John Watson sank heavily into his chair. Sleep had all but eluded him since the death of his wife, Mary, to the point that even the frequent nighttime wails of their newborn daughter added little to his exhaustion. Sleep meant dreams and those were something John couldn't face. Not because they might be nightmares—those would have almost been a welcome accompaniment to the living hell of his days. But instead because they might be happy, something John no longer felt he deserved.
Baby Rosie had no similar compunction about rest and was napping in the other room. John considered the whiskey bottle he'd been tapping for most of the previous evening, but 11 am seemed a bit early to reengage with alcohol, even in his grief. So he simply sat, mind pleasingly blank. It made a nice change from the horror which had dogged him since a criminal's bullet had found Mary's heart a few weeks before.
His reverie was broken by the sound of a soft click at the apartment's front door. Stiffening, John looked toward the side table where his gun resided. If he moved quickly, he might just be able to retrieve it before his visitor arrived in the living room…then a voice froze him in place. Mycroft.
"You could go for your weapon, John, but it would be a poor idea to use it." Mycroft Holmes appeared at the archway to the room. "If nothing else, I'm fairly certain that you don't have a silencer, so firing would certainly wake your daughter. Hardly seems sporting since she just fell asleep, what was it, only 10 minutes ago?"
As usual, Mycroft was turned out impeccably in a three piece suit. He might have been addressing the House of Lords instead of a husband in mourning. The sight gave John the first spark of an emotion other than grief he'd felt in ages.
"Go away, Mycroft," he said flatly.
"I'm sorry to intrude, but this really is-," Mycroft began.
"No," John interrupted, his voice even. "I said, go away. I don't want you or your bloody brother in my life, not even for a moment. I don't even care how you got in here. There is nothing you can say that would make me care about whatever you think is so important, so just go away."
Mycroft paused, eyes quickly scanning John and his surroundings. In addition to the whiskey bottle on the end table, food containers—most barely touched—were scattered about the room. Baby-related detritus including (and here Mycroft's lip curled slightly) an apparently used nappy rested on the floor. The entire scene suggested gloom and neglect. He cut to the chase.
"Psychiatrists," Mycroft continued as though John hadn't spoken.
"What?" John asked, startled at the change in subject.
"We have reason to believe that NHS funded psychiatric practices are being drained of funds by their diversion to a private interest. To whom remains a mystery, but the result is clear—patient health is being compromised."
"That's a shame," said John, having recovered his annoyance. "What does it have to do with me?"
Just as Mycroft made to answer, John raised his hand. "No, wait. If by 'we' you mean you and Sherlock, I don't care. Maybe you didn't hear me the first time, but I don't want anything to do with either of you. So if this is some case you're trying to draw me into, you're wasting your time. And mine. I have a child to care for." John waved at the door. "So out, Mycroft, or I may really have to hurt you."
"I'm afraid this very much has to do with you, John, so you'll have to suffer my presence just a few moments longer." Noticing John's fists clench, Mycroft picked up the pace. "Sherlock has been seeing Ella Thompson."
Despite the apparent non sequitur, the news that Sherlock had been going to a psychiatrist was surprising enough to give gave him pause. Then anger sparked again as the thought occurred that Sherlock's choice of John's own therapist made the visits more of a fishing expedition about him than an effort at getting treatment.
"Is there no part of my life that you two consider off limits?" John growled, rising to his feet.
"I assure you, John, that Sherlock's interest in Dr. Thompson is legitimate. He has not been…doing well." Mycroft's careful phrasing made it obvious that he was understating the situation.
"I say again, I don't care," John sighed. The idea of punching Mycroft was becoming very appealing. "If anyone needs a psychiatrist, it's Sherlock. I just don't see why he needs to take mine."
"Because she is a target of the corruption and all of her patient's records are susceptible to disclosure."
"You've already gotten my records, why should I think someone else couldn't do the same just as easily? It would hardly take a grand conspiracy." John snapped. The issue was a sore spot. During their very first meeting years before, Mycroft had attempted to intimidate him by quoting from a session he'd had with Ella Thompson only days before.
"I have means for access not available to just anyone," Mycroft answered smoothly. "This is different. Someone intends to discredit Dr. Thompson as they have others in her profession recently. They will release doctored records to show that she has been mistreating patients and overcharging for time spent with them. The fees paid out for treatment will have to be recouped. Accounting errors will occur and that money will never be seen by the NHS. Dr. Thompson's reputation will be ruined and patients' privacy destroyed." Mycroft cocked an eyebrow. "You may not care if your records are made public, John, but you can imagine that others will not feel the same way, especially as the pattern is repeated across NHS funded psychiatric practices around the country."
"Even if that were true, what on earth do you think I can do about it?" John asked, exasperated.
"Help Sherlock find out who's behind it all." Mycroft watched as the spark of energy that had taken John seeped away and he sank back into his seat.
"He's sick, John," continued Mycroft. "I would venture to say that he can barely contend with getting out of bed each day. In view of the drugs he's been taking, it's a problem that may resolve itself sooner rather than later. In any event, a looming national disaster is well beyond him—but your participation would help to focus him again."
Just that quickly, fury overtook John's face.
"He doesn't want to live anymore?" John snarled. "Too fucking bad that he didn't decide that a few weeks ago. He could have taken that bullet meant for him instead of my wife!"
"I would if I could have done, John." Sherlock stepped into the room. Absorbed in their conversation, neither John nor Mycroft had heard him coming. "I'd give anything to take that moment back and make it come out differently."
"But you can't," shouted John.
"No," admitted Sherlock sadly.
John leapt from his seat toward Sherlock, only to freeze as a howl arose from the bedroom. Rosie was awake and unhappy about it.
All three men stopped to listen, then John spoke slowly and deliberately.
"If you will both promise to get the hell out of my life, I will help with your case. But so help me God, if you don't leave us alone after it's over, I'll kill you both with my bare hands."
"John," began Sherlock. Mycroft stopped him with a hand on his arm.
"Thank you," he said. "We'll go now."
Sherlock met John's eyes, but whatever he wanted to see wasn't there. Slumping slightly, he nodded and followed Mycroft from the apartment.
Rosie's cries increased in decibels, but John stood for a few moments longer, his eyes closed tightly. A sound suspiciously close to a sob broke loose from him before he went to his daughter's aid.