Sickness and Health Ch.1
Author’s note included at the end for trigger warnings.
Mycroft sits quietly in the dimly lit hospital room, tenderly stroking the back of your delicate hand, and doing his best to ignore the hums and beeps of the various machines surrounding your bed. He frowns slightly at the coolness he feels on your skin, and makes a mental note to berate the next nurse that enters your room for failing to keep you warm enough. He lifts the blanket from the back of his own chair and moves to spread it over your unmoving body, gently tucking it in around your legs and arms before settling heavily back into his hard, utilitarian seat. He sits in silence for another long minute before wearily covering his face with shaking hands and starting to cry.
Your husband Mycroft has been away from home for a mere 48 hours and you could swear he’s been calling you or texting you for half of that time. You had a little tickle in your throat on the morning he left for his business trip, and as the hours ticked by, the tickle turned in to a cough, and Mycroft’s protective instinct turned extreme.
“Mycroft darling,” you soothe him over the phone. “I’m fine! Don’t you dare cancel your meetings because I have a little cold!” You stifle a cough behind your hand.
“I would hardly call Bronchitis a cold, Y/n!” He scolds gently. “And the Swedish delegation wouldn’t mind, I promise. I can charter a flight and be home before you know it.”
“No, I can’t let you do that, my love. Your work is too important. Stay! I’m telling you, I’m fine!” You cough forcefully into the crook of your elbow, and this time have difficulty catching your breath after.
Sounding increasingly worried now, Mycroft tries again.
“If you don’t want me to come home to take care of you, will you at least ask your mother to stay with you for a few days? I would rather you not be alone.”
You roll your eyes wearily. “You know she needs to be at home with my dad, Mycroft. I can’t ask her to leave him for a week. It was bad enough having you call her to ask her to take me in to the doctor’s office!”
“I had to!” He retorts. “You wouldn’t let me send my private physician to the house and you needed to be seen before it got any worse.”
“It was 11pm, Mycroft, and your physician is nearly 90 years old! I promise you, I’ll be fine. I don’t need my mummy here to take care of me. Or yours for that matter.”
“I thought you might say that my dear, which is why I’ve made alternate arrangements.”
*Ding Dong* rings the doorbell.
“Alternate arrangements?! Mycroft Holmes! What did you do?” You ask with a huff, listlessly leaving your nest of blankets on the sofa and slowly making your way to the door.
“I am merely taking care of my sick, stubborn wife. I called for reinforcements.”
“Reinforcements? Oh no! Don’t tell me…”
“Y/n?” A familiar male voice shouts from the foyer, causing you to start massaging the right side of your temple. You can feel a headache starting already.
“Y/n!” It calls again, coming ever closer until a handsome young man with a head full of wild curls comes bolting around the corner.
“Ah, there you are sister dear! Your chaperone is here!” He throws an arm around your back to give you a sort of half-hug.
“Hello, Sherlock,” you sigh. “Come on in. Apparently, my husband thinks I need a babysitter this week, just because I’m not feeling well. Maybe you can talk some sense into him while I make tea?” You push the phone into his hand and turn to leave, slowly exiting the room while coughing harshly again. You fail to notice the worried look Sherlock gives you.
“Hello Mycroft,” Sherlock says, wiping down your cellphone with a handkerchief in an attempt to avoid your germs. “I couldn’t help but notice my sister-in-law does not appear pleased to see me; did you not tell her I was coming?”
“Of course I did!” Mycroft sputters. “Just a moment ago…”
“Mmm. A bit not good, brother. She seems angry, but I have to say, I am happy you called. She does not look well.”
“I’m worried for her, Sherlock. She’s so tired and that cough seems worse by the hour.”
“Well, I’m here now and I’ll keep her safe. Mycroft, I swear it. I’ll also ask John to come by the house tomorrow to have a look at her, just to be sure.”
“Thank you, Sherlock. If anything changes… If she gets worse…”
“I will call you immediately, of course. Would you like to say goodnight? I can hand you back to her.”
Sherlock makes his way to the kitchen but is halted in the doorway by the sight before him. He chuckles as he snaps a photo and quickly sends it to Mycroft.
“I think you’re going to have to say goodnight later, brother mine. Mrs Holmes is having a nap at the kitchen counter right now.” He laughs again as he takes in your form, hunched over on a barstool, head pillowed on your folded arms.
“Please wake her, won’t you? And send her up to bed?” Mycroft pleads.
“I will. She’s in good hands, Mycroft. Try not to worry. I’ll have her call you back when she wakes up.”
“Thank you, Sherlock… She… I can’t…”
“I know, brother. I know. We’ll talk soon. Goodnight.”
He ends the call and carefully approaches the island to wake you up. In Sherlock’s opinion you somehow look even worse than you did a few moments ago and thinks perhaps Mycroft is right to be worried about you. He helps you into bed and when he closes the door to the master suite he sends John a text asking him to stay on call tonight for Y/n, just in case. He’s got a bad feeling stirring.
A few hours later you wake to find Sherlock sitting on the edge of your bed, lightly shaking your shoulder. He’s been attempting to wake you for several minutes now and looks extremely concerned.
“Y/n? Y/n! I need you to open your eyes for me. Can you hear me? Can you do that? Open your eyes?”
“Noooooo….” Your voice is thin and reedy when you reply and you’re not exactly sure why Sherlock is so insistent on waking you. You’ve only been asleep for a few minutes, haven’t you?
