Watson had all but lost touch with the reality of the situation, and any concept of time escaped him altogether. He alternated between numb indifference and painful betrayal. He had been going through Holmes' things, uncovering fond memories and upsetting reminders. He was taking in some of Holmes' abstract sketches when the door behind him opened. Watson turned around and saw Mary standing there. The doctor was unsure what to make of this. "Mary? What are you doing here?"

Mary was clutching the collar of her coat with one hand, concern engraved in her delicate features. "John…I've been to the hospital. You had been gone for so long that I became worried. When I arrived, I was told that you had left all of a sudden—several hours ago."

"Mary, I…he's…" Watson's words came in broken, harsh gasps of air. He reached out for her, reflexively, as if she could tether him to reality.

Mary calmly crossed the room and embraced her husband. "The doctors have told me everything, John. I am so sorry that this has happened," she said, her voice like a feather against his ear. She held him close to her chest for a few more moments, then released him and looked him in the eye. "I know that you are frightened, but you must go to him. I went in to see him briefly—they would only let me stand in the door—and he had gone into hysterics. No one knows what to do for him. He's crying for you to come to him, John."

Watson's eyes glazed over with tears that he quickly blinked away. "I don't know if I can face him…"

"John, he's still your friend. He still cares for you," said Mary. "He is the one who needs you to be strong right now. You must try to be strong for him and I will be strong for you," she promised.

-

The couple rode hand-in-hand to the hospital. Mary understood Watson's need for silence and laid her head on his shoulder, never saying a word. She would follow him anywhere, give him anything that he desired, and count herself the luckiest woman in the world.

When they arrived at the hospital, Watson clasped her dainty hand in both of his. "My dear…if you do not wish to go with me—"

"Balderdash," Mary interrupted. "Mr. Holmes is my friend too, after all."

Watson smiled at her kind words. He was privileged to have her taking care of him in such times of crisis and despair.

They entered Holmes' room, thinking to find him alone. Watson had not foreseen what they did find. A bulky figure blocked Holmes' bed from view. Mycroft turned at the sounds of their entry and gave a grave nod. "Doctor. Mrs. Watson."

Mary stayed near the door, courteously, while Watson approached Holmes' bed. As he neared, he saw Holmes' still figure. The man appeared to be sleeping peacefully. However, upon close observation, Watson noted the restraints on the bed holding him securely in place.

"What in heaven's name is the meaning of all this?" Watson asked, staring at the thick belts across Holmes' arms, chest and legs.

"It is standard procedure for a patient who has become a danger to himself and others, Doctor, as you well know," Mycroft replied darkly. "When I arrived, Sherlock was thrashing and screaming, verging on ripping his leg right out of the cast with his rapid movements. I gave my permission for a sedative and the precautionary bonds."

Watson placed his hand on Holmes', a gesture of affection that was not uncommon for the two. He could understand Mycroft's desire to keep Holmes safe, to keep the doctors and nurses safe. He could even understand Mycroft's need to subdue the chaotic behavior. But he could not see the reasoning behind drugging and restraining a man who had so recently been battered and affected so badly. Before he could find a way to respectfully voice these concerns, Mycroft was speaking to him.

"I am making arrangements for him to be kept at an asylum in France. It is the same facility which our cousin Haverhill was committed to for a brief two years when he began experiencing the family illness. Our aunt Fern has told me that she was quite pleased with the conditions of the facility. I trust that Sherlock will be comfortable there."

Mycroft spoke with such decision, such finality that Watson was struggling to find a retort or even a complaint against the idea of committing Holmes to an asylum so far off on the continent. Mycroft had come to the decision so quickly, so soon into Holmes' condition. Watson banished his reckless thought that Mycroft no longer cared for his brother due to his state of mind. Surely Mycroft still cared; he was merely trying to make these executive decisions on his brother's behalf in a respectable and calm manner.

Watson didn't know how long he stood there, mouth agape like a fish struggling for air. Ultimately, it wasn't he who made a protest, but Mary who had sidled up next to him during the conversation. "Nonsense," she said. "John and I will gladly take care of him in our own home. You will not have to afford any expense, Mr. Holmes, and Sherlock will be very well attended to right here in London."

Watson squeezed Mary's hand, hoping that the gesture communicated all his adoration, love and gratitude for her benevolent nature. Mycroft appraised them both briefly and then turned back to his brother.

Finally, he said, "Very well. I trust no one more than you, Dr. Watson, with my brother's safety. I am certain that I will not be disappointed."

Without another word, or even eye contact, Mycroft left the hospital. His exodus seemed symbolic, for he was also leaving his brother evermore.