Mycroft looked at John squarely, and though his eyes never left John's, the doctor could feel the judging gaze on his injured leg. Truth be told, the wrist gave him trouble more days than his leg – he'd grown accustomed to dragging the limb when he mistakenly believed it was necessary in the past. The wrist, however, required stretching on bad days and at times, his hand refused to grasp his mug or deftly sort through his keys to open the door while the other held the shopping. It was frustrating to have to focus so hard on simple tasks, to know precisely how limited his hand was, that no matter how hard he instructed his fingers to manipulate the keys on his laptop or to take a file from Lestrade, sometimes he was clumsy, sometimes light items felt unbearably heavy. He had adapted, however. Anytime he felt the telltale tremble – the same tremble Mycroft himself had commented on but which now occurred for an entirely different reason – John would switch hands or toss the left's burden to the right. No one had yet noticed his new habit of playing catch with himself, but now that Sherlock was back…
"If it isn't too much trouble."
"None at all," John assured, stepping back into the kitchen to refill the kettle. He filled the ice trays and returned them to the freezer, listening to the pipes shudder to life as Sherlock started the shower. John wrote a reminder to pick up ice packs and stuck it to the fridge before returning to the sitting room.
"So I take it my brother injured himself running to your rescue last night."
Mycroft's casual tone made John raise an eyebrow. The man hadn't been so calm last night. Though, much like Sherlock, Mycroft had difficulties with emotion. John was painfully aware of this and realised it was out of defence and insecurity that the brothers were not more open. It made John very curious as to their upbringing. "Yes," he replied, "He was unaware."
"Typical." Mycroft played with the end of his tie, a nervous gesture which he tried to pass off as the actions of an uninterested man receiving boring news.
"You'll find he's not in the mood for company today. Though, when is he ever?"
"Oh? I would think he would be quite energetic, being back in your company."
"Yes, it's fantastic, to be together again." Both men smiled.
"I know it was terribly difficult for you, and for him as well."
John nodded, unable to trust his voice at the moment.
"We believed it was for the best though; if you and the others carried on oblivious, you would be at less risk. Had you been sure, it would have eventually shown and Moriarty's men were made only more ruthless by their employer's death. Sherlock refused to gamble with your life."
John nodded again. "Good actor though you may be, I could still see a secret in your eyes. Some days, that was enough…"
Mycroft smiled wryly. "It was painful to keep you in the dark. Even more so when you took up the task of helping deconstruct Moriarty's empire. You should know your efforts and faith meant the world to Sherlock. He was frantic to end the work, to return to you. He often spoke of all the dull domestic activates you would both enjoy once things were safe again."
John chuckled fondly. "I admit I still have a little trouble, knowing it isn't some dream. He's in the same mindset, I think."
"He may just be on guard. As you know, Moriarty had quite the spanning influence. I'm afraid the work isn't done just yet. Though, I can guarantee that you, and the others, will remain priority under my watch; you will not become a target."
John bristled a bit – he knew he'd been under observation for some time now, but to have Mycroft assume he needed constant looking after was insulting. John wasn't new to trouble, nor was he incapable of fighting for himself and others. He'd been a soldier; he'd always be a soldier.
"Come now," Mycroft sniffed. "Don't be upset. It would be exhausting looking over your shoulder every day. It's nice having someone guard your flank, and entering battle alone would be foolish. Sherlock would not allow it."
John glanced away. He knew Mycroft spoke the truth, and to protest now after so long would only seem ungrateful. Mycroft had put a lot of time and energy into ensuring they were all safe despite John's reckless behaviour in the field.
"Besides," he continued after a moment, "Sherlock isn't the only one who cares about you."
John sighed. "I know, Mycroft." He looked back to the composed man. "Thank you."
Mycroft gave a subtle nod. "At any rate, Sherlock will be back to his old habits soon enough."
"Hopefully." John hesitated before he added, "I wish there was something I could do, to put him more at ease. Moriarty isn't the immediate cause for his mood – he's being a bit harsh on himself, now that he's found out he was late. I'm not quite sure how to remedy the situation."
Mycroft looked at John inquisitively but did not say anything.
"He arrived last night only after my first failed attempt," John offered briefly as explanation. Mycroft looked as though he'd been struck. John hurriedly continued, averting his gaze. "He found out this morning. I'd meant to keep that fact from him, but he's Sherlock. Now that he knows, he's in a mood. A mixture of guilt, fear and frustration, I think; he has a tendency to imagine all the possibilities, as well you know, and I'm afraid he's a bit stuck in his head." The kettle began to whistle and John left to tend to it, unable to look at Mycroft. He could feel the man's eyes on him all the way into the kitchen, and the usually collected man was simply radiating anxiety. John hadn't meant to be so blunt about it, but there was no sense in treating the matter gently, and now that Mycroft also knew perhaps there was a solution. John wasn't unfamiliar with Sherlock's moods, but there hadn't yet been a catalyst as serious as this one.
