221B was quiet when Sherlock returned, but he knew John was there. Sure enough, as soon as he closed the front door, John's bedroom door opened and his reliably concerned expression greeted Sherlock.
"How is he?" John asked, a required social nicety which didn't quite disguise his concern for Sherlock, ahead of his injured brother.
"Insufferable, as ever. His injuries are fairly minor but somewhat unpleasant. He is deigning to take over my case." Sherlock growled in response.
He wasn't actually angry, more just choosing to ignore Mycroft's plan entirely. Merridew had made it personal and Sherlock was going to make him pay, with or without Mycroft's intervention. He'd already known he'd have to circumnavigate Scotland Yard, what was M15 to add the pile?
John stared at him for a minute, before raising his hand and rubbing the bridge of his nose.
"You had a fight?" He asked, with a tone somewhere between mental exhaustion and parental disproval. "He could've been killed, you visit once and manage to have a fight?"
Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh. John simply never failed to overlook the big picture.
"It wasn't a fight, it was a conversation. We disagree about who will be finding Sam Merridew and ensuring he doesn't escape prison this time."
John's eyebrows rose, irritation disappearing in favour of curiosity.
"Merridew? You think he attacked Mycroft?" He asked, a note of indignant anger in his voice.
Sherlock smiled to himself. Mycroft had never been John's favourite person, such a thing wasn't possible. Clearly, that didn't stop his fiercely loyal streak being offended by his attack. Sherlock felt a twinge of discomfort at the question all the same.
"No…" He replied, distractedly. "Merridew would never be so stupid. He hired someone else to do it."
"To warn you to drop your case against him?" John asked, having reset to his default of concern.
Sherlock shook his head, trying not to let his impatience show.
"He's hardly the first, John. His threats make it more important to catch him, not less."
"Threats?" John asked, confused.
Sherlock tingled with displeasure at his slip up, but he knew his expression had betrayed nothing.
"Threats." He repeated, fixing John with his most wearied and superior look. "Do you not think there's a significant threat implied in attacking my brother?"
John visibly bristled at his tone, but as always he shook it off, refocusing on Sherlock with an equally obstinate look.
"So, you would be annoyed at Mycroft for taking over the case, why, exactly?" He asked, as though talking to a stubborn teenager.
"Because it's mine!" Sherlock snapped, before he could stop himself. He was immediately annoyed he'd vindicated John's condescension, but John just stared at him for a second before giving a snort of laughter. Sherlock felt an irresistible urge to join him.
If one thing had surprised him more than any other, about his ability to make a friend, it was how often John caused him to take his mind off a case, because they suddenly got the giggles. He couldn't remember a time it had been less appropriate.
"Mycroft is a pain in the neck, John-" Sherlock started, as their laughter subsided, atmosphere less tense and distant. "-But he has nothing to do with Merridew. I'm going to beat him, whether Mycroft tries to get there first or not."
John shook his head, a glint of amusement in his eyes telling Sherlock he thought he was feeling sentimental.
"I get that you want to get him back, but surely the important thing is stopping him, whoever does it?"
Sherlock must have been visibly unconvinced, as John shrugged and tried a different tact.
"Mycroft was the one who got beaten up, Sherlock, couldn't you just give him this one?"
"Merridew just used him to get my attention, now he has it. Mycroft is in no fit state to take the case on himself. I won't be undermined by MI5." Sherlock responded, ice coloured eyes flashing.
John seemed to think better of arguing. John thought he was being selfish, but Sherlock didn't care. John, much to his relief, couldn't work out Merridew had done far worse than have his brother attacked. Sherlock and Mycroft shared the view, that caring could only be a disadvantage. They also both knew that it wasn't always possible to avoid. As such, Sherlock was going to ensure any criminal who decided to use it against him, would be taught a very swift lesson in return.
Just as John emerged from his bedroom, rubbing his eyes sleepily the following morning, Sherlock called from the kitchen.
"John, I'm going to check Mycroft hasn't gotten any further with Merridew, are you busy?"
John raised his eyebrows. His story, whilst not a total fabrication, was not all that convincing. Sherlock wasn't looking at him as he delivered his offhand request John accompany him to visit his brother. John recognised the signs of childish avoidance without difficulty.
