Hello again!

This is the long overdue written result of a PM by paula. who was asking for Mycroft in "His Last Vow" after Sherlock's break-in in Magnussen's office. (I am sorry for the eternity it took me in the end, and I hope you like it). This story is set after "The Folly of Two Men" and fits with it, but it's absolutely not necessary to have read the other one first. It did grow rather long, but bear with me. 3 parts in total.

Oh, and to avoid unnecessary confusion: Andrea is supposedly Anthea's real name, so I decided to simply go with it.

Naturally, I don't own characters etc., just toying around.

Enjoy.


The Inescapable Mistake of Caring

1

A Brother's Heart

-I-

It was, according to Mycroft Holmes's firmest beliefs, a capital mistake to theorise without a sufficient amount of data. Countless times he had reminded his little brother of this fact, and yet it was exactly what he himself had succumbed to doing this very night.

Naturally, once more because of his brother; naturally, his brother caused his fingers to tap, in an unusual display of nervousness, onto his thigh, caused his so perfectly ordered thoughts to spiral out of control for the time being.

This time, however, the characteristic anger that usually accompanied Mycroft's exasperation whenever his brother had got himself into one or the other predicament once more was missing, had been dispelled by the cold, hard ball of pure anxiety in the pit of his stomach, a lump that threatened to make his limbs quiver and his voice and composure waver.

His fear for his brother's life left, for once, no room for any other manifests of sentiment.

There was a chance of estimatedly 57 percent, he had calculated with what little data he had while for the second time reminding his chauffeur to ignore unnecessary traffic rules, that his brother was about to die.

Had he been himself, in full and absolute control of the great powers of his brain, of his mind, had he succeeded in allowing reason to prevail instead of emotion and instinct, he would have dismissed his calculation immediately, would have abandoned it instantaneously for its being faulty, doomed to prove wrong for the sheer lack of hard facts that would have granted him to reasonably predict the outcome of this night.

As it was, in the dark of the night and on his way to possibly his brother's deathbed, Mycroft Holmes had nothing else to cling to but a chance of 43 percent - a chance being seriously jeopardised by a bullet wound to the chest, high probability of internal bleeding, the possbility of the bullet having pierced his brother's heart - that his so stubborn, foolish little brother would not surrender to such a commonplace approach of death.

He did not, despite his awareness that balance of probability was against his brother, hesitate to accept the third call from his personal assistant in that night within a matter of seconds after his phone had rung.

"Yes," he greeted her, his voice, to his relief, still steady, not yet betraying any of the fear that had infested his brain and heart and continued to refuse to be ejected. Relief that would, most likely, be shattered any moment now, because Andrea intended to inform him that Sherlock had died, for real, this time. And it would, as Mycroft was perfectly aware of as well, be a direct result of his failure to stop his brother from going after Charles Augustus Magnussen.

"He's out of surgery," Andrea said, "and apparently in recovery. Still unconscious."

Reason returned to him, reason and logic, not with violent force, but gradually, as his heart, his so human heart that nonetheless managed to seize control control over his superior brain some of the times his brother was concerned, pounding heavily, rapidly, without any physical reason, slowly captured the words that had reached his ears and permitted his ever-alert mind to take control.

For a split-second, Mycroft felt inexplicably faint.

"Is that confirmed?" he heard himself asking, asking calmly as realisation settled in that, naturally, his conclusion had been faulty, that it would, of course, be typical for Sherlock, a perfect display of his stubbornness - and if it was, Mycroft had never been more grateful for his little brother's obstinacy, his unwillingness to give in.

The blood kept rushing through his ears, in tact with his still too fast pounding heart and his whirring brain that only barely managed to stop itself from spiralling into uncontrolled theorising yet again, not so easily convinced by Andrea's words, and Mycroft found himself clutching his phone with unsteady fingers.

Sentiment, yes. Unpleasant and distracting, but inevitable and inescapable as soon as it came to his younger brother.

"Yes," Andrea verified.

"His condition?" he demanded, and forced himself to talk slowly and clearly, without stumbling over any words in his insuppressible worrying. Alive, yes, apparently, living through surgery which should, normally, increase his brother's chances close to tremendously. Massive blood loss to be compensated for, possible organ damage. Complications, of course, as well as… And there it was again, loss of control, control over his most precious ability because the human being of the utmost importance to him was in for him uncontrollable danger.

"Critical," Andrea informed him.

Of course, to be expected. "John Watson?" he wanted to know and allowed himself to dwell neither on the fact that, naturally, critical did per definition not mean stable, nor on his highly unusual level of apprehension.

"With your brother, sir," his PA replied calmly.

