"Police still have no new information in the shooting incident that occurred late last night. It has been confirmed that the victim is a government worker, and was at St. Bartholomew's Hospital on official business. Sources suggest that he may –"

Mycroft chooses to ignore the newscaster's voice. It is clear that the reporter knows less than he does about the subject – not an unusual occurrence, but rather disheartening for the journalistic world, as he has been unconscious for an untold number of hours. He reluctantly forces open his eyelids to scowl at the early morning anchor. Who left the blasted television on?

He turns his head, carefully, to see John Watson seated in the cushioned chair by his side, his head lolling uncomfortably onto his shoulder. Not an intentional sleeping position. The remote had been on the arm of this chair the last time he was awake – but then, the chair had been unoccupied at that point. John had still been pacing while Sherlock talked.

"He fell asleep 38 minutes ago," Sherlock says from somewhere nearby. Mycroft has to order his eyes to focus and move to find him. "Don't wake him."

Mycroft considers reminding his brother that he is currently incapable of speech, but the coordination required to write is still a bit beyond him, and he's doing his best to ignore the sensation of the breathing tube. Sherlock has folded himself into the straight-backed chair beside John's, knees pulled up to his chest and arms tucked behind them, apparently on his mobile. His face is vaguely anxious, his hair and clothes disheveled, and several magnificent bruises are forming on his face. Add in the rumpled clothing that's the wrong size, and it's an image Mycroft well remembers. Sherlock could be a teenager again.

Anesthesia turns him positively saccharine. He makes a mental note of this fact.

His hands seem to be under his command reasonably well now. Mycroft gropes for the legal pad, relieved the pen is hooked onto it by the lid clasp. Mobile.

Sherlock glances at the paper and shifts slightly so Mycroft can see the phone he is toying with. Mycroft gags on the breathing tube as he lurches to rescue his phone from his brother's hand. His throat muscles spasm against the machine, even as he attempts to control them. Sherlock throws himself out of the chair and is standing beside him in a blink, hands pressing his shoulder back against the pillows and adjusting the breathing apparatus till Mycroft no longer feels death is imminent. He hears the rapid beeping of the heart monitor begin level out. The newscaster's voice insinuates itself back into his consciousness.

"…and the Independent Commission for Aid Impact reports that several African nations…"

John has slept through the ordeal. There's a part of Mycroft's brain, a part detached from the portion ordering his lungs to accept the machine breathing for him, that is interested in this fact.

"I haven't sent a missile strike to Korea, if that's what you were afraid of," Sherlock says, stepping back from the bed.

Despite the water in his eyes, Mycroft manages to scrawl a legible response. Least of my worries.

Sherlock's mouth smiles, but his eyes and the rest of his face stay discomfited. He studies the machines grouped around the bed before curling back into the chair, Mycroft's mobile still in his hand.

"Anthea has been informed, and she's currently monitoring all of your communications," he says. "Why do you have your phone locked when it's forwarded to hers? I can't even access your email app or saved messages."

Mycroft considers what to write in response, but Sherlock leans his head against the chair back so he can see Mycroft without having to actually turn his body, viewing him in his peripheral vision, and answers his own question. His voice is reflective, as if he's digesting new information.

"I imagine there are moments when even you need a respite from the noise."

Mycroft blinks, but doesn't respond. Sherlock wouldn't expect him to, anyway.

Sherlock pulls the remote control from underneath himself and clicks the television off before bending his head over the mobile again. Mycroft lets his eyes wander around the room. The light in the window is deceptive, muddled by the lights on the side of the building, but it would seem that dawn is nearly upon them. He scrawls a single word on the paper and raises it to get Sherlock's attention.

Moran?

Sherlock reads it without seeming to and frowns. He digs in his pocket for his own phone and checks it. "Still no news. From your people or mine."

To be expected. Mycroft tries to sigh, but finds the breathing machine doesn't allow for such things. He's just beginning to drift to sleep again when Sherlock speaks.

"You gave yourself away, you know."

Mycroft blinks at him. His brother turns toward him, flashing a quicksilver grin that reaches his eyes.

"The charger."

Mycroft picks up the pen, but lets it dangle loosely in his fingers, encouraging his brother to explain. Sherlock quirks an eyebrow in acknowledgement.

"You were very careful to make it known that my being at the house was nothing but an inconvenience to you. In fact, when I was awake, you spent a grand total of approximately 7 minutes in my room. You gave me every indication that you want me far away so I can be managed through surveillance and not be in your way – both while I was at the house and when the time came for me to move on."

Mycroft attempts to smirk, but doubts the effect is what he intended.

"But," Sherlock says, pausing for dramatic effect. "You left your mobile charger in my room. Plugged into the wall next to the bed. Now, one can hardly assume you routinely go into that room to charge your phone, so I'm left to conclude you spent most of the night there. Not the most productive station for the British Government, is it?"

