Anthea stayed at John and Sherlock's flat for two nights. Sherlock couldn't be bothered to give up his nice, warm bed, so John generously re-made his bed for Anthea and she slept there. John slept in a recliner, watching over Mycroft because that was his duty as a doctor.
On the third day, Sherlock woke to the sound of sizzling bacon. He stumbled out of bed, threw on a cream coloured robe and staggered into the kitchen, still rubbing his eyes.
"Anthea?"
Anthea had her brown hair tied up in a loose pony and was wearing an oversized t-shirt. "Good morning."
"Um, morning. What're you cooking?"
She stepped back from the bacon and opened the oven. "Scones and bacon. There's tea ready."
"Why?"
Anthea stared at him for a second, then laughed light-heartedly. "Because I'm hungry. I figured Mycroft would want a big breakfast before his appointment today."
Sherlock stirred his tea and collapsed into a kitchen chair. "Mycroft hates expensive breakfasts."
"I know that, I just think it'd be good for him."
"You're right."
John was the next to wake up, soon followed by Mycroft himself.
"Wow, I didn't know you could cook!" John commented, smiling. "I love scones."
Even Mycroft looked impressed. He raised an eyebrow curiously. "Where did you learn to cook?"
"My mum was big in the kitchen. She loved cooking and we always used my great-grandmother's recipes." she replied, carefully placing some bacon on a plate. "Tea's in the kettle."
Both Mycroft and John helped themselves to a cuppa and joined Sherlock at the table. Soon enough, the oven went off and John got up to help.
Following his example, Sherlock set the table, complete with forks and knives and plates.
"Do you… need any help?" Mycroft asked.
"Nope." Sherlock responded, putting the platter of bacon in the middle of the table.
"Watch out, they're hot." John added the tray of scones to the table and everyone sat down to eat.
"I'm off to get dressed." John announced, putting his plate in the sink and filling it with water.
"As am I." Sherlock got up, leaving his plate on the table.
John sighed heavily, taking Sherlock's plate and putting it in the sink with his. "Mycroft," he said, "has Sherlock ever cleaned up after himself?"
Mycroft smirked. "It depends what kind of mess you're referring to."
John shook his head. "Anyway, how's the pain today?"
"Fine."
"Mycroft," Anthea cut in, "elaborate."
"It's in my wrists."
"Won't be for long." John assured him. "We'll get you checked out and hopefully have a prescription or two."
Mycroft nodded, placing his hands in his lap. "Okay."
Everyone piled into the cab, Sherlock sitting by the window ("I want the window seat Mycroft, you know I hate sitting in the middle!"), followed by John, Mycroft, then Anthea.
"Hospital, please." John told the cabbie, glad that it was local.
Mycroft's eye twitched as he felt something, a hand, on his leg. Anthea was looking distractedly out the window and didn't even realise her hand was currently resting on Mycroft's thigh. It made him feel rather uncomfortable and he blushed, swallowing hard and trying not to bring attention to himself.
"Mister Holmes?" a clipboard-wielding doctor called out into the waiting room.
"Yes, that's me." Mycroft answered the man.
"Right this way."
Again, all five of them trailed behind the doctor as he led them into an examining room. "So, Miss Jules is just going to take your temperature, blood pressure and weight measurements, then I'll go ahead a do an ultra-sound scan."
"An ultra-sound?" Anthea inquired. "Isn't that for pregnant women?"
The doctor nodded. "Typically, yes. But in this case, I'll do an ultra-sound on Mister Holmes' heart, so it can be more easily seen, on the screen over here." He gestured across the room.
The nurse took Mycroft's blood pressure as a thermometer as hanging out of his mouth.
"I'm going to get some water." Sherlock announced, leaving the room abruptly.
John shrugged. "You know what room number this is right?" But Sherlock didn't reply.
Sherlock sat outside the hospital on a bench, taking a drag. He didn't like doctors very much and wasn't a fan of seeing his brother shirtless.
He exhaled a cloud of smoke and coughed a little. He stared at the cigarette in between his fingers. God, they were so addicting.
"You okay?"
Sherlock started, the played it off as a shrug. "Fine." He was surprised he didn't hear John sneak up behind him. The man sat down next to Sherlock.
"Mycroft's getting prescribed meds right now."
"Interesting." Sherlock mumbled, blowing a series of smoke rings.
"Don't play that card, I know you don't care."
Sherlock hesitated. It wasn't that he didn't care, he just—wait, he didn't care. Right?
Before he could reply, John snatched the cigarette out of Sherlock's hand and tossed it on the ground, violently crushing it with his heel.
"What the hell did you do that for?!" Sherlock barked, glaring at his friend.
"You'll thank me later."
"No, actually, I don't think I will! In fact, I think it'll only encourage some act of vengeance."
"Don't be a drama queen, Sherlock."
"I'm not!"
"You are!"
Sherlock folded his arms defensively. "Am not."