Part III

Matthew considers it no small miracle that somehow he, Alfred and Arthur had managed to return to the flat in Baker Street later that night without Alfred expressing, in his usual loud and physical, manner, his extreme discontent with Arthur concerning the events that transpired at Blackwood's house.

However, that did not mean the tension around them since the good doctor had left after treating Arthur had eased. On the contrary, it had only worsened. Oh, they were not arguing loudly, as Alfred and Arthur are wont to do when they have rows, but Matthew knows from experience that all their frustration and anger are seething under an increasingly thin layer of politeness.

Alfred's anger and concern over the independent consulting detective's actions that had led to his near brush with death was very much palpable earlier, with his usual pleasant, jovial manner replaced with grim frowns, sharp, curt words directed at his twin and everyone else unfortunate enough to cross him in his bad temper, and narrow-eyed glares thrown at Arthur's and Matthew's direction.

In the carriage, Alfred continues to eye their former guardian with a look of helplessness and frustration, as if he would love nothing more on this Earth than to put his hands around Arthur's neck and throttle the life out of him to end their misery. Arthur, for most part, is very much intent on ignoring him, resolutely gazing out of the window throughout the drive, never once looking at them.

But then, perhaps more than divine interventions, Alfred's and Arthur's reticence may be because of Arthur's present state. It makes Matthew's heart clench, the sight before him, of Arthur's skin so pale, stark-white linen dressing wrapped 'round his head, yet still sitting in his characteristic stiff, straight-backed pose—Matthew would have preferred to have him leaning comfortably in his seat, but he knew his former guardian well enough to know Arthur would resist such suggestions, so he let him be rather than risk sparking a potential explosive argument among them—the occasional tightening of his glove-clad fingers around his silver-tipped cane's handle the only clue that he suffers any kind of discomfort brought about by the wound from Blackwood's bullet grazing the side of his head.

Matthew winces inwardly at the memory of Arthur's near brush with death just a few hours ago, the image of Arthur lying on the blood-soaked rug, unmoving and bleeding profusely still burned deeply into his consciousness. Had he been a minute too late in treating the wound and staunching the bleeding–

Stop it, Matthew, he tells himself firmly. Arthur did not die. Arthur is injured, but he lives. He tries to will himself to treat this event in the equable manner he always does when Arthur is injured, which was fairly often, but he could not. In all his years of being his companion and assistant, Matthew has never experienced Arthur being so close to death as he was in Blackwood's house.

"Danger, my dear boy, is but a daily part of a detective's life," Arthur had told him time and time again. And with Arthur the danger increased a tenfold; more often than not, the man had a healthy disregard for his own health and safety in his single-minded pursuit of a case, going on for days without food and sleep, or frequenting establishments and associating with people of questionable nature. These characteristics may give Arthur the edge against his rivals, but compound it with Arthur's drinking habits and oftimes headstrong nature and it is most assuredly an act of God that the man had not ruined himself to an early grave. Francis, who knew Arthur the longest, liked to ascribe Arthur's continuing good health to him having the luck of the devil, the stubbornness of a mule, and 'sweet Mathieu's good care'.

And look how well I did on that, Matthew thinks bitterly. Truth be told, one of the reasons Matthew had decided to become a doctor and be Arthur's assistant was so he could keep a better eye on his former guardian's health, but at the way he has been going about his duties has been horrendously appalling. His loss of composure in such a critical time had nearly cost Arthur his life, and only through Alfred's efforts did he regain his senses to help his former guardian in time.

At the thought of his twin brother, Matthew looks at his brother out of the corner of his eye and finds Alfred slouching on his seat, arms folded across his chest, now regarding Arthur with an inscrutable look. To most people, it would seem as Alfred was now simply sulking and acting indifferent, but Matthew knew better.

Matthew vividly remembers the terror in Alfred's face when Arthur would not wake up, shaken to the very core at the thought of their former guardian possibly slipping away into death without him being able to do anything to stop it, and how hard his brother squeezed his hand as the doctor examined the injured detective, seeking support and reassurance as he did before when they were young whenever Arthur came home badly hurt.

