A/N: As part of The Heart of Camelot 2014 Holiday Exchange, Ace Von S asked for "drabbles about Mycroft". Beta'ed by the wonderful sarajm.
Brotherly Love
Mycroft sat in the chair, suffering in the cold. His shoulders were pulled up around his ears, his overcoat was done up to the top button and the fur-lined hat was pulled tight over his receding hairline. He was seemingly indifferent to the torture being handed out to the scruffy, dirty, skinny creature trussed up before him.
Legwork … I despise legwork, he thought to himself. It had taken him several weeks to locate Sherlock, learn Serbian sufficiently to pass himself off as a native and then slip into his role as Colonel and work his way towards the dungeon where his little brother was being held. The most unsettling thing about this whole extraction was that he'd been out of regular contact with his office for over a week now. While he'd left everything in the extremely capable hands of Anthea, Mycroft was starting to get … concerned … about what might have occurred while he was otherwise occupied. He needed to get himself and Sherlock back to London immediately. While he had not hesitated to use Sherlock's travels for his own purposes, he'd never fully approved of Sherlock's plan to demolish Moriarty's network. Now, whether he was finished or not, the time for little brother's games was over.
As the thug rained down vicious blows on torn and bruised flesh, each dull thud of fists hitting sensitive skin and bones sent a shudder up Mycroft's spine. Despite outward appearances, Mycroft did love his brother and honestly worried about him constantly.
It wasn't only their age difference that made Mycroft act as he did towards the younger man; Mycroft had always been the responsible one, the one who understood how to play the game and fit in to society. Sherlock, on the other hand, had been a wayward child, an indifferent youth and a non-conformist from the very beginning. Though their upbringing had been filled with love from their right-meaning, but definitely nontraditional parents, Mycroft was the one who understood Sherlock and who knew how sensitive the man actually was.
Enough, thought Mycroft, as he readied himself to step in and take over the "interrogation", I can't watch any more of this. As he cleared his throat and prepared to give the order that would remove the Serbian from the cell, a low muttering filled the room.
As he listened to Sherlock lay bare the man who up until ten seconds earlier had been beating him to a pulp, Mycroft began to get a bit annoyed with his grandstanding brother. Honestly, he'd come all this way and had endured such hardships – not to mention what passed for food in this godforsaken place – just to be shown up by a man who didn't know when to keep his mouth shut. It was his teenage years all over again!
Still, Sherlock's deductions served their purpose and they were soon alone in the dank room. Eschewing sentiment and allowing his annoyance to bleed through, Mycroft grasped his brother's hair and whispered in his ear, "Sorry, but the holiday is over, brother dear."
