Archive of Our Own ^beta

They were at a press conference. They were at a press conference, and Sally Donovan was to his left, Lestrade to his right along with John, Anderson leant over a microphone to answer the latest mundane question about the current serial killer investigations that the press had asked. They were at a press conference, and Sherlock was drowning. He was drowning, and trying so hard to hide it, to not let his transport betray him, and so far it didn’t look like anyone had noticed, but they were still at a press conference. And there he was, struggling to stay afloat in the sea of sensation overwhelming him. 

Bright lights. The whine of the microphones. The hum and glare of the fluorescent overhead lights. John’s cologne, the good stuff, more prominent than usual. He’d planned to go on a date tonight after the press conference. The minty remnants of an e-cigarette that clung to Lestrade’s shirt. Molly’s ever-present smell of formaldehyde. And talking. Murmuring, whispering, the flashing of camera lenses, talking, talking, useless questions and still more talking. A tap on his shoulder, firm in its pressure - wait. Rewind. Sherlock forced himself to focus, only to see Donovan looking at him with vague annoyance. 

She gestured back to another faceless reporter in the crowd. Oh. He’d been asked a question. He nodded at her, an invitation to repeat her statement. His eyes flickered, trying to close, but he forced them to remain open until they began to sting and burn. His ears latched desperately onto her uttered words, clinging to them like a drowning man to a lifesaver buoy. “Mr Holmes, we have heard that this serial killer may be on Interpol’s wanted list. Is this true? We, the public, have been kept in the dark about this man’s identity, when we deserve a right to know. How dangerous is he? Who is he connected to? Have you been cooperating with our British Secret Service -” she droned on. 

Sherlock struggled more and more to maintain his facade, trying to devise a bland statement that would placate the reporter even as he was swamped by data. Her wedding ring is well polished - regularly cleaned or regularly removed? She has a bracelet in similar style to the ring on her right wrist, and can just make out the engravings ‘forever and always, my sunshine,’ on it. Glasses, makeup, and outfit all compliment - someone who cares about her appearance, yet the ring and bracelet don’t match - a romantic then. Likely a happy marriage. As for her career prospects - he blinked forcibly to recentre himself. 

“Although this is a question better directed as Detective Inspector Lestrade, I can assure you that the risk to the wider public is minimal at this time, and yes, we have been working with MI5 and Interpol to track this individual down before he flees the country,” Sherlock tried for a reassuring tone. All the while, he dug his nails into his palm as his low baritone rattled in his bones and resounded like a drum in his ears. Blink. Then ten seconds. Then blink. The reporter seemed to accept his answer and settled back into her seat. Sherlock felt the conference fuzz in and out of awareness around him. 

Meanwhile, John was watching his friend with slight concern, noticing his trembling hands. Despite the conference being ongoing, he slipped a hand under the table and typed out a message to Lestrade. 

Hey, Sherlock seem off to you? - JW. 

He knew Lestrade received it, the Detective’s eyes flicking down almost imperceptibly to his own trouser pocket as it buzzed. When he could, the DI dug it out and responded. 

Possibly hungry? It’s been a while since I’ve seen him eat. We’ve all been busy as all hell the last few days. I’d say he needs a good meal in him. We’ll ensure that after this. Angelo’s, or chips or something. - GL

John nodded at him from his position across the stage. 

The conference was finally winding down, Sally having rounded it up with the usual platitudes and ‘we’re continuing to do all that we can’ that made John want to roll his eyes far enough back in his head to see stars. He moved to walk over to Sherlock, but stubbed his toe on the steel table leg. “God fucking damnit! Ow, fuck, bastard! Fucking open toed sandals, motherfucker!” He cursed colourfully and in no low tone. 

Everyone was too distracted by John’s outburst to notice how Sherlock’s shoulders hunched almost up to his ears at the noise, a low whimper escaping his throat. The consulting detective took a shuddering breath, fingernails digging into his wrists like talons. Don’t lose it, not here, not now, you haven’t lost it in public in years you freak. He chanted the words like a mantra in his head, trying to keep himself calm. 

Sherlock Holmes does not do breakdowns. He hadn’t in years, not since he was a child, ever since he’d been able to understand the pitying looks as he rocked and screamed and flapped on the floor of the dining room in Musgrave. He couldn’t stand the disgust from his parent’s visitors nor the frazzled attempts to explain away his odd behaviour. Most of all, he couldn’t stand the disappointment as his limbs lashed out without his consent, on occasion causing trouble like the time he accidentally hit his mother’s favourite lamp from a side table, smashing it to shards. 

The shutdowns from when he buried himself in his mind palace didn’t count. Nor did the debilitating migraines which sometimes confined him to the flat for days, explained away to John as post-case malaise or nicotine withdrawal or just ‘viral sickness, seriously John, I’m fine.’ Nor the comedowns from his drug highs - everyone had weird breakdowns then, those were normal in those circumstances. And what most definitely didn’t count was the hours after Mycroft had extracted him from Moriarty’s network in Serbia, where he clung to his brother and screamed and wailed and slammed uncontrollably into his shoulder for hours. After all, he’d just been tortured, and that was a perfectly valid reason for his behaviour. So no, Sherlock Holmes didn’t do breakdowns. He would be fine. 

Nobody noticed as amongst the throng of media wandering out the exit a tall man in a three-piece suit slipped inside, umbrella clasped firmly in hand. He watched worriedly from the back of the hall, observing the consulting detective from afar. The detective in question looked like harried prey in the gaze of a predator - tense as a board, blinking rapidly, looking on the verge of fleeing. The man sighed. ‘Oh, Sherlock.’ he pulled out his phone, dialling a number and holding it to his ear quietly. 

