Gimme (Mycroft, Casual)

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

The lack of useful knowledge among the so called 'medically educated' was really rather depressing. Honestly - most of them didn't know a tropical disease when it was staring them directly in the face.
This was, as it happened, exactly the reason that one particular lanky man in-a-long-coat was striding down the clean corridors of a hospital ward at just-about-noon-ish on a... well, he had lost track of what day it was around twenty-six nicotine patches ago.

To be honest, more than half of those wouldn't have been necessary had Doctors in this god-forsaken place known how to do their jobs correctly.
The fact that they were paid to make wrong assumptions was simply laughable.

Why Sherlock Holmes had decided to help save the life of a person he had never met before was probably a curiosity to anybody that happened to know him. Of course, the client would presumably be under the impression that this certain consulting detective simply took in in his stride to help those in need of his assistance (not that his opinion was, after all, important - considering that he was currently laying in a chemically-induced comatose state). Then again, the client was presumably unaware of the fact that his wife (who had, unusually, turned out to be just as loyal to her spouse as she had claimed) had unfortunate ownership of blackmail material against one 'Mr Holmes, the Junior'.
It really wasn't particularly lucky that he tended to be spotted around the places of the city that were typically deemed invisible.
It also wasn't particularly lucky that, should his elder brother get hold of such material, the end result would probably be an irritatingly previously-avoidable conversation.

In retrospect, he had perfect right to be there. This was something he continuously told the small nurse hurrying alongside him for the majority of his journey along the corridor.
It was lucky she finally gave up, however, or he would have been persuaded to intentionally increase his walking gait purely out of spite.

The names on the doors (and, in some cases, open doorways) were all perfectly ordinary - though hadn't yet reached the sole one he was searching for. It was common knowledge that, typically, the single thing one happened to be looking for in particular ended up being in the last place one looked.

Richard Stevens.
Wrong.

Micheal Kingsley.
No.

John Smith.
Certainly no-
Hang on.
What?

Sherlock was well aware that even an idiot would be able to notice something off about the name of the occupant in the recently-passed room. Technically, it was easily possible for one to be named John Smith - though not exactly... well, ordinary.
Despite coming from a man named as ridiculously as he, it was enough to provoke some sort of curiosity in the consulting detective. John Smith, obviously not a real name. Which lead to the quickly gathered conclusion that the person within the room didn't want to be recognized, for some reason.
For some reason.
It was by unfortunate coincidence that he didn't know this 'some reason'. Thus further investigation was, of course required.

The logic began tumbling through Holmes' mental library of thoughts as he opened the door with one swift movement, determined to see just who deemed themselves worthy of such a ridiculous pseudonym when...

"Oh," Sherlock paused, his arm falling immediately away from the now-wide-open door, "Hang on, what?"

[MYCROFT HOLMES]

When he woke up, he immediately knew where he was. The hospital again. That wasn't good. It was never good being shoved to the hospital to get God knows what pumped in to his system. He hated hospitals, really, because of the frequency of his visits. It was unappealing and stupid to him. He didn't need to go to the hospital every time he managed to pass out in his bed. According to Chester, however, that was a totally different opinion.

Chester had gone already. He had been alone for a few hours. It wasn't anything new. Chester would bring him there, hang out until he woke back up, then go back to his wife and kids. Mycroft knew that Chester only stayed out of obligation. Nothing more. He never really did visit once he was stable. He cared just enough to make sure he didn't pass out and die in his own vomit. Still, that was more than a lot of people cared about him. It was nice, and bittersweet.

The pain was unusually high this go around. He sort of expected a certain amount of pain that went along with this. Going through a fever of unusually high caliber did have an effect on that, though. Each time it was different. Or maybe he really made an impact on himself this time. Maybe he was getting close. Mycroft moved and he winced. Something wasn't right. He grit his teeth and forced himself to sit up right, hissing in pain once he was there. Every movement counted toward him being released. If he stayed laying down, that would show he needed more time. Buy the end of the day, he wanted to be up and about, walking down the halls.

But for now, sitting straight was an accomplishment. He rewarded himself with taking a moment to relax. Until someone decided that throwing his door open dramatically would be a good idea. He groaned in annoyance and shifted again.

"Was that really needed? Please, you did nawt need to open the door like a barbarian. They work fine..."

But then he noticed the face and heard them speak. Mycroft froze for a second, then looked.

