Author's note: This story starts out with not-too-graphic torture and violence not usual for my Intellect and Instincts (velociraptor) series. This one's also from Mycroft's point of view. If you squint, there may be Mystrade on the horizon.

There was nothing left for Mycroft to learn from his captors. Since he'd been jolted awake five and a half hours ago by the burn of a taser pressed to his chest, he'd silently studied them as they tried (and failed) to interrogate him. All he lacked were names, but names were insignificant.

Alpha was between forty-one and forty-four, just under thirteen stone of muscle that made him unaware of the adult-onset diabetes that was just showing its signs under the masquerade of good health. He still had perfect vision, though his circulation was impaired at the extremities. In the frigid, damp air, the way he rubbed his hands together and blew on them went unnoticed by everyone but Mycroft. Alpha had been educated in France, born of Korean descent, possessed of the type of sharp mind that would have made him a recruitment target for any government that could secure his loyalty. Unfortunately, that government was not an ally of the UK.

He had similarly detailed information on the rest of them — Beta, Gamma, and Delta, as he'd taken to calling them — right down to the specific meals they'd last eaten. Not that they'd chosen to share, which was as clear a sign as anything else that Mycroft was a disposable asset.

That did nothing to encourage Mycroft to talk.

After the taser, they'd resorted to more thuggish means of encouragement, leaving Mycroft's chest on fire with every breath. Two broken ribs, possibly a third. In a way, he hoped the internal damage was minimal, though a punctured lung would have ensured a much more swift exit than his captors surely had planned.

Unfortunately, they were well-trained, well-financed, and dedicated. Mycroft knew the statistics regarding the kidnappings that were never publicly reported. Despite all the power the UK and her allies could bring to bear, the rate of rescue was dismal at best. Often, the survivor was rescued only to be mercifully dispatched in hospital once there was nothing left to learn about the incident.

The rescue window was fatally slim — after only three hours, his chances dropped below fifty percent. After four, that was cut in half.

He'd been gone for five and a half hours. His team was already sanitising all of the operations about which he had key knowledge in anticipation of his compromise. His training had been meant to give him a chance to resist interrogation, but anyone could be broken.

At the five-hour mark, he'd begun to consider the best way to bring about his death. Provoking rage in one's captors was often a good choice, but not when dealing with professionals unless they were also fanatics, which wasn't the case this time around. He could give them everything — by now, it would be generally safe, though extremely inconvenient and expensive for the government — and hope they killed him quickly once he had nothing more to reveal, but that was risky. He was fully aware that the stress on his body was affecting his judgement and ability to reason.

That more than anything else was the real terror of Mycroft's predicament — the thought that in the end it would be his mind, not his body, that truly betrayed him.

Distantly, he recognised the onset of despair, but mercifully his captors distracted him from it when they yanked the sack off his head. He couldn't help but blink violently against the light that glared into his eyes. The tears were a reflexive action, his body's attempt to wash away any physical irritants contributing to the pain his nerves were registering, but that knowledge did little for his dignity.

Through the blur, he could see Beta close by, with Alpha observing from two metres away. They were very careful to position only one operative close to him, despite the fact that he was efficiently chained to the I-beam in a way he'd defy even Houdini to escape. The other two were elsewhere, presumably guarding the entrances or windows.

Beta was holding the taser, which could be useful. Repeated shocks would impair his heart's ability to correctly regulate itself. There was something about respiratory issues as well, but he hadn't read those studies. He only knew about the cardiac hazards because of an activist group petitioning against government-sanctioned use of electroshock devices by police and security forces.

He couldn't remember the group's name. The despair twisted through his chest, transmuting into fear. He became distantly aware that he was shivering — perhaps he had been shivering for some time, but he couldn't remember when that had started either. His captors were all dressed warmly in layers, but Mycroft had been taken in a suit. His overcoat and jacket were gone, and his waistcoat and shirt had been ripped open to bare his chest for more efficient application of the taser.

At some point, fatigue and stress had compromised his ability to support his weight with proper balance, though the chains held him mostly upright. He'd have deep bruises — not that he'd survive to complain about them. Sherlock would probably find them useful for his analysis, assuming he was permitted to participate in the autopsy.

Mycroft nearly laughed at the thought of how irritated his brother would be if he was denied the chance. Not for any morbid reason, but out of simple scientific curiosity. At just seven years old, he'd slipped into the parlour where Father's body was on display. He'd nearly killed himself getting the coffin open.

A shout snapped Mycroft's awareness back to reality as pain wracked him, making him thrash against the chains. His head slammed back into the I-beam with stunning force and his mouth filled with the taste of blood. It felt like the shock went on for hours, days, an entire lifetime, but it couldn't have been more than a few seconds before it ended, leaving him gasping against his broken ribs, dragging in air in a desperate bid to survive for one more minute. His mind wanted this to end, but his body apparently had other ideas.

Alpha's demands for information, delivered in coldly rational French, were abruptly interrupted by the sudden shout, "Police! Put your weapons down!"

Sherlock, Mycroft thought, and tried to laugh as the relief of his impossible made him giddy. Five hours and Mycroft's team would have given up on rescue, but not Sherlock — stubborn, determined Sherlock, who would move the earth itself to rescue Mycroft for the sheer pleasure of extorting a lifetime's worth of concessions out of him. Or maybe it had been John, the man whom Mycroft had thought he could learn to hate for turning his brother into a monster, until John had been considerate enough to help Mycroft understand at least some of the details of their condition.

His rescuer, whoever it was, had entered somewhere behind Mycroft, in full view of Alpha, who shouted out a command in Korean, a language which Mycroft sadly had yet to master. Beta threw himself aside, dropping the taser, leaving Mycroft clear as Alpha took aim at his chest, fully prepared to sacrifice himself to take Mycroft with him into death.

The police officer shouted another warning that Mycroft couldn't hear over the sudden pounding of blood in his ears. He was going to die, helpless, after his rescuers arrived. The thought was bitter and nauseating, a terrible betrayal of fate. He spared one moment to consider his mother and brother, who would both mourn him in their own separate ways, and to hope that his rescuers would take none of the blame upon themselves.