“Sir?” 

“Clear my schedule for the day. Cancel anything nonurgent, and anything unable to be cancelled, call in a favour with Lady Smallwood and ask her to stand in on it.” A moment of surprise and hesitation from the other end of the line, then blossoming comprehension. 

“Understood, sir.”

“Thank you.” The line disconnected, the phone dropped back into a blazer pocket with a huff. 

Sharp eyes observed as the entire Yard staff, Sherlock included, left through the back entrance to the hall. The man waited barely a moment before following in well-practised silence.  

Leaving. We’re leaving. It’s over. Sherlock forced himself to follow the Yard staff, ignoring the sharp wince he let out at Molly’s shrill tone and the clacking of John’s cane. Limp acting up again, meaning his dearest sister Harry was likely on the booze again. He allowed himself to close his eyes for a moment against the constant barrage of visual input. Only a moment, of course. Sherlock Holmes was fine. 

Once they got back to the main block of offices, Lestrade demanded quiet from the group. “Right, it’s been a busy few days, so I’m going to order pizza, chips and beer here for us all. Consider it a relaxation and bonding activity. A few groans arose from the group at that, to which Lestrade simply huffed. “Look, that’s the excuse for a free lunch on the Yard’s dime. Onward to breakroom C, whilst I call the pizza place.” Low cheers from John and Anderson caused Sherlock to let out a silent huff of pain. Just half an hour or so. Then you can go home. 

One foot, one step. Then another. Then another. They were almost at the breakroom, and then he could make an excuse for a bathroom break, come back after composing himself, and leave shortly afterward. Attempt to eat to alleviate the not-so-subtle looks of concern from John, who was evidently misreading the situation. After that - he was startled from his train of thought by two loud bangs, one after the other, and that was the final straw. His body moved without his consent, and he was gone before he could register it. 

John jumped at the loud bang from in front of him, the heavy door to the hallway blown open by a powerful draft. A second, smaller crash, followed by a curse, echoed afterwards as Lestrade dropped his phone from the fright. He bent over to pick up Lestrade’s phone, which had slid to a stop near his feet. The man nodded gratefully as it was returned to him, and the group continued down the hall to the breakroom. 

John’s fast strides made him the first to the door, so he held it open with a nod to the rest of the group. That was, until he noticed something that made him halt. “...Where’s Sherlock gone?” The others looked around in surprise, only now registering the noticeable lack of detective in their midst. “Bathroom?” Molly offered. John frowned. 

“Perhaps, but I dunno…” he fished his phone out and sent his flatmate a text.

Hey Sherlock, where’d you head off to? Greg’s shouting us lunch. - JW.

Sherlock was in a random walk-in somewhere on the same floor. At least, he believed that to be the case from the data his brain processed - smell of bleach, sticky floor texture from spilled cleaning products, mop strings that hit his face when he yanked open the door -  before he squeezed his eyes shut with a keen. His thin fingers were yanking at his curls, his shoes had been kicked off at some point, but his clothes were itchy and it was hot and it smelt like bleach and he just couldn’t handle it. 

At that moment, his pocket vibrated with John’s text, and he let out a strangled scream at the intensity of the sensation. On autopilot, he yanked it from his pocket and threw it at the wall with force that caused it to break, the screen shattering on impact. He barely registered as his hair snagged on the popcorn-textured wall behind him as he rocked, trying to force himself still, trying to get his body to obey him to no avail. Please, no one hear this. Please.

Pizza was on the breakroom table, but Sherlock was nowhere in sight. Nor, according to Mrs Hudson, was he at 221B Baker Street. John tried to call him increasingly worried, but to no avail. “Lestrade, do you have any clue where he may have gone?” The detective inspector shook his head. “No, sorry mate.” John’s anxious spiral was halted by the creak of the door and Anderson’s annoyed voice. “Oi, you. What are you, press? You aren’t supposed to be here. Get out before we arrest you.” John glanced over disinterestedly, preoccupied with his friend’s whereabouts, then did a double take at the sight of Mycroft Holmes standing in the doorway. The man made no indication he would heed Anderson’s command, twirling his umbrella where he stood. 

“Oi,” Anderson tried again, “Didn’t you hear me -” he was cut off by Mycroft. 

“Where is Sherlock?” He directed his question at John. 

“That’s what we’re currently trying to find out. He’s vanished.” Mycroft’s brow creased, and he pulled out his phone, tapping away. The room watched him curiously for several moments, too intrigued to just boot him out. Mycroft pulled up his brother’s GPS surveillance tracker, then let out a startled hiss. “I…can’t locate him. His phone is offline or compromised.” John sucked in a sharp inhale at the admission, ignoring Donovan’s disbelieving “How the hell could you even…?” 

“I don’t understand,” John murmured to Mycroft, who was back on his phone, fingers tapping away wildly at the screen, “He was here literally just until we got here.” Mycroft took that moment to sigh. “He hasn’t left the building. I’ll go look for him.” He moved to turn away, but Lestrade grabbed his arm in a bruising grip. “Yeah no, I don’t think so. Who the hell are you and what do you want with Sherlock?” Mycroft looked back at him with frustration. 

“That is none of your concern, DI Lestrade. Now, let go,” John shivered at the thinly veiled danger in Mycroft’s voice, but to Lestrade’s credit he barely flinched.  “No. You shouldn’t be here, there’s no way in hell I’m going to let you wander around the Yard as you like.” Mycroft let out an irritated huff. “Fine. If you must know, I occupy a minor position in the British Government. Now, I must find Sherlock. If you must, follow along, but keep your mouths shut.” Taking advantage of Lestrade’s shock, he tore his wrist free and strode quickly from the room. 

