It would be some hours before Mycroft was well enough to answer any detailed questions. John had finished bandaging his feet and they had both helped him down from the table and into Sherlock's room to rest. He lay on the bed, grateful for the warmth of the duvet. They had left the door ajar and light shone through as well as the sound of the two men talking in low voices in the living room. Both John and Sherlock had been through traumatic events and he didn't have to vocalise his need for these little reassurances that he wasn't alone in his dark cell any more.
Before he left, Sherlock had sat on the side of the bed and talked clinically and dispassionately through the treatment Mycroft had received from John and the prognosis for each injury. To anyone else this might have seemed insensitive or even cruel to bring them all back to his attention but Mycroft needed it - he needed the data to be able to understand, process and analyse. Once he had finished Sherlock shifted uncomfortably on the edge of the bed, looking down at Mycroft undecidedly, a question clearly poised which he was hesitant to voice.
"It's okay Sherlock," Mycroft had said drowsily, "whatever you need to ask… just ask."
Sherlock had opened his mouth, paused, closed it again. Then taken a deep breath and asked, gently, "We didn't check for any intimate injuries, My. Did they? - Was there any? - Did they hurt you anywhere else?"
Mycroft had closed his eyes and a hint of a smile touched his lips. "No Sherlock, it's ok. No sexual assault. I promise you."
He'd heard Sherlock's relief - a brief exhale and murmured "that's good". Then a light touch on his arm before leaving him to sleep.
Now Mycroft was alone. He was bone-achingly tired and should sleep, but his mind was whirling through the events of the day and he couldn't relax enough yet to voluntarily submit to his body's needs. His overriding emotion was of relief - he had been right to come here.
He didn't always get along with his little brother but he knew they both cared deeply for each other, even if it didn't always show. And Doctor Watson was such a big part of Sherlock's life that over time he had become a friend to Mycroft too, almost another little brother at times - relying on him to get both Sherlock and John out of trouble while they giggled like naughty school boys. But when it came down to it they were both unthinkingly loyal to family - blood or adopted. Mycroft knew he would be safe here - that they would protect him to the end and that he could trust them completely.
He eventually slipped into sleep, exhaustion forcing the thoughts from his head as his aching body relaxed into the soft bed.
oOo oOo oOo
When Mycroft woke it dark outside and he forgot where he was for a second and felt a flash of panic before he registered the bedding over him, his treated injuries, the sounds of normal life from the other room. He'd slept through the day.
With a wince he managed to pull himself up and out of the bed. He hissed as his feet touched the floor. Even though they were bandaged the damage from his race across London barefooted had left its mark. The tenderness made him think twice about putting any weight on them, but then his desire to find the bathroom and relieve himself was fairly urgent. Gritting his teeth he stood and shuffled to the bathroom, feeling every muscle singing out in pain as he did.
Once finished with his ablutions Mycroft propped himself up against the sink and looked in the mirror. He frowned at the image looking back at him - his face was a mass of ugly bruises. He looked down at his body and saw more of the same in between the white dressings and bandages. He sighed reflectively. It was going to take some weeks before he was back to anything approaching his usual physical state. He would have liked a shower, or better yet, a bath. But he would need help and he knew there were more pressing things to be dealt with right then. It would have to wait.
There was a knock on the bathroom door and John called out,
"Mycroft, I've left you a cup of tea and some clothes on the bed. If you feel up to it come through to the living room in a bit so we can talk."
Mycroft tried to speak and coughed, then managed a slightly croaky "Thank you, John."
He stayed where he was until he heard John leave, discretely turning on the bedside light before closing the bedroom door behind him. Then Mycroft ventured back into the bedroom and took a look at the clothes left out. He was relieved to see that John had provided some of Sherlock's soft pyjama bottoms, an old t-shirt and one of his own jumpers as well as some thick socks to protect his bandaged feet. All of it was cotton, soft from repeated washing. Not my usual attire he thought, picturing his standard three piece suits and starched shirts. However the thought of wearing anything more than these comfortable, easy items was impossible. As it was he put them on at a snail's pace, wincing every time he caught an unexpected bruise or cut.
Once he was dressed he sat down on the bed again, his energy sapped by the small task. He drank the tea John had left, and realised belatedly how thirsty he was. Feeling he had put it off long enough and chastising himself for his procrastination he stood again and made it to the doorway. Taking a deep breath in preparation he opened the door and stepped into the kitchen.
oOo oOo oOo
Sherlock and John were sitting at the kitchen table when Mycroft limped in. John quickly pulled out a chair for him and took his mug, refilling from the pot of tea steaming in the middle of the table and adding a splash of milk and plenty of sugar. In addition he brought Mycroft a glass of water and told him sternly to drink as he was still dehydrated. At the order, in John's best Doctor voice Sherlock and Mycroft shared an amused glance, but Mycroft meekly picked up his glass and sipped. He might not appreciate the order but he did agree with the sentiment.