The shot rang out with terrible certainty, painfully loud in the echoing, concrete-floored chamber. Darkness obscured Mycroft's vision as agony hit his lungs, not with a sharp, puncturing flame but the blunt impact of a body pressed back against his chest. Another shot, much louder than the first, thundered in his ears before the echoes of the first shot could die away. It was as though time stretched, the world moving treacle-slow. Blinding light filled his eyes, making him blink and flinch, and his head ached where it hit the I-beam again.

Then the body before him was falling, and Alpha was falling, his screams terrible and wet as a dark-feathered velociraptor ripped him apart. It wasn't John — he was a russet gold with a lighter crest. This one was a deeper, richer brown, though the crest was the same shade, and Mycroft realised it had to be his brother.

He fell against the chains, trying to marshal his thoughts enough to determine what he needed to do to cover up the fact that one of his captors had been mauled by a dinosaur. Guard dog, perhaps, assuming he could manipulate the pathology report. Something about the bite radius — that was important.

John came around into sight and dropped to his knees before the bloody shape collapsed at Mycroft's feet. "Shit," he muttered, fighting free of his black shooting jacket. "Sherlock. Sherlock!" he barked, crouched down, obscuring Mycroft's view for a moment.

Then he leaned back, carefully turning the body onto its back. The man was older than John, with neat dark hair that had begun to turn silver. His face was slack, his eyes closed. His suit had gone crimson. Between Mycroft's blurry vision and all the blood, he couldn't see the wound.

"Shit," John repeated, his hand clenching into a fist, covered in the man's blood. He took a breath and barked, "Sherlock!" with absolute authority.

The velociraptor's head whipped around, muzzle dripping with blood. Lips curled back, baring serrated teeth stained red. The deep growl reverberating from the velociraptor's chest made Mycroft break out in a cold sweat.

"Secure the area," John ordered, "and then get out."

As Sherlock dashed away from the corpse, long toe-claws scraping on the concrete, John turned to Mycroft. His dark blue eyes were grave and sad, but he never stopped scanning the area for threats. "I'm going to get you free, Mycroft. Nod if you can understand me."

"I'm not —" Mycroft stopped trying to talk and spat blood distastefully. Breathing hurt.

"Right, don't try," John advised, gently touching Mycroft's sleeve before he disappeared, examining his chains. He let out a grim sound of satisfaction, far too cold to be described as a laugh. There was a slight tug on the chains at Mycroft's ankles before they went slack.

John was talking, but the words didn't quite register through the pain of returning circulation. When the chains across his hips and waist went slack, Mycroft tried to support his own weight, but his legs still weren't cooperating. The pressure of the chain across his chest was enough to make time skip and stutter for a moment, and when he was able to next focus his awareness, he was being carried, painfully, in John's arms.

"Stay with me, Mycroft," John was saying. "Your brother will be an utter bastard if I let you die, and I swear if you do, I'll let him dissect you. So don't you fucking die on me."

Mycroft tried to respond, but the elation of survival proved to be too much. He wanted to thank John, to tell him to phone for help and go tend to Sherlock instead, to ask about the police officer who'd sacrificed himself to save Mycroft's life, but he couldn't get beyond vague thoughts. For the first time in his life, words were beyond him.

And then, his consciousness washed away like a receding tide, mercifully taking the pain with it.

"Mycroft? Christ, Mycroft, I'm sorry, but I need you awake."

"Oh, let me. Mycroft!"

For Mycroft, opening his eyes felt like more effort than lifting a car. With passengers. And not a small car, either. A luxury sedan, or perhaps an SUV.

Never in his life had he felt this wretched. Where he didn't ache, he burned. Where he didn't burn, he was distressingly numb. And that was through what he recognised as a fog of opiate-fuelled pain medication. Without it, he probably would have been sobbing.

Someone put a straw to his lips, though sipping very nearly brought tears to his eyes. And swallowing was worse.

Relief drove the pain back, though, when he saw Sherlock, unharmed and human, looking down at him with sharp, critical eyes. "See? He's not dead — as if the machines didn't prove that already."

"After the trauma he's suffered, he needs to rest."

"He needs to give her authorisation for you to —"

"Yes, all right." Abruptly Sherlock was gone, shoved out of the way by John, who gave Mycroft a kindly doctor's smile. "I'm sorry, Mycroft, but he's right —"

"Of course I am!"

"— and we do need your help." He looked away and called, "Um. Anthea, or whoever..."

Motion drew Mycroft's eye. He let his head roll to the other side, though the pillow felt like rough granite under his scalp. There she was, neatly presentable, BlackBerry in one hand. Only the dark circles under her eyes betrayed her concern.

"Sir," she said, her voice a half-octave lower than normal. Her fingers tightened on the BlackBerry.

Mycroft tried to smile in response. "Authorised," he croaked, lifting one finger to point in John's direction. "Whatever — blanket auth—"

"Yes, sir," she acknowledged, already typing. "Full authorisation for Doctor Watson — NHS, security clearance — MI6 designation, sir?"

"Highest," Mycroft rasped. He'd have hell to pay for it — any sort of emergency issue like this automatically generated a host of meetings and committee reviews — but he trusted John not to abuse the power and start a war or something, though he would actually have the authority to do just that.

"Done," she said.

Mycroft started to nod, but the motion reminded him that he'd cracked his skull more than once during his ordeal. So he gingerly turned back to John and asked, "Recovery?"

John didn't answer right away, and he did Mycroft the honor of not trying to lie to him. "We'll see. You went into arrest three times before we got you to hospital, so you've got a matching set of cracked ribs on the left side. Brain function is unimpaired — Sherlock insisted they test — but you're going to be stuck under observation for a while, until we're sure you won't need a pacemaker."

Mycroft couldn't hide his shiver. Other than his issues with weight, he'd always been healthy. How could that have changed so dramatically in less than six hours?

John touched his hand to get his attention. When their eyes met, John said, "I've got to go deal with an issue. Sherlock's going to stay with you."

