Out of the Storm
AN: A post-HLV au.
"You look like hell."
Beaten and exhausted, resigned to death, the familiar voice seemed almost an hallucination to him. Not worth the heartache and effort to lift his head and discover it was not real.
But then, a firm hand gripped his bony shoulder. "Come brother. It is time you returned home."
Surely it was a dream. Months he had spent running, fighting a day to day battle to survive. Minute to minute fighting not to lose his sanity. Had they finally broken past his strongest defenses?
The sound of an old key turning a wretched, rusty lock, grated loudly in the dank room. And then his hand was free. He groaned in pain as feeling swept down the abused limb, nerves alight with fire as blood rushed along his veins. The other arm was similarly freed and he fell forward, the cement floor rushing up to meet him. He braced himself for the pain, but it never came.
Beneath his cheek was a soft fabric and firm heartbeat. Tears leaked out of his eyes and he finally, finally found the courage to look up into the gaunt, broken, but very real face of his brother.
"Oh, Sherlock, what have they done to you?"
oOo
Three Days Later
Mycroft stared out the window into the inky black sky and absentmindedly swirled the liquid in his whiskey glass. His thoughts were as dark as the night and as low as the earth miles beneath the rumble of the plane's engines.
He had almost been too late. Had he been even a day behind, they would have found his brother's body. Executed. Seven months they had searched since he had gone missing. Three years since he had left London. A mission that promised death in 6 months had turned into so much more. As long as he could, Mycroft had intervened on Sherlock's behalf, extending his mission and prolonging what many called the inevitable. What Mycroft considered the impossible. He would do, and had done, everything in his far-reaching power to bring his brother home. But in those 7 months, Mycroft wondered if he had lost his brother, his best friend (indeed his only friend), and condemned him to his death. The recriminations battered him daily.
And it had taken 37 months, but they succeeded. But at what cost to Sherlock.
Mycroft removed his gaze from the somber sky to the man sitting across from him. Cleaned of the grime, sweat, and blood, Sherlock looked far better than he had when Mycroft had found him. But he nursed a long list of injuries, not to mention the untold mental damage. It was as if he was scared to believe he was safe; perhaps he believed this to be just the eye of the hurricane, the storm waiting to pull him back out to sea. He had yet to speak, refusing to be debriefed or say anything to Mycroft. The closest he had come was an almost silent whisper when Mycroft had helped him walk out of his prison and into the warm safety of MI6's top medics.
"Thank you."
oOo
The jolt of the landing seemed to bring Sherlock out of his stupor and an almost panicked look flashed across his face.
"Dr and Mrs Watson have been summoned. Mummy and father will be waiting at Baker Street, their sensibilities not what they used to be, watching the littlest Watson."
Sherlock schooled his features and stood, barely swaying as the plane taxied to the appointed spot. From the window, Mycroft could see the Watsons waiting outside the tinted car.
The steps released and the air seal broke, the sound piercing the tense silence. Mycroft stayed seated as Sherlock made his way out of the plane and into the London air.
Knocking back the remainder of his drink, Mycroft closed his eyes and took a moment to calm his thoughts, shutting down the reel of self-recrimination for the past and deductions about the future; it was time to face the present.
Mary Watson had Sherlock locked in an unbreakable hug, as John fought back tears, his hands clenched at his sides. The two were strong, stronger than most people Mycroft had encountered. And they loved his brother almost as much as he did.
"I presume Baker Street is still in one piece," Sherlock was saying as Mycroft approached. Mary released him with a kiss to his cheek and brushed away her tears.
"And waiting for you," Mycroft interjected. John glanced back at the car, unsubtle as ever. Mary, on the other hand, kept her eyes locked on Sherlock.
Mycroft nodded to the waiting driver and swallowed almost nervously.
The door slowly opened and Molly Hooper stepped out. Not much had changed about the young woman during Sherlock's exile; she still wore the same pea coat, striped scarf, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, a few new lines around her eyes perhaps. But nothing that any normal person would notice.
But Sherlock wasn't normal.
His gaze roved over her from her shoes to the top of her head. Within seconds of her appearance, he had seen everything.
A heavy silence fell as Sherlock stared at her, frozen. Mycroft waited, his concern growing with every passing second.
Then, from behind Molly, a small voice called out.
"Pappa?"
Molly flinched and closed her eyes, then slowly turned around.
Having escaped the confines of her car seat, the littlest guest to Sherlock's welcome stood with one hand on the open door and the other in her mouth.
Her eyes, a perfect mimicry of Sherlock's, were locked on the tall man as the wind blew her soft brown curls into a frenzy.
Molly reached down and picked up her daughter, gently tugging her thumb out of her mouth. The little girl wouldn't look away from her father, the two staring at each other with wide eyes and the same unreadable expression.
"I show her your photograph," Molly spoke softly by way of explanation. "She keeps one under her pillow and says good night to you before she goes to sleep." Her voice was thick with emotion. "I never made any promises to her about you coming home. Or even wanting us if you did... But I thought you had a right to know."
Mycroft looked between them, at Sherlock who was frozen by this unexpected development and then at Molly, who was brushing the hair away from her daughter's cheek and refusing to look at Sherlock for fear of rejection.
But then Sherlock moved. One step closer, almost as if jerked by a string. Another step. Slowly, he closed the distance.
"What's her name?" He asked when he was just out of reach, his gaze riveted on the little girl.
Molly sniffed and smiled softly. "Annie."
A faint smile touched Sherlock's face, the most emotion that had broken through since Mycroft had found him. "After my mother."
Molly finally looked at him. "It seemed only right."
That she bear some connection to her father's side, if that father never made it home.
Her unspoken words were unmistakable.
Sherlock suddenly seemed almost unsure. Gesturing hesitantly to Annie, he asked, "May I?"
Molly nodded and carefully passed Annie into his arms. The little girl barely noticed being passed around. She tilted her head, studying her father, their faces barely a hands width apart.
A shy smile, so like her mother's, lit her face. "Pappa," she said and hugged him, her little arms wrapping around his neck as she rested her head right beneath his chin.
"My Annie," he whispered, his face crumpling. Tears filled his eyes and trailed down his cheeks, whether of joy, relief, or pain, Mycroft did not know. But as Sherlock held onto his daughter as if she were the lifeline towing him back to the safety of shore, Mycroft knew that he would be okay. They all had a long way to go to rebuild and start again. But the storm itself had passed.
