Mycroft woke to an empty bed and, surprisingly, an empty flat. He wandered around, looking for a note or some reason that John and Sherlock weren't there. He even went so far as to walk downstairs and ask a surprised Mrs. Hudson if she had seen them yet.
"Oh, dear. I thought you knew. John had to take Sherlock in to Scotland Yard today. To give his statement about, you know, your situation. I would've thought John would take you both at the same time." She looked behind Mycroft's slumped shoulder at the clock and grinned lovingly. "Why don't you come in for breakfast, dear? It's no trouble."
Mycroft looked back up at the stairs and thought of how empty the flat seemed without any one else there, and nodded, accepting Mrs. Hudson's leading arm as she tugged him into her cluttered flat.
She set him up with a cup of tea, a stack of toast, and a plate of pancakes before sitting down herself. She gave him a broad smile and he returned it timidly, raising his mug to his lips and glancing around the room, feeling like doing the mental equivalent of twiddling his thumbs.
Sherlock held onto John's hand with a death grip, his face set in grim determination as he walked with John into Lestrade's office. He was trembling just slightly; he didn't want to be here, didn't want to have to go through everything again. Especially because Mycroft wasn't here with him this time. Sherlock had wanted him to come, too, but John had insisted that he needed his sleep, and that they would probably be back before he even realized they were gone.
"Alright, Sherlock. We'll make this as quick as possible, yeah?" Lestrade shuffled some papers on his desk and then took up his pen, tilting his head to meet Sherlock's gaze. "It's okay, Sherlock. We have our man, he can't hurt you or anyone else, so don't worry." He gave Sherlock a shaky smile and Sherlock nodded, still refusing to let go of John.
His friend sat down and lifted Sherlock into his lap, wrapping supportive arms around his stomach. The reaction was immediate as Sherlock melted into the touch, curling up beneath John's arms.
Lestrade seemed to soften at the embrace and smiled again, sadder this time. "Alright, Sherlock. Run us through what happened, yeah? From the beginning."
Sherlock let out a shaky breath and nodded. "I was on my way to meet John. Something hit my head from behind and I fell down, and I felt someone tugging me into a car. They drugged me and I passed out, and when I woke up I was in a hospital bed, strapped down. Mycroft was there, and he was yelling at the doctor, but he was crazy, grinning all big and mad, and he ignored Mycroft." Sherlock turned a serious eye to Lestrade. "No one ignores Mycroft." Lestrade nodded in understanding, his eyes slightly widening as Sherlock continued. "They stuck me with something and I passed out again. When I woke up, I felt sick and . . . wrong. Mycroft was still asleep and we were alone, so I made noise to try and get his attention. He finally woke up and we stuck together until the police found us. Those doctors left us alone in a kitchen; they really must have been fools."
John's arms tightened around Sherlock and he sighed, releasing the anger building up in him with a heavy sigh. "Mycroft will corroborate. But he's sleeping right now. We really should be getting back to him." Sherlock twisted in John's lap and turned pleading eyes on him, and John nodded, hefting Sherlock up on his hip. Sherlock curled up in his arms and buried his face in John's shoulder.
"Thanks John, Sherlock," Lestrade said, scribbling in data as they moved to leave. "Don't forget I'll need to talk to Mycroft eventually, as well." John nodded and left, feeling Sherlock vibrating against him, silently urging him to hurry back home.
John really hoped they wouldn't need therapy to deal with all of this. Being kidnapped and experimented on, even for such a short amount of time, could be dangerous, leave behind imprints that could hinder them later on.
This fidgiting was his first sign something might be off. Sherlock and Mycroft had never been clingy with each other before, but since their return, Sherlock was rarely apart from his brother. If he was, it was either not his choice or he was content with John for the moment.
"You'd tell me if something was wrong, right?" he asked Sherlock in the cab back to Baker Street. Sherlock shifted in his seat, looking out the window, ignoring John in favor of watching the buildings pass by. John sighed and frowned, wondering if Lestrade or Mike knew any good child therapists.
When they got home, Sherlock shimmied down from John's grip and rushed upstairs, throwing open doors until he returned back to the kitchen, a deep, confused frown on his face.
"I can't find Mycroft," Sherlock whispered, his brows furrowing as he glanced warily at the door. "They didn't, they didn't come back for us, did they?"
John rushed to the door and looked for any sign of forced entry or a struggle, but there was nothing. "Calm down Sherlock, I'm sure he's fine." John dialed Mycroft's cell and sighed when he heard it ringing from the sitting room. Sherlock ran after it and fetched it from beneath the sofa, where it had ended up after a tussle a few days before.
"Alright, Sherlock. Go downstairs and see if Mrs. Husdon has," he began, but then the door was opening and Mycroft was walking in, a genuine smile on his face as Mrs. Hudson shooed him in with a grin, moving to putter around their kitchen.
"For Christ's sake, Mycroft! You had us scared." Mycroft looked shocked for a moment, but then he was rolling his eyes and moving to flop down in Sherlock's chair, which was quickly becoming his-and-Sherlock's chair.
"Um, sorry. But I'm not the one that disappeared from the flat with Sherlock and didn't leave any kind of note. I was worried first." John rolled his shoulders and dropped the conversation after a sigh and an apology. Sherlock walked close to his brother, leaning on the arm of the chair to peer into his face, and then flopped down at his feet.
Mycroft gave Sherlock an unimpressed look and settled further into the cool leather, his calm demeanor making him pliant and loose. He heard Sherlock moving about on the floor at his feet and John and Mrs. Hudson murmuring together in the kitchen, most likely talking about him but he really couldn't care less, and finally felt like this was home. That this was where he belonged. He had people that cared if he was there or not and people who would look out for him, take care of him when he needed it, love him. He was truly happy for the first time in a very long time.