For the first time in his life, Mycroft felt like he shouldn't be watching. It wasn't as if he had the sound on, and he was hardly giving the film more than a glance every few seconds, but there was something…off about watching this. He didn't know what Dr Watson would do, didn't know if Sherlock really had a plan. He'd said he did, waved Mycroft off like it had been a mere five minutes rather than three years since he'd pulled off a trick so clever even Mycroft had taken a few weeks to suss it out. But this was more than just an explanation. Even Mycroft knew that. This was an apology. An apology that, frankly, didn't deserve acceptance.

Mycroft checked his phone, scrolling through the new emails and nodding to Anthea when the head of the CIA requested a meeting.

"Set it up about two tomorrow."

"Not now, sir?"

"I'm busy," he replied. He looked back at the monitors on his desk.

Anthea scurried off to make calls and he took a sip of his tea. An incoming email from David, wanting his opinion on a few matters of state, was left without reply as a new text flashed across the phone's screen.

Stop watching – SH

He smiled, replying quickly. I don't know what you're talking about, brother dear – MH

Bugger off – SH

Mycroft allowed himself a private smile. It wasn't often that Sherlock was nervous. He rarely showed any outward signs of emotion at all, but Mycroft could tell. His little brother was as nervous as he'd ever been. Mycroft took another quick sip of tea before letting his gaze shift back to the monitors at Baker Street.

He wasn't at all surprised at the time Sherlock had chosen to reappear to his former flatmate. He'd spent the past three years chasing down the last of Moriarty's network, singlehandedly taking as many down as he could. Mycroft still regretted his betrayal, still wished he'd placed his brother before the good of the nation. He'd never done it before; never thought the life of one man was worth that of millions. But it turned out his brother was the exception. The world without Sherlock…it wasn't only John who'd gone mad.

But the doctor looked rather deflated now. Each year he'd roused himself to visit 221B twice. Always on the second Thursday in June and the first Monday of February. Mycroft had yet to understand why, but he'd caught the pattern quickly enough. Perhaps the dates were meaningful. As far as Mycroft could tell they were not, but something had to be drawing Dr Watson back.

He stood there now, this February day, back to the door. Mrs. Hudson had, of course, left the place as it was. She'd tried to convince John to stay, then to move back in once he'd settled down with Mary, but he'd yet to yield. The only time he stopped by was on these two days. Usually in the morning or early evening, whenever he could get away from the surgery or come up with a convincing lie for his girlfriend. As far as Mycroft could tell, she'd never followed Sherlock's story. She'd read some of John's old blog posts, but hadn't seemed to understand the bond between the army doctor and the consulting detective. John never seemed to talk about it.

Mycroft's phone buzzed and he pulled it from his pocket. There were other things to do than stare at somewhat grainy CCTV footage. Things far more important than watching his brother reveal his lie to his only true friend. There were literally lives at stake each minute of the day. But something made him put the phone aside. It would only take a moment for this small reunion. He just wanted to ensure his little brother didn't give the good doctor a heart attack.

He kept the sound off but clarified the picture, pulling it up on the largest screen in his office. The image pixilated momentarily before appearing in high definition on the screen before him. Well, as high definition as the inconspicuous cameras could give, which was surprisingly high considering Sherlock had yet to find them or didn't actually care enough to bother. Mycroft had managed to conceal one on the old bookshelves, giving him a somewhat bird's eye view of the flat. The dark shadow of John in the main room and Sherlock just outside the door became clearer.

Still wearing the same long coat, Sherlock stepped into the doorway. Mycroft had tried to convince him to let it go. It had been hell to get the bloodstains out—the best drycleaners in London had needed three goes. Sherlock had pushed him off, denying every offer of money or new wardrobe Mycroft had offered. He knew it was an issue of pride and, though Sherlock wouldn't admit it, attachment to the dark coat that made his entrances far more dramatic than necessary and, no doubt, reminded him of his time with John. To Mycroft, though, it only symbolized the one time he'd let his baby brother down.

It seemed Sherlock had spoken because John froze, every muscle stiff. The tension in his body was obvious and Mycroft could see his white knuckled grip on the cane he'd started using three weeks after Sherlock's fake suicide. Slowly, the doctor turned. Sherlock took a tentative step toward him, hands shoved in his pockets. Mycroft was tempted to turn on the sound, curious to know just how his brother planned on explaining it all, but he kept his hands folded in his lap. This was enough. For once, he actually felt like he was spying.

