When I was sure my brother had been driven away, I stood and looked out the window at the nearly empty street. A young couple held hands as they crossed the road, heading to the little shop downstairs for a bite to eat. I moved away from the window and stepped around a pile of unused books in the middle of the floor to get back to the kitchen. I washed the cups from the morning tea, sighing as I held Mycroft's. I had not meant to hurt him, but in that sense I was like Sherlock. I had a very small filter that did me little good. It was what made me such a good cop. I was authoritative and always let people know what was going on and usually, they were able to get things done with my ideas and input. Also, he needed to know it was unsafe for me to stay.
When I had dried and put away the cups, I looked at the sad strainer of dusty dishes and I couldn't help but wash and dry them too. After that, everything just unraveled. I ended up leaving the kitchen spotless and moving into the living room and tidying there. Books went back to bookshelves and papers in the desk. When everything was all put away, I was still unsatisfied with the room and I brought out the broom that John had left by the door and put it to good use sweeping up the dust and dirt on the floor. Once that was done, I simply dusted the room and then sat in one of the big armchairs and turned on the telly. There wasn't much on, so I shut it off and took a book from the shelf beside me. I didn't much care what it was about, but it would help quench my boredom. Several chapters and hours later, I made myself some dinner. I didn't know if John would be home for it, so I left his meal in the refrigerator. I watched a movie on my laptop at the desk and then settled into the comfy chair once more for some reading. My eyes drifted to sleep not long later and I got a few hours sleep until a tinkering noise was made. I shot up, on the seats edge, and stared toward the door. Someone was having great difficulty unlocking it. What if it was an intruder? I didn't have my firearm. John has keys; he would be having this much trouble...he lives here.
"Damn door!" A voice shouted, the words slow and muffled behind the door. I went to it slowly and peered through the peek-hole. It was John after all. I opened the door and he came crashing forward onto me.
"Sorry," He said, with a little hiccup. He rolled over and off of me and attempted to get up. He ended up crawling toward the kitchen and looking around.
"Where are all the dishes," He muttered, reaching up to the cabinet where I put them. Unfortunately, the cup he was grabbing fell and smashed against the counter. After watching his pitiful display of trying to pick the pieces up and cutting himself, I moved in to help. I'd dealt with drunk people before, but I wasn't sure if John is a happy or angry drunk and I didn't want to piss him off if he was the latter. He shook his head and moved to take the glass from me, which I had cradled in my palms.
"I can do it," He said. He was determined and in his little fit he took a piece from my hands and as he pulled it back to his body he scraped it accidentally against my arm, leaving a cut that soon leaked my red blood. His eyes shot open wide and he dropped the glass.
"I'm so-" I dismissed him and put the remaining glass in the trash before grabbing his stumbling figure and basically dragging him into his bedroom. I shut the curtains and helped him take his jacket and trousers off before he crawled into bed like a small child. I made sure he was not on his back before leaving his bedroom and returning to the kitchen to clean up the bloody glass mess. When I was sure there were no pieces left, I went to the bathroom. In there I found what I could to bandage my arm and then I took some to John. I had left the door open and a muffled sobbing sound could be heard from inside the room. John was crying; oh god, I couldn't handle this. He was crying and had no one to talk to about it. I walked in slowly and sat on the edge of the bed. He didn't look at me, but I took his hand and wrapped it to stop the bleeding. Tomorrow he could fix himself. I held his rough hand in mine a good moment before kissing it and putting it on the bed. After that, I left the room to go to mine and crawled into it. There was one more day left for me here. I couldn't get attached to anyone here, yet I was. I was already feeling at home and that was dangerous.