"Yes," Mycroft said. It seemed the simplest way to acknowledge his understanding.

With one last smile, John looked across the bed and asked, "That authorisation's gone through?"

Mycroft's assistant nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Thanks. Sherlock, don't touch anything," John warned before he left.

Sherlock took John's place beside the bed. "You may as well go to sleep," he said petulantly. "You can't hold a decent conversation like this, and by tomorrow, you won't remember anything I say."

Mycroft wanted to ask about the 'issue' that required MI6 authorisation, but Sherlock was probably right. Opiates affected memory, and in Mycroft's condition, there was no sense in him trying to deal with a potentially volatile 'issue', whatever it was. John had no experience, but he was sensible and practical, and if he had any questions, Sherlock or Mycroft's assistant could answer them. So he closed his eyes and tried not to think about the damage to his heart, preferring sleep as the better alternative.

Sleep and wakefulness came and went in a haze of painkillers. There was a brief time of shuddering, jolting vibration — transportation in a vehicle, perhaps a private ambulance — before Mycroft sensed, in some distant way, that he was home, yet still in a hospital bed.

He didn't fully rouse, though, until the smell of garlic teased at his nostrils — garlic and dill and chicken — and for a moment, he thought he was ten years old again, trapped in bed by bronchitis brought on by a bad bout of flu. He opened his eyes, almost expecting to see Mrs. Silverstein, his linguistics tutor.

But it was John, looking half-dead, arranging a cantilevered hospital table beside Mycroft's bed. A thin curl of steam rose from a china bowl. A cloth napkin covered a plate that probably held rolls. There was a teapot on the table as well, along with a glass of ice water that looked like heaven itself.

"Ready for dinner?" John asked with tired good cheer. He was dressed in one of his awful jumpers and a chequered shirt and looked as dangerous as an accountant with a broken pencil.

"Yes," Mycroft said tentatively, and was pleasantly surprised that his voice seemed to work.

When he tried to sit up, John said, "Hold up. Let me raise the bed." He fussed with an unseen control panel and a motor under the bed began to hum, gently supporting Mycroft's back as the upper half of the bed lifted. "Do you need the bedpan?"

Mortified by the question, Mycroft said, "I'm fine." It wasn't quite a lie. He'd deal with that later, preferably on his own. Such pride was foolish when dealing with a doctor, but Mycroft's vices were long established.

John just quirked an eyebrow in response but let it pass. He wheeled the table into place, saying, "Your mother sent a cook who's taken over your diet. I asked about sodium content and she hit me with a spoon. If you have a heart attack, it's out of my hands."

Mycroft knew John was exaggerating, but he couldn't hold back a laugh. His ribs twinged in painful protest. He kept laughing, though, as his mind fully accepted for the first time that he was actually alive.

Apparently, that had been John's aim. The tension was gone from his face, and he grinned as he watched Mycroft struggle to get his laughter in check. "If you can laugh, there's half the battle to recovery," John said as Mycroft's body finally acknowledged that breathing was less painful than laughing. "I hate to trouble you, but we have a... situation. Can you eat and listen at the same time?"

"Of course," Mycroft said, taking a drink of water. It seemed the most innocuous way to test whether his throat was up to the work of swallowing actual food. When nothing went wrong, he picked up the spoon, stomach growling in pleasure at the thought of Mrs. Silverstein's chicken soup, a recipe she'd bequeathed to the estate cook when she'd finally retired.

"How much do you remember of the rescue? Don't answer that — keep eating," John interrupted. He circled around the foot of the bed and sat down in an armchair. For the first time, Mycroft's interest roused enough for him to look around. Apparently, he was in the front parlour of his own house, though most of the furniture had been pushed up against the walls. The hearth was cold, but someone — John, most likely — had set up a space heater to hold any drafts at bay.

Once he was settled, John continued, "We were looking for you when 'your' people came to order us to stop. You can imagine how well that went over with Sherlock, who kept at it despite the threat of arrest. He expects a knighthood for this, by the way, and if you think I'm going to call him Sir Holmes, I'll throw him out of Baker Street and he can come live with you."

Mycroft had to put down the spoon before he choked on the excellent soup. "Dear god, let's not," he said between little coughs of laughter. "If anyone gets knighted, I'll ensure it's you."

"Then I'll definitely throw Sherlock out. Neither of us needs the attention — which is the real issue here," John said, his smile fading. "When Sherlock figured out where you were being held, Lestrade — ah, Detective Inspector Lestrade, homicide division, that is — he came with us. And he took the bullet apparently meant to kill you."

Mycroft remembered the bloody, silver-haired body at his feet. He closed his eyes, wincing inside as another name — Detective Inspector Lestrade — was added to the list of those who'd fallen because of his actions. "Did he leave a family?"

"That's the problem," John said hesitantly. "He's not dead. Not anymore, at least."

Early morning sunlight flooded the breakfast room through a bay window that looked out into a tiny garden, now dormant under winter's chill. Wrapped in a thick dressing gown, Mycroft allowed John to help him to the recliner that someone (Sherlock, most likely) had dragged in from the television room that Mycroft kept for guests and the occasional bodyguard.

As with the parlour, the furniture had been moved out of the room to make room for a hospital bed. The occupant, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, looked years younger than he had at the warehouse. Instead of bloody clothes, he wore pyjamas — Mycroft's, in fact. One cuff was left unbuttoned and turned up to make room for the intravenous needle taped across the back of his hand.

"He's lightly sedated," John said, folding the blanket down to the detective's waist. "It's safest, given the trauma of... the circumstances." He worked at the row of buttons, revealing London-pale skin. At first.

Mycroft sat forward when John pulled the pyjama top open enough to show the first deep puncture wound, jagged and rough at the edges. It was little more than a white depression of scar tissue, faintly pink near the centre. As John parted the cloth, more became visible, a perfect oblong of teeth driven into the detective's chest as if he'd been nipped, presumably by Sherlock.

The gunshot wound was near the end of the bite. The bullet had pierced the detective's sternum, probably tearing through his heart. Mycroft's chest ached in sympathy. Suddenly his experience with the taser seemed to pale by comparison.