Halfway down the hall, Mycroft froze, turning to the group of people struggling to catch up. “Right. I need to know any small, quiet, enclosed and dark spaces on this floor. File rooms, closets, hell, a particularly unused office or bathroom. A verbal list of all of them, now.” Sally Donovan looked at him in disbelief. “Are you having a laugh?” John watched as Mycroft’s fist clenched around his umbrella in a knuckle-tight grip. “I suggest you answer my question, Sergeant Donovan. I am running out of…” he trailed off, cocking his head to the side. 

“John. Do you hear that?” John looked at Mycroft in confusion. 

“Hear what?” Mycroft’s eyes darted around, head rotating as he stepped in a circle. After a moment where the Yard staff looked at him bemused, his eyes widened. “That way.” He was on the move again, steps calculated yet frantic (although Mycroft would of course deny it if John ever brought it up). As he dashed left down a dimly lit hallway, the rest of the group noticed a strange, strangled keening echoing faintly from the far end. John tensed, one hand on his handgun in readiness. 

Mycroft kept moving until his gaze landed on what was evidently the entrance to a large janitor's closet. Through the door, they could hear muffled whines and wails, and uncontrolled, frantic thuds of something heavy hitting the walls of the closet. “What the hell…,” it was Anderson this time, not Donovan. Mycroft sighed. “Right, pardon my vulgarity but you can all fuck off now. I swear on my career that I’m not here to trouble you.” Donovan let out a sharp bark of disbelief. “You think just because you work for the government you can order us around, hotshot? Think otherwise. We’ll handle whatever this is -” Moving lightning-fast, she went to yank the door open. 

Once Mycroft registered her intentions, he inhaled sharply, going to stop her but not reacting quick enough. The door opened with a bang, revealing a whimpering lump on the floor. The group stared. Mycroft sprung into action with an almost silent “Shit.” John watched, shocked, as he shucked off his shoes and blazer, abandoning his umbrella and tie. Then, he moved to the huddled mass on the ground.  

It was dark, and he was crying, and then there was light and noise and talking and it hurt so much that he let out a scream, falling sideways, his head doing its best to slam itself through the floorboards. He was babbling incoherently, a litany of no and please and hurts falling from his lips in half-formed frantic sentences. Then, through his eyelids he noticed a figure moving to block the majority of the light, stepping down to come close to him. Too lost to process who it was, he scrambled away with a cry, the figure halting in its tracks. 

Everyone watched, shocked into silence as the lump moved, revealing ragged brown curls and a dark fabric which soon turned out to be an all-too-familiar Belstaff. “...Sherlock?” Molly uttered, her worry evident in her voice and the way she moved forward, but she was halted by Mycroft’s outstretched arm. “No,” he uttered, quiet but firm, and despite Anderson’s disbelieving look at the man’s audacity she listened, stepping backwards. They all watched as Mycroft took another step closer to the screaming consultant. “Sherlock?” His voice was low in his chest, rumbly and almost subsonic, so quiet you had to strain to pick it up. “It’s me, Mycroft.” He repeated this several times over. 

Loud. Too loud. Too bright. Formaldehyde - Molly. Cologne and stir fry - John. Awful Lynx deodorant - Anderson. Cigarettes, vape smoke and motorbike fumes - Lestrade. Same men’s deodorant, coupled with pungent hair products- Donovan. Sherlock processed this all in a split second, crying out at the smells overwhelming him even further. One hand remained curled around his balled form at his knees, but the other was flapping wildly in the air. There were eyes on him, too many eyes, and their gazes of revulsion burned - he could smell Musgrave. He could smell Musgrave and the fabric of a three-piece suit and the oil on a polished bamboo umbrella handle. He could smell Musgrave, smell home, smell safety. 

His whirlwind limbs did their best to outstretch in the direction of the smells, an invitation as best he could offer in his current state. A chorus of home, home, safe, he’ll fix it, fix me, Myc understands, he’ll help, trying to get his traitorous body under control to utter the name of the person who could make it all okay. 

John watched as Sherlock forced his arms away from his knees, stretching them out towards the group even as his body rebelled, his feet pounding against the ground and head doing its best to slam through the wall behind him. “What the hell is going on, Lestrade? What do we do?” Molly asked shrilly, then winced as it caused Sherlock’s arms to retreat back around himself, body coiling impossibly tighter. Lestrade just shook his head sadly in response. “I don’t know.” 

Mycroft remained frozen, unwilling to get closer and make the situation worse. That was until the keening whimpers emanating from his brother’s throat took the form of words, a half-coherent plea. “Pl - please, please please please, m - my -” the consulting detective trailed off again, as if pained by his own voice. “What the hell is he trying to say?” Anderson asked. “Dr Watson, you’re the freak whisperer. What does he want?” John was inches away from punching the brazen forensics worker, but a warning glance from Mycroft kept him in check. “What is it, Sherlock? What do you need?” Mycroft asked, voice barely above a croon. 

The group watched in shock as Sherlock struggled to move closer to them, painful cries falling from his lips at the attempt. “Woah, hey, it’s okay, you can stay there Sherlock. Don’t hurt yourself,” Mycroft murmured worriedly. His little brother’s head moved in swift, sharp staccato beats, shaking once, twice, three times, until it was a frenzied, desperate rhythm. “No, no, no, no no no no no, I - My - Myc - Myc please, help - Mycro -” Sherlock choked off the rest of the sentence, whimpering at his own increase in volume, fist rising to bang desperately on his head.  Comprehension dawned in Mycroft’s eyes, and before anyone could intervene he was on the floor of the closet, arms reaching out to cage his brother in a tight hug, restraining the flailing limbs as much as possible. 

