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"It's best, really, that we give them privacy," Mycroft said from his chair. Molly raised an eyebrow.
"Why?"
"Because this is important to both of them. Sherlock is refusing to speak properly because he wants his first words to be for John. It's important to him. It's his gift, his begging of forgiveness," Mycroft explained. He knew this because when Sherlock slept, he spoke. He muttered John's name almost continuously during nightmares, like a mantra or a prayer. But when he was awake, he was mute, grunting or humming or otherwise making his opinion be known.
Sherlock had been kept at Mycroft's flat for the past week, which was not sufficient time to deal with all the injuries that had wrought havoc on his little brother, but he certainly couldn't complain about him going home to a doctor. A doctor that might break his nose, but nevertheless.
He had been bundled into a car that morning and had likely had his reunion. Molly wasn't sure whether she hoped John knew her part in this, but honestly, she would survive if John didn't forgive her. It was, after all, because of her that Sherlock survived at all.
Mycroft steepled his fingers in that Holmsian way, just over his lips in a pantomime of prayer. Molly eyed her friend.
"What are you thinking about so hard?" she asked, ignoring the look he gave her for interrupting his reverie. Or calculation. With Mycroft Holmes, one never knew.
"He was gone for three years, Molly," he said quiet, thoughtfully, most likely to himself (despite indications otherwise). "It took much longer than that to build the web. Could he have eradicated it in only three years? It doesn't seem long enough. It doesn't seem right."
"You'll know, though, if there's anything funny. A power shift, a resurgance, anything at all." Here, her lips quirked in a smile. "You're Mycroft Holmes—nothing gets past you."