I was determined that I wouldn't post another oneshot until I'd finished Ghost Map. But I broke down and decided that a Sherlock fic might be just the thing to kick my inspiration back in gear. I hope that every enjoys!
This can really take place at any point in Sherlock canon. Take your pick!
"Is there anything else that you need from me before I head off, sir?"
Anthea's right hand appeared to twitch violently as she spoke; her left hand was forced to clutch at the right in order to keep the twitching from turning into a series of violent spasms. Her dark eyes looked hopeful and she shook her chocolate hair out of her eyes as she waited impatiently for her employer's answer.
Mycroft Holmes sighed inwardly. While others might mistake this behavior to be something neurotic or a warning sign of pure madness, he knew better.
Briefly, he considered the fact that other people have addictions to normal things, like caffeine or drugs. But not Anthea. Instead, her addiction was to her mobile phone. Seldom was she seen without it, her fingers typing madly away at the keyboard, her eyes glinting as a text message delivered the newest gossip from her sneaks downtown.
Shaking himself mentally, he glanced down at the papers that lay strewn about his mahogany desk and actually did sigh before he looked up at her. In one of his rarely mischievous moments, he speculated for a split second if it would be overly cruel for him to keep her from her beloved mobile for another half an hour. No.
"No, I believe that's all for now," he said, leaning back in his leather swivel chair. "There's nothing more you can do tonight."
"Thank you, sir." There was no missing the relief in her voice as she continued to resist the urge to reach into her pocket for her mobile. "I'll see you in the morning, sir."
Mycroft nodded absently, no longer interested in the slightly odd obsessions of his employee. She hurriedly left the room, summoning as much decorum as she could before she closed the oaken door behind her. He could almost hear the sigh of pleasure as she slid the blasted device out of her pocket and clutched it in her hand once more.
Crisis averted.
He'd never admit it out loud, but there were times when he found himself more than a little envious of Anthea. She had so little to concern herself with, such a simple life to lead, really.
"He is the British government, when he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis."
John Watson must have thought that Sherlock was simply mocking him when he had spoken those words on the night that they had met. But Mycroft was forced to acknowledge the truth of those words every single day. He knew the truth of them when he received calls from the Palace asking him to hush up another scandal and pressure from bands of ruffians who were threatening to rig the Korean elections. The majority of London might not know him by name, or even by sight, but his job was one of the most important occupations in the country.
Tonight, he was feeling the weight of his country on his shoulders more than usual. It had been a particularly difficult day at the office and he was more than ready to turn in for the night. Unfortunately, the documents on his desk appeared to be relentless in their demands. He knew better than to leave the paperwork until the morning. The universe would likely implode if he did. Or worse, the United Nations.
A sigh escaped him but, a moment later, he set himself to the task of reassuring the Korean leaders of government that he would be the soul of discretion.
Save us from procrastinators.
About two hours later, he glanced up from his work to see that it was already half past eleven. Carefully, he set the pen down, rubbing his bleary eyes as he did. The Korean leaders of government would simply have to wait until the morning; his eyes were beginning to cross so that he could hardly see the pages in front of him.
Time to pack up.
As he began to slide the papers into his briefcase, he felt his mobile phone begin to vibrate from within his pocket. Sighing, he slid his hand into the pocket of his designer suit jacket. It was a message from John.
You need to tell your brother that it is unacceptable to go for six days without eating or drinking anything.
JW
"Oh, Sherlock."
For a moment, he debated not doing anything about the message. It wasn't his business if his brother wanted to die of slow starvation and dehydration. He was a grown man and perfectly capable of taking care of himself.
Not so.
"Hell." The brother inside got the best of him and he dialed.
The phone seemed to ring for an age before Sherlock answered; Mycroft suspected that he had only answered because John had given him no alternative.
"What do you want, Mycroft?" The sharp annoyance in his brother's voice was not surprising. Mycroft would have been disappointed if his brother had exhibited anything less.
"John tells me that you have declined food and drink for the past six days, Sherlock."
"And? I'm working, Mycroft. You know that digestion slows me down."
"I certainly do, Sherlock. You have told me often enough," said Mycroft with a touch of aggravation. "But six days is simply too long without any repast."
"Brother of mine, it's no business of yours how much I eat or don't eat. We aren't children anymore."
"So you keep telling me. But you know that Mummy told me how important it was for me to keep an eye on you at all times. And that includes making certain that you are performing basic tasks such as eating and drinking."
"I'm not interested, Mycroft. If you wish, I'll have John inform you when the case is solved and I'll celebrate with some tea and toast." Sherlock's voice had lost all annoyance and was now simply bored. The bloody man had the attention span of a child as well as the attitude of one.
