Mycroft saw right away that Sherlock and John's relationship had suffered serious damage.
When Sherlock stepped out to use the toilet, Gregory confided that he was sleeping alone in a guestroom at the end of the hall, and not with John.
"John understood Sherlock's explanations for what they were: well-intentioned idiocy. But he's angry, Myc. And hurt. He just pushes Sherlock away, doesn't want to talk it out. You'll see what I mean."
Mycroft wasn't surprised, given the circumstances. But when John, summoned by Parker, came upstairs and Sherlock rejoined them a moment later, it was painfully obvious that Lestrade had been understating things.
John smiled as he approached, but Mycroft wasn't fooled. The normally fastidious doctor had faint tea stains on his jumper and bluish shadows underscored his eyes, indicating that his hands had been shaking during his last tea break and he was sleeping poorly.
Mycroft felt ashamed. What Sherlock and I put him through...
"Hey." John sat on the mattress edge and checked his pulse. "You've had a rough few days."
"So I've been told."
"Any pain?"
"Some aches in my joints, but otherwise no."
Sherlock, watching John anxiously, came up and sat near his brother's head, his knee inches from John's hand. The doctor flinched, stood up quickly, and stepped back.
"Your pulse is a little weak, but it's to be expected. The drug used to replicate the chest pains doesn't pass through the system as easily as some others," he said, not once looking in his former lover's direction. "You'll probably experience the odd heart muscle contraction for at least a week. But it will be nothing like what you suffered before."
"Better not be," Lestrade said.
Gregory's anger toward Sherlock was gradually receding now that Mycroft was awake, but John's deliberate indifference made the tension in the bedroom thick enough to stab. Sherlock stared at the floor, feigning interest in the carpet pattern. His face gave away nothing, but Mycroft detected the hurt that bubbled beneath the surface.
"Once you're able to eat solid food, I'll take the IV out, but bed rest until further notice. I mean it."
"I know you do. Thank you, John."
"Right, then. Greg, did you tell him about the security arrangements?"
"Not yet."
Mycroft's brow furrowed. "Security arrangements?"
"Myc, Moriarty is alive," Gregory said. "He survived too. Well, if you want to get technical, he never fell."
"I know. Sherlock told me."
During a private moment, Mycroft had quickly told his brother about the arch-criminal's botched assassination attempt and subsequent capture. The younger Holmes agreed to keep the details secret–all John and Gregory needed was one more shock- but insisted on being kept informed of all developments. Mycroft understood: Sherlock wouldn't be able to relax his vigilance until Moriarty's execution was confirmed.
"Then you're aware that he's after you now." John peered out the window. "I called Anthea and let her know. She sent down a security detail to patrol the forest 24-7 until further notice."
"Excellent. Thank her for me."
Mycroft silently praised his PA's efficiency and discretion. Just before her team took Moriarty away, he'd ordered the man's containment to be classified Level 12. Translated: all details concerning his arrest, interrogation, and future execution would be confined to upper-echelon agency personnel. Since John and Lestrade could never be told that the monster was no longer lurking in their closet, Anthea had dutifully responded to their concerns with armed guards.
Just then, Parker rang the bell for dinner. John and Gregory went downstairs after Mycroft assured them that he wanted to rest. Sherlock remained on the bed, staring silently out the window.
Mycroft touched his hand. "John will forgive you, but you have to be patient. You hurt him terribly."
"No. I don't think he will." Mycroft had never seen him so depressed. The self-righteous arrogance that earned him a smack from Parker had vaporized when John came into the room, to be replaced by anxiety and sadness. Sherlock wasn't as heartless as he liked to believe. "He doesn't talk to me unless it's absolutely unavoidable. Why doesn't he understand, Mycroft? I didn't do this to hurt him."
"I know that. But John has trust issues. He trusted you. What you did shattered his sense of security. You have to give it time."
Sherlock's lips tightened. "We've already been apart for almost a year. Why doesn't he just punch me like Lestrade did, and then forgive me? It would hurt a lot less."
Mycroft didn't know what to say. The damage had been done, and like it or not, Sherlock would have to wait for John to make the first move toward reconciliation. If he ever did.
He held out his arms, and Sherlock folded into them. Neither spoke; Mycroft just stroked his brother's curls and prayed that it would all end well.
They remained in that pose until they heard Gregory coming up the stairs with a tray bearing a light meal. When he came in, Sherlock got up, saying that he needed to fetch something from his room. From Mycroft's vantage point, he could see his brother walk down the hallway, only to encounter John at the top of the staircase.
The doctor lowered his eyes and muttered, "Parker left you a plate if you're hungry." Sherlock opened his mouth, but John walked briskly into his bedroom and shut the door. Sherlock bit his lip before continuing down the passage, his normally erect figure slightly bent in desolation.
Seeing Mycroft's concern, Gregory sighed. "Yeah, like I said, John's not taken this well at all. And I can't say as I blame him. What Sherlock did was foolish and thoughtless."
"I know." Mycroft fiddled with the IV tubing. "I feel for Sherlock all the same. He really did not intend to hurt any of us."
"But he did, Myc. And he has to live with the consequences."
The beef broth that Parker had prepared was warm and rich, and by the time the bowl was empty Mycroft just wanted to sleep. He nodded off, only to be awakened what felt like minutes afterward by a hand touching his arm.
The room was dark, and Sherlock was leaning over him, his sad, angular face clearly delineated in the moonlight. Mycroft glanced at the bedside clock: 3:00 a.m.
"Sherlock," he whispered, so as not to awaken Gregory. "What is it?"
"I'm coming to say goodbye, Mycroft," his brother replied. "I'm going away again, and this time I'm not coming back."