Mycroft sat straighter in his chair when he heard Sherlock begin to murmur under his breath. His muscles ached and his stomach felt shriveled and empty. He wished desperately that he had a mint to chew on.

Sherlock's eyes were glassy and pink. If Mycroft didn't know better, he might've guessed that Sherlock couldn't see, as if a sightless film impaired his vision. But no. Mycroft rolled his shoulders and inched to the edge of his chair.

"Sherlock," he said coolly. His voice sounded uninterested and tight even to himself.

The boy inclined his head toward the noise. His eyes rolled toward Mycroft, slowly. "You're here," he said, his voice hoarse. "Sorry."

"Sorry?" Mycroft hissed. He couldn't bear to sit so he got to his feet, his heart pounding mercilessly in his ribs.

"Yes. I'm sorry..." Sherlock paused to inhale, but ended up with a rattling cough. He gagged once, and Mycroft was a hair away from yanking on the cord for a nurse. But his brother shook his dark head quickly and adamantly, so Mycroft let his hand fall.

"I'm sorry," he continued, "That I scared you."

Mycroft wasn't sure how to respond. His tongue felt like lead in his mouth. "You could have died," he said weakly. "You're not stupid. You would've died."

"Maybe."

"MAYBE?" he yelped. Sherlock gave a small jerk and Mycroft immediately dampened his voice.

"Maybe? You would've. If I hadn't gotten to you...you little bastard," he added venomously. "You did it on purpose."

Sherlock grimaced and looked down at the white sheets. His pale fingers grabbed a corner and aimlessly worked the fabric. He did not speak, so Mycroft moved to the foot of the bed and continued to stare at him. He almost wished he could pierce his little brother with his gaze-it would be like pricking him with a pin. Look at me. Look at me. No? I can make you. But he quickly banished the thought.

"Mr. Holmes," remarked a low voice from the doorway. Both brothers turned to regard the visitor. He wore a milky white coat and his hands rested comfortably in his pockets. "I'm Dr. Hamish Watson; could you come with me for a moment? How are you feeling, Sherlock?" he added brightly.

The boy nodded wordlessly. "All right." Dr. Watson held out an arm and beckoned Mycroft into the hallway. It was around six in the morning, and there was only a subdued buzz of activity around the nurses' station.

"You're not his guardian," he began. "Are you?"

Mycroft sighed and smiled thinly. "No. My mother is."

"I'm afraid that since you're only eighteen we're going to need to contact her. We tried, but she didn't answer. And your father wasn't listed at all." He paused and leaned against the nearest wall. His eyes were soft, and Mycroft opted to play nicely with him. "Where is your mother, Mr. Holmes?" He beckoned a certain nurse, who brought Mycroft a clipboard with the form he'd filled out earlier.

He took it from her stiffly and wrote down a number. "In Paris," he said, handing it over. "Since I was old enough to drive I've been looking after my brother, Dr. Watson."

"Is there anyone else we can contact? An adult relative?"

"I am an adult."

"I know." Dr. Watson looked sympathetic. "But it's protocol, Mr. H-"

"Call me Mycroft," the elder Holmes bristled. "My father isn't here."

"It's protocol, Mycroft. I'm sure you're perfectly capable of looking after Sherlock, but what happened...I'm afraid we have to keep him here until your mother comes back or appoints a proper guardian."

"How long do you need to keep him?"

Dr. Watson took a step toward him, lowering his voice. "It depends. If I go in there and ask him, will Sherlock tell me whether or not this was an attempt to take his own life?"

"No," said Mycroft plainly. "He won't."

"Was it?"

He looked up at Dr. Watson and shook his head. "I don't know." Suddenly he felt miserably inadequate as a brother. His stomach turned and he pressed his fingers to his forehead, trying to quell the ache in his skull. "I just..." he broke off, and his throat felt as if it were closing.

"Try to reach the mother," Watson said to the nurse. He placed a heavy hand on Mycroft's shoulder and told him to calm down; to take a few minutes. Then he had to move away to look at another chart.

