Mycroft's home was the last place Sherlock wanted to be. Of course, he had a few other residences in London, but, for now, this was the primary residence. There were large chandeliers in almost every room, and the furniture looked as if it could be inside Buckingham Palace. The rooms were all shades of beige or pastels, and it struck him as mind-numbing (but the colours were proper and inoffensive, as his brother tried to be as a "minor" figure in the British government, and so Sherlock wasn't surprised).
"So, what're we here for? I'm sure you know already, don't act oblivious," John said.
Sherlock sat down on one of the sofas, scowling. The sofa felt as if it had never been used, the cushions starchy. Immediately, he caught sight of a folder on the coffee table. "We're here because Mycroft's an idiot who's paranoid about everything."
Well, maybe it wasn't Mycroft who was the paranoid one.
John stood, looking around with crossed arms. "Know where the loo is in this maze?"
Sherlock nodded, leading John to the loo before looking heading into the sitting room. He grabbed the folder. Skimming over the papers and seeing they were his full medical records—a broken leg and fractured wrist at age five; overdose at 19; overdose at 25; lacerations, an infection, malnutrition, and dehydration from Serbia, photographs that he didn't recall being taken included; a gunshot wound that resulted in cardiac arrest for two and a half minutes from John's ex-wife.
Freak. What the hell is wrong with you with all of this? Why would I ever want to spend time with someone who's so broken?
Sherlock didn't know what to think of John's words he heard in his mind.
"Find anything interesting?"
He turned around, staring at his older brother. "You can't go around holding onto my medical records and use them as ammunition."
"I'm not going to do that. I just think John needs to understand your full history, and understand you have reason to act as you are."
Sherlock gritted his teeth together. "And how's that?"
"Pushing a potential client into a wall because you're paranoid they're out to get out," said Mycroft. "Don't try and deny it."
John walked into the sitting room, eyebrows raised. Mycroft filled him in as Sherlock slumped onto the sofa. John sat behind him, listening. He looked at Sherlock to confirm his brother's words, and Sherlock only gave a small nod in confirmation.
"I'm concerned that you have psychological issues that aren't being dealt with." The elder Holmes slid the folder towards John. "If my little brother consents, the last few medical files may be of interest to you as a doctor."
The detective stared at the floor. John said he didn't need to look at anything, but Sherlock shook his head and muttered that it was fine. He'd rather John read it than have to relive everything himself.
John began to read of the files. His heart dropped as he read them, and he couldn't help but give a little sigh. He suspected Sherlock had gotten into trouble while away, but he hadn't known specifics. John's hand clenched; Sherlock's did, too.
"Mycroft, please." Sherlock's voice was soft, almost pleading.
With Mycroft's lack of response, John looked between the two Holmes brothers. Then, he stood. "I think he needs to talk to someone else. A different psychologist or psychiatrist, if he feels it's appropriate." John cleared his throat, saying, "We can't force anyone to do anything. You're nothing if not stubborn, right?" He tried to offer Sherlock a small smile of reassurance. "You'll do things your way. And, if there are problems, we'll sort things out."
Stubborn, and stupid. Worthless, said Moriarty.
"Right." Sherlock stood, walking alongside John. It was the shortest visit he'd had with his brother in memory. He listened to Mycroft say that he needed to be careful, not to do anything idiotic. Sherlock only nodded.
The same black car took them home. For a few minutes, they remained silent before John spoke up.
"What happened when you were five?"
Sherlock welcomed the change in discussion; he didn't want to talk about his current mental health status, because it terrified him. "Redbeard, my dog, ran out in front of a car, and I followed him, because I thought I could stop him. He actually ended up in better shape than me when it was all said and done."
John looked at him, lips twitching into a fond smile. "I see. Always the hero." He nudged Sherlock, hoping to elicit a smile, which he did. "I'm only halfway kidding. I just mean to say that you're a good person, then and now."
He looked at John, wondering why he loathed himself so much if what John said was true. "I'm glad you think so," he said quietly.