"Will he live?"

John exhaled sharply and started fastening the buttons. "As it stands right now, yes. Sherlock..." He sighed and shook his head, fussing with the arrangement of the blanket in a transparent attempt to delay his words. "Our condition is transferred through the bite — saliva, most likely. Greg's infected. That's how he's healed so rapidly."

A thousand questions came to mind — a thousand practical applications — but Mycroft knew that if he said anything at all, John would close down. He was intensely private and protective, and as kind as he was being at the moment, Mycroft knew full well that John would carry out his threat to kill Mycroft if there was even a hint of putting this condition to use in government service.

Once John had the blanket tucked up over the detective's shoulders, he continued, "When I bit Sherlock, I knew he could handle the change. Accept it. You know what he says: whenever you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, apparently really is a were-velociraptor."

Mycroft smiled very faintly. "Admirably logical."

"I'm not worried about Greg's mind," John said uncomfortably. "But his job — there are physicals and medical tests, and... we can't take that risk." John turned away from his study of Greg's face to look directly at Mycroft. "He's a cop. He's a public figure. He does press releases. He can't just hide, the way Sherlock and I do."

Mycroft refrained from pointing out that John's sensational blogging style had turned Sherlock into something of a cult celebrity. They weren't exactly staying low-profile. But he understood all the same, and nodded thoughtfully. "I could arrange a position in a more discreet branch of the government. Not as a dinosaur," he said quickly when John's eyes went hard and dangerous. "As an analyst, perhaps."

John took a breath, nostrils flaring, and stared at Mycroft as if trying to read his expression. But all these months at Sherlock's side weren't enough to teach him how to see past masks as established as Mycroft's. He finally turned aside and said, "Okay. I'll have to explain what happened. But then, maybe you can talk to him —"

"Allow me," Mycroft said.

John looked at him in surprise. "Sorry?"

"Allow me to explain the situation to him."

"I'm his pack leader, Mycroft."

"But he sacrificed himself for me," Mycroft said gently. "The responsibility for all of this lies with me, John. Please, let me do this."

For more than a full minute, the only sound in the room was the hum of the space heater and the sound of Greg's low, even breathing. Then John finally nodded, resting a hand gently upon Greg's shoulder. "All right. The sedative will wear off in a few hours, and then you can talk to him." He came back around the bed, saying, "I'll help you —"

"I'd prefer to stay," Mycroft interrupted, holding up a hand. "I've been confined to bed too long. I promise, I won't exert myself. If I could just have my mobile..."

"Oh yes. Separate a Holmes from his mobile and the world might end," John said wryly, an edge of affection buried deep underneath.

"Speaking of, where is my dear brother?"

"Upstairs. I might have accidentally slipped a sedative into his coffee last night around midnight. He should be out for a couple more hours at least." There wasn't a hint of guilt in his faint smile.

Mycroft hid a shudder. "You're a very dangerous man, John."

"Coming from you, I'll take that as a compliment."

Mycroft's email reached critical mass around the forty-hour mark, thirty-five hours after his rescue. It took two hours for him to begin retaking the reins of government, though only lightly; most of the heavy work could only be done from the office, beyond the firewalls. He was so deep in the nightmare of sorting out the aborted covert operations, stalled diplomatic overtures, and scheduling conflicts that he didn't at first hear when Greg Lestrade stirred, muttering something in a raspy voice.

"The hell?"

The working-class accent cut through Mycroft's distraction, startling him. He looked up to see Greg trying to sit up. His left hand was raised, and he was staring in confusion at the intravenous needle.

"Don't try to move," he warned, rising carefully from the recliner. Walking was tiring but he could keep his balance well enough.

Greg's eyes were very dark brown. He frowned, cracked lips parting, and said, "You're Sherlock's brother."

This wasn't the first time Mycroft had heard those words, though they were usually followed by...

"Christ, what's that git done this time?"

Mycroft couldn't help but smile. "Saved your life, I'm afraid." He held out his hand, saying, "Mycroft Holmes."

"Lestrade. Greg Lestrade," he said, awkwardly clasping Mycroft's hand. His grip was weak and shaky.

"Do you recall —"

"I got shot —"

They both stopped talking. Greg's head fell back against the pillows. "God," he muttered, moving his right hand gingerly to his chest. He pushed the blanket down and prodded softly at his sternum, then a bit more, frowning. "How long — This... isn't a hospital..."

"You're at my house. There were security considerations that made it necessary for us both to be moved here, to ensure privacy. John — Doctor Watson is your attending physician. Our attending physician," he corrected.

"So Sherlock can have our corpses if we die?" he asked. Then he winced and shot Mycroft an alarmed look. "Sorry. I mean, I know he's your brother —"

"I'm quite aware that he'd be delighted to have a fresh body to dissect," Mycroft said honestly. "But no. In fact, it's because of my brother that you're in no danger of death."

Greg's eyes narrowed. He rubbed his hand over his chest, searching for the bullet wound, and said, "You're not talking about CPR."

"I am not," Mycroft agreed thoughtfully. Of course, Greg had to be sharp-witted. Otherwise, Sherlock would never have tolerated working with him.

"Go on, then," Greg prompted after a few seconds. "Let's have it. I take it we managed to rescue you?"

"Dramatically, yes." Mycroft hesitated, gripping the bedside safety rail tightly. "I owe you my life, Detective Inspector. You took the bullet that was meant for me."

"Yeah, well, Sherlock would be that much worse without the threat of calling you when he gets out of line," Greg said awkwardly, looking away.

Interesting. Both Greg and John used jokes to smooth over Sherlock's rough social edges, as though nothing short of gallows humour could make Mycroft's brother tolerable. He studied Greg's profile, noting the strong chin and surprisingly long eyelashes, and he couldn't help but wonder if there wasn't another reason Sherlock tolerated the detective's presence. Even half-conscious, he was a very handsome man. Then Mycroft pushed the distraction out of his mind. He could see the imprint of a wedding ring, worn for years, on Greg's left hand. It had been removed only recently.

