I made this for my friend's birthday. It features Awesome-Action-Adventure-Mycroft. Thought I'd share!

There were very few cases of Sherlock Holmes that saw the involvement of his brother, Mr. Mycroft Holmes. The elder man, steadfast in his habits and comforts, had infrequent desire to join in what his younger brother so enthusiastically termed, "the game." The intellectual aspects of Sherlock's cases provided the occasional treat from afar, but when the government came to him with a problem involving running and cabs and haring about London for evidence – well, in those cases, he was more than content to deliver up the quandary to his eager sibling.

Every once in a while, however, a mission would turn up in which Mycroft's presence was beneficial: in the episode with Mr. Melas, for example, or when his brother had needed aid with his escape to the continent. Given the delicate nature of the few cases with which Mycroft found himself actively involved, there were several adventures that would never make it to the Strand magazine.

While he'd never admit it to anyone, Mycroft quietly prided himself that, upon these occasions, his intellect and skill were up to the task.

He was a Holmes, after all.

There was one instance in particular that always stood out in the memories of Dr. Watson and Sherlock Holmes. The specifics of the case and the way in which Mycroft became involved must, for reasons you may guess, remain undisclosed. The denouement of the thing, however, transpired – of all places – inside an abandoned hunting lodge slightly east of the Welsh border.

The Holmes brothers and Dr. Watson had finally located their quarry after a tricky week of scant evidence and the interference of hired thugs. They were cautious when they approached the two story building, entering the lodge with revolvers raised and footsteps painstakingly silenced.

But it is very infrequent that a raid on an alert enemy's territory can go without mishap, and when Sherlock's legs were suddenly, forcefully bowled out from under him by a ready tackle, it did not take long for the upper hand to swing in the enemy's favor.

Their informant criminal had three of his own men and, through the advantage of having made the first offensive move, Mycroft, Sherlock, and Watson were overpowered and shoved into the attic. Their revolvers were stripped from their persons and the guards stepped back, arms folded in smug success.

The informant grinned with the melodrama that comes so easily to a criminal who's "won". As was only polite in this sort of situation, the two groups of men traded words, oaths, and threats – the one side enjoying their gloating, the other playing for time.

While Mycroft spoke, Sherlock and Watson watched for an opening. Inevitably, it provided itself when one of the hired thugs grew bored and crossed the room for a cigarette.

Watson leapt forward and grabbed the man's arms, using his surprise to fit in a heavy punch and force his opponent to the ground. Sherlock spun on his heel to meet the other guards who were in the process of drawing revolvers. Sloppy and too self-assured, Mycroft thought absently, should have had us at gunpoint all the while.

Mycroft had turned around with his brother and seized the wrist of the guard on the left. The revolver's path upwards came to a jarring halt and, with a well delivered jab, the unfortunate thug wheezed and curled around himself, his revolver dropping to the ground.

Sherlock had struggled momentarily with his quarry but, with a grunt, he suddenly turned his body in such a way as to flip the man over his shoulder. The thug flopped over and hit the ground with a painful thud.

And then there was a gunshot.

Mycroft had turned around in time to see the doctor rushing the informant. It was unclear who had been the informant's first target, for, when Watson tackled him, he had already been in the process of redirecting the aim of his hastily drawn revolver

The two men collapsed, but it was the informant who struggled to his feet a moment later. His revolver shot up to aim between the Holmes brothers.

Sherlock's face washed pale. He made to rush forward but the informant cried out a warning. Helplessly, the younger brother was forced to watch from a distance for signs of life in his dearest friend.

"This is how this is going to work, Mr. Holmes," the criminal murmured in a lowered voice, eyes glaring out beneath his furrowed brow. "I'm going to leave, now, and you're going to stay put until I've safely gone."

There was a groan from Watson, who moved his arms to his chest as if to push himself up. He appeared dazed, however, and was unable to do more than lift himself upwards a few inches. The informant stepped forward carefully to retrieve the dropped revolvers from the scuffle.

"This has been a lovely experience, gentleman, but I'd just as soon never see you again. You understand, of course."

The brothers stood tensely, watching the informant tread cautiously to the door. There was no opening to attack. With a final parting smile, the informant retreated and shut the door.

Sherlock ran instantly to his friend's side, turning him over carefully to see what damage had been done. Mycroft moved toward the door. There was a grating sound outside and Mycroft was unsurprised to find that, when he pushed upon the door, it refused to budge.

"The cabinet from the hallway," he muttered bitterly. With a frustrated growl, he threw his bulk against the door. It shuddered, but it would take several minutes to force the weight away. By then, the informant would have made his escape.

He turned instead and rushed toward his brother. "How is Dr. Watson?"

There was a faint chuckle followed by a slight groan from the man lying prone on the floor, and Sherlock looked up to give a shaky, reassuring nod. "He'll be alright, Mycroft. It is a superficial wound."

"Hurts like hell, though," Watson muttered weakly in an undertone.

Sherlock patted his friend's hand. He removed his suit jacket and balled it beneath Watson's head. "Is pursuit impossible?" he asked briskly, his tone professional once more.

Mycroft glowered. "He's moved something heavy before the door. It will take time to move it."

With Watson safe for the moment being, Sherlock stood and moved quickly to one of the windows. He frowned after a moment's study. "It's too high to jump safely, and there's nothing to use to climb down." He moved to the other one and gave a cry. "Mycroft!"

The elder brother quickly joined his brother and Sherlock pointed a finger in the direction of the path. Sure enough – there was their informant rushing away from the house.

Sherlock growled and banged his fist against the sill. "Damn! We're going to lose him!"

Mycroft turned and cast his eyes around the room. There had to be something…

Sherlock, meanwhile, was inspecting the side of the house. With a decisive grunt, he began to ease himself onto the ledge.

"Holmes, what are you doing?" Watson asked in alarm. He'd eased himself onto his elbows to watch the proceedings.

"There is not another option," Sherlock growled, preparing himself for a jump. "As long as I land—"

"No."

"Watson—"

"Holmes, don't—"

"I'm not letting him escape, Watson—"

"Sherlock, honestly, get down from there, you fool."

Mycroft had returned to the window and laid a hand forcefully upon his brother's shoulder. "Move," he ordered again, brusquely. In his other hand was an old and forgotten long bow.

Watson observed as his friend turned to Mycroft, mouth opened to deliver some retort. Then the younger Holmes' eyes and caught sight of the bow and inexplicably widened. With a childish look of glee, he hastily removed himself from the window.

Watson stared in outright skepticism. "A bow? Holmes, what—"

His roommate shushed him with a look of excitement and they watched as Mycroft meticulously notched an arrow and took aim.

Five seconds later, there was a whizzing thrum as the arrow was loosed.

And a gratifying distant howl of pain from the lawn outside the house.

Mycroft turned with an eyebrow raised at his audience. Sherlock was grinning in smug victory. Watson was staring, mouth agape, absolutely dumbfounded.

"I don't think he'll be making it very far," Mycroft observed lightly and unnecessarily. Gently, he flexed the bow against his heel to remove the string and replace the weapon in its corner.

The younger Holmes returned to Watson's side, peeling away his jacket to inspect the wound again. He smiled at Watson's unspoken question. He took a moment before answering. "You have witnessed my skill at boxing, singlestick, and fencing. When it comes to archery, however, Mycroft Holmes is an undeniable master."