her utter fear for their younger son.
"Mycroft Holmes!" she exclaims, her voice higher than normal, and then slaps him, once, twice.
Mycroft doesn't do as much as flinch - but then, he never has, not even in his childhood when he, protecting, shielding his foolhardy younger brother from their mother's fury, has once more dutifully taken all the blame.
In another situation, it would have been charming, and moving, to still see this behaviour.
"What were you thinking, not calling us immediately!" she exclaims the very instant she decides to abandon fury and succumb to worry, and wraps her arms around their son, on her tiptoes.
Mycroft's gaze strides towards him as he pats his mother's back far more softly than he normally would have done and allows her to cling to him for a far longer time than he has in years, and this is the final confirmation that it is serious.
He attempts a gentle smile while he waits for his wife to ask the next question, the question: "How is he?"
-O-
Mycroft fills them in during the journey in the car, and although he behaves perfectly normally and does everything to reassure them, nothing of what he says sounds too encouraging.
"So he's been shot - in the chest -, had surgery, then it started bleeding again, he's had another surgery, and only then you called us?" she sums up what Mycroft has told them, still clinging to his hand.
The small frown that has settled between Mycroft's eyebrows and that only ever appears when Sherlock is in trouble doesn't vanish.
Nonetheless, their son gives an exasperated sigh, nodding tensely. "Basically, yes," he says, and nothing else.
"What about you? Are you alright?" he asks his son. He may not be - he certainly isn't - the brightest of all humans, but he does recognise bags beneath someone's eyes, and he only too well remembers how worried Mycroft has always been, as a child, as a youth, about his younger brother.
Mycroft takes a few seconds until he answers, and when he does, it sounds clipped and short: "Fine."
His wife's fingers squeeze his as they share a quick glance and both realise, not for the first time, that they're not the only ones worrying constantly.
-O-
The hospital is clean, nice, almost posh. Sherlock has to be in good hands, here.
She is fidgetting next to him as she's been during the entire time in the car, and itching to finally see their younger son by herself.
Mycroft, however, pauses before opening the door.
Her fingers are trembling for a split-second before she resorts to fury once more, her bright eyes blinking at their older son.
"What!" she exclaims. She's doing most of the talking, and the anger, as she has always done in all their years of marriage. "Mycroft, seriously, I want to see my boy now!" She has only ever called him Mycroft when she has been angry, whenever Mycroft has got Sherlock in trouble - or rather, Sherlock's got himself into trouble and Mycroft has been doing his best, as the older one, to cover for his little brother - in their childhood.
"I'm sure he's got something important to say, love," he attempts to placate her, and she, as always, swallows her fury for a moment.
Their son's umbrella shudders for a moment. "Whereas my brother is perfectly stable," Mycroft tells them once more, and he wonders if their son knows how much he is giving away with that, "and expected to make a full recovery, he is also sedated, for his own good, and the sight of him might be slightly disturbing, and…"
"Yes, alright," his wife cuts Mycroft off, her voice betraying her fear. "We're aware."
Are they, though? Shot, surgery, another surgery. He has never seen anyone who has been shot before, so…
"Can we go in now?" she snaps, and one of Mycroft's eyebrows twitches.
"Very well," he says and opens the door for them.
-O-
Seeing Sherlock is a shock, not slightly disturbing.
Of course both of them know that Sherlock has been in hospital more than once since moving out, know about that despite everything both their sons have done to keep it from them; once, even, they have been told, and visited him after what Mycroft and Sherlock have both dubbed 'accidental food poisoning', but that has, more likely, been a drug overdose.
Never before, and he's absolutely sure of that, has he seen his younger son so pale. Has he seen anyone, in fact, so pale.
They freeze, she gasps, presses her shaking hand to her mouth.
The closing of the door behind them is heard, and then, for a very long moment, nothing but the steady beeping.
From this distance, he realises - while his heart is pounding fiercely against his ribs and he wonders why, why, why this has to have happened to their little boy and why they can't, just for once, have the certainty that both of their sons will be fine -, from this distance it is impossible to tell whether Sherlock is breathing, or not.