Sherlock stood, basically stunned and frozen place, looking very much like a lost child. He didn't know what to do. For the first time he could remember, Sherlock was confused.

Mycroft just sat there. Didn't say anything else to him.

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

Well that was hardly the result he had expected.

The man had been talking - though he had stopped as soon as he noticed just who, precisely, was standing in his doorway. Not that Sherlock noticed. In fact, it seemed highly unlikely that he had noticed the fact that the occupant of the hospital bed had even begun speaking at some point.

Nearly catatonic, the consulting detective stood, practically rooted to the spot, as a collection-of-reactions-that-would-have-any-psychologist-with-even-the-slightest-interest-in-their-field-ecstatic-for-weeks began to tumble through his head. Correction, his very-much confused head.
The entire thing was, in retrospect, not at all a common or expected occurrence.

Something was screaming at him that this was wrong.
False, somehow. Perhaps he had imagined (or, god forbid, dreamt) the entire situation, and the scene was simply a ridiculous image conjured by his subconscious mind as payback for working himself to exhaustion once again. That would make sense. That would be... it would be right.
This wasn't.

Mycroft Holmes...
Mycroft Holmes was his elder brother. He was a rock, a wall. He was bloody unmovable for crying out loud! And yet here he was, sitting in a hospital bed as though it was something perfectly ordinary...
Wrong.

The elder Holmes didn't say a thing. And the younger didn't say a thing in return. It wasn't retaliation, so much as that he didn't trust his own mouth at that particular moment. In fact, he could barely trust his own eyes. The only factor that was forcing him to do so was that his vision was crucial, absolutely vital to him. And if he started to doubt it, there was probably no turning back.

It had to be a hallucination.

Sherlock's left hand flew up briefly to the door frame, as if to test whether or not it was, in fact, harsh reality. He squeezed the surface gently, at first, before gripping it with blatant force.
No. No, it felt... real. It felt real. But it couldn't...

The contact was broken as swiftly as it had begun as the man strode into the room, directly to the foot of the bed - all the while avoiding looking directly at the familiar form featuring as the main focus of the room. Barely pausing as he snatched the chart from its position, the consulting detective moved to stand at his brother's bedside, gaze fixed firmly on the paper in his hands.

He still never breathed a word.

It was fortunate that there was a chair behind him.
It was also fortunate that he was able to passably disguise the fact that his legs seemed to give out below him as a graceful tumble into a seating position.
It was not fortunate that he had learned to understand the cryptic messages put across in Doctor's handwriting - meaning that he knew full well just what his dear old elder brother was sitting there for.

Finally, finally his eyes lifted to fix Mycroft with a hard stare.
"This isn't right."
They seemed to be the only words that passed his lips, surprisingly.

[MYCROFT HOLMES]

Mycroft sat up as straight as he possibly could in his current position. Appearances mattered a lot in his condition. Especially since his brother was now aware that he was in the hospital. Not for a visit, either. That he was a patient being treated. He couldn't do anything about how pale and weak he was, he couldn't do anything to stop his random shivers from the lack of food and nourishment, but he could at least appear to be in control of the situation and be as strong as he body would let him at the moment.

Neither Holmes brother said anything. Sherlock seemed to be taking this hard. He tried to get a grip on reality by literally grabbing the wall and glaring at it when he found it was real. Then he walked in, staring hard at Mycroft, until he all but collapsed in a chair in front of him. Right in front of his medical chart. What Mycroft wouldn't give to reach out and snatch that chart away before Sherlock could read it. But it was hard enough sitting up, much less to reach over and actually grab anything. So Sherlock read it. Right in front of him. He didn't like what he read.

"This isn't right."

Mycroft sighed heavily and shifted to get a little more comfortable. He wanted to lay down, but he couldn't do that in front of his brother. That was weakness. He always prided himself in appearing to be that constant, brick wall that Sherlock could always look to for stability. And now he was sitting in front of him, sick and frail, showing the exact opposite.

"I know."

His voice was uneasy. It was like he was a child again. Almost like the time their mum caught him for "breaking" the vase; he didn't in fact break it, but cleaned up all the pieces after someone else broke it. He wasn't speaking with the normal, low, hard, official tone that he was so used to. This was his normal voice. Calm, quiet, collected, but also small and certainly weak from his condition.

"Go ahead." Mycroft gestured with his hand slowly. "Ask me anything. I have nothing to hide."

