Mycroft had discharged himself. Unable to cope with the sympathetic nurses and the hospital Psychiatrist who were all so bloody nice. He didn't want people to be nice to him. He wanted people to treat him like the idiotic bastard he was. He didn't want Ice Cream and extra helpings of Shepherd's Pie because they said he was too thin. He wanted someone to punch him in the face and make him bleed. Someone like Sherlock. Whilst John had visited, and it was John who had collected him from the hospital with a resigned "It's against my better judgement but you're going to do it anyway." Sherlock had stayed away.
"He's upset. He doesn't know what to say. To be honest with you he's disappointed." You could always rely on John Watson's absolute honesty. It was one of his most brilliant qualities.
"With me?"
"Yes. But more with himself." And his keen analysis of humanity.
"Himself?"
"I think he feels he should have reacted better. I think he feels that he let you down. You've always been there for him. Always cleared up his mess. And he couldn't do the same for you."
"So he's staying away?"
"I don't think he knows what to do."
Xxxx
Mycroft sat in the attic room. On the bed. Surrounded by Nick's things. Wondering if he should clear out this room. Throw it all away. It made no difference to Nick either way, he was certain. The door to the room had been locked when they had returned to the house. No key. There was only one key. So how could Sherlock and John have seen the inside? If his brother had picked the lock, Mycroft would have found the door unlocked on his return. And John had been quite certain that there had been a key in the door. And then there was the bathrobe. John had described it in detail. Fluffy. Black. NJG in gold embroidery on it. Which had been found hanging on the back of the door, not on the bed. It was all impossible.
He curled up on the bed. Hugging Wordsworth. His arm still sore where the stitches were healing. John was right. It was not one of his neater jobs. The operation having been performed in the back of an ambulance bumping its way through leafy country lanes. He'd even managed to do a blood transfusion on the way. Although how he'd managed to...?
And then it hit Mycroft hard. The only way John could have known which blood group he was. The only way John could have got blood in the back of an ambulance. Sherlock. The brothers shared the same rare blood group. Quite elementary when you thought about it.
He hugged the Giraffe a little tighter. Without the blood he would be dead. Without Sherlock he would be dead. Without him Sherlock would be dead. Without Nick, they would both be dead. It seemed Nick would always find a way of saving him. Saving them. Mycroft relaxed into the pillows, sometimes eliminating the impossible wasn't such a good idea.