Chapter Text
John watched Sherlock fall from the sky, watched him tumble end over end until John was blinded by the flash of cameras and the glare of a harsh desert sun that he'd though he'd left forever. He called out, straining to be heard over the shouted questions and artillery fire, certain that if he just said the right thing, he could stop it all from happening. He couldn't hear his own voice, but his daddy turned toward him, looking him straight in the eyes before plummeting to the ground.
“Daddy!” John shouted, sitting up in bed and wiping the sweat from his face.
He looked around at the strange room, and it all came flooding back to him: Sherlock jumping off the roof of Bart's, reporters hounding his every move, the depression and isolation until Mycroft showed up and flatly announced, “You'll be coming home with me.” Mycroft had known everything to say, each nuance that would compel John to give up control and sit with his knees tucked under his chin whilst Greg packed a bag for him and Mycroft rested a gloved hand on the back of his head. He'd sat nestled between them in the car, disoriented and shaking as Greg reassured him that everything would be all right, whatever all right meant in this new reality he found himself in. John hadn't fought it, hopeful that what Mycroft and Greg provided would be better than what John had done for himself. He'd not been wrong.
John waited for Greg to come in, as he had done the past several nights, sitting at the edge of the bed and rubbing John's back until he fell back to sleep. Instead of Greg's soft rushing footsteps, though, John heard the steady click of shoes on the hardwood floor, and Mycroft soon appeared in the doorway.
“Where's Greg?”
“Greg is sleeping, as you should be,” Mycroft answered, walking over to sit at the edge of the bed.
John squirmed uneasily and pulled the duvet closer. Mycroft's waistcoat and shirtsleeves weren't nearly as comforting as Greg's soft tee shirts. John was scared to lean into them. “I had a nightmare.”
“That's to be expected, given recent events. I'm sure it was very frightening at the time, but there's nothing to be scared about now that it's over.” Mycroft gave him a perfunctory pat on the knee. “You're quite safe here. Lie down and go back to sleep.”
John shook his head, glad that he had not leaned in for a hug from Mycroft. “I want Greg.”
“No. Greg is sleeping.” Mycroft stared at him with the same stern look his daddy had when he forbade John to do something. It made John feel even smaller in a bed that was too large for him and too empty of his daddy. “He had a very difficult night at work and he doesn't need to be woken up.”
They were all having difficult nights, all except Mycroft, who was on Beijing time for the next week and a half. He slept in the late afternoon and early evening, and as long as John was quiet he was allowed to do as he pleased until Greg came home, until last night when Greg hadn't come home at all and Mycroft had got up early to order John takeaway and send him off to bed. If Greg had been there, they could have eaten it together in the blanket fort that John had made for that very purpose, but instead John had sat alone at the table whilst Mycroft carried on a phone conversation in French.
Greg hadn't kissed him goodnight either, and John was feeling the lack of affection keenly. He shifted slightly away from Mycroft and pushed the duvet from his legs as Mycroft looked on suspiciously. It was too late, though. John scrambled away from him and was in the hallway before Mycroft had a chance to grab him. If it had been his daddy, he might have been caught, but Mycroft wasn't as fast. Besides, John would have wanted to get caught by his daddy. He flung open Mycroft and Greg's door and jumped in into bed beside Greg, pulling the duvet up over his head.
Greg started awake, then softened when he saw John hiding beside him. “What's the matter?”
“I had a nightmare,” John answered, and Greg gave him the kisses and cuddles he had wanted in the beginning.
Mycroft's footsteps approached, and John buried his face into Greg's shoulder.
“I specifically told you not to wake Greg up.”
“It's okay,” Greg answered, carding his fingers through John's hair. “He can wake me up if he's upset.”
“It's not okay. You need your sleep, and he needs to follow instructions.”
