"Bed side?" Sherlock questioned in alarm, sitting up sharply.
"Yes, he's been in a terrible state after you're little stunt at Bart's. And Sherlock. A suicide? Mummy was disappointed." Paying no attention to his last comment, Sherlock leaped from the chair and began to pace, scratching at his head furiously with the barrel of his loaded gun.
"State?" he asked frantically, "What state is that?" Mycroft rolled his eyes as he set down the paper, nothing taking his interest. Not even the half-truth article about the death of the consulting detective, who was now burning a hole on his floor.
"The state of which he won't react to anything. Not even for Mrs Hudson's herbal tea. Shame."
"Mycroft?" Sherlock had stopped pacing and he was standing rigidly staring at a space beyond the window. The older man looked up curiously, uncertain of his brother's tone of voice. It had too much emotion in it, too much pain with a hint of panic. He had to look up to make sure it was Sherlock who had spoken. Frowning a little, he made a sound to encourage him to continue, although very doubtful as to what he would find.
"Does he miss me?" Sherlock had emphasised 'miss' the word foreign on his tongue, usually when it escaped his lips it would be; 'Did I miss anything?' referring to his deductions and observations. The word never slipped out due to emotional attachment, the only thing ever attached was challenge and big headedness.
Mycroft reached for his umbrella and leaned forward to rock to his feet, while saying, "Why don't we find out for ourselves?' smiling slightly.
"No!" Sherlock shouted stubbornly. He leaped back into his chair childishly and he curled both feet under his best dressing gown, cradling the gun to his chest. The weapon rose and fell along with the heave of his breathing. Mycroft, who was half way to the door by now, stopped. Before turning to face the sulking man, he looked heavenwards searching for patience from the ceiling.
"And why not?" His tone was similar to a patronising mother, "Don't tell me you're giving him the cold shoulder Sherlock, that's utterly childish."
Sherlock leaned his head slightly as if to say, "I have grown up a little!" his silent treatment, however, did not convince Mycroft of his maturity level.
"If you have no plausible explanation not to see him, then why prolong his suffering?"
Sherlock's head snapped up. "Suffering? So it's my fault he's suffering?" the words were spat out in haste, his tone sharp and harsh, "Don't turn this on me Mycroft, all this SUFFERING wasn't my fault for once! I was cleaning up the mess you made!" Silence followed after his outburst. The raw emotion in Sherlock's icy blue eyes was burning at Mycroft's greyer ones. Guilt froze Mycroft's bones. Fury boiled Sherlock's blood. And the extraordinary Holmes brothers were both drowning in ordinary human emotions.