Mycroft nodded, a vain gesture in the dark back of a car in the night. To be expected, too. "The shooter?"

This time, Andrea hesitated. "Still nothing, sir," she admitted finally. "We're working on it."

Hopefully so. Nothing yet. Mycroft's brain took over again, fuelled by his wish to lay his hands on whoever had dared harm Sherlock, by the urge that he had never wanted, and yet had never been able to escape, by the obligatory wish of any elder brother. A professional then, leaving no traces - suggesting careful planning, intelligence. Criminal intent, unclear yet whether directed at Magnussen or at his brother. Magnussen, the more likely target. Worrying about his little brother, as he had discovered countless times before, increased his normally non-existent tendency to form theories without data immensely, and yet it had never before been as pronounced as in this night.

"Sir?" Andrea said. "Do you need me to summon your car?"

"No," he told her curtly. "I have taken care of that already." He had, had phoned his chauffeur after hours of sitting in his office, the picture of his little brother, dying with a bullet hole in his chest, in his so fragile heart, occupying his mind, after hours of smoking. "Concentrate on the shooter."

He didn't need to hear Andrea's reply to know that she would make sure, as she always did, the loyal, trustworthy PA.

Out of surgery. Critical. John Watson.

Brother dear, he couldn't help but think as he pocketed his mobile phone, once more noticing the agitated tapping of the fingers of his right hand on his thigh.

"Sir?" his chauffeur addressed him. "Are we in a hurry, sir?"

No, would have been the rational, the logical answer. Sherlock was in hospital, receiving the best care available, surrounded by medical personnel perfectly qualified as well as by Doctor Watson, a force of stability for his brother and another medical professional. There was absolutely no reason for Mycroft, now that he had been updated on the exact nature of his brother's condition, to rush anything, to make his appearance at hospital at all, offering a pitiful display of a worrying older brother, fuelled by anxiety and sentiment.

The reply that came out of his mouth, however, should have been expected, for it was the usual whenever Sherlock was involved, and once more, Mycroft conceded: "Yes."

-I-

Due to his brother's particular notion to risk his life so recklessly, over and over again, Mycroft Holmes had far too much experience with hospital interiors and Accident & Emergency departments in particular. It had taken him little more than two minutes to locate a nurse proficient enough to convey to him the information he needed, including the names of his brother's surgeons as well as where to find them, and Sherlock's current whereabouts.

Simply a quick look, he told himself for the third time now as he was walking down the corridor the nurse had pointed out, his steps slow, carefully measured. One quick look to disprove his precipitate theories and make sure that everything was indeed, as Andrea had claimed, in order, and then he could talk to the doctors responsible for his brother, then he could resume working again.

Then, because right now, he wanted nothing more than to see his breathing, living little brother, and for once he failed to resist the power sentiment occasionally developed over his usually predominant mind.

The nurses, people, hurrying through the corridor at quarter to three in the night, didn't even glance at him, didn't try to stop him. Of course not.

The handle of his umbrella was trapped tightly in his grip as he stepped up to the room in question, towards the glass wall facing the corridor.

One quick look, that was all he admitted to wanting. A surrender to one more sample for the enormous amount of proof that he was as prone to sentiment as any other human being, as ordinary people, that he could not possibly fight off the desire to reassure himself, with a quick glance at his little brother, that Andrea's information was correct and that Sherlock was not yet dead. The knowledge on its own, a mere statement, a mere claim, did not at all suffice to dim the worry still blazing in his mind, despite the gradual return of his customary contaiment; he needed, apparently, to calm his heart and mind and steady his hands, visual proof, a physical confirmation, as stupid and unnecessary as it was.

The sight that presented itself to him through the slits of the drawn blinds, however, was nowhere near as reassuring as Mycroft had expected it to be.

John Watson's back, still clad into a dark jacket, appeared as the most prominent feature, especially since Mycroft did his best not to keep staring at the no doubt direful hospital bed and its inhabitant, wearing the pale face of Mycroft's little brother, but having close to nothing in common with Sherlock apart from that.

Stillness, defencelessness, frailty had never been attributes applying to Sherlock, and even if they did, on rare and yet too plentiful occasions, including one night and a heroin overdose Mycroft still preferred not to think about, they had never been so emphasised as in this moment.

Sentiment, yes, the rational part of Mycroft, resurfacing slowly, scolded him as his fingers tensed around the cool, smooth surface of his umbrella in his hand.

Sentiment.

A notion, it seemed, Doctor Watson was particularly susceptible to tonight - his right hand, normally, Mycroft assumed, in the clutches of his newly-wed wife, was currently very firmly wrapped around Sherlock's, providing comfort and constancy, however futile and unnoticed in his brother's contemporary insentient condition.

