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Sherlock watches pensively as his sister is being led into a police van in handcuffs. Next to him, John is huddled in a blanket. He refuses to do the same with his coat, but as the adrenaline starts to drain from his body, he can feel the need slowly creeping in.
Lestrade approached them. "I just spoke to your brother."
Sherlock's gaze sharpened on him. "How is he?"
"He’s a bit shaken up, that’s all. She didn’t hurt him; she just locked him in her old cell."
"What goes around comes around," John sneered.
"What?" Sherlock whirled on him. "Of the two of us, John, you're supposed to be the one with the surfeit of decency and empathy. He tried to save your life at the cost of his own. Have you no gratitude? He's made mistakes, but so have we all. You can't imagine–" Sherlock bit his own tongue as he finally succumbed to the urge to violently pull the panels of his coat together, hugging himself tight as he remembered too many nights spent alone in a cell during his exile. The shifting of fabric against his skin was now too grating to ignore.
"Forget it, John," he bit out, returning his attention to Lestrade. "Do you know where he is, or if he's coming here?"
"No, sorry mate, I don't. You'll have to ask one of his bunch, they don't tell me this stuff. Listen, just hold on for two seconds. I have to go make sure your sister is being transported properly."
Sherlock nodded. He flipped up the collar of his coat before hugging himself again. Looking around, he made for the nearest MI6 agent, uncaring and unhearing of John's calls to him. He was focused on not vibrating out of his skin.
Approaching him, Sherlock said, "I'm Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft Holmes is my brother. I need to speak to him. I lost my phone at some point tonight."
"Right, Mr Holmes. Having a direct line to the Director is above me, but I'll get my team leader." He pressed a button on his sleeve. "Agent Torrens, come in. I have Sherlock Holmes with me asking for the Director."
They stayed quite as the agent stared blankly into the distance, listening to his instructions. Finally, he turned to Sherlock. "Come with me, sir. I'll take you to a secure phone."
Sherlock murmured his thanks, following the agent to a large van. It opened to reveal another agent sitting at a small table, typing away on his laptop.
"Agent Torrens, I presume," he said in lieu of a greeting.
The man nodded at him, before waving away the junior agent. "And you must be Sherlock Holmes. Come. This is a secure mobile that you can use."
Sherlock stepped into the small van, accepting the mobile from him. He sighed with relief when he spotted a small section of unoccupied wall. Placing his back flat against it, he called Mycroft.
Ring, ring. Ring, ring. The number you have called–
Sherlock hung up, and tried a few more times before changing tactics. Within a few moments, the call connected.
"Anthea, it's Sherlock. I need to speak with my brother."
"Please verify your identity."
He wracked his brain for a moment. "Sherlock Holmes, code 41923."
He stayed silent as he waited for Anthea to process the information. "Identity verified. Sherlock, I can't push anything off your brother's plate. He's taken emergency command of the Sherrinford facility."
"It's an emergency."
"Is something else about to happen?"
"No." He gritted his teeth. "It's me. Please."
"Alright. Please hold." Without waiting for his thanks, Anthea placed him on hold. Within moments, his brother's voice came down the line.
"Sherlock? What's wrong?"
Sherlock inhaled sharply. "Verify."
"Mycroft Holmes, code 64491."
"Oh, Mycie. Fuck." Sherlock squeezed his eyes closed as relief washed over him, and the back of his eyes burned. He struggled to tamp down the impulse, staying silent as he focused on his breathing. When he was confident of being back in control, he opened his eyes to the concerned gaze of Agent Torrens.
Sherlock jerkily shook his head at him. "Can I take this outside?"
"Yeah. Not too far. And please bring it back."
"Excuse me?" Mycroft said at the same time.
"I'm sorry. You have to hold on, Mycroft." He nodded to the agent before leaving the van, clutching the phone to his chest. He looked around frantically. "Lestrade!" He yelled, spotting him about twenty feet away.
Lestrade whipped his head around, giving him a quick wave of acknowledgement. A moment later, he jogged over. "What is it?"
"I need you to stand behind me and hug me tight. Now."
He furrowed his brow. "What?" He asked, not believing his ears.
"Around the arms. As tight as you can." He struggled for a moment, unused to showing his vulnerability. "Please, Greg."
Lestrade cast his gaze around at all the people busy at work around them, and at the officers relying on his command, before he returned his attention to Sherlock, who for once looked like he was about to be swallowed by his coat. He softened. "Yeah, alright. Come over here." He led Sherlock over to an unobtrusive spot before he followed Sherlock's instructions. "Like this?"
"Tighter." Lestrade let out a soft grunt as he did so. "Yes, that'll do." Sherlock took a moment for the sheer relief of being able to breathe a little easier. After a few breaths, he raised the phone to his ear again. Clearly, Mycroft hadn't been wasting time.
