"Sherlock." Mycroft breathed, looking over at his brother who fidgeted anxiously on the couch with his eyes closed, no doubt lost deep in thought. Sherlock ignored him, numbers and words flying past his closed eyes as his brain searched for a distraction outside his brother's neatly organized summer home. "Sherlock." Mycroft tried again, mild agitation slipping into his voice.
"What, Mycroft? If you insist on visiting me weekly to keep me company, could you try to annoy me less? It would be much appreciated, I assure you." Sherlock replied, noting that Mycroft's frown wasn't one of displeasure or annoyance. Umbrella wet, but closer to dry. Must've started raining while he was in the car. Probably a longer drive, considering his suit creases were beginning to fade by his higher hip and back of the forearms. No suitcase today, which means there can't have been much work he needed Sherlock's advice on, and he seemed to put together and calm To have just finished a big project at work.
"Fine. What is it?" Sherlock offered sarcastically, refusing to let on that he was a little curious as to what Mycroft wanted to talk about.
"We caught the last one a month and a half ago. I didn't tell you because you would've gone straight to him, and wouldn't have even thought about the possibility you were wrong."
"Obviously, I wasn't wrong." Sherlock snapped, jumping to his feet and striding into the bedroom he had occupied for 18 months now. "I agree to solitary confinement, no going outside the house unless I'm with you and body guards, disguised, and even then only over the gardens. I don't text or call anyone, and my activity on the computer is monitored by you. Then, when you admit that you need my help if I ever want to get out of this house again, you refuse to let me see anything that isn't video recorded or from a photograph. I haven't left this estate for over a year, Mycroft, and on the slight precaution of a possibility of my error, you left me here another six weeks. Six weeks of wasted time." Sherlock shot sentence after quick sentence from his room at his older brother, who seemed uncharacteristically guilty.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock. It was for your protection. I didn't doubt you, only that the limits we set up around you might impair your... Vision." Sherlock paused in the bedroom, replaying Mycroft's apology in his mind. He pulled on a button up shirt, and made a face when he realized that he had somehow gotten skinnier since he last wore it, having no one around to make sure he ate regularly and having no cases that required leg work, he hadn't been building much muscle either.
He strode out of his room fully dressed and stared at Mycroft.
"Why do you care? Why now?" Sherlock asked without anger, genuinely curious as to why Mycroft was being so sincere.
"Since it became advantageous." Mycroft admitted, smiling sadly and tilting his head.
"I thought caring wasn't an advantage." Sherlock retorted, waiting for an explanation.
"It seems that like most things, it is an advantage when played correctly, and a disadvantage when used incorrectly. You caring for Dr. Watson saved his life, while my indifference to your livelihood killed you, in a sense."
"My friendship with John was also the reason he was targeted. Wouldn't that count as a disadvantage?" Sherlock stated logically.
"On john's part, perhaps. On yours, no. I do believe that the doctor saved your life enough times to prove that he was your advantage."
Sherlock was silent for a moment, before turning to Mycroft and studying him with piercing blue eyes. "Shall we be off, then?"
Mycroft nodded curtly and stood. "Right. We'll alert Ms. Hooper at Bart's so she can stop her fussing. Then we must convince the record keepers that you are, in fact, not deceased. My people will take care of the paperwork, but you will have to provide them with a blood sample. As will I, of course. Then we must see Scotland Yard, tell them the story and provide them with tangible proof, provided, again, by my people because your name has been slandered. We might need to resort to the queen's pardon, but that shouldn't be too hard. Obviously, if you are to return to the public as a 'consulting detective' as I'm sure you want to do, we will need to set up a press conference." Mycroft smiled, pleased with the thorough list he had been organizing for the past six weeks.
"Yes," Sherlock nodded, picking up his violin and taking his coat from the hall closet. Blood clung to the sleeves, neatly removed from his veins hours before he fell and placed in frail bags around his body, ready to burst on impact. His collar was also stained, the blood from his broken nose pooling around his head. "We can do all that tomorrow." He finished with a sly smile playing on his lips.
"No, Sherlock. We start today." Mycroft growled.
"No, today I go home." Sherlock stated, no room for argument in his voice.
"No, Sherlock. If anyone sees you going into 221B today it will be somewhere in some paper tomorrow, and that would ruin everything."
"Then make sure I'm not seen."
"This is ridiculous Sherlock."
"I'm not going to have him find out I'm alive through the telly! I owe him that." Sherlock yelled, turning on his heel and coming face to face with his brother. "You say he is my advantage," He continued, softer and more urgent. "Then I am going to need him for everything." The brothers locked eyes for a moment, as infinitely intelligent conversations passed silently between their eyes, the genius lost on the rest of the world.
"Tomorrow. I'll arrange a car for you and the doctor then. As I seem to remember, he rather enjoys the rides I send him on." Mycroft relented, regretting his earlier choice of words. "But no later."
"Obviously." Sherlock smirked as he turned, and left the empty house for the last time.