Hello again! i admit i rushed checking it over to get this out to you guys so please tell me if there are any mistakes!
John has encouraged Sherlock to get out of the bed and take shaky steps towards the sofa in his large 'bedroom', which is rather like a hotel room. Sherlock sits there, a burgundy jumper, one of Mycroft's that has never been worn, over his pyjamas, shoulders hunched as he fiddles with his fingernails, knees drawn up to his chest. John sits next to him, holding the Monet book in his hands, and he flicks through the pages. Some of them are worn with the number of times they have been turned, some of them are discoloured from the passing of time, and some are discoloured with dirt.
Sherlock keeps glancing at him, John can feel it, and he ponders over what Sherlock is thinking and feeling.
Suddenly Sherlock blurts out, "John, please can we have a cup of tea?"
John looks up. Sherlock looks at him carefully, fingers running over his knees.
John nods and closes the book. "Of course we can." John wonders when the last time Sherlock had tea was. "But how about we have one each instead of just sharing?" John jokes, trying to lighten the mood. Sherlock smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. John awaits the day when it does.
John is trying to figure out if he should leave Sherlock to go make tea, or simply ring the bell that is placed on a side table when in a flurry of movement, the door is flung open and Mrs Hudson bustles in, carrying a large tray of scones with plates and condiments. Anthea follows carrying a tray of tea. To John's bemusement she is wearing a flour covered apron. She looks rather annoyed.
"There you are, my dears." Mrs Hudson says, placing the scones down on the coffee table, "Some fresh scones. How lucky your brother has such a lovely kitchen, Sherlock. He had a lot of baking ingredients, too…I could've made fifty cakes with the amount he had!"
John glances to Sherlock, who had tensed at the sudden movement, and catches his eye. John raises an eyebrow, and Sherlock can read his look like a book: Mycroft's diet has not been sustained. Sherlock smiles once again, and buries his mouth into his knees.
Mrs Hudson passes around the scones as Anthea lays out the condiments. John serves himself a scone slavered in butter and jam. He offers to do Sherlock's for him, but the man shakes his head.
"No, I-I'll do it." He leans forward, and both John and Mrs Hudson try to make it look like they're not looking at him. Sherlock tentatively picks up a knife and dips it into the jam pot and adds only the smallest dollop of jam to his scone. He places the knife down a little too quickly and swiftly resumes his curled up position.
John tucks in as the door shuts behind Anthea, who refuses the offer of a scone from Mrs Hudson.
"Absolutely gorgeous, Mrs H." John compliments. The scone is really rather delicious.
Sherlock is eyeing the tea, and John reaches forward and pours them all a cup. He adds two extra sugar cubes to Sherlock's, knowing that he needs the sugar to keep his blood sugar up.
The moment Sherlock takes the first sip he can feel the warm liquid heating him up from the inside out. He barely nibbles on the scone, his stomach reluctant to consume too much, but instead he drinks the tea lovingly, trying not to burn his tongue too much.
"Sherlock, dear, won't you eat some more?" Mrs Hudson asks when both her and John's scones are gone, but Sherlock's plate still holds three quarters of his.
Her tone is gentle, but Sherlock cannot help but be reminded of the mocking, sarcastic words of Moriarty during the times when he would sit and eat a wholesome meal in front of Sherlock, all the while berating the man for not eating anything when he had been starving him. Sherlock had learnt fast that, when once he had eaten little because digestion had slowed him down, Moriarty gave him very little out of cruelty.
Sherlock reluctantly brings the scone up to his mouth and takes a small bite. The food soon becomes clammy in his mouth, and he gulps down more tea in order to swallow it.
Sherlock's cup of tea is soon gone, and John pours him another one: Sherlock must keep hydrated, especially seeing as he is not currently attached to the IV line.
Sherlock takes one more bite of his scone, but it seems that that is all he can manage and he places his plate quickly back onto the tray and curls around his cup of tea.
The three of them sit there for a while in a comfortable silence, until Mrs Hudson announces that she is going to go and brew up another round of tea. She leaves the room with a quiet click of the latch.
