AN: Thanks Igenlode Wordsmith for doing a quick beta! 3

"Sir?" Claret asked, glancing pointedly at something on his desk.

Mycroft looked down at what had drawn her attention. His hand had curled into a tight fist of its own accord, a shameful lapse in his normally iron-clad control. He forced it to relax. He was not some uncouth ruffian that got into fistfights when angry. Unlike others. He glanced towards the computer: the security footage from various eating establishments was displayed on the screen.

In a voice that belied his rage, Mycroft replied, "Arrange a car."

"Destination, sir?"

"Baker Street."

Claret smiled at him, a sharp expression that looked as if it belonged on a shark rather than a woman. It had always been one of her finer qualities, in his opinion.

"Shall I have him disposed of, sir?"

Claret had seen the footage, of course. Only the most top secret of information was kept from his personal assistant. At least officially, anyway. While the woman held no love for his brother, she did hold a great deal for Mycroft - a fact which he often used to his advantage - and thus was one of the few people on the planet to know that what hurt Sherlock, hurt Mycroft.

"Perhaps another time. We'll give Dr. Watson the chance to rectify his mistake," Mycroft replied, closing the lid of his laptop. 'For Sherlock's sake' went unsaid.

Mycroft Holmes was not a man known for giving second chances to anyone but Sherlock Holmes, but he found it hard to exercise his usual method of dealing with Sherlock's problems – utterly destroying them – when it would also destroy his brother in turn. This would require a special touch.

But first, his baby brother was in pain.

"Shall I tell you a story, brother mine?"

"I'm not a child, Mycroft!" Sherlock snapped.

"Certainly not," Mycroft replied, rolling his eyes.

His brother's indignation might have been a little more believable if he wasn't currently curled up on the couch, his coat wrapped tightly around him and the Union Jack pillow squished between his arms like a lifeline. He looked utterly miserable.

Even worse, he'd only made the most feeble of attempts to get Mycroft to leave, a sure indication that his brother actually wanted him here, goodness gracious. He hadn't even called him fat.

Sighing, Mycroft started, "Once upon a time, there was a pirate named Bl-"

"Redbeard," Sherlock cut in.

Mycroft's eyebrows rose. "We are feeling rather morose today, aren't we, brother?"

Sherlock just glared. It was a pitiful imitation of his usual temper and Mycroft doubted it would have fooled even Mrs. Hudson.

"Very well. There was a pirate named Redbeard…"

Mycroft continued on with his story, which he would have freely admitted was stolen from several historical texts, if Sherlock had been in the state of mind to call him out on such things.

It wasn't long before Sherlock's breathing evened out and his muscles relaxed.

Mycroft pulled out his phone and stared at it for a moment. There was still time to have John Watson exiled to the farthest reaches of the earth. The fact that Sherlock had allowed Mycroft to comfort him like a small child was proof enough that his brother's happiness was far too dependent on a person other than himself. That Sherlock had gone from not caring what anyone else in the world thought of him to this…

Caring was not an advantage.

How Mycroft wished he could stop caring.

Decision made, Mycroft sent a picture to John's phone. It was a simple one cataloging the damage to Sherlock's back. It'd been taken after he'd been properly cleaned up and doctored, but before they'd wrapped the wounds. It still looked terrible, but not as terrible as before. The last thing he wanted was John rushing over to Baker Street in frenzied terror while Sherlock was in such an abysmal state.

It didn't take long for Mycroft's phone to start vibrating. Good, he'd deduced correctly. John was still awake, the return of his "friend" no doubt occupying his mind.

"Hello, John," Mycroft answered in a tone that was far too friendly to be even remotely genuine.

"What the hell was that you just sent me?" he snapped back, his voice an angry whisper. Mycroft could hear the faint ticking of a clock in the background.

Ah, John had gone with Emotional Response Number Two. Mycroft had calculated the possibility of the other man thinking it was some sort of ruse, an understandable concern after some of Sherlock's more questionable actions. It was rather disappointing, however, and didn't do anything to help Mycroft's disapproval of the doctor's actions. John was far too ready to believe the worst of Sherlock.

"Ms. Morstan is already in bed, I presume?" Mycroft replied, side-stepping the question. John Watson did not demand things of him. Not after…his eyes trailed over the sleeping figure.

