Mycroft knew perfectly well how Sherlock's mind functioned. (Regarding most things, most of the time. Or at least when it came to John. His brother was tirelessly predictable when it came to John.)

He was waiting outside John's bed in the ICU when Sherlock arrived, trailed closely by Lestrade.

"And I was so hoping to use my acting skills..." Sherlock muttered to himself. Mycroft ignored him.

"Heart damage," he informed Sherlock and the DI, nodding to the latter. "They're not sure to what extent yet."

Sherlock scowled. "I need to see him," he insisted.

Mycroft nodded. "I've arranged for you to have unlimited access, except when they're doing procedures." He held a hand out, gesturing towards a comfortable chair that he'd had brought in. There was no need for his recovering brother to suffer in the usual plastic chairs that were situated next to every bed in the hospital.

Sherlock scowled at him, knowing what had happened, but Mycroft only smiled tightly until he gave in.

Sherlock pulled his legs into the chair with him, curling into a ball and reaching out for John's hand resting on the bed as he perused his chart.

Mycroft watched this for a minute, feeling rather pleased with himself.

"Thank you," he said quietly, knowing that Lestrade was still hovering there, just out of his sight.

"Yeah. Sure."

Lestrade acted like it was nothing, which it may have been, at least superficially, but Mycroft knew how difficult Sherlock was to deal with, and was grateful to Lestrade for putting up with him. Even if he rarely expressed that gratitude.

"Now if you'll excuse me," he said, still staring at his brother and John, "I'm going to go speak with his doctors. You're welcome to the same privileges as Sherlock."

He saw Lestrade nod out of the corner of his eye as he spun and headed down the hall, umbrella in hand purposefully.