Indeed, by the end of the week, the hellish week that it was, Sherlock was cleared for discharge.
John hadn't been back to the flat since the previous morning, and was mildly interested to find what had magically appeared courtesy of Mycroft.
He'd come to visit the morning after John had called, just as he said he would.
"John," he'd greeted him, glancing at Sherlock laying in the bed, eyes closed.
"Mycroft," John returned. "He's not sleeping by the way."
"I thought not," Mycroft commented.
"Thanks a lot John," Sherlock hissed.
John shot him a glance. "Really? He was bound to notice sooner or later, and at least this way it should be over with sooner."
Mycroft's mouth twitched in something that could have been a smile, if his face hadn't forgotten how to. He pulled a chair up and sat next to the bed.
"Doctor Watson has informed me that one of the stages in being listed for transplant is a psychological evaluation. Although he has not told me, I know he is worried you will fail, or otherwise make an unfavourable impression."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but didn't speak. Mycroft continued.
"With your history of reckless behaviour and substance abuse, there are already a number of factors working against you. And I need to be sure that you won't be making any others before I endorse anything."
Sherlock stared at him with a steely glance. Mycroft returned it in kind.
"I have no plans to return to the recreational use of drugs, Mycroft," he said coldly.
"Excellent. I shall inform the transplant team. Do try to pass the psychological evaluation. I know you can if you want to. John, perhaps you should appeal to him. He does seem to listen to you more than me," he smirked. It was an expression John had seen many times before when it came to him and Sherlock, but never from Mycroft. And with that, he left.
John looked at Sherlock. "Please Sherlock," he pleaded. "I know you can. I've seen you cry on command. You can put forth the impression of someone who is willing to take care of a new heart like I know you will. And don't say that you don't, because I can see it. But not everyone else is as good as me at reading your tells. So for god's sake Sherlock, please, just for once, behave."
Sherlock frowned. "I'm not stupid John. I know that this is a requirement for me to be put on the transplant list. And despite what you and my brother may think, I do not wish to die. I'll behave."
John breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you."
That afternoon, Sherlock passed his psychological evaluation with flying colours, and was officially put on the transplant list.
Arriving back at the flat, John couldn't help but wonder if Mycroft had more of a hand in it than he'd like to admit, simply based on what he was able to procure for John.
Because he certainly hadn't disappointed. All the things John could have needed, cardiac drugs, defibrillator, oxygen, it was all there, neatly tucked away, but at the ready. Sherlock didn't seem as pleased. He wandered off to his room, muttering obscenities under his breath. John chose to ignore him.
They were home. Home was good.