a/u: i'm really unsure about this one. feedback would be greatly appreciated.
When they first started running, Sherlock had his hand around his brothers' wrist to keep him going. Mycroft was huffing, angry with is brother for getting him into this damn mess. But when he lost his footing, it was Sherlock that was dragging him back up. Steadying him.
"We need to split up," the elder Holmes gasped.
"Obvious," Sherlock hissed, hands on his knees while they rested.
There were three men that were chasing them– Mycroft had already called for help, but they were far from any sort of town. An old cement factory. The walls were thick and gray, coated in dust from years of abandonment. Sherlock placed a hand on the wall and stood up straight, breathing still haggard; though, he found comfort in the fact that John wasn't here. He was safe at home, probably.
Footsteps echoed from down the hall. The Holmes brothers looked at each other and nodded, taking off in different directions. Mycroft was not a fast runner, but he knew where to go and where to turn as to confuse the men. Also, he kept near the windows, looking out through the cracked glass in the hopes of seeing the help he had called for.
The younger Holmes, on the other hand, was fast. The walls blurred by him as he sped down the halls, taking turns at random until finally he wound up in a large, open room. He stopped to catch his breath. The ceiling loomed above him and he tipped his head back, straining his ears to hear the footsteps of the ones attacking them. Numbly, he traced the spot where they had got him with the butt of a gun; the deep red scratch stretched across his cheekbone. Sherlock could taste his own blood.
When the footsteps did come, Sherlock turned towards them rather than to run, because he could tell by the heaviness that they were Mycroft's. The elder man saw him and shook his head, panting.
"Splitting up did no good," Sherlock commented dully.
"My men should be here soon."
Sherlock nodded and opened his mouth to talk but stopped when he caught a glimpse of his brother's face.
"Sherlock," Mycroft muttered, just as he felt the cool barrel of a gun pressed to his lower neck.
"Ah. Yes," Sherlock murmured. "Didn't hear you coming."
"That was the point," the man behind him spat.
From his smell, Sherlock determined that he hadn't had the chance to shower recently– most likely homeless. But, by his confidence, this mustn't have been the first hit he'd been hired to do. Sherlock sighed. He silently cursed Mycroft for giving him this case.
Just a simple run-of-the-mill theft. Find the man. Damn him.
"Where are the others?"
"Don't know. Lost."
"Mm."
Mycroft shot Sherlock a curious look. Behind him, the man tensed– but it wasn't the kind of tense that gave Sherlock the notion that he was threatened.
"You know, I got some advice from my boss," he said, and Sherlock felt the cool metal leave the base of his skull. He felt his heart rate drop; didn't even know had sped up.
"And what would that be?"
"There's no point in threatening you, because you don't care about dying."
"Oh?" Sherlock said.
"Don't move, now. Still got my gun on you," the man hissed.
Sherlock hear him shuffle around until he was out of his arm span (smart man) and then walk so that he was in the middle of the two brothers. He kept an eye on Sherlock and moved so that the end of his gun was rested on Mycroft's temple.
At first Sherlock couldn't pinpoint what the thunderous pounding was; then he realized it was his heart. The gun pointed almost playfully at is brother's head. Sherlock felt one of his fists clench and his nails dig into his palm. The blood was almost like a shock back to reality. He knew he just needed to hold him off until help arrived. It was almost out of his hands; but only almost.
"You know," Sherlock said, voice steady, "your boss was wrong."
The man glanced at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. Mycroft swallowed hard and tried to catch his brother's gaze.
"I don't really care about him. I don't really care about anything. So if you think that killing him is going to kill me, you're wrong."
"You're bluffing."
"Find out. But you know that in the time that it would take you to shoot him and then reload, I would have shot you already."
"You don't have a gun." His voice shook. Sherlock smiled.
"Oh, don't I?"
"Why haven't you shot me, then?"
"I try not to shoot. Makes for an awfully ugly corpse," Sherlock said lightly. He tried to ignore the feeling of weakness in his knees.
When he lowered the gun from Mycroft's temple momentarily, Sherlock nearly sighed in relief.
"I don't believe you."
"Test me."
"Show me the gun."
"Why?" Damn.
"Because I wanna see if you're bluffing."
"You know that if I take it out, I'll shoot you. Why do you really want to see it?"
The gun flew back up to his brother's head and Sherlock cursed himself again. In all honesty, he couldn't think straight. His thoughts were a giant, dull blur around his thudding heart and Mycroft.
It hit him like a kick in the head that Mycroft could die– not just die, but be murdered, and all because Sherlock wasn't quick enough.