"–and bring them to the observation rooms for debriefing."
"Mycie."
"Go now. I need a minute." Five footsteps later, he continued. "Brother mine. Are you alright?"
"No. I need you, Mycie."
Mycroft paused for a moment. "I'm still at Sherrinford, Sherlock. Is Inspector Lestrade helping?"
"Some. Tell me how you are."
"Alright. Alive, at the very least. There's too much else to think about it right now." He paused. "You haven't had an attack like this in a while. What's the severity?"
"Felt like a thousand. About a twelve now. Mycie, it hurts."
"I know, my dear, I know. I'm sorry I can't be there. Can you hold on for a little longer? Is the hug enough for now?"
"I don't know, My." His voice hitched.
"Alright. Just breathe. Focus on my voice. Here's what we're going to do. I'm going to put my phone on the table so you can hear me as I work. I'll pick it up again in ten minutes. If you still need me then, I'll come back right away. Deal?"
"Okay."
"Okay. I'm putting you down now."
Sherlock listened as Mycroft called people back into his office and how, half a minute later, someone had the courage to say something. "Um, sir, before you proceed I thought I'd inform you that you're still on the line."
"Yes, I know. Don't concern yourself with it. Now, report on the situation with…"
Sherlock closed his eyes, focusing on the tenor of Mycroft's voice. He wished that he could feel its vibrations rippling through the air, but for now, the sound of it had to be enough. He breathed consciously, knowing it would help to calm his heart.
After a minute had passed in silence, Lestrade spoke softly. "Can I speak?"
"Yeah. I'm on hold. But I'm listening so don't talk too much."
Lestrade remained quiet for a moment more. "I have so many questions. Is this helping you in some way?"
"Yes. A tight hug applies pressure to large parts of my body, calming my nervous system. It also stops my clothes from moving around, thereby reducing my sensory overload."
"Oh. I didn't know…"
"No. You weren't to know."
"I guess Mycroft usually helps you."
"Yes. He's the only one that can make it go away. No offence, Graham, but you're just so much duct tape right now."
"None taken. He's your brother. Is there anything else I can do?"
Sherlock shook his head slowly. "No. For anything more than a hug, I can only have Mycroft.''
"Can you say why? You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."
Sherlock remained quiet for a while, the seconds turning into minutes as he tried to put it into words, listening to Mycroft conduct his monkeys in the meantime. Lestrade quietly sends Anderson away when he approached with a curious eye. "Go ask Donovan for something to do. And tell her she's in charge. I'll be here for a while," he said sternly.
"But–"
"Go."
As Anderson traipsed off, Sherlock spoke. "I have a condition which results in hypersensitivity of my sense of touch. When I was younger, even a strong breeze could set this reaction off. I've learned to deal with that. But Mycroft was always there. He always knew what to do." He smiled weakly to himself. Even as he remembered child-Mycroft cuddling him, reading to him for hours, he heard the now authoritative Mycroft issuing orders from his lofty perch. "I could never stand anyone else hugging me, or even breathing around me. They would always insist on talking, but the rumbling of their voices when they talked just made it worse. I don't know why, but Mycroft's only ever made it better. Over the years I've associated his voice with that feeling, which is why I'm listening to him work now."
"Oh, should I shut up?"
"No, it's alright. It's not too bad. It wouldn't make me much better even if you did."
"Okay. Why are you so nasty to Mycroft then?"
"That's a different story."
"Whatever it is. You should be nicer to him."
"I know. I will."
They fell silent again, Sherlock focusing on his coping techniques. He didn't mind when Lestrade rested his head against his shoulder, or when his hold lightened minutely, understanding that the man was probably close to being asleep on his feet. Finally, he heard the scramble of Mycroft's phone being picked up. "Lockie?"
"Yes, brother mine."
"Oh, you certainly sound a lot better."
"Yes. Standing still will have that effect," he said tiredly. "How soon can you get back, Mycroft?"
"I can be in my office in two and a half hours. Will that be alright?"
"Not home?"
Mycroft stayed silent for a long while as he thought. "I can be. But I'll have to work at the same time."
"That's alright. At least you'll be doing something productive while rumbling for me instead of rambling pointlessly."
"Indeed," Mycroft replied with a note of humour in his voice. "See you at home then."
"See you." The line disconnected, and Sherlock lowered his hand. "You can let go now, Greg."
"Hmm? Okay." He grunted as he stretched his arms and his back. "Man, who knew giving a hug would use so many muscles?"
"I did. It's good you've kept up with the gym. I've got to return this phone, then I'm going to Mycroft's. Will you make sure John gets home?"