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

Mycroft was visibly attempting to look on form - straightening his back and sitting as tall as possible on the hospital bed - not that it made much difference. Even someone other than Sherlock would be able to notice how ill he looked. And, equally, it was likely that someone other than Sherlock would also be able to see how out of place the entire situation was.

It was, as he had so eloquently put, not right.
Because... well, it wasn't. It was wrong! Downright odd. The man laying in the hospital bed didn't fit in with the rest of the situation. And Sherlock... well, Sherlock didn't like it one bit.

It didn't take long before the elder Holmes replied. His brother had simply responded to his statement with a sigh, a shuffle, and a puny little remark of:
"I know."
Even his voice was fragile.

All of a sudden, the younger brother was on his feet, having somehow shed that dramatic coat of his to be left in the chair as he began to storm around the room with a face very-much resembling thunder.
"You know?" the consulting detective snapped furiously. Sherlock never usually bothered to express the things he felt, choosing to rather keep them buried and later convert to the lively energy he used day-to-day. And it worked, mostly. The only time it tended not to was when he was taken by surprise by something or another.

Which rather obviously displayed what he currently thought.

"Well why did it happen then?" It wasn't often he raised his voice, either. It seemed that this was another exception to the man's usual habits, as he was near-shouting at that point.

"Go ahead. Ask me anything. I have nothing to hide."

And that was probably the harshest truth that the younger Holmes had been faced with in a very long time. Because, as he sat there looking far too weak for the agitated-man-striding-around to handle, Mycroft really didn't have anything he could hide from the other anymore.

"I don't get it, Mycroft," Sherlock paused as he spoke the words. Were they a truth?
"You're supposed to be the one that everybody is proud of! I can't..." gesturing around almost wildly, the lanky man started pacing once again, "This is something I can't understand," deal with.

It was too different. And he wasn't able to silence the voice in his head that simply wouldn't stop screaming: Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong!
When the tall man finally stopped moving, he was stood in the very corner of the room, his back to his brother.
"Why?" he asked the question to the wall, the fingers of his left hand flexing in a nervous habit that hadn't stuck him for years.

It was simple, once you got down to the facts. Weak Mycroft, weak Sherlock.

[MYCROFT HOLMES]

The younger Holmes wasn't pleased with the response Mycroft gave him. In fact, he was pretty sure that it only helped to confuse the younger even more. He flew to his feet, fast enough to leave his coat in his chair, and immediately began to pace back and forth in the small space the room provided. Sherlock certainly made good use of the space, making sure to walk to each end and back, something resembling utter confusion and anger etched on to his face. Mycroft laced his fingers and rested them in his lap. When his brother got in this condition, it was best to let him have his space and enough time to try to process.

"Well, why did it happen then?"

Another one of those impossible questions. Sometimes, even Mycroft didn't have the words or reasons to back up his actions. Usually, he did and his explanations were on point. But now, for this, he had nothing. Maybe it was his lack of ambition. He just flat out wasn't motivated enough to keep up a healthy lifestyle and allowed himself to deteriorate down to something that was thin and frail until someone, namely Chester, decided that enough was enough and the hospital needed to step in to help him. Really, he couldn't answer that question on the ground that he didn't know himself.

"I don't get it, Mycroft." He was still pacing and refusing to make eye contact. "You're supposed to be the one that everybody is proud of! I can't..." Sherlock waved his arms around dramatically as if he needed to find the words out of the air. "This is something I can't understand."

People were supposed to be proud of him? That was bullshit if he ever heard it. Why should people be proud of him? He wasn't the one people always talked about, the one that people always fawned over. It wasn't that he was jealous. No, it was far from that. He really didn't like attention and enjoyed his privacy and staying out of the spot light. But Sherlock was getting everything wrong. It was a record for him. Between the two of them, they were never wrong. Here Sherlock was, making wild assumptions. This is why emotions weren't good to have between the two of them. It madly affected the younger's work and how his brain comprehended things.

Finally, Sherlock stopped, facing the wall in the very corner of the room, refusing to look at him for even a second.

"Why?"

Yet another impossible question, because Mycroft had no idea himself. Sometimes, it just happened. Old habits and everything.

"I'm not the prodigy brother. No one should be proud of me, so you're mistaken." Mycroft slouched down slightly; it was starting to hurt and by this point, he couldn't be bothered to care. "Sometimes you have to face things that you can't deal with, Sherlock. I know you better. This isn't just you not understanding. You can't handle change, you can't deal with it. Everything about this situation screams wrong in your mind, doesn't it?

