#healed wrong

Peter finds himself wringing his fingers, a habit that his doctor was convinced was going to damage his hands. He barely takes notice of it, knowing that he’s too tired and jittery to actually make himself stop for more than a few seconds. Luckily it’s not too long before they land at the scene of the attack. At least as close as they can with how much wreckage and debris there is. Raven stands up, then turns to Charles.

“Alright, tell us the plan.”

“I’m going to stay here, and extend my reach to whomever needs it. Just let me know through the comms. We’re going to be coordinating with the first responders that are already on the scene. We don’t have much information on what happened so stay on your toes. Now, Jean and Scott, you’re going to head to meet the firefighters. Scott, you can’t try to activate your powers for any reason. This place is too unstable for any amount of error, and Jean, you can be a great help in getting people out.

Peter and Hank, I want you two to start checking and clearing areas. Peter is fast enough to get through areas and find out if there are victims trapped, and Hank will be a good backup for you. Raven, I want you to stay with me. You’re half asleep so you can’t be of much help in such a dangerous area, and I need someone there that can handle it if anything happens. Storm, your powers are also a bit too dangerous so I want you to hang back until we have another task for you that will be safe for you to work on. Any questions?”

No one says anything so Charles nods.

“Let’s get going then.”

Raven pushes Charles out, and they make sure to head straight to the relief center that’s been set up that’s just far enough away from them to make sure that the plane didn’t bother them. Charles immediately starts talking to them, but Peter can’t seem to listen. It’s only a few minutes before he calls for all of their attention again to give them their areas that they’re supposed to cover. Hank is quick to grab Peter’s arm to let them know that he’s ready to go. Peter grins.

“Ok, I’ll take you to the start of our area, then I’ll start looking alone. If I find someone, I’ll bring you there,” Peter suggests, and Hank nods.

“Yeah, that works.”

They continue on like that for a while with Peter safely locating over a dozen victims for the first responders to get out, and rescuing just as many without the help of the first responders in half an hour.

That’s when Peter looks at Hank and says, “Ok, so it’s not safe for me to help transport these people with the first responders. So I’m going ahead. Are you coming, or do you want to help them, then we can meet back up?”

“They probably need my help more than you do, so I’ll go with them. I’ll reach you over the comms once I’m ready for you to pick me up.”

Peter nods. After all, whatever helps the most people is what they’re going to do. Peter sits down on one of the larger pieces of debris, letting himself breathe for a minute while Hank and the first responders work on getting the people back to the first aid station. Now that he’s slowed down a little, he can feel how tired he is. His bones ache, and his muscles are really sore. It takes a few minutes before he can force himself to his feet.

He starts running again, heading to the next section for him to check. He only makes it about half way there before his foot snags on a rock, and he tumbles to the ground. He can hear something in his chest crack when he lands.

“Shit.”

He sits up quickly, pain flaring around his lower ribs. It doesn’t feel that bad though.

“Quicksilver, are you alright?” Charles asks through the comms, and that’s when Peter realizes that his comm was still actively on when he fell.

Before he can answer, the ground starts to tremble.

“What is that?” he asks, placing his hand down on the ground with his fingers splayed out. The ground continues to tremble, so Peter climbs to his feet. “There’s something happening in the East quarter of the disaster zone. The ground is trembling, and I’m not-”

He’s cut off by a high whining noise. He flinches and covers his ears, but then he sees someone in the distance. He runs towards them, thinking that it was going to be someone in trouble, or one of the first responders that he should get out of there before the ground shaking turned into something else. However, he stops dead in his tracks when he sees a man dressed in what looks like a trash bag. The shaking is worse, and he has to rebalance not to fall. Before he can ask the man what he’s doing, the dirt and debris actually starts to split apart, and Peter is thrown to the ground. His vision goes black as soon as he hits the ground.

He wakes up to someone’s voice calling his name. It’s surprisingly dark, and it takes him a minute to remember where he is. For just a minute he was convinced that he woke up in the school far too early for the sun to have come up. Once he does realize where he is, that’s when he also realizes that the voice calling his name is in his head.

Charles?

