Nobody Noticed It
John came up the stairs from getting the shopping, he automatically went into Sherlock's room; then his heart stopped. The bedding was stripped, the shutters were closed, and the rugs were pulled up. John sprinted downstairs.
"MYCROFT! MYCROFT!" he burst into the elder Homes' study were Greg had just gotten home.
"Where is it?! Where is everything… Mycroft… Mycroft…" he collapsed into a chair as the elder caught him; he was having a panic attack.
"Shhh, shhhhhh, hush now… Shhh, John its all OK…" Mycroft held him in his arms; God he was so much like Sherlock.
"Back.. Back… I want everything back… Please Mycroft please…" he was sobbing like a child now, barely able to talk while wheezing.
"OK… OK, Lovie… I'll go do that right now…" Greg whispered, patting John's shoulder. Mycroft rocked John until he stopped crying.
"All better now, Love?" John nodded, not moving from Mycroft's grip.
"Come, let's go get some tea and I will have an assassin take out the stupid cleaning lady that cleaned the wrong room. Seventeen bedrooms aren't that hard…" Mycroft huffed about, pulling out tea and biscuits and milk with honey.
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Greg sat on the bed rubbing Mycroft's feet with crème. They hd ad just gotten John to settle own and go to sleep.
"We're all struggling, sweetheart," Mycroft nodded, dozing off here and there.
"I cannot fix this, Greg. I can fix everything… I cannot heal him," hi phone buzzed, and he stood up going onto the balcony.
"Sherlock, come home quickly, he is in a state of agony that I cannot bear to watch," Mycroft sank down onto the ground.
"My, this is going to be longer than I thought, this thing is massive and I cannot just demolish it all at once," Sherlock put a hand on his forehead to stop the stress headache that was coming on.
"Your sure, brother dear?" Mycroft's forehead began to throb.
"Yes, its going to be years before I see him or London ever again." Mycroft bite his lip, and nodded to himself.
"There is no way to speed it up?"
"No, I can do it in pieces but how long that will take I do not know,"
"He's in bad shape, Sherlock…" Mycroft shook his head and thought of what had just happened.
"I know," Sherlock sighed, this was bad.
"Go on then, go take care of him, I'm good where I am. Ill talk to you tomorrow via Skype."
"Very well," Mycroft said sadly, he stood up to head back into the house where John and Greg were sleeping.
"Brother dear?"
"Yes, baba?"
"I love you," Sherlock whispered, smiling into the phone.
"And I you, Sherly" he whispered back, pressing a kiss to the screen.