"This had happened more than once, I hope you know. It's actually so frequent that my job expects me to be out at least once every two months for this. I understand completely what it's doing to me, and I understand completely what I'm doing. But I don't have a reason. I never have had one. Maybe I'm just too weak to correct my bad habits. But I can't give you all the answers, Sherlock."

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

"I'm not the prodigy brother. No one should be proud of me, so you're mistaken."
Sherlock scoffed. When thinking of the Holmes Brothers, Sherlock was probably the first to spring to mind purely because of his reputation. Yes, he had put away a few criminals - but then again there were days, many days where it seemed that the world and his wife knew about his addictive tendencies and suicide attempts. And when one thought of Mycroft Holmes? Success was just the obvious reaction (the exception being his younger brother, who always happened to think: oh just piss off whenever the name arose in conversation).

"Sometimes you have to face things that you can't deal with, Sherlock. I know you better. This isn't just you not understanding. You can't handle change, you can't deal with it. Everything about this situation screams wrong in your mind, doesn't it?"

It was fortunate that he still faced the wall, as the younger Holmes' mouth honestly fell open in pure shock at the other's words. There were, of course, two obvious reasons for this. The first being that Sherlock could have not noticed himself was his reactions had been - and hearing it spoken aloud made his blatant emotions seem just so much worse. Second, that he was surprised that Mycroft (looking at downright weak as he did at that particular time) still managed to see exactly what the consulting detective was thinking. Both were naturally equally as possible as each other.

But he was right.
It was wrong.

The lanky man forced his mouth shut immediately to cease the continuation of any sentence his mouth may have threatened to spout.

For once, the youngest brother heard every word his elder had to say. The contents of his head, if they were to be examined at that particular moment, would resemble a very curious set of train tracks. Typically Holmes didn't just have one focused thought at different moments as other people seemed to, but had numerous chains running off in different directions all at once. This was usually what made him so observant; picking up on things he didn't even have to put effort into noticing, and running through the mental catalogue of whatever it was whilst simultaneously pondering on six seperate thoughts entirely.
Typically, this all worked fine.

Though it now seemed that Mycroft's voice had somehow managed to commandeer at least five of those tracks - making every single word he uttered stand out prominently in the spider's web of a brain he had.

"...But I can't give you all the answers, Sherlock."

And then they all hit the brick wall of reality at exactly the same moment.

"THEN TRY TO!"
He never shouted. Ever. He hadn't when he was six years old, and Mummy had disposed of a month's work of experiments because it had 'looked like rubbish'. He hadn't when he was ten, and Bobby Miller had screamed in his face that he was a liar, and 'he had been told all those things by someone else instead of 'deducing' it like he had claimed', but just wouldn't admit it. All of the times he could have yelled, could have raised his voice to a definite shout - he hadn't.

It seemed that today was turning out to be a day of unlikely events for Sherlock Holmes.

Having spun around to cast a piercing glare to his brother at the outburst, the consulting detective ran his hands through his hair briefly before once again setting out to pace almost circular patterns on the floor.
"You should have said something..." like that would have ever happened, and he knew it. He knew that he would never have told Mycroft anything, so why would the elder not reciprocate?

It was probably the oddest moment of all when the detective began to laugh.
"Maybe it's the name: Holmes. Perhaps we're all just blessed with issues." shaking his head, Sherlock didn't particularly seem to be able to stop.
"You're an idiot, Mycroft. And don't you dare fire that back at me because this time you're the one sat in the hospital bed."

[MYCROFT HOLMES]

When Sherlock shouted, it was an understatement that he was surprised. In the twenty-eight years he knew his brother, never before had he raised his voice to any degree higher than a firm statement. Between the two of them, the younger had every opportunity to raise his voice against something and he never did. Not until today. Not until Mycroft told him that he wasn't going to provide him with the answers. Sherlock was not happy with that statement. He wanted the answers because he didn't know. Only, neither did Mycroft. Even if he wanted to open up and reveal everything to his brother, he couldn't because he didn't know how.

Mycroft swallowed and tried to sit straight again, making a small pained noise and settling back down. That was out of the question. He had to elect to sit and wallow in his own self pity for the time being. Sherlock spun back around and glared at him, and probably saw him shifting around in pain but that didn't matter, running his hands through his hair anxiously. Mycroft tried not to smile; they both had the same habits when it came down to it.