Of course it is silly, this thought, because of course he is, but… He's so white, and so still, and so… frail, their little boy, and his chest, with electrodes and cables and a large patch of white, seems to be hardly moving.
When they move, they do so simultaneously, with her sitting down on the edge of the mattress, very carefully, as if not to startle Sherlock; he remains next to her, an arm across her shoulders as she gently picks up Sherlock's limp and large hand and wraps both of hers around it.
Mycroft stays where he is, a steady, comforting presence.
"He's just… he's just…," his wife, his wonderful, beautiful wife, whispers, tears in her eyes as she dares to tear away her gaze from Sherlock's pallid features and look at Mycroft once more.
"He is sleeping," Mycroft finishes, his expression stern. Sedated, he reminds himself, and she knows it, too, of course.
He doesn't think he will ever understand how exactly Mycroft does that, remaining so controlled, even though he is worried, too. But then, that's a genius son for you. Or two, rather.
"Well, that's… that's…," she begins again, clinging to Sherlock's hand for dear life. "Good," she chokes, "isn't it? Resting is…"
"Exactly what he is supposed to do," Mycroft explains, still not moving an inch. "Which is why it was decided to keep him under sedation for now."
She is trembling, her shoulders are trembling, terribly. He wraps his free left hand around both of his wife's, covering their son's.
"Why's he got those things…," is the next thing she croaks, her voice so very raspy, and gestures vaguely with her head towards their son's face, towards the oxygen prongs in his nose.
They both hear Mycroft clearing his throat. "It is simply a matter of precaution," he finally tells them.
"Prec…," his wife chokes, her trembling intensifying.
Both of them, he is almost certain of that, probably remember the day Sherlock was born, when they both have set eyes on their second son for the first time, born prematurely, when they both have realised that there are now two little boys they never want to see come to any harm.
In contrast to Mycroft, however, Sherlock has always had a habit of making that rather difficult. Scraped knees, sprained fingers as a little boy, the measles, coughs, and now…
There is one question burning on his tongue, and as always, it is she who utters the words. Always she.
"But he'll be alright, won't he?"
Mycroft's answer doesn't come as swiftly as they have hoped for it to, and both of their fingers tighten around their younger son's hand.
"Yes," is what he finally replies, his eyes lingering on his brother's quiet face.
Her hand doesn't stop shaking, however, and she locks her eyes on Mycroft once more. "Are you lying to me, Mycroft Holmes?" she asks. "It never worked when you were a child, and it doesn't now."
Their older son straightens his back - oh, how he has always done that when he was seven years old, claiming that he was perfectly able to take care of his baby brother - and then insists, seriously: "I am not. Whereas my brother's condition was critial when he was brought to A&E, he is, I assure you, out of immediate danger now and expected to make a full recovery. He will be fine, eventually, and overexaggerated worry is not requested."
Mycroft has always used so many words, even when he was little, and now… He is worrying, so much, and it is difficult to concentrate on his son's words and try to understand what he is telling them. Sherlock will recover, is what he settles on and what he understands.
It is hard to believe when he looks at their younger son now, with the large patch and medical equipment attached to, as it seems, every single one of his limbs.
But then, if Mycroft is positive, it cannot look too bad. Not life-threatening, that means. Not anymore.
She, however, being the brilliant flake she is, huffs under her breath and returns her attention to Sherlock. "It wouldn't kill you to admit you're worried about him, too, you know, Mycie."
Mycroft settles on a thin-lipped smile that causes the urge to hug their older son for a minute and tell him it'll be fine to rise in him.
Of course he doesn't. He's not stupid, after all.
-O-
They keep perfectly quiet after that. She continues rubbing Sherlock's hand, almost frantically, and he stays by her side. Always, always by her side.
"He'd be mortified," she mutters eventually, "if he were awake."
"Very much so," Mycroft agrees, and he has to smile. Mycroft and his brilliant wife, surprisingly alike. His son's face displays, unusual for him, an expression that speaks of the overwhelming need to make sure that his younger brother is alright. Oh, they have always been glad that both of their sons have moved to London, and that they would always have the chance to keep an eye on one another.