"Sherlock and John have a... condition," he began.

"Not exactly good at hiding it, those two," Greg said with a slight laugh. He pressed his hand to his chest again as though surprised by the lack of pain. He frowned disapprovingly, adding, "Never heard it called a 'condition' before."

Quickly, Mycroft shook his head. "Not — not their relationship," he said, realising what Greg was thinking. "No, this is — They're not... not precisely human," he finished somewhat lamely. Perhaps he should have let John do this after all. He'd explained it to Sherlock well enough, hadn't he?

Greg's glare lacked the icy menace of Sherlock's cool eyes, but something flickered deep beneath the soft brown, something that whispered against the back of Mycroft's neck, Run, and he found himself taking a defensive step back, heart racing suddenly.

"If you've got a problem —"

"I'm happy for them," Mycroft said in his own defence, holding up his hands. "It's not — It's — Oh, hell," he muttered, swearing in front of someone else for the first time in years. "They're dinosaurs. Were-dinosaurs, to be precise."

Greg stared at him.

Mycroft winced, thinking he probably should have come up with a more tactful way to handle this. Or he should have left it in John's hands. Anything would have been better than just... blurting out such absurd-sounding news.

"Sherlock's drugged us both, hasn't he?" Greg finally asked.

"I'm afraid not."

"Were-dinosaurs." It seemed to take effort for Greg's lips to shape the words.

Mycroft nodded mutely, though he did manage to reclaim the ground he'd ceded earlier. He rested his hands lightly on the bedrail, terribly conscious of the sacrifice Greg had made to save him — the willing sacrifice of his life, and the unwilling sacrifice of his humanity.

"He said you're some..." Greg hesitated, flicking a glance over Mycroft, from his face to his quilted silk dressing gown to the warm honey oak paneling of the breakfast room. Quickly revising his original words, he continued, "You're someone important in government."

"I do hold some small measure of responsibility, yes," he answered with reflexive modesty.

Greg snorted. "Yeah. All right, then. I'm just having a little trouble understanding the details here."

"I'm afraid I don't have all of them myself. However, I have on two occasions witnessed their... transformation from human to velociraptor and back."

"Wait," Greg interrupted. "You mean... were like werewolf?"

Mycroft couldn't quite hide his wince. "Somewhat, yes. Though as far as I am aware — and granted, my experience is very limited — there are no 'werewolves'."

"Oh, because were-velociraptors are easier to believe?"

Mycroft smiled apologetically. "I'm afraid that my introduction to the concept was a bit... violently surprising. But it did leave absolutely no room for doubt. I assure you, the condition is very real, however unscientific it may seem at first glance."

Greg stared at him, searching his face. His right hand still rested on his chest, though his fingers had slipped between the buttons to find the flesh beneath. Finally he looked down at himself and said tightly, "You're telling me this for a reason. And not because I'll probably have to arrest Sherlock again one day."

"Perhaps it's best seen and then explained," Mycroft suggested, gesturing at the pyjama top. "You were shot in the chest. 'Centre of mass', I believe is the term."

Breath hitching, Greg fumbled with the buttons, but his right hand was too weak. His left didn't seem to want to behave at all.

After a moment, Mycroft took pity on him and said, "Allow me." He leaned forward, lightly touching the silk cloth, and worked each button free, suddenly very conscious that he was undressing the detective. It had been long years since he'd allowed himself the luxury of a date without the ulterior motive of government diplomacy or international negotiation.

He lost himself in the sight of scarred white flesh over surprisingly firm muscles, until suddenly he was out of buttons. He'd gone too far, but pretended it had been intentional, making a point of opening the pyjama top fully to show the contrast between scars and healthy skin.

The angle was awkward, but Greg lifted his head and started touching his chest, light fingers exploring the punctures left by Sherlock's teeth. "Shit," he whispered as he came to the bullet wound, positioned just behind the narrow, blunt end of the imprint. "Oh, shit. This — This isn't a dog bite."

"As dinosaurs, Sherlock and John are somewhat larger than the velociraptor fossils we see in museums," Mycroft explained. Obviously, he'd done extensive research on velociraptors since discovering his brother's condition — not that there was much to know about them, given how long ago they'd presumably gone extinct. "There seems to be little change in mass. John is perhaps four metres long, though most of that is tail and neck —"

"Wait," Greg choked out, his hand clenching into a fist. "Just... This is a lot to take in, all right?"

"I'm sorry," Mycroft said truthfully.

He remained silent while Greg continued his self-examination. After a minute and a half, he settled on tracing his forefinger over the forward arc of the bite mark, back and forth, the motion stuttering just slightly as it dipped and rose over scar tissue.

"How long?" Greg finally asked, letting his shaking hand fall to his side as he looked back up at Mycroft.

"It happened the day before yesterday."

Greg's eyes flew fully open. He stared back down at the gunshot wound — the healed gunshot wound — and whispered. "Jesus. That's..."

"As impossible as everything else I've told you?" Mycroft offered gently.

Greg's laugh was a faint, trembling sound full of resignation and black humour. "There isn't an oxygen tank in here, is there?"

"No. Are you having difficulty breathing?" Mycroft asked worriedly, prepared to shout for John.

He looked up at Mycroft, his expression calculatedly pleading. "I want a bloody cigarette. To hell with patches."

Mycroft laughed and went to find the cigarettes he kept on hand for emergencies. He didn't have it in him to refuse.

Mycroft went tense as the cold stethoscope pressed to his back over the bandages wound tightly around his body. "Sorry," John said, one hand on Mycroft's shoulder to steady him. "Deep breath in... and out..."

"Really, John, this isn't necessary," Mycroft assured him. "I feel fine."

"And I'd rather not have you drop dead on my watch," John said with cheerful stubbornness. He took the stethoscope away and tossed it in the direction of the battered khaki rucksack on the foot of Mycroft's temporary hospital bed. "You need to see a proper cardiologist — tomorrow if possible."