"Yeah. I'll take care of it. Wait," he added as Sherlock began to move away. "Listen, if you give me half an hour I'll go with you. I don't think you should be alone. I've still got some hugging left in me." He flexed his arm jokingly, even though no one could have seen anything through his jacket.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, before he sobered and stared at his feet instead. "I'd like that," he said quietly.
"Okay. Not a problem. My car is over there, a bit behind the police line. Wait for me there."
Sherlock nodded. Abruptly, he turned to walked towards the MI6 van without another word, cursing himself for his damn sentiments he had never been able to express. He opened the door rudely, without so much as a knock.
Agent Torrens startled slightly at the intrusion, relaxing when he saw Sherlock. "All done?" He held his hand out.
"Yes." Sherlock handed the phone back. "Oh, and I don't think your Director will feel very kindly towards you if you tell anyone what I called him."
"Yeah, I figured that one out for myself, thanks. I'm not a complete idiot." He hesitated a moment. "Do you need anything, to see someone? That whole thing just now…there's an ambulance on site, you know."
"Yeah, I know. It's fine. Thanks," he mumbled, closing the door none too gently before he hurried towards Lestrade's car. What the hell was it tonight that everyone was so damn nice? What, did they expect him to say thanks every ten seconds? He wrapped his coat tight around him again as he sat on the curb next to Lestrade's car, sulking. If only Mycroft were here, he'd be fine already. Instead he had to rely on Lestrade and some person he'd never met. It was tedious. Annoying. Infuriating.
By the time Lestrade showed up at his car, Sherlock had worked up a proper scowl, dark clouds almost physically manifesting above him. He lifted a brow. "Well, I can see you're working your way back to normal. Into the car with you, sunshine."
The drive back into London was long, and quietly torturous for Sherlock. He couldn't stand the sound of the radio, but the sound of the engine was only marginally better. Bumpy country roads weren't contributing, either, though he did his best to make sure his coat was tightly strapped in by the seat belt. Lestrade, perhaps intuiting to his discomfort, drove faster than he should have, and they only had to stop once to hug it out. Privately, Sherlock considered it a success.
He breathed a little easier as they hit urban roads. The streetlights and structures flying past his window distracted him from the banked fire of his skin, and the car rolling a little more smoothly on the well-paved roads. Sherlock wound down the window a little to amuse himself by trying to identify the different components of London's grimy air by scent alone; Lestrade wrinkled his nose, but stayed silent.
Finally, as they drew near to Mycroft's neighbourhood, Sherlock closed the window, plunging the car back into a comparative silence. After a moment, he spoke. "You've been a good friend, Lestrade. Even before I knew it. You know, the cases…and everything."
He ran a hand over the back of his head sheepishly. "Er, yeah, it's not a problem," he replied lamely. "I mean, you can be a right bastard sometimes, but you've become a good man, Sherlock. You beat the drugs, you beat Moriarty, and you saved me, not to mention John twice now. So yeah, I'm proud to be called your friend, really."
Sherlock didn't know how to tell him that he was just repaying the favour of Lestrade saving him first, or how he learned to be a good man from him, at the time in his life when he would have nothing to do with Mycroft. For all his intelligence, he never knew how to say these things right. So he just stayed silent, hopping out of the car as soon as it stopped in Mycroft's driveway.
Lestrade hurriedly shut off the engine before following Sherlock to the front door, jogging to catch up and almost bumping into him as Sherlock suddenly turned around.
"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked incredulously.
Lestrade took a step back. "You don't think I've accompanied you back to London only to leave you alone for the last bit." He quirked a brow.
"Mycroft will only be another hour."
"Great, even better. I'll just have a cup of tea and sit around for emergency hugs. I can't just leave you alone. What if something happens to you in the next hour?"
"I'll just get in bed. I'll be fine."
"Then I'll sit beside it. Nothing I haven't done before. Now, am I a friend, or not?"
Sherlock huffed, turning back around to go into the house. "Fine. But you're making your own tea."
—
Sherlock and Lestrade had settled into matching cozy wingback armchairs, Lestrade sipping the tea he had helped himself to. Meanwhile, Sherlock had closed his eyes, determined to try and settle his brain. Now that his skin wasn't distracting him so much anymore, it was somewhat freer to be concerned about other things, like how he had pointed a gun at his brother and was almost forced to kill him that night. Like the abject terror he felt when he didn't know whether Mycroft was dead or alive. Like the million tiny and huge regrets he had when it came to Mycroft.
His mind, however, wouldn't quieten. Mycroft, Mycroft, Mycroft, it continued to race about in circles, until he heard the front door snick open and for a brief moment, it felt as if he had willed him home. But wait.
His eyes flew open and towards the matching wingback chair, where Lestrade still sat, an arm outstretched towards his shoulder. "You're still here," he breathed, as he heard a set of footsteps draw nearer, while another stopped; Anthea was here, then. She wasn't a concern. The man next to him was.
