"For a genius, you can be so incredibly thick sometimes." John put his face in his hands and sighed heavily. "I'm sorry… But it's true. All this time…"
"I couldn't help but—"
"It's okay. It's not your fault. It isn't criticism." He lifted his head and looked at him again, blinking hard.
Sherlock looked highly uncomfortable, especially now that John had started tearing up.
Why did humans have to do that…?
"I'm so sorry, Sherlock."
"Sorry for what?" Sherlock brought his knees up to his chest on the chair and wrapped his arms around them defensively.
"For… Everything you never had."
"What do you mean?" His voice was short and tight, trying to remain unaffected. "I had what I needed."
John shook his head. "You think you did, but you didn't know. You must have missed out on so much…"
The detective clearly disliked the idea of not knowing something, and he scowled.
Not his fault.
"Sorry…" John cleared his throat and glanced pointedly at Sherlock's arms. "Do you still feel like you want to…?"
He considered quietly for a moment. "Maybe…"
"Well, now that we've confirmed that I do, in fact, care about you, let me help. Honestly help."
After a few more moments Sherlock nodded slowly.
...
The buzzing of the doorbell caught Sherlock mid-sentence. He had moved to stretch out on the couch beside John, and was in the middle of explaining the solutions to cold cases the doctor would ask him about as he found them on the internet.
It was really quite extraordinary, and the distraction and praise seemed to be doing wonders for his mood.
He was just about to explain who killed Marilee Burt in 1970 when he was interrupted.
Damn.
John was really getting into it.
He groaned and heaved himself up off the couch. "Mrs. Hudson's not home, so I guess I'll get it…"
He was aware of Sherlock's eyes on his back, and then the detective sighed and rolled over into the cushions.
Not a sad sigh this time.
Just impatient.
Just… Sherlock.
John suppressed a little smile as he went to the door. It felt good to finally see that same old bad attitude again—a statement that he knew was completely insane, but it was true all the same.
But the smile disappeared when he opened the door to find Mycroft Holmes standing there. The appearance of the elder Holmes usually heralded the arrival of trouble in some form or another shortly thereafter, or a case.
Of course, there wasn't much difference between the two most of the time.
"I would enquire if this is a bad time, but I'm afraid either way I would have to insist that I speak with you." Mycroft shot him a polite smile.
"Uh…" John glanced back into the flat, where Sherlock still hadn't moved. "I guess I've got a minute."
As they mounted the steps Sherlock finally sat up and assumed an uninterested posture, directing his eyes toward the window, determined to ignore his brother.
"Have a seat, then." John gestured loosely to the chairs, and Mycroft nodded in thanks and settled himself in the armchair, legs crossed and hands clasped over his knee.
"Now. You know I don't dilly-dally, and there's no point in pleasantries now, so I'll just jump right into it."
John glanced over at Sherlock, still sitting beside him, and still as resolute as ever.
"Certain things have… come to my attention."
Oh.
Of course…
"I would have come by sooner, but the situation seemed to be under control, for the most part, until recently."
John couldn't contain the scornful sound that tore itself out of his throat, despite Mycroft's raised eyebrow and Sherlock's sidelong glance.
"Sorry, but—what part of that was 'under control'? I thought I was going to have a heart attack every time I came home from work! You didn't even…" He was going to say 'come visit him in the hospital,' but something told him that wouldn't be accepted very well by either Holmes.
It was suddenly infuriating, the way Mycroft looked down his nose at them. The way he sat there so cool and calm and collected—
—And why hadn't he showed up when Sherlock was admitted and given an emergency blood transfusion? Surely he knew about it. He knew everything about everyone, or at least that's the way it seemed sometimes.
Why hadn't he been there to support his little brother?
This was exactly what John had been talking about before—everything you never had.
"I apologize, but there didn't seem to be any immediate danger that I did not believe you capable of handling."
Oh.
Mycroft went on, "However, now I do find myself concerned with the way things are going. And I'm afraid to say that it might be time to do something about it."
Sherlock tensed noticeably.
"You're concerned now? Things are getting better, Mycroft!" John's fists clenched in his lap. "I don't know what you think you're seeing, but I'm pretty sure Sherlock's alright for now! He's clean!"
Mycroft tilted his head slightly and gazed at him.
"And you believed him?"