"Sherlock?"

The figure in the chair looked up from his book and said, "Mycroft? How do you feel?"

That wasn't Sherlock. The older man blinked wearily, trying to pull his eyes into their usual laser focus. "My brain feels full of treacle." He started to sit up but then fell back against the cushions and shut his eyes. "Jagged treacle. Where's Sherlock?"

He heard John moving quietly about the room. "He's out investigating, but he's been checking in on you. I think he's worried."

Mycroft's response was an undignified snort that made John chuckle. "That's certainly not the brother I know. You're either a miracle worker, Dr Watson, or you've brainwashed him."

"Washing Sherlock's brain would take more soap and energy than I have the patience for," John told him. "And I said you should call me John. Here's your medicine. Other than the headache, how do you feel? Nauseated? Dizzy?"

Mycroft gave his head the barest shake. "No, just sore. Stiff and sore," he corrected as he creaked into a sitting position. John didn't reach out to help, but he was ready if he needed him. When Mycroft was seated, he handed him his pills and the glass. "Take these. How hungry are you?"

Mycroft did as he was told. "A little."

"Okay. I'll go make some lunch. Do you want it here? Or in the kitchen?"

"You'll make the lunch? Where's Mrs Dean?"

"Sherlock gave your staff the day off," John told him with a shrug. "I'm not sure if he was worried about security breaches, protecting your reputation, or just generally being Sherlock, but there it is. Luckily for you, while I'm not much of a cook, but I can heat soup and make sandwiches."

"And tea. Sherlock said you make good tea," Mycroft said, levering himself up as John watched him carefully.

"Did he really?" John sounded surprised. "That's more than he's ever said to my face—though he does drink the tea I hand him, more often than not."

"The fact that you can get him to drink it is impressive," Mycroft told him, making his careful way down the hallway toward the toilet.

"Sometimes I think he just gets tired of my nagging him."

Mycroft gave a small laugh. "He wearied of that from me decades ago, but at least he does what you tell him to. That should tell you everything you need."

John laughed, and Mycroft noted the fondness in it. "Well, I'm not a Holmes. I'm not as good at reading affection between the lines as you two. I'll be in the kitchen. Call me if you need me. Lunch'll be up in a tick."

Feeling a little unsteady, Mycroft made it to the bathroom and relieved the pressure of his bladder, all the while wondering what John had meant by that. What affection?

When he entered the kitchen a few minutes later, John nodded at the table where he'd sat with Sherlock several hours earlier. "Tomato soup and toasted cheese sandwiches. Nothing as fancy as you're used to, I'm sure, but this was comfort food when I was growing up."

Mycroft wasn't sure what he thought of such plebeian fare, but found its simplicity oddly satisfying, even with the large glass of water John insisted he drink. "Dehydration will just exacerbate your headache," he said, and Mycroft was willing to do anything that would ease the distracting pain in his head.

"You care about my brother," he said after the meal was done.

"He's my best friend," John told him, eyes sincere. "Nobody seems to understand—he's the most irritating, frustrating person I've ever met, but … everything comes alive when he's around. He's brilliant in a way that's unlike anyone I've ever met—and I went through medical school, you know. I've known geniuses before, but Sherlock's unique."

"He is that," Mycroft said.

"Yes, he is. I've only known him a year, but I can't imagine life without him. I've never known anybody who could do what he does."

"Which is what, exactly?"

John smiled. "I keep forgetting you don't remember. The way he described it to me is that the police consult with him when they're out of their depth—which is always, according to him. They—usually Detective Inspector Lestrade—call him in when they've got the crazy, challenging cases. Sherlock will spot things at the crime scene that nobody else sees, or can't put together in a meaningful way. The first case we worked together … oh! You should read my blog."

"Your blog?"

John nodded with a look of mischief dancing in his eyes. "Something my therapist insisted I do when I got back from Afghanistan. She claimed writing down the things I did would help me readjust." Mycroft couldn't help a sound of scepticism, but John just laughed. "Oh, I know. It sounded crazy to me, too. Nothing ever happened to me, what on earth was I supposed to write? But after that first case, when I moved in with Sherlock, I started writing up the cases we worked on."