Lestrade furrowed his brow. "Yes?"
Less than five seconds before his brother would walk through the parlour doors. Time to speak fast. And to take off this damn coat. "Greg, if you want your night to end pleasantly, leave before my brother gets here. I know it's not enough information, but there isn't time. Choose now. I'll apologise in advance." His coat and suit jacket slid to the ground, Sherlock having managed to take both off at once. He ignored the rustling on his skin. It was tolerable.
Lestrade spent the remaining two seconds staring at Sherlock, too confused to process his words, let alone move. His choice was made for him when Mycroft appeared in the doorway, stopping abruptly as saw Sherlock. "Oh, thank God," he breathed. He took a few steps towards him before he stopped again, registering Lestrade's presence with undisguised shock.
Lestrade returned the look. He had heard the footsteps too, but it wasn't Mycroft showing up that he was shocked by. No, it was the fact that Mycroft had shed everything but his shirt and trousers, and his shirt was untucked to boot, the top two buttons undone. He had never seen Mycroft this dishevelled.
They blinked at each other for a single second before the spell was broken as Sherlock crashed into Mycroft, and Lestrade understood why Mycroft was so attired. Sherlock presently had his hands under Mycroft's shirt as he hugged him, his face pressed close to Mycroft's neck.
Mycroft caught him, of course, closing his eyes and nuzzling Sherlock's hair for one, blissful moment. God, he had needed this as much as Sherlock, but there was still a problem. "Lestrade is here," he murmured, though he didn't let go. He couldn't have, not after the day they had, not even if the Queen herself apparated into the room right now.
Sherlock merely nodded against him, hugging him tighter. Mycroft sighed silently as he rearranged his priorities. Lestrade and whoever else wanted to watch could hang. He relaxed into the hug, stroking Sherlock's hair. "It's alright, my dear. I'm here now. We lived." He continued to murmur nonsensical, comforting things to him, starting to stroking his back slowly, soothingly.
Mycroft's rumbles spread through his chest, tuning him into the frequency of the universe again. The fine threads of his clothes gradually ceased to irritate him, and the last of the bands around his ribs broke free. Yes, he was going to be alright. He knew because he was surrounded by his smell, his warmth, the particular pitch of his skin, the very Mycroft-ness of his senses being recalibrated to rights. He knew because his mind and his body finally, finally stopped shouting the world's background irrelevancies at him. Not about the mundanity of what people had done, or were going to do. Not about the speed of the wind, or what made the individual sounds that constituted the city noise. Nothing but the ground solidly against his feet, and Mycroft making his skin sing, not burn.
Mycroft smiled as he felt the last remnants of tension leave Sherlock. "Welcome back, brother mine."
Sherlock took one last whiff of Mycroft before he lifted his head. "You, too. God, Mycie." He rested his forehead against him. "I can hardly believe we're both still here."
"You can't ever do that to me again."
"I won't. I would never have shot you."
"I meant pointing it at yourself. I'd rather you shoot me. The outcome would be the same, except then both of us would be dead."
Sherlock lifted his head to glare at Mycroft. "And you think it wouldn't be the same for me? My atoms would fly apart before the week was out."
"Hush now. I don't want to fight tonight." He cupped Sherlock's cheek, kissing his forehead. "They'll stick together for a while more."
Sherlock smiled, and leaned in for a kiss. Before he could get there, however, Lestrade cleared his throat unnecessarily loudly.
The pair of brothers, still in their embrace, whipped their heads towards him. Lestrade rubbed at his temples. "Yeah, I know you forgot that I'm still here, but I am. Everything I've seen is still within the realm of plausible deniability, so don't go any further just yet. I'm going to leave, and we'll never talk about this again." He stood up, shrugging on his jacket. "Nice house, Mycroft. No need for an MI6 escort anywhere at any point, thank you. Oh, and great tea. Take care, Sherlock." With that, he hurriedly left the room.
Sherlock and Mycroft were still looking blankly at the doorway when Anthea came into view. Seeing them, she quickly put the pieces together, and straightened to attention. "Is there anything I can do for you, Sir?"
Mycroft shifted his attention to her as he thought. "I think communications surveillance would suffice."
"Mycie," Sherlock protested.
"I don't expect he'll say anything, but it's better to be cautious. Don't worry." Turning back to Anthea, he said, "Will you give us a few more minutes?"
She nodded, the sound of her footsteps briefly fading.
Mycroft sighed. He carded his fingers through Sherlock's hair before he kissed him softly. "We are both in desperate need of a shower. What say we share one so we can cuddle in bed? Anthea can work from my office here, and I'll take calls from the bedroom."
"Perfect, brother mine." Sherlock kissed him again, before he took his hand to pull him towards the bathroom. "As long as you don't go far from me again tonight."