Sherlock and John remain where they are, Sherlock occasionally sipping on his tea while John builds up the courage to begin the discussion on a therapist. Now seems a better time than any.
"Sherlock, listen…" he begins softly, "Mycroft and I were talking and we think, when you're ready, that maybe it would be a wise, and good, idea that you were to try out some sessions with a….therapist."
Sherlock freezes and stares straight ahead of himself at the fireplace. His brow furrows. John sits there, uneasy, and wonders what Sherlock is thinking. God, he hopes it's not affected Sherlock in the worst way, he hopes he hasn't just scared his friend.
"Sherlock?" he goes to query, but Sherlock interrupts him before he can finish.
"Would that make you happy, John?"
This time it's John's turn to frown. He looks at Sherlock, but the man won't meet his eye and stares down at his teacup.
"Sherlock?"
"Would it?" Sherlock asks quietly.
John shifts and turns more towards Sherlock. "Well, it's not about me…"
"But, if I were to see a…therapist," Sherlock whispers the word, "would it make you happy that I was?"
John thinks. He supposes it would, if Sherlock were to seek that kind of professional help. John does not believe he has it in him to help Sherlock emotionally, he will be his doctor when attending to his physical wounds, but he does not trust himself to give Sherlock the help he truly needs in order to be on his way to normality following his…imprisonment.
"Yes." He manages to spit out. "yes, it would."
Sherlock nods, almost as if resigned, and says, "Then I'll see a therapist."
John shakes his head in return. "No, Sherlock. I don't want you to see one for me, I want you to see one to help yourself."
Sherlock's brow furrows again, and he takes a deep breath. "Please, John. I want to do this for you, too."
John stares at him, trying to decipher what Sherlock is truly thinking, but Sherlock will not look up at him, he just keeps tracing patterns with his fingers over his cotton clad knees. John knows they only have so long until Mrs Hudson comes back, and he also does not want to distress Sherlock by pushing the subject so he replies only with a quiet, "If you're sure."
Lestrade is filled with a sense of self satisfaction and pride. He had firmly told Mycroft Holmes, 'Mr British Government', that he would be involved in catching the bastard that had taken Sherlock whether he liked it or not, because damn it all he was a Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard and he would do his job. Sherlock was also someone with whom he felt sentiment, although he didn't mention that as it may have hindered his 'tough police inspector' vibe, although Mycroft had probably deduced it from his tie or something. Damn that man.
He climbs purposefully from his car and strides up to the suburban house they have sectioned off from the public, Donovan in toe, looking her usual surly self. A few civilians linger nearby, trying to get a look at what might be going on, but Lestrade puts on his best grumpy face and ignores them all and strides up to the house with purpose. It is a rather pleasant, if slightly run down looking, detached house in the suburbs, but the connotations that this house holds for Sherlock makes Lestrade look up at it in disdain.
"Sir." Anderson comes from inside the house, suited up in his white protective suit. "You won't believe this. The house has been gutted, absolutely gutted."
"What!" Lestrade exclaims, and pushes past him to peer into the house. The house is milling with both Scotland Yard employee's and Mycroft's people. Lestrade can see through an arch a living room, however it is bare of any furniture, and the smell of bleach is strong enough to make him cough. He peers around, and can see a dining room just beyond the living room through another arch and straight ahead of him a glass paned door leads to a kitchen, also similarly gutted. To his left is a staircase.
"And the upstairs?" he asks Anderson.
"Similarly gutted." The man says grimly.
"Blast it!" Lestrade shouts, and some of Mycroft's people, he can tell their Mycroft's employees by the way they glare at him every time he makes eye contact, look up at him in annoyance.
"The basement has similarly been gutted." Anderson continues.
Lestrade sighs. Of course it has. Any hope of strong, clear evidence has been swept away and now they will have to salvage what they can. When Mycroft had informed him that Moriarty was the prime suspect he had been enraged. The man had suddenly dropped from the Met's radar but at the time he had assumed Mycroft still had tabs on him. Apparently that hadn't been the case, and Moriarty might have gotten away with Sherlock's kidnapping. He supposes though he must still examine the house, especially the basement, in order to gain any information that he can about why Sherlock may have been kept there.