"You should have said something..."

"Why would I ever dare to tell you anything when you don't show me the same courtesies?" he snapped angrily. "I wanted to know about the first time you tried to kill yourself the first instant it happened, and I had to learn from James about it many tries later. You don't deserve anything different from me."

Mycroft sucked in a breath and rubbed his chest, muttering a small apology. The medicine and the pain was getting to him. He didn't understand why he was in so much pain. His stomach was killing him, as was his chest. He really didn't want to sit here and do this right now.

It was strange when Sherlock started laughing. "Maybe it's the name: Holmes. Perhaps we're all just blessed with issues."

"Lucky us." Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"You're an idiot, Mycroft. And don't you dare fire that back at me because this time you're the one sat in the hospital bed."

He shook his head a bit and smiled. Actually smiled. There were certain people who could get away with calling him an idiot. Chester, his assistant, James, and Sherlock. Since most of them had called him an idiot in the past two days, he could accept that for once, he was. He smiled up at Sherlock.

"I know I am." He shrugged and waved his hand. "And I have no grounds to fire it back, don't worry. But that doesn't mean I'm going to try to sit here and explain myself."

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

When he had even mentioned the possibility of Mycroft 'saying something', he had known immediately that it was an obvious, obvious mistake. Painfully so. Even then, the response was probably harsher than he had expected.

"Why would I ever dare to tell you anything when you don't show me the same courtesies? I wanted to know about the first time you tried to kill yourself the first instant it happened, and I had to learn from James about it many tries later. You don't deserve anything different from me."

Sherlock seemed to freeze at the barbed words. Maybe his brother didn't even mean what he had snapped as an automatic retort, but it was a result of his current medication, and lack of - evidence shown clearly when he afterward murmured some sort of apology. But by then the younger Holmes was barely paying attention. If even at all.

"You weren't there the first time, Mycroft," compared to the former shouting his voice did seem rather unusually quiet - even to his own ears, "I was sixteen - though I'm fairly certain that your good friend has already told you that as well - and you weren't around. So I couldn't have told you, should I have even wanted. Though I didn't. Want to, I mean. You know why?"

Holmes had recommenced his pacing, though it was less of a straight line across the room this time. Instead, he was steadily treading in a circle at the foot of the hospital bed.
"Because I thought you'd be disappointed. About the fact that I'd tried, or the knowledge that I'd failed, I don't know. Just disappointed. But this is different, brother, so don't try to turn it around."
So far, he had been obviously refraining from being any closer to the other man than entirely necessary (a fact that had proved to be the most obvious when the consulting detective had almost cornered himself not long before). This was a rule that was suddenly broken, as the younger moved to stand directly next to the elder Holmes.
"I was here, in the same city at least, and you had every opportunity to let me know of something, anything. And even if you don't care about hearing it, I'm not disappointed Mycroft. I'm just... upset."

Well, that was an unnecessary speech and a half, his mind decided to unhelpfully apply once he had finished talking.
Bit of a rambly one, too.

The smile that his brother gave as a reaction to his calling him an 'idiot' was (surprisingly) automatically returned with one of his own. Whether or not Sherlock had noticed the stupid expression on his face was probably unknown - though if he did he most certainly wouldn't have liked it in the slightest.
"I know I am."
It was almost enough to make him shout again.

"And I have no grounds to fire it back, don't worry. But that doesn't mean I'm going to try to sit here and explain myself."
Then something odd happened. Because, despite the fact that he definitely wanted to, the younger brother didn't shoot back an immediate: 'You should do.'
Which certainly was an oddity, considering that the words were on the tip of his tongue before they flew from his mind.

Because he couldn't help but wonder if he was the idiot. If he hadn't put so much distance between himself and his elder brother, Sherlock might have been able to notice this sooner. Which made him, in effect, rather stupid.
"Fine, don't."
He was hoping for a change of topic anyway. Mostly so he didn't make a fool of himself and raise his voice again.
"When are they letting you out?"
He collapsed into the chair again, acting for all the world as if he hadn't been so furious just moments before.