"But Sherlock -"
"Good night, Mycroft."
Sherlock hung up with a sharp click like a popgun in Mycroft's ear. Shaking his head, Mycroft slid the phone back into his pocket and snapped his briefcase shut.
It aggravated him to no end when Sherlock felt the need to act like such a child. The days of Mycroft goading him until he finally ate something were long over with. If Mummy hadn't insisted that he watch his brother while they both lived in London…
No. He mustn't think of things like that. Sherlock was his brother and that was all there was to it. No matter how unfortunate a situation that might seem.
Despite his frustration with his brother, he decided that he would rather walk back to his flat instead of taking the car. Anger hadn't clouded his thoughts so much that he would be foolish enough to take his briefcase full of vital papers on his walk home so he decided to call his driver and ask him to take the case separately. He would take the long way home in order to clear his thoughts a bit.
So, about a half an hour later, he was on his way home. It was frightfully late at night so he decided that it would be best to remain in the more public areas of the city for his own safety. Down the London streets he walked, surrounded by a surprisingly large crowd of people milling about their business. The drunks, the sobers, and the in-betweens all wandered throughout the city, all fitting in together under the bright lights of the signs that littered the streets. Looking up into the sky, Mycroft could see only a long black strip above the street lights and signs. Not a star to be seen.
That was one thing that he had always disliked about living in the city. Stargazing had been a secret pleasure of his when he was a child. It was not a pastime that he shared with his parents, who would never have approved. They believed that eldest their son had no business with his head in the clouds if he planned to succeed in life. He must stick to his books or he would end up flipping burgers in some restaurant like one of the poor beggars that now walked the streets along with him.
But Sherlock was one person that he was able to share this love with. Although the brothers had never been close, stargazing was the one distraction that they could both appreciate. Lying in the fields that surrounded their summerhouse, the young boys could look up at the stars and forget everything else. They would find their favorite constellations and try to count the stars to see how many there were.
All that had stopped when they moved back into London so that the boys could pursue a college career. Gone were the days of stargazing among the wildflowers in the fields. Gone was the one passion that the brothers had shared. And, in the end, gone was their relationship.
All of this flashed through his mind like a bolt of lightening for the first time in years as he tried to look up past the London glare into the night sky. He had made himself forget, for it was too painful a time to remember. A time when they had both been so happy.
Mycroft Holmes shook his head. It was too late to consider such a thing now.
He turned a corner, intending to take a shortcut the rest of the way to the flat. He hadn't anticipated such thoughts of the past to come screaming back; he wasn't prepared to deal with them.
The alleyway that he had chosen was short and narrow but it was one that he was very familiar with from his days at university. It was a handy shortcut that he had used many times when he was late and, even though he had been in much better condition back then, he still hadn't forgotten about it. It made him feel good to be strolling purposefully down the alley for the first time in years. A bit a nostalgia never hurt anyone.
*THWACK *
The blow to his head knocked him to the ground and the knife was jabbed into his left shoulder and twisted before he became aware of the fact that it had pierced his skin.
He didn't know how long he had been lying there before he became aware of the fact that someone was shaking him awake.
"Take it easy, gov. You've had a rough night. Were you out drinking or something?"
Mycroft slowly became aware of a throbbing pain in his head and he groaned. A moment later, he was able to identify a pain in his shoulder (probably because of that knife that he only distantly remembered) and the fact that blood seemed to be gushing from his right knee. Source: unknown.
What happened?
"Your wallet's gone." One look at the man's blasé face told Mycroft that the man wasn't aware of the blood. The stranger thought that he had simply passed out. "And if you had a phone, it's gone too." There was a pause as Mycroft groaned again. "Can I take you home, gov? You look like you could use a good night's rest."
"Yes," Mycroft breathed against the pain in his shoulder and his head. Why couldn't the bloody man….the throbbing became too great to continue the thought.
"Where do you live?"
"221B Baker Street."
"Yes, all right. I'm coming." John Watson yawned, crossing his arms and blinking sleep out of his eyes as he made his way down the stairs to the front door. He glanced at his watch as he went, groaning as he realized that it was half past three in the morning.
This had better not be a prank.
Another yawn escaped his lips as he unlocked the door and pulled it open so that the light from the front hall spilled into the street outside.
He didn't recognize the man who stood there. He was short and stout with a babyish face that peered out from a mop of blonde hair. His figure was decked out in an oversized sweatshirt (John didn't even know that they made sweatshirts that large) and baggy sweatpants.
"Yes? Can I help you?"
