Technically, mid-teen/coma!verse. Check out my lj for timeline: http:/ /pro-prodigy. livejournal. com/ 9557. html
"The answer, Sherlock, remains unchanged."
"If you would just contact him."
"Then tell me where he is! I will do whatever it takes."
Mycroft glared hard, unfazed by his younger sibling's pleas. "No. Father is not to be distracted from his duties in the Heavenly Realms over this…development."
Sherlock paled, further even than the sickly pallor he had developed over the last several months, his eyes straying towards the form of his friend, laying motionless on the bed by the bay window. The best description of how sorry a state Watson was in would be that the healers who had put him there considered him little more than a plant, set there in hope he would thrive somehow, but given little care besides.
At just barely sixteen, Sherlock was now the same height as his bulkier elder brother, but the youth reflected in those eyes, hoping for a miracle, desperate for some cure-all and the assurance that everything would be alright.
"Mycroft," the voice was barely above a whisper. "I beg you. Ask father to return, to help try and cure Watson. Please."
Mycroft shook his head. "I will not."
Anger shown brightly in his brother's face. "Then get out," he snapped, furiously. "The only family I ever had is either dead, gone, or in this room, so leave!"
Mycroft acquiesced to his brother's wishes and moved to exit the room, pausing at the door. "You should eat something, Sherlock. Your studies are suffering. Someday, this may all be over and what will you have then?"
"Get out." There was no fire then, just resignation.
It was a logical progression. If Watson did die, Sherlock would not truly desire to be alone, after all.
Mycroft could hear Sherlock speaking quietly to his comatose friend as he shut the door behind him.
"I'm sorry, Watson. I promise I will try and find another way to contact my father. It was very sunny today. I expect you would have enjoyed it. Can you feel it, Watson? It's coming through the window."
Mycroft could bear it no longer and quickly strode away down the corridor.
Sherlock would be angry with him for some time, perhaps forever if Watson died. He had tried everything within his abilities to bring Watson back to no avail. There was no point in telling Sherlock that he had far surpassed their father's waning powers. He felt the price of his brother's momentary wrath was well worth Sherlock being able to maintain the feeble hope that somewhere far away, existed a cure for his ailing friend. Mycroft would be forgiven, but it was unlikely Sherlock would extend the same courtesy to a father who had dispassionately turned down the desperate entreaty Mycroft had sent on his behalf.
Magic was all about belief, believing wholeheartedly and unreservedly that whatever you tried to perform would be achieved.
Mycroft hoped what he attempted would reach the desired effect. He hoped it would be enough.