"Not especially, why? Do you want me to come along? Just to check where he's up to?" John asked, feigning innocence. "It won't be him conducting the investigation will it, didn't you say he was in no fit state-"
"He'll have all the information I need." Sherlock interrupted, dismissing John's questioning with impatience. "Besides, you can tell me exactly what state he's in."
John smiled, no longer bothering to hide his belief there was more to Sherlock's motivation than sibling rivalry. "So you know how far with the case he's likely to get, obviously." He asked, with a smirk Sherlock was used to ignoring.
"Obviously." Sherlock agreed airily.
John grinned and said nothing more as they left the flat. Sherlock's front wouldn't have fooled one of the more dunderheaded Scotland Yarders. It would be a cold day in hell, apparently, before he would admit to feeling guilty or concerned about Mycroft.
Mycroft's flat was silent, as Sherlock let them in. John couldn't hide his astonishment at the fact Sherlock had a key. Mycroft was either mad, or very daring. Sherlock smiled as he turned the lock, reading John's mind.
"He knows not having a key wouldn't keep me out anyway-" Sherlock broke off suddenly as the pair stepped inside. The smile vanished from his face and stood still, alert as the quiet inside clearly alarmed him.
"Maybe he's asleep?" John whispered after a pause, wondering what was so unusual about not having noise greet him in Mycroft's home. From John's experience with the Diogenes Club, the man liked quiet.
"Hmm." Sherlock responded, closing the door behind him and leading John down a short hallway into an open plan sitting room.
It was considerably larger than 221B, but John had to admit he was surprised by the modesty of the place. It screamed very particular taste and it did look very stylish, but it was not ostentatious as John had expected. The sitting room led to another door Sherlock led him through, this one leading to an alcove with two bedrooms attached. Sherlock moved past the one nearest to them, the door was open and John saw the same simple yet elegant décor in there. The second door, farthest away from the front door as one could get in Mycroft's flat, as far as John could tell, was closed.
Sherlock strode over to it and rapped sharply on the varnished oak. The pair received no answer for a moment, while for the first time it occurred to John that Mycroft might simply not be there. He'd recovered quickly enough to have been out of hospital in a matter of hours, after all, it was surely possible he'd gone out.
Sherlock frowned, leaning against the door, trying to listen.
"Mycroft?" He called, managing to sound impatient, rather than puzzled as he clearly was. Or, John thought, God forbid, worried.
"Sherlock? …It's open." Came Mycroft's thoroughly astonished voice from inside.
Sherlock's frown deepened, but he turned the handle and entered as instructed. John ignored the thrill of resistance which seemed to tell him seeing Mycroft's bedroom was in some way obscene, like seeing the Queen's private chambers. Mycroft showed more of a personal touch in there than the rest of his flat, though his tastes were surprisingly gothic.
Mycroft himself, took John's mind off his fascination with his sudden insight into Mycroft's private world instantly. He was lying on his bed, fully dressed, though not to his usual ultra formal standards. He wore a t-shirt with an open shirt and what appeared to be black jeans. He was propped up by a pile of pillows, blinking in the manner of one who had just woken up. He was really only blinking in one eye, as the other was swollen almost shut. He had dark purple rings under both eyes, his bottom lip was split and one side of his face was swollen, blue and green.
"My apologies, I didn't hear you come in…" Mycroft spoke quietly, shifting to sit up properly. He sounded calm, but he looked only slightly less confused than Sherlock. John noticed a slight catch in his voice as he moved.
"Why?" Sherlock asked, brow still furrowed in confusion.
Mycroft let out a slight chuckle which set John's hackles rising.
"Well I was asleep." He replied. "I wasn't expecting visitors…" He added awkwardly.
John hid a smirk at that, guessing Sherlock had been lying, when he'd claimed he and Mycroft hadn't had a fight.
"Where's your laptop?" Sherlock asked, which struck John as a rather strange question.
To John's bewilderment, Mycroft grimaced in agreement, with whatever unknown point Sherlock had made. He pointed across the room, where his laptop sat on his desk, not in use.
Sherlock's eyes widened.
"You mean you haven't done anything?" He demanded, voice filled with incredulity. "I expected you to be back at work, trying to undermine me by now." He commented bluntly, though the surprise in his voice held a note of displeasure.