"I'm delivering a Mr. Holmes who says that he lives here. Do you know a Mr. Holmes?"
John's brow wrinkled for a moment; as far as he knew, Sherlock was home. "Yes, there is a Mr. Holmes who lives here."
"Good." That man turned around and produced a tall man of medium weight from the back of a taxi. His face was bloody and streaked with dirt, his thinning hair matted with even more blood, but the face of the man was unmistakable: it was Mycroft Holmes.
A thousand questions ran through John's mind at the sight of the injured politician but he was able to cast all of his questions to the back of his mind for later as his doctor instincts began to kick in. "Thank you so much," he said, slinging Mycroft's arm across his shoulders to support the older man. "I was getting worried about him."
"Tis no trouble, gov." The man shrugged. "It was the least I could do. Afraid he's been mugged though. His phone and his wallet were gone."
John looked to Mycroft, who seemed unaware of his presence. The cloudiness in the politician's eyes told him that now was not the time to be asking questions. "Thank you," he said again, guiding Mycroft into the flat. "Is there anything that we can -"
"Nothing at all, gov." The man was already paying off the taxi. "Glad to help."
Before John could protest, the man was gone, strolling down the street in an apparent search for others in need of his assistance.
"What an odd man."
A groan that escaped from Mycroft's lips brought him back to the present moment and he carefully guided the man inside. Mycroft seemed unable to support his own weight; John suspected that the bloodstains on his expensive trousers were obscuring the cause of the weakness. He could see that his shoulder was equally blood-spattered, confirming the fact that he had indeed been mugged.
Once inside the flat, John carefully closed the door behind him, leaning slightly under Mycroft's weight. Mycroft blinked several times against the light that shone in the foyer and John almost regretted having it on. "Mrs. Hudson! Sherlock!"
He knew that neither of them could be asleep after all the pounding that the man had done on the front door. Both of them had probably lain there hoping that he would answer it so that they wouldn't have to. But the urgency in his voice would at the very least rouse Mrs. Hudson.
Directly on cue, she appeared in the hallway, wrapped up tightly in a lavender bathrobe. "What's going on, love?"
"I need you to boil some water and fetch my bag," he said, starting up the stairs and staggering under the unfamiliar weight.
Her eyes took in the injured form of Mycroft Holmes and she sucked in her breath. "What's happened? Is he all right?"
"I don't know, Mrs. Hudson. I need to get him upstairs so that I can find out."
She nodded, hurrying out to the kitchen to prepare the water.
"SHERLOCK!" Mycroft flinched as John raised his voice, knowing that it would take that much force to rouse his friend. Sure enough, he appeared at the top of the stairs with his blue dressing gown draped across his shoulders and his mop of brown hair covering his eyes.
"What's going on, John?" The question was purely rhetorical as Sherlock took in the appearance of his brother.
"Your brother was attacked, Sherlock." He knew that Sherlock couldn't miss the slight annoyance in his voice. "Can you help me get him upstairs to the couch?"
Sherlock appeared to consider the question for a moment before he bounded noisily down the stairs and mimed lifting his brother's leg so as not to damage his injured shoulder. John carefully adjusted his grip on the older man so that they were able to lift him together and carry him up the stairs. A few moments later, they were able to gently set him down on the couch.
Mycroft had lost consciousness again sometime during the transport. John carefully removed his jacket, motioning for Sherlock to help him. Once the fabric was pulled away, they were able to see the gaping wound in the shoulder. Blood continued to seep from the body and onto the skin, though not as profusely as the flow coming from his leg. The blood on his face seemed to pale in comparison to the leg wound.
Mrs. Hudson appeared with a kettle full of water, which she poured into a clean bowl from the kitchen. "It's a good thing that I washed this before I went to bed or we'd have been in a right spot," she said, trying unsuccessfully to be cheerful. Deciding that her attempts were futile, she handed John a rag.
"Could you get my bag, Sherlock?"
John looked up when no answer came, expecting to see that Sherlock had wandered off. Instead, he saw something that he rarely saw on the face of the detective. He was almost certain that it was concern. "Sherlock?"
Sherlock jumped as though stung and he tore his gaze from his brother to glance over at John. "What?"
"My bag?"
"Oh, yes." Sherlock rose as though in a dream and departed for John's bedroom.
Mycroft groaned softly as he slowly began to return to consciousness. His head felt as though it had been run over by the London Underground and then been subjected to the stampeding feet of every single passenger that could squeeze onto the train. As he gradually became more aware of his physical condition, he could feel the inflammation of his arm that was, for some reason as yet unknown, associated with a vague memory of Korean politics. The numbness in his left leg was puzzling to him, but he was fairly certain that it had something to do with Korea as well. Or was it Japan?
