The Writer They Call Tay (awanderingbard) wrote,
The Writer They Call Tay
awanderingbard

Sherlock/Skyfall: Comfort

Title: Comfort
Characters: Siger, Trevelyan, Mycroft, Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Warnings/Triggers: stab wound (no blood) as a result of a random act of violence, disscussions (but no instances of) vomitting
Spoilers: none
Pairings: none
Word Count 2, 521
Summary: After one of his sons is injured, Siger Holmes is forced to do what he is the worst at—caring.
Author's notes: Third part in the 'What If?' series. This is Mycroft's entry, Sherlock's entry is here and Q's entry is here.

Set in the Trio 'verse.



Siger hated hospitals. He hated being in them, he hated visiting them, he hated looking at them. He would quite happily cut his own arm off to avoid having to visit one, but that would be counterproductive, as he'd just end up there anyway.

He wasn't good at visiting. He wasn't good at comfort and caring. Dora dealt with all of that. He was best when it was all over, and he could come in and sweep away the mess and pick up the pieces. Dora was always best in the moment and then fell apart afterwards. It made them a good team.

Unfortunately, Dora was on the other side of the world, and Siger was on scene, so he was having to deal with it today.

Mycroft had been stabbed.

He tapped gently on the door to the room he'd been directed to and peered in. Trevelyan was sat in a chair and looked up in confusion. He gave Siger sleepy smile.

“I told Mummy that no one needed to rush here,” he said.

“Yes, well, the description of 'a minor stab wound', while an admittedly excellent attempt to downplay, didn't quite reassure her,” Siger said. “I was ordered to report immediately. She's trying to get a flight back. What's the prognosis?”

“From what I understand from John and the internet, the former obviously being more reliable than the latter, the knife didn't hit anything vital,” Trevelyan said. “There was some internal bleeding, but they sort of suctioned that out, and they've done a few layers of sutures, and John says the wound will have to 'granulate in'. I believe that's right. Basically, he'll be fine. It really wasn't serious.”

Siger hadn't realized he was tense until he felt himself relax and some of the nausea ebb away. “All right,” he said. “Has he been awake?”

“Yes, and he's a bit...” Trevelyan moved his hands around and put a sort of blank look on his face. “Off.”

“Where's Sherlock?” Siger asked.

“Avenging,” Trevelyan replied.

Siger nodded, having expected that. Either avenging or having already avenged. “How exactly did this happen?”

“He was at some sort of function,” Trevelyan explained. “Someone's aide attacked him. No one's quite sure why. The assailant had a wooden knife, and it didn't set off the metal detectors. Security is playing pass the parcel about who should have searched. Lestrade is handling the case.”

“Lestrade?” Siger asked.

“Sherlock's DI fellow,” Trevelyan said.

“Yes, that's right,” Siger said, remembering him now. “All right. I'll take a shift, you go home and get some rest.”

Trevelyan gathered his things and met him at the door. The tips of his ears were flushed like they used to get when he was overtired as a child. “I thought you were in Tokyo?” he said. “How did you get here so quickly?”

“Mummy is in Tokyo, she went on there to visit your cousin after we left Nadi,” Siger explained. “I was on my way home from the stopover in Dubai. I received her message when I landed in London, about twenty minutes ago.”

“How was Fiji?” Trevelyan asked.

“Tropical,” Siger said.

Trevelyan smiled. “How surprising." He undid one of his cufflinks and handed it over. “It's a WiFi hotspot. You can use your tablet while you're here.”

“Did you make this?” Siger asked, holding it up to admire it. It was tiny. He could remember when the internet first arrived with its honking and squealing modems. Now it fit into his palm. Amazing.

“Yes,” Trevelyan said, with a good deal of pride. “Don't lose it, please, it's a prototype.”

“I won't,” Siger said. He swapped out his current cufflink for the new one.

“And don't give it to Sherlock, he's been eyeing it,” Trevelyan added.

“I won't,” Siger repeated. “Go away.”

Trevelyan slipped past him into the hallway, and Siger walked over to the bed to check on Mycroft. He looked very pale but otherwise intact. He stirred a bit but didn't awaken. Siger took Trevelyan's chair and e-mailed Dora to assure her that Mycroft was still alive. Her response came back within a minute of him sending it, with demands for precise details. Siger did his best to answer, and they shot e-mails back and forth for several minutes before she announced that she was getting on a plane. He was relieved. He simply couldn't see the things she wanted him to be able to see.

He settled in to read on his tablet, with the occasional glance over to Mycroft. He stirred once or twice more before finally waking up fully about two hours later. Trevelyan was right, he was definitely off.

“Someone get me a phone,” he ordered, his words slurred as though he were intoxicated.

