As Mycroft had predicted, the check-up from John and the ensuing conversation with him and his brother had been no fun at all.

He'd known what John would find, but it made it no easier to hear it from someone he trusted.

His blood pressure was 60/55, his breathing was slow and shallow, oxygen less than 100, his pulse was at 55, temperature at about 97.

It was all out of whack; too low, too slow, too cold.

John was not happy.

Not only were all his vitals pretty awful, his hands were freezing, that thin downy hair covered his exposed skin, he was pretty severely dehydrated and John wasn't entirely convinced that Mycroft's organs were dealing with the stress, his kidneys in particular.

To put it frankly, his body was shutting down.

John sat back in his seat, stethoscope around his neck. His fingers templed against his lips, in a way that was so uniquely Sherlock. He took a breath and glanced around at the other three men in the room.

"Mycroft, I'm going to be blunt. Because you need someone to be blunt with you right now. You're dying. Honest to God, organs shutting down, dying."

Mycroft cleared his throat and bobbed his head in a nod. He'd known that, deep down, he'd known that.

Sherlock, however, for all his deducting, hadn't believed it was at that stage yet.

Dying.

His brother was dying.

But John kept on talking, "with these readings, I would usually be sending you straight to the nearest hospital, but you're not going to go, are you?"

Mycroft didn't need to shake his head for the others to know John was right.

The silence was palpable, thick and heavy with the weight of John's words.

"Then we help him here," Sherlock finally spoke, getting up to his feet, "if you won't get help anywhere else, then we help you here. You find a specialist you trust, they come here, they tell me what to do and I do it."

Mycroft's brows pulled together and he sat forward, hands on his thighs. "Sherlock...this isn't yours to deal with."

The younger Holmes looked angry now; jaw tight, nostrils flaring, fingers clenching into fists.

"You're my brother, of course it's mine to deal with." His eyes had darkened as he stood, tall and empowering, stormy gaze on Mycroft, daring him to say otherwise.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said again, a slight tremor to his voice. That was all he said.

Sherlock smirked, though it clearly wasn't a happy smirk, a resigned smirk. "Then it's settled. Mycroft, you'll have to get Anthea to bring you some things, John will set the guest room up and we'll look for someone who can help." The man paused, gaze on Greg and John, now silent in their seats. "If either of you want out, I would understand, I will not force you to help my brother through this, but...I do ask for your support."

John rubbed an absent hand over the stubble lining his chin. "Well, it seems like you're going to need a doctor, and who would be better?"

Sherlock's answering smile was nothing short of beautiful.

"Lestrade?" He asked next.

Greg looked over Mycroft for a few seconds before gazing up at Sherlock. "What else have I got to do, huh?"

Sherlock turned to his brother, "then it's sorted. You're staying and you're accepting this help whether you want it or not because I'm you're brother and I know what's best for you." His words echoed Mycroft's to him, years ago, when he tried to get him clean.

Mycroft was silent for a moment more before sitting forward, hands clasped.

"Very well, let's begin."