John didn't come back to the hospital the next day. Or the day after. Or the day after that. Sherlock was released on the seventh day after the accident, and he went home alone. His arm was in a sling across his body, encased in a dark blue cast, and his ribs were braced with tape. A longish scar across his forehead made him look both decrepit and more intimidating at the same time. He let himself into 221B, and looked around. John's things were depleted. The apartment looked as though no one had been there for days. A weight of cold dread settled in Sherlock's stomach. He had grown used to company. He didn't want to lose his friend. He looked around, putting his bag down on the sofa. A piece of notebook paper was taped to the mirror.
Sherlock,
I've gone to stay with Harry. I can't be here, around you, knowing what I know, not until you admit that you might not have addressed all your issues. Especially your issues related to those scars. I'll come back when you've had your fist session with a proper psychologist. I hope to see you soon.
John.
Shoot. He was gone. Sherlock leant his back against the wall. Overcome with frustration, he punched it. He could feel the rope like scars protruding from his skin, touching the wall separately. He didn't need to see a shrink. It was a pointless exercise. A waste of everyone's time. Sherlock took his phone out of his pocket and selected his brother's number. He hesitated, his finger hovering over the call button. He had forgiven Mycroft for everything that had happened in their childhoods. For all the times he'd failed to protect him, and for the times where Sherlock had needed protection from his brother. Mycroft had never seriously hurt him. Just a few bruises. There was one time he broke a finger. But Sherlock had been able to set it himself. He had been too much for the teenager to cope with on his own. Their father had gone away for weeks on end, leaving them alone, first when they were five and twelve, and many times before Mycroft had left home. Sherlock scolded himself for being such a coward and pressed call. Before the second ring, Mycroft had answered.
"Good afternoon, little brother. Glad to see you out of hospital"
"They made me stay unnecessarily long. I should have been out days ago."
"You were in a coma. I made them keep you until I thought you'd be alright. Of course, that was when I thought John would be there to take care of you."
"Do you have to pull all the strings, Croft?" Sherlock said, exasperated and a little irritated.
"Oh you know me."
"John's gone."
"I know." Mycroft sounded almost sympathetic. But not quite.
"He says he's not coming back unless I talk to a professional about father."
"Do you want him back?"
"Yes."
"Then it's settled. I already made you an appointment for this afternoon."