He watched Sherlock's mouth move, John's hand moving to his tired, shocked face. He bent, hand covering his eyes. He was shaking. Shaking so hard Mycroft could see it through the granular footage before him. Sherlock stepped forward, one hand rising from a pocket and reaching out for the doctor. But it stopped and fell to his side. Mycroft made a point not to read Sherlock's lips.

John was shaking his head now, hand falling from his face and clenching at his side. From the camera's vantage Mycroft could only see the doctor's back, but it was enough to tell him the exact expression on his face. Watching his brother's reaction told him enough as well—so far, John's reaction had been expected. Mycroft didn't know if Sherlock had planned for tears, but he seemed to be prepared enough to deal with the disbelief radiating off the doctor.

But now the disbelief seemed to turn into anger. John was still shaking, but he stood up taller now, head no longer bent. His shoulders went taut and he seemed to be shouting, for Sherlock was backing up, heels nearly touching the wall. An accusatory finger was pointed at Sherlock as the doctor stalked closer. Mycroft couldn't think of another way to describe it—John was nearly prowling toward him, the same as a lion hunting a zebra. They even looked the part. John, fierce and wearing a brown jumper and jeans, his dull blonde hair still in military cut. He was average, the very definition of an everyman. And then there was Sherlock. Tall, dark coat wrapped around him, the blazing eyes and exotic air.

Sherlock opened his mouth again but snapped it shut, eyes flicking from John's face to his cane. Mycroft hadn't told him about the cane, though Sherlock had, naturally, taken it upon himself to check up on John between tracking down each of Moriarty's hired criminals. Still, it seemed to hit him now, that he'd been the cause of it all. Psychosomatic as it was, the pain was still very much real for John; he'd even gone back to his therapist, though she was hardly helping the matter. The new—or rather old—pain that John had found again had hardened him, and he seemed rather willing to share it, as, after a moment, he punched Sherlock in the face. Mycroft winced at the sudden, though not all-together unexpected, movement, flashing back to years of chasing away playground bullies and carrying a bleeding Sherlock home to Mummy. But he had to admit Sherlock deserved it now.

Sherlock stumbled back into the wall, hand going to the fresh cut on his cheek. It was bleeding, but Mycroft knew John hadn't really meant to break bone. He would have managed it easily. In fact, the restraint seemed more difficult as he was shaking again, clenching his fist as he watched Sherlock. Mycroft watched them, vaguely aware that his phone was vibrating once more. He didn't bother looking down at it.

For all Sherlock thought he had prepared, Mycroft doubted he'd planned for this. Wiping his hand across his cheek and glancing down at the blood on his fingers, Sherlock looked up at John. Mycroft couldn't stop himself from reading the next words out of his brother's mouth.

"I'm sorry."

John was still shaking and Sherlock swiped his sleeve across the gash before letting his hand fall back to his side, watching the doctor. If Mycroft had his way, John would simply walk away then. He no longer lived at 221B; he had a non-criminal girlfriend who worked at a local art gallery, a steady job at the surgery, and a new flat across town. If he were sensible, he would leave 221B, and Sherlock, behind.

But Mycroft had never been able to control John Watson, try as he might.

The two stood for a moment in apparent silence before John reached out once more, dropping his cane and grabbing Sherlock's coat, pulling him down and into a hug. Mycroft could see the surprise on Sherlock's face and the tension that shot through his body at the contact, but he was shocked to see the surprise fade into something else, into…relief. Mycroft watched in astonishment as Sherlock returned the hug, bending slightly and wrapping his arms around the doctor's shoulders. Not since Sherlock was seven had he willingly given a hug to anyone other than Mrs. Hudson. And even then the contact lacked the emotion Mycroft could see now. John had buried his head in Sherlock's shoulder, Sherlock tucking his chin into John's neck, eyes gleaming. Neither of them seemed to be saying anything. John was shaking again and even Sherlock seemed to be losing his balance. It was the only reason Mycroft could come up with to explain why his grip on the doctor was so tight.

The emotional scene became too much and Mycroft turned away, taking a moment to answer an email from France. He made a note to call the U.S. President and let him know that Metro would handle everything from here. He sipped his now cold tea. When he felt the moment at Baker Street would surely be over, he glanced back at the screen.

