Sherlock returned from Scotland Yard not long after Mycroft phoned. John had been about to tell him to call the scary old sod, when Sherlock's glazed, vacant expression gave him pause.

"Sherlock? Are you okay?" He asked, alarmed suddenly.

Sherlock stopped by his skull and glanced at John.
"Me? I'm fine…" He murmured, sounded distracted. He seemed to sense John had not been satisfied and looked back to him once more. He cocked an eyebrow of sudden curiosity.
"Are you alright, John? Has something happened?"

He stepped away from the mantle piece towards John, voice making a sudden rise in panic. Confusion flooded John's brain. For the first time he thought he understood Sherlock's hard drive analogy. He was having a system's failure.

"I'm fine, Sherlock…" He started, entirely at a loss. "Nothing's happened to me, I'm worried about you…or your brother, really, what happened at the station?"

Sherlock looked relieved. Or at least, the sudden panic disappeared. Sherlock's neutral, inscrutable expression was as close to relief as John remembered seeing from him. The conversation with Mycroft returned to him, his discomfort at the elder Holmes asking after Sherlock, given he had barely reacted to the news. It appeared Mycroft's instinct of concern for his brother was well founded. John didn't have Sherlock's deductive skills, but the initial bewilderment at Sherlock's sudden panic, gave way to aching understanding. Sherlock knew his brother had been attacked. The knowledge made him scared other people who mattered, might also be in danger.

"Lestrade needed to ask me about my phone, it was found next to…Mycroft…there was a text from me asking him to meet me." Sherlock started to explain, though his mind was evidently elsewhere.

John felt rather ill, at the implication. Whoever had attacked Mycroft, had used Sherlock as bait. No wonder he'd been worried. Sherlock didn't need to like his brother, to be driven to unreasoning rage, at such a stunt. Worse than how angry and whatever the Sherlock version of scared was, Sherlock would be though, was the realisation Mycroft had been fooled. Every fibre of John's being, felt unwilling to believe it.

"Lestrade said Mycroft would be fine." Sherlock added, a statement so perfunctory John had to fight not to flinch. Sherlock spoke as though that element of his tale wasn't the important part.

"Yeah, I know, he called." John replied, shaking off his shuddering disgust and trying to remember even Sherlock, was probably somewhat stunned.

Sherlock spun round to face him, attention fully engaged suddenly.

"What?"

"Mycroft, phoned, just before you got back. He said he's fine and asked me to let you know he's at home. I was going to call Lestrade but…"

Sherlock frowned, his expression still unreadable.
"He's at home already?"

"Yeah. Gave me a bit of a scare to be perfectly honest but then that's Mycroft." John offered with a weak smile.

Sherlock ignored his joke, but that was only fair as John was equally trying to ignore the note in Sherlock's voice that didn't seem overly pleased Mycroft was out of hospital already.

"John-" Sherlock cut him off before he could speak again, impatience in his voice. "I have to go…see Mycroft, I mean. Lestrade warned me off the case but…"

John grinned.
"You'll naturally be ignoring him and grilling your brother anyway."

Sherlock smiled faintly, turning towards the door again.

"Sherlock." John called after him. Sherlock stopped, turning his head a fraction. "Lestrade has a point you know. Take care."

As Sherlock left, John realised he wasn't sure whether he meant of himself, or with Mycroft.

...

...

Not many people visited Mycroft Holmes in his personal residence. It was one step more reclusive of him than his infamous club. While the Diogenes did not encourage speech, or indeed, in many of it's rooms, tolerate it, it was at least a form of social gathering. Mycroft's home in Pall Mall, rarely witnessed such pleasantries.

Sherlock himself had been there three times; twice at Mycroft's summons and as proved necessary; deliverance and once for an armed robbery. Mycroft had not been impressed. He recalled one of the stranger admonishments he'd given his impossible sibling, with some amusement.

"Of what possible use do you imagine pointing a gun at me is Sherlock? I could have you picked up from here and dropped into the North Sea without lifting a finger, now stop displaying your amateurish foolhardiness, find whatever it is you want and get out. And tell Dr Watson to reconnect my alarms on the way out."

Sherlock had, much to Mycroft's chagrin, seemed greatly pleased by his sudden turn to vulgar expression of his formidable power. The fact that Sherlock announced his first ever unsolicited and non-criminal visit with a simple ring of the doorbell, rather depressed him.

Anthea answered the door for him, as he was neither in a standing up mood, or able to unlock his front door with his mangled hand. Anthea did as instructed and let Sherlock in, before leaving herself. She directed Sherlock through to the bedroom, the only room in Mycroft's lodgings he had never seen before.

