Chapter 3-

'Let me get this straight,' the detective snarled to the radiologist as he massaged the bridge of his nose, 'my brain is swollen and I cannot remember my name, and you say I have nothing to worry about. Just which university did you say you got your degree from?'

John quietly hushed his friend, grabbing his wrist absentmindedly and giving it a hard squeeze to let him know his words were not good, as he was wont to do when Sherlock was on the verge of precipitating a social catastrophe. Sherlock stared down in surprise at this invasion of his personal space, and was about to comment when the stranger John was fighting with earlier, pitched in.

'Your name,' the older man said slowly, 'is William Sherlock Scott Holmes.'

'But you like to just go by Sherlock,' his short companion interjected into the tense silence, as the consulting detective glared suspiciously at Mycroft.

'I should hope so,' Sherlock sniffed, 'I have never heard a name more upper Cambridge posh in my life.'

'Actually, you did not attend Cambridge,' the disconcerting stranger again supplied, leaning gracefully on his umbrella.

Sherlock skewed him with a piercing look, 'Quite the drama queen, aren't you? Why don't you just introduce yourself, as you are so dying to do.'

'Girls, let's not do this infront of strangers, okay?' John warned them sternly in an undertone, 'This is Mycroft. Do you know him at all?'

'Should I?'

'You're related.'

'Are you sure?'

'He's your brother, Sherl.'

Sherlock started in surprise and leaned in closer, as if trying to trace a resemblance. After a long moment, he snorted so derisively that John felt himself blush on Mycroft's behalf.

Mycroft just sighed quietly and looked heavenwards, as if praying for patience.

The radiologist took the opportunity to jump back into the discussion.

'If in a few days when the swelling goes down and you are still like this, then we will worry,' he explained further, 'head injuries are always a tricky matter to diagnosis. Try not to worry, you are in good hands with Dr. Watson.'

'You're a medical doctor?! Sherlock asked John in some surprise, 'why am I best friends with a doctor? Am I a doctor too?'

Mycroft held up a hand to interrupt this turn in conversation before it spiraled away from the issue before them, 'is there any procedure or drug to correct the brain swelling?'

John of course rolled his eyes at the question, while the radiologist gave Mycroft a flabbergasted look, as if he didn't hear him properly.

'Sherlock is conscious, his reflexes are good, his speech and vision unimpaired,' the doctor stated a little tersely now, 'I will not be recommending any unnecessary procedures, especially as regards the brain. You don't know how lucky Sherlock is! Your brother should take the opportunity to get some rest.'

'Life isn't always so simple for some people,' Mycroft pressed relentlessly, so used to being blamed as the heartless one that it barely registered. He knew why he was doing this. It wasn't safe for Sherlock to be wandering around London, without a clue of his existence. In fact, he was a danger to himself and to everyone in the nearby vicinity. 'I will take him to my home, now.'

'I live with you?!' Sherlock declared disappointingly before hastily turning to John, 'don't you have a place? I can kip on a chair, I don't mind.'

John raised an eyebrow at Mycroft, wondering where he was going with this. 'Sherlock, you and I live together in Baker Street. I ...I suppose it's your choice, where you want to do your resting.'

Seeing as how the young man didn't make any move to walk over to his brother's side, the decision appeared to have been made.

Just then a heavy gallop made them turn around, and additional cavalry rode in so to speak.

'John!' Lestrade cried out as he hurried forward, 'I came as soon as I read your message. Is it true?'

The Yard detective turned to Sherlock with a look of incredulity, 'are you in any pain?'

John leaned in to whisper, 'he's a friend, Sherl.'

The other man held out his hand politely, 'Hello, I am called Sherlock Holmes. How do you do?'

'Blimey,' was all the poor Inspector could manage to choke out.