He got up and started clearing dishes, waving at Mycroft to stay seated. "Sherlock abuses everything about it, of course. My writing style, the way I explain the cases—he says it's romantic nonsense, that I miss all the important details—but it's become pretty popular which, yes, absolutely amazes me. We've gotten a fair number of cases because people have heard of Sherlock through my blog, and even though he mocks it at every turn, he tells me he'd be lost without his blogger."

Mycroft wasn't sure what to think. "You really do like him, don't you?"

John looked back over his shoulder, hands busy full of soapy dishes in the sink. (Mycroft can only suppose he hadn't seen the dishwasher.) "I certainly wouldn't still be living with him if I didn't."

"I mean, you don't just appreciate what he does. You actually like him, as a person." Mycroft still couldn't believe he was saying that out loud.Nobody truly liked his brother—or him, either, he thought.

John had turned around, though, to stare at him, completely disregarding how the dish in his hand was dripping water on the floor. "Of course I do. He's one of the best people I know."

The splat of water drops made him look down and he hastily put the dish back in the sink, grabbing a towel for his hands before walking back to the table. "I know you don't remember, but he's helped a lot of people in the time I've known him—and before. Do you know we seldom need to pay when we go out to eat, because so many restaurant owners owe him favours? He'll tell you he does what he does because he needs the mental stimulation of the puzzle—and don't get me wrong. He does. He's unbearable when he's bored, shooting holes in the wall and getting Mrs Hudson angry—that's our landlady, by the way. But the thing is, as much as he loves the puzzles, he does this to help people.

John spread the damp towel out on the table, folding it into neat quarters. "Sherlock's interpersonal skills are terrible and he's unsympathetic around victims and ignores the personal trauma outside of how it affected events. There's no question he's happier staying away from the icky, messy, emotional stuff—but that doesn't mean he doesn't want to help. He's like a person who went into medicine but hates sick people—he'll sit in his lab for three days straight finding the cure for a plague, but you never, ever want him taking the temperature of a real, live person because he'll just make them cry. This, of course, makes people think he doesn't care, but they're wrong. He cares deeply, he just has no bedside manner to speak of. That's one of the things he keeps me around for."

Mycroft just blinked at him, wondering. How had he missed this? The Sherlock he remembered was utterly selfish and totally unbiddable, unable to be led, barely even listening to suggestions. Headstrong wasn't nearly a strong enough adjective to describe him. Mycroft had lamented for years the loss of the loving, playful boy Sherlock had been, emotionally stunted by careless parents, cold caregivers, and an all-too-absent brother. How had he not realized that Sherlock's deeply caring nature was still there, hidden beneath the selfish, self-destructive behaviours that had bedevilled him since he left for school?

"Do you know how long…?"

"Not exactly," John said, answering Mycroft's unspoken question—which Mycroft had to admit impressed him. "He's been clean for longer than I've known him, but I don't know when exactly that happened. I suspect that DI Lestrade made a difference in his getting clean—maybe by offering him cases to solve. They seem to have a weird, exasperated kind of father-son relationship, but I only came in a year ago, and Sherlock doesn't talk about the past."

"But you know about the drugs."

John nodded. "Nothing specific, just that … they existed. At this point the only thing I really need to worry about with him is nicotine … and that I've known fussy toddlers with better appetites. He's got this crazy rule that he won't eat during a case because digestion slows him down, diverts energy away from his brain. We have an ongoing argument about how his brain's transport needs fuel. Tea?"

Bemused, Mycroft nodded, watching John putter about his kitchen, finding the tea things. "You said I kidnapped you and tried to bribe you?"

"Yeah, and then you quoted my therapist's notes at me and told me the tremor in my hand was there not because of PTSD or nerve damage, but because I missed the war. Then an hour or so later, Sherlock had tricked me into chasing a murderous cabbie up fire escapes and over rooftops and I'd left my cane behind…" A reminiscent smile lifted John's lips. "That was when I realized the kind of person he was, you know. The smile on his face when he watched me realize that he'd cured my limp with nothing more than adrenalin and a shot of camaraderie. He wasn't just happy about being proved right, he was honestly happy for me. After that, nobody could convince me he's a sociopath—not even him. He's got too good a heart, even if he keeps it hidden most of the time."

Mycroft had to admit, Dr John Watson was more interesting than he'd expected.

