Mycroft stared at the hospital wall, unseeing. His head ached, he was dizzy and, worst of all, he had been shaken to the core by what his doctor had told him. In addition to concussion from the accident, he had retrograde amnesia, not just of the few hours leading up to his injury, but going back approximately six and a half years. Upon receiving the news, the government official had requested time to himself. He needed to come to terms with what he had been told.

It was just a few short minutes later that Sherlock and John entered the hospital room. From one look at his brother, Mycroft could tell that he had been updated by the doctor on his diagnosis. "Don't look at me that way, baby brother."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "And what way would that be?"

"You know very good and well what I mean." Mycroft shifted in the bed and tried to sit up better. John moved to help him. Not recognizeing him, Mycroft ignored him. Once he was settled, the government official really looked at his brother. Sherlock looked... healthy.

The detective gave his brother a crooked smile. If he hadn't been so worried for Mycroft, his next words would have been scathing. "Yes, brother dear, I'm clean. I have been for almost six years." The brief flash of surprise and... joy that crossed Mycroft's face made the detective clear his throat and look down at his feet, unsure how to react.

John sensed his boyfriend's discomfort and moved to ease it. He approached the side of the government official's bed. "Mycroft, I'm John Watson. I'm Sherlock's... flatmate." The rest could be explained later. "I moved in a little over a year ago. We've met, of course. You and I don't see eye to eye on much, except now and again on the need to keep Sherlock safe."

Mycroft chuckled, then brought a hand to his temple at the resulting pain. "You're a straight forward sort of man."

"Yes I am. That's part of why we don't get along too well." John's smile softened his words, allowing Mycroft to deduce that their relationship wasn't quite as adversarial as it sounded. "Actually, you've grown on me, rather like a fungus," John said, grinning.

From the hall, there came the sound of raised voices. Someone clearly wanted into the room, but wasn't being allowed. John and Sherlock exchanged looks.

"That'll be Greg," John said, grimly. I'll go talk to him before he comes in. You'd better prepare your brother." John tilted his head in Mycroft's direction and the detective acknowledged it with a nod.

With a sense of dread, Mycroft asked, "Your friend, John, what was he talking about... prepare me?"

Sherlock pulled a chair up to the bedside and sat before answering, "You're going to find this hard to believe. I still find it hard to believe." He paused, thinking how to say what needed to be said. "You found yourself a goldfish," the detective finally said with a shrug. "His name is Greg Lestrade. You call him Gregory. He's a DI at New Scotland Yard."

Mycroft gaped at his brother. He didn't do sentiment, there was no room in his life for it and certainly no time. Even if he did, no one would possibly put up with his schedule or his inability to simply talk about his work like a normal person. He had tried that once and it had been an unmitigated disaster. No, it was simply impossible.

A handsome, grey haired man came crashing into the room along with John. Mycroft deduced it must be this Gregory Lestrade his brother had told him about.

With a stricken look, Greg said, "Oh, Mycroft."