It was Mycroft, umbrella in his hand and a file under his arm. John wished all the visitors and callers would bugger off, mostly because his guilt felt tattooed on his face, a glaring signal that told everyone exactly what had happened, invited them to drag Sherlock away from him.

"What do you want?" he muttered.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "I informed you I would be coming at some point to check on Sherlock and discuss what steps need to be taken. He is, in case you've forgotten, my brother."

John paused for all of two seconds before speaking. "You might have told me he was alive though."

"I'm afraid I don't-"

"Yes you do." John stepped back to allow Mycroft into the room and closed the door, carefully. "Molly said she wasn't the only person to help him. As much as Sherlock doesn't get on with you even he would have to realise that you'd be a useful…asset in his crazy schemes. Money, fake ID, whatever else he needed." He was talking in monotone, lacking the energy to get worked up and angry. He hadn't even consciously understood it had been Mycroft who'd helped Sherlock until he'd spoken out loud. It had been the sight of him, the perfect example of calm and organisation, that had been enough to give it away.

Mycroft let out a barely perceptible sigh, and stopped denying it.

"It was for your own security, I assure you. Had you known of Sherlock's existence in the first months you would very likely have ended up shot within a day. Two if you were lucky. Even later on, it wasn't entirely safe for you."

John snorted and went to get the too-cheerful tray, checking the medicines on it and removing the ones that didn't need to be taken until evening. "You stood at his grave and let me read out my speech about him."

The silence was telling, and when John took it on himself to actually look up at him he saw Mycroft's face was arranged into something that looked almost…distressed. More than discomforted, at least. "Although both I and Sherlock were gratified you hadn't guessed what had truly happened – the cyclist and the lorry, you understand – neither of us had any true wish to keep it from you. Your emotion was extremely disconcerting."

Disconcerting. John rolled his eyes. "I need to give Sherlock these," he said, hefting the tray so it was steadied on one hip and bending at the knees with expert balance to pick up the sheets with his spare hand. "And then he needs to eat something. Then we can talk."

To his surprise Mycroft followed him nearly to the doorway of the bedroom, where he stood uncomfortably, leaning on his umbrella. "I would like to see Sherlock, if he'll allow it."

John stopped in the act of shouldering open the door, heart pounding. What if Sherlock said something about earlier? He didn't doubt Mycroft could have Sherlock taken away from him in less than an hour, if he deemed John an unfit guardian and, selfishly, John didn't want to be alone again. He knew with a burning, acidic sensation at the back of his throat that he couldn't afford to lose Sherlock. Not a second time.

"He's not been too good for the past half-hour, hardly recognised me." He kept his tone measured and professional. "He might not understand."

"All the same, I'd like you to ask."

John shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant, swallowing tightly. "Fine. I'll be a couple of minutes with this, and then I'll go and make lunch. You can talk to him then."

Mycroft gave him a tight nod, and John pushed the door open and went to the bed, where Sherlock was sitting in exactly the same position as he had been before. John dropped the blankets on the mattress and set the tray down on the bedside table, pushing a lamp out of the way and almost upsetting it in the process. "Not as many to take this time," he said, giving Sherlock a small, false smile.

Sherlock didn't say anything, but he didn't protest either, so John took the first bottle and a pill onto his hand. He handed the glass of water on the tray to Sherlock and waited.

Sherlock looked, as he'd done before, to the pills, to John and back again. John was patient, waiting for Sherlock to get his bearings and remember the experience he'd had earlier, hoping he was back with him enough to put the fact he hadn't spontaneously vomited together with the fact it was John offering the tablets.

It seemed he was in luck – after about thirty seconds hesitation Sherlock reached out and tentatively picked the pill up from John's palm, put it in his mouth and swallowed water. He still looked nervous, but took the rest without question, although his hands shook. John gave him an encouraging smile and put the bottles back, then, seeing Sherlock was still shivering in just his damp boxers, he pulled the blankets up around his shoulders. Sherlock, to his gratification, actually galvanised himself enough to help keep them in place, bony fingers gripping the material.

"Feeling better?" John asked. Sherlock shrugged.

"Cold."

John pursed his lips. "I'll get you something hot to eat." He hesitated. "But before that, your brother wants to see you."

Sherlock tipped his head to one side, questioningly. "Mycroft?"