He prepared a new mug, drizzling a generous portion of honey onto a spoon for Mycroft. After numerous visits, John had gradually come to read Mycroft almost as easily as he could Sherlock, and John knew sugar and milk were fine, but honey – lots of it – was the man's favourite; Mycroft always took satisfied pulls from a mug of honeyed tea and rarely set it down until he was finished. Whereas, tea prepared without honey was consumed intermittently, and on a few occasions Mycroft had even allowed it to grow cold before he remembered to finish it.
John returned with their tea, uneasy in the new atmosphere he'd created. He handed Mycroft the sweet drink and jostled both mugs when he tried to step back but found himself trapped by Mycroft's stern grip.
Mycroft looked up at him, gaze intense. "John."
"Mycroft, I didn't mean to be—"
"No, please. John. I'm sorry. I know my visits over the last months have been less frequent. I know now how time-sensitive your text was last night, but by the time I'd checked… I was late as well then, wasn't I?"
John let his eyes drop to the hand Mycroft had wrapped warmly in his own. The injured wrist threatened to release the mug and he prayed he had enough strength to save him that embarrassment. "Can't always be perfect," he said in what he hoped was a teasing tone.
Mycroft returned that with grave silence.
"Er," John looked to Mycroft properly again. "Really, Mycroft, it's fine. I only meant to say treat Sherlock kindly, especially today. He's injured and having a hard time of things. But if you have a solution, I'd be very grateful. When I was in his position, being too late… Well, I had a lot of support. But he tends to close himself off, shoulder the bad outcomes alone. Even though things didn't turn out poorly, he'll be haunted and I'm not sure how to turn things around."
Mycroft shook his head disbelievingly. "Back to your old role as caretaker, then?" He smiled and released John's hand. "You're truly something else, doctor."
John was indescribably pleased that he hadn't spilled Mycroft's tea in his lap, but he made an effort not to show it. He couldn't save himself the embarrassment of blushing at Mycroft's comment however and he cleared his throat.
Mycroft saved him from fumbling for a reply by commenting offhandedly, "Sherlock often mentioned your jumpers. I believe he quite enjoys them, despite his teasing."
John glanced down to his simple tee. He took the not-too subtle hint and fetched the heather grey jumper that was draped over the back of his chair. He tugged it on and resumed his seat and tea, catching the smile Mycroft hid behind his mug.
"He also spoke of 'crap telly,' and the weathered smell of your silly sci-fi novels, which he admitted – after four days without sleep, mind – could occasionally be interesting."
Failing miserably to fight a smile, John picked up the remote and turned on the television. It had been quite a while since he last had it on for anything other than background noise, when the flat had been terribly cold and quiet. He realised what Mycroft was aiming for: recreate the feeling of "home," of domesticity and normalcy as much as possible. It wouldn't benefit just Sherlock, John knew, but he also knew that trying to wind the clock back to before wouldn't be possible. They would have to build something new from here, but they would do it together.
"He was so broken without you," Mycroft nearly whispered, his voice almost lost to the rambling of the drama playing on the television. His gaze was soft and John remained quiet to avoid scaring Mycroft into changing the subject as he was wont to. Mycroft studied his tea, which hadn't left his hands. "He turned to me, in his time away from you, when he was at his lowest. And it was as though we were children again, holding hands through a thunderstorm, solving riddles, facing the world together. We were bonding again, often over news of you, of mutual worry for all involved in this tangle. He wasn't quite as intimidated by me – he was willing to accept my help, to use the resources I had freely and without that incessant need to prove himself. I confess it felt good, to be needed and trusted by him again. However, I had my time with him, and I will always treasure our younger years. If I am to be replaced," he looked up to John again, "I am glad it's by you."
"…Mycroft," John frowned. Before he could properly respond, the sound of Sherlock opening the door to the loo caused Mycroft's mask to fall back into place. The man calmly sipped at his tea with a carefully constructed aura of indifference. John let his eyes fall to the floor.
Sherlock made much more noise than usual as he limped down the stairs. John was used to Sherlock stalking about the flat as silent as a cat, often swallowing back startled curses when the detective snuck up on him or blinking to suddenly find Sherlock in the room with him. Sherlock's childlike amusement in scaring John had been a dominant reason John had had so much trouble dealing with the hallucinations, though he was willing to bet the glimpses outside the flat weren't entirely imagined and he now knew for a fact that Sherlock had returned through his own window for whatever reason however many times. John closed his eyes and listened to Sherlock's uneven breathing, his measured steps. As long as Mycroft was present, John couldn't hope for much more than a guarded, cheeky Sherlock.