"Well," Mycroft announces after another few seconds, directing his gaze at his umbrella, away from his brother. "I will leave you to it, then."
She turns around, frowning. "What!" she exclaims, already raising her voice. "Mycie, don't you think..."
"I do think, Mother," he interrupts her, a thin smile on his lips, "that my brother needs rest, and I do know that it is five o'clock in the morning, that two visitors at maximum are allowed in here and that I am about to give you time with your son. Does this idea agree with you?"
Now it's her who looks mortified for a moment. "Oh," she makes, very quietly. "Oh, Mycie, I'm so sorry, I..."
"Yes," he cuts her off. "Fine. My apologies. My chauffeur will wait for you. Take your time."
Their son has almost reached the door when they share a quick look, when she opens her mouth again: "Mycie," she says, and swallows. "Mycroft. Is... He... why isn't he... why...," she all but stammers. Normally, it is her to do the talking, to make a snarky remark and to ask the questions. Not this time, though, this time, she seems well and truly shocked.
"Why is he sedated?" he says in her place.
Mycroft stops, one hand already resting on the door, ready to open it. "The complications that... arose took their toll on my brother's constitution," he tells them. "Sedation is simply a method to give his body time to recover."
It sounds so good, so perfectly normal. He can feel her fingers tighten around their younger son's, and knows that she thinks the same. "But he...," she begins, blinking rapidly to control her tears. "But he will wake up, won't he?"
Seeing Mycroft answer so politely has never before been more disturbing. For a moment, he simply wishes that their older son would roll his eyes and sigh in exasperation, just to prove how absurd their fears are. "He will," he states instead and adds, after a few moments, his eyes fixed on his younger brother: "And he will continue to annoy me, will be outraged that I called you and will, as always, be utterly infuriating."
"Mycie!" she scolds him, but her voice lacks its usual sharpness.
"Apologies," he mutters for the second time, but somehow, his words are reassuring.
"Can he...," she begins after a few moments, resting one of her palms against their son's pasty cheek.
"...hear us?" he finishes for her as she stifles a small sob.
Mycroft's eyes study his unconscious brother intently. "Probably," he replies quietly.
His own heart in his throat, he watches his wife trace her fingertips over their son's pallid skin. "My boy...," she whispers, chokedly, and he feels a small smile, a weak smile, spread on his face.
Oh, their son would be mortified.
"Well," Mycroft repeats, reaching out for the door handle again. "I will leave you to it, then."
And suddenly, they are alone, together with their younger son, deeply sedated, as Mycroft has said, in a hospital bed.
-O-
None of them says anything for a long while. Hours, maybe.
They watch their younger son, breathing evenly. He doesn't look as if he is asleep, however, he is far too pale, and far too still, and everything appears far too unnatural.
"Shot," she mumbles eventually, turning her head to look at him. "He was shot, somebody shot him..." His heart aches as she draws in a long breath. "If I ever find out who..."
"Mycroft will take care of that," he interrupts her, not wanting to think about that now. It's their son who matters, no-one else. Nothing else.
She isn't comforted. "We don't see them often enough," she snivels, her beautiful blue eyes bright with unshed tears. "What if one day Mycroft calls us to tell us that Sherlock... that... Or if Sherlock calls us, because Mycroft has been involved in some terrorist attack, or... Why can't they just have normal jobs?"
Because no child of hers could ever be ordinary, is the correct answer, but not the appropriate one. "They're both grown ups," he says, very softly. "They can take care of themselves."
"Maybe we should move to London," she mutters, shaking her head.
He has to smile, a little more freely now, he can't help it, and even her face brightens a bit. "I know," she mumbles, "don't tell me. I would drive them crazy."
Laughing with her has always been a joy, and even now, although it is tinged with worry and last for mere split-seconds, it does prove to be comforting.
"I don't want to bury one of my children," she whispers, and what hurts the most about this statement is that she says it out loud. She's the strong one, usually, and the controlled one, and the brilliant one, not him.
Sherlock doesn't stir while his mother is crying at his bedside.