He was lying on what seemed to be a couch with his head propped up on a fair number of pillows. As his eyes slowly opened, he became aware of the fact that the room was lit simply by a lamp in the corner and what appeared to be the light of a mobile phone screen.
"Wha….?" The weakness of his voice surprised him. It sounded hoarse and sore as though he had been shouting for a long time. And the dryness was enough to knock him off of his feet.
The light from the mobile phone disappeared at the sound of his voice and the owner got to his feet. The soft padding of feet was magnified a tenfold by the pounding in his head and he flinched.
"How are you feeling?" Sherlock's face swam into focus and he blinked in astonishment.
"Sherlock?" he whispered, not sure if his eyes were betraying him.
"Yes. I'm here."
Mycroft blinked again. "What are you doing?" he asked as he became aware of the damp cloth that his brother was wiping across his forehead.
Sherlock didn't answer but the cloth was whisked away and he appeared to flush. "I'll go and get John."
Before Mycroft could answer, Sherlock was out of the room. He settled back against his many pillows, attempting to shed the pain from his injuries into the couch.
John appeared in the doorway alone; Sherlock did not accompany him. "How are you feeling?"
"Fairly well, John," said Mycroft, craning his neck in order to see around John's shoulders. "How long have I been here?"
"You slept through the day." John retreated into the kitchen to put the kettle on. "It's about 8 o'clock. Tea?"
"Yes, thank you."
"Can I ask what happened to put you in such a state?" There was the sound of running water as John began to fill the kettle.
Mycroft attempted to straighten his hopelessly crumpled and bloodstained suit. "I was assaulted as I walked home from the office."
John didn't appear certain how to respond as he lit the burner under the kettle. "You're very fortunate that it wasn't a lot worse. You'll probably have a nasty headache for a few more hours at least. But your cuts shouldn't take long to heal."
Mycroft wasn't worried; he had access to a professional, private medical team if he needed it.
"Why did the man who brought you here seem to think that you lived here?"
"It was the only place I could think of. My head was in too bad a state to think of anything else."
"I see." John appeared in the kitchen doorway and shrugged.
"Do you, John?"
Both men looked up to see Sherlock standing in just inside the doorway to his bedroom. He was now dressed in his coat and scarf, appearing ready to leave the house at a moment's notice. While John looked at his new appearance blankly, Mycroft simply shook his head.
"Good evening, Sherlock."
"Good evening, Mycroft." Sherlock stepped into the main room, fingering his gloves as he did so. "I'm going out, John. Not sure when I'll be back."
"Are you sure you want to go out now, Sherlock?" asked John, glancing over his shoulder as the tea kettle began to sing.
Sherlock didn't answer but began to move down the stairs. The front door slammed behind him, leaving John and Mycroft alone in the room.
It wasn't difficult for Sherlock to figure out where his brother had been when he was attacked. It was the same alleyway that they had used together when they were university students, the one that had been a convenient shortcut between their flat and the university grounds.
Unfortunately, he was aware of the fact that it had recently been populated with thugs who used the alley as a convenient place to rob unsuspecting tourists. Normally, they weren't foolish enough to go after wealthy politicians. But, in their defense, very few wealthy politicians take shortcuts through dark alleys in the middle of the night? What had gotten into his brother?
He stepped into the alley now, his torch in hand like a weapon. The alley appeared to be empty at first glance but he knew better than to assume anything.
A few sweeps of the torch later, his suspicions were confirmed. There was a dark figure lying in wait a few yards away. He switched the torch off.
An hour later, he returned to the flat. John was dozing in his easy chair but Mycroft appeared wide awake on the couch. Apparently, his brother's injuries were too painful to allow him to sleep. Or, perhaps, he had been waiting for Sherlock to return.
When he closed the door to the stairs, Mycroft glanced over at him with a question in his eyes. Sherlock didn't say anything but he gently tossed a wallet and a mobile phone to his brother. Mycroft looked at them and looked at Sherlock.
"Thank you, Sherlock."
Sherlock nodded. "You're welcome, Mycroft."
"What happened?"
Sherlock had decided that he wouldn't answer questions about what happened in the alleyway. Mycroft would be able to work that much out. But, as he left the room, Sherlock made certain that his brother could see him wiping the blood of Mycroft's attacker off of his jacket.
Everyone thought that Mycroft Holmes was the more responsible, fearsome brother. But they failed to realize that Sherlock Holmes, given proper motivation, was a force to be reckoned with in his own right.