Purple and white heather (Calluna Vulgaris) - solitude and protection, respectively


Sherlock was just tucking into a steak-and-mash pie for lunch when his brother arrived. Laying down his ceremonial offerings (a handsome tub of flowers and a greeting-card), Mycroft took his seat by the bed. Sherlock ignored him for as long as possible.

"Afternoon, Sherlock," Mycroft called.

His brother nodded a greeting. "Mycroft. You've brought me flowers. How very antiquated of you." He tipped his head towards the two-tone heather arrangement just placed on the bedside cabinet.

"I agree it's a waste of time. Yet tradition – and Anthea – demanded it. I thought the purple and white would offset the baby blue everyone else seems to have thought you'd appreciate."

Sherlock sniffed. "I'd have preferred my laptop."

"Ah," said Mycroft. Reaching into his inside coat pocket, he pulled out a brand-new black iPod. "You'll be more grateful I'm sure if I tell you I've loaded this with all your favourites. Wagner, Bach, and -" he sniffed contemptuously – "Stravinsky. I also have noise-cancelling headphones for you in case Mrs Hudson or, God forbid, our parents drop by in the near future."

Sherlock glowered. He couldn't fault his brother for that.

Taking Sherlock's silence as a show of gratitude, Mycroft put the objects in the chest of drawers. "Well, now-"

"-How's John going?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at the interruption. Chewing his words as if they were medium rare, he embarked, "John is as well as can be expected. He's currently at Baker Street. If the splodges of gravy on his pyjamas when I last saw him are anything to go by, he's being admirably cared for by Mrs Hudson."

"I asked how he was, not for an account of your food envy."

Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock, what does it matter?"

"Come on. If he was wearing his pyjamas in front of you," his brother snapped, "he wasn't feeling so fine and dandy, was he?"

"Even so, I'm not going to go prying. The solitude will do him good."

Sherlock snorted. The forkful of pie at that moment en route to his mouth was jolted onto his lap. Wordlessly, Mycroft handed him his handkerchief.

Wiping himself down, Sherlock continued, "Last time he was left like this... things weren't looking so good."

"Then I'll send a car around to keep an eye out-"

"Of course you would, Mycroft. Doesn't the company of a bunch of goons make everything feel like a bed of roses?" Sherlock replaced the cover of his dinner plate and set down his cutlery. Reaching over, he tapped at a button on his morphine unit. "Now-" he indicated a plastic tub on his tray- "have the cake. Wouldn't want you going home on an empty stomach."

Mycroft scoffed. "I'd rather go home on an empty stomach than eat some freezer-kept, mass-produced vanilla sponge that's clearly been made with powdered milk and store-bought fondant."

"Oh, that's right. You must have something from Maison Bertraux stashed away at home. Let me guess… the almond and apricot cake? Or the mille-feuille?"

"Neither. And nothing else, for that matter."

"Good to hear you're keeping off the sweeties." Sherlock said with a wry smile.

Mycroft pursed his lips. "What, unlike you? Sherlock, let's be frank. Since all this started, you've been off your game. It's causing disastrous collateral damage."

"That's because I've been on morphine, can't you see-"

"I'm not talking about the shooting, Sherlock. Cast your mind way back."

His brother frowned. "Oh," he said finally. Rather than abating, the crease worked further down his face.

Mycroft did not hold back. "I've tried telling you nicely. You have been under the delusion that caring is an advantage for long enough. Kid yourself no longer. Look at John. Look at you, for God's sake. Look at anyone who has died in the course of any of your cases. Caring helps no one. It only creates more targets for disaster to strike. As emotions heighten, so too do obsessions, consequences, stakes. It's what stops the world running like clockwork."

"Clockwork is boring," Sherlock muttered mutinously.

"Clockwork is safe. Fewer people suffer."

Sherlock, opening his mouth to reply, stopped himself and raised his teacup to his lips instead. He sat there, swilling the tea around his mouth before gulping it down. Mycroft did not have to wait too long before an answer came, cryptically: "Daleks."

Mycroft found himself taken aback. "I'm sorry, what?"

"It's the benefit of being in a hospital when bored nurses turn on the television during orderlies when they think you're unconscious."

"I don't follow."

"You get to see the world from the perspective of a thirty-seven-year-old father with a childhood obsession with sci-fi that he feels impatient to pass on to future generations. He's a fan of BBC 2. I've learnt a lot about time and relative dimensions in space."

"Get to the point."

"Keep your hair on." Sherlock paused to savour his time at the helm, before beating ahead. "The Daleks are a race of emotionless automatons bred by a central omnipotent being for the purposes of consuming the universe. They do their duty… like clockwork."

"Except there is no central omnipotent being in this world."

"True. But in the show, there is another central omnipotent being with two hearts – ham-fisted imagery, I grant you - who defeats the Daleks each and every time, with a kettle and a piece of string. All that happens is that these apparently 'emotionless' machines don't need food. They run on vengeance, and bitter twistedness."

"I'm not that anxious about my next sugar hit. And though I presume you think you've made your point, I do ask you to get on with it and make it again, because sound and fury signify nothing."

"Stop deflecting."

"What's got into you?"

Sherlock smirked. "Oh, just playing Devil's advocate."

"Is the Devil's drug of choice morphine?"

"'Dunno. It does provide an easy conduit, though."

Mycroft shifted in his seat. "Are you saying the Devil is a middle-aged father with a jurisprudential moral code and a predilection for mid-budget BBC exports?

"Don't be dramatic. Let's put it another way; the point is, if you can't kill hate, why, then, should you kill love?"

"Alright," Mycroft conceded, "you have me there. The truth is, one can't stop caring. Why else would I be here of all-" he sighed– "Godforsaken places?" He sighed heavily. "But solitude is protection. For those one... cares for. Especially for us in our line of life."

Sherlock looked troubled. "I tried that once before. Look what it did to John Watson."

Mycroft hesitated. "Yes. He got on with his life."

Sherlock's expression did not change, but Mycroft fancied the ambient temperature had dropped several tenths of a degree. Taking his cue, he made to leave. "Sherlock: I fear that if not for me, the East Wind would've taken you long ago. If you go on like this, however, I'm afraid I won't be able to stop the storm. Has remembering Redbeard ever been of any help to you?"

As he got to the door, a clear voice reached him. "Thank you for the flowers. I appreciate the sentiment. But I have to say, I've always had a soft spot for baby blue."