Two day's later, Mycroft donned the closest thing he could get to a respectable outfit. Black trousers, white shirt, old black vest and jacket. It wasn't really a full outfit, but it was close enough. Good enough at least that he looked somewhat like his old self, at least that is what he thought. He reviewed himself in the mirror, shocked at the appearance of his face and to a latter extent his body.
His skin was almost as pale as his brother's, his hair slightly longer than he remembered, he did always like a short, no nonsense sort of style, he had bruises around his eye and upon his cheeks. He still required a bandage around his forehead, though he opted for a patch over the effected areas whenever possible but this wasn't always the right thing to do. Some part's of his head were not able to hold a patch.
He'd lost weight too...quite a bit actually, hospital food leaved much to be desired and because of the wound to his side, he simply hand't been all the hungry. Well...so he didn't really look like himself, he hardly recognised his own reflection. But that didn't matter, as long as Mrs Hudson knew him, that was all that really mattered right now. He packed his new, meagre amount of belongings and asked if they could be sent to 221b and then used his crutches to head out towards the taxi waiting outside.
Would she hate him? He wondered, they didn't really get along as well as he would like. He appreciated that she mothered his little brother, god knows he needed that sort of thing, usually as they were growing up, Mycroft had to take the roles of mother, father and older brother, their parents simply weren't around very much.
Christmas and birthdays sometimes just consisted of the two of them. It was a lonely sort of childhood. So he was very pleased that Mrs Hudson cared so much for Sherlock and concerned that she may not be too happy that he wasn't really dead. That Sherlock had gone through all that pain for nothing.
The cab stopped, the cabbie helping Mycroft out and then waving goodbye. The elder Holmes stood in front of the door to 221b with nervous anticipation. He paused, his hands above the bell, a noticeable bullet wound still through it's heart. No replacement yet, his lips twitched slightly upwards as he raised his fist to the door instead. Now he waited. What would he do if she wasn't home? Mycroft looked up, hearing footsteps coming towards the door, he took a breath. This was the moment of truth.
The door opened.
"Hello Mrs Hudson"