Sherlock's expression seemed to agree it was far out of character, as was the fact Mycroft didn't stand as he entered. He had even done so when Sherlock had kicked his door down and pointed a gun at his head. He walked slowly into Mycroft's bedroom, where his brother was sitting up in bed, with his laptop beside him, discarded just as Sherlock entered.

"Sherlock, forgive me, I'm…" Mycroft trailed off, not quite sure what the appropriate phrase would be for not wanting to stand up for fear he'd fall back down again.

"Right." Sherlock replied, despite his unfinished explanation. Sherlock's face was a mask of control as ever, but to Mycroft it wasn't difficult to read, so obvious a mirror of his own. Sherlock cast a critical eye over his appearance, reading the damage, possibly the repercussions. Mycroft was wearing a long sleeve t-shirt that covered his bruised upper body. The slight bulk over his abdomen showed his ribcage was bandaged, as the slight catch in his breath indicated several of his ribs were broken. His bottom lip was split and his left cheek swollen, yellow bruising already forming. Dark circles under his eyes indicated he'd have at least one black eye by morning. His gaze lingered over Mycroft's hand.

Mycroft glanced down at it himself. All but the tips of his index finger and thumb where encased in plaster of paris.
"Ugly, but rather well conceived I have to say." He commented airily.

Sherlock's gaze snapped up to meet his.
"I am…I didn't want to do that." He murmured, staring at his hand again.

Mycroft almost laughed, as even at that point, Sherlock couldn't quite bring himself to apologise. It came as a strange kind of relief to him, to hear Sherlock's defiance held fast.
"I'm delighted to hear it. It's not a serious injury, but it is an unpleasant and gruesome looking one, which I assume was the point." He offered in frank assessment. Sherlock grimaced, but nodded, looking as though he wanted to say something else, but not quite knowing how. Mycroft would have reassured him he wasn't angry, if he'd thought it would help, but it was all too likely to result in Sherlock lashing out.

"Sit down." Mycroft added, nodding to the bed as there were no chairs in the room. Sherlock didn't look pleased. His instinctive will to do the exact opposite to anything Mycroft asked of him, battled with the knowledge he had really stepped beyond the lines of sibling rivalry. It was clear he was also uncomfortable with so informal a gesture as sitting on his bed. Mycroft waited patiently, until Sherlock sighed and perched on the end of the bed, facing Mycroft.

"I thought I should explain." He spoke quietly.

"Yes, if you would. Aside from the obvious I'm at a loss." Mycroft admitted, without reluctance. It had always come much easier to Mycroft, than to Sherlock, to admit to the problems he couldn't work out.

"Tell me the obvious?" Sherlock requested, sounding weary. It was unusual for him to be willing to allow Mycroft to flex his deductive skills rather than just show off himself.

Mycroft obliged him without question.

"You needed to make it look like someone had attacked me, as a warning to you. The only possible motive I can think of for that would be if you suspect someone else was planning to do the same." Mycroft paused, leaning back against his headboard as talking made his ribs ache. "You were obviously panicked when you sent your message, so you must have proof you were right and that this threatened attack was imminent."

He paused again, unsure how to phrase his last theory, in a way that would not sound like a reproach.
"I think…I would imagine that just doing it yourself would be a rather dramatic reaction if I alone was threatened. You thought if someone didn't believe I'd been attacked, then it might be John instead. John is a guess of course, but an educated one."

Sherlock had already confirmed all of his guesswork that afternoon, so he merely nodded to himself at the stages of deduction. He gazed at the ceiling for a moment, his eyes flickered back and fourth as he catalogued through his hyper speed thoughts to a point to begin explaining from.
"I had a big case, a few weeks ago. A man went to prison, but not the one I was after, someone who worked for him took the blame."

Mycroft nodded. It had taken some awkward phone calls to cover the damage of a fight Sherlock had gotten into with a suspect in the middle of it.
"Sam Merridew. Yes, we know about him." He spoke quietly. The "we" he used meant the Government, Sherlock would normally have expressed some disdain at the connection, but his expression remained blank.

"He hired a hitman, to warn me off. The hitman was instructed to…'maim'…to use his own phrase, either you or John." Sherlock continued, eyes still on the ceiling.

Mycroft frowned. The moment he'd seen Sherlock that afternoon, he'd known he had contacted him on grave purpose. There had been more to his deductions than he'd explained at the time to Sherlock, but he was smart enough to work that out for himself. His chosen meeting place, the manner of his text, how he'd looked when he'd arrived, his lack of rudeness, sarcasm or insincere charm, had all been huge clues before any real deductive prowess was needed. He had assumed - he supposed really without any back up - that Sherlock had been directly threatened, to lead to such a rash course of action.

