Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, Moffat/Gatiss and Conan Doyle do.
I wrote this story because I realized that I was the only Sherlock fanfic author who had not yet done a 5+1 story, and a blizzard hit my town and I couldn't get out of the house for 48 hours. :)
Mycroft Holmes was not amused. His baby brother had gotten himself into trouble, again, and Mycroft had to chase after him, again. The diplomat ground his teeth in frustration. Sherlock could have finished his chemistry degree and gone into research. He could have followed in Mummy's footsteps and been a professional violinist. He could have followed his father and brother into government work. Instead, he chose to spend his days and nights chasing criminals all over London. Criminals who never had the decency to go quietly, and instead broke his ribs and stabbed him, landing him at St. Bart's.
As the diplomat approached his brother's hospital room, he heard two voices. The door was open roughly two centimeters; Mycroft peered around it for some swift deductions. (Female, late twenties to early thirties. Her tone is too familiar for her to be one of his nurses. Not a love interest, either; she fancies him but he's only using her.) The elder Holmes gently knocked on the door, startling Sherlock's visitor. She scurried out, muttering something about a busy night downstairs. (Carrying a lab coat. Bart's nametag – Molly Hooper. Smells of formaldehyde. Must work in the morgue.)
Mycroft arched an eyebrow. Sherlock was never the sort who had many friends, and after the Victor Trevor debacle, Mycroft made it his business to vet all of Sherlock's associates.
"Good afternoon, Sherlock. I don't believe I know your visitor," Mycroft said, nodding towards the door.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh for God's sake! Must I notify you every time I come into contact with someone new?"
"Only when they appear to have a romantic interest in you," Mycroft said evenly.
"Which I don't reciprocate, as you know."
"Does she?"
Sherlock shrugged, as if the question meant nothing to him. "She'll work it out."
Mycroft sighed. (For her sake, I hope she does.) Surveying his brother's bandaged torso, gauze-covered shoulder, black eye, and the IV fluids dripping into his arm, he decided that Molly Hooper's schoolgirl crush and Sherlock's encouragement of it were the least of his concerns.
The diplomat pursed his lips and grumbled, "What I can't work out is why you never leave the heroics to the real police officers."
"Boring!"
Mycroft rolled his eyes. "This world is not solely here for your amusement, Sherlock! You can't keep risking life and limb just because you're bored!"
Sherlock glared back at his brother but said nothing.
The diplomat scowled. He was in no mood to have this argument with Sherlock again, especially not with the American ambassador waiting. (That cowboy is the only person on Earth with an ego larger than Sherlock's.) "I must be going, Sherlock. Try not to break any more bones today – you know how much I hate being pulled out of meetings."
"You don't mind as much when the meeting is with the American," Sherlock grumbled under his breath.
Ignoring his baby brother's comment (not going to give the prat the satisfaction of being right), Mycroft glided out. He relegated Sherlock and his new acquaintance to a far off corner of his Mind Palace and shifted his focus to work.