Sherlock hasn't seen surprise on Mycroft's face for well over 30 years, and he doesn't see it when he walks into his office. Far more gratifyingly, he sees his unflappable older brother drop his pen, although his face remains perfectly even.
"I didn't actually expect you to come."
"You might want to warn your therapist to cut down on your Botox next time, Mycroft" Sherlock points out mildly, ignoring his brother's statement, "The dose is quite clearly excessive and you know Mother would be upset if you accidentally poison yourself in such an asinine…"
"Yes, thank you" Mycroft cuts him off tartly and Sherlock smothers a smirk before it can escape.
"Curious as it may seem, I did not request your presence simply to be insulted."
"Just looking out for your health, brother dear."
"I'm sure."
Mycroft tries to cock an eyebrow, fails, and contemplates having his facial therapist forcibly removed from the country.
"I am curious as to the nature of your intentions towards John Watson."
Sherlock blinks once, twice, shakes his head faintly and sits down.
"Have you lost your mind, Mycroft? You're implying that there is somehow some kind of romance between a sociopath and a heterosexual army doctor."
Mycroft sits back in his chair, a not-entirely-pleasant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"You must see it from my perspective, Sherlock. You move in together on a whim, spend all your time together, and now he is clearly pining for you. And I warn you, if you don't deal with this one way or another, I will have to involve myself."
Sherlock's mouth falls open inelegantly and Mycroft furrows his brow.
"Please don't tell me it has eluded you, Sherlock. Broken up with his girlfriend; no social life so's to speak of, and recently avoiding all contact with you, refusing to make eye contact. Poor sleep pattern, decreased appetite, excessive alcohol consumption. Absolutely classic signs of romantic infatuation."
Sherlock thinks back to John's reaction when he had walked into his bedroom this morning; discomfort, a faint sheen of sweat; had he been hiding signs of arousal? Woken up from what Sherlock had assumed to be a nightmare; had it been an erotic dream? Had he really missed this?
Mycroft's expression has softened across the table and he sits forward.
"For goodness sake, Sherlock, don't start taking this out on him. Just think about what you are going to do. You seem happier with him there."
"He buys milk" responds Sherlock, his mind elsewhere.
"He tolerates you, and trust me when I say that makes him part of a very small minority."
"I resent that"
"I'm sure you do. Tea?"
"No, no. Things to do. People to…"
"Sherlock"
Mycroft's tone is warning, although he knows it won't make a damn bit of difference.
"I shan't upset him, Mycroft. I am rather fond of the man. I just need time to think – away from irritating, repetitive noises."
"Do try not to make too big a mess of it" says Mycroft dismissively, turning back to his papers as Sherlock sweeps out of the room in a flurry of coat and scarf.
Sherlock is sat on the sofa when John comes home, as though he has never moved, his legs stretched out in front of him and fingers interlinked on his lap. He has been thinking about John all afternoon; whether Mycroft is right (his instinct is that he is not, but he is forced to accept that Mycroft knows considerably more about emotional response than he does), whether he should ask John, what will happen.
Whether he actually does have feelings for John…
He has considered the evidence. He is affectionate towards the man; doesn't shy away from physical contact. Enjoys his company in so much as he enjoys anyone's company. Cares about his feelings. But attracted to him?
He is drawn to John, that much he knows. Fascinated by the man. He's not yet been able to figure out why, because he'd got the man's life story within around ten seconds of meeting him, but nonetheless he remains intrigued. John doesn't seem to dislike some of Sherlock's foibles; he's complained vaguely about experiments in the fridge but he seems to have a higher tolerance than the majority of the population (and he makes tea, often without needing to be asked). But none of those things really explain what it is that makes John's company so pleasant to him.
The idea of losing John horrifies him. Somehow this man, this insignificant and straightforward man, has wormed his way into Sherlock's life and now he doesn't want to be without him.
And now he's afraid that he will be.
John passes almost unnoticed through the living room. Whatever is on Sherlock's mind is clearly occupying a considerable proportion of his brain and he barely stirs as John walks past, hobbling up the stairs.
He has never felt so tired in his life. One week through his PEP pack and while the vomiting and diarrhoea has settled the stomach cramps and nausea persist, and he doesn't feel like eating in any case. He forces himself to drink, knows that dehydration won't help, but keeping himself busy with Sherlock and with work, focussing all his attentions and his concerns on the patients who come into his clinic, helps him to forget the nagging hunger.
He tries not to think about why he's starving himself; because that is what he's doing, no question about it. There is nothing that comes to mind that doesn't sound childish, immature or just generally pathetic. There's no earthly reason that not eating should make him feel any better or any more in control and yet…somehow it does. Just thinking about it makes him feel angry and frustrated, and turns his mind to the plaster on his arm.
That, as well, disgusts him. What sort of a doctor uses self-harm as a coping mechanism? 'The kind of doctor whose only friend is a sociopath' his subconscious supplies unhelpfully. He wants to do it again. The pain had distracted him from his thoughts, breaking the cycle of panic. The rush of adrenaline that was probably at least in part due to the idea of keeping something like that right underneath the nose of the world's only consulting detective was addictive.
He tries not to think about the oily feeling inside when Sherlock had spoken to him so softly and with such empathy that morning. He tries not to think about how different things could have been. He tries not to feel like he's turned his back on his only ally.
It's only 7pm but his eyes are reluctant to stay open and he leans back against his pillows, sighing heavily and massaging his forehead with his fingertips to try and ease the perpetual throbbing.
Tomorrow, he tells himself. He'll feel better tomorrow.
A/N: Thank you again to everyone for the lovely reviews! I know everyone's rooting for Sherlock to figure it out but I hope this isn't too out of character; I can just see Mycroft and Sherlock failing at deduction involving human emotion and getting the wrong end of the stick.