"Easily done. We have all available specialists on call." Mycroft stood and quickly put his dressing gown back on. It was absurd that he felt self-conscious about the burns and bruising mottling his body — surely John had seen worse on the battlefield — but he felt it necessary to preserve what pride he could. "May I —"

"Bloody fucking hell!"

The shout — Greg Lestrade's voice, full of shock — made them both flinch. John smiled apologetically, saying, "And that's Sherlock changed."

"You're certain that was wise?" Mycroft asked, looking in the direction of Greg's temporary recovery room. "He was shot not two days ago."

"If you hadn't —" John snapped his mouth shut, a blush creeping over his face, visible for only a moment before he turned his back and went to pack his rucksack of medical supplies. "How could we have explained this in a way that wouldn't have ended up with you trying to have Sherlock sectioned?"

Remembering the brief glimpse of what John and Sherlock had been doing on the sofa, Mycroft also felt his face go warm. "Yes. You're right, of course. But wouldn't it have been less of a shock for you to demonstrate? Sherlock is so..."

"Dramatic? Overwhelming? A bloody diva with feathers?" John chuckled and hefted his bag over his shoulder. "If I hadn't asked, he would've done it anyway. Besides, I'm..." He trailed off and sighed, looking somewhat hopefully at Mycroft.

After the ordeal and two days trapped in bed, Mycroft's thoughts had turned longingly towards the upstairs shower — two showerheads, settings between 'rain' and 'massage', a room full of steam and warmth to warm away the grime and tension and stress. But he pushed it aside and assumed a polite mask of inquiry, gesturing John to the armchair at the side of the bed while he took another chair that had been crammed into the corner.

With a sigh of relief, John sat, letting the medical bag drop down to the floor. "You know that we retain human intelligence in our other form," he said, looking thoughtfully up at the ceiling. "There are instincts, of course — powerful instincts, in some cases, which is why Sherlock... attacked your kidnapper so violently."

Mycroft firmly told himself not to feel nauseous. "He —"

John grimaced. "Velociraptors eat what we kill, most of the time. But that's not —" He shook his head, visibly willing Mycroft to allow him to change the subject. "Velociraptors are pack animals. Sherlock's a pain in the arse — sorry —"

"I'm entirely aware of that," Mycroft assured him with a thin smile.

John laughed. "Could you imagine him as a pack leader? It's less about intelligence and more about" — he waved a hand, hesitating as he searched for his words — "taking care of the pack. I love him, but I can't trust him with a plastic house plant."

Startled, Mycroft heard John's words, but they didn't entirely register. "Do you?" he asked softly. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to pry, but Sherlock isn't..."

The blush returned, darker, as John nodded. "Yes. I think I have for a while. I think that's half of how I've been able to stay as his pack leader. God help us both if he ever fights me and wins."

"The thought is too ghastly to imagine," Mycroft said truthfully, going cold inside. "You have my full permission to use whatever means necessary to ensure it doesn't — if nothing else, then for England's sake."

John laughed faintly. "Someday, I'll get that in writing." Some of the tension left his shoulders, perhaps at the realisation that Mycroft was on his side. "It's Greg who worries me, though. He's been dealing with Sherlock for years — far longer than I have."

"Oh," Mycroft breathed as understanding hit. Sherlock's pride would allow him to be second in their pack to his only friend and lover. Third, however, was entirely out of the question, especially to the detective inspector of whom Sherlock was so professionally contemptuous. It was more than half an act, of course; Sherlock would never actually work with Gregory Lestrade so frequently if he didn't respect the man, no matter how interesting his cases were.

"See the problem?" John asked. "I don't have to worry right away — Greg won't even be able to walk for the first few days, much less actually challenge either of us — but if the instinct's there, Sherlock might well pick up on it the first time he changes."

A dozen questions came to Mycroft at once, not the least of which was why Greg wouldn't be able to walk, if he was properly healed, but he let it pass, focussing instead on what John needed. "How can I help?"

John looked at Mycroft the way so many others had, with a desperate, hopeless edge to his expression. "I don't know," he admitted honestly. "But if this goes badly, I won't let Sherlock take Greg down, and I can't let Greg take down Sherlock."

"No," Mycroft said, hiding his worry behind a reassuring smile. "We won't let that happen, John. I promise you that. I'll find a way."

In the course of an hour, Mycroft managed a lengthy shower, sixteen emails, and one emergency conference call to the assistant deputy secretary of an allied nation. He was left tired but satisfied that the wheels of government were turning satisfactorily despite his prolonged absence. He'd see his department's cardiologist first thing tomorrow morning, before the usual breakfast national security briefing, and then he could start putting his department back in order.

He refrained from putting on a suit only because his guests were all in various stages of informality. He especially needed John as his ally, and a formal suit would only serve to heighten the social class gap, even subconsciously. In the very back of his wardrobe, he found the jeans he was forced to wear on occasion at extremely informal diplomatic events. Paired with a button-down shirt, open at the throat, cuffs rolled up to below his elbows, he was the picture of informality. The fact that it made his skin crawl was beside the point.

Downstairs, he heard John and Sherlock speaking in the library, their voices comfortably low and intimate. He should have interrupted so John could help him bandage his broken ribs, but he'd already disrupted their lives enough as it was. Rather than disturbing them, he went to the breakfast room, but it was empty. Could Greg be in the library? Mycroft doubted John, at least, would be so relaxed if he were. The kitchen was the next logical choice.

He found the kitchen empty, though a quick check of the refrigerator showed several containers, each neatly labelled, meals prepared by the family cook, who'd gone back to the country. Mycroft smiled, thinking he'd have to send flowers in thanks. Looking through his emails, he'd learned that his assistant had sent Mummy the pre-arranged story that Mycroft was suffering a minor bout of flu. There was no sense worrying her with the truth.

The smell of cigarette smoke finally drew him out to the back porch, where he found Greg sitting on one of the wicker chairs under the awning. He wore one of Mycroft's coats over his borrowed pyjamas.

Mycroft pushed open the back door, then went very still as Greg flinched violently and squeezed his eyes tightly shut. "Christ," Greg muttered, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead.