Oh, thank God you woke up. I was starting to get really worried. There was some kind of earthquake. We think it was caused by a mutant because of how limited the affected area was. Do you know where you are?

Peter looks around, but he can’t see anything. It’s just really dark.

No, I don’t know. I can’t even remember where I was when the earthquake happened, but I was definitely in the affected area.

Ok, are you hurt?

Peter takes stock of his body before responding.

No, I think I’m good. I can’t really move, but I’m not in any pain or anything. I think the worst I have is a concussion. Something feels off, but not bad. I just can’t seem to put my finger on what it is.

Well, you seem coherent so just stay alert and wait for us to find you.

Will do boss.

He can feel when Charles ends their connection. It’s oddly quiet aside from something dripping nearby. He finds himself idly wondering what could possibly be dripping since there was no water source nearby when he fell. It takes a while of sitting in the dark alone for him to realize what feels so wrong. He’s still, completely still, and doesn’t even feel fidgety. Even after working almost nonstop, and not getting more than a few hours of sleep for a whole week, he was still fidgeting. Most of the time he can’t stop moving, but now he doesn’t even feel the need to.

It sets off alarm bells in his head, but he can’t seem to bring himself to care. That feels like another red flag, but he lets both go. His head starts to feel floaty after a while, and he’s pretty sure that he’s drifting in and out of consciousness. He doesn’t feel Charles’ voice in his head, so he decides that he can’t have been trapped for a long time.

It feels like a long time, and his entire body is starting to feel like pins and needles are sticking every inch of his skin, and with it more pain follows. His left leg starts to feel like it’s on fire, and his hip feels completely wrong. The feeling is mostly gone from his right leg, and his right wrist and hand is also burning. The feeling in his fingers on that hand haven’t fully come back, and he can’t seem to curl them, but most of the feeling in his body is back even if it has brought a lot of pain. He curls his left fingers just to prove to himself that he can. The pins and needles light back up.

Maybe I have been here longer than I thought. I think my whole body might be asleep. I still can’t move much even though I can feel everything again. I definitely lied when I said that I wasn’t injured. So many things hurt now.

He lets himself drift off again, because it’s easier than being awake though somewhere in the back of his mind, he does think that it might not be safe to sleep. He doesn’t listen to that tiny voice of reason, and goes back to sleep. When he wakes up the next time, someone is calling his name again except this time it’s not in his head. It’s the first time that he’s heard someone’s voice in God only knows how long, and it sounds odd. Like really far away and kind of tinny. He opens his eyes and it’s ridiculously bright. He has to close them immediately.

“Ow,” he whispers, his voice almost completely gone.

Then he passes out again. He wakes up to something beeping. It sounds irregular and quiet, which somehow makes it even more annoying. He can feel someone’s hand in his hair this time, and he squints his eyes enough to see who it is. It takes a few seconds for him to realize exactly what’s happening.

He’s in the jet, the person whose hand is in his hair is Raven, and her mouth is moving. She’s looking right at him, but he can’t hear what she’s saying. As he starts coming back into his own body, he can feel how much everything hurts. He’s pretty sure he’s dying in that moment. Then he hears Charles’ voice in his head even though he can’t see him anywhere.

Shh, it’s going to be alright. We’re going home right now, and we’re going to get you treated. You’re alright, just go back to sleep.

Even though he doesn’t pass out for a while, he does have a sense of calm covering him. He can’t feel most of his injuries, and he’s teetering on the brink of consciousness for a while before slipping under again.

The next time he wakes up isn’t so pleasant. He wakes up to liquid fire rushing through his legs, and his hand is throbbing. He’s definitely crying, but he still can’t hear any of the sounds that he’s making though he can feel them in his chest. The lights above him are bright, and Hank is standing over him, talking quickly. His vision blurs, and he feels his muscles start to spasm. Someone grabs his head, then everything goes black again.

The hand is back in his hair when he wakes up again. Though this time he can hear muffled conversation. It sounds like he’s underwater. Peter pulls his heavy eyes open. The speaking immediately stops. He turns his head and he can see Raven and Charles. Raven is still petting his hair though now they’re both looking at him.

“Hey, how are you feeling?” Raven asks though he has to read her lips to catch most of it.

