John lies in the bed in a darkened hospital room. His eyes are taped shut, there is an IV drip feeding into his arm and a tube in his throat, but the beeps and blinks of the monitors are comfortingly steady. How is it that poor John Watson managed to get himself shot in the spine after being invalided home for being shot in the shoulder? Surely such a good man doesn't deserve to go through this fate once, let alone twice.
Sherlock, despite technically being in perfect health, is not looking much better than John is. He hasn't moved from the room since John had been admitted, and he's looking worse for wear. The man in the chair next to him looks infuriatingly impeccable, as always. Sherlock turns to Mycroft, however his hand stays put, long thin fingers firmly interlaced with John's.
"Mycroft…" a spasm crosses his face, almost as if he is fighting with himself, trying to swallow words that are attempting to escape. "Thank you for all of this. The private room, the doctors flown in from who knows where…" Mycroft smiles indulgently.
"Sherlock, even an idiot could see how good he is for you, and I am certainly no idiot. And besides, you may be an insufferable prat, but you are, and always will be, my brother."