This story is set during The empty hearse. It was partially written shortly after the air date of this episode, because I felt it was far too fluffy and happy, and that there was more angst under all the jokes they served us.

As usual, the story was originally written in Polish, but hatondog rushed me a bit by reading via google translate. I do hope my translation is a bit better :)

Dreams

„Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes."

Than sounded good, too good... Despite his current situation, Sherlock smiled to himself. The holiday is over, time to come back... Only why did he start to hear Mycroft's voice, instead of John's? And to see him as well? And what's more important, why he started to see and hear Mycroft, who said exactly what Sherlock wished to hear, instead of reprimanding and humiliating him? Was it really this bad with him? No, it wasn't, he had just made his torturer run to catch his unfaithful wife...

The keys clang, the lock cracked and Sherlock fell forward like a bag of potatoes. He didn't even have time to reach out his arms, stiff and numb from shackles. Hitting the floor was painful, but the coolness of the concrete – somehow refreshing. Next thing Sherlock registered was that someone caught him by hair and hissed into his ear in English.

"A little cooperation would be much appreciated, brother mine."

Yeah, that was definitely Mycroft, who just twisted his wrists and tied them brutally on his back, not paying any attention to the burning abrasions and cuts from the previous shackles. A single thought came to Sherlock's mind, foggy from the pain and lack of sleep, that his brother had found him and was probably going to take him from here, so he should listen and let Mycroft act. Not that he had much choice.

For a person who spent most of his life behind a desk, Mycroft surprisingly easy pulled Sherlock up and pushed front of him, forcing him to move his legs, and at the same time preventing him from falling with a tight grip. The younger Holmes came obediently.

Mycroft kept hissing orders in Serbian, using that irrefutable tone Sherlock hated so much. He still kept pushing him, half naked directly into the open air, sometimes hitting him right in the fresh wounds on his back, but the detective kept walking, suppressing moans and trusting his brother, for the first time in two years letting someone else act.

It wasn't very cold outside, but Sherlock started shaking, as soon as he felt the first gust of wind. He moaned in protest, when his brother jerked his overstretched arm too much, but Mycroft just ordered him to shut up, muttering invectives about the director of this place and threatening the boy who led them, that his supervisors will certainly hear about all the incompetence. Comparing to what Sherlock had heard in the past few days, Mycroft had rather poor vocabulary when it came to cursing, but it was enough for the frightened boy to open one of the cars and ran to open the gate.

Sherlock was brutally pushed on the back seat of some ancient looking jeep, and Mycroft sat behind the wheel. From all the absurd things Sherlock could think of right now, he concentrated on the fact that it was fifteen years since he last saw his brother driving. He didn't even know if Mycroft could do that legally, but he didn't really care. The older Holmes turned on the engine and the jeep rolled on a painfully bumpy road.

xxx

Legwork. The worst that could have happened to him. Leaving England. The noise. The people. Smuggling into the enemy's hideout. Dirt. Smell.

Nightmare.

Mycroft hoped that Sherlock would appreciate his effort, though he didn't really expect his little brother to verbalize his gratitude. For now, the only thing he heard were muffled groans from the back seat, when the car jumped on something that shouldn't be called a road. The Holmes knew that the journey was far from pleasant, but because everything went according to plan, he wanted to get some distance before stopping to untie Sherlock and cover him with something, as the car didn't have heating even in its best times.

"Mike?" croaked Sherlock. "Not good..."

Not good indeed. Sherlock hadn't called him this way since he was six. Mycroft glanced at him through the mirror, but didn't see much in the darkness.

"We've got an hour drive to make, Sherlock, do try to..." Mycroft stopped, when he heard that Sherlock had just emptied his stomach, if he had anything to vomit. Oh, so it was this kind of 'not good'...

The older Holmes sighed and stopped at the side of the road, only a bit more bumpy. He got out of the car and untied Sherlock, who curled on the back seat.

"You're free," said Mycroft, reaching to the trunk for a jacket he placed on his brother's back. "You can sleep."

"Mmm... Mike..."

"Sleep." Mycroft wasn't sure whether Sherlock fell asleep or lost consciousness, but right now the best thing he could do was to get back to his quarters, where he had people qualified enough to help Sherlock.

The drive, despite Mycroft's wishes, took them almost one and half an hour, mostly because Holmes couldn't trust the car and drive faster. He was worried that the vehicle could broke at any moment, which would be extremely unfortunate. It was better to drive slowly. As long as Sherlock slept and didn't feel the journey, they could drive.