“Why are you whispering?”

Raven and Charles glance at each other with a frown. Then Charles speaks directly into his head.

We’re not whispering, Peter. Your ears were damaged.

What happened?

You were trapped under the rubble for almost fifty hours. After I lost contact with you, we had no way of knowing where you were. There was such a large affected area, and we had a hard time finding you. I think you were far more hurt than you thought.

How bad was it?

Your left leg was badly broken as was your right hand. Your hearing was also damaged, and you have a pretty bad concussion. The issue comes in with your accelerated healing.

Peter blinks, trying to put the pieces together in his head as Charles pauses.

Your leg and hand started trying to heal without being properly set. We had to rebreak your leg to set it properly, but that is going to heal fine. Your hand was worse off. It was practically crushed and so it didn’t really matter what we did to try to set it properly, we think there’s going to be permanent damage.

Oh, my hearing?

We’re not sure about that one since your accelerated healing is going to play into it, but we’re hopeful.

But I’ll be able to walk and run fine, right?

Yes, we managed the injuries in your leg, and that will make a full recovery.

 Keith tapped his helmet, activating his comm, "Red team withdrawing. We need to get Lance to a healing pod. Stat."

"Do you need an extraction?" Allura asked, concerned. 

"No, but he's losing a lot of blood."

"How much blood are we talking?" Hunk asked as Lance's vision started to get fuzzy around the edges

"Tourniquet level," Keith replied as he pulled his hairband out with one hand, the other still holding pressure to the wound. 

His heart was beating so fast that Lance half expected it to explode. He tried to focus on taking big slow breaths, but he found himself gasping for air when it seemed like he couldn't get the air in fast enough. Oh no, he was hyperventilating. That couldn't be good. 

"Hold this," Keith instructed as he folded the band in half and wrapped it around Lance's arm, pulling the elastic tight.

The pressure on his brachial artery was not a welcome sensation, he realized as he felt his hyperactive pulse push against the elastic band. Nausea rolled in his stomach.

Keith snapped his fingers in front of Lance's nose. Lance tried to focus on the eyes looking back at him with intensity. "I'm gonna need you to keep pressure on this, as much as you can."

Lance nodded, the pain making him feel so weak he was numb, like his extremities were slowly disappearing. It wouldn't be long before he was weightless. 

Keith hoisted him in a fire's carry before bolting for Red.

Lance was barely aware as his cheek lay against the cockpit floor. It was cool. And he was the coldest he had ever been. 

Fog pressed up against him, clouding his awareness. 

-nce

What was that?

-ance!

The sound dipped in and out, gently, like a lullaby. 

Lance! What's your blood type?

And everything was quiet. 

*   *   *

There was a pressure in his head. A pounding. Wait. That's what sounds were. Those were sounds. Funny. He couldn't understand them. Not yet. It was like they were all meshing together in one big blob that echoed through his head like a gong.

It was dark too. Oh. His eyes were closed. He should open them. Nope. Too hard. He could wait. Something was off, and he wasn't terribly eager to find out what. 

When Lance came to, he was on his knees.

He slowly opened his eyes. The light burned. He squeezed them shut again.

"How are you feeling, Lance?" a booming voice asked and Lance flinched. 

"I--" words felt weird in his mouth. And was that supposed to be his voice all frail and scratchy? "I'm alive, I-I think."

"You had us for a while there," the voice continued. Lance recognized it as Shiro. 

"Can't keep me down!" Lance replied weakly. Sensations were gradually beginning to return. None of them were pleasant. 

He tried opening his eyes again. Still too bright. 

"You saw that, right?" Pidge asked, alarmed. 

Shiro made a corrective noise. "Let's focus on getting him stable before getting side-tracked. Lance, can you stand?" 

Lance tried, but it was like his muscles couldn't be bothered. "I don’t think so."

"It's okay. I'm going to carry you, alright?"

Lance nodded. As Shiro lifted him, he attempted to open his eyes once again, but this time only by a hair. It was still too bright, but it was bearable, and he could roughly make out the figures around him. They were in the medical bay. He must have just exited the pod. 

"Should I wake him?" Pidge asked, gesturing at a makeshift cot.