"Detective?" Mycroft asked softly, thinking he could be suffering from a migraine. "Should I call John?"

"No. I'm fine." He lowered his hand, opened his eyes, and darted a look at Mycroft before waving him out onto the porch. "Sudden movement is just... Sherlock had some explanation about hunting and instincts. I figure I'll get John to explain it in English."

"Increased visual acuity," Mycroft said, understanding. He moved slowly, smoothly, careful not to do anything to startle Greg as he stepped onto the porch. The cold was refreshing, though the feeling wouldn't last for long.

Greg laughed roughly. "That's what he said. I just told him if I end up eating a pigeon, I'll give him a bloody ASBO."

"A fine idea," Mycroft said, trying to hide his guilt at the knowledge that Greg's career had ended the moment Sherlock had saved his life. "May I join you?"

Greg nodded. "Is this where you tell me you're one of — of us?"

"Good heavens, no. Though I'll admit, were I a velociraptor, I believe my kidnapping would have ended under very different circumstances," Mycroft said thoughtfully. He picked up the pack of cigarettes, removed one, and set it to his lips. He smoked when it was socially necessary, and now felt like one of those times, though he could imagine what John — and his cardiologist — would have to say about that. "You won't tell Doctor Watson, will you?" he asked, picking up the lighter.

Greg's brows shot up. "You want to cross Watson, I'm sure you know the risks. Best I can do is try and cover your escape."

Mycroft laughed and lit the cigarette, inhaling just enough to taste the smoke. "I'll take that chance."

"So, if you're not..." Greg gestured, sending twisting trails of smoke up into the damp air. "How do you deal with it?"

"With relief," Mycroft said honestly. "My brother has never had a very high regard for his own personal safety. According to John, it would take rather extraordinary effort for him to come to any permanent harm, given his recuperative powers. Your remarkable recovery is clear evidence of that."

Greg rubbed at his chest, nodding thoughtfully. "That's the truth."

"I feel as though I should apologise for my brother's actions. You never consented to this —"

"According to John, I was dead, or near enough," Greg interrupted, looking over at him.

Mycroft nodded, conceding the point. "But the matter is significantly more complicated now — specifically, your career."

Greg sighed and leaned back, looking out into the yard. The morning sunlight had disappeared under growing cloud cover, though no rain had fallen today. "Yeah," he finally said, and fished out another cigarette to light off the end of the first one. "Sherlock explained it, but I'd figured it out on my own by then," he said, stubbing out the cigarette in the ashtray he'd brought outside with him.

"Perhaps you'll let me compensate for my brother's actions, then?" Mycroft suggested. When Greg looked over curiously, he continued, "I apologize for the intrusion into your privacy, but I've taken the liberty of looking into your professional records. I'd like to offer you a position in which you can still use your experience and skills, without concern over annual checkups or other potential complications."

Greg's brows, a shade darker than his silvering hair, shot up. "You're offering me a job? As what?"

"One of my agents," Mycroft said, his voice commendably steady. He'd been considering just this all morning, in fact, but the reality — the thought that Greg would be working for him, with him, every day — seemed suddenly overwhelming. Greg had died to save his life, without knowing a thing about him, except that he was Sherlock's brother. Mycroft could never repay that sort of self-sacrifice.

Greg's laugh lifted Mycroft's spirits unexpectedly. "I'm a homicide detective and I'm going to turn into a dinosaur a few nights every month. What the hell can I possibly do for — You never even said what branch of government," he said, looking curiously at Mycroft.

Mycroft smiled slyly. "I know."

"Christ, as if one of you Holmeses wasn't bad enough?" Greg asked, though he was grinning now. "You would've voted for Harold Saxon, I'm guessing."

Confused, Mycroft rifled through his memory of elections stretching back over the last thirty years. "I'm sorry. Was that a council election?"

"Don't worry about it." He took a deep drag off the cigarette, looking up towards the cloudy sky. "Look, I'm a year from fifty. I've been thinking about retiring."

"Really, Detective, there's no need to lie," Mycroft scolded gently.

Evidently, Greg had been dealing with Sherlock long enough that he didn't bother asking how Mycroft knew he'd been lying. He just laughed, a touch bitterly, and nodded. "Okay, I should've been thinking about retiring," he corrected. "Probably should've thought of that before it cost me my marriage."

That data had also been included in Greg's file: divorced after twelve years, two children aged eleven and eight. Mycroft said nothing, gracefully allowing Greg the freedom to change the subject if he wished.

When he was halfway through the cigarette, Greg finally spoke again. "I'm not a trained spy. I'm definitely not an assassin," he said bluntly, giving Mycroft a warning look.

"I was thinking more in terms of a threat analyst. I could easily expedite your security clearance."

Greg winced. "I don't know," he said uncertainly. "I probably could've made chief, only I never was one for a desk job. Even being a DI is too much paperwork, not enough time out on the streets." After a moment, he corrected bitterly, "Or it was."

"There is an alternative," Mycroft offered. "I obviously need to restructure my personal security team, given the facility with which I was captured."

"A bodyguard?" Greg asked, surprised. "Did you miss the part where I said I'm almost fifty?"

"And yet, the only reason I'm alive is because of your timely intervention."

"What about the whole... were-dinosaur thing?"

Mycroft smiled. "I have an idea about that as well."

"You were smoking," John said disapprovingly as soon as Mycroft closed the office door, giving them some measure of privacy.

"Only one," Mycroft said in his own defence. "Something to drink?" he offered, crossing to the sidebar.

"After the strain you've been under, I don't think that's wise," John said, his mild tone doing nothing to hide the steel in his voice.

Mycroft conceded and turned away, sitting down not across the desk but on the sofa beside John. "I believe I have a solution to your... challenge regarding Greg."

A chilly edge crept into John's expression, a hint of the fierce protectiveness that he so often displayed regarding Sherlock. "Oh?"

"You and Sherlock lived together for quite some time before he was changed," Mycroft said delicately. "This seems to imply it's possible to live alone, away from a pack-environment."

"You want to send Greg away?" John asked sharply. "What the hell will that solve?"

