Trigger warning: mention of sexual assault. the reference is very vague but please be careful. please note i have chnged the rating to M for future chapters.

Lestrade's car slides to a stop in front of Mycroft's house, and immediately the man himself is out the front door to meet them. Mycroft's house is large, seated in the high end part of London, near Belgravia, with enough rooms to cater for the medical treatment Sherlock may need after spending five years at the hands of some sadistic bastard. Mycroft's ability to cater for whatever situation may arise not losing its touch.

Mycroft cannot remember the last time he felt this anxious and impatient, probably because he hasn't had much experience with these kinds of emotions before, only when dealing with Sherlock. It seems fitting that it is Sherlock's fault now- wait, no, that didn't sound right, Sherlock hasn't done anything wrong.

Shaking himself Mycroft steps forward as Greg climbs out of the car, making a move to open the back seat car door.

As the door opens Mycroft breath catches in his throat as he lays his eyes on his younger brother for the first time in five years. Sherlock is…Damn, Mycroft wishes he was better with emotions because the only way he can think to describe Sherlock's condition is that this is not how he ever wished to see his little brother look, the person he was supposed to protect. That, and the cold hard facts: Sherlock is seriously malnourished, dehydrated and underweight. The evidence of abuses against his body are as clear as day to Mycroft. Abuses to Sherlock's mind, however…. Mycroft has no clue to what extent damage may have been caused.

"Sherlock," he says, helping his brother climb out the car. Sherlock is shaking all over, and his eyes are as wide as an owl's. The moment Mycroft touches him, he can't stop the elevation of his own heart rate, the realisation crashes down on him like a tsunami that Sherlock is actually here, flesh and bone beneath his hands.

The moment Sherlock is fully out of the car Mycroft, in a move he will always pretend to regret but secretly never will, pulls Sherlock into a tight hug. They have not hugged since they were young boys, but Sherlock has been missing for five years and Mycroft has been broiling with emotions he does not fully understand and all he knows right now is that he just needs to hold his little brother.

Sherlock does not complain like he would have done in a time long past. Instead Sherlock leans fully into the embrace, his frame thin and gaunt in Mycroft's hold. Sherlock doesn't smell bad exactly, Mycroft can tell that his kidnapper had allowed Sherlock to wash two days ago, but there is an earthy scent to him. Sherlock's hair is slightly longer than usual but not messy, and his face is only slightly covered in stubble. His kidnapper has allowed him some basic human rights, then.

Mycroft can suddenly feel something sharp and heavy pressing against his back. He pulls back and asks Sherlock "What's that?"

Sherlock brings his arms in front of his chest, and Mycroft can see the book he is clutching in them. "My erm…my book." He says quietly, cheeks flushing slightly.

Mycroft deduces it in an instant. This book is to Sherlock what a teddy bear might be to a child. This must've been the only thing of comfort to him in those five years. The thought makes Sherlock shudder.

All of a sudden Sherlock sways on the spot, arms dropping to his sides, book falling to the pavement. Lestrade is at his side in an instant. He flings an arm around Sherlock's waist and pulls Sherlock's left arm over his shoulder. Sherlock moans in pain, sounding barely conscious.

"Mycroft, we need to get him inside and seen to by a medic." Lestrade orders.

Mycroft nods and swallows the lump in his throat. "Yes, of course Gregory. The medical team is waiting in the drawing room. I've had a temporary treatment centre set up in there, and when they are finished we can take Sherlock upstairs into the spare bedroom."
Greg nods at Mycroft and then towards his car, which drives off into the London traffic. "Donovan." He explains.

Sherlock mutters something about his book as Greg leads him inside but Mycroft has already picked it up from the dirty pavement.

"Monet?" Mycroft examines the front cover as he follows Greg and Sherlock into his house. "Brother mine, I will enjoy talking about his paintings with you."

Lestrade observes both the Holmes brothers while Sherlock is being checked out by Mycroft's medical team. The temporary treatment room's lights have been dimmed since Mycroft had sensed Sherlock's obvious aversion to bright lights.

"Sometimes Sherlock's senses get overstimulated, and noises and colours and light become painful." Mycroft had explained while an emaciated Sherlock was huddled up on the treatment bed.

Now Sherlock sits perched on the edge of the treatment bed. He still wears his tattered pyjamas, but they will need to take off his shirt to examine him. Sherlock holds his Monet book in his left hand. Lestrade thinks he understands why Sherlock is so attached to it: it seems that it had been a comfort to him during his confinement, and that he's afraid to let it go because he is so scared. The thought makes Greg want to cry, he cannot deny that.