"Let's wait until Lance gets settled," Shiro advised. He gently carried Lance, bridal style, to his room. 

Pidge pulled back the sheets and Shiro gently placed him down on the mattress. They fussed at him, arranging his limbs, fluffing pillows and tucking him in. Shiro adjusted the weird cape thing that draped from Lance's shoulders. It reminded him of that thing barbers snapped around your neck when getting a haircut. 

 "What's this?" 

It did not escape him how they both stiffened. 

"We’re gonna wait until you are a little more sober," Shiro said carefully. "You'll get to see it soon, after you heal a little more."

That bad?

"Chicks dig scars," Lance made it sound as flippant as he could. 

Shiro regarded him with a calm mask. "Do you need anything? Water, more pain killers?"

"Can you turn the lights down? They really hurt."

Shiro adjusted the dimmer until the lights faded to a soft glow.

Everything came into sharp focus as he was able to open his eyes fully. His vision was still a little off, though.

Pidge was looking at him intently, almost as if she was studying him.

"How long was I out?"

"Long enough to have us all worried," Shiro answered. "I'll let the others know you're awake. I'm sure they'll want to see you, but it's okay if you're not up for company just yet."

"I can say hi," Lance offered.

Shiro nodded and stepped out of the room, the door sliding shut behind him. 

Pidge was still squinting at him. He was not about to apologize for the low light. She looked pale, like all the color had gone out of her. 

"Why do you look...less?" 

"You're standing in the presence of a universal donor, you greedy bastard," she announced proudly, striking a hero pose.

That couldn't be right. She was much too small. She definitely didn't hit the weight limit to safely donate. "I thought you had to wait at least another year to give blood?"

"If I waited, you'd be dead."

Oh.

"You're welcome."

"I don't know how to thank you," Lance said quietly. He owed her his life, that was a debt he would never be able to repay.

"Don't. Anyone would have done the same."

The door slid open and Keith strode in, out of breath and hair a mess.

"How was your nap?" Pidge asked. 

"I brought the pain drugs. Is he sleeping? Why is it so dar--" Keith made eye contact with Lance and froze. 

"Shit," he whispered.

"Keith!" Shiro called from down the hall, he appeared in the doorway a moment later. "I told you to wait."

But Keith wasn't paying attention. His eyes locked on Lance, lower lip trembling. Suddenly he turned on his heel and all but ran out of the room. 

"SHIT!" Lance could hear him scream into the hall.

Not exactly the reunion he expected. 

Shiro heaved a tired sigh, "I'll be back."

*  *  *

It had been days, and Lance was getting antsy. 

"Is it really that bad?" he asked Allura when she brought him breakfast one morning. 

"Is what bad?" 

"My face."

There was a reason all the mirrors were covered, that Shiro had tried to stop Keith from barging in, that when the others come to see him they wore curated expressions.

"Still got your looks, if that's what you're concerned about," Allura laughed, mussing his hair affectionately.

Lance tried to lean into and enjoy the rare casual touch Allura graced him with. But the feeling that they were hiding something from him wouldn’t leave him alone. 

"Keith took one glance and bolted," Lance challenged. He hadn't been back either. That bothered him more than he cared to admit. 

She smiled softly. "I believe he feels at fault for what happened to you."

Lance's memory was pretty hazy at best, but he seemed to remember Keith saving him. "What are you not telling me?" 

Allura hummed thoughtfully. 

"I'm going to find Shiro." She raised a hand at Lance's protests. "He can explain it better than I can. I'm afraid I don't quite understand how you earthlings work. He wanted to be the one to tell you anyways."

"You're scaring me."

“It’s been a very scary time for all of us,” she agreed as she slipped out the door.

When Shiro walked in a few moments later his mouth was set at a grim angle. "Hey, champ. How are you feeling?"

Lance shrugged. "Arm hurts. I'm stuck in this room because you won't let me out of bed. And everybody is hiding something from me."

That came out a lot harsher than he had meant it. But he was frustrated. 

Shiro nodded somberly as he took a seat on the bed, facing him. "We should have had this talk earlier, I'm sorry. We wanted to give you a chance to get your strength back a little first. I understand your frustration, but I still stand by that decision."