"No! Quite the contrary," Mycroft said quickly. "I'd like to suggest he stay here — at least during those times when his change is necessary."

John's eyes went wide with surprise. "You... Mycroft, he's not a pet. He's a predator. He'll be incredibly dangerous until he learns to control his instincts."

"And until that time, you and Sherlock both are welcome to stay here as well. If the family estate is more suitable, then I'll make any necessary arrangements. I only wish to help," he said soothingly.

John rubbed at the back of his neck, absently flexing his left hand. "I realize you feel like you owe him something — survivor's guilt — but he's a part of my pack now."

"Is he?" Mycroft asked, careful to keep any hint of challenge out of his voice. "You said yourself that you aren't animals — your intelligence overrides your instincts, except under moments of extreme stress. You lived without a pack for months, until Sherlock."

John exhaled, still frowning. "I don't know, Mycroft."

"I've offered him a position as a personal security agent. No one would think it odd if he stayed overnight or worked odd shifts. And my house is secure against intrusion and accidental discovery."

"You can't just adopt him like a stray," John protested, though Mycroft heard his resolve waver. The solution was too neat, addressing not only the problem of how to feed a third velociraptor and hide him from discovery but also the matter of the former detective inspector's career.

"There's no need to make an immediate decision," Mycroft said. "The full moon isn't for another eleven days."

John looked surprised. Then he laughed and said, "I should have guessed you'd be tracking lunar cycles."

Mycroft smiled. "He is my brother."

"And Greg's my friend. My packmate."

Mycroft nodded. "I'm only hoping to help you find a solution amenable to all involved. I wouldn't presume to interfere."

John laughed. "A bit obvious, that lie. All right. We'll leave it to Greg to decide." He searched Mycroft's face, saying, "I was going to ask him back to Baker Street. The first couple of days are the hardest adjustment, even when it's not the full moon. He's going to be jumping at shadows, getting used to his senses, increased strength and speed..."

"I could assist him in your place," Mycroft offered.

"He shouldn't be dangerous, but... It's bloody terrifying, Mycroft," John said, his strong façade cracking for a moment. "Sherlock saw nothing but the benefits, but Greg's different. He's going to see himself as a monster."

"I understand."

"You really don't, but you don't need to." John smiled faintly. "If he does decide to stay, just... be there for him. Don't treat him any differently than you would anyone else. And if it gets to be too much, call me or Sherlock."

"I owe him my life, John. I assure you, I'll do everything possible to make certain he's comfortable," Mycroft promised.

"Remember, it's perfectly normal to be disoriented. If you need anything at all or have any questions, call me. I don't care what time it is," John reiterated, looking directly into Greg's eyes. He reached up, moving slowly, and rested a hand not on Greg's shoulder, as a friend might do, but on the back of Greg's neck. Mycroft hadn't missed the way Greg shuddered, some of the tension leaving his stance — or the way Sherlock had visibly bristled.

"John. The taxi," Sherlock insisted after less than a second had passed.

John rolled his eyes, his smile turning fond. He did pat Greg's shoulder then, the motion natural and subtle enough that most people would have missed the odd touch. "Right. I'll see you both tomorrow afternoon," he said, and followed Sherlock out.

Mycroft closed the door behind Sherlock and John, pointedly engaging all the locks, though his people would be arriving within the hour to remove the hospital beds and deliver a suitcase of essentials from Greg's flat. "Are you —"

"So, what —"

Mycroft smiled at Greg. "Please make yourself at home," he invited. "The cook left enough meals for a week, if you're hungry. Or I could show you to your room. There's no need for you to sleep in the breakfast room, unless you'd prefer it."

Greg laughed uncomfortably. "You really don't have to do this, you know."

"I want to."

"Don't you have a government to run?"

"It can wait. Besides," Mycroft said thoughtfully as he started towards the stairs, looking back to verify that Greg was following, "it's been too long since I've had a house guest. I spend most of my time alone, working, or both. Allow me the indulgence."

"So, you don't —" Greg cut off, but the aim of his inquiry was clear.

"There's hardly the time for me to meet anyone. As my brother said for years, I'm married to my work," Mycroft said, fighting for breath as his broken ribs protested his use of the stairs.

Then Greg was there, taking hold of his arm. "Christ, I'm sorry. I forgot what they must've done to you."

"I'm fine —"

"No," Greg interrupted sharply. "I can only deal with that from one Holmes, not both of you. You're probably half-dead. Which room's yours?"

Automatically, Mycroft pointed to the far end of the hall. "There."

"Do I need to call John back? He wouldn't have left you like this, if he hadn't been so distracted by me."

"I assure you —"

"Look, Mr. Holmes —"

"Mycroft, please."

"Mycroft," Greg corrected. "Are you really about to lie to a dinosaur?"

Mycroft choked out a laugh. "Do you at all realize how absurd that question is?"

Greg's grin was bright and somewhat lopsided and took ten years off him. "True, though."

After another laugh, Mycroft conceded, "If you insist, yes, I could use a bit of rest now that they're gone."

"Then stop playing host and get some sleep," Greg scolded as they reached the bedroom door. He pushed it open and helped Mycroft inside. "I can find the crisps and telly remote myself."

Mycroft let out a relieved sigh when he finally sat down on the edge of his bed. As Greg stepped away, Mycroft lifted a hand to stop him, then caught himself too late. Greg had seen the movement, subtle as it was.

After a single blink, he looked from Mycroft's hand to his face, his dark brown eyes curious and wary. "Are you all right?"

Mycroft smiled reassuringly. "Merely tired. Please, make yourself at home. I'll be downstairs by dinner," he said, intending to set an alarm so he wouldn't oversleep.

Greg watched him intently for another moment. Then he nodded and said, "All right. Sleep well — and thanks."

When the bedroom door closed, Mycroft sighed and fetched his mobile from his pocket. He answered the latest two emails and then set an alarm to wake him at five. Then he laid down as carefully as he could, trying to get comfortable despite his bruises and broken ribs, trying not to think of how close he'd come to asking Greg to stay.