I know, I know. I haven't been online and you can complain if you want, but I have a lot of school work going on and setting up for my birthday next weekend (I will finally be 18!)

So anyway, this idea popped into my head briefly a while ago, and today it pretty much decided to write itself. So much so that what was originally going to be a one-shot seems to need an extra chapter and about a thousand more words.

However, despite my lack of updating, please ENJOY!

Disclaimer: DeiDei does not own BBC Sherlock and she is far too tired rn to think of a creatively written disclaimer..

It was quiet and very late as the man walked swift through the empty corridors, each devoid room locked tightly. Soon enough, he came across the only room with a light source, one which seeped from under the door and illuminated his ironed black trousers and neatly folded umbrella. There was no one with him this time, unlike all others where he was constantly hounded. The soft click of a lock and the tap tap of the umbrella were the only sounds as he stepped into the room and up to the desk, lowering himself into the seat.

Mycroft Holmes was a busy man, very important too. And from such, he found that it was very rare that he had much time to be by himself, and often ended up as bored as his brother. That is, perhaps, one of the reasons he was initially so interested to find the multiple missed calls and a voicemail on his office answerphone. This joy was lost, however, when he realised who had been trying to contact him. Dr Watson was not one he would say would call Mycroft out of choice. Rather to either complain or express worry, neither of which were any good.
"Mycroft? I know you don't always answer the phone but this time it's important. Something's wrong with Sherlock. He's acting strange, even for him, and won't acknowledge a word I say. At least usually there is SOME kind of response. He's pretty much been out of it for the past couple of days and don't worry, he's not using again. I've already checked. Just.. *sigh* ..come over and see if you can sort him out. I wouldn't normally admit it but I am genuinely scared here. I'd say he's depressed, but I'm not really that sort of doctor. Could you just phone me or come over or something so that I'm not completely in the dark here."
Mycroft sighed deeply, sinking heavily into his chair and rubbing his eyes with one hand whilst haphazardly placing his phone on his desk with the other. By the sounds of it, a few tough cases and Sherlock's incessant decisions to keep every little aspect of himself sealed up in a locked box had rebounded once again and the burst of sudden emotion was too much for the younger man to handle. For once, there was a situation that neither he nor Dr Watson would have to ability to heal. Luckily, Mycroft knew the man for the job. Clearing his throat briefly, he picked up the discarded mobile and dialled in the number almost instinctively.
"Hello?"
The voice on the other end was slurred and suspicious, as if he had just woken. And why wouldn't it be? It was early hours of the morning, obviously he would have been asleep. Mycroft didn't bother with pleasantries.
"He needs you again. We'll be over within the next two hours, within one if we're lucky. Make sure you're ready. It sounds bad tonight."
The call was disconnected before the other man could respond, but it didn't matter. He never disagreed.

The moment the sleek black car pulled up to the curb outside of 221B Baker Street, John felt an immediate sigh of relief, mixed in with a bit of fear and worry. Sherlock still hadn't come out of his room. He hadn't eaten in four days, which wouldn't have been that unusual if he had been on a case. Problem was, he had been denying any case calls for at least three days. The only time he had really left the room was to visit the bathroom when John was "asleep".
Although the situation both confused and unnerved the doctor, he knew better than to panic. Take care of him as best he could, hope it wears off and if not - god forbid - call in his brother. He tried, every day, to talk to Sherlock, but the man had only given him a blank glance in response. The good sign was that there was no flushed skin, laboured breathing or red rimmed eyes, ruling out both drugs and sickness. He had left the detective a cup of tea every few hours, leaving it just outside the door and knocking once, sensing that he wouldn't want anyone in the room with him. More often than not, the cup would remain outside the room going cold, with but a few sips taken from it. Even those seemed to have stopped now, which led to contacting Mycroft.
Ever since leaving the voicemail, John had been on edge, listening even closer to every rustle and creak, every car that passed outside. The two near knocks against the door downstairs barely settled him, but it was enough. He could hear two voices expressing brief pleasantries, and soon the stairs we're creaking. Although to john, it sounded like more than just Mycroft. His question was answered when the door opened and Mycroft stepped through, a worried look on his face and a fairly strong looking man stood silently behind him.