Shiro placed a hand on his shoulder. "I think you know this, but we came so close to losing you. There was a stretch where we didn't think you would make it. "

"Hunk said Pidge nearly killed herself to save me."

"She gave more than she should have,” Shiro confirmed. “However, you needed more than she had to give. When it became clear she would bleed herself dry for you, we had to make a choice. Losing both of you was not an option."

Hunk had conveniently left out that bit. 

"But neither was losing either of you. So, as your senior officer, I made a decision. A decision that should have been yours. But in the moment I was so scared of losing you that I didn't care. I am sorry I took away your choice. But understand that I do not regret my actions. The important thing is that you're still here, the rest is details."

Shiro looked down at his mechanical hand. Flexing his metallic palm open and closed a couple times. He reached behind Lance to undo his cape. As it fell off his shoulders, Lance braced himself for what he expected to be a nasty scar.

Only there was no scar.

Because there was no arm.

“There was no saving it,” Shiro whispered after a moment. “I’m so sorry.”

Lance could feel his heart rate quicken as his breaths became shallower. He lost his arm. They cut off his arm! How was he supposed to shoot?How was he supposed to pilot his lion? He couldn’t be a paladin anymore. He couldn’t even return to his life before, not with one arm.

“When you’re further along in the healing process, we’ll get you outfitted with a prosthetic,” Shiro continued. “Coran claims my Galra tech is too clunky and that Altean tech is much better suited for prosthetics.”

Oh yeah. Shiro had lost his arm as well. He seemed to be doing just fine. Alien technology for the win. When he dreamed of following in Shiro’s footsteps, this isn’t quite what he imagined.

He forced a smile that he didn’t feel. “We’re twins.”

“Now back to that choice I made.”

Lance felt his stomach drop. There was more?

"As I said, Pidge alone couldn’t save you. But she wasn't the only one aboard with an O negative blood type. But given that Keith’s not all human we didn’t know how your body would tolerate this blood. But when it became clear that you need more, what choice did I have? Watch you die? Or pump you full of alien blood and watch that possibly kill you faster? Or possibly live? At least you had a chance. So I gave the order. I didn’t even ask him.”

Was that why Keith couldn’t stand him? Because he stole his blood?

Shiro sucked in a big breath before slowly letting it go. “It saved your life, but there were…side effects.”

“Side effects?”

Shiro handed him a pocket mirror.

He caught a flash of yellow, glowing, pupil-less eyes from a familiar face.

“He turned me into a quiznacking Galra!”

Medraut had set his broken knee, but had never stopped walking on it, and the rolling motion of the ship made clear how badly it had healed. He had been last on board to minimize the chances of someone recognizing him, and was standing at the ship's railing as they departed. The transition from the calm harbor to the open sea had pitched the ship forward; his knee had buckled under him and sent him crashing to the deck before he could recover.

He went to sit in the hold, where the motion of the ship was less, until he recovered from the fall. There would be a large bruise where his hip had hit the deck. That hardly mattered; the shock of falling at all was what had rattled him. He had had plenty of experience keeping his legs steady aboard a ship.

He could not stay for long. The hold was too low for him to stand straight, and besides, Goewin was on deck. He could not keep watch from here. It was unlikely anyone would attack in daylight, but once the sun set she would be in danger. Medraut straightened his bad leg and massaged the knee. It might be best to wrap it, but he did not want to display any physical weakness. He would leave it for now and hope his sea legs returned quickly.

On deck the other passengers were already claiming space for their blankets. It took some doing to find a place with a clear line of sight to Goewin and near the other end of the ship where she was unlikely to see him. He was settled and almost done eating his supper when two men approached Goewin, walking quickly. Medraut shot to his feet; his knee buckled again and slammed into the deck.

The men turned out to only merchants, hoping to do some business as they traveled. But this moment would flash through Medraut's mind months later, collapsed to one knee again as he watched a lion approach his son.

La porte de la chambre de Holmes était toujours fermée ; il toqua avec vigueur. Pas de réponse. Il tourna la poignée. Les rideaux tirés filtraient la lumière qui provenait des becs-de-gaz allumés dans la rue, et plongeaient la pièce dans une obscurité confuse.