Greg didn't answer, but he continued to massage John's scalp and rub his back until John's breath deepened and he lay limp in Greg's arms. He was too comfortable to move, and he floated, soaking in the warmth of Greg's body as they lay together. Mycroft's soft whisper drifted into his consciousness.
“You constantly allow him to do things I've forbidden, and it weakens my authority.”
“Then don't be a git, and I won't have to,” Greg answered, and John's ears perked up immediately. It was not a conversation he was supposed to hear. “He's scared, and he needs comfort.”
“He's awake, and he's listening,” Mycroft said, and Greg pulled back slightly.
“Are you awake?” he asked, and John nuzzled back into him in reply. “Sorry. Mycroft is not a git. I shouldn't have said that.”
John didn't care whether Mycroft was a git or not. He just wanted Greg to keep cuddling him. When he heard Mycroft's footsteps getting closer, he clutched harder at Greg, just in case Mycroft was going to send him back to his room. Instead, though, Mycroft placed a kiss at his temple, then kissed Greg as well. “Good night,” he whispered.
John settled himself comfortably in Greg's arms. It wasn't good yet, but at least it was getting better.
The bedroom was silent when John arose. Greg hadn't woken him for breakfast, and John made his way toward the kitchen to see whether there was anything he could make for himself. He was opening the refrigerator when Mycroft spoke behind him.
“Good morning, John.”
John spun around and gasped, feeling like he'd been caught in the midst of something naughty, even though he hadn't broken any rules that he knew of. Mycroft's scrutinizing gaze only made the feeling worse.
“Where's Greg?”
Mycroft's face tightened slightly. “Greg left early for work. What would you like for breakfast?”
Overwhelmed by the unfamiliarity of it all, John hugged himself and looked at the floor.
“Would you like toast and jam?” he asked, and John nodded. He really wanted Weetabix, but Mycroft and Greg didn't have any. Greg had promised that he'd get some for them, but he hadn't had a chance yet. John was scared to tell Mycroft, who was walking past him to the cupboard. “Wash your hands and sit down.”
Sitting at the breakfast table, John watched Mycroft curiously. He'd never imagined Mycroft doing something so mundane as making breakfast. It seemed incongruous with the man he knew, and he half expected Mycroft to make a cryptic phone call and wait for toast and jam to mysteriously appear on the table. Instead, Mycroft put the bread the in toaster just like any normal person would do. After it was done, he spread a thin layer of jam over it, and set the plate in front of John. John poked at it, not very hungry and unwilling to eat as Mycroft towered over him.
“After you've finished, please come to my office. I'd like to talk to you.”
John stuffed a piece of toast in his mouth, and Mycroft left him alone.
He took his time, but soon enough he was setting his plate in the sink and dragging his feet as he headed toward Mycroft's office. Mycroft had never been unkind to John, never lost his temper or done anything that would give John a reason to be scared of him, but something about him made John want to hide away. Sometimes Mycroft's expression or turn of phrase was so close to Sherlock's that John felt like he was staring into his daddy's eyes just to lose him all over again. John stopped just outside the door.
“Ah, John, come in, please.” John crept in, looking around for the first time. Greg always diverted him before he got too close to Mycroft's office, whispering that Mycroft was working and shouldn't be disturbed. John had tried to look inside when Mycroft was sleeping, but the door had always been locked. The office was disappointingly boring, nothing like the Bond villain lair that John had hoped to see. He wondered why Mycroft kept it locked at all.
The room was just as tidy as any other in Mycroft and Greg's home, with most surfaces clear of everything but the bare essentials. A box of Legos on a side table caught his eye, and he looked closer. It sat next to two zigsaw puzzles, an activity book, and a box of crayons.
“Those are for you,” Mycroft confirmed from behind his desk. “Greg and I will both be working longer hours these next few days, and I thought you could use something to occupy yourself. Consider it an advance reward for your good behaviour today.”
John wondered how good he would have to be. “Thank you.”
