A/N: I feel I should have given you a longer chapter, considering that it's been a while since I've updated. Yet I didn't find time now for much more, and I thought this better than nothing.
I'd also like to apologize for using "Sir Johnston" in the last chapter for "Sir Michael Johnson." Not only because I got the last name wrong, but, as one reviewer notified me before, he would properly be called "Sir Michael." Hope you enjoy the rest!
Every precaution was taken in the security of Mycroft Holmes. It appeared that Johnston was terrified of losing his conquest. Mycroft himself smirked internally at the man's foolishness. He wouldn't run. His decision was final.
Nevertheless, after five days of incarceration, Mycroft sometimes began having second thoughts. His accomodations were pretty uncomfortable, and everything short of outright torture was implemented so that he would be the lights were on 24/7. At random intervals through the day, or night, the guards would filter in some horrible sounds parading as music, at a volume that never failed to make him cringe.
The ex-British Government began to feel his nerves were quickly fraying. All the Holmes siblings were hypersensitive to stimuli, and suffered from sensory issues. Mycroft in particular was very particular about sound and touch. He needed the Diogenes Club like Sherlock needed his nicotine patches. His suits were bespoke not only for making a statement.
The assualt of lights and sounds, and the ill-fitting and scratchy clothing he was provided with, would have been enough to drive him up the wall. When it was combined with the complete lack of intellectual stimulation, Mycroft became certain he would lose his mind, rather sooner than later. When he began wishing for even another conversation with Johnson to relieve his endless boredom, he was convinced he already had.
The elder Holmes took to once again disappearing into his mind, in order to preserve whatever sanity he had left. Mind Sherlock was ever obliging to engage him, so unlike the man he represented.
"Little Brother, I hope you're not feeling too guilty about this," Mycroft told him. "You just did what you had to do. It was my own decision to turn myself in."
"You deserve this, you know," Mind Sherlock told him. "You left me to fend for myself. You left me with all the responsibilty. This is all your fault."
"I'm sorry, Sherlock," Mycroft told the image sincerely. "I know I deserve this. I let you down."
"Whom exactly are you talking to?"
Mycroft stared at Mind Sherlock. He hadn't even opened his mouth, yet Mycroft had heard his voice very clearly. "Sherlock?" he asked him in confusion. The image smirked at him, and then turned around to walk away.
"Mycroft!" There was his voice again, but he couldn't even see him! Something was off here. He heard his name being called again, in a louder tone this time. He looked around in bewilderment, and couldn't find the source of the call. Suddenly, he felt his shoulders being grabbed roughly, and shaken thoroughly.
Mycroft's eyes flew open, and there, right in front of him, stood his little brother in the flesh.
"You shouldn't be here," was the first response Mycroft could think of.
"Well, I never am where I should be, am I?" Sherlock smirked.
"What's going on?" Mycroft asked in confusion.
"I came here to visit, and I saw you had disappeared into your Mind Globe, but your lips were moving slightly. I deduced that you were talking to somebody in there," Sherlock said, pointing a finger to his brother's temple.
"To you, actually," Mycroft blurted out.
Sherlock frowned. "I didn't even know you had me in there at all," he said softly.
"Wellman who else would be there?" Mycroft asked sarcastically.
"World leaders, dictators, all the pleasant sort of people you usually deal with," Sherlock shrugged. "I didn't think you'd allow sentiment to invade."
Mycroft looked at his brother tiredly. At another time, he might have snarked back something about his brother merely being there as a sometimes useful asset, or as a harbinger of trouble. Now he only looked at him quietly, his eyes observing and deducing, as far as he was still capable.
"How were you allowed in here?" he asked Sherlock quietly.
"I pulled some strings."
Mycroft's heart twisted. Yes, Sherlock had some power now. He was working for Johnson, after all. Which reminded him, he had some things he wished to say to Sherlock.
"Little Brother," he began, "I hope you're not feeling too guilty about this. You just did what you had to do. It was my own decision to turn myself in."
Really Sherlock was apparently much slower than Mind Sherlock, because he appeared thoroughly confused by that.
"I don't get it," he stated. "What does your decision to turn yourself in have anything to do with my doing what I had to?"
Mycroft was at a loss. Could Sherlock really fail to see the connection?
"I know why you were looking for me. I didn't want you to be used as a pawn in Johnson's game, so I turned myself in without your help. I would have done it either way, Sherlock. I was tired of running."
"Oh, Mycroft," Sherlock said, sighing. He fixed his big brother with a look that contained disappointment and concern, and even a hint of pity. The elder brother was familiar with that look, one he had given Sherlock many times over the years, when the latter got himself into trouble. Mycroft felt something break inside of him at that look being returned to him.
"So you really thought I took Johnson's offer," Sherlock said quietly. "Why would you ever believe I would do that?" Sherlock's words were laced with genuine hurt.
The older man bowed his head a fraction, shame welling up inside of him. How badly had he misjudged his brother? "I supposed you were just doing what you had to. Not for your own gain. For protection. For John, for our parents, for Eurus."
Sherlock looked contemplative. "I see. I suspected Johnson was feeding you a line, but I didn't know precisely what. So tell me, Mycroft, you think I would work with my brother's betrayer, in order to get some benefits for others?"
Mycroft gulped. "I know your heart is in the right place, Sherlock. It wouldn't be comfortable working with a man like Johnson, but you would do it for your family."
Sherlock stared at him, hard. "You were talking to me in your mind. What did Mind Me have to say about this."
Mycroft looked away. "You said," he whispered. He cleared his throat, and tried again. "You said I deserved it. For deserting you. For leaving all the responsibilty for everyone's welfare on your shoulders."
Sherlock was silent for several moments. "That was your own guilty conscience talking. That wasn't me." He reached out and put a hand on Mycroft's shoulder. "You have my real self now to set you straight."
Mycroft was awash with immense relief. "Then kindly do. I'd like to know what's really happening."
Sherlock sat himself back on the uncomfortable chair, while Mycroft shifted around on the bed he sat on. "First, let me tell you this," Sherlock smiled. "Welcome back, Mycroft. Things haven't been the same without you."