It was about time the elder Holmes paid a visit to his little brother.
About time he stepped in and showed some compassion for the plight of his own blood kin.
About fucking time.
Mycroft had been waiting upstairs when they got home; before John was even aware of this fact Sherlock had begun cussing under his breath, as if he possessed some sort of sixth sense for the presence of his 'enemy.'
"Why now?! -always doing this-always-" Sherlock scowled, quickly fiddling with the door knocker, turning it, before swinging the door open and climbing the steps amidst a seething cloud of irritation. John hesitated, watching him go.
Sherlock hadn't eaten today.
He hadn't been able to make him. But it wasn't for lack of trying.
John was always trying.
By the time he reached the top step the air in the flat was already crackling with tension. Mycroft had stood up from where he'd been lounging in John's armchair, and had turned to face Sherlock, whose ramrod posture and gritted teeth communicated even more than his words.
"Out. I didn't ask you to be here."
Mycroft sighed. "You never do, brother mine... But I'm afraid this time it's necessary."
Even the back of John's neck prickled at the obvious feeling in the room: the suffocating, silent battle of the wills beneath the terse words and accusations.
Sherlock's eyes sparked with something that looked to John like absolute hatred. "Don't do that now. I don't want it anymore. I don't need it. Get out."
"...I... realise you might hold some sort of grudge against me, but that's not why I'm here. I'm here now because you need an intervention."
"No, that's EXACTLY why you're here! You think you feel guilty, and this is the only way you can see to ease it. You just want to be able to sleep at night. Which is entirely not my problem."
John's brow furrowed as he took a step toward Sherlock. One small step, a repositioning. What felt like a safer distance.
"Mycroft, what is he talking about?" John hadn't meant it to come out sounding accusing.
It just had.
The elder Holmes shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, calculating eyes moving between the two of them. Before he could speak Sherlock had rolled his eyes and snapped coldly, "Don't answer that."
"Sherlock..."
Mycroft turned his sharp gaze back to his younger brother, and spoke sternly. "Don't attempt to make this into a childish feud, brother mine. It's already bad enough as it is. You're very sick."
"Oh please... As if I don't know that already!"
"And you know what that does to mummy."
A split-second of silence, in which Sherlock's emotions showed very clearly on his face.
"Don't you dare... It was your fault she was upset!"
"Only because I told her. It was the logical first step toward your recovery. Your decisions were still the cause of her pain, Sherlock."
Sherlock took a deep breath, and then gritted his teeth, stepping closer to Mycroft threateningly. "Don't talk about 'decisions' to me. You and I both know-"
"Your disorder, then. Your illness. Don't be smart-you know precisely what I meant."
Sherlock paused, glaring at him. "Oh, that brings me back..." He took on a mocking tone. "'Don't be smart, Sherlock. I'm the smart one!'"
"I am the smart one."