He recalled being young and getting stuck in a tree and then falling out of it. The ground seemed so close when he had climbed up, but when he fell, the grass took foreve to reach him; and when it did, it was accompanied by a sickening crack of bone. When he screamed, it was his brother that came. He had broken his arm but was trying not to cry, because he had told himself that he was to be tough through the whole ordeal. Sherlock didn't want to look weak in front of his older brother. Though, in fact, that's what he felt right now– weak. Stupid.
"You're bluffing."
"Test me, then. Go on."
He cocked the gun and let his finger trace the trigger. Sherlock almost chocked on his heart, which had somehow crept to his throat. His blood roared in his ears.
Mycroft finally managed to catch his brother's eye and saw everything in it. Help should be here by now. Sherlock was close, so damn close, but it would be just his luck for him to fall short this one time. He gave his younger brother a slightly annoyed look– the sight of which almost made Sherlock laugh. Sediment was so useless; but yet Sherlock had gotten tangled in its' web. It was sticky and confusing, and filled his head with a mass of illogical thoughts.
His finger was inching towards the trigger and suddenly there was a single shot. Sherlock tried to close his eyes, but he couldn't. It wasn't his brother that fell; it was the nameless man who hit the ground slowly, blood spilling from a precise hole in the back of his head. Sherlock's eyes focused on the blood spilling out– he imagined it flooding the building and them all drown in it. Sticky and warm.
"Sherlock?" Mycroft said.
He didn't realize that he had been staring wide eyed at the body until then. Sherlock shook himself out of his trance.
Mycroft looked at his younger brother irritably before thanking the guard. He heard a cover being put over the body and brushed himself off. The dust from the walls had settled on his coat. His legs ached from the run, and he turned to tell Sherlock that they should be heading home; it was nearly dinner.
When he glanced over, he noticed how white he had gone; dark curls tumbling forward, because he had his head tipped downward. Knees shaking. Mycroft had taken a step forward when his brother fell, his knees hitting the cold floor with a muted thud. Before he fell forward, the older Holmes was in front of him on his knees, supporting him. He put a hand on his back and felt the shaking of his ribcage as he struggled to breathe.
"Are you hurt?" he whispered.
Sherlock couldn't speak– his breath was gone, coming in ragged, quiet gasps. He shook his head, because he was unable to communicate in any other way. To his relief, Mycroft heard the footsteps of the others leave. His brother felt awkward in his arms, like a dead weight. He shook; violent shudders racking his body like he was sobbing.
"I ca-n-nt br-r," Sherlock stuttered; he was embarrassed with himself, but even more alarmed with his blurry vision and light-headedness. His limbs felt like they had been infused with lead.
"You're having a panic attack," Mycroft murmured, "You need to breathe."
Sherlock tried to tell him that he was trying, but it was like someone else was controlling his lungs. Shaking, he tried to pull away but his brother's hold was too firm, and he felt like jello.
He took a deep breath, or tried to; the air felt foreign in his lungs. It swam around in him just like his vision swam. Mycroft tried his best not to be awkward about the situation. He couldn't even remember the last time Sherlock had let him touch him, and now he leaned against him, shaking and panting. His shoulders went rigid with the effort of trying to keep his breathing even enough to keep him conscious.
Gradually, Sherlock could feel his senses return to him, and he gently pulled away from his brother. Mycroft kept a hand near him, in case he fell again. But he didn't, and Mycroft helped his brother to his feet silently. Sherlock looked flushed, eyes trained on the ground as they made their way to the car.
"Let me drive," Mycroft said.
"I'm fine to."
But Mycroft took the keys and Sherlock, for once, didn't object. The ride was silent and when they pulled up in front of Sherlock's flat, he stopped his brother from leaving.
"What's wrong?"
He glanced up as he was about to open the door and shook his head. "Nothing."
"You haven't ever had a panic attack."
"I didn't really plan it," Sherlock said, annoyed.
"What made you panic?"
He let his fingers fall over the handle and deliberated getting out of the car and ignoring Mycroft's question. But he could feel his brother's gaze burning holes in his coat and he sighed, running a hand over his face, before answering.
"I don't know. Honestly."
"You, not know?" Mycroft scoffed. "I'm not that stupid, brother."
"You almost died. And it would have been my fault," he said slowly, weighing each word on his tongue before he let them go.
Mycroft sighed and shook his head. "No," he said. "It would have been the fault of the man who shot me."
Sherlock nodded and grasped the handle. "Case is finished, then," he muttered and slipped from the car.
The wind hit him full in the face and he was grateful for the bitterness of it.
"Sherlock?" Mycroft called from the open window.
He turned, wind blowing his hair around in his pale face.
"You're not going to loose me, you know. Can't get rid of me that easily."
Sherlock nodded; one stiff bob of his head, but when Mycroft drove away, he swore that he saw his brother smile.