Here is chapter 21! Thank you to all of you who have reviewed and followed and favourited so far, it has been a great plus to this year. As I am not going to post anything this year anymore, I thought I'd tell you know: Happy new year! I hope you will complete at least one of the hundreds of promises you make to yourselves about 2014.

Sherlock will be out in less than two days! YAY! I hope this story won't be too AU for you then, I'll try not to insert anything from series three, but I can't make promises...

Anyway, Enjoy!

Two days later, Mycroft is allowed to go home. We pack up the stuff we have here in ten minutes, and then Sherlock and I stop in the same moment and look at each other. Mycroft doesn't notice, he is getting changed in the bathroom, and even though it's not his usual three-piece suit, it is classic, comfortable clothing. I drop my phone and the ear-phones I found under the bed after searching for them for ten years on the bed and go to Sherlock.

"How are we going to get home?" I whisper and he frowns slightly.

"Cab wouldn't be good, it'd be a bit crowded. Same with bus, underground, etcetera. Maybe – I know it might be hard for Mycroft, even though he is better, but we could call Thomas to pick us up. He'd do it, of course, and it might help Mycroft to get used to it all again."

It's not ideal, but I nod anyway. It's the best we've got.

While Sherlock is calling Thomas, I knock on the door to the bathroom.

"My? Are you ready?"

The door opens and Mycroft looks down at me. It is good to see him in more formal clothes. Him being around in a t-shirt was just weird.

"I'm ready."

The ride is silent, but in the thirty minutes it takes I can feel how Mycroft relaxes just a tiny bit. As we hoped, he seems to be getting back into his British-Government-Persona.

Thomas behaves brilliantly. He stays away from Mycroft at least a metre, always, and keeps his hands visible. He moves at normal speed, but nobody is fooled by his innocent face – all of us know that he is controlling himself to move not too fast.

Being finally home is wonderful, even if the house smells strange. Sherlock tells me that this is wrong, as the staff cleaned everything every two days and opened the windows as well, that it is only because I smelled something else for two weeks, but I stay with my belief. I somehow like it, it seems somehow a sign of the major change. Mycroft just smirks and I am sure that for once he actually agrees with his brother.

The first night is strange. The certain feeling of responsibility is somehow gone as well as still there. Sherlock's and my shifts are over, but I still think we should be careful.

Once more I have to think about the fact that Mycroft wouldn't be in such a trauma, would probably lock it away in his version of a mind-palace, be a bit strange for two days like Sherlock was after Smith and Stone, if it weren't for Anthea. Anybody else, apart from Sherlock, could have done it, and Mycroft wouldn't be this bothered.

I am pretty sure what hurts him so much, even though he would never admit it: Anthea had been the person he trusted most, with everything. Of course, there is Sherlock, but Mycroft didn't tell Sherlock that much. But Anthea, oh, Anthea had been there every day, at nearly every time Mycroft was awake. To put so much trust in a person and then have them break it is horrible, but Anthea did more. She successfully hid who she really was, from Mycroft as well as Sherlock. She made him lose faith in his deduction-skills, and she didn't just betray him – she worked against him the whole time.

I have always been a light sleeper. I guess that comes with being used to danger, and also it is something I got from Father. He didn't sleep very much, and if he did, he woke up every time I opened the door to his bedroom. Not that I did that often, but still.

I am very happy about this fact now. At around two in the morning I wake up. Everything is dark, just the silver light of the room illuminates parts of the room. I can hear the creaking of the trees outside and the quiet whistling of the wind, but I am not sure what woke me up. I never wake up because of those sounds before, well, not if they were this quiet. I love storms, but they are horrible when I want to sleep.

After a minute, when I almost consider to go to sleep again, I can hear it. The slight moan and the breath, drawn in sharply. It doesn't sound like Sherlock – but it comes from his direction.

It takes a moment until I realise that it must be Mycroft. My door is slightly ajar, and so is his, and his room is at the end of the corridor. This was strange to think about when I found out yesterday, but in hind-sight it does make sense – Sherlock asked Thomas when we came here whether he'd be staying in his old rooms, so why shouldn't Mycroft stay in his old room? And children's rooms are usually close to each other.

I get out of bed silently, and consider taking a hoody with me, but I decide against it. It would take longer to find one, and what for? I am fine in my tank top and jogging trousers.

My feet only make a quiet tapping sound on the wood, when I follow the sounds to Mycroft's door. Everything is dark in his room; the window is to the other side so not even the moon makes anything lighter.

I turn on the big light and I am very grateful for the expensive light-switches Mycroft has in his house. They are not actually switches, but you have to turn them around and they turn on the light gradually and you can choose how light you want it to be.

I keep it so dark that I can see Mycroft, but that it isn't uncomfortable in any way. Mycroft is on his bed, half under, half above them blanket, twisted in it, and trying to get out. Looking around, I slowly walk towards him. It would be stupid not to have a weapon somewhere, and I don't want to be injured, but I know that I have to wake him up. I usually would have considered letting him sleep and then forget about it if he doesn't wake up, but I don't think that is how the Holmes' minds work.

I try to keep my touch light while I call out his name, alert for any sudden movements of his, ready to jump backwards or drop on the floor, but he doesn't react.

"My! Mycroft!" I say it again, more harshly than before, and shake his shoulder, twice, until he breathes in a shuddering breath and turns around. After a second, his eyes focus on me and he recognizes me, and slowly, his breathing starts to even out.

I don't know what to say, not at all, so I just look at him, and he looks back. It feels like an eternity, but no more than a few seconds have passed when I swallow and remember the situation he is in. Without a word, I carefully take the blanket and pull slightly. It loosens a bit, and Mycroft moves off it and then he is free. It wasn't hard, not at all, but I know in what prison his mind must have kept him. He slowly lies down properly again and pulls the blanket over him again, and I get up and walk to the door.

We haven't spoken a single word, it is almost like a spell, a promise that what happened just now will not be mentioned again, but I decide to say something before I leave.

"Goodnight, My." And with that I turn and leave, but I am careful to leave the door open.

I don't wake up again this night before the sun is up. And apparently, neither does Mycroft.

Please review! One last time this year? Happy new year 2014!