[MYCROFT HOLMES]

"You weren't there the first time, Mycroft. I was sixteen - though I'm fairly certain that your good friend has already told you that as well - and you weren't around. So I couldn't have told you, should I have even wanted. Though I didn't. Want to, I mean. You know why? Because I thought you'd be disappointed. About the fact that I'd tried, or the knowledge that I'd failed, I don't know. Just disappointed. But this is different, brother, so don't try to turn it around. I was here, in the same city at least, and you had every opportunity to let me know of something, anything. And even if you don't care about hearing it, I'm not disappointed Mycroft. I'm just... upset."

Sherlock paced the entire time he talked, even standing right beside Mycroft at one point before heading back a good amount of distance. Mycroft listened to everything he was saying. He always listened to what his brother had to say. He never once toned him out. And now was no exception. It was the first time Sherlock ever got so transparent with him. It was very strange. He really didn't have a reaction past sheer awe at the sight.

"Were you?" Mycroft asked. "Just sixteen?"

When Sherlock turned sixteen, Mycroft was well in to being twenty-three. He graduated college at seventeen himself and had been in America for a good six years. It was probably a bad decision when he looked back on it. Leaving England for America to pursue a job as a lawyer when he could have gotten any governmental job he ever wanted in the Queen's land. He could have worked with the Queen if he had stuck with it. He could have been the person behind the Queen, doing the work, running the country. It was also probably a bad idea because he left his mum and brother behind to cross the Atlantic. He left Sherlock without a brother to help him through college. He left Sherlock alone to deal with his problems alone.

Mycroft took a second to wonder if it was his fault that Sherlock ended up this way. If he had stayed in England, stayed at home, would Sherlock be different? Would he be any happier, or would they have a better relationship? It was a glamorous thought, but one that had no meaning behind it. No, they would be the same, probably worse. Only difference would be that Mycroft would have been there the first time Sherlock tried to kill himself and could have stopped any more attempts.

Mycroft took a second to blame himself. Then the decided that it was in the past and he couldn't do anything to change the past now.

Sherlock saying that he was afraid of his brother being disappointed made Mycroft frown.

"I could never be disappointed in you for doing that," he said finally. "Never once, because it would be hypocritical of me to do that." He paused for a moment. "I am disappointed, though, not because you tried and failed, but because you hid it."

He sighed and went to rub his face tiredly, not getting very far before huffing and looking down at the IV that was obstructing his range of motion. He put his arm back down and looked back at Sherlock. The younger Holmes was irritated, muttering a quick Fine, don't, when Mycroft said he wasn't going to explain himself. Then he collapsed in to the chair.

"We've been living in the same city most of our lives, but we still don't talk regularly. We talk when you need help with a case, when I need help with a case, and on holidays because we're obligated to. We're not really friends. Just brothers; forcibly, because really, we don't like each other. People who don't like each other don't take the time to find out when one of them is sick from over-drinking and lack of eating or when the other in laid across their couch in a self-induced bliss from cocaine. As brothers, we seem to always dance around the fact that neither of us are okay in the slightest sense of the word."

He looked at Sherlock, realizing he became just as transparent. Well, no sense in stopping now.

"I'm sorry." Even the words sounded like a foreign language. "I'm sorry for everything I did, or didn't, do. I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm sorry I wasn't a good brother. I'm sorry we have so much distance between each other." He shrugged and gave a small, tired smile. "I'm sorry I upset you."

There. Enough transparency for one day. He shifted in his bed and nodded. Quite enough. He would blame the drugs later.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "They're letting me out in a few days."

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

A moment was all it took for the situation to sink in. It seemed so, anyway. Not that the entire thing was simply going to be accepted into Sherlock's brain - after all, it was still all wrong. But at least it had begun to be absorbed. From there it was likely that the information would be slowly analyzed, categorized and briefly pondered over before (if at all) it was put to rest in the hectic buzz of the young Holmes' mind.
Not that he would ever be able to quite leave it alone.

It was odd, how honest both were being. Neither would never usually allow themselves to become so obvious - after all, the showing of emotions and truths are nothing but weakness. And weakness, whatever the time or place, couldn't be tolerated without consequence.
Their consequence?
They found out things that would better be left in the dark. Because sometimes shadows are the suitable places for such knowledge and secrets.

"I'm sorry."
Sherlock flinched at the unexpected remark, though he wouldn't notice. The younger brother tended to despise any sort of apology - especially one being made by himself. It seemed, at that moment, that Mycroft was far too much like himself for the consulting detective to bear with.
"I'm sorry for everything I did, or didn't, do. I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm sorry I wasn't a good brother. I'm sorry we have so much distance between each other. I'm sorry I upset you."
He sat in the chair, one hand tapping out an absentminded rhythm on the wooden arm (another damned nervous habit - he really must gain control of these), wishing his hardest that those words hadn't been spoken. Their intensity seemed to deafen him. And that was a terrifying thought.