It was loud, and bright, and none of the smells seemed to understand what he needed, either he needed home or needed to be left alone - he froze as strong arms encircled him, trapping him in place. Powerful pressure was pinning his arms to his sides, keeping his head away from the wall, holding him even as he thrashed and wailed. And Sherlock knew, knew from the smell and the texture of an expensive silk shirt in contact with his skin that it was Home. It was Mycroft. Mycroft was here. Mycroft had him. It would all be okay. 

Everyone else watched in confusion and disbelief as Sherlock rocked and flailed in the government worker’s embrace. The consulting detective’s head thrashed and banged against Mycroft’s collarbone in a way sure to leave serious bruising, yet the British Government appeared to notice it not. Instead, he continued to trap his brother tightly, whispering and crooning to him in French, even as Sherlock’s wails periodically crested and broke into heart-wrenching screams of pain. Lestrade had moved to send a text to the necessary people to ensure that this corridor was avoided by the Yard staff for the time being. When John noticed, he shot Lestrade a thankful nod. 

Slowly, painfully slowly, Sherlock’s voice gave out, his screams dying down to whimpers, his limbs still jerking and spasming but beginning to lose some of the bruising force behind them. Despite this, it took roughly half an hour before the consulting detective finally went limp in his brother’s arms. When his whimpers had mostly died down, Sherlock’s head sporadically jolting against his brother as if trying to bury itself in the floor, Mycroft let out a quiet sigh. He let his head sag into Sherlock for a moment as he tried to collect himself. 

“What the hell was that?” It was Lestrade who broke the charged silence. Mycroft shot him a glare. “If you must ask questions, ask them quietly. I doubt he will be like this for long. I don’t think this is over.” Then, he softened somewhat at the concern evident on the DI’s face. “I cannot confirm definitively until he is capable of explaining, but I would say that that was what Sherlock calls a ‘system overload,’” Mycroft answered him lowly. “He looked too tense at that press conference, I figured something like this would occur.” At this, Anderson let out a snort. 

“Please. Whatever the hell that was, he evidently needs to be locked away somewhere. As for you, who the hell even are you? A staffer of the nearest loony bin? Must be, to be able to handle whatever that just was.” He wilted slightly as Mycroft hit him with an icy stare. 

“Say something like that again, and you will be out of a job faster than you can regret the statement. I assure you, I am capable of it despite my minor position in the British Government.” Anderson shrank at the promise in his tone.

Mycroft's attention then turned to Molly. “Molly Hooper.” She shrank back as he spoke. “Please take off your lab coat and put it in one of the offices down the hall.” She blinked at the unexpected request.

“I - sure, I guess. But why?” 

“Formaldehyde.” Was the cryptic half-answer she was given. She gave up trying to understand, shrugging it off and walking to deposit it down the hallway.

Sherlock shifted again in his brother’s arms, keening once again picking up in volume. Anderson opened his mouth, no doubt to further put a foot in it, but a sharp warning glance from Lestrade caused him to shut it again with a clack. Mycroft wound his fingers through damp brown curls, humming and rocking softly in place in an attempt to keep his brother grounded. John watched as Sherlock’s head jolted forward in a particularly hard collision with his older brother’s clavicle, Mycroft barely holding back a wince. 

“S’too much, t’m, my,” Sherlock slurred quietly in between his stream of whimpers. Mycroft held his brother tighter in response. “I know, Sherlock, I know.” Sherlock’s cheekbones were buried in Mycroft’s chest by then, his fitful thrashing once more increasing in intensity. Just as the most recent wave of pain seemed to retreat slightly from Sherlock’s countenance, there was a loud crash from down the hallway. The consulting detective screamed, shrill and painful, and he reared forward into Mycroft with enough force to send them both tumbling backwards. Mycroft let out a soft curse as his back was smashed into the floor by his incoherent brother, carefully cushioning Sherlock’s head from meeting the same fate. Sherlock lay on the floor, limbs still spasming but momentarily stunned into silence. 

John whirled round to Lestrade. “Who the hell -”

“ Antarctica!” resounded down the corridor, and they all watched as anger overtook Mycroft’s expression. “Dr Watson, bring her here at once. And warn her to shut up.” John tampered down on his obvious curiosity, nodding his head and turning on his heel, every inch the soldier. A minute later he returned with a woman at his side. She immediately turned her attention to Mycroft, not noticing Sherlock whom Mycroft had done his best to conceal in the dim light of the cupboard, covering him in his Belstaff. “Antarctica, explain why I’m covering your meetings today. Now.” He narrowed his eyes. 

“Firstly, watch your volume,” he said “And secondly, I’m taking the day off.” Lady Smallwood laughed, but it was mirthless and tinged with disguised concern. “Yes, except you’ve come into work after an attempted abduction with four cracked ribs and a bruised spleen. You don’t take time off, Antarctica. I don’t mind doing it, but what the hell is going on -” 

“For fuck’s sake, Love, drop it.” John’s jaw dropped. 

“I’m sorry, did you just call her -” Mycroft cut him off in exasperation. 

“It’s her codename, John. No, we are not romantically involved.” Lady Smallwood suppressed sniggers at that. 

“Just call me by my name, Antarctica.”

“Refer to me as Mycroft then, Lady Smallwood. My first name is not easily traceable to anything overly important, as you well know. As for why I’m taking the day off, quite frankly that’s none of your fucking concern,” Mycroft snapped. He got more and more agitated as he spoke, forgetting to mind his volume, and then the bundle of Belstaff in his arms whimpered and shook. Lady Smallwood lasered in on it, noticing how Mycroft winced, immediately lowering his tone. She smiled sadly in comprehension. 