If Mycroft was annoyed by the pointed comment, he didn't show it.
"Well yes, so did I, but today hasn't quite gone that way I'm afraid." He replied. His tone retained it's usual impervious superiority, but Sherlock and John couldn't read his claim as anything other than admitting he was not up to work.
And he wasn't, John could see. Apart from the effort it was taking him talk normally, he had an almost grey tinge to his face. The way he was sitting indicated he was in pain. His injured hand rested on the bed next to him, apparently not causing him any great concern, ugly though it was.
John didn't mention it, but Sherlock visibly paled.
"How many of your ribs are broken, Mycroft?" John asked quietly.
Mycroft gave him a sharp look. He could feel Sherlock's staring from his side too.
"Three." Mycroft answered, eyebrows raised. "Why?"
"You shouldn't have discharged yourself from hospital, your doctor hasn't treated them properly."
"Sorry, John, I'm not especially in the mood for mysterious deductions." Mycroft chided him. "What are you talking about, Doctor?"
John smiled at the courteously given title. Mycroft was conceding that he probably knew what he was talking about, even if Mycroft didn't. John knew if he showed even the slightest level of uncertainty, Mycroft would shift into impossibly aloof, politician mode and would no more permit John to examine him than he would willing admit to what was wrong. He shifted into assured doctor and rather high ranking soldier mode, without thinking.
"You're in pain." He asserted simply.
Mycroft laughed the breathy laugh again, making John cringe in sympathy.
"Somewhat, yes, but that is to be expected. No matter though, I'll-"
"Let me take a look." John interrupted, before Mycroft could attempt to brush over it as though his ribs would heal themselves if commanded to with enough authority.
"That's really not necessary…" Mycroft began, a note of warning in his tone.
John was about to explain that yes, it was necessary, but Sherlock interrupted them both with a snort of derision. Despite his contempt, John could see genuine frustration in his expression. It had nothing to do with information Mycroft hadn't managed to gather.
"Really Mycroft, how would you know? Just let him play doctor for a minute." He sniped, managing to patronise both John and Mycroft.
John didn't mind and Mycroft didn't argue, though he looked displeased. John ignored his unfriendly expression and moved over to the bed. Mycroft's displeasure did not lessen any when Sherlock trailed behind, looking curious.
"Can you sit on the edge of the bed, please?" John requested, ignoring Sherlock and trying to not laugh at how much he sound like a grumpy GP.
"When I said I wasn't expecting visitors, I should have more heavily implied I was not accepting them." Mycroft grumbled, wrapping his good arm around his midriff and holding his breath as he swung his legs off the bed to the floor.
John knew better than to try to help him. He didn't miss Sherlock's wide eyed gaze and unnaturally still stance, for the few seconds it took Mycroft to reposition himself.
"For the record…" John spoke , hoping to break the tense silence as he pressed on hand against Mycroft's lower back and one against the centre of his chest. "It is necessary, because wrongly treated broken ribs are really dangerous…and painful."
"That is assuming they were wrongly treated. Quickly treated and badly treated are not equivalent."
"No." John agreed, pressing down gently but causing a hiss of pain from Mycroft. "But a patient who isn't breathing properly does indicate one who hasn't been treated properly." He stated simply.
"Idiot." Sherlock snapped suddenly.
Mycroft glanced up in surprise, while John released his grip and half looked around at Sherlock too.
"What?" Sherlock demanded. "That is an idiotic thing to do. Not only have you let an incompetent doctor treat you just so you could leave faster, you've insisted on being left alone at home despite the fact you can't even dress yourself properly." He sneered, indicating Mycroft's open shirt and, much to John's embarrassment, the open top on his jeans, where his broken left hand had lacked the dexterity to work with buttons.
Mycroft turned the colour of an overripe tomato. He directed his gaze somewhere between John's feet, as he murmured his feeble response.
"Anthea will be here later."
Before Sherlock could say anything else to humiliate his brother, John turned and broke in.
"Sherlock, would you go and make us some tea, please?"
Sherlock stared at him in amazement. Of course he wouldn't, he never made tea. He never did anything domestically useful unless it was a side effect of an experiment.
