Prompting Part XXIV

[sherlockbbc_fic]

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Re: Caged Sherlock [Fill(To Be Titled) 2/?]

[anonymous]

[Evening]

Mycroft arrived home quite late that day, partly because he'd had so much to do, but mostly because he preferred to be at the Club than be at home.
"Sherlock?" He called out. No reply.
He strolled over to the living room and found it empty before starting up the stairs. He stood in front of Sherlock's bedroom for a moment, examining the door with a sense of nostalgia. On the door was a hand-drawn sign which read "Matters of Importance in Progress. DO NOT DISTURB". On the lower half of the door was a patched-up hole, the result of an experiment with a shot-gun gone wrong... or gone right as far as Sherlock was concerned. Mycroft smiled as he recalled his mother's furious reaction. Mother was the only woman who could ever make Sherlock sheepish and he had apologized for the mess profusely that day.
Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Mycroft rapped his knuckles against the door.
"Sherlock are you in there?" He called, and after gaining no reply he twisted the handle and pushed open the door.
He immediately let out a sigh. Sherlock wasn't there, he must have gone out.
"God damnit Sherlock." Mycroft muttered to himself. He felt overwhelming sad and angry. Ever since his major cock-up in telling Moriarty all about his brother Mycroft had felt very protective of Sherlock, partly through a sense of obligation. But there was only so much he could do, and short of tying him up to stop him from leaving, the best Mycroft could do was to hope Sherlock would do the right thing and remain in doors, where it was safe. Obviously Sherlock had not remained in doors, and while the thought of him being discovered outside worried Mycroft there was nothing he could do, Sherlock was a grown man now.
Mycroft stood in the bedroom for a little while longer, observing the objects it contained. Everything was essentially just as it had been when they were younger. The single bed, the small table in the corner, upon which stood a very well equipped chemical laboratory. On one side of the room stood a great oak wardrobe, beside which stood an even grander bookcase, filled with all kinds of books ranging from scientific non-fiction to thrillers. Every type of book, except romance.
His brothers sexuality was something Mycroft had heard questioned many times. Many assumed Sherlock abstained from sex, others pondered whether Sherlock was gay, or even asexual. Mycroft did not know the answer to these questions, nor did he particularly care. Sherlock had never been interested in romance, sex or any relationship that involved the two. Sherlock had never brought anyone home, not even a school friend, although Mycroft suspected that this was because Sherlock did not have any school friends. In fact, thinking about it, Mycroft was certain that John was the only close friend Sherlock had ever had.
With this thought came another wave of great sadness. Yes, John had been a great friend to Sherlock. Had been, until Mycroft had made a grave mistake which resulted in his brother having no choice but to fake his own death for the protection of his closest friends.
Mycroft wondered whether he might ever forgive himself for the mistake he made, before taking another deep sigh, turning, leaving the room and closing the door gently behind him. He walked back down the stairs and removed his coat, placing it; along with his umbrella, back in its usual place by the door. He then strode down the corridor to the kitchen to make himself something to eat. Whilst in the process of warming some soup he heard the front door open and then close, before his brother entered the kitchen...