"I mean...," she goes on, clinging to Sherlock's hand. "Even if he's fine this time, what about the next time, and..."
"Mycroft will watch out for him," he tells her, his voice raspy. "And John, his friend. I bet he's here somewhere, right now. And this police officer Mycroft told us about. There are so many people who care about him, and they will be there for him. He doesn't need us to meddle in his life."
She huffs. "I know," she replies, and sounds a bit more like herself. "I just... I can't stand seeing him like that."
This time, he knows exactly what she means. It is just wrong.
"Yes," he agrees, unable to form more words, and wraps an arm around her shoulder while they continue to watch their younger son.
-O-
"Oh, come on," she says a few minutes later, snivelling. "Go and talk to Mycroft. I know you want to. I'll be fine."
"Of course you will," he mumbles, rubbing her shoulder for a moment before disentangling his hands from his wife and his son.
"I'll be back," he promises, and she nods absent-mindedly.
"And tell Mycie I'm sorry," she mumbles seconds before he closes the door and leaves his younger son and his wife behind to find the older one.
-O-
After so many years, it doesn't surprise him any longer that she always knows what's on his mind, and that she, most of the times, agrees with him. He finds Mycroft in the cafeteria, staring into a mug of something that could be coffee.
They normally don't do that, both of his sons are adults, perfectly capable of taking care of themselves. And yet, he finds himself wanting to speak with Mycroft, because he believes that they do have to talk for a moment.
He feels positively shaky after having seen their younger son so… unlike himself, and so fragile.
"Do you have a cigarette?" he wants to know as soon as Mycroft looks up, shoving his cup aside.
Not even two minutes later, they are standing in front of the hospital, both of them smoking.
"Don't tell your mother," he adds as he takes another drag, his hand holding the cigarette - his first one in ages, and of course she won't be happy when she finds out - trembling slightly.
"You don't smoke," Mycroft states, matter-of-factly, and once more he wonders why his sons can never simply say what they mean.
It's up to him, then, again. "I know I'm not as clever as you are, or Sherlock, or your mother," he begins while Mycroft doesn't really look at him. "You can't convince us that you're not worried, you know."
Mycroft simply puffs out some smoke.
He feels as if he may need more to build up courage than one simple cigarette to ask a question. "It was," he manages to croak in the end, "close, wasn't it?"
Mycroft studies him intensely for a long moment, and not for the first time he wonders what his son sees when staring at him like that. That he loves his sons, hopefully, and that he's proud of them, both of them. And that he hopes, dearly hopes, that they respect him, although he's definitely not a genius.
"I have taken the liberty to book hotel rooms for you," is what Mycroft says next. "Feel free to stay as long as you like, I will provide for any accomodations you might require. My chauffeur will wait for you in the cafeteria."
The smoke is burning in his lungs as he once again attempts to understand his older son, and stop himself from worrying sick because of his younger.
"And of course," Mycroft adds, frowning at his cigarette, "I will not let anything like that happen again. It was…"
"Mycroft," he interrupts his son, wanting nothing more than to actually comfort him, despite his forty-four years, and tell him nothing is his fault - but at the same time he knows it would be highly and decidedly unwelcome. So he doesn't.
Mycroft produces another thin-lipped smile. "Yes," is the only thing he then says, and it's enough.
So it has been close then, very close. Very close. No matter how old his children are, they will always be his sons, his little boys. And he will always want to protect them - and find himself unable to, because that's not his task any longer, because they have their own lives.
His legs grow shaky for a moment before he drops his cigarette to the concrete and extinguishes it with the heel of his shoe. "Don't tell your mother," he repeats, doesn't even know what exactly he means, but Mycroft nods.
When he re-enters his younger son's hospital room, everything's still the same. Sherlock is pallid, sleeping; his wife is sitting on the mattress, clutching their son's hand; the air reeks of impersonality and disinfectants.
But when she looks at him, raises her head, her blue eyes sparkling a bit, and she asks him, quite sharply, her voice almost back to that lovely snarky tone of hers: "Have you and Mycroft been smoking?", he knows that everything's going to be fine.
Thank you very much for reading! Please let me know what you think.