#

John finished cleaning the dishes and then left Mycroft to wander around the house, carrying a cup of tea while trying to boost his memory. He wished him luck with it, though the house was so pristine, so neat, with so few personal items to be seen, he wondered how much use it would be.

The man was handling his memory loss remarkably well, John thought. He wasn't ranting over what he'd lost, but seemed content to simply work with what he had and move forward. John just wasn't sure if this was because he was in denial or because he was a Holmes and therefore too exceedingly rational to allow himself to be upset.

Had the situation been reversed and it had been Sherlock who'd lost his memory, John wasn't sure he would be taking it so equably. There was no question that Sherlock's emotions were well-wrapped and guarded, but he also threw tantrums when he didn't get his way and jumped for joy when his enthusiasm overtook him. In other words, Sherlock liked to think his emotions were completely under control, but he indulged them more often than he probably realized.

Mycroft, on the other hand, seemed truly a master at containing his emotions. They would flit across his face from time to time (if anything about Mycroft could do anything as lightly as 'flit'), but they rarely if ever affected his actions—certainly John had never seen them do so, not unless you counted checking up on Sherlock. Mycroft had shown up after the cabbie, and on Baker Street after the so-called gas explosion. He might have claimed it was because he was bringing Sherlock a case, but John knew better. Mycroft was and would always be an overprotective brother—and there was nothing that would convince John that caring about his brother was not at the root of that. He was just better at containing his emotions than Sherlock.

John went back to the living room (parlor? library?) and picked up the book he'd been reading earlier, but put it down when his mobile chimed.

—Is he awake yet? SH

—About an hour ago. Did you drug his tea? JW

—I'm shocked that you would think so. SH

—Doesn't answer my question. JW

—No, it doesn't, does it? SH

—How's the investigation going? JW

—Frustrating, between office security and the main witness having lost his memory. A refuses to tell me what he was working on. SH

—So for once you actually need your brother? JW

—I need a credible information source. Brother or not is irrelevant. SH

—Of course it is. Let me know if you need anything. JW

—You're right where I need you. SH

—Okay. Don't forget to bring supper with you when you come back. JW

—Why me? SH

—You're the one who gave the cook the day off. Supper's up to you. JW

With a grin, he set the phone on the table next to him and picked up his book. He'd barely opened it, though, when he heard Mycroft at the door. "Sherlock?"

John looked up and nodded. "He's miffed that I asked him to pick up supper because he's the one who gave the cook the day off."

Mycroft came in and walked around the room, examining the pictures on the wall, the knick-knacks on the shelves. "That doesn't frustrate you?"

John laughed. "Of all the things I get frustrated with Sherlock about, this is the least of my worries. And I'll give him this—even though he doesn't eat himself, he usually finds time for us to stop so I can … or at least, long enough for me to get some food, anyway. I can't count the number of meals I've had to abandon after a few bites because he chooses that moment to go chasing after a suspect, but I give him credit for at least thinking of it in the first place."

"I still can't…" Mycroft's voice trailed off.

"Can't what?" John asked, keeping his voice level, not letting any pressure, any sympathy, colour the question.

"I'm not used to anyone talking about Sherlock with such … affection."

John tipped his head, eyebrows raised. "Well, you caught me on a good day. Believe me, there are days when I feel like strangling him, if only to get him to stop talking."

"I know the feeling," Mycroft said as he came to perch, irresolute, on the edge of the sofa.

"You're restless," John observed.

"I don't know what to do with myself," Mycroft told him, tapping his fingers on the carved arm.

John nodded in sympathy. "I can believe that. You're always busy with something and here you are, with nothing that needs doing."

"Oh no, I'm sure there are many things that need doing," Mycroft said. "It's just that I am incapable of doing them."

"I wouldn't say incapable," John told him, seeing the frustration behind his eyes. "Your brain is just as capable as ever—which is saying a lot."

"Maybe so, but I'm working with incomplete data."

John couldn't keep his lips from twitching, though he quickly controlled them as the lines in Mycroft's forehead deepened. "I'm sorry. You just sounded so much like Sherlock just then. Still though, honestly, amnesia or not, you're one of the most capable men I know—even if I have no real idea what you actually do, other than that it's with the government, and that you've occasionally given Sherlock sensitive cases. You might have temporarily lost your memory of current events, but that doesn't mean you can't change that."

