Disclaimer: I do not own these fabulous characters or the universe they inhabit.

Author's Note: So, I've recently discovered the BBC Sherlock tv series and have absolutely fallen in love with it. With John Watson's and Sherlock Holmes's relationship especially so. Kudos to Moffat and his crew for so openly discussing sexual preference and, at the same time, exploring the depths a friendship between two men can go to (even if my chest does give a rather fierce yank each time I see a screencap from that last Season 2 episode). Hope to see more of it in Season 3—but this is the way I intend to cope in the meantime! Hope you enjoy my first Sherlock fic (even if it isn't Brit-picked)!

Rating: T (for language)

Summary: Moriarty's Final Problem has been solved. Sherlock returns to London and his doctor three years later, a changed man (Intense Friendshipfic. Familyfic. Post-Reichenbach Reunion. Spoilers for BBC Sherlock.)

"Speech"

Memories/Personal Thoughts (Italics)

.:The Long Road Home:.

By Sentimental Star

Chapter One: Endgame

The front bell chimes at 3AM. Mycroft, normally a notorious insomniac, hauls himself upright under his sheets, sighing tiredly and rubbing his face, trying desperately to ward off the spinning thoughts that immediately greet him upon waking.

It has been three years. Three years of latching on to any scrap of intelligence, any bit of evidence, that he can, in hopes that his younger brother—finally—can come home. He doesn't dare hope that the rather insistently ringing bell might mean the Great Hiatus is at last over.

Holmes are notorious for their disdain of sentiment and all it implies, but as an ex-army doctor once so rightly remarked, they are also some of the most human men one could ever hope to meet, despite their frankly formidable intellect. And this human man…misses his younger brother.

Perhaps that is why he should not be so surprised when he opens his door at precisely 3:08AM in the morning on November 28th and finds himself with an armful of weakly muttering little brother:

"Damn, asinine idiot…couldn't you have bloody opened the door a lot sooner?"

And if Mycroft Holmes finds his knees buckling, or his baby brother's knees buckling with him, then they most certainly will not chalk it up to sentiment.

IOIOIOIOIOI

"You have finished your…endeavors, I presume?"

The coffee is black, two sugars, and both Holmes men steadfastly ignore how it shakes minutely as Mycroft hands the cup to his brother.

A flash of canine glints in the lamplight of the (too) long unused room as the younger man, struggling slightly, pulls himself into an upright position on the bed and accepts the mug. Taking a cautious sip, he murmurs against the ceramic rim, "Nearly."

"Moran?"

An ugly look flashes across the younger, paler face, before its owner schools his features and hums a soft affirmative, "Mmm. Not that he's much of a threat, really."

The (luckily empty) coffee pot Mycroft brought with him clatters onto the nightstand at his elbow with a loud clang, "Explain," he bites out crisply.

The younger man rolls his eyes, but canines flash again and Mycroft nearly shivers at the dark, predatory look he is met with, "Didn't you know, Mycroft? Bitterness is a paralytic, love is a much more vicious motivator."

Silence pervades the room. Mycroft slowly raises his hand to press three fingers to the bridge of his nose. "Your doctor, yes?"

The younger man's eyes drop immediately to his coffee cup and he shifts slightly in the bed, pulling an extra blanket close around his shoulders. Mycroft releases a nearly inaudible sigh, "Little brother…"

The other man's head jerks up, a deep, muddled conglomeration of emotions flitting through the currently gray (and inordinately expressive) irises.

All composure is almost lost, and Mycroft sucks in a sharp breath he knows his brother can hear: "little brother"… that endearment has not passed his lips in many years.

They stare at each other, engaging in a silent contest of sorts—which abruptly ends when the younger of the two hastily breaks their gaze and ducks his head, a heated flush spreading across his high, angular cheekbones.

Mycroft suddenly does not feel at all inclined to continue his scolding. "I will assume you have permanently incapacitated him in some manner, then," he murmurs.

The other man snorts softly, taking another cautious sip of his coffee, "You are displaying an alarming penchant for stating the obvious tonight, brother dear."

Somehow, the retort lacks all the bite it used to have.

This is how they work, the Holmes brothers. They never say anything that might be misconstrued as sentiment or emotion, even if their actions speak of nothing but.

All the "I missed yous," and the "thank yous," and even Mycroft's unspoken "thank God you're…almost…all right," all of them are spoken or implied by actions.

Such as the frown that abruptly creases the younger man's brow as he takes a much more deliberate sip of his coffee. He glances up at Mycroft, faint accusation shining at the back of his exhausted eyes, "Sedatives and painkillers."

Even as he says the words, the half-empty coffee cup slips from his fingers and nearly topples onto the sheets before Mycroft catches and gingerly rights it at the last moment.

This is Mycroft's "I'm worried about you," but the other man is already too far gone to object, eyelids heavy and body slack.

"That should be apparent," Mycroft murmurs, carefully placing the ceramic mug nearby on the nightstand.

A firm hand on the younger's chest, and Mycroft gently pushes him down to lay on the mattress beneath his sheets, "Sleep deprivation, deplorable eating habits (your doctor will not be happy); you cannot support your own weight, so evidence of as yet untreated injuries and dehydration. You have a fever…"

He trails off as his brother (tries to) scowl at him, but as the younger man is more than half-asleep the effect is rather ruined.

