They took Mycroft's private plane home. The doctor's and nurses on board, gently bathed the detective, shaved his beard and even cut his hair. He was then dried off and bandaged up. His wounds would need to be fully checked over once they landed at Heathrow. Sherlock was delicately dressed into clean, new, pale blue pyjamas. He now lay across a couch, his head resting in his brother's lap. Mycroft lightly stroking his curls.

His brother was asleep. He hadn't said a word since they rescued him, several hours ago. He was still locked away in his mind. Still staring off into the distance. That hollow gaze tore into Mycroft's soul. Breaking his heart. He tried to pretend that the body on his lap wasn't really his brother, just his shell.

The doctor's said it could be the drugs, but that was, in Mycroft's opinion, wishful thinking. His brother was catatonic, unresponsive. His body lived, breathed, his heart still beated But his mind, his incredible mind, was gone. Lost. His brother was lost and unable to find his way home.

Mycroft had insisted on helping the doctor's treat his little brother's wounds. But he wished he hadn't. He'd been physically sick. As well as bruises and broken bones, pale scars clearly created with a whip, were present on his back, criss-crossing each other.

More than a dozen other cuts were discovered on his skin, some clean, some with signs of infection. Worse still were burns. Most healing. There..there was a fucking brand on the sole of his brother's right foot. A fucking brand! Of the thieving magpie. Moriarty. Oh Mycroft would make him pay, he would tear him to pieces. Bit by bit, inch by inch until he tore that smug grin from his face and crushed it in his hands.

And then there was that collar. That disgusting piece of leather. The lock took time to break but as soon as it was, Mycroft had thrown it across the plane. It was then he saw the deep bruising around his brother's throat. He'd been choked. The glass Mycroft held in his hand, was crushed by the force of his fingers. He now bore a bandage around the palm of his hand.

His brother had suffered all this, he'd been tortured, starved, drugged, treated like he was nothing, like an animal, a non-human. It was no wonder he had eventually cracked and retreated inside himself. Mycroft simply hoped that his brother wasn't completely broken. That he would come back to him. He wiped a tear from his cheek.

He had to come back. Mycroft was prepared, if necessary to look after him for the rest of his life, if it came to that. But that thought alone scared the hell out of him. The mere thought that Sherlock might remain trapped inside his own head revolted and terrified him. If Mycroft couldn't bring him back there was only one man who could and it was the one man he couldn't tell, for his own safety.

Sherlock tossed fitfully on his brother's lap, in the midst of a terrifying nightmare. Mycroft tried in vain to wake him, shaking him, calling his name but nothing worked. It was the only time he'd heard Sherlock make a sound. He was crying, whimpering, he didn't say anything. His brother curled his painfully thin body into a ball. Mycroft's heart constricted. He lifted him up and placed his head against his chest and held him.

"Sssh... it's ok little brother. It's ok. I'm here. I promise you are safe. I promise you Sherlock. It's only a dream. Just wake up. Come Lockie, you can do that for me. Can't you?...Please?" His voice cracked. Please Lockie, just wake up and look at me. Just come back to me. Please I got you back, I can't lose you. Not again. You're all I have.

But he wouldn't wake up. Sherlock never listened to his brother. Mycroft only knew one thing that might calm him down. A song he used to sing to his brother when he was just a child. It might work. Sherlock's hand clenched his brother's suit, unconsciously reaching out. Mycroft rested his head on top of Sherlock's, kissing it.

Far over the Misty Mountains cold,

To dungeons deep and caverns old

The pines were roaring on the heights,

The wind was moaning in the night,

The fire was red, it flaming spread,

The trees like torches blazed with light.

He glanced down at his brother's face to see a slight smile spread across his pale lips. Mycroft smiled with him, rocking him gently. He continued singing, his heart eased by his brother's restful sleep.

"Myky, Myky! Wead to me!"

"Lockie, it's time for bed, for you and for me." The little toddler pouted, knowing full well that a pout, coupled with his cherubic looks and curly dark hair, usually got him what he wanted. He knew this, even at three years old. Mycroft sighed and sat on the edge of his brother's bed.

"Alright, what book should we start reading? We just finished Journey to the Center of The Earth. It's your turn to pick. Choose wisely"

"Uuuuum... The Hobbit!" Mycroft raised his eyebrows. One of his favourite books. He patted his brother's head and went to retrieve his copy. He returned to see his brother jumping in his bed, eager to hear the story. Excited.

"Myky"

"Hmm?" The pre-teen positioned himself on the bed next to his brother, who moved so he could sit in Mycroft's lap. "What's a hobbit?" Mycroft smiled, ruffling his siblings hair. "It's a little person. Like a dwarf but shorter. With curly hair."

"Like me?"

"Sure"

"Ok, I'm weady!" Mycroft grinned and proceeded to read.

"In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms ..."

Myky?"

"Hmm?"

"One day Ima go on an adventure. No..heaps of adventures!"

"I'm sure you will."

"Will you come with?"

"Only if you go to sleep Lockie"

"Night Myky"

"Good night Sherlock"

Mycroft raised his head, startled by the sudden stop of the plane. He'd fallen asleep. He smiled sadly at that fond memory. The Hobbit had been one of Sherlock's favourite books as a child. His second favourite had been Treasure Island. From hobbits to pirates. He looked down at his brother, who appeared to be sleeping peacefully, his fingers still clutching Mycroft's suit.

"Sir? We've landed, the ambulance is waiting outside." Mycroft nodded. "See that he gets the best care money can buy." He watched as the paramedics lifted his sleeping sibling onto a stretcher and carted him out of the airport. He would receive emergency care and then once it was safe, he'd be sent to Mycrofts home.

Where the government official had already phone ahead for Sherlock's room to be made over with any piece of hospital equipment necessary. It wasn't safe for his brother to be in a hospital while he was still "dead". No, Mycroft would make sure he was safe and under watchful eyes.

He would be well cared for.