"Now, you listen to me," John, if possible, sounded even more ill-tempered than before. Mycroft counted it as a victory, if a petty one. It was always more fun to rile them up before sending them crashing down. "If this is some sort of joke or a stupid plot to get me to forgive Sherlock, you can just forget it. If, if, I forgive him, it will be on my terms and in my own time. Do you understand me? Life is not a game and people are not pieces that you can move about a board to get the result you want."

Mycroft had to disagree on that last point, but decided it was best to let it go for now. He could strip Dr. Watson of his naïvely sentimental view of the world some other day.

"On the contrary, Dr. Watson," Mycroft replied, "Far be it from me to assume that a medical man such as yourself can be so easily fooled by make-up and careful lighting. Why, I'm certain that you would be the first to notice if Sherlock had been so utterly delighted at the prospect of seeing his one and only friend again that he'd rushed off to meet him directly after days of torture in a dingy Serbian prison. He would have been exhibiting obvious signs of pain that I'm certain a skilled professional such as yourself wouldn't have missed, even under such…exciting circumstances."

Mycroft paused for a moment, giving the other man time to confirm his words. It seemed an eternity before there was the slightest hitch in John's voice, indicating he'd reviewed his memory of the night and found his version of events to be lacking in facts. Perhaps he was remembering the odd stiffness with which Sherlock had held himself when not acting the part of a foreign member of the serving staff. Or maybe the way his entire body had tensed when he'd hit the ground after the first attack. How slowly he'd put his favorite coat on, with none of the dramatic twirls he so loved.

Continuing on, Mycroft added, "And, of course, as a military man who's not only seen the psychological effects of traumatic events first hand, but also accepted therapeutic treatment himself, you would know that some people prefer not to think about just what they have done and what has been done to them in return, but instead choose to put on a cheerful front to hide the fact they are breaking inside. People deal with traumatic events in different ways, as you know, and you would have realized that someone acting completely out of character from before said traumatic event might be, if I may borrow your words, 'a bit not good.'"

Mycroft paused again, listening to the rough edge that overtaken John's breathing. He was certain the other man got the point. He could stop there, certain that his goal had been reached and that John Watson was now utterly ashamed at having attacked an injured man, an injured friend, one who was unwell both mentally and physically.

Unfortunately for Dr. Watson, Mycroft Holmes was a man who made it a habit of finding the people who'd hurt his little brother and hurting them back.

"Lastly, a man who's been in close company of Sherlock Holmes for a number of years would know that my brother is rather lacking in the human emotion department. Not that he can't feel emotions, but instead that he doesn't know what to do with them when he does. Such a man, the only true friend Sherlock has ever had in his entire thirty-five years of existence," Mycroft mentally added the word 'human' to that statement – Redbeard could have attested to Sherlock's number of non-human friends, "would know that Sherlock has absolutely no idea how to express such sentiment-" Mycroft grimaced "-and thus hasn't the slightest clue how to properly integrate himself back into said friend's life after years away.

"As his dearest companion, you would know that Sherlock, not understanding why said friend is not as pleased with his return as he is to be returned, might lie about his reasoning for such acts out of fear of being rejected a second time. Sherlock might tell you that he kept you in the dark out of fear of indiscretion when in fact he couldn't bear the idea of his dear Dr. Watson coming to harm. Of course, you wouldn't believe such tales since you already know that my brother is hardly as unfeeling as he makes himself out to be."

There was a penetrating silence on the other end before John let out a choked breath.

"I'll be right over."

"Don't bother, there's no need for you at the moment," Mycroft replied, enjoying the devastated look that was undoubtedly making its way onto Dr. Watson's face. The man would fear that he'd damaged Sherlock so badly that he didn't even want to see him anymore. Mycroft relished the feeling.

"He's sleeping. Come in the morning," he added reluctantly.

Sherlock Holmes didn't need John Watson hiding from him out of guilt.

Mycroft contemplated adding the fact that this was the first time his brother had slept in four days; the first three spent in a continuous state of forced sleep deprivation and the other spent with Sherlock too excited with the prospect of seeing John again that he hadn't been able to turn off his mind. Regrettably, he decided to save that little tidbit for another time and instead allowed the silence to hang.