Siger went over to the bed. “You do not need a phone,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”

Mycroft took him in with bleary eyes, and he looked a little baffled. “My phone is dead,” he insisted. “I'll have to borrow one.”

“Who do you need to ring?” Siger asked.

“The Iranian elections are tomorrow,” Mycroft explained

“I don't think they are,” Siger said.

“I need to discuss the results,” Mycroft said.

“If they are tomorrow, there won't be any results yet,” Siger pointed out. He wasn't sure logic was the best way to handle this. Maybe he should just summon a nurse and drug him. “So, you can rest for now.”

“They'll be the wrong results,” Mycroft said.

He tried to get up, but Siger held him down, trying to avoid hurting him further. Mycroft glared at him and ordered him away, but then lay back and studied him for a few moments.

“Father?” he said.

“Yes,” Siger said.

“My side hurts,” Mycroft said, looking downwards.

“If you go back to sleep, it will feel better,” Siger said. “Just go back to sleep, Mycroft.”

Mycroft's eyes fluttered closed and his breathing evened out. Siger relaxed and made sure he was truly unconscious before he sat down again.

It was unsettling to see Mycroft out of sorts. Mycroft was the child Siger worried about the least. Well, truthfully, he didn't do a lot of worrying about any of them. Dora had that area very well covered and was much better at it than him. He was better at countering her worries with logic. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that Mycroft being in this sort of situation was the most unexpected. Sherlock made a living out of antagonizing people, and Trevelyan was a moving target with his knowledge and position in the government. If either one of them had been stabbed, Siger wouldn't have been surprised.

Mycroft's speciality was going unnoticed, however. Even when he was a child he was independent and content to watch over participate. He preferred to be on his own and didn't like having attention heaped on him. Sherlock loved attention, though he was independent as well. He had a paradoxical 'look at me, go away' phenomenon to his personality, an unhealthy mixture of Siger and Dora. Trevelyan seemed to be happy on his own or with company--very similar to Dora in that respect.

Mycroft was cautious and careful. He didn't go in head first. He didn't get himself stabbed. He was a grown man, much more than Sherlock or Trevelyan. Siger understood logically that they were all adults now and had been for some time, but Sherlock and Trevelyan still remained children in his mind. Mycroft had been an adult by age seven. He was a peer, more so than a child. He didn't need to be parented like the other two. He parented himself, always acutely aware of where he'd erred and already punishing himself more effectively than Siger could.

A nurse came in to check on Mycroft, bringing him out of his musings. She paused to introduce herself. She was perky and spoke in that sickly sweet voice people spoke to children in.

“Are you dad?” she asked.

He admitted that he was, though he'd never been 'dad' in his entire forty-five years of fatherhood. The closest he'd ever been to that was Trevelyan's inexplicable use of 'Data' to refer to him when he was first learning to speak. Sherlock had used 'Dar' and Mycroft used 'Fa' until they could get 'Father' out properly.

“You have a very nice boy there,” she said. “The one who was here to visit. Very pleasant.”

She waited for a response, and Siger finally guessed at 'thank you'. He'd never understood thanking people for compliments about other people. If anything, Trevelyan's pleasantness was in spite of his influence, not a product of it.

He interrogated the nurse so he could have answers when Dora contacted him again. It also gave him something more productive to do than worry and reminisce.

The night was long, and Mycroft was quite disorientated for the majority of it. His ramblings were, quite frankly, frightening. Nuclear codes and shadow cabinets and laws and elections and terrorist attacks. Siger was aware that his son basically ran the country. He did not realize he also ran the world.

Siger bought some awful coffee from the machine, bad enough that he chose to put some milk and sugar in it to make it palatable. He normally drank it black, as he felt as though adding something diluted the potency. Despite the taste, it did the job and kept him composed. It took away some of the feeling of being off-centre.

By the wee hours of the morning, Mycroft started to be a bit more lucid. He at least recognized Siger when he saw him, though he was having trouble with time and seemed to think both of them were younger than they were, worrying about the boys being in school and Siger being away from work to be there with him.

“Oh, Christ,” was the first sign that he was back in the present. It was followed by a low groan. He winced for a long moment and then focused in on Siger. For a moment, he looked confused, but then his eyes cleared. “You shouldn't have cut your trip short.”

“I didn't. I was quite sick of nice weather and beautiful scenery,” Siger assured him. “I missed the proper grey of fair England. You can tell Mummy not to have come when she gets here.”

Mycroft winced again, but Siger couldn't tell if it was in pain or anticipation of the fussing he would receive. “I'm fine,” he said.

“I have been stabbed, I know what it feels like,” Siger said. “You're hardly fine.”

