AN: This was a prompt given to me by Jokergirl4ever! And is my first time ever writing in this fandom. Honest and constructive feedback would be loved.
John swallows back the hurt and the guilt he feels as he watches Sherlock cuddle into his older brother. It's his fault the consulting detective is hurt. It's his fault. The thought circles around him mind for what must be the thousandth time as he watches Mycroft, Iceman Mycroft, run his fingers through Sherlock's curly hair. Gently straightening out the curls, and patting them down like an older sibling should do when trying to soothe a younger one to sleep. John is the one who forced Sherlock out of the flat, to keep the bored genius from destroying it. He's the one wh-
"When you are quite done with your pity party, Doctor Watson, I would like your medical assistance."
Those soft-spoken words jar John out of his spiralling thoughts and he stands to hurry to Mycroft. They both ignore the rust colored stains on their clothes. Head wounds bleed an awful amount, making a cut look like a bullet hole. One bleary gray eye opens and even concussed he is deducing John.
"What's wrong?" he asks Mycroft, once he has his emotions back under control. The elder Holmes holds out the hand he was using to stroke Sherlock's hair. The wrist attached to the hand that he slammed into the face of the man who hurt his little brother in a rare show of emotion because fucking hell do head wounds bleed.
"It's a bit stiff."
Gently John takes the wrist in hand, ignoring the sleep-slurred 'no my Myc' from Sherlock. He squeezes and feels the bones carefully, there are no obvious breaks in the wrist and just to make sure John checks Mycroft's hand as well.
"There are no obvious breaks in your wrist, which is good. That doesn't mean it's not sprained or bruised. Can't tell you for sure without an x-ray. Try not to move it and icing it will be your best bet."
"Ta, Doctor Watson," is said to his retreating back. John goes to the fridge, grabs an ice pack from the freezer which he wraps in a hand towel. In the doorway between the kitchen and living room, he pauses to take in the sight of the brother. His breath catches momentarily as he remembers the panic he felt when Greg called him up. Sherlock finally told the wrong man his deduction about his wife, and the man lunged at him before the other inspectors could stop him. He remembers showing up just in time to see Mycroft punch the man and nearly have a heart attack. Sherlock the prat, with half his face covered in blood, was insisting he was fine but at the same time swaying away from anyone who tried to touch him. He wouldn't even let John touch him, which hurts more than the good doctor likes to admit. In fact, the only person allowed to touch the bleeding and bruised man was his brother. John was demoted from carer to instruction giver, guiding the ginger haired government man in how to give aid.
With a fond sigh and a shake of his head, John pulls himself together again and walks over to Mycroft. Carefully he places the ice pack on the now swelling wrist. Mycroft jumps before giving John a forced smile.
"Ta."
The short blond nods and goes to his chair. The tea he made before all the excitement is now cold but the cup feels nice and familiar in his hands. Grounding almost as he makes mental plans for his patients.
"Familiarity," Mycroft speaks up, making John pause in his plans.
"What?"
"Familiarity. While you and even the Detective Inspector are close to him you are not familiar. Which is why he made it obvious to me and made even more clear by his behavior that he did not and still does not want anyone else around him… Give him time."
Left with that nugget to ingest John watches as Mycroft follows his little brother into sleep. He will need to take off the ice pack in ten minutes to let it warm up and Mycroft will need to be woken up in an hour to wake up Sherlock to do the necessary concussion checks but for now, he will sit back and enjoy the sight of his best friend snuggling with his brother. Knowing that this is a rare sight.