One quick look, Mycroft reminded himself as his gaze wandered towards his brother's face, slack in sedation, without the air of petulant exasperation that so loyally accompanied Sherlock in his waking life.

One quick look.

The image of a young boy, looking up to Mycroft in adoration. A memory of the same boy, tear stains on his cheeks. The boy, older now, shouting at Mycroft because of the death of his beloved pet. The boy, a man for many years now, with a bullet in his chest.

Quick. A quick look.

His brother, however critical his condition might be, was in the utmost capable hands and in the company of the one he would most likely wish to see upon awakening, Mycroft had to remind himself. He, in contrast, had other work to do.

Visual proof, he pondered as he finally took a step backwards and gave up his hovering position in front of the blinds to his brother's hospital room, and the cold truth that his brother was cared for and tended to did nothing to calm his traitorous and human heart. Visual proof, as he should have learnt after thirty-seven years, never really succeeded in stifling his persistent fear that, after a night like this, he might not have a little brother any longer.

Mycroft shook his head briefly.

Time to go back to work.

-I-

Supervising undercover agents, coordinating the secret service and occasionally securing the safety of the country was, Mycroft determined not for the first time as he stood in front of the hospital, another cigarette - the likelihood of contracting lung cancer was abominably low, and even if it hadn't been, Mycroft would not have cared - in his left hand, his mobile phone in his right, much more pleasing than the work he had to take care of in this night, thanks, of course, to his little brother and his repeated display of stupidity when it came to his own health and life.

His PA answered after the first ring.

"Anything on the shooter?" he demanded immediately, his cigarette fuming between his fingers. Of course it gave away so much about his state of incessant worrying - this was not only his fourth phone conversation with Andrea in this night, but he had also been the one to call her, desperate for more information, for information he could deal with professionally, instead of having his mind moving around in endless circles because of the irritating lack of data to work with.

His very long, very tenacious exchange with one of his brother's surgeons - wealthy family, obviously, father lawyer, middle child, so neither Oxford nor Cambridge for him, nervous habit of flapping his hands when being talked to, still relatively young - approximately thirty-nine - and yet already advanced in his career, so qualified, long term relationship - had unfortunately not proved to be very reassuring.

Bullet through the liver, lodging itself in his brother's inferior vena cava, as the man had admitted after rather adamant insistence upon Mycroft's side, causing indeed massive internal bleeding, leading to hypovolaemic shock, and, as the man had even more reluctantly added, cardiac arrest for estimatedly fifty minutes until the doctors had intended to give up on Sherlock, about to pronounce him dead - the man had not mentioned that, but there hadn't been any need to, because Mycroft did have eyes, and his highly unusual inattentiveness, caused solely by his inability to detach himself from his love for his little brother, did not cause him to miss the most obvious signs -, when, close to miraculously, joining a minority of exactly thirty-eight reported cases since the 1980s, Sherlock's heart had started functioning again, almost reliably, return of spontaneous circulation, and the doctors had been able to complete surgery, with his brother still alive.

Naturally, Mycroft was used to far more gruesome stories and reports from some of his agents, of decapitation, mutilation, explosions, as well as to his brother in a condition possibly life-threatening.

Never before, however, and this thought was unsettling enough to justify the inhalation of another lungful of cigarette smoke, had it come so close. Losing his brother, as he had learnt an entire lifetime ago, would… was an occurrence that was not allowed to happen.

Which meant in conclusion that Mycroft was not allowed to make any further mistakes concerning his brother's safety and had to focus his concentration, regardless of the fact that it definitely wasn't at its best - sentiment, again -, entirely on finding who was responsible for his brother being in critical condition in a hospital, with a gunshot wound in his chest, and on preventing anyone else from attempting to harm his brother in the future.

His litte brother's heart, so susceptible to human emotion, stopping, not beating, its surrender depriving his body and his brain of the most imperative organ needed to stay alive.

His brother's heart, his little brother's heart, not beating.

Concentrate.

Not beating not only for a few seconds, or minutes, or losing its healthy rhythm, but… stopping.

"My! Come and play…," a so familiar voice demanded in his head.

His little brother…

Concentrate!

Mycroft took a deep breath, let the cigarette smoke infest his cells and body, and focussed. And exhaled.

"Magnussen claims that he didn't see him or her," Andrea informed him, answering his earlier question. Distraction, sentiment, definitely. "No fingerprints, no strands of hair, no visible traces. Left-handed, going by the shape of your brother's wound. Nothing else so far, I'm afraid, sir."

Concentration. Concentration.