Mycroft just looked across at him, stiff and dignified, yet somehow with something of the appearance of a sulky child. Again, the similarity between him and his brother had never been so apparent, thought John, even if Mycroft hid it better. "And how do you propose I do that?"

"How about reading the paper? I know everything in it is filtered for general public consumption, but at least it would help you tune in to current events," John suggested. "And, doesn't your office have something in place for your sick days? Which, yes, don't even say it—of course you don't take them. But that doesn't mean you're not allowed to, and that would mean there are plans in place for when you do. Couldn't your assistant send you files to get you up to speed?"

"In theory, yes, but in practice … I don't even know my own computer password, John."

John blinked. That was something he hadn't thought of. "Did you ask Sherlock?"

"I hardly think my brother would…"

But John interrupted, "Of course he does. He hacks into your account just to bother you, you never can get him to stop. I can't imagine that's changed in the last five years. And if not Sherlock, how about Anthea? Or whatever your PA is called? Does she know about your…?"

"My amnesia? I honestly don't know," Mycroft said. He still had the air of a (dignified) petulant child, but his stiff posture had relaxed a bit. "I don't know what Sherlock told her, though considering the attack occurred right in front of my driver, I'm sure my staff knows about my concussion. She knew enough to bring me a change of clothes this morning, though she didn't linger."

John nodded. "Right, then. Assuming you trust her, you could get away with a partial truth, Mycroft. Tell her your memory of yesterday is fuzzy and you need a recap on the current projects on your desk. With a blow to the head that knocked you out for half an hour and a concussion worth a hospital stay, that's not exactly surprising news—and she'd probably be the best person to be able to tell you if anything truly important or sensitive happened prior to your attack. She doesn't need to know you don't remember the last five years—not unless you want to tell her."

He watched Mycroft turning this over in his head, and wished Sherlock had told him more about what was going on. The last thing Mycroft needed was more to worry about, but John knew workaholics. He also knew how Sherlock's mind ground itself to pieces if it didn't have other fodder—and could only imagine that Mycroft was just as bad when he was bored. He was sure that Mycroft's job was rife with stress and pressure—neither of which would be good for him today. If he was anything like his brother, though, doing nothing would actually be worse for him.

The trick would be finding the right balance.

He waited until Mycroft had nodded his head and picked up his phone.

—How much does Anthea know? Can she get some work for Mycroft to do? JW

—I thought doctors preferred bed rest? SH

—Most doctors don't need to put up with a bored Holmes. Mycroft needs something to do, something familiar, and reading work files might help him relax. Well, relax for Mycroft. JW

—Anthea currently only knows of the concussion. SH

John looked up. "Sherlock says that Anthea only knows about the concussion. Knowing her, though, she's probably worried sick she hasn't heard from you today."

"Especially if Sherlock has been at the office," Mycroft said in agreement. "I can only imagine the havoc."

"Normally I'd agree with you, but today, I think you can depend on Sherlock's discretion."

Mycroft actually laughed. "Discretion? I thought you said you knew my brother, John?"

"Just because he usually doesn't bother doesn't mean he can't." Just then, John's phone rang. "Hello?"

"John."

"Mycroft and I were just discussing how he can get some files from work so he can catch-up without giving anything away. I said I thought he could tell Anthea that his memory from yesterday is fuzzy because of the attack—that wouldn't be too detrimental if it got out, and she's trust-worthy, right?"

"He's driving you crazy, isn't he?" Sherlock's voice was smug.

"No, unlike you, he's a model patient," John told him as he met Mycroft's amused eyes. "But that doesn't mean he doesn't need something to do, and somehow I don't think colouring books and jigsaw puzzles are going to cut it."

There was a laugh on the other end of the line and then Sherlock asked to speak to his brother (which was a first). John passed over his phone and listened to Mycroft's one-word, discreet responses and tried to ignore the speculative way Mycroft was watching him. He could only imagine how odd this must be for the man, left with an ex-army doctor babysitter he didn't know—especially considering how security-conscious Mycroft was..

Still, after a brief conversation, he handed John's phone back and said, "He said he would take care of it. Frankly, I'm terrified."

