Six Months

It had been almost six months since Sherlock's exile and subsequent departure, four months since he'd last heard from his brother in person, three months since he'd last spoken with him through calls, and two months since his brother had been officially declared MIA. The mission he'd been assigned was a difficult one. They wouldn't have asked for a Holmes to personally handle it had it not been something beyond the scope of the normal people, but this one was, statistically speaking, almost literally impossible. By his own calculations, Sherlock would be set to fail after six months.

Over the course of that time, Sherlock had informed him that he'd been taken captive seven times, four times due his own planning and thrice due to ambush. He'd escaped unaided four times, managed to sabotage operations from within two times (once with a home-made bomb he'd brewed in the toilet, once by poisoning a water tank), and had only ever needed assistance once. What he'd had to discover through his own sources was that, in addition to the seven Sherlock had informed him of, he'd been taken captive an additional three times, in which two of his escapes could be credited to the mass escapes as staged by others around him while the last barely even counted as a capture, given that he had literally slipped his bonds while they were taking him to their prisons, sneaking through the jungles when no one was looking.

His brother was as slippery as the quicksilver that colored his eyes and the fact filled him with pride. But he couldn't deny that he ached to try and pull each and every connection he had in order to get him back at his side, on this side of the continent. Despite having already attempted so, he has wanted to try again each night that's ended without word from or about his brother.

And so, when his phone rings and he sees the call is from one 'Altamont', he does not hesitate.

"Mycroft."

After all that time, it was a shock to hear his brother's voice. More so given how exhausted he sounded.

"Hello, brother mine," he says, soft. "How goes the mission?"

Sherlock's breath came out in short, harsh, rasps, slow and stuttering. In the background, he could hear screaming, fire, burning. Was that gunfire or thunder that was sounding in the distance? The connection was weak; what should've been obvious was frustratingly unclear.

"It's done."

"What happened?" he breathes. "What happened?"

"They're dead," he coughs out. "Hermann von Bork. Baron von Herling. You were right. They were the ones responsible for the Altamont attacks. I'd infiltrated their base," he narrates. "Disguised myself as one of their men. Then I destroyed all the impertinent - impertinent pieces of equipment before setting the rest on - on fire." His voice was starting to waver; he was gasping for breath every second word. "That was when they found me."

"Did they hurt you?" he asks, suddenly feeling very young, very small. The answer was obvious. There was an urge - an irrational, childish urge - to demand names, to seek retribution. To have heads on pikes. But, instead, he asks: "Was it them?"

"They - " Sherlock grunts. "We fought. I killed them. Then I fell."

There's a brief pause in which there is not much to hear but the sound of Sherlock gasping for breath, his energy apparently spent. The sound of fire seems to grow ever closer.

"How high?" he has to ask. "From how high did you fall?"

"Four floors," he grunts. "Off a balcony. Landed badly on a rosebush."

"What is the extent of your injuries?" he asks urgently, already ready to research, to recall, the most effective first aid for whatever damage his brother has had inflicted onto himself. "Will you be able to treat yourself?"

He hears his brother take a deep breath, just a bit stronger now.

"Comminuted fractures in the right leg. Oblique fracture in right arm," his brother rattles off, sounding just a bit steadier now. "Three ribs cracked. Stab wound in abdominal area. Bleeding is non-arterial but..." he has to pause to take a breath, his earlier energy having left him after the initial outburst. "Massive blood loss has occurred. I was unconscious," he adds almost hesitantly. "For some time after falling."

For a few moments, Mycroft cannot speak. There is nothing to say. Nothing to do. Nothing that could be done. Beneath the heavy, rasping sound of his brother's breaths, the sound of fire, of burning, splintering wood, seemed to grow louder and louder.

"The fire," he manages. "How close are you to the fire?"

He hears Sherlock grunt. "Two metres," he says, after some time. "Rolled down the hill when I fell."

He swallows. "You've succeeded?"

"Obv - " he coughs, the sound wet and heavy. "Obviously," he says, with some force. "I've succeeded. They're gone."

"Well done," he acknowledges numbly. "Congratulations."

For a few moments, there is, once more, nothing but the sound of Sherlock's tired breaths, the sound of the fires burning in background. The sounds of screaming had long since abated. Then, finally, it is Sherlock who breaks the silence.

"I lost my cyanide pills," he confesses, his breathing ragged, heavy. "I lost my gun in the fight. I lost my knife when I fell." His brother let out a deep, choking breath. "It's cold, Mycroft."

He closes his eyes. "I know," he says, and there are a million things he wishes he could say, a million things he wishes he could do. Behind the sound of his brother's breath, the crackling of flames seem to grow louder and louder.

"I'm cold."

"It will be alright, Sherlock," he finds himself saying. "It will all be over soon."

There's a sound that could've been a laugh. He imagines his brother choking on his own blood and hates himself for it. "'Over... soon...'" Sherlock parrots, his voice regaining just a bit of his old disdain. "God, Mycroft... that's dull... even for you..."

He manages a delicate sniff. "You say I'm dull when the ones you call your 'best friends' are the dullest people to ever grace this good country."

"John's not dull," he protests, albeit only weakly, haltingly. "At the very least, he's much less dull than everyone else. And Mary - " he coughs, the motion seeming to send him shuddering, his grasp on the phone shaking before he recovers. "Mary is an ex-assassin... that's... less dull..."

"That does not take away from the fact that, together, they are the most sickeningly simpering display of marital bliss to ever grace my surveillance feeds," he says simply. "Oftentimes, I wonder whether it's still worth the effort to have them watched."

