It was hours later, in the early morning that Mycroft found her. Not due to any merit of his own, but simply because she wanted to be found. She was like Sherlock in that way. He wondered if he had taught her the art of hiding.
He pulled up to the dirty alley and got out, eyeing the space doubtfully. There was nothing but a few boarded up windows, nothing to suggest why she'd come. He pulled the dirty piece of paper from the wall that had been her signal, pointed expertly at one of the many security cameras his people were monitoring. It read only two words, his name, in her swirling scrawl.
"Took you long enough," she said, and he turned, trying to place her voice. She jumped down from a balcony, landing with ease that surprised him. His eyes narrowed as he took in her dilated pupils and flushed face.
"Are you high?" Mycroft asked angrily.
"No, I'm dead," she answered sarcastically, swinging herself into the car. Mycroft stood, glowering at her. She didn't seem to notice as she continued. "I'm dead, Alfie's really dead, and I killed about twelve people last week. A cup of tea didn't do the trick."
Mycroft listened, his eyes roving over her. He couldn't believe it. If it were Sherlock, sure, but this was Isla, his baby sister who never tried to upset anyone. But maybe she wasn't anymore, not really. He couldn't deny it any longer, something had changed in her, something was broken, lost, gone.
His mind flashed back to when she and Sherlock were younger. Caring is not an advantage. The mantra he had repeated so often, especially to her. Sherlock never seemed too interested into others, not interested enough to get himself hurt. But she was always coming home with broken hearts that seemed to last a day before she jumped back in.
This was different.
"Whoa, you let Sherlock drive?" she said from the backseat.
"You're an idiot," Sherlock said sternly from the driver's seat, but made no more comments on her intoxicated state. Mycroft climbed in after her, still glowering. They drove in silence for a few moments, Isla seemingly oblivious to Mycroft's foul mood. Finally she spoke again, sliding down the seat to look at the stars. She balanced her feet, which were now shoe-less (though he didn't remember her taking them off) on the back of Sherlock's seat.
"How come you didn't send anyone Mye?" she asked, eyes unfocused. "Robertson said they weren't sent by you. Didn't you get my call? You never even said anything."
Mycroft shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Sherlock's eyes were on him, his eyes narrowed. But he knew he owed her the truth, or at least part of it. "I couldn't get authorization."
"That's stupid," Isla said, laughing, though it wasn't funny at all.
"Isla, I'm sorry-"
"I know," she said quickly. Her face was strangely content, younger looking even. They rode in silence the rest of the way back.