“I'm sure we'd all like to see you happy here. Sit down, please.” Mycroft indicated the large wing back chair across from his desk, and John sunk down into it. He pulled his feet up into the seat with him, trying to get comfortable, and instead feeling swallowed up by the large chair.
“As you know, my brother entrusted me with keeping you safe, and as he didn't go into specifics, I can only assume that he expected me to use my best judgement.” John fingered the hem of his tee shirt. He knew his daddy had told Mycroft to look after him, but John hadn't known anything about it until Mycroft had shown up to take him away. He still didn't understand what the exact nature of his relationship with Mycroft was supposed to be or, more importantly, whether Mycroft had even wanted him. “To that end, I've brought you here, and I'm quite confident that you are safer now than you have been at any other point in your life.”
Mycroft paused, as if John were supposed to say something, but John didn't know what it was. He chewed on his bottom lip and adjusted his body in the chair, curling his knees up to his chin as Mycroft continued speaking.
“That said, I understand that this has been a very difficult time for you, and that the change of environment has been compounding factor. So, though I may not seem sympathetic to you and your situation, please know that I am. I'm using every resource at my disposal to ensure that this is a comfortable environment for you.” John let his mind wander as he sucked on the tips of his fingers, something he knew Mycroft didn't like but was somehow unable to stop himself from doing. “Clearly Greg is better at supporting you emotionally, but if there's anything I can do to make this adjustment easier for you, I hope you will let me know.”
He paused again, and John looked up at the silence. Mycroft was staring at him expectantly. “John, do you understand?”
John nodded, then stopped to think about it and shook his head.
“What don't you understand?”
Biting lightly at his knuckles, John considered the question. “All the words you said,” he finally answered around the fingers in his mouth.
Mycroft stood to walk around the desk toward John, his face unreadable, and John shrunk back in his chair, turning to hide his own face in the soft leather.
“Stand up, please.”
After peeking out to see Mycroft towering over him, John shook his head quickly.
“John, do as I say.”
Slowly, John unfolded himself from the chair and stood before Mycroft, staring at his bare feet up toe to toe with Mycroft's polished leather shoes. He didn't react when Mycroft gently pulled his fingers from his mouth and lightly held his shoulders.
“John, I want you to be happy here. Is there anything I can do to make you happier?”
John shook his head and waited. He didn't dare look up to Mycroft's face, afraid of the expression he might see there. He wasn't prepared when Mycroft leaned forward to kiss him right above his forehead. It was achingly familiar and alien at the same time. He was so caught up in the feeling that he didn't notice his own tears until Mycroft pulled back from him.
“Why are you crying?”
“That's how Daddy used to kiss me,” John sobbed.
“Ah,” Mycroft said, as if he suddenly knew everything there was to know about John, and maybe he did. With one hand on the back of John's head and other between his shoulder blades, he pulled John tight against his chest, letting John sob out his grief into his shoulder.
When he'd cried himself out, John wriggled out of Mycroft's grasp and wiped at his eyes. “I'm sorry.”
“There's no need to apologise,” Mycroft answered, straightening his clothes and discreetly averting his eyes as John pulled himself together. “It can be difficult to keep your composure at times like this.”
Mycroft never seemed to have difficulty keeping his composure. Sometimes it seemed that he wasn't even sad that his own brother had died. Greg said that he just worked harder when he was very sad, and John could admit that Mycroft had been working very hard indeed since John had moved in. In fact, by the time John had got his breathing back to normal, Mycroft was already sitting at his desk looking through a file.
“Go wash your face and get dressed,” he said. “Afterwards, you can take your things to your room and play. If you'd rather stay here, you may, but you'll need to be quiet, and I'll need to send you from the room occasionally.”
John considered his options as Mycroft immersed himself in the files before him. The gifts were exactly what he would have chosen for himself, though how Mycroft knew was a mystery. The ghost of his touch still lingered on John's body.
“I'll stay here with you.”