221b Baker Street was cold when they got back. It hadn't been lived in for months, and the chill had crept out of the walls to permeate the flat.

"You managed to extract your brother from an undercover mission in another country but you couldn't get the damn heating put on before we got back?" John asked Mycroft, only partially joking, as he deposited Sherlock on the sofa.

Mycroft graced John with a long suffering look and settled himself into an armchair. In truth John was simply grateful that Mycroft had come with them to move Sherlock back in after his release from hospital. Well, obviously by 'help' Mycroft didn't mean carry any bags or put the kettle on but still... John felt the moral support of Mycroft's presence was more humanity than the elder Holmes would have shown before. A modicum of brotherly concern slipping out in the form of sitting in a cold flat and putting up with it's indefinable smell.

John had timed their return during for an afternoon Mrs Hudson would be out. As much as he may love their landlady, and as much as her concern and attention would do Sherlock good, he felt Sherlock needed a bit of quiet for his move back in. Sherlock had after all never intended to come back here, had resigned himself to an awful fate, had given up on this life, and now was suddenly surrounded by chintz cushions and teacups.

Sherlock himself was lying quietly on the sofa watching John bustle around unpacking bags and making tea. He'd been released from hospital that morning on the understanding that if he would refrain from exerting himself for the next two weeks he might get away with no permanent damage. At least physically. John knew from past experience that enforcing bed rest on Sherlock Holmes would never be successful, but he was more than geared up to deal with anything the detective could throw at him the next two weeks. And besides, physically, he wasn't really worried about his friend.

Sherlock would have scars, would always bear the scars from his time in Serbia. Both the horrific web of lash marks across his back and arms from his first trip and a few more recent that time would reveal. But that he could overcome. It was wherever his friend had got mentally that worried John. John knew Sherlock was still dealing with the after affects of his first trip to Serbia when he'd been sent back again. When he had been abandoned by the country he'd done so much for, when he'd been sent away by a brother who claimed to have done what he could, when... When John himself had said goodbye. Even if he hadn't known it was permanent. They'd found Sherlock just too late. He was already resigned to not surviving the mission when he'd been caught. And even if they'd only had him for half an hour, they'd hurt him in that half hour. Badly. John was worried it was all too much.

But John Watson would do what John Watson always did: endure. He would care for Sherlock Holmes and keep him safe. He would remove the most poisonous things from the fridge and make the tea when Sherlock came back freezing cold at 3 am. He would protect Sherlock from the worst of London's criminal underworld and his own mind. There were already cases waiting in John's inbox. John smiled; he would have Sherlock back to work soon. He would be the fire that burnt at the heart of Sherlock's life, giving heat and hope. And it would have to be, would continue to be, would always be enough.

-/-

Sherlock was more grateful than he would ever admit for the comfort of his own sofa. He was getting tired far faster than he should have been and his whole body was a mix of sharp pain and old aches. Pain would normally make Sherlock irritable but he didn't quite have the heart to be today. He was back where he was supposed to be, and over time everything would be alright.

He was still reeling from the knowledge that Mycroft had come to rescue him. When his brother had sat and watched his torment the first time and made light of it afterwards it had hurt Sherlock more than he realised. Sherlock was gradually realising though the mountains Mycroft had moved to save him this time and he found it so reassuring that he had a brother in his life that would go to those lengths. Sherlock still couldn't quite believe all his brother's brilliance had bent towards rescuing him. And it gave him no small amount of pleasure the inconvenience cleaning everything up would cause Mycroft now.

And of course John had been as wonderful as Sherlock had always known he was, but now he knew that John had gone that far to save him. And that was a large realisation to wrap his head around. Sherlock would never quite know what he meant to those whose lives he was a part of, but now he had a slightly better idea.

Sherlock Homes was cold, he had been for a long time now. But the steady, solid presence of his brother and the gentle heat of John were begin to work. Gradually warmth was coming back into his world.

-/-

Mycroft went back to Serbia just the once. He went back to country house where they had so nearly been too late the second time, the forests where he knew his brother had been hunted, the basement where Sherlock had been tortured. From the dirty stone floors to muddy riverbanks to damp cell walls he drank it all in. All the pain and misery and fear. He had been to all these places before, but his perfect memory had not captured feelings (and besides Mycroft would never have let the feelings in in the first place). This trip was for forming new memories to carry with him. He had to know what Sherlock had been through.

Mycroft would always be indescribably grateful to John. Thanks to the doctor he now had his brother back, but he also had an understanding of what he himself could do. Mycroft stood in a miserable field, not far from the air strip he and John first landed in. For all he knew this could be beautiful countryside but he was more focused on what he felt here. The gentle keening of the wind through the long marsh grasses sounded like a faint moan of pain to his ears and he shivered, took one last look around, and walked off to his plane back to London. Back to his life as a simple Whitehall clerk, albeit one with a rather nice Pall Mall apartment and world class security. But he would carry something back with him.

Mycroft Holmes might still be the British government and one of the most terrifying forces on the world stage, but now that cold implacable wall of sheer knowledge and intellect would have just a touch of humanity in it. And the world had John Watson to thank.

-/-

AN: It's been over three years since I started this fic which I realise is a very long time. Basically life very much got in the way, then by I got back I'd lost the thread of it, but I always hate to read an unfinished fic so I've come back eventually. Sorry it's taken a while, hope it's ended OK. Thank you to anyone who's still here, thank you to anyone who's read this. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed/followed/favourited/messaged you've made writing here such a lovely supportive experience. Just know all your reviews gave me such a happy little glow inside. I think I might stick to one-shots from now on though :)