"You're - " Sherlock had to stop to take in a short gasp of breath. " - still having them watched?"

"Of course. As you yourself would have done," he answers. "For their own protection," he adds with a nod, despite knowing it wouldn't be seen. "Mrs. Watson has many enemies. John has inherited many of yours."

"Oh." For once, the silence on his brother's side of the line doesn't seem to be from exhaustion. Knowing that made him feel almost, for a moment, like himself again. like his brother were safe somewhere far, far from eastern Europe and its fires. The moment ends all too quickly. "Thank you," he says hesitantly.

He bows his head, even knowing it wouldn't be seen. "Only for you, little brother," he murmurs. Then, without meaning to, without planning to, he continues:

"Mary Watson has given birth," he lets out, all a rush. "The girl's name is Rosamund Mary. John Watson has named you godfather."

He has to keep speaking, he has to keep hearing Sherlock's voice. So long as he kept talking, so long as Sherlock is talking, Sherlock is not going to go away. He has to believe it. It is irrational but he has to believe it. He has to believe in something. He is a rational man but if there was ever a time to believe in something as irrational as a miracle, it was this.

Even obviously exhausted, his brother still found the strength to sound surprised. "Godfather?" Sherlock's voice sounded befuddled. "Me?"

"Yes, brother dear." he has to force himself to sound normal. "It's - it's common for people to - to name their best friend the caretaker of their child."

Sherlock once again let out what now passed as a laugh for him. "Won't have much... opportunity for that, now," he says, tone sardonic. Then, there was a quiet, quiet pause during which Mycroft had to close his eyes, count back from ten and mentally recall a list he'd hated himself for preparing all those months ago, when Sherlock had first left the country, when Sherlock speaks again. "Will you... substitute...?"

His voice is very soft, very weak. Mycroft aches to take any one of the many phones hidden within his desk and call for a helicopter, a jet, anything that could help his brother but he doesn't do so. He is a rational man. Miracles were an impossibility. There was no more time and it was far too late and everyone was too far away and he couldn't bear to put down the phone with his brother's voice, wouldn't have done so for knowledge of the world in its entirety, wouldn't have done so if the queen or an emperor or God Himself had ordered him to do so.

"Of course," he says, blinking. "I will do everything in my power to assure the Watsons a long and - and prosperous life, as well as you yourself would have done." It is difficult, so very difficult, to keep his voice as it was. "Same with Lestrade and Mrs Hudson and Miss - Miss Hooper. I swear it."

He hears his brother swallow, loud and pained. "Make... sure of it," he rasps.

For a few seconds, Sherlock's end of the line is quiet save for the sound of his own breathing, the sound of fire crackling. Then he speaks.

"It's beautiful here," he breathes, voice filled with an exhausted reverence. "Sparks going up into the sky. Like fireworks in reverse."

His hand is shaking. "I'm sure it is," he agrees. "Perhaps we could arrange for a bonfire, upon your return to Baker Street."

There is a quiver in his own breath. Before now, he might've found such displays pathetic.

Sherlock makes a gurgling sound he realizes is a weak, drowned laugh. "Don't be ridiculous, Mycroft," he rasps. "We both know... how this is going to end..."

He swallows and hopes that Sherlock did not hear. "I could arrange for one anyway," he suggests. "Call it an anniversary gift for Mummy and Daddy."

His brother manages a snort. "Fifty-six years," he drawls. "Not exactly... a milestone."

Despite himself, he grins without meaning to. It is wide and hurts his cheeks and feels painfully unnatural on his face. "Some would say otherwise."

"They're wrong."

Then, unexpectedly, Sherlock laughs, as clear and strong as he had when he'd been in London, in safety, among his friends and people who cared for him. "God, Mycroft," he chuckles. "The last thing i'm ever going to hear and it's you." He laughs some more and the sounds of fire, burning and destruction that has been at the backdrop of his side of their conversation all seem to quiet, all seem to fade into the background. "What a joke."

Sherlock's breathing begins to slow.

"What a joke..."

He hears the sound of plastic clattering against hard stone. The phone must've fallen from his brother's grasp. There are no sounds to indicate that his brother has made any attempts to pick it back up. He hears his brother's breathing loudly against his own ear; the phone must've fallen within the vicinity of Sherlock's mouth.

"Over soon..." Sherlock murmurs, only barely audible and only then because Mycroft would sooner die than let his brother go unheard.

"Yes," he echoes in between his own shaking breaths. "It will all be over soon."

Sherlock's breathing seems to come easier. The sounds of fire quiet and the screams fade. The wind is howling in eastern Europe, loud and cold and strong.

Mycroft closes his eyes.

Then Sherlock takes a deep breath, the sound almost liquid, and releases it in a single, great sigh. He thinks he might have heard relief in his voice but he doesn't want to think about it, doesn't want to consider it. There was a word, he thinks, his brother had only half-said as he'd released that breath but he doesn't know what it was. The fact that even he had not been able to comprehend it would haunt him after.

Sherlock does not breathe any more after. The phone is silent.

Mycroft clutches the phone to his ear and forces himself to listen, holding his own breath. There is nothing to hear but fire and smoke, wood splintering and glass shattering. There are no more voices to hear, no more breathing to listen to. Mycroft only presses the phone closer to his ear, praying for the first time since he'd been a child, standing voiceless, motionless and breathless in the centre of his office, waiting. Only waiting. Waiting for his brother to speak.

He remains standing there, waiting, phone still pressed against his ear, long after the tone signalling the disconnection has replaced the sounds of eastern Europe, destruction, and his brother.

But there is nothing.