I.
September 1, 2014
Predicted high temperature 20C.
Eighteen days to the Scottish referendum
IV.
The machines beeped quietly as Mycroft sat beside his brother's bed reading the newspaper. They had offered to mute the sounds of the machines, but he preferred to hear them. The woosh of fluids and the beeps of blood pressure monitors allowed him to tell, without looking up, that his brother was alive. That was something that he had learned not to take for granted after the events of the last few weeks.
Mycroft folded the times to the crossword, and then glanced over at his brother.
II.
Sleeping peacefully, I see. Thank Goodness. Quite a blessing after two attempts to restart his heart, not to mention the broken ribs and internal bleeding. This morning's operation had been to repair the damage to the inferior vena cava and sew closed a tear in the diaphragm. There will most certainly be no more sneaking out of the hospital. Not if I have any say in the matter, and I do. When he awakes, I shall remind him of this fact. For some reason, Sherlock never can seem to remember that he is human.
I should have disregarded his wishes and whisked him away to that military hospital. Then again, I must admit that Sherlock's plan had worked. Instead of Mary going rogue again and using her assassin skills to do whatever it was that her hormone-laden mind suggested, she has stayed at their flat and gone on with her adopted life as though she really were the newlywed pregnant wife of a mild-mannered medical doctor.
But John is anything but mild-mannered these days. After learning about his wife's checkered past, John packed his things into his old army duffel bag and moved back to Baker Street. His emotional state now is almost as precarious as it was immediately after Sherlock's 'death'. Or it seems to be, if the reports are to be trusted. Reports of John drinking alone in pubs and walking the streets of the city at all hours of the night.
John did, however, return home to take his wife to visit her obstetrician. They are, it seems, attempting to maintain the fiction of a happily married life. I wonder how long this will continue, this state of... It isn't exactly peace. What is the appropriate word? Detente?
IV.
The crossword always took longer to fill in than it did to solve. Mycroft had answered the questions at a glance. He paused halfway through filling it in, wondering if he should bother completing it. He continued because, well, that's how things are done.
III.
MOD spending report is to be released. Must tweak the pre-release figures to avoid revealing where MI6 money is going. Recall agents in Pakistan before planned military strike, or perhaps not. Have Agnes do an expendibility report on the agents.
Meet with Her Majesty about the Scotland Autonomy vote. Reassure her that according to my predictions the Union will remain intact. The stability of the Euro is...
IV.
The door opened and John Watson walked in head bowed. His shirt looking as if he's worn it for three days straight. His eyes, as if he hasn't slept in all that time. He stops dead when he sees Mycroft, legs crossed, looking up at him. Their silence shattered by the gentle sound of the door closing.
"Mycroft, good afternoon."
"And a good afternoon to you as well. It seems you need one after last night."
"How is he?"
"Recovering. And how are you?"
"The same."
"Ah yes." Mycroft said before returning to his crossword. John moved over to sit in the padded chair where he belongs. Where he should have been all this time.
II.
Finally, John has returned.
When Sherlock had collapsed again after his trip to Baker Street, John had stayed at his side. Then, when he was sure to recover, he had left the hospital and moved his things, but he did not return.
Why not? Was it guilt, anger, fear. His look just now suggests that shame was part of it. Then again I knew that much from the surveillance reports, from the number of times that he looked up at these windows and walked past. Anger was also a factor then.
When did I begin to expect that John would always be here? When did I start to believe that John's place was at Sherlock's side? They fell together so naturally. It was almost enough to make one believe in fate. I still don't know if he is the making of my brother, or his ruin, although recent events suggest the later.
Now John Watson is a broken man. A living illustration of the motto 'Caring is not an advantage'. Will Sherlock get the message? Of course not. He's not the smart one, I am. He needs to rest and let his big brother handle things from now on, the way I used to.
He looks so frail and thin. It reminds me of when he was seven and he got the flu. I sat beside his bed all night cooling his fevered forehead with iced clothes. I don't know why I feel the need to protect him so strongly, but I do, and it isn't just for him. Loving Sherlock reminds me that I am still human, that I am not simply a machine of state. He reminds me of my own mortality, with his propensity to attract violence as well as his morbid desire to decorate with skulls. Caring for Sherlock is the one thing that keeps me from becoming a monster. Perhaps Sherlock feels the same way about John. John, on the other hand, just feels.
My time is up.
IV.
Mycroft rose to his feet and folded the newspaper under his arm. He took his umbrella in hand and made ready to go.
"John..."
Mycroft looked over at John to see that he had fallen asleep in the armchair. He felt a pang in his chest as he saw him. His face had softened and relaxed. It was as if he had been pursued by furies, and had only now found rest at Sherlock's side.
Mycroft picked up the spare blanket from the edge of Sherlock's bed and draped it over John. Then he turned, and with one glance backward, he left the room and went back to his work.