Mycroft looked surprised. “I don't recall that."

“You were very young,” Siger said. “Less than a year, maybe. Yes, you were just learning to stand up, because I remember you kept using my IV pole for support.”

“What happened?” Mycroft asked.

“I intercepted a code meant for someone else in the department,” Siger said. “And he wasn't pleased. He was selling secrets on the side. He came at me with a letter opener.”

“All this time I thought it was Mummy's love of adventure that got us all in trouble,” Mycroft said, with a bemused smile. “I didn't realize it was your fault as well.”

“It was my only foray into true, active espionage, and I didn't care for it,” Siger said. “Your suicidal tendencies are most certainly your mother's fault.”

Mycroft shifted slightly in bed and winced.

“You have a pain pump, use it,” Siger said.

“I'm fine,” Mycroft said.

“Use it or I will use it for you,” Siger ordered.

Mycroft reluctantly pressed the button. The medicine soon had him drowsy again. “You don't need to stay,” he muttered.

“Go to sleep,” Siger said.

Mycroft nodded off. Sherlock blew in an hour later with his little soldier friend trailing behind him as usual. Siger didn't know what to make of John. None of them were particularly prone to collecting friends; he wondered what made John so loyal. He seemed rather average, really. Dora thought he was a good influence, however, and he had very little effect on Siger's life, so in the end, it didn't much matter.

“Oh, it's you,” Sherlock said. “Where's Mummy?”

“If her plane is on schedule, likely somewhere over India,” Siger said, pulling out his pocket watch and taking a look. “Unless she finagled herself on to an earlier flight.”

“Is he...” Sherlock gestured toward Mycroft.

“He's fine,” Siger said.

John went over to his monitors and stared critically at them.

“I've apprehended the culprit,” Sherlock said.

“Well done,” Siger said, extremely satisfied to hear this. “Did he have a motive?”

“He wanted to make some noise. Mycroft was the best victim to get him some attention,” Sherlock said.

He explained how he'd found him and where he was now. Siger nodded along to the ramble, not following most of Sherlock's connections between facts. He must have been het up; normally he was very clear when he spoke about his work.

“Everything's fine,” Siger said. “Go home and relax. You've done what you needed.”

Sherlock didn't require any convincing. John gave Siger an awkward half-salute and followed him out. Strange little man.

Much of Mycroft's tubes and wires were removed by late morning. He still had his pain pump and IV in, but he was no longer attached to the wall.

“I need to get out of bed,” he said.

“No, you don't,” Siger said.

“I mean...” Mycroft made a gesture toward the lavatory.

“Ah,” Siger said. “All right.”

He stood and went over to the bed to help him up.

“You could get a nurse,” Mycroft said.

“I'm here, we don't need a nurse,” Siger said.

Mycroft managed to get himself to the side of the bed, and Siger supported him on his good side, afraid stretching the one where the wound was would pull on the sutures too much.

“Use your pole as a cane,” Siger said. “Brace yourself with it.”

It was slow going, and Mycroft kept alternately wincing and half-laughing in pain.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“What for?” Siger asked.

“I'm being rather undignified,” Mycroft said.

“I won't tell anyone,” Siger promised.

They managed to accomplish what they needed to and set off toward the bed again.

“I'm slightly afraid I may vomit on you,” Mycroft said. He looked very washed out and his knees trembled badly.

“Deep breaths,” Siger said. “We're almost there. It wouldn't be the first time, anyway.”

“I don't recall that, either,” Mycroft said.

“You had flu,” Siger said. “You were in hospital for a few days because your fever was so high, and you were so dehydrated.”

He remembered carrying Mycroft up and down the hospital hallway, pushing along the IV pole, Mycroft barely conscious on his shoulder but too uncomfortable to fall asleep. It was hard to connect the child to the grown man fighting tooth and nail in an attempt to appear fine.

“Is there anything else thar happened before I can remember that I should know about?” Mycroft said.

“The vast majority of human history, I'm afraid,” Siger said.

“I meant relevant to my interests,” Mycroft said.

“I'll think on it and let you know,” Siger said.

They got to the bed and manoeuvred Mycroft safely into it. He fell asleep almost instantly.

“Thank you,” he said, before he drifted off.

Siger nodded, and pulled the blankets up over him.

Dora arrived two hours later, and, once Siger answered her myriad of questions, she sent him home. He was happy to get out of there. He hated hospitals. There was nothing useful about sitting there and remembering the past. He'd come back when everything was well again and pick up the pieces, as usual.

That's really what he was best at.
Tags: fandom: sherlock (bbc), fandom: skyfall, length: mini-series, rating: pg-13
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