Routine Procedure

“Daddy!”

Michael grabbed up Krystie in one arm and lifted her up. He kissed her on the cheek. “Have you been well-behaved while I was gone, sweetie?”

She nodded coyly. “Daddy,” she said tentatively, her fingers playing with his tie. “Uncle Morgan came home hurt.”

“Hurt? Badly hurt?”

“He wouldn't let us near him. Not even Mr. Holmes.”

Michael took a deep breath. “I'm sure he'll be okay, love.”

“What happened to your arm?”

“Nothing serious. I got a small injury and will need to wear a sling while it heals.”

Michael put Krystie down and walked inside. The servents were taken aback by his visible injury. Michael smiled pleasantly and greeted them individually on the way to the third floor. The head butler was busily inspecting the dust layers on a sculpture in the hall. Michael whistled sharply. The servent quickly came to attention. “Welcome home, sir.”

“Thank you, Gilbert. As you can see, I'm somewhat incapacitated and will need someone to serve as a valet until my arm heals.”

“I'll see to it immediately.”

Michael nodded and continued on to Morgan's apartment. Michael found him hunched up on the floor of his bathroom. Some blood had seeped to the floor, but Morgan was still wearing his cloak and God only knew how much was being collected in the shadow void. “Morgan?” he said quietly, while kneeling.

“Did not mean to come here...”

Morgan's voice was faint. Michael lifted up the edge of the cloak. Morgan's viscera was visible from the top of his ribcage to his bladder. He'd been flayed open. Michael almost subconsiously started chanting while collecting his brother into his good arm. When he's done, a thin, almost translucent skin had formed over the exposed areas. Michael unclasps the cloak and drags Morgan off of it. He folds it as best he can and puts it away. When he looks towards the bedroom door, Holmes is standing there.

“He's badly injured,” Michael said without preamble or emotion. “He needs to be taken to the infirmiry.”

Holmes merely nodded acknowledgement and left. Michael went back to his brother's side. “Was it Sethiel?” he asks.

“Yes, she flayed me with a healing knife.”

Michael gently stroked Morgan's temple with his thumb. “I would take you to your bed if I were able to lift you.”

Morgan's eyelids fluttered. “I was told you lost your arm.”

Michael shook his head vocally. “No, I slipped and fell on a stairway. Overflexed my elbow. Nothing serious.”

Michael felt a sympathetic pain shoot through his chest as Morgan coughed. Some foamy blood came up at the corners of Morgan's mouth. Morgan lingered far past the point most people would have died from shock. Michael realized sickeningly that he was denied even the comfort of being unconscious right now. Morgan tried to lift his arm to touch his brother's hand. The hand shudderingly moved halfway before it collapsed and Morgan pulled into a tighter ball of pain.

Michael slipped off his sling and shifted around Morgan, then lay down on the floor next to him. He worked his good arm under Morgan's body and pulled him into an embrace. Pain shot from his wrist to his shoulder. He ignored it. He held Morgan closely until he heard his breathing shift to a sleeping pattern. He gently pulled his tender arm back to himself while continuing to cradle using the other. The embrace was comforting to both, reminiscent of how they would sleep from cradle to adulthood.