Sherlock's eyes snapped open, not for the first time since he'd been hiding. (Hiding!) He sat bolt upright in the wingbacked chair in which he didn't realize he'd fallen asleep, prepared to run if need be. The door shut and he heard a familiar voice, and it was one he wanted. Mycroft.
"Sit down, there's no need to run away," Mycroft said, not yet in the room. "You're not hiding from Mr. Piccolo." Sherlock snorted at his nickname for his old headmaster. He heard Mycroft setting his umbrella in the stand and entering the living room.
"I have to be leaving, Mycroft." Neither his words nor his tone conveyed the reluctance to leave that Sherlock felt.
Sherlock stood and adjusted his new clothes, clothes which were entirely unlike his normal attire. "Now." He winced as he extended his arm a bit too far, trying to get into his new coat.
Mycroft didn't move. He understood why Sherlock was doing what he was doing. He knew why this whole thing had happened, he knew why Sherlock had fallen from the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital three weeks ago. Yet for some reason, Sherlock wasn't holding it against him, and for that, he was grateful. "Take care," he said softly. Sherlock, too, paused in his movements, but only for an instant.
"Yes," was Sherlock's reply as he headed toward the back door of Mycroft's rather large home, and slipped out without another sound.
Mycroft poured himself a drink and stared into the fire, not knowing if he'd ever see his brother again.