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Mycroft reluctantly steps into the ward. Empty walls, linen-wrapped beds, metal guardrails. To his left, a woman, early fifties, sleeping. Across from him, a man, turning, disinterested, away.
In the far corner Sherlock lifts his head from the pillow.
"What's wrong?" he says immediately, and oh, Mycroft missed this sharp stare in the world of goldfish. London is not the same without his little brother. But needs must.
Mycroft folds his hand behind his back. Better not to touch anything. He walks up to where Sherlock is rising to sit in the narrow bed, faded cotton gown sliding off one shoulder.
"I'm just visiting my dear brother in the hospital," Mycroft says.
"No, you're not. You're doing legwork. You don't do legwork. Mycroft, what's wrong?"
Mycroft steps close enough to make it sufficiently hard for anyone listening.
"It's your-- lady friend," he says, and Sherlock stills.
Shallow water. He is holding his breath, Mycroft realizes. Sherlock doesn't hold his breath for just anyone. Mycroft was right to do this in person.
Sherlock inhales. "Where."
"Singapore."
Sherlock flips off the covers and gets out of bed. Both his knees are bandaged. A long scrape runs down his left shin. He leans over with some difficulty, cracks open the nightstand door and pulls out a pair of trainers and a bundle of clothes. "Tell me."
Mycroft turns a few degrees to the side. "A new acquaintance of hers is involved in a-- parallel operation. There is a non-zero chance of multiple fatalities. Local law enforcement deploys in three days."
A clink of a belt buckle. "An incentive, Mycroft? You?"
"Oh, I don’t care either way. But since it had already come to my attention, it seemed only fair to inform you that your friend is unlikely to, shall we say, come out on top."
He expects Sherlock to scoff at this. But when he turns to look, Sherlock is, inexplicably, smiling. He finishes tying his laces, and stands, testing his balance.
And it's that easy. He is focused. He is ready to go at a drop of a hat.
And he doesn't even fully understand why.
Mycroft sighs. His brother would truly be one of the finest, had he only deigned to stay consistent.
"You should let her fend for herself, one of these days," Mycroft says. "I hear women appreciate this sort of thing."
"I'm fine, Mycroft," says Sherlock, hiding his expression in the jumper he's pulling down over his face.
I wasn't worried, Mycroft thinks, but he doesn't say it, lest it come out exactly as the lie that it is. Sherlock finishes dressing, then comes up to him, just a little unsteady, and holds out his open palm.
Mycroft reaches inside his suit jacket and pulls out a battered wallet and an equally battered passport. Sherlock takes them and stuffs them into his pocket without looking. "Pick me up in three days."
Mycroft calls up a mental map.
"Tan Tock Seng or Alexandra?"
"No," Sherlock says. "Pick me up in L.A."