Holmes était allongé de tout son long en travers du lit, les pieds pendant à l’extérieur. La jambe de son pantalon noir était restée roulée au-dessus du genou, sans doute pour ne pas irriter son mollet mâché. Dormait-il ?

John s’approcha pour le réveiller, quand une canne s'interposa. Il soupira.

« Holmes, laissez-moi examiner votre blessure. Il va falloir changer le pansement.

– Merci, Watson, vos soins ne sont pas requis ici. Vous en avez bien assez fait.

– Je ne m’excuserai pas de vous avoir sauvé la vie.

– S’il s’agissait de cela ! rétorqua le détective d’un ton de mépris suprême. Mais vous vous montez la tête. L’an dernier, deux femmes ont survécu alors qu’elles ont été vaccinées trois jours après leur morsure. Les recommandations de vos journaux de praticien trahissent la frilosité de vos confrères, car les constats de la science…

– Les constats de la science sont que beaucoup trop de gens meurent parce qu’ils n’ont pas été vaccinés assez vite, Holmes. Si vous regrettez de n’être pas de leur nombre, il ne tiendra qu’à vous d’y remédier en courant les animaleries pour vous faire épouillé par un macaque contaminé ! Cela ne changera guère de votre ordinaire. En attendant... »

Il posa une main sur l’épaule noueuse de son ami, bien décidé à finir ce pour quoi il avait navigué les écueils du capharnaüm sans nom qui lui servait de chambre, quand celui-ci se retourna vivement.

Holmes lui jeta un regard qu’il voulait certainement indigné, prélude au deuxième mouvement de ses récriminations, mais qu’il peinait à fixer. Ses iris presque noirs s’étaient troublés comme un mauvais goudron et le blanc de ses yeux brillait d’un éclat de fièvre.

John s’empressa d’autant plus d’examiner le pansement ; ce dernier s’était imbibé de sang et devait être refait, mais les bords de la morsure n’avaient pas gonflé et les muscles n’étaient pas échauffés. La fièvre ne venait pas de là.

Restaient l’autre hypothèse. John avait espéré que la constitution plus que solide de Holmes – laquelle résistait quotidiennement aux assauts des criminels, de la boxe, de l’alcool et de la cocaïne, pour ne citer qu’eux – lui aurait épargné ce type de réaction au vaccin, mais ils n’auraient pas cette chance.

Il n’y avait malheureusement rien d’autre à faire que d’attendre que ça passe. Une chose que John avait répétée à des centaines de familles inquiètes au cours de sa carrière, qui recevaient ce conseil avec un air de perplexité dont il ressentait aujourd’hui les échos dans ses nerfs irrités. En réponse, il détaillait en général une liste d’instructions, qui servaient davantage à les occuper qu’à accélérer la guérison de leurs proches – des efforts palliatifs à tout le moins.

Donner à boire : ce qui impliqua de se lancer dans la quête d’un verre à eau propre, mission qui exigea un examen attentif des résidus suspects qui adhéraient trop souvent au fond des gobelets, des flasques et autres brocs qui traînaient sur les étagères et les tables dans la chambre de Holmes, comme dans tout l’appartement. Il s’agissait de ne pas abreuver le détective avec l’un des poisons qu’il s’ingéniait lui-même à répliquer ou à inventer. D’ordinaire, John contournait ce risque en ne buvant que les boissons apportées au moment des repas par Mrs Hudson, mais il n’avait guère l’énergie d’affronter leur logeuse revêche. Il se contenta de laver trois fois le verre qu’il trouva sur sa propre table de nuit avant d’obliger Holmes, qui était retombé dans une somnolence marmottante, à le boire.

Réduire la température de la pièce : une bonne excuse pour ouvrir la fenêtre de la chambre de Holmes et pour dissiper, en aérant, la fumée de pipe et les odeurs chimiques qui empestaient l’air et semblaient vous brûler les poumons.