John laughed. "Sounds like a rational response to me, but … you didn't see him when he got the call last night. He'll never admit it, but he cares about you. He might normally kick and scream about doing anything to help you, but this? You know the saying about how 'nobody hurts my brother but me?' I think you can count on Sherlock doing what he can to actually help. He might never let you forget it, if you'll excuse the expression, but he won't let you down."

Mycroft just blinked at him for a moment and then said, "I can't decide whether you know my brother very well indeed, or if you have no idea."

John picked up his book. "Believe me, I ask myself that every day. Now, as a doctor, I recommend you get some rest before Anthea stops by with a mountain of reading material for you. Your brain may be as sharp as always, but it's also dealing with some trauma and it deserves a chance to heal. Here or in your room doesn't matter, but you should take another nap."

"I slept all morning," Mycroft grumbled as he lay back on the couch. "It's illogical to be this tired."

"No, it's human—something you Holmes brothers tend to forget. The sleep will do your headache good, and I'm here if you need me."

#

Mycroft stirred, hearing voices. What was he doing, sleeping in the middle of the day? He heard Sherlock's baritone and John's lighter voice and remembered. Of course. He'd been attacked and was suffering from amnesia. How very boring of him.

There was a rustling near the door, sounds of feet, then, "I'm not going to wake him, I just want to see him." Ah, Anthea. He was relieved to know she was still his assistant. Her performance had always been exceptional and he had no doubt he could trust her implicitly.

"There? See? He's perfectly fine," Sherlock's quiet voice said.

"It's unusual for him to sleep during the day," she said.

"It's also unusual for him to have a concussion," Sherlock said with some asperity.

"It was my idea," John put in. "I told him if he was expecting to stay up with your files, he should get some rest now. Concussions aren't to be messed with."

"I know that." Her voice was unusually sharp. "But he needs to eat. If he's not reminded, he forgets. When did he eat last?"

"I made lunch," John said, voice soothing, "About five hours ago."

Five hours, thought Mycroft? I've been asleep for so long? He'd had no idea amnesia was so tiring. Or was it the concussion? He frowned a bit. He supposed it could be both. It was easy to forget that the brain was made from flesh and blood and could be injured, just like any limb or muscle. A headache from stress or fatigue and a headache from an actual injury might be two different things, but rest and relaxation were still the best cures.

He sighed. How very dull. He just knew that work was piling up on his desk while he lay here napping, but there was nothing he could do about it.

He could get up, he supposed, now he was awake, but he was reluctant to with an audience. He was still surprised he'd relaxed enough in front of John to sleep. That was most unlike him, but he supposed it was a tribute to the man's unassuming, relaxing manner. Really, how had Sherlock attracted the man? Sherlock's high-handed, prickly ways had driven off countless people over the years—even before the drugs had started playing a role.

From what John had said, he felt he owed Sherlock something for helping him after he'd come back from Afghanistan, but that would only explain so much. A patient bedside manner would only get a man through so many days of Sherlock's petulant, selfish behaviour, but he supposed that if John had gone to war, he wasn't exactly a pushover. Though, really, he must find out exactly how the man had gotten himself shot. Their armed forces protected its medical staff much more closely than that. He couldn't remember the last time he'd heard of a doctor being wounded in action.

Or, well, that was the problem. He couldn't remember much of anything, could he? Certainly nothing of import to his daily life.

He shifted on the couch, only now feeling the wool tangled around his legs. John must have covered him as he slept, he thought, and for a moment couldn't decide whether that touched him or made him terrified, that his defences were so low that having a stranger moving around his room hadn't bothered him.

Or, maybe not a stranger, exactly, no matter what his memory insisted. Perhaps part of his brain remembered and knew the man could be trusted. He hoped so. It sometimes felt like he spent far too much time on his own. Or—he wondered if that had changed. Sherlock and John certainly seemed comfortable enough, moving around his house. Perhaps they visited?

He could smell Italian wafting down the hall and felt his mouth water. The sound of voices raised in conversation, not argument, suddenly drew him to his feet, starved for companionship as well as food. He felt slightly light-headed and paused to let his blood pressure level out, and then, opening the door, moved toward the kitchen.

#