He knew that John had to work in the morning. It was time for John Watson to prove his old life was just as important as his new.

"Yeah, I'll be there."

"How very caring of you."

"Goodnight, Mycroft," John replied, hanging up abruptly.

Mycroft put his phone down and picked up his drink instead. The plan was in motion, now all he had to do was keep Sherlock in the flat, preferably sober. He stared at Sherlock's sleeping form and settled in for a long night.

Mycroft frowned down at the text on his phone. It would seem trouble followed his brother everywhere.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked, not glancing up from where he was fine-tuning his violin.

"Nothing of your concern," Mycroft answered, putting the phone back in his pocket.

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, no doubt something about Mycroft never minding his own business so why should he - it was obvious in the twist of his mouth - only to freeze at the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs.

"Mycroft! What have you done?" Sherlock hissed at him in a low voice.

"I haven't done anything, brother mine. I've been sitting here all night, as you'll no doubt recall."

"Don't play dumb, brother, it doesn't suit you. It's a rather big coincidence that a guilty sounding John Watson has decided to come see me, not a day after you decide to take up residence in my flat."

Mycroft resisted the urge to scoff at the word "coincidence." His brother should strike it from his vocabulary altogether. The universe was rarely so lazy.

Mycroft refrained from pointing out that Sherlock hadn't seemed to mind his "residence." Instead, he said, "I'm certain Dr. Watson has had the night to think about his actions and decided that perhaps he was a little too quick to dismiss your side of the story, brother mine."

"Mycroft!" he snapped out again, before his entire demeanor did a one-eighty and he was all smiles and gentle talk.

"Hello, John, do come in," he said, pointing to John's seat with his bow. "Mycroft was just leaving."

He gave Mycroft a pointed look, to which he responded by smiling and taking a sip of his tea. It was childish, but Mycroft felt he deserved it after being denied his opportunity to exile the man who'd hurt his little brother to Antarctica.

"Actually, he can stay. I have something to say to him too."

Both brothers looked at him.

"I just- I…" John cleared his throat, took a breath, released it, and then said, "I'm sorry for what I said."

Mycroft's brows furrowed.

"Two years ago," John continued, "I'm sorry about what I said to you regarding your brother. Though you don't actually care what I think, I wanted you to know that I've come to realize that it's impossible for you to have allowed Sherlock to be hurt-"

Sherlock snorted. He muttered something along the lines of "Should have been there in Siberia."

"-and I now realize that there's no way you sold him out to Moriarty for a few scraps of information."

"Of course not! It would take at least the name of a top-level official before he could work up the nerve to tell Mummy he threw me to the wolves," Sherlock replied, starting to sound more like himself.

Mycroft could follow his brother's thought process. If John was willing to ask forgiveness of him, a man he'd never liked in the first place, over something so small and so long ago, surely John's relationship with Sherlock was set to improve in the immediate future. Mycroft's work here was done.

"However touching it is to know that you believe in me, I'm afraid I must be going. Duty calls," Mycroft said, getting up from the chair. He winced. Dozing on and off throughout the night in a dusty old chair was not the way he preferred to spend his time.

He nodded towards John as he passed him. He hadn't accepted his apology, but hadn't denied it either. They both knew it didn't matter; Mycroft was not the one hurt by John.

"So," John said, the sound of him shifting from foot to foot reaching Mycroft before he quietly closed the door behind him, "About those thirteen possibilities?"

He was just getting into the car when a text came through.

You're not fat. – SH

Mycroft's lips twitched.

Another message arrived.

Yet. – SH

Mycroft rolled his eyes before turning towards his assistant.

"What do we know about the men who attempted to kidnap Dr. Watson?"

Silently, she turned her phone towards him. Mycroft's eyebrows rose at the man in the picture.

"Well," he replied after a moment's pause, "I suppose we've allowed this little problem to go on long enough."

He'd been denied vengeance upon John Watson. Charles Augustus Magnussen would not be so lucky.

AN: LMK what you think! Concrit welcome!

P.S. In case you didn't catch it, "Claret" is Anthea. I figure Mycroft would know her real name & we're in his POV, so...