Sherlock's feet left the ground as he drew his knees up to his chin, wrapping his arms over his shins and staring intently at his elder brother with a somewhat petulant expression. To say he wasn't happy with the entire event would be a severe understatement.

He rather hoped the both of them would forget everything they had told one another come morning.

But then again, if he really wanted to, the consulting detective knew one definite way to forget everything. It was either unfortunate or fortunate, depending on one's view on things, that Mycroft's words had seemed to have some sort of effect, however.
At least temporarily.

And he shouldn't forget this.

"They're letting me out in a few days."
The younger Holmes nodded, before resting his chin atop his knees and gesturing slightly with one hand. He, unlike many other specimens of the human race, hadn't been gifted at birth with the ordinary social skills that seemed to be necessary to be considered 'normal'. Conversations, when Holmes wasn't powered by either caffeine or emotion he barely seemed to notice once it was over, were therefore not a strong point at all.
Especially not when even he had no clue what the sentence was trying to be.

"We will. Uh - I mean, we should probably stay... in touch. Then."

Frowning, Sherlock's gaze fixed upon Mycroft's right elbow as he tried to formulate the words he wanted to.
"This isn't going to change anything," the words were probably spouted with a harsher tone than intended, but it seemed to soften slightly as the man continued,
"You're right. We're just brothers, and we effectively hate each other. I don't want to change all of that and try to be 'normal'. It just, could be pleasant once in a while. Maybe."

Shite.
He was making an arse of himself.

[MYCROFT HOLMES]

The younger Holmes drew his legs up and hugged them, his eyes never leaving Mycroft. Being stared at always made him uncomfortable for some reason. He was always being stared at, either by a judge or his client or his boss. However, Sherlock doing the staring always got him a little... weird. He looked away for a moment and hummed to himself before looking back.

"We will. Uh - I mean, we should probably stay... in touch. Then."

Mycroft nodded. It seemed like a good plan to start with. Keeping in touch. It wasn't a promise or a threat, just a suggestion. A simple idea. The both of them were perfectly able to text one another, and sometimes, that was all they needed.

"This isn't going to change anything," Sherlock spat quickly, before anything could be said. "You're right. We're just brothers, and we effectively hate each other. I don't want to change all of that and try to be 'normal'. It just, could be pleasant once in a while. Maybe."

Mycroft laughed for all of a second, making a small pained sound at the end of it. The mere thought of trying to be 'normal' with Sherlock was absurd. They would and could never be 'normal'. It wasn't in their nature to. The Homles family were not normal people. At all. Never were.

"I'm perfectly fine with being pleasant." He grinned. "Maybe."

Still grinning, he took a glance at the clock that was on the wall just over Sherlock's head. If he was right, he was admitted around ten-forty the previous night, and it was now just past twelve-twenty-two. Thirteen hours, forty-two minutes. Surely that was enough time. Mycroft sat up straighter and began messing with the IV chord and heart-monitor wires, pushing them out of his way before pushing the blanket off of him.

"If you don't mind."

He threw his legs over the side of the bed, fully intent on standing up. After taking a moment to breathe, he looked back at Sherlock.

"I'm sure you have more important things to do other than to sit there and stare at me, yes?"

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

Sherlock was unwilling to stop staring at his brother. Perhaps the younger Holmes was searching for some sort of tell, the slightest give-away that the entire situation wasn't actually happening. He was even content to entertain the possibility that he himself could be half passed out from a high somewhere and what he was actually seeing was simply some sort of immensely odd, overly preposterous hallucination.
Though he had resigned to seemingly get a grip on his current mental state - a result of his ridiculous (in his opinion, at least) reaction to his brother's hospitalization - he really was still unable to completely grasp what was going on.

"I'm perfectly fine with being pleasant. Maybe."
Drawn back to reality (if that was indeed what it was) by the sound of his brother's voice, Holmes sharply followed the elder sibling's gaze to the mounted wall clock behind him. If he hadn't have then chosen to rise to his feet equally as quickly, it was likely that the lanky consulting detective would have easily toppled from the chair. And, however much he then felt the need to distance himself from the conversation, attempting to maintain a perfectly serious composure with his arse on the ground wasn't something that Sherlock felt himself entirely happy with.

