Crossing the bar

AN: - Thank you to all of you for the wonderful response to my first chapter! I hope you enjoy this chapter and chapter three is in the works at the moment, thank you for your patience. Please read and review as usual!


Chapter two

Miraculously Sherlock does get to sleep eventually, and he stumbles down to the kitchen again around mid-day. Mycroft is still hooked to his laptop but seems to be back to his usual eating habits (he made breakfast for two, waited for Sherlock, then gave up and finished both plates himself), he glances up to greet Sherlock and frowns as his younger brother staggers towards the sink and hesitantly takes a mug from the drying rack. "Sherlock," the mug crashes to the floor and Mycroft rises from his chair a little too quickly "I'll make you some tea."

Sherlock glances around the room as if he hadn't a clue where the voice was coming from before deciding to heed its advice and sits down. He rests his head in his hands and groans, "My head." He mumbles, to no one in particular. Mycroft flicks on the kettle and rolls his eyes; drug withdrawal. He asks when the last time Sherlock took something was and his brother finally acknowledges his existence, frowning deeply. "Lestrade did a drugs bust last month. I wouldn't tell him how the journalist managed to…ugh" his head hit the table and Mycroft handed his a mug of tea (decaf, again) trying his best not to sympathise. He'd always told Sherlock drugs would be the death of him. He sat back down at the table and pushed the laptop over to his brother, who seemed to be improving a little with the tea.

"I found your attacker, well, found out who he was."

Another groan, "Moran, obviously."

Mycroft snorts, "You're wrong. It's like you said Sherlock, Moran's gone. Off the map completely, we haven't got a clue where he is. No, you're attacker was Nikolas Hanor; an assassin that worked for Moriarty. He was ordered to kill that house keeper of yours… Mrs Hudson, was it? Anyway he showed his hand somewhat by burning down that house last night and it wasn't hard to find a lead. He should be called in by tonight at the latest."

"And?" Sherlock was irritable and Mycroft didn't like it. With Sherlock irritable meant inaccurate, lazy and unpredictable- well, even more unpredictable than normal. Mycroft sucked on his tongue before deciding that a change in plans was in order, no way was he going to risk getting Sherlock involved today.

"Just keeping your informed, this was your death after all. I'll be leaving shortly, you're to stay here." Sherlock harrumphed and waved his arms in the air angrily, childish. Mycroft stood to leave but froze as he picked up his umbrella, walking back to Sherlock who was still sat face-down at the table. His tone softened minutely, "How's the leg?"

Sherlock pulled back his chair and stared down to his calf, apparently having momentarily forgotten all about it. "It doesn't hurt."

Mycroft nodded, "Even when walking?"

Sherlock stood and paced the kitchen slowly, "It's… acceptable." He clucked his tongue before sighing and pulling up his trouser leg quickly, what hid underneath looked truly awful. He ran a hand over it and exclaimed in pain. "I'll need burn cream, cling film, and pain killers." He dropped his trousers down and they brushed up against his skin, causing him to wince. "Strong ones." Mycroft simply shook his head.

"There are four paracetamol in the cupboard; that's all the pain medication you're getting. Amanda will drop the other things by later." Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but Mycroft waved him off, "I'm going now, you know where the computer is." He didn't wait for any other response, he couldn't. He walked to the door, stepped outside and quickly got into the car that was, as usual, already waiting.


Mycroft arrived at work and no one batter an eyelid, he set his lap top down on a table and walked over to Amanda's desk, asking for the burn cream, and any messages. She hands him a small slip of paper and receives a curt nod in return, he waited until he was safely in his office to read the slip, and allowed himself only the slightest hint of a smile; "A once in a lifetime exclusive interview with Nikolas Hanor, don't miss out!" he slipped the paper into his shredder and quickly stepped back out onto the street again.

By the time Mycroft arrived at his second 'office' he was informed that Nikolas had been their guest for a few hours and didn't look like he'd ben hard to get information from, he wasn't a particularly malevolent guy and from the sounds of it he's got into this business by accident. It's easier than you think to become a deadly assassin.