Sherlock went on, oblivious to Mycroft's confusion. "As it turned out though, the hired hand he chose was someone I've encountered before, though I'm not sure who yet. Apparently I kept him out of prison once. He told me what Merridew had planned and said he wouldn't do it, but that he'd give me 24 hours to make it look like he had done, rather than turn Merridew down."

"Because if he'd said no, Merridew would just have hired someone else." Mycroft interrupted, seeing the end before Sherlock got there. "A clever ally you made, somewhere along the lines then."

Sherlock glared at him. "If I stopped him going to prison it was because he didn't matter." He snapped, annoyed by the suggestion the man he'd quite wanted to kill that morning, was a friend of his. "I won't deny I was glad of his information though."

Mycroft shrugged, causing a protesting stab of pain through his midriff to his shoulder blade, making him really wish he hadn't.

"So-" He tried, voice slightly strained. "You agreed with your informant. Either you had to inflict some kind of convincingly unpleasant damage on me or John, or one of us would be much more seriously hurt."

"Of course I did, he was right." Sherlock replied, with a questioning look. "Why, do you not?"

Mycroft knew Sherlock well enough, to tread carefully.

"I quite understand your course of action and you did it well too, both convincing and superficial."

"But?" Sherlock prodded, a note of annoyance starting to creep into his voice.

Mycroft found himself once more fighting back the bizarre urge to laugh. The idea that Sherlock was now getting angry at him, given how they'd spent their respective afternoon's, was unreasonable even by Sherlock's standards. He didn't particularly want to point out the flaw he could see in Sherlock's chosen course, given it was a little late to take it back, but if Sherlock was going to push him, he was not too proud to admit his regret.

"I could have helped, if you'd just asked." He sighed, looking at Sherlock straight.

Sherlock's irritated look faded into surprise. Mycroft could see the mechanisms of his brilliant, yet strangely limited mind, whirring.

"I couldn't…it was too much of a risk." He replied, voice halting in his confusion. He had asked for help, when he'd asked Mycroft to meet him.

Mycroft lowered his gaze to the bed in front of him. Sherlock wasn't going to understand, without it being spelled out so clearly he'd get angry and Mycroft really didn't have the energy to fight with him.

"Of course." He agreed with a somewhat forced smile. "Merridew continues to be a threat, however." He went on, as though changing the subject. Really he was pointing out the flaw in Sherlock's plan, but he doubted the great detective would notice.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed.
"Yes, but he won't be for much longer. He thinks he's warned me off, so I'll have to make sure I catch him next time before he sees any need to try again."

Mycroft agreed this was probably wise, but it was not without it's own problems.
"That would necessitate waiting for him to commit another crime."

Sherlock shrugged. "People like him always do."

He wasn't sure whether it was Sherlock's lack of tact with his blasé reply, or his own understanding of why he was so dismissive, but Mycroft saw red all of a sudden. It was one thing to accept Sherlock had moved to neutralise Merridew's threat, without thinking to check whether Mycroft could have helped him first. He'd done that, because the primary goal was to protect John Watson. That much, he understood. He was the much more sensible option, if Sherlock had to do the damage himself.

Mycroft, like Sherlock, had an almost machine-like detachment. He worked on logic alone. Logic said between such a mind and John's much more sympathetic mind, he would be the less effected by Sherlock's attack. He could appreciate the simple pragmatism, of Sherlock's decision. Mycroft and John had Sherlock and a distinct lack of other significant people to care about, in common. They both, however, were capable of seeing the intrinsic value of other people. Sherlock, it seemed, was not.

Mycroft said nothing, but his expression must have lost it's legendary stoicism, as Sherlock's gaze sharpened suddenly.
"What?" He demanded, immediately defensive.

Mycroft hadn't planned to voice his thoughts, as he knew there was no point. He also knew Sherlock wouldn't let it drop and he did not feel inclined to lie to him.

"Merridew's crimes so far have all involved violence of some kind, one was murder." Mycroft explained, with patience bordering on miraculous. "I realise you were successful in your aims in intervening, this time. I doubt his next victim will agree that any harm perpetrated against people who aren't John Watson, is so easily dismissed."

Sherlock looked angry, but even at that point, Mycroft could see he was mostly irritated at the distraction, not offended by the implication. He was still, somehow, managing to be bored.
"I'll save much more harm by stopping Merridew. People get hurt everyday, Mycroft, I can't stop them and you don't care about them anymore than I do."

Mycroft almost smiled at that. It was true, up to a point, but Sherlock was still missing his.
"On a sentimental level, that's certainly true. I do give their lives value, however, which if you're content to wait until Merridew strikes again, you don't."

