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The room was supposed to be silent but apparently the elder Holmes brother couldn't help blurting it out when he saw him. It didn't matter, anyway. They were the only two in there.
"John?" Mycroft murmured.
John was sitting in an armchair opposite him, having just put down his newspaper to reveal his face. The other Holmes looked as if he'd just been proposed to with a slap in the face. John didn't blame him. After all, they hadn't spoken or seen each other at all since Sherlock's death. Not even once. John had, of course, on countless occasions been approached by Anthea or had a sleek black car roll up next to him. But he'd never been forced into accompanying them. Not that anyone could force John to face Mycroft Holmes. Not after what happened.
Mycroft stood up and began to lead John into the other room, but John didn't get up. It would cause him enough pain to get up anyway, what with the pain in his shoulder, but it would cause him even more than that to comply with Mycroft's wishes and intentions. So Mycroft stood before him and waited to be addressed.
Mycroft has a very limited patience.
"Doctor Watson, you are obviously here for a reason," he said. "So you can either express it or I can leave."
John heaved himself up on his crutch, wheezing for breath. Mycroft frowned.
"Injured?" he asked.
John smiled humourlessly. What's new?
"Why are you here, John? How can I help you?" Mycroft asked, taking a different tack.
John took an envelope out of his pocket and slipped it into Mycroft's. Then he hobbled out of the room, not making a sound but for the breath struggling to get in and out of his lungs and tired body.
As soon as he was gone, Mycroft dived for a letter opener and sliced his thumb opening the envelope. His fingers trembled as he unfolded the note.
I think I saw your brother last night.
Mycroft had to sit down for a very long time.