Surveiller la fièvre : cette veille régulière plaça John dans la situation peu commune de lutter lui-même contre le sommeil tandis que son ami sombrait dans les bras de Morphée – d’ordinaire, la discipline militaire qu’il avait durement acquise lui permettait au contraire de maintenir des heures de coucher raisonnables, même quand Holmes se livrait à d’improbables entreprises aux improbables horaires. Cette fois-ci, le médecin resta en alerte jusqu’à minuit pour prendre la température de son ami et constata avec inquiétude qu’elle continuait de grimper.

Calmer le malade et l’inciter au repos : une entreprise qui se révéla difficile au matin, lorsque la léthargie de Holmes fut remplacée par une agitation confuse. Sa fièvre n’avait pas baissé, mais elle paraissait en revanche lui insuffler une énergie nouvelle et trompeuse, qui l’avait incité à déployer carnets, encre et porte-plume au milieu de son lit, depuis où il se livrait désormais à des spéculations cabalistiques dont John ne pouvait percer un seul mot, quoiqu’il imaginât bien qu’elles concernassent la retraite actuelle de Miss Irene Adler. Il grimaça en voyant les taches noires projetées sur les draps comme une constellation destinée à enrager Mrs Hudson.

La négligence de Holmes à l’endroit de la literie, que sa maladie aurait pu excuser si elle ne s’était pas manifestée déjà si fréquemment dans d’autres circonstances, l’arrangeait d’autant moins qu’il allait lui falloir solliciter l’aide de la matrone : il avait trop perdu aux cartes la semaine dernière pour s’autoriser à négliger sa patientèle un second jour d’affilée, car Mrs Hudson ne serait certes pas plus contente s’il manquait de lui payer le loyer dû dans trois jours.

La logeuse, venue porter le petit-déjeuner, demeura de marbre lorsque John lui expliqua en quoi il avait à nouveau besoin de son aide (en lui exposant ses raisons dans une version expurgée des considérations pécuniaires), avant d’accepter avec un unique soupir.

Même un joueur invétéré comme John savait reconnaître quand il s’en tirait à bon compte… et il fila sans demander son reste, avec l’espoir que son cabinet ne lui apporterait ce jour-là rien de plus grave que des rhumes et des entorses.

Hélas, son vœu ne fut pas exaucé.

Il ne put rentrer qu’à la nuit tombante, après une visite à domicile harassante et dont la triste conclusion l’emplissait d’un souci funeste. S’il avait sous-estimé le danger de la fièvre de Holmes ? Si Mrs Hudson était descendue chercher John pendant qu’il était sorti ?

Il s’imaginait tant de drames qu’il fut surpris par l’expression sereine de la vieille dame, qu’il retrouva assise sur le sofa, la posture impeccable comme toujours. Elle tenait un livre à la main, qu’elle abaissa en souriant tandis qu’il fermait la porte d’entrée.

Il en reconnut le titre à l’envers : c’était Les Mille Manières ingénieuses de faire disparaître un voisin, par le lieutenant de police Adam Bloosburry, anciennement en poste dans les Cotswold.

Son étonnement augmenta encore quand il parcourut du regard le reste de la pièce : le sol était recouvert de journaux dépliés et d’articles découpés, parmi lesquels on reconnaissait les manchettes du Times et du Strand, mais aussi les caractères raffinés de revues artistiques et la couverture d’un livret d’opéra. Un dossier en carton brun ouvert, destiné à accueillir cette sélection, éparpillait pour le moment son contenu sur le tapis aux pieds du canapé. Enroulé comme un chat autour de son trésor, Holmes s’était endormi à même le sol. Son dos reposait contre la jupe impeccable de Mrs Hudson, qui avait visiblement glissé un oreiller sous sa tête et jeté une couverture sur ses épaules.

« Sa fièvre est tombée dans l’après-midi et j’ai pensé qu’il valait mieux le laisser dormir. »

Le sourire qu’elle échangea avec John trahissait son amusement, ainsi qu’une bonne dose d’affection, qu’elle n’aurait jamais rendue perceptible si son locataire avait été conscient.

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Thank you for reading! I've also posted this to Ao3, where I'll be cataloguing all of my works for this month! I also have 3 other WIP fics, so if you enjoy my works please go show some love over there or feel free to shoot me an ask!