"I don't think he's fine."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow but didn't lift his eyes; instead he listened to the pattering of raindrops on the café roof and let his ears do the deducing. John's fingers twitched against the linoleum table, just off beat enough to suggest he wasn't aware of the action. His mug rattled each time he picked it up, but never when it was placed back down. Most telling, though, his voice registered at a lower volume than normal and held none of its gruffness.

"I see you're serious, John. As Sherlock has not been fine for some time, though, I'll need a bit more clarification. You visited him a few hours ago and called me almost immediately afterwards, but not until you'd arrived home; you think he's in danger, ineluctable but not imminent. He's safe within the center's walls, but he's still himself, yes? I imagine you think this the biggest danger of all." Mycroft paused, closing his eyes to focus on the rain. It was picking up. "I fear you're not wrong."

"When he was in solitary…" John let himself fade out. He wasn't able to dwell on the thought for long. When he still lived at Baker Street, he often found Sherlock carrying on a conversation with him even though he'd just entered the room. At first he assumed it was yet another Sherlockism, a quirk that was a necessary add-on of genius, but soon he realized Sherlock literally lacked the ability to be alone. It was, in every sense of the word, impossible—and so, to avoid the unthinkable, the unbearable, the detective would convince himself that, no, he wasn't alone. A skull, mind-palace John, even his brother: nearly anything would work, at least for a short while. The world saw him an eccentric introvert, and personality tests would not disagree; but it was as if he worked well in the cold but only if he had is coat—he was best alone, but still protected and watched over. When John let these thoughts roll in his mind, he knew that Sherlock was left utterly alone, shivering, not in one cell but in two.

Mycroft, too, knew the danger. He was a man composed primarily of duty and guilt, and all the time he'd left Sherlock to himself were his biggest regrets of all. "I know, John, but he is taken care of. His days are structured with therapeutic sessions, creative activities, time spent in fresh air. They tell me he's helping in the garden, did you know? Other than the night, his seclusion is minimal."

"He kept the light on when he lived with me." John readjusted in his seat. "I know I agreed to this, and I have given my word and full commitment…and, honestly, nothing jumped out at me when I saw him. Nothing screamed this is not good. I just had this, I don't know, sense, I guess, that you and I are best for him. I know the past month hasn't been any proof that I've actually been helping him, but—"

"John. I threatened you your first day at Baker Street because I will not let anything harm my brother. I fail at this task daily, and sometimes I myself am the harm; nonetheless, suffice it to say that you would not be here if you were not good for him. He first turned to morphine and cocaine because he couldn't handle being different, not understanding his place in the world. Each time something shifts in his universe, good or bad, he goes through the motions again. I believe he is struggling now, not because he is unloved, but because he feels so undeserving of the love he is now giving. Do not insult him by saying you have not made a difference; to say so would be to blot out the very sun of his universe."

The men sat silently for a while, Mycroft surprised at the intensity of his own voice and John contemplating the influence he'd long had but never quite knew what to do with. "So…you think we should take him out, then."

Mycroft shrugged—a motion so passive for him that John didn't register the movement as such at all, but as more of a switch. "I'm saying that Sherlock…goodness, Sherlock cares for us. And we care for him. Perhaps the center is technically the right answer, but—and I rarely second guess myself, John—I think that, for once, keeping him in our proximity may be the better option."

John smiled and fished for his buzzing phone. "Heart wins over logic for once?" he said, then took the call. "Yes?"

"John."

"Sherlock!" John grinned at Mycroft and leaned in. "They're letting you make calls now, then."

"…just one call."

"Oh? Well, still. I'm glad; listen, I'm actually here with you brother, and we were just discussing—"

"John." Sherlock's voice was flimsy. "Can you pick me up?"

The doctor grinned. "That's what I'm trying to tell you, Sherlock. Mycroft and I think you may be better helped if you were to leave the clinic and stay with me again. Would…I mean, is that something you'd be open to? If you think it's better to stay, of course, but we wanted to discuss the options with you."

There was a long pause. "I'm not at the clinic."

John felt a rock in his stomach. "Sherlock…what do you mean you're not at the clinic? Where are you calling from?"

"I'm only allowed one call. Please, don't leave me. I…"

"Sherlock, breath. Where are you?"

"Will you pick me up at the police station?"