“Next time, Mycroft, don’t get your PA to bullshit me.” Mycroft’s head snapped up. 

“What?”

“I know why you chose me now. God forbid any other agent sees something that compromises your image as the ‘agent incapable of sentiment.’” Mycroft shot her a glare, going to rebut, but becoming distracted as his brother tensed. An odd, choking noise escaped Sherlock, then another, then another, his fist banging repeatedly against the floor. Mycroft’s eyes widened. “John, Lestrade, one of you empty a bucket for me, quickly.” Noting the urgency in his tone, the pair scrambled in tandem to obey, tipping one of the empty mop buckets to Mycroft’s left. 

It was loud, and his head was sore, so sore, and Mycroft was there and he was helping and trying but it still hurt so much. People wouldn’t shut up, and then there was a new person, new talking, some god awful new perfume even worse than Anderson’s shitty deodorant. And Mycroft was angry, and he whimpered despite himself because he didn’t want Mycroft angry, it was his fault, his fault and now Mycroft was going to leave. Mycroft was going to leave him and he was going to drown except this time he would lose himself beneath the water because Mycroft wouldn’t be there to pull him out . His breathing picked up, heart beating like a jackhammer in his chest. Suddenly the new smell caused nausea to rise in his throat, the pain cresting to even bigger peaks than before, and he gagged. 

No. Mustn’t…sick. Mycroft - OCD. Couldn’t - mustn’t make him angrier - hot tears slid down the detective’s face as he tried to choke on the bile rising in his throat, fist pounding against the floor with enough force that the skin on his knuckles cracked and bled. Nonetheless, he was losing the battle, lightheaded from breathlessness as waves of nausea rocked him. No. No no no please - strong arms adjusted their grip on him, hauling him to a more upright position, and then something cold and plastic was put near him, a whine escaping him because the texture was fake and awful and bad. He barely registered as he lost his internal battle, heaving and retching up his breakfast (which was really just coffee and some cold chips from the downstairs cafe). Firm hands rubbed over his back comfortingly, and he sobbed. 

John watched his flatmate with pity. Even Donovan and Anderson seemed not to find humour in the situation with Sherlock’s misery so evident. Lady Smallwood, to everybody’s surprise, was the first to move, drawing parallel to Mycroft. “Here, get Dr Watson to handle him, I’m sure I have hand sanitiser in my purse somewhere.” As she spoke, she moved to extract Mycroft’s right wrist from his brother’s iron grip. To her shock, Mycroft shook his head, halting her. “I assure you, Lady Smallwood, he won’t be releasing his grip on me any time soon. Leave him.” Her eyes widened. 

“But Mycroft, your OCD?” Her voice inflected upward in surprise. Mycroft winced. 

“No matter, I’ve already dirtied myself on this god awful dusty cupboard floor. I’ll live.” He continued his soothing circles on his brother’s back as he spoke. 

By this point, Sherlock was hacking up nothing but bile. Hurts, hurts, too much, too much sensation. Stop, Mycie make it stop. Wait. Mycroft. OCD. Sickness. No no no no no. He shook his head frenziedly, forcing himself out of his brother’s grip even as it elicited a cry of pain. He immediately felt even worse off than before, without the smell of home, without the grounding pressure, but he didn’t allow himself to stumble back to it. You don’t deserve it. He’ll leave now, you need to apologise, apologise, even though it hurts. He registered as Mycroft moved closer. He’ll slap you. 

“No, please, no,” fell from Sherlock’s lips, and Mycroft froze from where he had intended to resume his tight embrace. “Sherlock?” His brother was slamming his head back into the wall with enough force to cause concussion. Mycroft darted forwards to put his hand there as a protective barrier between Sherlock and the wall, but as he did so Sherlock let out a wail. “M sorry, sorry, Mycroft I’m sorry please don’t be mad don’t leave don’t let me drown you can hate me afterwards, beat me like Siger did just please help me, I’ll do anything - ” the detective’s voice cracked and failed him. He gave up, continuing to sob and rock, eyes remaining closed like they had for hours, too in pain and too wary of Mycroft’s disgust to force them open. 

“Siger? Isn’t that his father’s name?” That was Lestrade. 

“What the hell does he mean, drown?” Donovan. 

“Poor Sherlock, Mycroft, sir, please help him. You’re clearly the only one here equipped to handle meltdowns like this one.” That one was Molly. John only half-registered all this, however, distracted by the thinly veiled look of sheer pain on Mycroft’s face, a distinct opposite to the usual indifference and apathy it wore. The agent moved forward quick as a snake to bury Sherlock in another hug. Then, to John’s surprise, he began to ramble. With Mycroft, every word was normally calculated, selected carefully to help or to hurt. But at that moment, he let some of the filter drop. 

“No, no, Sherlock, it’s fine. I’m not mad, I promise, okay. Just breathe. Just breathe. You can scream. You can cry. You can rock. You’re overstimulated, badly. I know how that feels. I’ve been there myself. I’m not mad. I’m not leaving. I won’t go anywhere. I won’t let you drown. I promise,” Mycroft let a litany of reassurances fall from his lips, soft and rumbling in his chest, so quiet that the others couldn’t make them out. His shirt was soaked in tears and sweat, there were remnants of bile clinging to Sherlock’s lips that were making themselves home near Mycroft’s shoulder, but he didn’t care. He just repeated his soft reassurances, over and over and over. 

