Summary: Sherlock hasn't been back to Baker Street since Christmas. When Mycroft tells Mrs. Hudson why, she lets him know her thoughts on the matter in no uncertain terms. Meanwhile, Sherlock waits in Mycroft's office with a bit too much time on his hands. Set just a few hours before Sherlock's four minute exile.
It's almost New Years Day and worry is eating away at Martha Hudson. Neither of her boys have been home in nearly a week. It's not unusual for Sherlock to disappear for days at a time, then turn back up with no more explanation than "Working", but it's very unlike John. Of course, John has been very unlike himself since moving back to 221B after his horrible row with Mary.
She still doesn't know the details, only that Mary betrayed his trust in some terrible way that John is very angry about. She also knows that Sherlock has been in contact with Mary often, even while recovering in hospital, so Sherlock doesn't think whatever Mary did was as awful as John does. But Sherlock isn't always the best judge of what's awful.
Martha is in the midst of boxing up the fairy lights and other Christmas bric-a-brac from her mantle piece when she hears footsteps on the stairs, followed by a series of bumps over her kitchen, which is directly beneath Sherlock's bedroom.
He's home. Relief washes through her. She listens carefully for voices or footfalls ascending the stairs to John's bedroom, but hears none. So, just Sherlock then. Maybe that's good. Maybe the Watsons reconciled over the holiday. She certainly hopes so.
She can hear Sherlock moving around upstairs as she puts the kettle on. When the tea is ready, she arranges several biscuits (fresh baked yesterday in the hopes the boys would be home to enjoy them) on a tray along with the rest of the tea things and makes her way up the stairs to welcome him back.
"Hello dear, I made those biscuits you like. I do wish you'd let me know when you're going to be away for so long." She says as she rounds the corner into the kitchen with the tea tray.
When he doesn't reply, she turns towards the figure who has appeared in the hallway and is startled to find its neither Sherlock nor John.
"Oh! Mycroft. Sorry. I didn't know you were here too. I'll just get a second cup." she says, setting the tray on the table and starting toward the cupboard.
"No need Mrs. Hudson. My brother is still absent and I've all but completed my task here." he replies in his typical efficient manner, but she detects a hint of sadness underneath that prompts her to stop and really look at him.
Her eyes immediately fall on the suitcase he's holding. The worry she felt earlier returns with a whoosh.
"Well then, when will Sherlock be back?" she asks, with as much false cheer as she can muster. She fears she already knows the answer.
Mycroft sighs heavily and sets the suitcase on the floor beside where he stands. He steps into the kitchen and pulls out a chair for her, then takes the one opposite, brushing a bit of lint off his coat as he does so.
"I suppose I shall have to tell you eventually in any event," he says, "Have a seat, if you please..."
"Your brother will join you in a few minutes."
Mycroft's assistant holds the door to his office open and gestures to a chair as Sherlock enters the room.
It's the first time in a week he's worn his own clothing, which has improved his mood considerably. What's more, his coat lays neatly folded on Mycroft's otherwise meticulously arranged desk. He hasn't seen the coat since he was forced to remove it upon his arrest at Appledore. He glances appreciatively at Anthea (it's not her real name, but it's what John calls her, so it sort of stuck in his hard drive as such) acknowledging her effort to return the coat to him. She gives him a small sad smile as she leaves the room.
He lifts the coat off the desk, shakes the folds out in one smooth, swift motion and shrugs it on, enjoying how the weight of it falls against his shoulders. He plunges his hands into the pockets and runs his fingers down the seam in the left one, searching. Smug satisfaction surges through him upon finding that the small section of hand stitching there has gone undetected.
He's careful not to eye the door or the security cameras as he worries at the stitching with his fingers. Instead, he sinks sullenly into a chair and stares straight ahead trusting the coat to hide the minute movement of his fingers within.
What's contained in the tiny packet sewn into the pocket lining isn't potent enough for what he ultimately has planned, but it will make the next few hours more tolerable, at least. An unexpected treasure.
The air con kicks on with a whoosh a moment later, giving him the perfect opportunity. He sneezes at the sudden air movement, then pulls a handkerchief from his pocket, momentarily burying his face into it and sniffing deeply as if another sneeze threatens, but doesn't materialize.
After wiping his nose rather more than necessary, he folds the handkerchief back into his pocket. Normally, he prefers to inject his chemicals, but needs must...
A second later, the door swings open and Mycroft strides in, arms laden with Sherlock's violin case, a suitcase and a small paper bag. He deposits the suitcase on the floor at Sherlock's feet and sets the violin case and the paper bag on the desk, pushing the latter toward Sherlock.
"Apologies for the delay. Everything you requested from Baker Street," he gestures toward first the case, then the paper bag, "and a few baked goods you didn't."
"You spoke to Mrs. Hudson then."
"Obviously." Mycroft replies, "I explained the general situation, yes."
"How did she take it?"
Mycroft's mouth twists into an even more dower expression than his usual, "I'm not completely sure."
Sherlock mirrors Mycroft's look with an unhappy one of his own, "What do you mean you're not sure? What did she say?"
"Nothing. Not one syllable. She put the biscuits into a bag, forcibly thrust it upon me..."
He trails off seemingly lost in thought, raising his fingers toward his face.
"Well? And then what?" He never has much patience with Mycroft, and has even less when he's high.
Mycroft gives him a puzzled look. "She slapped me."
Sherlock's brow wrinkles, mirroring his brother's puzzled expression, then the corners of his mouth crook into a smile.
"Ironic that a woman who never shuts up would choose to make herself best heard by way of silence," Mycroft pauses to touch his cheek "...and violence. I suppose its satire of a sort, a distressing trend-"
Sherlock cuts him off, "You will look in on her?" It's more a statement than a question and carries more than a hint of accusation. "Let her make you tea. Make sure the Watsons do the same. If it wasn't for Molly Hooper last time-"
Mycroft waves a hand in acquiescence, "Yes, yes, of course. I know how she likes to feel involved."
Sherlock nods and reaches into the bag for a biscuit.
Author's Note: Thanks to JolieBlack for the suggestion to rework Sherlock's interaction with Anthea. Good call! I think it's much improved.