Mycroft
The next morning, I went to work with bleary eyes that reflected the sleeplessness of the night before. Not that it was unusual; at least, this time, I'd had something interesting to do.
At promptly 7:31, the massive figure of the older Holmes brother hove through the door and into view. Just as he had the morning before, he approached the counter, but this time, instead of requesting his muffins, he pointed a long finger toward my chest. "You've taken up with Sherlock, I see."
I didn't even ask how he knew. He was a Holmes, after all.
"Yeah," I said, disliking the pointing and staring. "He's as into his Speed as you are your poppy seed muffins." Not tactful, per say, but direct.
Mycroft's eyes fluttered, but he didn't answer. "He's chosen you," he finally said.
"Chosen me for what?" I asked, leaning forward and fixing him with the most intense scowl I could muster. "This is the real world, with real people, and your brother is a junkie."
"Yes," Mycroft answered mildly. "And he's chosen you. That's why you have to be the one to help him."
"All right," I said, revving in neutral, "supposing he has 'chosen' me, what am I supposed to do about it?"
"It's simple," the older brother answered. "Give him something to look forward to on the other side."
I thought for a moment. "Ok," I said. "I will agree to try this if you eat croissants instead of muffins for a month."
Mycroft stared at me in stony silence, before breaking into a clipped laugh. "You drive a hard bargain, Doctor." He took the plate of croissants I offered and went to his usual table.
Perhaps it seems silly, but I had a method to my madness. I'm no psychiatrist, but I could see that Mycroft Holmes was severely obsessive compulsive, and I knew that if I could give him a good reason to break an unhealthy habit, he would find in a month's time that the anxiety fueling it had lost its power. He knew exactly what I was doing, but I had rightly judged that he loved his brother enough to go along with it.