Home. Home is here. He hasn’t left. Why? Pity? Must be. Will probably beat me afterwards like father used to. Oh well, he’s here now. Slowly, he noticed that the rumbling, low pitch making itself at home in his bones was words. He turned his mind, which was sluggish from pain, to deciphering them. Breathe. Not mad - okay? What? Mycroft…

“Don’ un’stan,” he slurred. “Not…mad?” The detective’s voice pitched up at the end of the question in childlike disbelief and confusion. “No, Sherlock. Not mad,” Mycroft confirmed quietly. “Just rest, okay?” Sherlock hummed tiredly, hands flapping near Mycroft’s clavicle, his head slamming slowly decreasing in intensity as exhaustion finally overtook him. The group watched with bated breath (besides Anderson, who was playing Tetris on his phone) as Sherlock sagged into Mycroft, body stilling somewhat for the first time in hours, keening slowly dying out. Ten minutes passed, then twenty…and the consulting detective was silent and still, breathing evened out in a fitful sleep. 

“Thank god, ” Mycroft murmured. Lady Smallwood smiled. 

“Take the rest of the week off, Mycroft. You need and deserve it.” He shook his head instinctively. “No, really, I don’t need -” 

“Then consider it me cashing in the favour you owe me,” she chuckled back, though something in her voice indicated that Mycroft wasn’t getting an option otherwise. He sighed in resignation. “Okay, Lady Smallwood…and thank you.” 

She looked briefly shocked before a soft smile graced her lips, chasing the surprise away. 

“I’ll get going then. I have meetings to cover, after all. Afternoon, Mycroft, Dr Watson, Yard staff.” Then, she wandered away, heels clacking on the hallway floor. 

“Mr, uh, Mycroft?” Lestrade murmured, voice low. “Would you like us to lift him so that we can move to somewhere more comfortable?” Mycroft looked down at his unconscious brother assessingly. “I think he’s exhausted enough that I could move him, but not back to 221B. He’ll definitely wake up if placed in a vehicle.” Lestrade considered the statement. 

“There’s a couch in my office. Will that do?” Mycroft mulled it over. 

“Perfect. Miss Hooper, would you be so kind as to grab my shoes and blazer?” She hummed in agreement, moving forwards. 

Lestrade nodded. “I’ll lead you and John there.  Anderson and Donovan, you may leave.” The pair couldn’t keep the relief from their faces, but before they could run from the hallway, a cold voice reached them. “A warning, you two - not a word of this, to anyone.” That wasn’t a thinly veiled threat in Mycroft’s tone - it was a promise. 

Anderson remained silent, but Donovan saw fit to answer. “I may not like Sherlock. But he was clearly miserable just then, and I am not devoid of empathy. I will not share it. I do have a slight modicum of human decency.” 

“You do?” John murmured quietly, only Lestrade catching it, the DI trying not to snort. 

Mycroft didn’t deign to respond; he simply nodded as the pair withdrew from the hallway. 

Once the duo had left, he carefully adjusted the lanky figure in his lap, hooking his arm underneath Sherlock’s knees. Taking a deep breath, he lurched to his feet, hoisting his little brother in a bridal carry. “Right. Lead the -” Mycroft trailed off as Sherlock whimpered. The three conscious men watched with bated breath as the consulting detective turned his head further into Mycroft’s chest with a hum, before his breathing evened out again. Lestrade waited a minute to ensure the consultant wouldn’t rouse, then led Mycroft down the hallway. He led them a quiet, roundabout way to his office, minimising the contact they would have with anyone. 

As they drew close to the office, the men drew several curious looks; it was well-known that the younger Holmes despised most physical contact, so to see him cradled close to an unknown stranger’s chest was an odd sight. However, a sharp glare from Lestrade managed to deter any nosy questions, Mycroft sighing in relief when he strode into the office and the door clicked shut behind him. He sat himself down on Lestrade’s couch, stretching his legs out as best he could with his little brother still clinging to him like a limpet. 

“Would you like a glass of water, Mycroft? Or some tea?” John beat Lestrade to the offer. 

“Some tea would be nice, Dr Watson. Oh, and bring some water for Sherlock - I can’t guarantee he’ll drink it, but it’ll be worth a try when he rouses.” John nodded, gesturing subtly to Lestrade, who caught the hint and followed the doctor out of the room. The duo headed for the kitchenette on the other side of the floor. When they arrived, Lestrade turned to barrage John with questions, unable to suppress his curiosity any longer. 

“I know you evidently don’t know what’s up with Sherlock, I don’t think any of us do, but mate, who is that guy? How do you know him?” John reached over to flick the kettle on, carefully measuring his answer. “I…all I can tell you is that he’s not just employed by the British Government. He basically is the British Government. I met him when I was informed that I was on their security surveillance list - apparently they monitor Sherlock for national security concerns (Mycroft’s overprotective mother-henning). By association, they also keep tabs on me. If you want more from him, I suggest you ask Mycroft himself.” 

Lestrade nodded slowly, evidently struggling to process the information that had just been thrown at him. “Every time I think Sherlock has run out of capacity to surprise me, he manages to do it again,” Lestrade chuckled. “And we’re talking about a genius sociopath who solves crimes for fun and faked his own death.” He snickered, John joining him as he scooped the teabag out of Mycroft’s tea. “Wait, shit, I should call Mrs Hudson, let her know we found Sherlock. Hang on Greg, hold these.” He handed the two mugs over to the Inspector, fishing out his phone. The conversation with ‘Hudders’ was quick, Lestrade watching as John gave reassurances over the phone before hanging up. “Let’s head back in, John.” The doctor wordlessly followed his friend back to his office. 