Mycroft raises his pen, but finds he doesn't have a good rebuttal. He blames the drugs.

"There were a few other indicators – the way you reacted when I insisted I plan to return to my life in London – that frown that had the beginnnings of a smile - or the fact you took the satsuma from me without rebuttal, or the fact that you left your most familiar password on all of your systems, even though you had to know I'd at least attempt a hack. You always intended me to come back to London, didn't you? You want me back where it's easiest to look after me."

Mycroft scrawls: There is no such place. Sherlock chuckles.

"You're a very good actor, Mycroft, but I know you very well."

This shouldn't surprise Mycroft, but it does. The idea that Sherlock knows him as well as he knows Sherlock, has actually bothered to categorize these details rather than deleting them, as he is so fond of doing. There's only one flaw in the logic, and that is assuming that Mycroft had an initial master plan that was more detailed than keeping Sherlock alive. His plans have been fluid for the last three years, taking in information daily and twisting circumstances to suit his goal of a brother who wouldn't need a second funeral for many years to come. But then, Sherlock has a history of attributing more control to Mycroft than he actually possesses.

I suppose there's no getting around your return at this point.

Sherlock casts a glance at John. "I suppose not," he says quietly. "You'll arrange to keep things quiet until I can speak to Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, right?"

Only if you can manage to keep from being sighted in a hospital being watched by the international media.

"You exaggerate your importance to the international media, brother," Sherlock says.

Mycroft raises his left shoulder in a shrug, but freezes as pain ricochets through his chest. He senses rather than sees the fact that Sherlock has frozen as well, waiting for a reaction by which to gauge what his own should be. The heart monitor speeds up again, but he forces himself to relax into the pain, smoothing out the pace as quickly as possible. Sherlock is upset enough by the situation.

"I almost had him," Sherlock says quietly, still frozen.

Mycroft can see the course of the conversation like a road map, and he doesn't care for the directions. He doesn't have the mental energy to deal with a long, handwritten discussion. After a split second's hesitation, he writes: Shut up, Sherlock.

There's a moment of amused shock, a twitching of facial muscles as Sherlock fights with whatever reaction the sentence conjured. Then he relaxes in the chair and sets his thumbs to work on both phones. The silence is thick and exhausting. Mycroft is teetering on the very edge of sleep when the buzzing of a phone and Sherlock's smothered exclamation brings him sharply back to the hospital room.

"They've seen him!" Sherlock says, actually bounding out of the chair.

John jerks awake. Mycroft sees the flickers of absolute confusion, cautious remembrance, and finally, befuddled joy cross his face as he looks around the room.

"Seen who?"

"Moran. One of my homeless network saw him skulking around not far from Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson is supposed to be away on holiday for another two days, but we can still use this."

Sherlock's thumbs are busy on his mobile. John smiles even as several loud cracks from his joints fill the air. Mycroft, fighting the exhaustion, studies the pair of them. Distant, certainly. They stand well away from each other, but their stances are open. John is facing Sherlock squarely, his posture bulldoggish. Mycroft will never admit to John how comforting it is to know his brother has a combat-seasoned medic at his side. John wouldn't find the concept of being comforting to Mycroft a compliment.

"We need to see Lestrade. He can get us the team and supplies we need." Sherlock takes two strides toward the door, but stops suddenly, turning to face Mycroft and John. "That is – if you want to come along, John. No pressing need if you have other commitments."

John smiles tiredly. "I'm not letting you out of my sight until I've convinced myself you're not a particularly intense hallucination. So whenever and wherever you're going, count me in."

Sherlock grins. "Then let's be off!"

They both head toward the door, but Sherlock stops for a second time. He comes back and places the phone on Mycroft's bedside table.

"I'll let Anthea know she can unlock your phone," he says.

Mycroft raises the pen, but no words come to mind. Sherlock meets his eyes for the briefest of moments and nods almost imperceptibly. Message received. Of course he'll be as careful as he can. He might even check in periodically. And he has John with him. What could be safer?

Mycroft can only hope his brother is as adept at reading his expression urging caution. Judging by the grin that blooms across Sherlock's face, there's a good chance he is.

"Considering how much you despise legwork, you can't be sorry to be left out of this little expedition, Mycroft," Sherlock says. "So cheer up. This frees you to do what you do best."

Mycroft waits, eyeing Sherlock with something that feels remarkably like contentment, despite bullet wound in his chest. Naturally, there will be plans to make, people to deploy. He'll need Anthea quickly…

His brother is going to make him ask. He takes the pen and scribbles: And what is it that I do best?

Sherlock grins. "Worry."

Author's note: Thank you so much to all of you for reading! This has been such a great story to tackle, and I appreciate all of the lovely feedback I've received. I hope you've enjoyed the story half as much as I've enjoyed writing it.