John kicked the chair in front of him hard enough for its occupant to notice yet silent as everything else in the room. It was rare for Mycroft to still be out in the lobby of the Diogenes Club when John came for a chat but the surprise on his face was even stranger. Usually, Mycroft had already ordered tea for two by the time John had left home.
Sherlock was right, the British government was getting slow.
John nodded silently towards the office Mycroft usually frequented and with a nod, Mycroft folded his newspaper and followed him to it.
"This is a first," John said as soon as the doors closed. "Didn't see me coming?"
"Unfortunately, I'm not as omniscient as I'd like, Doctor. To what do I owe the pleasure? Has my brother—"
"You've lost weight." John interrupted, stopping Mycroft in his tracks for a moment.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"You've lost weight," John repeated. They had yet to even approach the desk and John had already baffled the genius in front of him.
"Thank you?"
"It wasn't a compliment."
"I'm not sure I follow."
"I saw you not even a week ago. Why does it look like you've lost twenty pounds?"
"Perhaps the diet is working… for once."
"No medically recommended diet would cause you to lose that much weight that fast."
Mycroft sighed and made his way to the other side of his desk casually sitting behind it. "If you are concerned about my health, Doctor, you're wasting your time. I assure you in the rare occurrences I allow my mental health to affect my physical health the reverse is usually the case. When unduly stressed my tendencies lean towards overeating rather than under eating."
"Habits change."
"Why are you here?"
"I'm a doctor. More importantly, I lived with Sherlock for four years. Why do you think I'm here?"
"I assure you, I am fine."
"I don't believe you."
"While Sherlock may wallow in his misery for weeks on end, I—"
"Sherlock's fine." John finally moved from the doorway and took the other chair.
"Is he?" Mycroft asked, genuinely surprised.
"Well, fine enough. Went through all seven stages like some kind of machine. I swear it was weird even for Sherlock. Gave himself exactly twenty-four hours for each one. I watched him. Kidnapped his new violin when he started getting angry, he'd have had to start all over if he'd broken it at some point. But now he seems to be fine. He's not taking any cases till 221b's back in livable condition, but he needs the break anyway."
Mycroft let it sink in that Sherlock, of all people, was handling the events of Sherrenford better than he.
"Good, that's good, isn't it." Mycroft busied his hands with the objects on his desk so he didn't have to look at the Docter across from him. "He's staying with you, for the time being, I believe?"
"I'm not here to talk about Sherlock. I only told you that to ease your conscience."
Mycroft's gaze snapped back to John. "My conscience is perfectly at ease, Doctor."
"Really? Then why haven't you called your parents yet?" The look John gave him reminded Mycroft of Sherlock. The arrogant sort of pride on the rare occasion that Sherlock managed to get one successfully over on his smarter big brother. It was just as infuriating on John as it had been on Sherlock.
"What makes you think I haven't?"
"Because they'd have called Sherlock."
"What makes you think I intend to."
"Because if you don't, Sherlock will. Kinda a dick move to make your little brother tell your parents you lied about their daughter's death, isn't it?"
"Sherlock hasn't called Mummy since he graduated university and I had to threaten him just to get that."
"Yet you know I'm right."
Mycroft gritted his teeth. He was right, damn him.
"I still haven't decided, you know," Mycroft said after a moment to calm himself.
"About what?"
"Whether you're the making of my brother, or you've made him worse than ever."
"And I can't decide if you're an incredible big brother or a terrible one."
Mycroft allowed himself a smile at that. "I've asked myself that same question since the day Sherlock was born."
"I've seen worse. At least you haven't managed to murder him yet."
"Hmm, yet." They shared a smile for a moment. John's had marks of worry while Mycroft's was just sad.
"You are planning on calling them, right?"
"I suppose I have no choice, do I."
"Don't tell them over the phone."
"I assure you, John, I am perfectly capable of handling a conversation with my parents on my own. Thank you."
John didn't seem convinced but he let it drop.
"How is she?" he asked instead.
"It's hard to say. Mycroft sighed thinking back to his numerous visits to Sherrenford in the past week. "She's entirely catatonic, won't speak, won't even acknowledge a visitor. It's difficult to have her examined. I believe she's frightened by her own actions but can't understand why. Recovery is unlikely."
"It isn't entirely your fault, you know." John leaned back in his chair, his eyes burning holes in Mycroft's own.
"No? I rather think I mucked the whole thing up."
"Everyone makes mistakes."
"Mine just happen to lead to my little brother pointing a gun to my face and five people dead. That's all."
"I nearly let my best friend die because my wife had the nerve to jump in front of a bullet with his name on it." John countered.
Mycroft shifted in his chair during the uncomfortable silence that followed, realizing that they'd both dramatically failed Sherlock in the last few months. His little brother should spend more time with the Detective he was so fond of, and perhaps that Hooper girl, they hadn't managed to nearly kill him recently.
"Have you been busy?"
"Hmm, oh yes. I always am, it seems. Though frequent contact to Sherrinford has made things a bit worse admittedly."
"That probably explains the weight loss then," John nodded. "Sleeping alright?"
"Not particularly, if you insist on prying. Insomnia isn't something I have much experience with admittedly if you don't count Sherlock waking me up at tow in the morning. That is one of the few of his idiosyncrasies that wasn't a result of Euros' meddling. He's never been a good sleeper."
"Headaches?" John asked ignoring his reminiscing. "Abnormal aches and pains?"
"Headaches," Mycroft confirmed.
"Taking anything for them?"
"No, they all fade on their own eventually."
"There's non-drug relief you can take if that's the problem."
Mycroft nodded, "I am aware." But didn't give any indication that he cared.
"Irritable, or abnormally short-tempered?"
"I grew up with Sherlock. I can't afford a short temper." He managed to make John laugh at that.
"You know I'm not a therapist, Mycroft."
"Naturally."
"But seeing as your too proud to see an actual therapist I'm probably the best you're going to get. So I'm going to prescribe you something as though I'm a trained therapist and you're going to do as you're told as though I'm your doctor. Is that clear."
"I don't need a doctor."
"Are you going to follow my advice, or ignore me like a five-year-old throwing a tantrum?"
Mycroft bristled at the insult but he could read nothing but concern and stubbornness on John's face.
"I'll consider it."
"Not an answer, yes or no."
"Fine yes. If it makes you leave me alone. You've been spending far too much time with—"
"Take a day off, Mycroft."
Mycroft faltered staring at the doctor with his mouth still partly open. "I'm sorry?"
"Twenty-four hours. Go home, read a book, watch that ridiculous film Sherlock burned. I'm sure you can get a replacement somewhere. England will survive without its government for twenty-four hours, I'm sure. Your sister won't even talk, she's not going to set Sherrenford on fire in twenty-four hours. You need a break. You deserve a break. Just take one."
"Deserve? I hardly think so."
"Everyone deserves a break, Mycroft."
"Perhaps," Mycroft allowed. "Very well, Doctor. You have my word."
"Good." John nodded and stood before stopping with a hand on the door. "Now come on, I'm taking you out for dinner."
"That's hardly necessary."
"Sherlock made me promise to make sure you ate something. You're not going to make me put up with two grouchy children tonight are you?"
Mycroft chuckled at the obvious—and effective manipulation— "I hardly think you can afford my tastes, Doctor Watson. Unlike Sherlock I don't bother with the trash he gets free from past clients."
"Oh, I'm not paying." John held out a debit card. "Sherlock gave me his card."
"In that case, I want cake."
Both received glares from the occupants of the Diogenes Club as they giggled their way out.