"Dad?" a small voice inquired. A small boy around Sherlock's age had slid up to him. From the sound of him, he'd already hit puberty. Older than Sherlock, then. "Sorry to interrupt, but can I have some money for the cafeteria?"

"John," said Dr. Watson quietly, reaching into his pocket, "Don't go getting any sweets." He handed over a few bills and shooed him off. Mycroft watched him plod off down the hallway and out of sight.

"My son," offered Dr. Watson, noticing Mycroft's cool gaze. "I had to bring him to work today."

A few minutes later, Mycroft had excused himself. After checking to see if Sherlock was still awake, he hadn't been able to remain in the room. His brother's even breathing gave him the only excuse he needed to escape. What if he's faking? It didn't matter. The nurse had an eye on him; he'd made sure of that.

He made his way to the cafeteria for a cup of tea. He couldn't leave the hospital; that was out of the question. I'm not that cruel. There were a few residents milling around sluggishly. A few others were there as well; friends and family of patients, no doubt. A woman stumbled past Mycroft, wiping at her tired eyes with a napkin. She obviously hadn't changed her clothes in over a day.

Mycroft also happened across John, Watson's son. He was sitting at a table with an orderly, chewing and brooding. He spied the eldest Holmes brother and smiled shyly, with nothing short of sympathy in his eyes. Mycroft guessed that he was at least a few years older than his brother; perhaps 14 or 15. His short stature and boyish face had hidden the maturity that Mycroft now noticed.

By the time he'd bought his tea, however, John had vanished, and only the orderly remained. Mycroft hadn't thought to take a few napkins with him, and the cup was too hot to hold in one hand for long. He wandered through a few wards, just breathing and thinking. Well, feeling more than thinking.

He felt guilt. Wave after wave of sickening regret and remorse. He should have spent more time with him. He should have been warmer to him. He shouldn't have avoided going home every day after school. He should have made certain that Sherlock had a web of support, to keep him from falling. He'd left him alone in that place with the housekeeper nearly every day. Even worse, he'd left him alone with their mother.

When Mycroft had been home, he studied. Day turned to night and night turned to blackness, and Sherlock would play outside, running around the yard in his eye patch and black boots. When it got dark he would come inside and romp around his father's old study, flipping through ancient volumes. Some days he would sit in front of the television, munching on biscuits. Sometimes he even practiced his violin. He involved the cat and occasionally shot questions at the housekeeper, but he had given up on Mycroft.

"What can I do now?"

"Phone a friend, Sherlock."

"I don't want to."

"Go across the stream, then."

So Sherlock went.

Now it was far too late to call him back. Mycroft swallowed a mouthful of tea too quickly and it burned his throat going down. He swallowed it with a grimace and a small groan. Suddenly uninterested, he stopped at the nearest restroom to pour the remaining Earl Grey into the sink. Then he thought better of it, and continued on his way to Sherlock's ward. Before reentering the room, he stopped a nurse he recognized.

"Can I give him tea?" he asked.

She smiled gently and nodded. "All right. But he should drink it slowly. We're going to give him something to eat soon, also."

Mycroft thanked her curtly and went in.

Sherlock's eyes were closed, but the pulse on the monitor told Mycroft that he was awake. "I brought you some tea."

"What sort?"

"Earl Grey."

"Your favorite."

"Would you like some?" He put it on the bedside table. Sherlock moved carefully to accommodate his IV drip. He sat up shakily and reached for the cup, but Mycroft met him halfway and placed it in his small hands. "Be careful, it's hot."

Sherlock eyed him. "Why haven't you left yet?"

The question stung. "I'm your brother. They're trying to reach Mum, but...Maybe I'll give them another number. I'm still on holiday, remember?"

Sherlock took a sip, and continued to examine his brother. "You're still frightened," he said slowly. The thought seemed to stir something in him. He shifted his body and grimaced. "You."

Mycroft said nothing.