Sherlock barely had enough energy to reach over to adjust his morphine dosage. He wanted to scream, break something, slap himself — just get up in general. He was confined to the hospital room until his doctors and friends saw it fit for him to leave. Lestrade learned from the last hospital visit that a pair of handcuffs was enough to keep the hyperactive detective at bay... well until he picks through the locks, that is. Sherlock slowly paced the small room, each step in time with the beeps of the machines around him.
He missed John, and Rosie, and Mrs. Hudson. He had requested that they didn't see him like this, especially John. He had promised to take care of Rosie and protect her from any harm, and yet he couldn't even keep it. He had left her, even if it was for a second. It was enough time for someone to come and snatch her up and run off with her. Sherlock felt something at the bottom of his stomach turn. His chest was tight and he couldn't stand the thought of him leaving Rosie to fend for herself.
Not a few seconds later, Mycroft stepped into the room. Leaning on the umbrella in his hand, his eyes floated around the room and then to his brother. For the first time in years, Mycroft embraced Sherlock in a quick squeeze and then stepped back when he realized what he was doing.
He cleared his throat. "Brother mine." He moved towards the lone chair next to the bed.
"Mycroft, you've never been a man to hold such... sentiment. It doesn't suit you," Sherlock mumbled the last part under his breath. He sighed and upped his morphine.
"No, it doesn't. But... don't beat yourself up about this Sherlock. It wasn't your fault."
"You haven't the slightest clue of what happened out there," Sherlock growled. He sat down on the bed and put his head in his hands, continuing, "I shouldn't have stepped away, I took an oath to protect Rosie with my life and —"
"You did. For Christ's sake Sherlock, you took literal bullets for her." Mycroft pulled out a manila envelope from his suit and opened it. Piles of mail — from Mrs. Hudson, Rosie, Lestrade, and John — filled the envelope. Drawings of Rosie, Sherlock, and John made Sherlock's stomach twist into knots.
Sherlock missed Rosie. He missed her laugh, her joyful smile, just her. John — he didn't know why, but the thought of John made him strangely at ease. His comically snide remarks would never fail to put a smirk on Sherlock's lips and his constant praise was always appreciated. The smell of Mrs.Hudson's food snapped him back to reality. He hadn't noticed the Tupperware container that sat on Mycroft's lap.
"Mrs. Hudson thought that you might be hungry. Eggs, bangers, and beans and toast," Mycroft answered the question lingering in Sherlock's mind. He got up from the chair and handed him the container. He made his way to the door but stopped before opening it.
"Sherlock —"
"No. I already know what you're going to suggest and I gave you my answer." He turned his back to the door.
"Stop being defiant. You've experienced first-hand how emotional John gets when you block him out after something like this."
Sherlock stayed silent. He heard the door open for a moment and then Mycroft speak once more before leaving the detective in silence.
"Just think about it."
