He had left quietly enough, leaning close to whisper a good-night into the unconscious man's ear and then turning the gas down to a glow before following his brother. He looked back only once, just long enough to offer up a fervent plea that Watson would stay strong, and then silently closed the door upon the bed and its motionless occupant.

Their cab ride was just as silent as The Room – he had already begun to think of it as such – had been. He was quite willing to put off returning to Baker Street and all the memories it held, at least until the daylight could dislodge the darkness hovering over him.

Mycroft had barely finished changing before his brother was already curled across the spare bed in an exhausted sleep.

Only after removing his sibling's shoes and jacket and starting on his cuff-links, did Mycroft realise the younger man's clenched fist was gripping the Doctor's pocket-watch (taken from the parcel of non-clothing items Lestrade had sent to the government agent's apartment) so tightly he would have an imprint upon his palm, come morning.

One did not have to be a consulting detective, nor a Holmes, to observe and deduce that his brother had been weeping, fighting sleep and the nightmares that were certain to emerge, before finally losing the battle.