Work Text:
WEDNESDAY
MARCH 14, 2007
" 'You may place considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir,' said the police agent loftily. 'He has his own little methods, which are, if he won't mind me saying so, just a little too theoretical and fantastic, but he has the makings of a detective in him. It is not too much. . .' " 1
James's reading was interrupted by a familiar, if somewhat groggy voice. "Whozit?"
Closing the book and placing it in his lap, James asked cautiously, hopefully, "Robbie?"
"Yeah?" came the hesitant reply.
A smile pulled at James's mouth, the first one in hours. "It's me."
"Me who?" Robbie slowly, carefully, turned his head on the pillow to face the owner of the voice, his eyes blinking open in the bright hospital lighting. "James? What are you doing here?" Squinting, he looked around the sterile room-- at the beeping machines, the vase of flowers on a nearby table, down at the stiff white sheets and beige blanket-covered bed--then back at the man sitting beside him. "Where's here?"
"Radcliffe," James answered. "Laura rang and told me what happened. I wanted to make sure you were okay." He left out mentioning he had run the whole way to the hospital, forgetting in his panicked state that he could have taken a bus or even flagged down a cab.
"Rad. . .?" Robbie began to say, then trailed off. "Oh, yeah, the, um. . .incident. That why I feel so bad?"
James barely refrained from rolling his eyes at that as he scoffed, "Incident, he says. Really, Robbie. . .tackling a fleeing knife-wielding suspect at your age can hardly be called an 'incident'." Sarcasm warred with concern in James's voice.
Robbie weakly waved his right hand around, as if trying to brush away the words, causing his IV lead to dance in the wind. "Leave me age out of it. Tell me that they caught the bastard."
This time the eyeroll would not be denied. "According to Lizzie, yes they did. He's cooling his heels at the station as we speak, facing a myriad of charges."
"Mission accomplished then." Robbie's hand dropped back onto the bed, his store of energy spent.
"Yes, and only one knife wound as payment." Sarcasm had apparently won the battle. "You can't keep risking your life like that, Robbie. You don't want Teddy to grow up without his Pop-pop."
" ‘Tis a scratch," Robbie stated, causing James to suddenly picture his friend as Monty Python's Black Knight. It was a disturbing thought. "No need to make a big fuss."
"A scratch that took ten stitches and emergency surgery to mend. The scar will be impressive."
"I've had worse." And the Black Knight image was complete.
"No one expects the Spanish Inquisition," James shot back in a deadpan voice.
Robbie gave him a confused look. "What are you on about?"
"I thought we were exchanging Monty Python quotes."
"You're an odd bird, Hathaway."
"Blame it on the lack of nicotine." Giving Robbie a little smirk, he added, "What I do for you."
"Your sacrifice is duly noted." As if his brain finally caught up with his hearing, Robbie asked, "Hang on, you've heard from me sergeant?"
"Who do you think dropped off the flowers?" James replied, as he jerked his chin at the vase. "Gift from your squad. She popped by earlier, but you were out like a light. She also asked me to pass along that Chief Superintendent Innocent wants to have a word with you when you're up on your feet."
"Not really an incentive to leave this bed then." Robbie gave a short, dry cough.
Seeing Robbie's discomfort, James dropped the snarky act. "Thirsty?" he asked, concerned.
"Very."
"Here. Let me." With that, James reached over and poured a glass of water from the small pitcher on the nightstand and placed it in Robbie's hands.
"Ta." Robbie took a long drink and sighed, happily. "And how is it you've been allowed to stay? I thought only family could get in."
"I told them I was your spiritual advisor." James touched the white collar at his throat. "Rank does have its privileges."
Robbie barked out a loud laugh, then winced, grabbing his bandaged side with his free hand. "Don't make me laugh, man. Please."
"Sorry."
Draining the water glass, Robbie set it back on the table next to his bed. "So you lied to the medical staff?"
"It was only a small lie. I'm sure my Lord will forgive me." James flashed a lightning-quick grin. "He was big on healing the sick, after all."
"But you're not healin', you're readin'." At that, Robbie paused and studied James for a few moments, his expression that of a man trying to work out a puzzle. "Hang on a tic. Were you readin' to me?" he asked, as if the notion was too weird to be true.
James held up the book he had indeed been reading from. " 'The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes'. I found it in the gift shop. Thought you'd appreciate it more than King James."
"Very considerate of you."
"And I also came bearing gifts." James bent over and dug into the plastic bag sitting on the floor near his chair. He pulled out a bag of Walkers Cheese and Onion crisps and presented it with great fanfare. "Couldn't smuggle in a pint, I'm afraid."
Robbie grinned as he took the bag. "It's the thought that counts. You can buy the first round when I break free of this place."
"Deal."
"So, how long have you been hanging around here anyway?"
"Just a couple of hours." James hoped the words sounded nonchalant, and not as if he had been praying furiously with his whole heart and soul since hearing Robbie had been injured and rushed to A&E. "Lyn is on her way down from Manchester, and I didn't want you to wake up alone."
"Well, that was nice of you, but I'm fine," Robbie insisted. "You don't have to babysit."
"What if I want to?" James asked, curiously and honestly.
James couldn't say when Robert Lewis had become so dear to him. Such an infuriating, ingratiating, exasperating, generous man. With his friendly smile and comforting presence and ridiculous Geordie accent. Always happiest when he was confounding James and challenging everything he believed in. They had only known each other a few months now, and already James couldn't imagine how dull and empty his life would be without Robbie in it.
Today had been a close call, too close. He had no plans on letting his friend out of his sight for the foreseeable future, if he could help it.
Robbie just shook his head and chuckled fondly. "Stubborn git."
"That's me. Oh, and I've got something else for you." James slipped his hand into his pocket of his black jacket and pulled out a keychain with a small pewter disk, which he placed on the bedside table next to the empty water glass. "St. Michael, the patron saint of police officers," he explained. "Dedicated to justice and protection. I figure he's got his work cut out with you."
"Har-har. And you just happened to be carryin' it around with you?"
James shrugged. "I've been wanting to give it to you for a while. This seemed like a fitting time." In truth, James had held off on presenting it for so long, worried that Robbie wouldn't want it, knowing the man's disdain for religion. It wasn't James's fault he saw so much of the venerable archangel in Robbie, a dedicated warrior in the battle of good against evil .
Putting the bag of chips on the table, Robbie picked up the medallion and examined it intently, his thumb rubbing over the raised image of the sword-bearing avenging angel. Glancing back up at James, he smiled. "Thank you," he said, sincerely. "That was very thoughtful."
And no, James Hathaway absolutely did not feel a flutter in the pit of his stomach at Robbie's reaction. "I try my best," he replied, easily, not wanting Robbie to know just how scared he had been since receiving Laura's phone call. The only thing his friend should be concentrating on right now was healing.
His musings were derailed by Robbie giving a big yawn, the excitement of the day--not to mention the generous amounts of painkillers in his body--seemingly catching up with him. "You should get some rest before Lyn gets here," James instructed, gently. "I promise not to convert you while you're asleep."
Robbie, whose eyelids had already started to droop, didn't even put up a fight. "Sounds like a plan to me." Snuggling down under the covers, St. Michael medal still clutched in his hand, he managed to mumble, " 'The Blue Carbuncle'. I like that one."
"As you wish." And no, James absolutely didn’t just quote 'The Princess Bride'. Nope. Not at all. Sending up a silent word of gratitude to God for answering his prayers, he opened the book to the desired story and began to read, " 'I had called upon my friend Sherlock Holmes upon the second morning after Christmas, with the intention of wishing him the compliments of the season. . .' " 2
THE END