Between the twins, it is Alfred who has always dealt with Arthur's injuries and lack of concern for his health and safety the most badly, not hesitating to berate Arthur for his 'stupidity'. He did that earlier while Arthur was being treated, and this silence was only a respite from the inevitable quarrel, as Matthew is sure Alfred would argue with Arthur again on this matter when they were back in the flat.

Matthew could only hope Alfred would exercise more tact in admonishing Arthur this time (though knowing his twin, this is a highly improbable thing to happen).

The ride home is smooth so far, and Alfred maintained his deadpan expression, that is until Arthur gave an almost imperceptible wince of pain and swayed ever so slightly when the carriage jolted through potholes on the street. For a moment, so fleeting that Matthew would have thought he had imagined it happened at all, had he not known his twin's nature, the look was replaced with one of immense concern and alarm. Alfred's body tensed, a coiled spring ready to burst into action, and he leaned forward, as if he would reach out to catch and steady their former guardian should he fall, but before he could, Arthur caught and righted himself. Alfred then sank back to his seat into his former position, and glanced away from their former guardian, who appeared not to have noticed Alfred's actions.

Alfred did not look at Arthur again, and all was quiet and still until they reached Baker Street.

----

Though he knew he would be refused, Matthew still held out his hand to Arthur as an offer of assistance as he stepped out of the carriage. To his surprise, Arthur accepts his offer, grasping his hand with a surprisingly strong grip, and allows himself to be helped down, letting go of Matthew's hand as soon as his feet touched the ground.

Matthew tries to ignore the frown his twin sends him from behind Arthur, and focused instead on observing their former guardian, who had begun to briskly climb the seventeen steps that led to the sitting room on first floor and to Arthur's room, not even bothering to greet their startled landlady, who had opened the door at Arthur's vigorous ringing. Matthew follows hurriedly just behind him, though not before tipping his hat and smiling reassuringly to their landlady, who had paled when he saw Arthur's appearance. Alfred follows them at a more leisurely pace, his frown disappearing for a moment to grin charmingly at the landlady before heading up to the rooms.

Despite his bursts of strength, Arthur, Matthew observes, is paler than before, brow dewed with a fine sheen of sweat, eyes ringed dark with exhaustion. Matthew glances at his bandages, and with a quick once-over checks if blood is soaking through the dressing, and is relieved it was not so. He'd have to examine and clean Arthur's wound later, and he hopes that the man would be sensible enough to be cooperative. The consulting detective has never been the easiest of patients.

"Please cease looking as if I would collapse at any moment, Matthew," says Arthur in his crisp, cutting voice as he pauses in front of the door to open it. He glances over his shoulder, looking at Matthew with a disgruntled expression. Matthew felt his cheeks grow warm with embarrassment; Arthur could always read him like a book. "And while I'm well aware of the good doctor's orders, I intend comport myself as I see sufficient."

"You mean you're going to be a difficult, inconsiderate ass the whole time, isn't that so?" Alfred says in an acerbic manner that makes Matthew tense and hold his breath. He knew that tone well. Alfred was spoiling for a fight, an argument, anything familiar that would dispel this suffocating tension around them and shift them back into their normal pattern of behaviour. In most occasions, this would have worked, but today, Matthew realizes with growing dread, there far too much things simmering and shifting underneath for anyone of them to leave unscathed, figuratively and literally.

Arthur merely glares at Alfred, refusing to rise to the bait, and heads for the sideboard to pour himself a glass of water, Matthew is relieved to see (he was afraid Alfred would go for the scotch or the brandy). Most of the time, at this point, they would all sit down and discuss the case, but they all chose to remain standing up, a tense silence between them.

After a few moments, Alfred broke through the silence, thought at hindsight Matthew wished he had just kept his mouth shut. "From this day on, you're not allowed to take part on any official police business," he blurted out.

