sᴀᴛᴜʀᴅᴀʏ 2:02 ᴀᴍ
Mycroft opened the door to his brother's flat cautiously. Margaret's kidnapping was first and foremost in his mind, but then the police informed him of Mrs Hudson's murder and now he worried for Sherlock.
The air was quiet. No light was on as he entered. Mycroft's eyes soon adjusted to the darkness and he observed a figure resting in a chair across. Wordlessly, he moved to turn on a lamp, illuminating the room.
Sherlock sat with his hands folded over his lap, the skin smeared with sticky blood. Slow drying splotches of blood littered his shirt, the red not as noticeable on his black pants.
Mycroft tilted his head, his tongue leaving the roof of his mouth. "Oh Sherlock."
The one in question looked up to his brother, his gaze scattered before focusing. "It's not mine."
Mycroft knew that. He took a moment to scan Sherlock before moving over to him. "Get up." Eyes snapped up to him, staring blankly, before it was elaborated, "You can't very well be planning to go about your day like this? Off to the showers."
Sherlock stayed sitting for a moment, his mouth twisting into a frown, then abruptly he stalked towards the bathroom. When Mycroft heard water running for confirmation that a shower was happening, he began rummaging through drawers for clothing.
A kettle was put on for tea and by the time Sherlock was done it had blown its whistle.
Two cups were poured, and in silence, they drank.
