The longer Mycroft sat still, the more nervous he became. He wasn't used to sitting still. There was always something to be done- always something he could do. But now he was trapped in a medical practice in the dead of night with John Watson, who was fighting the devil to be able to save his brother's life. And there was nothing he could do that would make a difference.

He knew it was bad when John wanted to wake Sherlock up to interrogate him about drugs. He knew it was bad when the doctor turned a shade of pale that was almost whiter than his brother. He knew it was really bad when John practically shoved him out of the room, shielding him from the horror inside.

There was a desperate, ill, look in John's eyes then. A look he knew all too well from wondering crime scenes, bombing sites, and wreckage. You don't need to see this. John was trying to protect him.

It was a long half hour before the door to Sherlock's room opened. Mycroft didn't look up; he didn't want to intimidate the doctor, who had gone to hell and back that night, just like the rest of them. What he wanted was an honest to God opinion of what was going on.

John sank down into the chair next to him without a word. He let out a deep sigh, almost a sob, and dropped his head in his hands. He just sat there for a moment, looking so stiff and drained that Mycroft's own heart stopped beating for a moment as he awaited the bad news.

"He's fine."

Mycroft's eyes widened. He let out the breath he was holding in. John's words were muttered into the palms of his hands and hardly audible, but it was enough. At last John looked up and gazed at him with tired eyes.

"He's fine for now," he said. Oh. "I'm worried about the arrythemia. I don't know how he's going to do this detox. Everything's going to hit him all at once: the pain he's in, the withdrawal, whatever trauma he's been through. It's going to be bloody hard on him."

He nodded. All these thoughts had already raced through his mind a million times that night. There was still a matter of what Sherlock had actually done for Moran. The fact that he had slipped back into his old habits didn't offer much hope. He knew very well that John was right- whatever Sherlock was doing, whatever his motives, it wasn't pleasant. Adjusting to his old life was going to be extremely difficult.

But that was a challenge for after the removal of the tubes and wires tide down to his brother's chest. There was only one thing that really bothered him now, and it was something he never thought he'd have to worry about. Not when his brother was only thirty-four years old.

"His heart?" Mycroft asked weakly.

He paled, and a great deal of empathy appeared in John's eyes.

"Everything looks fine, except for the arrhythmia. It's more than likely caused by the drugs. We can do some experimenting with medications if it doesn't improve, but I just worry what that will be like on him, considering the amount of withdrawal he has to go through. The next few hours will determine the best course to take."

Again Mycroft nodded, without really understanding him. It wasn't the medical information that was stumping him, it was the fact that all of this was happening to his brother. It was moments like this where he couldn't help but to retreat back to his fourteen year old self, back when everything seemed so innocent.

Before he knew what he was doing, he was telling the story to John:

"When Sherlock was seven years old he broke his arm," Mycroft spoke up, his chin resting carefully against the tips of his fingers. "He fell out of a tree in the yard. Mother kept telling him not to climb it, but he wouldn't listen. He was too bold, too brave, and too adventurous for his own good. When he fell Mother broke down in tears, and I never understood why. She had a kind of mental breakdown, and it seemed just the very thought of something happening to her son ate her alive. I never understood why. Until now. Sherlock's not my son…but I'm the closest thing to a father he's ever had. A real one, anyway. There's no one left to care about him but me, and he knows that. He doesn't understand the consequences of the choices he makes. He doesn't understand how other people feel and why they feel. No one ever taught him that. So when I look down on him in that room, and see him lying there, being kept alive by machines and IVs and wires, I think back to that seven year old kid…and I wish nothing more than for the chance to start over."

Suddenly it became difficult to speak, almost painful. His eyes diverted to the floor as John stared at him, stunned and speechless. Mycroft knew he had to continue. After thinking through all the ramifications of their actions that night, after considering every detail of the past two and a half years, he knew the danger they were in. And it was only fair to warn John.

"John…there's a very real possibility that my career will be in jeopardy once the public knows Sherlock is still alive. Before then, I'm going to do everything I can to ensure my brother's safety. And yours." John nodded, appreciative, but he clearly didn't understand. "I won't leave you alone here. I don't know exactly what kind of danger Sherlock was working with…for all I know what we saw tonight is not truly the end. But I must ask you to realize how timely this is, and how I must deal with it now."

John nodded again, looking uncomfortable. He knew he was thinking of the body. Instead of explaining, he took out his mobile.

"I have a phone call to make. I'll have someone here to watch over you and Sherlock, someone we can trust."

The doctor remained silent. His eyes were vacant, and Mycroft couldn't be sure he took in any of what he just said. Mycroft turned away without another word and stepped down the corridor for some privacy. He slipped into a nook between the main hall and a back doorway. A business card turned over in his fingertips as he dialed the number and closed his eyes.

"Hello?"

Mycroft swallowed nervously upon hearing the voice. Though he and the man on the other line shared a kind of mutual respect for each other, he in no way owed Mycroft any favors. He didn't even owe Sherlock any favors. He was holding on to the one hope that somehow, he still believed. At last, he spoke up:

"D.I. Lestrade, this is Mycroft Holmes. You once told my brother he could call you if there was anything you could do for him. I was wondering if that deal's still on the table."

He drew in a deep breath and waited for the reply.

Author's Note: I know this chapter's way too short...it probably should have been included in the last chapter. There will be more about Mycroft's job later. I just think that even Mycroft would have to answer to someone about everything that has been going on with Moran, no matter how powerful he is.