UPDATED 5/25/2014

Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's Sherlock or any of the characters based off of Sir Conan Doyle's most excellent work. I make absolutely no money off of this.

Warnings: None really. Men can like men or women? Same goes for women?

It'd taken another twenty minutes to convince Sherlock to vacate the premises. Mycroft had nothing against his brother aside from the obvious, nor was he a prudent man, but still Dr. Watson had noticed his hesitancy to perform the examination with the youngest brother present. Thus, like no man before him could, the clever doctor managed to kick the Sherlock out under the ruse of food and fresh air.

Mycroft was normally a man of few words. Verbally, his vocabulary to express himself was naturally strained. His grateful expression was thankfully interpreted correctly by John as he settled his light coat and umbrella on the rack by the door. John had jogged into his room down the hall a minute before to grab pen and paper to take notes. His doctor's bag, a recent gift from his old platoon, was already placed on the clear kitchen table ready for use. The elder Holmes had divested himself of his suit jacket and tie by the time John had found everything he needed.

"Now, I hope you're not as finicky about check-ups like Sherlock is or I'll insist upon strapping you to the chair..." Watson said not unkindly while he got out his stethoscope and a few other basic instruments. Mycroft smiled a little to himself as he pulled his shirt tails out of his slacks,

"No, I have always been the more behaved of the two of us in things such as this."

"I see. Well then I'll just need to run the normal readings; blood pressure, heart rate, weight and measurements, etcetera. And while I do that you can tell me more about your daily schedule. We'll figure out what this all is and get you patched up and back on the job at a hundred percent," John stated conversationally, finally looking up from organizing his things to a disrobed Mycroft Holmes.

The shock was evident on the doctor's face and the society man felt suddenly self-conscious of his figure all over again as he sat at the kitchen table. A good long couple of heartbeats thrummed between them before a heightened color was particularly evident on both their cheeks. John looked far more embarrassed of the two of them, but the blush was far more visible in Mycroft's pale complexion. A strangled, garbled noise escaped from the doctor's throat before rubbed his face vigorously with his calloused hands,

"Oh, bloody hell, Mycroft. Don't be nervous. I was just a bit caught off guard. Your clothes hide you quite well is all! And you've lost more weight have you? About how much in what span of time?" John asked, recovering quickly as he wrapped a BP monitor around the elder man's fairly defined bicep.

Mycroft hesitated a moment, collecting himself, before replying, "I started at seventeen stones (238lbs) a little over eighteen months ago. During the course of a year's time I dropped about three and a half stone (50lbs) and had maintained that weight, but began losing more. It was gradual enough in the beginning that I didn't worry. In fact my physicians thought it well of me to slope to a comfortable twelve and a half stone (175lbs) four months ago at my last physical..." Mycroft trailed off then, his reticence well noted by the doctor in front of him, checking his pulse. John didn't say anything, thankfully, and let man simply speak.

"Then, six weeks ago the weight began dropping too rapidly. I did not notice it, but my assistant did. I finally thought to weigh myself. So, a week ago I visited my regular physician in the city. I'm only ten stones now (140lbs). At a height of one-hundred and eighty-one centimeters, I have lost roughly seven stones (100lbs) in such a relatively short period of time. Given my age, Mummy is dreadfully worried, as are the doctors in a frustratingly passive way..."

"I know this might seem like a redundant question, but what do you eat in a day?" John interrupted the silence with his question, rapidly taking notes on the lined paper with thick pen strokes. Mycroft was happy to note that Dr. Watson was like many of his counterparts in the medical field: they all had atrociously illegible handwriting.

"I eat well enough, with plenty of purified water and tea. I'll eat cleanly with only a little indulgence in dark chocolate and the occasional glass of wine as is required of my station and at functions where denying the service of liquor could be easily interpreted as an offense. I don't generally eat out, unless the meal is impressed upon me by my associates. I'll choose a seafood or salad entree then," the elder Holmes replied as the cool smoothness of a stethoscope was pressed at various points of his chest. He paused in his speaking to breath deeply in and out as directed by the ex-soldier sitting opposite him.

"And exercise? Clearly you must have had a relatively strict regime to lose the weight you have? Even with a healthy diet, your metabolism would have appreciated the jump-start," John mentioned, making more notes on his yellowed pad.