In his daily life, Mycroft was accustomed to working with minimal data and exploiting what little knowledge he had, but then, the stakes were rarely as high as in this very moment. His brother, his little brother, might still die, and this prospect was inacceptable.

"Continue to exclude the police from any investigations," Mycroft told her curtly, twirling his cigarette between his fingers. "Keep me informed."

"Yes, sir," she replied almost immediately and then added, perfectly acquainted with Mycroft's way of handling certain situations: "Sir? Is it severe enough that you need me to call your parents?"

Andrea had been working for him for exactly eleven years by now, a bright, beautiful young woman - beauty did have its advantages, if only to deceive voluptuous men driven by hormones into trusting her and confiding in her -, and in these eleven years, Mycroft had been forced to have her call his parents only once, after this one faithful night in which Sherlock had almost given his life away in a gamble with a very potent cocktail of drugs. That night, however, his brother's heart had not stopped for the better part of an hour.

"No," he decided and took another drag from his cigarette. His last one, he determined - nicotine poisoning did, in contrast to his brother, not give him stimulation, but a rather persistent headache which he could not afford to have right now.

Andrea hesitated, obviously contemplating whether to say something consoling, something utterly patronising and pointless. "Our best people are working on it," was what she did say, and Mycroft finally dropped his cigarette. He had never, once more in contrast to Sherlock, been prone to requiring external stimulants in order to function properly.

"Very well," he muttered and ended the call, extinguishing the cigarette with the tip of his shoe.

There definitely was work to do for him, going through the bits of information Andrea was surely about to send to his mobile phone, squeezing them dry, extracting details and not theorising without data, but he could as well do that here, in the hospital cafeteria, closed at half past three in the night.

His umbrella once more tightly in his grip, he started walking back towards the hospital, perfectly composed. The pack of cigarettes, however, neatly stuffed into the pocket of his coat, suddenly regained at lot of its appeal as soon as he remembered that there remained a chance, a chance far too high for Mycroft's liking, that Sherlock, his brilliant little brother, would never accomplish a full neurological recovery. And this, he had to admit, was a fear he had never before been confronted with.

-I-

By the time the night had ended and dawn was breaking, people swarming through the hitherto empty cafeteria, Mycroft was aware of the whole extent of his little brother's stupidity that had resulted in him being in this very hospital: of the 'girlfriend', the proposal - which would, no doubt, have made Mummy very happy, particularly the prospect of grandchildren -, the criminal intent of stealing documents behind the break-in. Andrea had informed him minutely who had been in the building, on the same floor, who had an alibi, who didn't. Magnussen and Sherlock in one room, Sherlock's 'girlfriend', John and a security guard one floor below, both of Magnussen's personnel knocked out and John Watson tending to them.

The urge to get up, rush to Sherlock's room and either try and shake some sense into his foolish brother, no doubt still barely conscious, if at all, or cradle him close, fortunately not expected to be strong or coherent enough to resist, and shield him from the world he sometimes didn't seem ready for, had grown almost overwhelming during one point in the night, and this irrational and pointless action had only been avoided with pacing through the cafeteria for an unkown amount of time, all his focus on the nearly impossible task to store away memories of his little brother and concentrate on his task.

Concentration.

The shooter had to be an intruder into the building, not one of these five people, not Sherlock, not John, not Magnussen's personnel, not Magnussen himself - no gun anywhere in the office, Magnussen's flat or on the ground next to the building -, a professional, a contract killer, assigned to eliminate Magnussen. Someone who had then abandoned the original mission in favour of injuring Sherlock - seriously, but not grievously enough to warrant his certain death, although definitely prepared to take the risk of ending his brother's life -, had knocked out Magnussen, and had disappeared, without ever accomplishing the task.

Either a very imbecilic contract killer, or someone who had been distracted by something - emotion, sentiment, in all likelihood, the most common force that drove and diverted ordinary people. Sentiment towards Sherlock?

It could have been indecisiveness, of course, being surprised at the appearance of a witness while one was about to commit murder. Balance of probability, however, was that a professional killer would have shot Sherlock - killed Sherlock -, and then proceeded to get rid of the original target, of Magnussen, without so much as remorse. Had everything gone to plan, and had the killer acted as his profession demanded, then Mycroft would have received the news he had been dreading for almost his entire life, since January 6th, 1977 - then his brother would be dead.

Theorising without data, again, dwelling on never existing what-ifs. Sentiment.

It was time, Mycroft decided after a glance at his pocket watch and a frown directed at a woman - middle age, here for her husband, soon to be widow - who had possessed the boldness to take the chair opposite of him, to reassure himself once more that this scenario had remained a mere possibility during the night and had not, horrifyingly, turned into reality.

-I-


Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think.