When the pair opened Lestrade’s door, however, the sight inside drew them both to a halt. Illuminated only by a dim light from Mycroft’s phone torch, the lights having remained off to ensure Sherlock slept, the two Holmeses were passed out cold. Mycroft’s head was tilted back against the sofa arm, mouth open and quiet snoring filling the room. He looked so unlike the usual put-together official he was that it was startling. Lestrade and John watched on, unwilling to move and break the tender moment. At that moment, Sherlock whimpered in his sleep. John watched incredulously as Mycroft moved, still out like a light, to move his fingers through his brother’s curls, soft shushing falling from his lips. Sherlock snuggled closer to Mycroft, looking uncharacteristically vulnerable. 

“Oh, how I wish I could take a picture of that for blackmail without it being a blatant security risk. You two, be my witnesses for this next time I want to embarrass Mycroft, yes? “ John jumped, whirling round with his handgun out. When he recognized the speaker, he dropped his arm, taking a deep breath. “Jesus, Anthea. Warn a guy next time, yeah? Lestrade, this is Mycroft’s PA,” John explained. Lestrade went to extend his hand, but remembered he was carrying the drinks. “Pleasure.” Anthea bowed her head, returning the sentiment. 

“I was going to talk to my employer, but…I think it best to leave him for now. How about we safeguard the door, yeah? No intruders. Have a hot cuppa. Chat a bit. Sounds good?” Anthea looked at the two men, who nodded. They retreated back to the kitchenette for more drinks, becoming embroiled in conversation with Anthea. As it turned out, Anthea was more than happy to provide John with a veritable wealth of funny moments she’d witnessed in her time as Mycroft’s PA. John took full advantage of the fact, saving the information for later use to frazzle the composed elder Holmes. They passed the time buried in the lighthearted conversation and reminiscing until they were interrupted by a cold voice.

“Ah, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Pray tell us, where is our son?” Lestrade looked up in confusion, taking a moment to place the faces of the elderly couple in front of him. Then, he snapped his fingers in comprehension. “Right! You’re Sherlock’s parents. How are you both? What brings you here?” Sherlock’s father, Siger, was the one to respond. 

“He was supposed to take us to dinner, but he wasn’t at his flat. We decided to try the Yard before giving up. We’re going to steal him now, if you don’t mind. I’m sure whatever he’s doing for you can wait until morning.” Lestrade winced. 

“Actually, he’s asleep in my office currently. He’s had a long day, and we’ve only just calmed him down. I don’t think he’ll be up to coming with you both today, unfortunately.” He expected a flurry of concern from the pair, readying reassurances that their son was okay on his lips. 

Instead, he watched as Siger straightened, expression turning stony. Next to him, his wife mirrored the transformation. “Has he been causing you trouble?” Lestrade’s eyes weren’t the only ones to widen at the poor concealed disgust in the woman’s tone, John tensing beside him. “No, not at all. He’s just had some sort of meltdown, and is clearly fatigued. I assure you, it was no issue.” 

Both John and Lestrade felt anger build in their stomachs as the Holmeses polite gazes shifted to ones of revulsion. “That boy, honestly, I am so sorry, Detective Inspector. Let’s head to him, shall we?” Before Lestrade could veto the idea, the duo had turned in sync and trotted over to his office. Lestrade and John both scrambled after the elderly married couple, Anthea following behind with more composure. When Sherlock’s mother took in the sight of her sons asleep on the couch, she tutted in disdain. 

Then, to the shock of everyone else, she walked over to Sherlock and roughly shook his shoulder. Her son whimpered and curled impossibly closer to his brother, Siger growing more annoyed at the action. Before John could protest, he grabbed Sherlock’s Belstaff and yanked, causing the exhausted detective to jolt awake and upright with a whine of confusion. 

“Up you get, William.” Sherlock was swaying on his feet, eyes opened slightly in narrow slits, confusion evident on his face. Dazed eyes flickered over his parents, processing, before they were squeezed shut with a whimper of pain. His father rolled his eyes. “Stop acting like a child, really. You should’ve grown out of this silly behaviour years ago. Now, you’re going to wake Mycroft and apologise for wasting his time, as well as the good Inspector’s, and then you’ll come with us as planned, got it?”

 Sherlock’s eyes remained closed, but they could all watch as his fatigued brain tried to process his father’s sharp words. Not quickly enough for Siger, it seemed, as he repeated himself, “Do you understand, William Sherlock Scott Holmes?” Sherlock flinched as his father snapped at him, stumbling backward towards Mycroft’s sleeping form for comfort before visibly halting himself, body trembling with effort. He nodded, hands involuntarily tremoring and smacking at his sternum. John’s fist clenched, close to losing his temper entirely, but Anthea’s firm hand on his wrist restrained him. He went to wrench himself free, but stopped upon seeing his fury mirrored in her eyes. Don’t lose it, not now, her gaze warned him. It is unfortunate, but it will become messy otherwise. Play the waiting game. John nodded at her unspoken request. Lestrade decided to try and intervene. 

“Hey, how about we let Sherlock sleep, yeah? If you want him to apologise that badly, he can do it in the morning,” Greg may have spoken in a placid tone, but he was just as angered as the other two. “No, he needs to learn that the world doesn’t revolve around him. On you get with it, Sherlock.” Sherlock nodded at his father’s command, head bobbing frantically and body shaking like a leaf as he stood frozen to his spot on the carpet. The consultant’s mouth opened once, twice, thrice, struggling to shape words. Eventually, a quiet, strangled “Mycroft?” left his lips. His brother shifted, but didn’t awaken. Sherlock let out a sob, unable to repeat himself. John bottled his anger carefully away for a moment before walking closer to his friend. 

Sherlock tensed like a board at the sound of John’s footsteps growing closer, something that made John’s heart ache. The detective flinched as if expecting a slap, but John just moved past him as silently as he could manage to tap Mycroft’s shoulder gently. “Mycroft. Hey, Mycroft. I need you to wake up for me.” He increased his force with each tap until Mycroft jerked awake. His gaze settled on his younger brother, his parents going unnoticed. “Sherlock?” The consultant whimpered. Mycroft’s eyebrows rose, and he swung himself upright. It was then that he noticed his parents, brief surprise flashing over his face.