Arthur merely raised his brows, and his lips curved into that arrogant smirk that would only serve to infuriate Alfred. "Somehow, I doubt you have the authority to prevent me from doing so, considering how inept Scotland Yard is in solving crimes–"

"That is not the reason why you're not–This is not about you being able to solve a case or not," Alfred cuts in, voice cold, fingers curling into fists. He takes an aggressive step toward Arthur, and jabs a finger into the air in his direction. "This is because you're far too irresponsible, disobeying orders and breaking protocol–"

Arthur snorts in disbelief. "You dare lecture me on the matter of responsibility and obedience when you yourself–"

"You could have died!" Alfred shouts, voice loud enough to reverberate across the room, rattling the glass on the windows. "You got shot and would have bled to death, and all of this could have avoided had you told us that you suspected someone was hiding in that room! You knew Blackwood has no qualms on using violence to get what he wants—he killed Lord Greymail by bludgeoning him to death–"

"–that was actually the work of his accomplice–"

"That is not the point I am trying to make! Nor is that information relevant in this argument." Alfred rakes his fingers through his hair in frustration, looking as if he would like nothing better than to grab Arthur by the shoulders and shake him hard, injury or no. "God, Arthur, you don't even see it, do you? You could have died, and your death would have been on my head–"

Arthur's lips curl to an ugly sneer, his tone heavy with scorn. "Ah, I see, this is about my death possibly tarnishing your pristine reputation in the force. We can't have anyone dying at Detective Inspector Jones' watch, can we?"

"Arthur!" Matthew says sharply in a voice filled with reproach and distress as he recoils at Arthur's callousness. "How could you even think that's what important to Alfred–"

"That's enough, Mattie," Alfred interrupts in the quiet voice he has when he is beyond furious but is holding back his temper as best as he could. He puts his shaking hand on Matthew's shoulder and turns to Arthur with an expression of pure contempt. "I don't care if you chose to endanger yourself, but I won't have it that you endanger other, especially my brother as well with your thoughtlessness."

"How dare you!" Arthur's face contorts with rage, and he strides towards Alfred, then stops himself when he was a feet or so away. "I would never endanger Matthew's safety in–"

"You do, and you have! Often, too." It was Alfred's turn to snort in disbelief. "Francis was right about you. I didn't believe it until now, but you really are an inconsiderate, selfish, heartless bastard. You don't care at all if you or anyone else gets hurt as long as you get your way."

Matthew lets out a quiet gasp at Alfred's words. Arthur had gone impossibly white, and for a moment Matthew could see in his eyes that he was hurt, but immediately after his green eyes turn as hard as agates, and Matthew feared Arthur would strike his twin and they would come to blows. But instead, Arthur, jaw clenched tight, merely turned his back to Alfred and strode to his desk, yanking open a desk drawer and taking out a silver flask.

"Arthur…"

"Please see the detective inspector out, Matthew, if you would be so kind," Arthur said, his voice almost inhumanly calm and unaffected. "I believe we have wasted enough of his precious time. I'm sure he has more important matters to deal with." Then, without waiting for Matthew's reply, he goes to his bedroom, slamming the door shut loudly and with such force the flat shook.

"But Arthur–!" Matthew calls out, his stomach growing heavy with dread and worry. If he let Arthur be, he could lock himself in his rooms for days, drinking brandy from that hated flask, and refuse to go out and be treated. His wound could get infected and fester! He whips round to Alfred to berate him for antagonising Arthur in his current condition, but the words did not come out when he saw the look of wretched misery on his face, his eyes bright with what seemed to Matthew as unshed tears. Swallowing the lump lodged in his throat, Matthew finds himself torn between hitting his brother and pulling him into a tight embrace.

"Alfred–" he begins to say, but his brother raises a hand to silence him. "Don't say it, Mattie. I'm right. He knows it, I know it."

Matthew only gives him a sad smile, touches Alfred's cheek, and wonders for the umpteenth time how is it that have it in them to hurt the ones we they care for the most. "No," he says quietly. "I don't think you mean what you said."

Alfred frowns at the touch, and then he turns his back to him. "I'm going back to my rooms. I need to get up early and write those reports." He pauses from opening the door and looks over his shoulder. "You can come with me if you like. Not that I care."

Matthew stares at his brother for a moment, and then turns to Arthur's still shut door, considering his options. "I'll come with you," he says finally, and follows his twin brother out of the room.

TBC

Notes:

Well fuck this got too long. And probably does not make much sense. IDK.

Detective inspectors in England are "equal in rank to their uniformed counterparts, the prefix 'detective' identifying them as having been trained in criminal investigation and being part of or attached to their force's Criminal Investigation Department." Alfred's a bit young for the position, but he rose rather fast through the ranks.