Having lived with Sherlock for many years, Mycroft was quick to notice the slight stiffen in the doctor's stature and the wary look in his eyes as they twitched slightly between both men in the doorway.

"Calm, Dr Watson. He is necessary for our current… situation. I recommend you rest whilst we are gone. Sherlock shall be returned tomorrow morning, most likely before you wake."

He was glad he was able to get it all out, and that John had not noticed the soft tremble hidden beneath his words. Despite having come across this many times, Mycroft still felt tense and unnerved, possibly even scared if his pride would allow it. It was one of the few things that reminded him that Sherlock was once a child, and still was at times. Hidden it all behind grandeur and snarky remarks. Sparing John a brief glance, both men brushed past him, shoes thumping lightly as they went. It wasn't hard to find Sherlock's room. It was quiet, near the bathroom if he should need it on the rare occurrence he was in there, and yet not too far from the living room either. He imagined there would be a small window, not too close to the bed, but enough to keep his room naturally lit and spread the natural temperatures correctly around the room without it being overwhelming.

Also, the cold cup of tea was a dead giveaway.

Mycroft took a soft breath, almost as if to prepare himself, before knocking gently against the door. After a few moments, no response was heard, and so he tried rapping slightly harder. This time he heard a slight shuffling sound; yet no bleary eyed detective came to the door. He should have expected as much. Straitening his spine and pulling his expression back into a mask, in case the doctor came to see, he grasped the doorknob tightly and pushed open the door.

Although he knew what he was going to see, it still didn't stop the discomfort from bubbling in his stomach as he took in the sight before him. Random objects were scattered across the floor and draped over units. The wardrobe doors hung open slightly and the chair beside the desk had been overturned at one point, although now it seemed to slowly be burying itself in the papers falling from the desk. The bed sheets were spread out and crumpled, some still on the mattress whilst others were strewn beside the bed. It was an organized chaos, complete with semi open window with wind lazily tickling at the items within its proximity. Settled unnaturally still amongst the blankets was Sherlock Holmes.

Mycroft let the sadness seep into his eyes at the sight of his younger brother. He was shivering occasionally, his lithe frame far too thin and his face gaunt. His skin was paler than usually and his lips were cracked with dehydration, not to mention the gentle wheeze that came out with his short breaths. But perhaps, the most distressing were his eyes. They were open and blinking every so often and they looked so dull. So blank and unfocussed and lacking the distinct spark that was always hidden in the raven-haired man. This is worse than usual.. he thought to himself, before giving a quick nod at his "assistant" still standing in the doorway. Mycroft stepped out of the way, allowing the other man to pick his brother up, wrapping his coat (which even Mycroft had not noticed him pick up) around the shaking body and tucking him against his body with a gentleness none would think he could possess. At least Sherlock was still dressed.

As the two (technically, three) men passed by a stunned and anxious Dr Watson, Mycroft stopped. He signalled to the other to take the detective out to the car, before turning back to face his brother's flatmate.

"This is slightly worse than I had thought, and I will need to 'borrow' him for most of tomorrow, possibly til evening. Please do rest, Dr Watson. Despite what you think, my brother would have both of our head if he knew I let you get in such a state over something as trivial as himself. Thank you for calling me."

The last sentence was barely a whisper but it was heard loud and clear. Mycroft was almost out the door when he heard an almost raspy voice behind him.

"Children."

"What?"

"The last case.. before this happened. There were three children, and they died. Sherlock managed to get to one of them in her last moments. Something happened, wouldn't tell us what though. He seemed fine afterwards, but then.. this started up.."

The new information flew around the eldest Holmes' head, his face contorting slightly as he thought. He nodded in thanks to the doctor, before leaving swiftly out of the door and out into Baker Street where the sleek black car was waiting.

Yeah, like I said. It was only meant to be about 1k words but that blew up a little. There will be a second chapter, that you can expect in just over a week (I hope)

Please review and let me know what you think! And maybe who you think the mysterious man is?!