"What am I going to do, Mycroft?"
He had been asked in his career countless questions that would stymie the most brilliant of minds, but this desperate plea was the worst he had ever faced answering.
"For tonight, you are going to come home with me and sleep, if I have to give you a powder to ensure you do," he answered slowly. "In the morning, you shall care for the police formalities and investigate the private sanatoriums I shall recommend, so that he can be moved to a more expensive and efficient establishment. You will then ensure he receives the best of care, while I see to financial matters."
The younger Holmes ghosted unsteady fingers over the unconscious man's bandaged head for a moment, his entire body obviously pleading for a response – any response – and cruelly receiving nothing.
"And then what?" he whispered dully, dashing at his eyes with his free hand.
Mycroft Holmes gazed sadly at the injured man, and then answered the question the only way he knew how.
"Then you will remain strong, and not give up hope," he replied firmly. "Because you well know he would follow you off a precipice if you so bade. Be a strong enough example that he must be compelled to follow you back."
The younger man's cloudy eyes suddenly brightened.
