The man holding him up by his shoulders has his eyes crinkled and his lips tight together as if trying to imitate a smirk but it is an absolute failure. There is no humor in his expression whatsoever. If he is some sort of spy or actor, he is a bad one. “You’re joking,” he says, attempting confidence, but his voice is deep and at its lowest registers it wavers.
“I’m afraid not. Would you get your hands off of me, please? I assure you I am capable of sitting up on my own, thank you,” he says back.
The man does not remove his hands. “My God,” he says, voice somehow even lower, low enough that if it was louder, it might make the room move, the heavens cloud. It’s a fanciful thought and who knows where it comes from, but the stranger has eyes the colour of the sky the day before a storm. “Anthea, when…when did he go missing?”
The woman (Anthea, if this stranger is to believed, which is doubtful) does not look up from her phone. “A month ago,” she says. Her voice is flat.
“What does he know?”
“I’m right here,” he says.
The man lets go and steps back from the hospital bed. He tilts his head up to look at the ceiling. “He just woke up?”
“About ten minutes ago. I wondered if you wanted to – to tell him.”
“No,” the man says – his voice is thicker now. He is not far from crying. Interesting. Perhaps he is some sort of spy or actor, the sort with so many layers of deception it’s hard to tell where the character ends. “I don’t think he’d want to hear it from me.”
“Who then?” the woman asks.
“No one – no one else, then?”
“No.”
“You do it,” he says, and closes his eyes. His lashes glimmer under the fluorescents. Tears. “Please tell Mycroft—“
The man tilts his head towards the floor, now, and rubs the bridge of his nose with his thumb. His posture is perfect, as if he is some soldier ready to march, or some virtuoso ready to perform, but perhaps he is merely an actor at the top of his game.
“Tell Mycroft about himself, I suppose.”
And then he leaves.
His name might be Mycroft. He can’t think of a convincing reason for them to go so far as to forge an identity for him. Then again, he knows nothing now. Nothing besides an ache in his head and the faces of the doctors and the woman (perhaps Anthea) and the man (perhaps Sherlock.)
“Well then,” she says, and sits like a secretary might, but the way she holds herself suggests something dangerous. “Sir, where would you like me to start?”
To Know Nothing [errant comment fill]
“I’m afraid not. Would you get your hands off of me, please? I assure you I am capable of sitting up on my own, thank you,” he says back.
The man does not remove his hands. “My God,” he says, voice somehow even lower, low enough that if it was louder, it might make the room move, the heavens cloud. It’s a fanciful thought and who knows where it comes from, but the stranger has eyes the colour of the sky the day before a storm. “Anthea, when…when did he go missing?”
The woman (Anthea, if this stranger is to believed, which is doubtful) does not look up from her phone. “A month ago,” she says. Her voice is flat.
“What does he know?”
“I’m right here,” he says.
The man lets go and steps back from the hospital bed. He tilts his head up to look at the ceiling. “He just woke up?”
“About ten minutes ago. I wondered if you wanted to – to tell him.”
“No,” the man says – his voice is thicker now. He is not far from crying. Interesting. Perhaps he is some sort of spy or actor, the sort with so many layers of deception it’s hard to tell where the character ends. “I don’t think he’d want to hear it from me.”
“Who then?” the woman asks.
“No one – no one else, then?”
“No.”
“You do it,” he says, and closes his eyes. His lashes glimmer under the fluorescents. Tears. “Please tell Mycroft—“
The man tilts his head towards the floor, now, and rubs the bridge of his nose with his thumb. His posture is perfect, as if he is some soldier ready to march, or some virtuoso ready to perform, but perhaps he is merely an actor at the top of his game.
“Tell Mycroft about himself, I suppose.”
And then he leaves.
His name might be Mycroft. He can’t think of a convincing reason for them to go so far as to forge an identity for him. Then again, he knows nothing now. Nothing besides an ache in his head and the faces of the doctors and the woman (perhaps Anthea) and the man (perhaps Sherlock.)
“Well then,” she says, and sits like a secretary might, but the way she holds herself suggests something dangerous. “Sir, where would you like me to start?”