As the other man collapses in to sleep, Mycroft spreads the blankets more thoroughly over his shoulders, tucking them close. It is a few minutes before he straightens with a soft huff, resting his hand feather-light against his brother's sallow cheek, "You are an idiot, little brother," he whispers.

IOIOIOIOIOI

It is still early, early morning when the text goes out:

Come at once, your assistance is required. I have a high-security patient who may be able to relate key information on the sharp decline in London crime rates.—MH

(International crime rates, as well, but Mycroft keeps the nature of his text deliberately vague.)

Unlike what one might suppose, there is no repeated ringing or frantic pounding at the door some forty-five minutes later. When he opens the door at 4:45AM after the bell chimes, Detective Inspector Lestrade is standing on his front stoop, an eyebrow raised almost to his hairline, "One of your people, then, Mycroft? I thank you from the bottom of my heart for Sebastian Moran alone."

A small smile flickers around the edges of Mycroft's mouth, "Ah, Detective Inspector, thank you for stopping by. Doctor Watson, wonderful to see you again. Do come in."

The smile he quirks the exhausted man over the DI's shoulder as he steps back to admit them has John freezing mid-foyer a full second, trying to deduce any possible meaning from the gesture. Unsurprisingly, he gives it up as a bad job, attributing it to the fact that Mycroft is Mycroft, and that it is best simply to go with it.

"I wish I could say it's a pleasure," the doctor murmurs, removing his coat with a well-concealed wince as his shoulder wound makes itself known.

Mycroft and Lestrade exchange pained glances over his head. The older Holmes brother awkwardly clears his throat, "Yes, well…quite."

John faintly sighs, "You mentioned you had a patient? Honestly, Mycroft, was it necessary to practically kidnap Greg and I? Anthea will not thank you for waking her. Are they truly so important?"

Mycroft's lips compress in a thin line. He knows from experience that a 5AM John is an exhausted and grouchy John, and that if the man had any inkling as to whom lay beyond this foyer, then he most certainly would not have remained.

Instead, he nods to a mystified Lestrade and gestures them in, "You would not believe how important, Doctor Watson," he murmurs.

IOIOIOIOIOI

Mycroft leads them further into the small estate. As he shepherds quite possibly two of the most integral people in his life (in their lives) through the darkened hallways of the Holmes's London residence, he quietly muses on the events that led them here:

Had this still been the "game" it started out as over three and a half years ago, Mycroft knows he would not be here—not like this. Having seen the lack of love in their father, and the excess of it around them, he had come to the rather unsatisfactory conclusion that caring is not an advantage.

As with so many other things, however, his brother had proven him wrong—by near-singlehandedly dismantling Earth's largest crime ring.

Because he cared, both London and the International Community had seen a marked lack of capital crimes—including homicides, arson, and rape. Alone, it is enough to earn his younger brother the Nobel Peace Prize, but Mycroft knows the man will never agree to it.

When they reach their destination, Mycroft stops outside the room, inhaling a particularly deep breath, and leans his shoulder against the wall, keeping his face turned away from the two men behind him.

Immediately, Lestrade steps up to his side. A light touch brushes his shoulder, "Mycroft?"

Concern, he tiredly notes.

Nodding vaguely to the DI, Mycroft inhales again and releases it on a deep breath, "John."

Said ex-army doctor immediately snaps to attention, eyes wide. Mycroft nearly expects a "Sir!" but John murmurs instead, worriedly, "Mycroft…?"

Another breath. His piercing gray eyes fix on the one man who holds the entire world (Mycroft's entire world, at least) in his hands, "Be gentle with him. He…hasn't taken very good care of himself over the past…three years."

"Three years…?" John asks wonderingly.

Beside him, Mycroft feels Lestrade suck in a sharp breath as he, incredibly, comes to the correct conclusion long before the doctor does.

Scotland Yard's DI glances at him sharply, eyes both demanding and pleading at the same time. Mycroft nods, unobtrusively nudging him in the doctor's direction, "I will be fine, Greg," he murmurs.

Lestrade gives a not-entirely-convinced nod and slips into place just beside John as the man carefully adjusts his grip on the medical kit he carries and quietly cracks open the door.

There is an abrupt cessation of movement as three pairs of eyes settle on the room's occupant:

Shallow breathing that hitches every few minutes.

Long legs half-uncovered.

Lanky, too thin body curled in on itself, clearly in pain.

Graceful fingers—violinist fingers—gently gripping the pillow, now tightening, now loosening, as their owner suffers through a bout with dreams.

Unhealthily pale and pallid cheek, nearly as white as the linens it presses against.

Long, dark, and delicate eyelashes fluttering with each second spent in REM sleep.

Limp, tousled black curls strewn across a far too drawn, far too familiar (impossibly familiar) face.

The only catch? Their owner is supposed to be dead.

"Jesus Christ," Lestrade mutters disbelievingly, catching an unconscious John Watson underneath the arm as the doctor's knees abruptly buckle and his legs give way.

End Chapter