Mycroft knew his brother's handwriting and its indicative nature. This, however, was completely new. The deliberate hand was unbearably perfect and precise in every way. Each letter looked like it had been carved into the white paper with laser precision. The Case of the Blue Carbuncle. If he were to hazard an amateur guess, Mycroft would say that the lettering indicated a doctor, despite the stereotype regarding messy scrawls. Specifically, a surgeon. The manuscript was relatively light, but a quick glance into the box in which he'd found it revealed dozens of others that were presumably just like the one in his hands. An aversion to computers, then. Paging through, Mycroft took note of the wording and general tone. Clearly a mystery. A Dr. John Hamish Watson taking note of the younger Holmes' antics and adventures. A reluctant hero slaying the beast of stupidity and lack of observation wherever he rides alongside his partner in crime…fighting. The obvious love and affection in the overall tone of the story unknowingly giving away the true feelings of the author. Mycroft settled down and breathed deeply before delving in
….
Hours later, with an unfamiliar dampness welling up in his eyes, Mycroft straightened his back and stared past the empty fireplace. Such love and devotion to a man such as his brother would surely have saved him from the dullness of existence. The dozens of short stories he'd found had provided insight to the younger brother that he'd been closed off to for quite some time. He didn't even remember anymore why they'd first stopped being affectionate in both words and actions. But that was past, and dwelling on it would provide no one with anything useful. This John Watson must have been purely what Sherlock had needed. He'd fulfilled several fantasies he had and probably quite a few that he hadn't even been aware of. Mycroft packed up the scattered papers and replaced them carefully, in order, in the box.
Everything in the flat, the bullet holes in the walls, the skull on the mantel, the spray paint. It was all explained in the pages of side notes in the box. The thinly veiled exasperation and boundless tenderness used to describe these events would make any human being jealous. Blinking the evidence of emotion out of his eyes, Mycroft stood up and brushed the dust off of his coat. He'd been stationary longer than he would have liked, held fast by the running commentary of possibly the greatest love his brother had ever known.
One last perusal of the nearly-vacant flat showed that there were no personal effects that needed to be worried about. All specific traces of his brother's peculiar life had been discreetly packaged away or destroyed on his orders. The still-furnished apartment would be ready soon for rental again. He left a note for Mrs. Hudson, thanking her for informing him of the remaining personal possessions. The message she'd left had explained that she'd found something that might be Sherlock's under the sink. Mycroft silently sent out thanks that he'd attended to this matter personally. Methodically, he turned out all the lights before shutting every door behind him on his way out.
Stepping up to the ever-punctual black sedan, Mycroft unloaded the manuscripts and took out his phone to place a call.
…..
"Yes, I do understand that every doctor's recommendation we've received has advised us to place Mr. Holmes under your care, but I'm here to collect him. He will continue his recovery on the Holmes estate with personal care attendants and regular visits from the best doctors in the country."
"The best doctors in the country won't come out to some house in the middle of the woods."
"They will if they understand that their livelihoods depend on it, Dr. Lestrade," Mycroft replied. "Besides, you said yourself that he was causing trouble with several of the orderlies."
"It's just Anderson," said Lestrade, "and we're on the brink of firing him anyway. Sleeping with too many of his fellow staff members for us to solidly avoid a lawsuit."
"Well, then. Since your staff is incompetent, then it should be a blessing to you to remove my brother so you can sort out your management style. Have a lovely day, Dr. Lestrade," tossed Mycroft over his shoulder as he turned to leave.
"But you can't just take him! You need release forms!" shouted Lestrade.
Mycroft halted briefly and turned to make eye contact with the harried doctor. "Let it be known, dear Doctor, that this meeting was merely a formality. I believe you'll find that his paperwork is finished and cleared. I only wished to inform you face to face, as I respect your work so far with my dear brother. Good day." Mycroft turned again to leave.
"But if you leave now, then you'll undo any progress we've made with his ongoing hallucinations," Lestrade whispered urgently. Checking that the corridor was clear of listening ears, he continued, "We're on the cusp of breaking him of the more dangerous visuals he's created in his own head. We were going to begin on the more prevalent figures that he regularly converses with. You have no idea of how convoluted his mind is. The notes we've taken, they're so extraordinarily intricate, I would say it's insane, but that would hardly be appropriate. Taking someone out of treatment for their substance abuse issues before they can even admit that their fantasy world is, in fact, a fantasy is one of the most dangerous things you can do to an addict. You'll just be enabling him." Lestrade waited patiently for Mycroft to respond. Even if Mr. Holmes was to be taken out of their custody, he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he let him go back to an unknowingly dangerous environment. After all, even with the best intentions, caretakers of recovering addicts sometimes encouraged relapses.
"I know more than you think, Doctor," came the reply. "Much more. I will have his recovery dealt with in the way that we believe will be most beneficial for my brother. I can guarantee that I will do my utmost to keep him safe."
With that, Mycroft hooked the umbrella onto his forearm and strode away toward the exit.
….
Upon entering the car, Mycroft took note of his brother's appearance. Emaciated, no doubt from the characteristic starvation impulse that overtook his brother when he was thinking. The eyes were clearer than he'd ever seen. It was even more unsettling that they didn't seem to be focused on any one thing. It looked as if he was not only seeing everything in front of him, but all possible planes of existence that could be in front of him. Mycroft knew from the medical files that speech was something that wouldn't be initiated by anyone but Sherlock. Combining that with the fact that Sherlock had refused all calls from Mycroft for the past several years, he settled in to what was obviously going to be a long silence.
…
The Holmes Estate was a secluded manor in a highly-forested area. Currently half-staffed with grounds workers and house staff, it was a relatively quiet place. Perfect for anyone who needed quiet, cover, and protection. Mycroft idly wondered if the protection would extend to his brother, who needed it more from himself than anyone else.
One wing had been recently remodeled. It had been altered to imitate a single-bedroom apartment. It was mostly cut off from the rest of the manor, and was largely self-sufficient. Two workers were alternately assigned to refill the refrigerator despite whatever they might find, and were paid handsomely to never speak of what they may have noticed or overheard. On a constantly-changing and ever-sneaky schedule, Mycroft would deposit a particular package for his brother in the pseudo flat. Evidence of his present's usage was always trickily hidden and would sometimes take hours to find and dispose of. The secrecy, being second-nature to the older Holmes brother, did not bother him at all. What always struck him with the greatest pangs of emotional distress was when he would walk by his younger brother, clearly strung-out on the couch, staring unseeing into the shafts of light that illuminated the dust motes in the air. But, on occasion, Mycroft's mind and cleverly-hidden conscience would be put to rest when he could make out his brother speaking.
"Now, come my good fellow. No more of that writing nonsense. Do you hear me? The game is afoot. Lestrade phoned, and requires our assistance. You'll be pleased to hear that I didn't remind him that he's always in need of our help. Come along, John!"
When he could find them, Mycroft would collect the new manuscripts that he spotted around the flat. The too-perfect surgeon script glared accusingly up at him, but instead of disheartening him, he remembered the decision he'd made when he'd first seen the handwriting. Mycroft had them bound and printed with the author being listed as Dr. John H. Watson. No lack of birth, medical, or school records could convince him that this man wasn't real. He was Sherlock's reason for living. That was enough.