"It's is an academic and in this case, useless point!" Sherlock exclaimed in exasperation. "Me wanting to stop him now, given it isn't possible, is of no use to me or anyone else!"

"Sherlock-" Mycroft interrupted before he could get any further. Weariness was beginning to steal over him and he was not inclined to fall asleep with his brother still there. "I'm merely pointing out that this case, if you pursue it, will end badly for someone. Please, do me this one favour and leave it to my team."

Sherlock's eyes flashed in anger. It was a distinctly bizarre feeling to have him looking so furious while so domestically perched on Mycroft's bed.
"No, Mycroft. You can't just steal my case!" He protested, indignation ringing in every syllable.

Mycroft bit his tongue, hard, until he could trust it to remain civil.

"I'm not stealing anything, Sherlock, I'm informing you neither me nor my department are going to let Merridew go unchallenged until his next crime, it can't be done. You said yourself you can't do anything until he commits another crime. I don't intend to let that happen."

"If you bring him in now everyone working for him will disappear. I can catch all of them." Sherlock argued, obstinacy in his voice that told Mycroft he would ignore any counter argument.

He resisted the urge to point out that the last time Sherlock had resolved to catch a great criminal and all his merry men, he'd been forced to jump off a building.
"This is entirely out of my hands, Sherlock, my department already know about Sam Merridew, he has upped his game as far as they know to a direct attack on the Government-" He paused and gave a grim smile at that. "Just to warn you off. Do you honestly imagine they're going to sit back and wait for you to catch him?"

Sherlock pouted. Mycroft wanted to described it as frustration or offence, but it was definitely sulking.

"So that's it? You hand down your decision from on high and my big case becomes your big case?" Sherlock demanded, petulant, but clearly angry too.

Mycroft did understand, his interest was far more personal than usual. He tried to stay his waning temper, battling against pain and fatigue to not shout at his brother.
"Sherlock, I'm not Scotland Yard. I know any not-listening to you I do is the act of a fool. It's not my case, it's something M15 are now looking into. Any help you can give will be passed on and considered." He offered. He didn't expect Sherlock to be pleased, but he did imagine under the circumstances, he'd know to back down.

Instead, Sherlock gave a most unattractive sneer.

"Why would I help you?" He snarled, eyes narrowing in disgust.

He meant why would he help the Government in a case going over his head and Mycroft knew it. He knew Sherlock was just annoyed he'd have the case taken out of his hands and yet be expected to still do the legwork. He was thinking only of the future of the case, not of it's progression so far. He didn't mean, why would he help Mycroft.

Weary and in a considerable amount of discomfort, Mycroft still couldn't help anger and resentment bubbling. He glanced down at his bandaged hand before fixing his brother with an icy stare.
"Why indeed. After all, between the two of us, clearly you really are the one who ought to be complaining." He commented, tone dripping with somewhat uncalled for sarcasm.

Sherlock's eyes widened, a visible truss between surprise, anger and what might have been shame, in his expression. Mycroft lowered his glare immediately and examined the perfectly manicured nails of his uninjured hand.
"Your help would be appreciated." He spoke quietly, meeting Sherlock's stunned gaze again. "But it is certainly not mandatory."

Sherlock's expression cleared of all emotion besides annoyance, features set in a hard, unyielding glower.
"Fine." He ground out, standing up with a jerky movement that caused a sharp stab of pain in Mycroft's ribs. Mycroft chewed the inside of his cheek and kept his expression stoic. "Do it your way, I'll do it mine and for the record, Mycroft, you aren't going to make me feel guilty for ensuring Merridew didn't leave you in intensive care."

Mycroft sighed heavily as Sherlock stormed out. He hadn't handled that especially well. He didn't even have the energy to be offended by Sherlock's parting comment. He had not been trying to make him feel guilty, nor had Sherlock's aim been to stop him from ending up in intensive care, but he supposed it had been a vague possibility.

Sherlock just leaving was rather inconvenient. He had meant to talk to him about making sure the true perpetrator of Merridew's latest misdemeanour was not revealed. Sherlock wasn't likely to shout about it, but with the police and Mycroft's team investigating, there was a risk someone would work it out. He supposed it was unlikely enough for him to leave any plans on the subject until Sherlock was in a more approachable mood and he was in a better state to deal with him.

Until then, he couldn't simply sleep as he dearly wished to. There were a number of important phone calls he had to make, starting with one Detective Inspector Lestrade, who he seemed to remember had been with him when he'd briefly awoken in the warehouse. Lestrade was running the police investigation and Mycroft was sure the only reason he hadn't tried to contact him was that he'd assumed his own people were taking over. He was right of course, but if Sherlock was going to continue his own investigation, best to warn the Inspector and ensure he was keeping an eye on him.