[The taxi-driver gives Mycroft, who's basically wearing a three-piece suit (he was a bit overzealous when it came to that sort of thing), an odd look as he speeds away from the seedy building.

Mycroft covers his face with a handkerchief as he picks his way through the sordid place. Good God, what did you get yourself into, Sherlock? By now his theories had been confirmed, and his stomach had sank to somewhere in the vicinity of the ground floor, as he climbs the stairs to the third, continuing his search. He does his best to avoid the attention of any of the denizens, most were too high or sedated to really give him any trouble, though he does get some confused looks.]

Sherlock?

[He finally spots the familiar dark curls and runs towards the teenager. His heart hammers in his chest, stomach twisted in knots, inwardly panicking--what were they going to tell their parents? How did this even happen? And the guilt--the guilt that this was somehow his fault, by not paying attention to Sherlock, by leaving him to his own devices as he soared through school and through his career.

And a nagging feeling that perhaps something worse, something deeper that was broken inside Sherlock, may have been the cause for this. That Eurus and Victor had left scars that Sherlock could never name, but always felt.

Mycroft takes off his suit jacket, and moves to place it on top of his little brother. Seeing him like this was awful, it truly was.]

I'm here, Sherlock. What happened?