Mycroft stepped out of the black sedan onto the pathway outside 221B. For the briefest of moments, his shoulders slumped and his weariness was obvious to anyone who happened to be looking his way. With resolve, he straightened his back, tapping his umbrella on the sidewalk once before entering the building standing before him. It wouldn't do to let Sherlock see how very tired he was. His brother would never let him hear the end of it. Starting up the steps, the government official could almost hear his brother's voice, "Tired, Mycroft? How very pedestrian. I don't need sleep, not like you, not like ordinary people." He grimaced and lifted his foot to the next step.
On the landing, Mycroft rapped on the door with his umbrella. It swung open, silently, onto an empty flat. He swore at the faulty surveillance. Exhausted by the political upheaval of the last four days and worried by his brother's latest escapade, Mycroft decided to have a seat and wait. He was running on just a handful of hours' sleep and nothing was more unappealing than hunting down Sherlock and John. Let them come to him. He took a seat on the sofa and closed his eyes, just for a moment, mind. The umbrella slipped from his fingers as his head tipped forward onto his chest, sleep claiming him completely.
Sherlock flew up the stairs, high on adrenaline and the thrill of the chase. There was another mystery solved and another killer behind bars. He came to a screeching halt in the open doorway to the flat, his hand held out behind him in a cautionary fashion. "There's no need for that," he whispered, knowing John was reaching for his SIG.
"Sherlock, what..."
"Hush, John," he admonished, his voice going oddly soft.
A snorting, snuffling sound came from the living room and John craned his neck, trying to see around his giraffe of a flatmate. "Who is it?" the doctor asked.
Rather than answering, Sherlock stepped into the room, looking at the figure slumped awkwardly on the sofa. He observed the dark bags under his brother's eyes and the fine lines of tension that were, even now, plainly visible around Mycroft's mouth. Speaking so softly that John barely heard, the detective said, "Oh, brother dear. It's not so easy, is it?"
What his friend meant by that, John didn't know. He didn't have long to wonder, though, as Sherlock surprised him by crouching down and removing his brother's shoes. The sleeping government official murmured something incoherent, his head lolling to the side as he nearly woke.
"Sh, sh," Sherlock soothed. "It's alright, My. Go back to sleep." As soon as his brother settled the detective eased him down onto the sofa and lifted his legs up onto the cushions. He paused a moment as Mycroft muttered again then quieted. Standing, Sherlock looked around and found a blanket. He shook it out and draped it over his brother's sleeping form. Mycroft gave a little snuffle and rolled onto his back. A raucous snoring commenced. Sherlock smiled. "Sleep tight, big brother."
John stood there, mouth agape and a large lump stuck in his throat.
The detective turned to face him, looking guarded. "Problem?" he challenged, defensively.
Clearing his throat, the doctor replied. "No. No problem. How about a cuppa?"
Sherlock looked relieved. "Yes," he replied as snappishly as he could manage without risking rousing Mycroft.
John shook his head. Holmeses, he thought fondly. There was simply no predicting them.