"Yes," John said, surprised and pleased. "He wants to talk to you." Sherlock didn't exactly look happy, but at least he'd shown some recognition. For a second or two John debated whether he should say 'don't tell him about the bathroom', but he decided that would be absolutely fatal. He couldn't act guilty; couldn't let guilt show. He hadn't done anything wrong, he told himself firmly.

So he said nothing, apart from "I'll be in the kitchen if you need me." Mycroft slipped inside the room and closed to door behind him. Part of John wanted to stay and listen at the keyhole, but the rest of him knew he shouldn't, so he forced himself to move away. Lunch. Something high-calorie, but plain. And hot.

He looked around the kitchen, and, deciding he didn't want to make soup again, finally settled on porridge. Not exactly a lunchtime thing, but it would be quick to make, easy to eat, and full of energy. He smiled to himself as the thought passed through his head – sometimes he sounded more like a doctor than even he expected. He warmed milk and poured it over the oats until he had a pale mush filling the bowl, sprinkled brown sugar on top as an afterthought, and went to the bedroom door, entering as softly as he could manage.

Sherlock was sitting, still surrounded by the blankets, with Mycroft's umbrella in his hands, examining it closely. Mycroft had seated himself on the stool in the corner, looking almost crestfallen as he surveyed his brother.

"I brought porridge," John said, over-cheerful in his attempt to break the silence. He could feel sadness clinging to Mycroft, in the way his shoulders were slumped and his mouth tense. It was strange – John had only ever seen him self-assured; or at least the picture of unshakable calm in situations that would have made most people tear at their hair and go into screaming fits.

Mycroft got to his feet and slipped silently out of the room. John sighed and approached Sherlock, who was so engrossed with the umbrella John had to touch his arm to make him put it down and look at the bowl.

"You hungry?" he asked, settling down on the edge of the bed and holding the porridge out. Sherlock nodded frantically; his whole demeanour became eager, and he leaned forwards. John picked up the spoon and handed it to him, just as he had with the soup. That time, Sherlock had been far more confused; intimidated, half-blind and in pain. This time, John prayed he'd understand.

Sherlock looked at the spoon suspiciously, and then took it, gripping it in entirely the wrong way; by the head instead of the handle. John gently corrected him, and then offered the bowl. Sherlock looked up, staring John full in the face, although his expression was partially hidden by the sunglasses, and it was difficult to tell what he was thinking.

It always had, John reminded himself, been difficult to tell what Sherlock had been thinking.

"Can I?"

John gulped, feeling his throat tighten again. "Yes. Of course you can. You don't need to ask." He gently took Sherlock's arm, careful to grip below the bandages on his strained wrist and put Sherlock's hand to the bowl. Sherlock hesitated, as if hardly daring to believe what was happening, then grasped the bowl as tightly as his wrist would allow and pushed the spoon into the porridge. His hand trembled, but he brought it quickly up to his mouth and gulped the food desperately.

"Careful," John murmured. "Eat it slowly, alright? No-one's going to take it away."

Sherlock didn't seem to believe him, angling his shoulder and curling around the bowl as if would be snatched at any moment. John got the distinct impression that if he hadn't been handed the spoon he would have crammed porridge into his mouth with his bare hands.

"I'm going to go talk to your brother," John said eventually, resignedly, tugging at his earlobe as he got to his feet. "But I'll be outside if you need me. Just call."

Sherlock paused with the spoon halfway to his mouth, a shadow flitting over his face, and swallowed. "Outside?"

"In the lounge," John corrected. "I'll be able to hear you if you say anything."

Sherlock hesitated, and then nodded. "If you promise."

"I promise."

Sherlock went back to his porridge, more slowly than before, and John could feel his eyes on his back as he stepped out of the room and left the door ajar. Mycroft had settled himself in John's favourite armchair, looking deflated without his umbrella to keep his hands occupied. John threw himself down on the sofa with a tired groan and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Right. Talk. No big words please."

Mycroft sighed, and his suit rustled as he shifted on the chair. "My brother told me, exactly nineteen months and fourteen days ago, that he was going into deep cover, and wouldn't be in touch for a year, probably more. He was intent upon getting close to someone whom he was convinced had been Moriarty's right hand man, and refused to listen to my misgivings. Until now I had assumed that the reason he hadn't contacted me for more than a year and a half was that he was still undercover."

"I'm not blaming you," John muttered. He was too tired to blame anyone at the moment. Maybe later. Probably later. "Although I think you were batshit crazy to allow him to embark on this in the first place. Molly said he was trying to take out Moriarty's associates. Hardly a one-man job."

