"This is my house, this is my friend—" a gesture toward the TV screen, where it showed an image of the so-called Mary Watson, nee Marston. "—and that's his departed wife. Anyone who stays here a minute longer is admitting to me personally they do not have a single spark of human decency."

Mycroft Holmes watched impassively as his team began to quietly leave the room. Mrs Hudson looked at him, then moved to stand in front of him, leaning in toward him.

"Get out of my house, you reptile," the old lady demanded, her voice lowered to a savage hiss.

Mycroft remained where he was, his arms folded, looking down his nose at her. "Human decency, you say?" he mused, almost as if talking to himself. "Let's discuss that, shall we?" He gave her a smile that was in no way warm or friendly. "Your friend there is about to watch a DVD that you have obviously seen before. It came from an open envelope that is clearly addressed to Sherlock Holmes. My brother," he added, as though Mrs Hudson had been unaware of the familial relationship.

She opened her mouth to say something, but Mycroft carried on, not giving her the opportunity to get a word out. "My brother, who currently pays the rent for this flat. My brother, who assumedly was your 'friend' too, after helping you with that little mishap in Florida." He raised an eyebrow at Mrs Hudson, who abruptly snapped her mouth closed again. "My little brother," he repeated, emphatically, "who is now lying battered and bloody in a hospital bed, due to your friend. So, no, I do think I have some human decency. I just do not have any sympathy towards the person who has almost completed the job of killing my brother."

From behind Mrs Hudson, where he was still gripping tightly to the back of a chair, John Watson scowled at Mycroft. "Look, Sherlock was off his head on cocaine, or heroin, or whatever," he said. "He was hallucinating, and he'd just tried to attack Culverton Smith with a scalpel, for Christ's sake!"

Mycroft gritted his teeth, but refused to look at John just in case the sight of him prompted Mycroft to lose his temper completely. "You are supposed to be a doctor," he managed to get out. "My memory may be a little foggy, but the last time I checked, you are not supposed to calm or subdue a violent drug user by violently attacking him!"

"No—" "Now, look—" John and Mrs Hudson protested together, but Mycroft had finally reached his limit. He was supposed to be finding a way to try and help Sherlock through whatever had set him off this time, and this was not helping.

He unfolded his arms and raised a hand, halting their complaints in their tracks. "I am going to actually help Sherlock," he informed them. "If either of you have even a 'spark' of human decency, then I'm sure you'll do the same."

And with that, he turned to collect his umbrella from where it was leaning against Sherlock's chair, and strode straight out of 221B Baker Street.