Heaving another heavy sigh, he glances back to Donovan and signals that they must go in. She brings her sleeve up to her mouth to lessen the stench of bleach and Lestrade does the same, and following on after Anderson they enter the house.
The basement is accessed by a door in the corner of the kitchen, which opens onto some derelict stairs which lead down into the basement. The smell of bleach is prevalent in the basement also, but Lestrade can also smell damp. The place is rather cold. Both Lestrade and Donovan pull out small torches from inside their coat pockets and flick them on. The basement is eerie when only illuminated by two small beams of light, but it is not that large, giving the impression that it would be a very cramped place to live for five years. Lestrade's chest aches in sympathy for Sherlock. The room is empty due to whoever had gutted the house before their arrival and Lestrade sighs for what feels like the hundredth time that day at the lack of evidence. He crouches and examines the walls for any signs of abuse in the form of engravings, maybe by Sherlock, but can find none. He straightens up, back muscles protesting to his sudden movements. He is not getting any younger.
"Greg!" Donovan says suddenly, and he whips around to see her poking at one wall with a finger.
"What?" he says, coming over, "What is it?"
Donovan holds her torch out for him to hold and starts to dig at the wall with her fingers. In a sudden rush, like an avalanche, brick dust and filler comes away and then Donovan can easily pull away a brick, leaving quite a large hole behind it. When she does Lestrade shines the torch light on the hole, and they can immediately see that something is in there. Lestrade smirks in triumph; finally!
"Anderson!" Lestrade calls, "We're going to need an evidence bag down here!"
John, Sherlock and Mrs Hudson are still sitting together in the lounge area of Sherlock's suite when there is a knock on the door and Mycroft comes in. He looks immediately to his brother and gives him a small smile before he turns to John.
"John, a word?"
John frowns but nods all the same. "Err, yeah, 'course." He turns to Sherlock, who is still curled up with his knees to his chest. "Won't be long. Mrs H will be here."
Sherlock nods, looking in Mrs Hudson's as he rests his cheek on his knees. John stands, rather stiff from being sat for some time and follows Mycroft out of the room.
They go all the way down to Mycroft's office, which immediately tells John this must be rather important. "Have you already got something on Moriarty?" John asks hopefully. Mycroft shakes his head but doesn't elaborate until they reach his office, where Greg Lestrade stands waiting by the desk.
"John," He greets, looking pleased to see his friend and with himself.
"Detective Inspector Lestrade made a discovery, something my team must have…. overlooked." Mycroft speaks before John can greet Greg in return, looking as though he just wants to spit his words out and have done with them. "It turns out that this may be the only bit of strong evidence we have that Moriarty is behind Sherlock's kidnapping. The house Sherlock was kept at had been gutted recently, someone must have known we were on their tracks." He is hinting, obviously, at Moriarty.
John reels back, surprised by this news. "Oh, right." He also feels slightly shocked that Greg is already aware of Moriarty's role in all this, but he supposes is Greg had insisted he be a part of this then Mycroft must be keeping almost constant contact with him.
Mycroft picks up a plastic evidence bag from his desk and hold it out for John to look at its contents. Inside is a very dirty, very tatty blanket, that may once have been white in colour, but was now a yellowish cream. Greg also picks up some images from the desk and holds them out too. One shows a dark hole in a red brick wall, and another is a close up picture, the hole illuminated with a light to show the blanket stuff in the corner.
"This is where you found this?" He asks Greg and indicates the pictures and then the blanket.
"Donovan found it in a hidden crevice in the basement. It looked as though it may have been used to house items to keep them hidden or safe. From what or who we can only guess, but, it seems likely, doesn't it?" he looks at both John and Mycroft now, all three men wearing the same grim expression, "It's likely that Sherlock used this and kept it hidden from…Moriarty." He finishes, and suddenly John feels like this blanket suddenly is so much more than a tatty rag: it was something that Sherlock may have used for comfort, that he found solace and warmth with. The fact that it was hidden may also mean it was all he had, and that he had kept it hidden in this secret crevice to prevent Moriarty from taking it.
