An Unusual Situation

The blackmailed betrayal

By the time John had located Sherlock and Mycroft, he was exhausted. After a lengthy explanation to Lestrade as to why there was a drugged criminal sleeping handcuffed in John's bed, he'd driven with Molly for what felt like hours tracking down Sherlock.

They'd found them, along with Lucy and Ludovic in an old pub, eating some greasy chips and looking extremely disorientated.

"What in the..." John had muttered as he neared them, his eyes suddenly heavy.

Mycroft had been arm wrestling with Ludovic, Lucy was staring at them creepily, and Sherlock was rolled up in a ball, facing the window.

Molly began to make her way to Sherlock-which wasn't a surprise- and only stopped when John grabbed her arm and whispered, "I'll take care of him, make sure Lucy is okay."

He'd found it hard to not coo, or at least tilt his head in seduction at the now four year old Sherlock. His hair was in need of a cut, it's curly locks moping across his soft face, and his small body was positioned in a way that made him look like he'd just been told his squeaky toy had accidentally been plunged down the drain.

Now, as John sat in a cab, headed back to 221 with a tired Sherlock and an grumpy Mycroft, John couldn't help but want to take his jacket off and wrap it around Sherlock's small body. He could visibly see how hard Sherlock was fighting to keep awake, his head kept bopping against John's arm.

"Sherlock," John whispered softly, reaching his arm around Sherlock to balance him, "go to sleep, eh? It's okay, I highly doubt there's going to be some mind blowing break in the case you'll miss if you sleep for a bit."

Sherlock looked up at him, a stubborn expression in his large eyes, "John, I don't need...sleep. I need...a clue case! Case clue...you know what I'm saying. You see...but you don't...look with your eyes...you look with your...sleep. I don't...I don't need sleep."

Mycroft snickered, then cursed loudly as John snatched the umbrella out of Mycroft's hands and whacked him with it, "He's not going to go to sleep," Mycroft grumbled, looking down at his younger brother with a look John couldn't decipher. There was a longing in his eyes, as if he wanted to pick his brother up and wrap him in a hug, but also a firm, protective set in his mouth. As if he wanted to toughen Sherlock up while making sure no one got near him.

They pulled into 221B, and as John bickered with Sherlock about carrying him inside, Mycroft exited the cab, making his way to the door.

He didn't want to be at his brothers little den, he knew they'd be much more protected at his office. Yet John, being his persistent short self, had insisted on bringing Sherlock back home. At least he'd managed to convince Ludovic and Lucy to go away.

He pulled his suit coat close to his body as the piercing winter wind sliced through his skin and into his bones. As he did so, he thought back to the conversation he'd had with Ludovic about Jamen as they'd settled themselves into the pub.

"I can't believe all the fuss you're all making over Cassius. He's a very dangerous man, but nothing we can't deal with." Mycroft had told him while forcing Sherlock to eat some potatoes.

"You don't understand, mate," Ludovic had said, making sure Lucy and Sherlock weren't listening, "He's not like the rest of us, I've seen him. Watching him do experiments, he treats the animals he test's like math problems, as if they're not living. He locked himself in his study for a week once, testing different chemicals on himself. Can still remember the screaming...something's not right in that mans brain, and if he want's your brother...no matter what you do, he's going to end up getting him."

Mycroft still had an uneasy feeling in his mind as he went over Ludovic's words. He'd always been worried about his brother, he was always doing idiotic things while being smart at the same time, but this was different. He thought back earlier that day when Sherlock had called him "Myc," He hadn't done that since they were kids. Was it possible that it wasn't just his body being de-aged? What if it was his mind as well?

"Psst, Mycroft." Mycroft froze, tilting his head to the side as Greg Lestrade emerged from the shadows.

"Greg? What on earth are you-"

"Come here!"

If it was anyone else, he'd have told him to "piss off" but considering his relationship with the police officer (*wink wink nudge nudge*) he suspected that it was socially required to oblige to someones requests when one was in a...well, it didn't matter.

He skipped down the steps, meeting Lestrade's side with a stiff head nod. He hated having to greet people, much less interact with them. Even if it was someone he could tolerate.

"Mycroft, I need your help, I need you to come with me," Greg whispered, "It's about Sherlock."

Mycroft's heart skipped a beat. He quickly rolled his eyes at his human like reaction, "What about Sherlock?"

"There's someone-someone who says he's-ill," Greg was jittery, as if he'd taken his eighteenth cup of coffee, "He say's he can help, but he-he needs your help and I'm supposed to take you to him."

Mycroft glanced past Greg to where John was running his hands through Sherlock's hair as he held him close to his chest, cooing him to sleep as he paid the cab. Greg didn't know about Sherlock's de-aging, which meant there was a possibility Jamen didn't know about him de-aging further.

The whole thing was clearly a trick from Jamen Cassius, get someone close to Mycroft to convince him to surrender Sherlock to him. But how had he known about Greg? What had Greg told him?

Ignoring Greg would surely lead to something bad, he was probably being blackmailed into getting Mycroft, perhaps someone he cared about had been taken hostage. But he couldn't just walk into Jamen's hands.

"Myc, please," Greg grabbed Mycroft's arm firmly, "I care about Sherlock, he makes it sound as if Sherlock is dying. He says he's the only one who can help."

Mycroft met the man's eyes. There wasn't any lie hidden beneath, he knew Greg cared for Sherlock, so did anyone else who would take the time to see past his stupidity and arrogance. Deep down, Sherlock was irritatingly likable. From a non-social, non-human sort of way. Besides...Mycroft would do anything for Sherlock if it meant saving him, of course Jamen would have dark intentions, but if he could just trick him into giving Mycroft the antidote, maybe...

"Mycroft! Stop lurking in the shadows like a weirdo and come open the door! Sherlock's cold!" John called from the front door. He must've been unable to see Lestrade.

"Sherlock?" Greg moved away from Mycroft, probably to look for Sherlock to make sure he was okay, but Mycroft pulled him back so he couldn't see John and his young brother.

Mycroft gripped his beloved umbrella, meeting Greg's frantic eyes, "Very well. I'll come with you."

Greg nodded, and as the two slipped away into the street, Mycroft felt fear. It was an emotion he hated, an emotion he wasn't used to. He wasn't afraid for himself, surprisingly. Maybe for the first time he was afraid for others. He was afraid for Sherlock, in case he got hurt, for John, if he had to go through loosing Sherlock again and for Greg, for all he'd been put through just because he'd known the Holmes brothers.

He quite disliked feeling things like this, but now, he held onto the fear as the dark black van pulled up next to him. He held onto it as he stepped inside, Greg right behind him. He held onto it because, he had a feeling he'd need it. He had to hold onto the fear because if he didn't, there may be no hope for his brother and his colleagues.

Hey! I am SO SO sorry, this update took WEEKS (k, a week and a few days, but still). But here it is! I'm probably going to edit this chapter around, some parts don't feel like they flow well, but I'm super glad you guys stuck through my stupidly slow writing to read this!!! I really hope you liked it, and happy holidays!!!!