His phone rang. Mycroft let his head hang and sighed. Work was really insistent. He pulled it out to force the call to end, but noticed that it was from an unknown number. Unable to resist his curiosity, he answered.
"Yes?" He said with his usual voice, but it was a lot more hoarse than normal.
"Oh, hi, Mycroft. It's Greg, Greg Lestrade."
Mycroft frowned to himself. Why would the Inspector be calling him? Had something changed with Sherlock?
"And to what do I owe the pleasure?" Mycroft asked as casually as he could. He couldn't let on that something was up, and since he was speaking with a detective and not just some random person, he needed to be extra vigilant.
"It's about Sherlock. He's ok enough to be taken out of the ward and into a rehab facility, but they won't release him into my care since you're his legal guardian."
"Sherlock won't actually go, I've tried." Mycroft stated somewhat exasperatedly.
"It was his idea. He asked me to oversee his rehab." Greg said proudly, but it just stabbed Mycroft in the chest further.
"Oh. I see. Very well, you have my permission, Lestrade. In fact, I am more than willing to transfer legal rights for decisions regarding his care over to you."
"Ah… I… that's very nice and all, thank you. But I don't want to be sole care giver to Sherlock. I barely know him, and he's not a child. He doesn't legally need a guardian, just someone to authorise things on his behalf while he's considered unable to make decisions for himself."
"I am aware, Detective Inspector. And I am willingly giving you that authority. The is no one else I would rather take over from me."
There was a pause.
"Take over? No, Mycroft, I'm not trying to shove you out of the picture. I just want to help. I want your help, too. I can't do this without you, I need you."
The words struck Mycroft hard. He… he was needed? Still? After everything he'd done? Could it be that he still had a purpose? Sherlock didn't want him, and he had Lestrade looking out for him now… but was his purpose now to help Lestrade help Sherlock? Maybe that's how he should have been going about it all along… not shoving himself in Sherlock's way, but providing help from his position to another that would look after him and 'give him purpose' like Sherlock had said…
"Mycroft, are you still there?"
"Yes, sorry… I was just lost in thought."
"That's alright. Say, do you have time to meet me at the hospital to organise some of this stuff? There's paperwork to sign and we really should have a face to face discussion to work out how this is going to work."
"Certainly."
"Great. Um… Sherlock's pretty antsy to get out of the ward, so could you maybe come sooner rather than later? Today if possible? I have to be back at the Yard tomorrow…"
"Yes, of course. Give me an hour and I will be there."
"Thank you. See you then."
Mycroft sat blinking. What had just happened? He… he was needed? Sherlock and Lestrade needed him? He couldn't quite wrap his head around how one moment he thought he wasn't wanted or required by anyone anymore because Lestrade was around… and the next, he was needed by two people. And he'd just agreed to help. Agreed to meed Lestrade at the hospital in an hour.
He eyed the equipment before him. He reached out with a shaking hand… but instead of reaching for the scalpel, he scooped up all of the items and pulled them into his arms. He stood, walked over to the cupboard, and dumped them into a container.
"Not today…" He uttered to the box, as if telling himself it was ok… it would all still be there for him later.
Mycroft shut the cupboard door and leaned his head against it. His heart was pounding. He'd gotten so close… so very close. He honestly couldn't tell if he was relieved to still have a purpose in life, or disappointed he was obligated to stick around longer. He softly banged his head against the wood. It didn't matter. He could work that out later. Hell, he could just give helping Lestrade a go and then come back to this point when it all failed, or he wasn't needed anymore.
If there was one thing he'd always do, it was be there for Sherlock no matter how much he had to suffer doing so. He breathed deeply. As long as he was actually needed… he'd stay through all the hell and torment.
Mycroft moved to his bedroom to lie down for a while. Everything was overwhelming and he needed some time to process things. He had time, after all. But as he lay there, he could feel himself become more and more worked up. He knew he was headed for another blasted panic attack, but he had always been at a loss to stop them in their tracks. His normal control over himself never worked.
Once he'd managed to calm down again, he realised that he'd better call in to work. He didn't want to be fired now that he had to stick around longer. He simply apologised for not answering, said that he had a personal crisis to attend to, and would be spending the remainder of the day in the hospital with his brother. Management seemed to be content with that, and so he was glad they didn't ask any further questions.