They both looked up as Sherlock entered the sitting room, dressed in loose sleep pants and a plain tee. The attention made Sherlock uncomfortable, but the only outward evidence of this was a slight clenching of his jaw and a quick glance to the television as well as John's jumper, taking in evidence of the subject of their conversation. John was quick to notice his discomfort and he shifted back into the position they had rested in earlier. His silent invitation worked and Sherlock made his way to John, sparing Mycroft a fleeting look before lying down. He muffled a relieved sigh against John's leg as his weight was lifted off his injured foot. He settled himself facing the back of the sofa, hiding from Mycroft.
John and Mycroft shared an exasperated look over Sherlock's head. John mouthed the word ice and glanced pointedly to Sherlock's ankle which was tucked against the armrest. Mycroft quickly got to his feet and retreated to the kitchen. Sherlock had tensed slightly at Mycroft's disappearance but John put a calming hand to his head to prevent any remarks the man may be thinking up. When Mycroft returned, he manhandled Sherlock without apology. He propped up his leg again with a couple pillows between his ankles and one between his knees to prevent strain before he fixed the wrapped peas back over the injury. Sherlock balked at the treatment, twisting around with his mouth open to surely snap at his brother but John intervened, shushing him and tangling his hand in his hair to encourage him to lie back down. Sherlock let out a sharp, frustrated huff through his flared nostrils but allowed John to sooth his head as Mycroft resumed his seat.
There was concentrated silence as Sherlock and John took each other in, and Mycroft finished up his tea without interrupting them. John was initially content to simply watch Sherlock breathe, but it wasn't long before his hand began to move. He traced the man's jaw with the back of his fingers, smoothed an eyebrow with his thumb, dipped beneath the neck of his shirt to stroke the beads of chain resting there before running a fingertip over the sharply protruding collar bone. In the meantime, Sherlock had taken up John's unoccupied left hand in his right, fingertips grazing the mended bones of his wrist not so much to take his pulse as to simply assure himself it was there. His other hand was curled into the hem of John's jumper, fingering the material with half-lidded eyes.
John paused when Sherlock froze, and released him when the man twisted to prop himself up. Mycroft watched intently as Sherlock stared at the hem of John's jumper. John straightened when Sherlock shifted to his knees, knocking the makeshift icepack to the floor to grab both of John's wrists, bringing the cuffs up to his face for inspection. His eyes narrowed and flicked up to John's. He kept their gazes locked and they remained stock-still, unblinking.
No one spoke. Sherlock was calculating, Mycroft was hesitant to disturb whatever this was, and John was dreading the moment he'd be found out.
Abruptly, Sherlock released John and got his feet under him. He stalked to Mycroft as steadily as his ankle would allow and demanded, "Get up."
"What?"
"You heard me."
Looking more than a little affronted, Mycroft stood.
Sherlock brushed him aside lightly and tore away the cushion on his chair to reveal two aerosol cans of yellow quick-dry spray paint. One was completely spent, but the other still felt weighty and the ball bearing inside experienced resistance when he picked it up.
"Taking lessons from Raz, then?" He drawled, glancing back at John.
John glanced up to him for a brief moment before he turned to stare at the wall, lips curling faintly in a smile. "No. It's not so difficult, really. A bit more practise and my work will rival his."
"Oh, is that a fact?" Sherlock grinned.
"It is. I don't even drip anymore."
"That is true," Sherlock murmured. "Improved quite a bit."
John smirked. When he had first tagged I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES, it had been out of a frustrated defiance. Everyone had been so determined to convince him otherwise in the matter, after all, how could the papers ever lie? No one is that good, that amazing, John. Consider the facts, John. Sherlock is, and I've got all the facts. Inane babble from simple minds. After the first go, John had been a little more clever about it, sneaking at night and making dedicated efforts to avoid detection by Mycroft and the boys at the Yard. He always did the job alone, and made sure to never mark over anyone else's work.
"I had thought it was possible, that they might be yours – some of them, at any rate – but it was a challenge to be sure. Your handwriting changes when you have free motion with your entire arm. Small variances lead me to spot what could have been yours. I'm surprised you would have risked another ASBO."
"You're worth it," John said sincerely, looking to Sherlock again.
Mycroft interrupted, "Am I to assume you're discussing criminal activities?" He rolled his eyes. "Really, the work I put into keeping you boys out of trouble. Don't say another word. I'll take my leave – I haven't heard much of anything after all, have I?" He set his empty mug down on the table and retrieved his umbrella. "Thank you for the tea, John," he looked at him pointedly and John knew the honey was appreciated. "Sherlock, stay off that ankle." He left the room, hiding a smile.
The man's footfalls disappeared down the stairs and the door was opened, shut, and locked again. John looked back to Sherlock to find him turning one of the cans over in his hand, lips pulled up in a delicate smile.