As they sat around the table drinking their tea John questioned Mycroft on his physical state, checking him over and assessing how he was doing. John was particularly worried about Mycroft's wrist but when he re-splinted and dressed it he was pleased to see the swelling had visibly reduced.
Once he was done with his medical care John took the teapot back over to the sink and began to prepare a fresh pot. While he pottered around filling the kettle and cleaning out the pot Sherlock and Mycroft started talking.
"So, brother dearest," Sherlock drawled, "Who exactly did you manage to upset this time?"
Mycroft's lip twitched imperceptibly into a ghost of a smile. "I assure you Sherlock, I have no idea what it is I did to deserve such… physical… retribution. Or from whom."
And that was the not inconsequential elephant in the room. Who had targeted Mycroft? Now he was free did that mean they were going to go looking for him? Or was someone else in danger now instead?
"How long did they have you?"
"Seven days I think." Mycroft replied with a frown, unsure exactly of the time that he was away for. "What day is it?"
"It's Saturday."
"Oh." Mycroft paused as he thought back. "I was taken Friday last…"
"How did they take you?"
"Ah, well," Mycroft grimaced slightly, "That, I'm afraid, is a less than impressive story. I am supposed to be in Obecnice in the Czech Republic this week for a meeting with - well, you don't need to know who with, it isn't relevant," Mycroft demurred. "I got into the car on Friday morning to go to the airport and then next thing I knew I woke up tied to a chair in a room in that god-awful place. My hypothesis is that an anaesthetic gas of some description was released into the car shortly after we left. I can't think of how else I was drugged unless it was topical on the seat or similar…" Mycroft's eyes narrowed as he thought back; unimpressed his security detail had allowed this to happen. There were going to be some difficult conversations once he got back to the office. Heads would roll.
Sherlock dismissed the detail of how exactly Mycroft had been poisoned. It wasn't important at that moment, although he would want to investigate further later. "Do you know who took you?"
"I'm not entirely sure but I have my suspicions."
Sherlock looked at Mycroft sharply, reading in his face that he wanted to hold back on answering that question for now. Changing tack slightly, he asked another question, "What did they want from you?"
"Information, as you'd expect." Mycroft confirmed. He frowned as he thought about the interrogations he had endured, "Actually their demands of me were a little scatter-gunned. I'm not entirely sure yet what their end goal was. They asked me some very odd questions at times. I have some suspicions but I don't have proof or a definitive answer yet. It was a little hard to process everything whilst I was there. I had other things on my mind…"
Mycroft tailed off, his ribs aching in protest at the deep breath he had taken involuntarily in response to thoughts of the after effects of the torture he'd been subjected to as part of the questioning process. The pain and their persistence had frequently left him dazed and unable to fully comprehend the reasoning behind his abductor's needs at each stage. This impairment of his cognisant abilities had affected him deeply and he felt a twinge of distress even now remembering his inability to think as he wanted to.
By then John had re-joined them at the table with a freshly brewed pot of tea and some biscuits. He poured for each of them, giving them an opportunity to stop and regroup for a moment as it was clear that Mycroft was in some pain.
John started the discussion again, feeling that a bit of bluntness was needed.
"Look Mycroft, I know you are hesitant to tell us everything but you've got to give us something here. We aren't expecting you to reveal state secrets or the like, but we do need to know who was after you and how dangerous they are. I mean, we are assuming very given they managed to abduct you. But we need to know. We can't form an effective defence unless we know what we are dealing with. Who else we can trust." His tone softened, and he reached out to touch Mycroft's hand where it rested on the table next to his tea as he spoke with sincerity, "I am sorry, Mycroft. I know this is hard. But we want to help you, and we can't unless you tell us."
Mycroft nodded slowly. He knew John was correct, of course, but he didn't want to drag anyone else into the mess. But it looked like he had no choice.
He kept it succinct. Taking a fortifying sip of tea, he spoke.
"It isn't that I don't trust you. I do. It's just… well… Sherlock, John, I suppose there are some things that you need to know… It's to do with the Swiss and the new security system at the palace."
Sherlock and John looked at each other, eyebrows raised in puzzlement - surely they had misheard? - and as one turned back to Mycroft and replied, "The Swiss…?"
A/N - Thanks to all those who are following or have reviewed this story - I should have another chapter up by the end of the week and I hope to keep to twice weekly updates from here on out.
Reviews, comments and con crit always appreciated x