One of the medics approaches Sherlock and calls his name quietly. Sherlock nods and looks up. His forehead is creased and his breathing is erratic, hands convulsively clutching at his book.

"We need to take your shirt off, Mr Holmes." The medic, a petite blonde woman, says with a small smile.

Sherlock sucks in a shuddery breath but nods. Carefully the blonde medic and another, a male brunette, begin taking off Sherlock's ratty t-shirt.

Mycroft sighs when he sees the state of Sherlock once the shirt has been removed. Every rib is visible; his collarbone is painfully prominent. Mycroft's eyes are drawn to Sherlock's arms and his worst fears are confirmed: track marks. Sherlock's kidnapper has been drugging him. Sherlock, the ex-druggie, has been forced to use drugs. Which drugs, they do not know yet. A blood test will be taken soon.

As is procedure, the male medic starts to prod as Sherlock's ribs to determine if any are broken and Sherlock pales suddenly. The trembling in his hands spreads to his entire body and he flinches from the man's touch. The medic apologises, but as he makes to continue his examination of Sherlock, Sherlock jumps from the treatment bed and scurries to the nearest corner, back against the wall. His eyes are glazed over and tears are threatening to spill from them, hands clutching at his book, almost obsessively stroking over the cover.

Mycroft's heart clenches as he witnesses his brother's mental breakdown. It is obvious to him that Sherlock is experiencing a flashback or something similar, initiated by the male medic's touch to his bare skin. This tells Mycroft more than he wants to know, and he feels rage and sorrow roll in his stomach like a tsunami.

He holds out a hand to stop both medics from converging on a whimpering Sherlock. He knows that their unfamiliar figures looming over him will only make him feel worse. Slowly he approaches Sherlock, crouching down to his level before he gets to him, stopping about two feet away.

"Sherlock? It's alright, it's me, it's Mycroft, you're at my house and no one here is going to hurt you. We only want to help you." He says calmly, patiently.

Sherlock takes in a sharp and hitching breath and shakes his head. A pitiful whimper escapes his lips and Mycroft's heart breaks for his brother. He will withstand a stubborn and irritating Sherlock, a younger brother who used to steal all the cake from their house and hide it in his bedroom just to spite Mycroft, but he cannot stand to see his brother so…. broken.

Sherlock looks to be having a conversation with himself. His head turns from left to right and he frowns and makes noises of consternation. Is Sherlock talking to himself? Mycroft wonders, knowing how lost Sherlock can get in his head. Or is it someone else? Someone he has conjured up in his head for comfort? Just as the book acts as a physical comfort?

"Come on, Sherlock," He says, and his brother looks up at him, eyes glazed over with tears but nothing more. It seems Sherlock has managed to come back to reality.

"Was the medics' touch too much?" Mycroft asks, and Sherlock nods.

"I'm sorry." He gulps back tears. His fingers run over the book's spine. "Please, Mycroft, can I go home?"

Home meaning Baker Street.

Mycroft wishes he could grant Sherlock's request but he can't: Sherlock still needs to be properly examined and Mycroft has the resources here to treat him. Plus, Sherlock is probably too exhausted to make the journey back to Baker Street. Mycroft will always do what's best for Sherlock, and what's best for Sherlock is for him to stay here in order to rest and receive medical treatment.

"I'm sorry Sherlock," he says, "we cannot let you back to Baker Street just yet." It occurs to him that the kidnapper will have noticed Sherlock is missing by now and may be out looking for him. If that is the case, the first place he will look will be Baker Street.

Sherlock nods. "I understand. It's not safe." Of course Sherlock understands. He may be in pain and in shock but that doesn't make him stupid.

"Will you let the medics see to you?" Mycroft asks, to which Sherlock shakes his head, making his curls bob.

"Please, Mycroft." He pleads. Sherlock and Mycroft make eye contact for a moment and that's when Mycroft can confirm to himself what Sherlock needs. Or should he say 'who.'

Mycroft nods and turns to face Greg, who is hovering on the far side of the room. "Gregory, would you be so kind as to phone John Watson to inform him of the situation. Tell him I will have a car pick him up."

For the first time in five years, Sherlock smiles with happiness.

'You won't be needing me for much longer then.' His John jokes.

He shakes his head. I will always need you, John.

John.

"Thank you, Greg."

John Watson drops his mobile onto his work desk, hands shaky, eyes blurry.

He cannot believe it. He has forced himself to never believe this will happen. Never allowed himself the hope. His prayers have been answered.

Sherlock.

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TheBritishBourbon x