“What’re you two doing here?” His parents ignored the question. 

“Mycroft, William here has something to say to you.” Mycroft’s expression turned cold. 

“What do you mean by that?” His father gestured to his sibling. Despite clearly wanting to press the matter, Mycroft let it drop momentarily in favour of focusing on Sherlock. His brother was evidently in pain, overwhelmed by not only the environment around him but also the effort of trying to speak.

Bright. Bright, and loud again, and parents. Parents here. Disappointment. Freak. Need to regain control. They’re right. Childish, Sherlock. Need…apologise. Myc. Been a problem for Myc. Body - can’t move or I’ll lose control, can’t speak, I can’t I can’t I can’t, have to but I can’t. 

However, he managed to overcome the whirlwind inside of him enough to slur out a quiet, “M’sorry. Sorry, Myc. Been….incon - inc’venien.’ Childish. Was’ your ti -” his breath hitched, and he gagged, forcing down bile, “time.” His swaying body and trembling legs finally gave out despite his iron will borne of desperation. He fell to his knees by the coffee table, catching himself on the corner on the way down and landing heavily on the carpet. When his hands met the floor, he jerked as if burned, the carpet scratching at his hypersensitive skin as if he were being pricked with hot needles. 

Mycroft reached to help his shaking brother from the floor, but was cut off. “Nnnn, Myc, don’, m’fine. M’sorry.” He halted, fury turning icy cold and dangerous. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you two?” His parents moved backward in surprise at the animosity in his tone. “We’re just making sure that this idiot child learns that the world doesn’t revolve around him. You coddle him, Mycroft. It’s bad enough that he wastes his intellect on this farce of a job without him impeding your career too.” Mycroft’s fist clenched. He took a deep breath, then another. Then he shook his head, hands coming up to clamp down hard over Sherlock’s ears, protective and sheltering. “ I repeat myself; what the fuck is wrong with you to hurt your child in this way?” Siger waved a hand dismissively. 

“He should’ve grown out of this as a child, honestly Mycroft I don’t see why you put up with such nonsense.” Mycroft was shaking, trying to contain his anger. 

“I don’t ‘put up’ with it. It is a part of him. Hell, I’m also autistic, or have you forgotten that we share most of our diagnoses?! I just happen to have better internal regulation - Sherlock’s brain has always been too fast for his own good.” Mycroft gently lifted his brother to a standing position as he spoke, rocking soothingly on the balls of his feet. 

Sherlock, despite trying weakly to fight it at first, soon sagged into the protective embrace. His fingers came up to Mycroft’s collarbone, tapping musical rhythms there to keep himself from losing himself below the waves in his mind. Mycroft not only allowed the touch, but tapped in tandem, forming a simplistic duet between them. It was amazing to see how well the brothers could cooperate when they chose to - they seemed to be able to share their deepest thoughts with each other without ever uttering a sound. Once Sherlock was slightly calmer, almost dozing off on his feet, Mycroft turned back to their parents. 

“You two disgust me. You’re both goldfish, and yet you try to belittle someone far more extraordinary than you could ever hope to be. Get out.” His parents both huffed, insulted and planning to argue back, but Mycroft cut them off. “I have plenty of planes to Alaska that have seats to be filled. Now fuck off before I stop being cordial and start being the British Government’s ‘Ice Man.’” Siger startled. 

“Come now, Mycroft, you wouldn’t -”

“I absolutely would. I’m a sociopath with little capacity for sentiment. Try me.” His parents looked at him with tense disappointment. Siger huffed, then wilted, grabbing his wife’s hand and strutting proudly from the room. The brothers visibly relaxed when the pair left. 

“ ‘m sorry, Myc.” Mycroft glanced down at the heap of unruly curls tucked under his chin. 

“Why, Sherlock?” 

“Nuisance. Were right. ‘M freak.” Mycroft tutted at his brother. 

“No, ‘Lock. They were incredibly wrong, and incredibly unfair. I have no issue being here for you for stuff like this. I pick you up when you fall. That’s the dance we’ve always played, brother mine. Now sleep. You’re dead on your feet. We’ll talk another time.” He deposited himself back on the couch, his brother curled on top of him. “Mhm. Stay, please Myc.” Mycroft nodded, humming lowly in his chest. 

“Of course.” Sherlock was out cold in minutes, testament to his exhaustion. 

Mycroft turned to Lestrade, who was startled at the sudden attention. “I may end up sleeping on your office couch tonight. My deepest apologies.” Lestrade waved him off. 

“It’s fine.” The Inspector paused, considering, before “...He’s your brother?” 

Mycroft sighed. “Indeed. I trust you will keep that to yourself.” A nodded response. The government worker lost some of his remaining tension, yawning as fatigue hit him. 

Lestrade and John exchanged looks. “We’ll watch the door, Mycroft,” John promised. A drowsy nod was all he got in return. Lestrade, John and Anthea wordlessly took up residence outside, a barrier to keep the brothers in their own little bubble for just a while longer. Molly would stop back in after her evening shift and check in on them, they’d field questions from the other Yard staff, and even Anderson and Donovan would ensure that the volume near Lestrade’s office was kept lowered. Tomorrow, they would all talk, and check in with Sherlock, and ask questions. But for now? The so-called ‘Ice Man’ and the detective ‘incapable of empathy’ were curled up, asleep, the bond they shared tried and tested by time still stronger than ever. They would worry about everything in the morning.