You could get up now, but you’re just so tired! Maybe he will just go and leave me alone, you think. You raise your hand to wave him away, but hardly notice that your limbs barely move.
“Y/n, please! This isn’t funny. John will be here in a minute but I think we need an ambulance too. Can you sit up?”
“Nuh uh,” you grunt in dissent, wishing again your brother-in-law would just leave you alone.
“Well, I’m afraid you must. We need to get you dressed. I’ll help you.” He slides his hands under your arms to help you sit up to lean back against the massive oak headboard. It tickles slightly when Sherlock’s fingertips touch your under arms and you start wiggling in his grasp and laughing with sharp, raspy barks, making Sherlock’s task nearly impossible.
“John’s not here!” You wheeze, fighting to catch your breath after so much exertion.
“I know that, Y/n. But he’s on his way, so let me help you, ok? Sherlock sounds exasperated and bites his lip hesitantly. “Y/n, are you alright? You’re so pale and your breathing is far too shallow for my liking. Something’s definitely wrong. God I wish John were here!”
“John went out for cat food. Did he let the cat escape again?” You ask him.
“What? What cat? Y/n, you’re not making any sense.”
“Sorry! I left it in the bathroom!”
“Left what in the bathroom? The cat? Y/n, what are you talking about? You don’t have a cat.”
“That’s it, Y/n. You’re scaring me. I’m calling an ambulance right now! And Mycroft!” He stands and hurriedly dials the emergency line on his phone. His back is turned to you for a brief moment.
“Myyyy…” He hears you repeating behind him. “Myyyy… Myyy…,” until your voice trails off and you’re pulled back into the black peacefulness of sleep. “My….”
“Oh shit! Y/n!” Sherlock shouts as he turns back just in time to see you slump forward, face first on to the bed. He rushes back to your side. “Where the hell is John!” He shouts.
“I’m here Sherlock,” comes Johns voice as he stomps quickly up the stairs and into the room.
His eyes go wide as he takes in your appearance on the bed. Your lips are pale, your eyes are glassy, and the tips of your fingers are starting to turn blue. You look a little like one of the corpses in Molly’s morgue, and John can see you are struggling to breathe.
“The ambulance is on the way, John,” Sherlock tells him, “but I think she’s in trouble. Help her, PLEASE! I need to call Mycroft!”
John snaps in to action and is at the bedside in seconds, doing as much as he can to stabilize you until help arrives. What in the hell happened here? He wonders. This is NOT Bronchitis.
What happens next is a mystery to you, as you don’t wake up again that night or even the next morning. You have a vague awareness of being somewhere, though exactly where doesn’t seem to matter. You sleep and sleep and wait for your alarm clock to go off, but it never does. Your dreams are vivid, but don’t quite make sense, and Mycroft is there every time, smiling at you sadly from a distance. You smile back and try to tell him you’re alright, but he can’t seem to hear you. You’ll just have to wait and tell him when you wake up.
A few hours later a disheveled-looking Mycroft storms into the hospital waiting room, searching desperately for Sherlock and demanding answers about your condition.
“You there! Nurse!” He bellows at a young, freckle-faced nurse passing by. “I demand to know where you’re keeping my wife, Y/n Holmes! Where is she?”
“I-I-I don’t know sir!” The young woman stammers. “I’ll find a doctor right away!”
Mycroft barely hears her though, and is already tapping away at his phone, attempting to reach Sherlock. Where the hell is he?? He wonders, the frantic phone call from his brother still fresh in his mind. Non-responsive, he said. Dangerously low blood pressure. Respiratory distress. Her Bronchitis has somehow morphed into something so much worse and her doctors have no explanation for it.
Mycroft’s knees nearly gave out when Sherlock told him the news. His precious wife, his reason for existence, was hurting a thousand miles away, and there was not a damn thing he could do to help. Thank god for Anthea and her ability to manage a crisis. She had a plane chartered for them before he even hung up his call with Sherlock and they were in the air just 20 minutes later. The next 2 hours were an agony for Mycroft and all he wants now is to see you.
“Mycroft!” Calls a voice from behind him. “Mycroft, here!”
He turns and sees Dr. Watson a few paces down the hallway, franticly waving him over. He sprints over to the man, eyes wild and face pained. “Dr. Watson, please tell me. How is she? How is Y/n?” He begs.
“Mycroft,” the shorter man replies, placing a comforting hand on Mycroft’s shoulder, as if to soften the blow. “She’s here and she is alive. That’s the important thing.”
“But how is she John? Tell me, please!”
John takes a bolstering breath and delivers the crushing news with as much compassion as he can. “Y/n’s in a coma, Mycroft. And we don’t know when or if she will wake up again. She’s on a ventilator because she can no longer breathe on her own, and both her heart and brain activity are being monitored very closely. She’s receiving fluids and nutrients intravenously, and being kept as comfortable as possible. The doctors are doing everything they can to determine the cause of her ailment and reverse it if at all possible. I am so, so sorry, Mycroft.”
Mycroft takes a step back and absorbs the man’s words, closing his eyes against the agonizing pain in his chest. He wonders for a moment if he’s having a heart attack, but deep down he knows the real cause of his pain.
** Author’s note: this story includes medical terminology, mentions of respiratory conditions similar to - but not Covid -19, mentions of medical equipment, mentions of hospitals and ambulances. Please do not read if any of these things are a trigger for you. Thank you for reading!
