Sherlock stood on the front stoop of 423 North Jennings Street, the DI of Scotland Yard at his back, and his friend, John Watson, at his side. "Everyone ready?" He rang the bell.
Mrs. Pennyworth, a short, scrappy woman answered. "May I help you, gentlemen?"
"Yes," Sherlock said, using the grin he reserved for 'normals', "Can you tell me why you murdered your husband last Tuesday?"
The color drained from the woman's face, and she quickly drew her pistol, swinging it hard into Sherlock's nose. The consulting detective stumbled down the stoop, and grabbed onto the railing to prevent himself from falling as blood gushed from his nose. John leapt forward and seized Mrs. Pennyworth, wrestling the gun from her hands, and giving her over to Lestrade to arrest.
He jumped down the stairs and went to work on Sherlock's broken nose, trying to get him to sit down on the front porch. But before he could, Sherlock teetered and fell down into unconsciousness.
******
Sherlock awoke to find himself, somehow, sitting upright in bed. John entered the room, carrying a tray with only a glass of water and a single pill. "John, I solved the murder."
"That's nice, Mr. Holmes. Now," The good doctor set the tray down on the bedside table, "Time for your medication."
"You know I hate vitamins, John." Sherlock sneered.
"Mr. Holmes, how many times must I ask you to refer to me as Dr. Watson?" He reached out and properly aligned the straight jacket around his patient.
"That's boring." Sherlock huffed, then tried to struggle against the doctor, as he tried to administer Sherlock's daily pill. Realizing he could go nowhere with the confining garment he had on, he resigned to open his mouth, and swallow the medication.
"There." Dr. John Watson squinted to examine Holmes closer. "Are the lights in here too bright?" He looked around at the stark white room lit only by fluorescents. "You look a little concussed."
"She broke my nose, John. I must have hit my head when I blacked out." Sherlock said, simply, confused as to how John couldn't remember this simple fact.
"Um, ok." Doctor Watson picked the tray back up. "I need to go have a word with your brother," Sherlock scoffed, "but Nurse Hudson will be in shortly to feed you dinner."
Mycroft Holmes stood on the other side of the door, watching his brother take his medicine and relate to his doctor. It creased a frown onto his forehead. When Doctor Watson stepped out and closed the door, he asked tentatively, "Well?"
"Mr. Holmes, I'm sorry, but your brother is dying."
"Can't you do anything?!" Mycroft blurted.
"I told you that this is what would happen. All those years ago, when you first brought him to my asylum after his overdose, I explained that this would be his fate. The heroin fried his brain, Mr. Holmes. He's slipped into delusions of grandeur. He thinks he's a consulting detective with his nurse as his landlady, and me as his flatmate. He truly thinks he goes around solving crimes when the police can't."
Mycroft looked into the cell. "So, what you're saying is, if I go in there, I'll only be regarded as to what I am in his fantasy?"
"Yes."
"And who is that?"
"Someone who doesn't play nice with his younger brother."
Mycroft closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "He hates me for putting him in here." Silence stretched out for a bit, before Mycroft finally looked up and said, "How long does he have left?"
"Maybe a week. He's in some incredible pain. We're going to turn off the lights to his room perpetually, I feel the brightness may be giving him migraines. But, other than that, we can't really do anything to help make his last few days comfortable. I suggest you bring him home and let him die there. Surrounded by family."
"I'm the only 'family' left. And I live in London, too far to transport him comfortably." Mycroft tightened the grip on his umbrella. "So I guess I'll be back on a regular basis until..." He trailed off. "I'll see you tomorrow, then." He cleared his throat and began to make his way to the exit.
Doctor Watson looked back in on his patient, docile on the bed. It was a pity that Mr. Holmes had to wear the jacket, but he had a tendency to harm himself when the drugs threw him into a fit. Nurse Hudson came bustling down the hall with a food tray in her arms. Doctor Watson opened the door and let her inside. "Good luck getting him to eat, Hudson." He said, "Call me if he starts having another seizure." And John Watson turned and strode toward his office.