As he came to to the sound of blips and bleeps associated with hospital equipment, he knew the blurry figure was his brother before his vision cleared.
"Hello, brother, dear." Mycrofts voice was a bit dry and hoarse, he choked a bit on the words.
"Here." The younger Holmes was quick to offer him some water, which he took gratefully and drank greedily. "I thought you didn't have an aptitude for leg work."
"I don't." His voice was back, now, fully, but he gestured for Sherlock to fill the cup again. It was easy for him to deduce that his brother was a bit uncertain of how to proceed. He felt grateful and felt in his debt, but their relationship didn't leave a lot of room for sentiment. There was a slight, eager and nervous hop in Sherlock's step he was attempting to quell as he swallowed hard handing of the water.
"Thank you." Sherlock offered, quietly and in an uncharacteristicly small voice. Mycroft only nodded as he took a small drink before abandoning the glass on the table beside him.
"It's… what I do, Sherlock." He exhaled.
"Never like this."
"No… no, never like this… but, its par for the course."
Sherlocks lip twitched a bit before he spoke.
"Anthea is outside, would you like me to send her in?"
"Is she alone?"
"No, she's with Molly Hooper." Mycroft raised an eyebrow.
"Not John Watson?" He'd immediately deduced that his brother had called in a friend for silent,moral support, but had expected it to be his doctor friend, not the pathologist. He missed things even less than Sherlock, but this, paired with their history, spoke volumes to Mycroft.
"John Watson has a baby at home."
"And a wife —"
"Who shouldn't be expected to care for her child alone, Mycroft." Sherlock quickly interrupted.
"Of course not."
"I'll go get Anthea for you." Before Mycroft to say another word, the door clicked shut. With a sigh, he laid himself against the hospital bed pillows, sighed, and gave the ceiling a small smile.