"Was there anything else in this hidey hole?" He asks, and Greg shakes his head.
"But it was large enough for other things to be hidden there? Such as a book?" His second question elicits understanding from the other two men: if Sherlock hid this blanket from Moriarty, he also might have hidden his treasured Monet book from him too. John has had to come to terms with the fact that his best friend has been living in sordid conditions, but this confirmation of his speculations by both Mycroft and Lestrade's faces brings back the reality of this situation in a new wave. It hits him like a tsunami.
"We will send it off for DNA testing, of course." Mycroft says after a heavy silence, and hands the blanket to Greg, leaving the legwork of actually taking it to the lab to be tested to him. "And hopefully any skin cells left on it can be identified as Moriarty's."
John sighs. He knows this is all they have, but yet it feels so small and pathetic. If this was Moriarty, and John is about ninety-nine percent sure it is, he will strangle the man. If they find him.
"This is all we have, John." Mycroft reasons, and the doctor nods his head.
"I know, yeah, sorry," he runs a hand through his hair. "Thanks, Greg, for doing this."
"Just doing my job, mate." The Detective Inspector smiles. "I better get this to the lab, send Sherlock my regards." He nods to both men and leaves the room.
John is eager to return to Sherlock but as he is leaving remembers to notify Mycroft on the therapist matter.
"Oh, by the way, Sherlock has agreed to see a therapist."
Mycroft, who has just sat down at his desk, raises his eyebrows in surprise. "Really?"
John nods, "Yeah, I err, I might just give him a couple more days just to make sure he's sure about his decision, but he seemed willing to try."
Mycroft is trying to hide his surprise. He clears his throat before he answers. "Right, well, I will have someone look into the best person for the job."
John nods, "I must get back." After an awkward silence in which Mycroft doesn't reply John quickly turns on his heel and exits the room.
As soon as the door closes behind John Mycroft places his face in his hands and breathes out a heavy sigh. What a week. Mycroft has, since a young age, been able to rationalise and emit any sense of sentiment from a situation, but this week has been testing him far greater than any other circumstance ever has. And now that Sherlock has agreed to see a therapist…
Mycroft doesn't quite know what to think.
Is this a sign of how much the past five years have changed his brother? Mycroft has seen for himself how damaged by the actions done against him Sherlock is, and, although Mycroft cannot relate, he suspects that Sherlock might grab onto any help that can be offered to him to help him on the road to recovery. Even if it did mean seeing a therapist.
He brings his hands from his face to run through his thinning hair. He somewhat wishes that he could just speak freely to Sherlock about this, but he trusts John Watson with the intimate care and talk of…feelings that his brother likely needs in the aftermath of his kidnapping. He has and will never be good at talking about human emotion.
How things have become complicated! It used to be a sibling rivalry as simple as bread and cheese between his brother and he, but now he wants to both throw his brother into the arms of John Watson and hold him close all at once, and it makes Mycroft feel uncomfortable and helpless.
He should've been there for his brother: should've found him quicker, looked into Moriarty's sudden quietness instead of just dismissing it. He had considered the thought, briefly, that Moriarty might have taken Sherlock when he's first gone missing, and it turns his stomach to think how he had dismissed that thought, believing Moriarty would get bored, that he wouldn't hold onto his brother for so long, would want him back in the game to solve his little puzzles. He'd been wrong, he'd miscalculated, apparently, and his brother had payed for his mistake.
Well, what he can do now is make it up to him, and he can do that by catching the person or people responsible for his brother's conditions
Mycroft reaches into his jacket pocket and presses speed dial on Anthea's number. He stares down at pictures on his desk that show the gutted house and basement. Something about how immaculately finished the job has been done has him knowing that this was not done coincidently, of course it was not, if this is Moriarty then that was a checkmate move.
"Sir?" Anthea says as soon as the line is picked up.
"Anthea, have our specialist team look into the style of destruction on this house, it seems…somewhat precise, accurate, as if done by a professional. We need any information on Moriarty's contacts, both obvious and…unlikely."
The job would be hard, but Mycroft was confident his team could handle. They knew what was at stake, even if Mycroft was never prone to outburst of sentiment.
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