When they were close, Mycroft called his people and had them waiting with a doctor. Because of the current situation in London and the threat of a terrorist attack, he wanted Sherlock to be up and about as soon as possible. So as soon as he stopped the car, two people took Sherlock on a stretcher.

xxx

He was laying flat on his stomach, which made breathing through his stuffy nose impossible. His throat was dry and it cost him a lot to prevent himself from coughing. Sherlock froze, not wanting to show that he was awake. His current position gave him a bit of rest, but the relief was only fleeting. Then came panic, when someone started... Undressing him? God, why? What did they want to do?

He laid, hair falling on his face, covering it almost completely, so Sherlock dared to open his eyes a bit. His gaze was foggy, but he noticed a man in sheepskin coat and fur hat.

Someone ran something through his back and Sherlock impulsively tried to roll over, scared by the change of scenery and his torturers' actions, but a pair of strong hands stopped him. Why had something changed? What did they want to do to him this time?

"You know, you could cause us no more trouble, little brother," he heard a voice that undoubtedly belonged to Mycroft. Only now did Sherlock recall the escape and the car ride. So it wasn't a dream, after all...

The man, who, as it turned out, prevented him from falling from the stretcher, helped him up. Sherlock wanted to say something, but only started coughing. Someone gave him a glass of water and the detective drank hungrily, trying to ignore the pain in his ribs and cramps in his stomach, he drank first water in the last few days, that wasn't rusty and awful, that didn't taste of chlorine and dirt.

"Maybe it's the clothes, but you seem to put on weight since I last saw you," Sherlock croaked after a while, when he calmed his breathing.

"Oh, yes, I need to get changed, my clothes seem to disturb you," retorted Mycroft, perfectly reading his younger brother's reactions.

Sherlock didn't reply, just crossed his arms tightly around his chest, partly because he was cold, partly to do anything with the agonizing pain in his side. He didn't have to look to know that his left side ribs were covered in one big bruise.

"Do you have a bathroom in here?" Sherlock asked and rose slowly, glad that his legs were strong enough to keep him upright. The last thing he wanted now was to be caught again by Mycroft. "I need to wash."

"Doctor Harris, I'm leaving him in your hands," said Mycroft. "Do whatever you need to make him able to travel. London is waiting."

"Sure," nodded the doctor. Though he was an elder man, he was strong and probably wouldn't have problems with holding Sherlock, should the need occur. "Sherlock, right?" he asked. "Come on, we will do something with all that," he added warmly.

Sherlock allowed to be led to the bathroom, where doctor Harris helped him get rid of the remains of his clothes and get into shower. London is waiting... Sherlock clung to that words as hard as to the wall to keep himself on his feet under the water. The wounds on his back burned, but the water was hot, warmed him and washed all the dirt of the last few days. Even his stomach wasn't so clenched anymore, though Sherlock still kept one hand protectively around his side. He must have overstretched some muscles when he struggled in shuffles, but the arm was more or less usable.

Until today, he was sure it was impossible to sleep while standing, but right now Sherlock drifted between sleep and reality, when the doctor dried him and led him wrapped in a towel back to the room.

London, he was going back to London... He knew there was nothing to stop him now, he would meet John again... Recently he started to hear his friend's voice more often in his head, it was high time he saw him for real. John will be delighted, Molly will be glad to see him... He hadn't been in touch in the last two years, it was safer for him to cut himself form everything he knew and missed... Until he got used to the fact that he kept hearing his friends' voices in his head, mostly John's, when it was bad, dangerous, scary... Just to feel a little more safe.

"Did you eat anything?" asked the doctor, cleaning one wound after another. Sherlock sat on the bed, leaning forward and helping with less hurting hand to prevent himself from falling.

"No, since they caught me," he answered, because turning his head would only increase dizziness. "They gave me water when I passed out... Awful water."

"When did you eat?" inquired doctor Harris further. "It's 30'th October," he hinted.

"It'll be three days," muttered Sherlock, trying to convince himself that he didn't feel dizzy.

"Not good... Never mind, we'll deal with it."

The unnecessary optimism and care of the doctor were a bit irritating, but Sherlock didn't object. He let him take care of all the wounds, at the same time seeing John and imagining, how he would do that. He would probably be more rough and angry that Sherlock got in trouble...