Mycroft nodded and replied, "I had a personal trainer for seven months and a small gym at my current residence installed. After the routine was established I worked well on my own. I run five to fifteen miles on a treadmill daily, depending on how long I have to write out my correspondences with Anthea's assistance. I do yoga and meditation in the early morning, and lift weights two to three times a week. I find exercise to be quite invigorating, honestly," he finished, actually smiling a little at the admission. John didn't miss it.

And he did, actually, really enjoy the daily ablutions. The endorphin secretion might also have something to do with it, but Mycroft liked to believe he was above addictions at this point in his life; even ones as positive as the "high" created by intensive muscle movement. But for such a relatively good thing in his life, his apathy towards everything else did not add up, nor did his mood directly after the endorphins finished their course through his circuitry.

John hummed to himself, making more notations in that rather endearing hand script. He tapped the edge of his pen repeatedly against the table, thinking deeply to himself for a good moment as Mycroft's temperature was calibrated and measured. When the small device beeped at the end of its cycle blue eyes glanced once again the length of Mycroft's seated figure, as if trying to deduce a puzzle.

"...I could get blood work done, and a couple other tests at the hospital, but I'm not willing to waste time and effort to pull up nothing, as I suspect I will find," Watson thought aloud for the elder Holmes' benefit, "If all these other doctors can't find anything physically wrong with you, and none of my initial assessments show me anything less, then I'll go with my original suspicion. You might not like what I have to say, nor what I'll need to ask..." the doctor stated, somewhat apologetically, but still very firmly.

Mycroft nodded, buttoning his shirt once more. The cooler night air was getting to him a bit even in a normally quite warm household, "I wouldn't ask for your assistance if I didn't think I could take on any challenge you placed before me," he replied smoothly.

John Watson would understand his conviction. The man didn't quite know how much there was at stake, but he could at least infer that there were significant consequences should this downhill depression continue. If all else, Mycroft would hope that John would feel obligated to help where he could if not because of his chosen profession, then at least because the man seated opposite the doctor was an integral part to his flatmate's life. Regardless of how Sherlock's and his relationship might seem to the outside observer, Mycroft never questioned whether his brother cared for him. The boy simply presented that love in a most interesting way.

Watson ceased his fidgeting. He uncrossed his legs to plant each sole firmly on the linoleum floor, sat straight, then looked the elder Holmes dead in the eye, "I need you to tell me what's been going on up there," - he gestured at Mycroft's brow - "there inside that head of your's. What you've been thinking about. What you feel all the time, and every day, and how much the intensity is. Do you have depression? Do you have elation? What about your past? Is something happening now that bothered you when you were younger? These are intrusive questions, and you won't be able to finagle out of them or skim over the details because you feel uncomfortable discussing how you feel about something..."

John sighed, and ran his hand through his hair, musing the flaxen locks haphazardly, "You will have to be completely candid. You speak about being distracted, but what is distracting you? You talk about gazing off into the distance for hours at a time, but you don't tell me where your gaze goes? Do you even know? You Holmes men are intense, and I'd bet every belonging I own that that intensity, regardless of your opinion on feelings, can translate into profound emotional pools. Sherlock claims to be a sociopath, and I believe him most of the time for that to be honestly true. It's easier that way..."

Mycroft could entirely agree with John on the self-definitions defining his younger brother. It was easier for the world to believe that Sherlock was incapable of empathy, or emotions at all in some cases. Most of the time it was easier for Sherlock himself to believe that as well. Less work, and less disappointment when the world turns its back on you. John Watson was a normal person for the most part, and that normalcy meant he was capable of maneuvering great distances within the society Sherlock would forever be barred from.

"...But there are times... I think... it's not that he's a sociopath, unable to define emotion or translate it into a viable variable in his psyche, but a man who has a depth and comprehension that modern psychology just doesn't have a word for. He cannot be defined...just as you can't be defined by simplistic terms..."

John finished speaking, and the man's gaze turned inward a beat too long. And while the ex-soldier continued to speak about how Mycroft might feel distressed in the next coming weeks (he'd need to persevere through them so that the doctor might cure him of whatever ailment was distracting him from living), something very profound occurred abruptly to the elder Holmes:

Dr. John Watson was in love with Sherlock Holmes. And, damn it all, the man didn't even know it.

AN: Updated for clarity of thought. I'd muddled it a bit. Should read smoother. Any confusion or grammatical issues are issues of my own making being fallible and without a beta.

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