The doctor, a woman of Indian descent in her mid-thirties, proved to be thorough but not unnecessarily annoying. As soon as Mycroft proved his ability to not only remember his name and day of birth, but also to quote Shakespeare´s twenty seventh sonnet, she checked his chart, scribbled something in it and left.

The dreaded and at the same time horribly wished conversation started some two minutes later, when his brother entered the room in a dramatic manner, though it was partly destroyed by his greasy hair´s innability to move much.

"You look thin," said Mycroft, because he didn´t know what else to say. And it was the truth.

"So do you," said Sherlock and seated himself legs crossed on the chair abandoned by Lestrade.

"I am so sorry," started Mycroft his apology just as Sherlock blurted: "Forgive me."

A pause. Both brothers looking at each other, their faces sharing an expression of mild surprise.

Then Sherlock takes the floor with an unusually soft voice: "What were you thinking, jumping on five armed men like that?"

"It would seem I am slower than I used to be. I´m afraid I´m getting too old."

Sherlock laughs. Then he gets serious again. "You could have died."

Yes, Mycroft thinks. One lonely, bitter and useless man in exchange for two human beings in love with each other, one of those two being the loner´s brother. He would have done this again if needed.

As if Sherlock could read his mind, he has found Mycroft´s sight again and met his eyes. "Don´t do anything like this ever again. You were right. Each on our own, we are vulnerable, brother."

Are Sherlock´s eyes wet, or is it just the light playing? Mycroft´s throat constricted and he was able to just whisper: "Thank you."

Oh, little brother, Mycroft thought. Please, give me this one last chance. I will do anything you want, just don´t leave me again, Sherlock, please. I don´t know how to make things better, but I will try, I swear. Please.

He must have fallen asleep again, lulled to oblivion by the sweet thought that he could be forgiven. When he opened his eyes again, the chair was once more occupied by Gregory Lestrade.

It was darker outside. Afternoon, then.

"John and Sherlock are negotiating your release to home care with Dr Dhaliwal - well, John is negotiating and Sherlock is ruining his efforts." There were, indeed, raised voices to be heard from the hall.

"I see."

"Your brother wanted to take you to 221B, but I think your house is bigger and it would be easier to move you there. If you wouldn´t be adverse to three or four house guests."

"Thank you, but I am sure my assistant could provide an adequate medical staff to look after me. I wouldn´t want to inconvenience you or indeed my brother and his flatmate."

"Yes, Anthea or whatever her real name was, already hired a nurse. She also said that we should stay with you to stop you from bullying the nurse into letting you doing anything foolish. So your only remaining option would be to try calling the police and have a DI of New Scotland Yard, Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson arrested for tresspassing." His grin revealed how much chance would this attempt have to work.

"Am I kidnapped, then?"

"Sort of," a flash of teeth. He managed to get home and get a change of clothes. Greg looked much more at ease now. "How did the conversation with Sherlock go?"

The look in the chocolate brown eyes said: If you think this question impertinent, you don´t have to answer.

"Well," said Mycroft and Greg nodded in acceptance. "How long did doctor..."

"Dhaliwal."

"How long did doctor Dhaliwal said I would be this useless?"

"Well, she said that you were quite lucky you were alive in the first place. Your lung got punctured and as far as I understand it, you had both a pneumothorax and severe bleeding in your chest. Not very nice, I imagine. They took you to surgery as soon as you got to the hospital."

"Oh."

"She also said you weren´t in the best shape to start with. Things such as lack of sleep or irregular or no nutrition are fine if you are twenty, Myc, but not for us old dogs."

"You´re not old," Mycroft blurted before he could stop himself.

Lestrade laughed. "And you are? Do you realise I am a few years older than you?"

Mycroft couldn´t help but smile stupidly. They had to give him some medication, because he really wasn´t able to control himself. "I sometimes think I was born a fifty-year-old."

Greg´s smile vanished. "I believe the doctor said something about six weeks of rest."

Suddenly Mycroft realised something. "How are you going to manage both your work and nannying me? You don´t have to do the latter, you know. I am usually not the best of patients."

"I took three weeks off. I´ve set some holiday time aside throughout the year."

"You really don´t have to spend that on me."

"It´s not like I have a wife or children to spend it with."

"I am sorry."

"Don´t be. You were right then, in the club. I shouldn´t have married her in the first place. And then I thought that if we had children, maybe it would get us together. And Lisa seemed keen too." The smile now was heartbreakingly sad. "But we didn´t click, somehow. She just wouldn´t get pregnant. There was nothing physically wrong with neither of us, we just... I guess we just weren´t compatible, not even like this."

The few minutes of silence that followed were interrupted by Sherlock, John and Dr Dhaliwal entering.

"Mr Holmes. I see you are awake. Good," the woman said calmly and smiled politely. "Any pain? Problems?"

"No, not really."

"Your brother," she gave Sherlock a doubtful glance, "says that your house is fully medically equipped to handle a patient recovering from hemopneumothorax. Is that true?"

"It will be."

"All right. You will stay here for another two days." John wanted to say something, but she didn´t let him: "My patient, my rules. You didn´t sew the insides of him," she flashed a glare to Sherlock, who seemed to be prepared to defend John´s medical abilities. The younger Holmes paled visibly.

Mycroft couldn´t help but chuckle at the sight of the two men being put to their place by this fearsome woman. He was starting to like her. Well, up until..

"As for you," the finger was pointed at his chest, "I suggest you don´t get yourself shot again. I would have thought the collection of scars you already have would be sufficient." Mycroft´s smile disappeared. "Also, I have seen your test results. It would be wise to lay off the brandy or whatever booze you are imbibing. The liver might start to protest soon."

Mycroft would be the first to admit that his consummation of alcoholic beverages has increased at least twofold in the last few months, but being berated like this surprised him. He felt blood rush to his cheeks.

"Yes, ma´am," he muttered.

Gregory Lestrade´s open laugh on the account of his three friends was weirdly freeing.

Well, it would be quite interesting five weeks, Mycroft thought.