It was hard to keep his eyes open. Sherlock drifted, he didn't fall asleep or pass out only because doctor Harris was still doing something around him, touching, hurting and bringing relief. He also kept talking, but the detective didn't pay attention. He go warmer in a shirt, too big for him, so probably Mycroft's, and he drifted completely. Therefore he gasped, eyes wide open, when he suddenly felt a needle in his elbow.

"Shhh, calm down, it will help," said the doctor reassuringly and Sherlock realized it was just a IV drip. "You're dehydrated, and my guess is that right now you'd like to sleep, not eat. It will be just ok for the flight."

"Mhmmmm..."

"No, not yet, you can sleep soon enough in the plane." Doctor Harris forced him to get up. "Your brother is waiting for you."

What? Oh, yes, the plane... London... Sherlock walked on shaky legs, feeling more and more numb. It was a bit better, probably the IV had some painkillers, but all he wanted to do right now was to lie down and sleep. Only the fact that the doctor kept talking and forced him to reply prevented Sherlock from falling asleep during the car ride to the plane.

Mycroft was indeed waiting inside, his laptop on a small table. When he saw Sherlock climbing up the stairs, he got up and caught his elbow. He led his younger brother to the back of the plane, where were a few narrow beds. From the conversation Mycroft had with the doctor Sherlock caught only something about the necessity of x-raying his ribs, but it wasn't important now. The priority was to find the most comfortable position possible and restart.

"Sherlock? Brother?" Mycroft leaned over him, when Sherlock decided that his right side was better to sleep on and curled on the narrow bed.

"Mmm?"

"Doctor Harris and I will be at the front. Just call us if you need something."

xxx

The flight went without any problems. Sherlock slept the whole journey, too exhausted to care about any inconvenience. Mycroft waited until they landed and woke his brother to help him move to the car. Though neither of Holmes said a word, they were both relieved they got back to England. For Mycroft it was the end of legwork in a foreign country with the risk of exposure. The older Holmes suspected that a lot of work waited for him after his week-long absence, so he wanted to beck in his office as soon as possible.

As for Sherlock... For now, it was a success that he managed to walk and kept his breakfast. Then he remained silent, staring through the window with his foggy eyes, as they rode to London. Because doctor Harris insisted on making additional examinations, Mycroft left them both in the hospital, and went to office. For the time being, he didn't have to worry about his brother; one phone, and Anthea arranged everything.

Just like Mycroft suspected, the amount of work waiting for him was scandalous. No wonder it was late evening, when he finally managed to clean his desk from the most current problems and read through his emails. Doctor Harris was still with Sherlock in Mycroft's house, just like they agreed, so he knew about his brother's condition. Now, when he finished working, doctor Harris could go home as well.

When Mycroft came home, he noticed with surprise, that there was light in the room Sherlock usually occupied when he stayed with him, and that the window was wide open despite the chilliness of the night. The elder Holmes, concerned with this rather unexpected sight, ordered the driver to come tomorrow at eight fifteen, as usual, and then rushed upstairs.

Despite cold, Sherlock was sleeping on his stomach, poorly covered with two blankets. The small lamp on the desk was on. Mycroft closed the window which gave an unpleasant draft with open doors, and then he pulled the curtains and straightened a forgotten shirt that laid on the floor. Then Mycroft covered Sherlock tightly with the blankets, careful not to wake him, turned off the light and left, closing the doors after him.

Maybe half an hour passed. Mycroft made himself tea and went with the cup to his study to go through his home mail. He had just opened the bills and put them on one pile to pay them later, when he heard a crash, as if something fell down, and then a noise of doors being opened too forcefully. Because there weren't many options as for what could have caused that noise, Mycroft stood up and went to the corridor.

Sherlock was standing in the doors of his bedroom and glancing around the corridor. Mycroft couldn't help the feeling that his brother looked as if he was calculating his chances and watching for the escape route. Only when Sherlock noticed his brother's presence, he straightened and feigned indifference. Mycroft allowed him to do that, pretended he didn't see anything.

"Do you need anything?" he asked indifferently. He came closer to the doorstep and only then did Sherlock react. He stepped back into his room and made a move like he wanted to slam the door, but stopped. He glanced at Mycroft, trying to cover his abashment, and cleared his throat.

"No, I'm fine," said Sherlock. He turned around and went straight to his bed.

Mycroft stood for a moment, uncertain, but then realized it would be best for him to leave. On his way, he absent-mindedly reached to the switch, but Sherlock opened his eyes, as if he was expecting that.

"Leave it."

The older Holmes just nodded and left, leaving the light on, as well as the open doors. The silent plea was well understood.