"My brother is very difficult to dissuade once he sets his mind on something." It seemed John's throat wasn't the only one that felt strained – Mycroft's tone was even more clipped than usual. "I can only assume Sherlock has been in the possession, for want of a better word, of some or one of the people he was trying to bring down. When I tried to probe him for information just now, he refused to tell me anything, although I'm sure you've been able to gauge more about his condition…"

John snorted. "I've tried. I'll email you a bloody list of things if you want me to."

To his surprise, Mycroft made a noise of assent. "That would be extremely useful. Although his medical file is detailed, it is purely physical."

"He's been tortured," John said, even though he knew Mycroft probably didn't want to hear; he spoke before he could stop himself. "Water, mild poisons, knives, food deprivation, sensory overload, the whole lot. I've been making notes and I don't think I've even got halfway through what's been done to him. He tried to kiss my feet earlier."

There was a sharp clatter – Mycroft had knocked over a lamp. For the first time John saw him lose his cool as he scrabbled to pick it up, colour rising in his cheeks. It made him look twice as old.

"That is…surprising."

"The man whose number was posted to me was male, English, or at least he sounded it. He made it seem like he'd given Sherlock back to hurt me. Stop me 'moving on'. And I doubt he's finished with us after just one call."

Mycroft's lips twitched down and he fiddled uncomfortably with a loose thread on the arm of the chair. "I see. It's quite possible he's close by and observing you; I'll arrange a twenty-four hour watch on the flat."

John raised an eyebrow, but didn't protest – he wasn't willing to take chances at the moment. The man had sounded like he meant business. He'd sounded almost sane; that was what was most unnerving.

"I want him caught."

Mycroft inclined his head. "I assure you that you are not alone in that sentiment." His fingers were clasped tightly together. "If you could provide me with the phone number you were given it's possible we can track him down."

"Only if he's ridiculously careless," John snorted.

"Nevertheless, it's worth the attempt."

John dug into his pocket and retrieved the little card with the number on it, and then reached under the sofa for the box he'd kept, and handed both of them to Mycroft. "That's what Sherlock arrived in," he muttered as Mycroft's fingers brushed against the stiff cardboard. "I'm sure you can do something fancy to work out where it came from."

Mycroft got to his feet with a tight nod. His tone became even more brisk and curt as he rattled off a list with the same efficiency of a machine gun spewing out bullets. "Sherlock has an appointment with a dentist in one week who'll call around to the flat privately and ask no questions. I expect you to keep me updated with your ideas and observations via email. Sherlock used to enjoy peanut butter when he was younger; I'm sure you could turn his fondness for it to your advantage. And turn your fire alarm back on."

John's didn't question how Mycroft knew; the instruction manual for it and the phone were still on the side table. "I don't want it bother him if it goes off," he replied, heaving himself off the sofa.

"Nevertheless, I'd rather you be warned of an imminent fire," Mycroft said smoothly, heading towards the door. "And, as you've quit your job, I should probably inform you Sherlock has a trust fund which is managed by me. It should provide sufficient means for as long as is required. Anything else you need can be discussed if you call or text."

"You don't miss a trick, do you?" John muttered, feeling overwhelmed again.

"It's my job to be organised." Mycroft turned with a swishing noise towards the exit, and then hesitated with his hand on the door to the corridor. "I suppose I don't need to tell you that, although I appreciate what you're doing for my brother, you are in no way obligated to do so, and if you feel it to be too much it would be far better to give it up now than allow him to grow dependant on you and then leave him."

John's stomach churned with indignation as he stood by the sofa. "I can handle it," he ground out. "I'm not going to leave him with strangers. I care about him."

He immediately wondered if he'd given too much away, but if Mycroft noticed the change in his expression, the strange, tiny ticks the Holmes brothers picked up on that no-one else saw, then he didn't mention it.

"In that case, I thank you, although I would no more allow Sherlock to go over to strangers than you would." John felt himself flush, and opened his mouth to say that wasn't what he'd been implying, that he hadn't been thinking straight, but Mycroft cut across him. "Don't bother sending on my umbrella; I have a spare at my apartment."

He was gone before John could reply.

By the time John made his way back through to Sherlock he found him asleep, huddled under the mess of blankets and pillows as if he were an egg in a nest, head flopped limply at the wrong end of the bed, and with the umbrella clasped in one hand.

Thanks for reading, reviews welcome! I'm really glad people are liking this so far!

To be continued.