TWO MONTHS LATER

Mycroft's fingers lingered just a little longer than necessary on Sherlock's as his brother handed him a glass of the expensive Scotch that Mycroft had brought with him. Mycroft took it gratefully and quickly downed half of the two-finger measure.

The elder man deposited the glass down on the desk and studied his brother. He placed a hand on Sherlock's good arm and squeezed gently. It had been several weeks since he had seen him, not having visited Baker Street since Sherlock's release from hospital 12 days ago.

Sherlock had been lucky that Jim's shot had discharged as the consulting criminal fell to the ground, meaning that the bullet had ended up off-target and, while it had laid him up in hospital for some weeks, it had avoided doing any major damage. A bullet wound to the shoulder (there was a certain irony in that, Sherlock thought), a broken arm and weak eyes for a few days were the only real damage done. It was enough, of course. More than either Mycroft, John or Greg had been content with, but it was better than what could have been.

It had been difficult, but Mycroft had made a conscious effort to allow Sherlock some recuperation time at home, uninterrupted by talk of Jim Moriarty, Sebastian Moran and their past. He had missed his brother though, and as days went on, he found himself filled with concern for the younger man and wanting to ensure that his emotional needs were being seen to as well as his medical ones.

Sherlock looked up into his brother's eyes, seeing the concern that filled them as he moved himself away and sat down on the sofa.

"He isn't talking then?" the younger man asked, diffusing the moment.

Mycroft let out a subdued sigh and, retrieving his glass, sat down himself in Sherlock's armchair.

"He has said nothing at all since he was informed of Jim's... 'passing'."

Sherlock nodded. He had figured that would be the case. Nobody had really expected Sebastian Moran to cooperate with any investigation into what had happened in the hotel room, and so it had been left to Sherlock and Cassie to give statements and help piece together the events of that day.

John entered the flat, hanging his coat on the rack before turning and realising that both Holmes brothers were present.

"Oh...sorry." he exclaimed, acutely aware of the tension and suddenly feeling as though he had interrupted a private family moment. "I didn't realise."

Mycroft raised a hand to silence the doctor and shook his head amenably.

"It's quite all right, John." he said, standing and crossing to the doctor, taking his hand in a firm handshake. "I hear that I have you to thank for my brother's speedy recovery?"

John chuckled, returning the handshake and crossing the room to pour himself a rare glass of the expensive Scotch.

"Really, I didn't do anything." he replied, pouring two fingers and placing the glass down on the table next to his armchair opposite Mycroft. "I just ensured that he looked after himself while he recovered, that's all."

John approached Sherlock, now laid on the sofa, and knelt alongside him. He looked the detective in the eyes, brushing his hand carefully along his arm which had recently had its cast removed and checking the dressing on his shoulder.

Mycroft watched his brother as he was examined tenderly by the doctor. He watched the change in Sherlock's breathing and noted an aura of calm come over him as John carefully checked him over.

The elder Holmes smiled, unseen by the two men who were, for that moment, in their own world. A world where John cared for Sherlock and Sherlock... well Sherlock clearly both wanted and needed it.

Mycroft's heart softened as he realised that his brother no longer needed him.

While there would always be a strong connection between the two Holmes brothers, they could now live their lives without the fear and dread that Jim Moriarty had cast over them for ten long years.

With Jim gone, their lives were now free to be their own.

Mycroft finished his drink and stood to leave, picking up his umbrella from the doorway and swinging it gently as he closed the door firmly behind him.

Walking slowly down the stairs, he pulled out his phone and dialled Greg's familiar number.

They would be OK now. They would all be OK.