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Description
Sherlock-Recovery Epilogue
A few weeks later

A few weeks ago, Mycroft had looked down at his brother on the couch in Baker Street and thought how small he looked.

Now, looking down at him, he felt that Sherlock looked smaller than ever in the hospital bed, covered up with snow white sheets, paler than death. He looked like a child. Mycroft couldn't tear his eyes away from the pale, bony face, so dear to him, though he'd never admit it--it went against brotherly code. He looked tiny and fragile, especially with the heart monitor bleeping continuously. Any moment, it could fail. And right now, he felt Sherlock Holmes had never been in more danger.

John was patient. He sat alone in his hospital room day after day, week after week, while Mycroft sat in his brother's room, watching over him. Mycroft always came in to visit him, but he was always distracted, thinking of his little brother.

"Sir, we should go. John's waiting." Anthea was texting, never looking up from her phone.

"Yes, of course," Mycroft said abstractly. He stood and took his brother's hand for a moment, feeling the skeletal fingers and cold skin. Then he gently laid his brother's arm over his chest and left the room.

The phone rang. Not his own, not Sherlock's, but the one that he'd picked up from the place where John had been being held. He pulled it out and read the text.

Dear me, I hope I didn't kill him too soon.

Mycroft felt a hot flare of rage. With slightly shaking fingers, he typed back:

Damn you to the deepest circle of hell, Moriarty.

A new text popped up only a moment later.

Already there, darlin'.

Mycroft stood looking at the phone for a moment. Then in a sudden violent movement, he hurled it into the trash can and strode out. John had been more than patient already, and it wouldn't do to keep him waiting any longer.

;) (Wink) — Description
Sherlock-Recovery Epilogue
A few weeks later

A few weeks ago, Mycroft had looked down at his brother on the couch in Baker Street and thought how small he looked.

Now, looking down at him, he felt that Sherlock looked smaller than ever in the hospital bed, covered up with snow white sheets, paler than death. He looked like a child. Mycroft couldn't tear his eyes away from the pale, bony face, so dear to him, though he'd never admit it--it went against brotherly code. He looked tiny and fragile, especially with the heart monitor bleeping continuously. Any moment, it could fail. And right now, he felt Sherlock Holmes had never been in more danger.

John was patient. He sat alone in his hospital room day after day, week after week, while Mycroft sat in his brother's room, watching over him. Mycroft always came in to visit him, but he was always distracted, thinking of his little brother.

"Sir, we should go. John's waiting." Anthea was texting, never looking up from her phone.

"Yes, of course," Mycroft said abstractly. He stood and took his brother's hand for a moment, feeling the skeletal fingers and cold skin. Then he gently laid his brother's arm over his chest and left the room.

The phone rang. Not his own, not Sherlock's, but the one that he'd picked up from the place where John had been being held. He pulled it out and read the text.

Dear me, I hope I didn't kill him too soon.

Mycroft felt a hot flare of rage. With slightly shaking fingers, he typed back:

Damn you to the deepest circle of hell, Moriarty.

A new text popped up only a moment later.

Already there, darlin'.

Mycroft stood looking at the phone for a moment. Then in a sudden violent movement, he hurled it into the trash can and strode out. John had been more than patient already, and it wouldn't do to keep him waiting any longer.