"Let me rephrase that." John answered his look, eyes narrowing in anger. Mycroft was, as Sherlock has stated, a bit of a pain in the neck, but even Sherlock knew not to kick a man when he was down and there was something wrong in seeing Mycroft so wrong footed. "Leave this room right now and return in about five minutes with a beverage shaped apology, or I'll tell Lestrade you're still pursuing this case and have him put you under protective house arrest."
Mycroft looked between Sherlock and John in surprise, taking in Sherlock's glare and John's steady gaze. His surprise changed to astonishment, as Sherlock turned and stomped from the room, not just to leave in a strop, but apparently to do as requested. He laughed lightly as Sherlock left, but his expression turned to a petulant pout as John closed the door behind him and turned back to Mycroft, rolling up his sleeves.
"Thank you, John, that ought to give him time to find any of my official documents he hasn't already stolen and copied." Mycroft snapped irritably.
John smothered a smile at how like Sherlock he looked when sulking.
"If you really minded that you'd stop him. Now, you might be the most important man I've ever said this to - take your shirt off."
Mycroft blinked as John went back over his statement to check for innuendo, slightly too late to have not said it.
"Might I enquire how many men you've said it to, of any social rank?" Mycroft asked innocently.
"Shut up and strip." John laughed..
"Well, I hope you were nicer to all the others." Mycroft muttered, using his good arm to pull his shirt down over his shoulders and drop it to the bed. Mycroft moved to pull his t-shirt off, but immediately stopped, eyes closing as he groaned in pain.
"Here-" John stopped him, holding one of his shoulders still and tugging his shirt up, manoeuvring with the least possible movement of his torso. Mycroft sat rigid, partly to avoid jarring his ribs anymore and partly in utter mortification at John man-handling him. John did his best to ignore Mycroft's death glare, albeit aimed at the floor.
Once Mycroft's t-shirt was discarded, John surveyed his taped chest with annoyance.
"Mycroft, whoever did this doesn't know what they're doing, you can't bind broken ribs that tightly."
Mycroft met his gaze, seeming confused.
"Well it hurt much more before he did that."
"Right." John snapped in frustration. "And you'd have been breathing much more before that too. Taping broken ribs was stopped years ago, the shallow breathing it causes could give you pneumonia, or a collapsed lung."
Mycroft didn't look nearly as shocked as he should have done, John felt. If he'd been mistreated by a medical professional, he'd offer more than a raised eyebrow.
"Painkillers, deal with the pain, the ribs just have to heal on their own." John went on, lowering his voice and managing to sound less like he was telling Mycroft off for someone else's mistake. "Here, let me redress this for you."
Mycroft acquiesced, but more John suspected, from exhaustion than willing. It was hard not to feel sorry for him, despite his aloofness. Sherlock seemed to be insisting he made an instant recovery, him being Mycroft and all. Despite the stupidity of this, Mycroft seemed most chagrined he could not oblige.
It took a few minutes for John to remove the taping around Mycroft's chest and replace it with a looser bandage. Mycroft didn't complain, though it obviously worsened the pain. John gave him a dose of painkillers, made him lie back against his headboard and told him to breathe deeply until they started to kick in. Mycroft looked as though he was contemplating having John removed from the premises. It didn't take long for the strain lines betraying Mycroft's discomfort to disappear and his laboured breathing to even out.
Sherlock returned to the room, carrying one mug which he put down on the sideboard without commenting on who it was for. Mycroft was pulling his jumper down over his new bandage.
"Better?" John asked, smirking.
"…Yes, much better, thank you…" He offered, sounding discomforted, but grateful.
John noted the pained pallor of his face, began to disappear almost immediately. Mycroft murmured something about his doctor supposing to be the best physician in the country and was John looking for a job. John laughed and blushed at the same time.
"I don't charge, especially not for Sherlock related services." He grinned in response.
Mycroft's smile disappeared as he looked at John sharply.
"Sherlock related?" He asked. His voice was normal, but there was a hint of alarm in his expression. Sherlock said nothing, but he was glaring at Mycroft.
"Well yeah…" John replied, confused. "You two…are related, aren't you?" He questioned, only half joking.