"If you don't mind."
The man sighed noisily as he slowly pivoted on his toes. He was greeted with the sight of his brother very obviously intending to leave the hospital.
"I'm sure you have more important things to do other than to sit there and stare at me, yes?"

Sherlock cocked his head to the side, pouting slightly in a way that made him seem far too similar to a five year old than seemingly possible.
"Actually, you're currently proving to be far more interesting than-" the lanky man consulted his right arm, where he had earlier scrawled the name of his current client (the detective was commonly quite incapable of remembering names), "'Lucas Martin'."
He grinned slightly, completely enjoying the fact that by irritating his brother, he was able to return normality to the scene. And normality - however odd it may otherwise be, or even boring if not so - was greatly welcomed at such a time. The younger Holmes did not appreciate being thrown off of his guard by uncomfortable situations.

"I could just... stay here, I suppose. I really should make sure that you're perfectly alright and all. I imagine Mother wouldn't be particularly pleased if I didn't."

[MYCROFT HOLMES]

Mycroft grumbled to himself when Sherlock said he wouldn't leave. It was already awkward enough, so why prolong it? If Sherlock wanted to stay and watch Mycroft parade around in his hospital gown, then so be it. He shrugged and took a good hold on his IV stand, using it to hoist himself out of the bed. Without the bed supporting him, he wobbled uneasily on his feet, making an irritated noise and grabbing on to the IV with his other hand. He was dizzy; the drugs messed with his head and his legs felt like gelatin from not moving for hours. He made a face at the wall.

Really, he wanted Sherlock to leave. They'd talked enough for the day, hell, even the week. Now he was just annoying.

"Mum won't care," Mycroft said, lifting his foot and moving it in a circle to get the feeling back. "She didn't care when I left so what makes you think she'll care now?" Mycroft repeated the process with his other foot, lifting it and moving it in a circle. It would help him steady himself, right after the pins and needles passed.

When he left, their mother just waved him off. No tears, no reactions, no asking for him to stay or give her an address she could mail to. She just gave his cheek a kiss and patted his shoulder before he left. She bid him off and he hadn't heard from her since. Even if he did send her cards.

"If you truly insist on staying, make yourself useful," he said, bending his knees slightly. "Fetch me another one of these stupid gowns. I'm not going to stand here and bare my arse to everyone, thanks."

The feeling came back to his legs pretty fast. Mycroft hummed, stretching each leg once more for good measure before moving a foot from the bed and letting go of the IV stand with one hand.

[SHERLOCK HOLMES]

"Mum won't care. She didn't care when I left so what makes you think she'll care now?"
Sherlock would have most likely protested against that (however much it would not be in his nature to do so), had he not already known that Mycroft was right. Though it also wasn't in his nature to agree with his elder brother, there is little one could say to argue against such truth, if the arguer does not even agree with his point. As the younger Holmes did not, he kept his mouth shut.
Again, completely against his usual behaviour.

The consulting detective was allowing himself to act so oddly because he was rather at a loss as to what he should do about the situation. Obviously, the best thing was most likely to do nothing. Probably to leave, as Mycroft had requested, and ignore the entire situation. After all, if the younger brother was to involve himself with the elder's habits, it was likely that the other may retaliate. And Sherlock most certainly didn't want the other man meddling in his practices. Practices. What a ridiculous term.

"If you truly insist on staying, make yourself useful. Fetch me another one of these stupid gowns. I'm not going to stand here and bare my arse to everyone, thanks."
Despite scowling at being told what to do, Sherlock left the room for a moment to collect what was asked, returning before he could give his brother enough time to close the door on him. Even if Mycroft hadn't been trying to lure him out of the room so he could shut him out, the detective had been expecting him to. And he always acted on his expectations.
Sherlock handed over the gown, watching with a carefully neutral expression as his brother worked to return his mobility. To quote something he was sure he had either read or heard some time ago - it was rather like watching a car crash at a reduced speed. He knows he should probably do something or forget it all and leave, but was unable to tear himself away from watching because of the innate human inability to ignore it. Curiosity, was all it was. And Sherlock had enough curiosity that he may as well be a bloody cat.

"You're really boring when you have nearly died," he observed, sniffing slightly and narrowing his eyes as he stared at Mycroft.