They were standing apart now, though Sherlock still had one hand on John's shoulder. John had fetched his cane and was once more clenching his fingers around the handle. Sherlock was speaking, intently watching John's face, while John's eyes kept roving over Sherlock, as if making sure he was indeed solid. No apparitions, John. He's really there. It had taken Mycroft but a few moments to accept his brother's story, but he hadn't witnessed the event first-hand. Of course he'd seen the CCTV footage, but he'd only lived a week believing his brother to be dead. A very trying week it had been, too.

I have your keys from Mrs Hudson – MH, he sent.

If you'll be needing them – MH

He didn't expect an immediate reply.

"Sir, Syria requests a chat. Something about an immigration policy going through…" Anthea said from his office door.

Mycroft nodded, standing and minimizing the CCTV footage.

He returned an hour later, Syria still riled up but calm enough for him to reply to David and sort out the little tiff in Canada. There was a fresh cup of tea on his desk, and he sank into his chair gratefully. For such a minor position, he seemed to have an awful lot to do. Sherlock would mock him for it relentlessly, his need to sit, to ease his bones if only for a moment. And it wasn't because of that extra slice of cake at Mummy's the other night.

He saw the minimized CCTV footage, wondering if his brother was still at the flat. Curious, he pulled it up, telling himself not to be too concerned with the affairs of his brother. But where Sherlock was involved, Mycroft was always concerned.

The image took a moment to catch up once brought to the big screen. He had expected the flat to be empty, and was surprised to find its former occupants still there. Sherlock and Dr Watson were seated in their old chairs, a mug of tea in the doctor's hand, and another resting beside Sherlock's elbow. He kept the sound off as before, and again tried to stop himself from reading their lips, now that he could see them both relatively well.

It seemed they were sitting in silence. John occasionally taking a sip of tea; Sherlock never touching his. John had made tea for two since Sherlock's fall. Mycroft had never once seen him make a single cup. It was always two. First for Sherlock, then for Mary. And now, it seemed, for Sherlock again.

The doctor said something then, his eyes trained on Sherlock's face. He kept his jaw set, as though he didn't quite trust himself to not haul off and punch Sherlock again. Frankly, Mycroft wished he would. Not enough to break bone, but enough to make him understand what John had gone through. What they'd all gone through. Mycroft shook his head. He wouldn't think of that week again.

Sherlock was quiet a moment before opening his mouth. He went on for a while, never looking up. He ran his fingers over the arm of his chair, making tiny circles before fidgeting with his coat sleeve and moving back to the chair. His feet were tucked up on the seat in front of him, that great coat wrapped around him like a child afraid of the dark. Mycroft wondered if that coat was the only thing to ever bring Sherlock Holmes comfort. No. Not just the coat. John too.

Mycroft's phone had buzzed five times before Sherlock seemed to finish. His brother didn't look up, but Mycroft watched the doctor's expression with hesitation. The outcome of this reunion didn't directly affect him, but sentimentality tugged at his sleeve and he followed along for a moment.

It was a long while before John's stony face changed. He nodded once, clenching his fist around his mug before relaxing it. He was still tense, the taut line of his shoulders direct from the army. But his face softened. The dark bruises beneath his eyes and the slight sagging of his face eased a bit. Even through the camera, Mycroft could see the steel in his eyes lessen. Mycroft read his response.

"I haven't forgiven you yet."

But after a moment, the doctor smiled.

Mycroft shut off the CCTV feed.

When the twelfth resonation of the large grandfather clock faded out, Mycroft picked up his coat and umbrella. He didn't like to take his work home with him, but the problem in Syria had risen again and the Metro had intercepted a number of untraceable bomb threats. He sighed, still weary from long day. Anthea promised to forward along any urgent calls and he nodded before making his way to the sleek black Jaguar waiting for him. Sherlock had always sneered at the "repugnant" vehicle. He'd been even more upset after Mycroft had first borrowed ("kidnapped") John. Still, Mycroft was allowed a bit of frivolous spending after twenty-one years with the government.

Sliding into the car, his phone buzzed once more. He thought of ignoring it. If it were important, Anthea would call. This was simply a text. But there were only a few people who would text him at midnight on a Monday, his little brother being the most likely.

I will be needing those keys – SH

Mycroft grinned, making a note to drop them off tomorrow. He didn't know how teatime had ended at Baker Street, but he supposed Sherlock's moving back into 221B was a good start.

Two sets, actually - SH