"Oh! Yes, I see." Mycroft spoke, looking relieved and rather embarrassed. Sherlock shook his head, but John was once again trying to hide his amusement. Mycroft had told John once he worried about Sherlock 'constantly'. John had assumed he being insincere and somehow threatening him. Sometimes he could see though, Mycroft had spoken the truth in his bizarre, scary way.
"John." Sherlock broke in suddenly. "Could you give us a minute, please?"
In normal circumstances, leaving the brothers alone wasn't a good idea. John knew though, however determined to pretend he didn't care he was, Sherlock had been shaken by Mycroft's attack. He obliged without protest.
"That wasn't very subtle, Mycroft." Sherlock griped once John was gone.
"What was I supposed to think?!" Mycroft protested, without enthusiasm.
"I'll settle for just thinking, before you blurt out something that stupid." Sherlock snarled. His expression softened slightly, as he seemed to remember Mycroft didn't owe him any favours.
"If John knew what really happened, he'd be in danger. If Merridew finds out, you both will." He added, managing a reproachful tone, over a mocking one.
Mycroft nodded, unfazed by Sherlock's admonishment. It had been rather dim of him.
"I know, I'm sorry."
Sherlock gazed at him blankly. He was as unable to accept an apology as he was to give one.
"On the subject, I did arrange one or two, precautionary measures. John's surveillance level has gone up and I doctored all the press reports."
Sherlock's eyebrows rose, premature agitation in his expression.
"Press reports? The press don't get to leak information on attacks on Government officials Mycroft, Merridew will know it's a blind!"
Mycroft smiled. "I'm not an amateur, Sherlock, nor is this the first delicate incident I've had to influence the reporting of. It's on the Home Office internal web page if you want to check, I believe you have my password."
Sherlock took out his phone and began flicking away. Mycroft watched him, starting to feel rather giddy on the free flowing oxygen he hadn't known he'd been missing.
A paraphrased version of the home office official statement had appeared in a number of the Daily Papers. It gave no name, no mention of Mycroft's job, but detailed his injuries, where he'd been found and that Sherlock Holmes was thought to be helping with the investigation. Merridew would never suspect anything amiss. Mycroft saw Sherlock smirking in satisfaction, as he returned his phone to his pocket.
"Good, that should keep Merridew quiet for while."
"Yes, about Merridew though, Sherlock, I also asked Lestrade to report to me on anything relating to this." Mycroft told him. "He doesn't know who he's investigating and too much time spent around Scotland Yard by you, will make it obvious you haven't been warned off."
Sherlock gave him an irritated look.
"So you told Lestrade not to let me work with him?"
"No, I told him to be careful. You'll pursue the case whatever I say. I think it's safer all round if I'm kept up to date." Mycroft explained simply.
"…You're not going to try to stop me?" Sherlock asked, sounding suspicious.
Mycroft gave him a weary smile. "What kind of a fool do you take me for, Sherlock?"
Sherlock actually looked guilty, at that. Mycroft rolled his eyes, certain he would never stop being surprised by Sherlock's version of emotions. There was no point feeling guilty for something you weren't going to stop doing. Besides, he should know better than to let an answer as manipulative as that one, make him feel bad. It would serve it's purpose though, Sherlock might at least not try to stop Mycroft intervening.
"So, what…?" Sherlock asked, testing the waters, questioning whether he was, albeit reluctantly, being given the green light to go after Merridew.
It made no difference, as Mycroft would be getting there first. At least though, he had Sherlock's attention.
"Just make sure you've covered your own tracks, Sherlock, I'll handle Lestrade and the press, you handle John." He started. A wide grin stretched across Sherlock's face, knowing he'd won. Mycroft ignored it and continued. "Remember, you will lose your advantage completely, if Merridew works out what happened. If you're going to do this, I know it's an alien concept to you, but you're going to have to be very, very careful."
Sherlock watched Mycroft closely for a few seconds. He knew, that Mycroft would also be pursuing the case, but that was not important. Now he didn't have to compete with the might of the Government and unlike most people, he was able to use the omniscience of Big Brother to his advantage.
"Go back to sleep, Mycroft, you look like hell."
He strode over to the sideboard retrieved the mug of black, cinnamon coffee, placing it down on Mycroft's bedside without speaking. He turned a met Mycroft's eye before he left, coat swinging dramatically behind him.
Mycroft smiled.