Mycroft pulled his coat around his body tightly and walked into Nikolas' make-shit cell (really just an old photo-copying room, a table, a chair, a mirror, and of course, a door) "Mr Hanor, so good to meet you." He grins as he walks into the room, already buzzing from the feeling of power he had over this man, this man who, for now, seemed to be remaining silent. Mycroft waved a hand at the two men that stood behind him and quickly they had Nikolas tied to the chair. Better: More power. "Not going to introduce yourself to me? I must admit I am disappointed." He stressed the am and followed it with a dramatic sigh, before shrugging and perching himself on the edge of the table, "But I suppose I can do the talking, as you wish. My name is Mycroft Holmes, though I suppose you already know that don't you?" Mycroft finds far too much enjoyment in the way Nikolas physically recoils at the word 'Holmes' as if it were a sin. "So, perhaps, we should just talk about you then, Nikolas?" Further squirming, no, he shouldn't be hard to break. "Though, that's not your real name is it? See, what I've heard- and now, do correct me if I'm wrong- is that you had to change you're name after getting yourself into quite a… pickle. Hmm?"

'Nikolas' laughed and shook his head, clearly realising that remaining silent with Mycroft really wasn't going to get across the impression that he really needed. Too little too late. Mycroft held up his hands "Well, you are just full of disappointments now, aren't you? Perhaps it's best if I remind you..."

"You don't know anything."

Mycroft snorts "Oh, but you see, I do. I know everything. All the little details, even down to the whereabouts of the man that wants you-"

"Shut up." Nikolas snapped his head upwards, his mouth turned up into a scowl. Mycroft only smiled.

"I'm sorry?"

"I said SHUT UP!" he lurched forward and the chair toppled over, Mycroft simply rolled his eyes as the other men pulled him off of the floor.

"Tsch, hit a nerve, have we?"

"That's over. I'm safe now."

Mycroft chuckled and glanced up at the clock, debating whether to have Chinese or Thai food for tea. "I wouldn't be so sure… all it would take was one. Little. Phone call." He stresses the end of the sentence, letting the news sink in, taking pride in the way each word sounds like a punch in Nikolas' gut.

"What are you saying?"

"I think you know what I'm saying."

"I could run. I could hide, I, I managed it before."

"Do you really want to take that risk?" Mycroft waves his hands around the room, as if showing it to Nikolas for the first time. "I'm sure you thought you could hide from this, and that didn't exactly work out now, did it?"

Nikolas is silent, then, surrendering asks; "What do you want?"

The home straight. "You were hired to kill a woman, ordered to stop only upon seeing my brother's death."

"You want the others." He croaks, staring straight forward.

"If you would be so kind."

Nikolas spits at the floor and shakes his head, "I only know their names."

"That would do just fine."

"How do I know you won't kill me anyway?"

Mycroft laughs cruelly, "You don't."

The clock ticks loudly, almost deafening in the silent room. Nikolas fiddles with the ties of his hands and Mycroft pulls his phone out, placing it on the table, the very sight of it seems to make Nikolas jump. "Moran, Sebastian."

Bingo. Sherlock was right. "And?"

"You'll never find him.

"That's really my concern."

"Bjorn."

Mycroft chuckles, "Bjorn…"

"Katona."

Mycroft nods "Thank you, Nikolas." He heads towards the door and turns to one of them men "Be sure to make that phone call tonight, Robert. You know I hate to wait." Nikolas eyes shoot up and he starts to shout, too late. Mycroft is gone.


Sherlock had never told anyone, but from a young age he'd always had nightmares. He'd never known why, they were the most irrational things, but none the less they occurred. It was one of the reasons he avoided sleep, he couldn't bare his brain betraying him every night, abandoning all rationality and bringing back criminals from the dead. Unfortunately, being left with nothing to do in Mycroft's house all day had resulted in Sherlock becoming quite an expert sleeper. Mycroft had put Sherlock's shakiness and bad temper down to drug withdrawal (a mistake that Sherlock had strongly encouraged) but only Sherlock knew the truth. He was having nightmares, and bad ones at that. Furthermore, they were different to usual. These days criminals weren't coming for him, and he wasn't dying. No, these days it was other people in the firing line, getting bruised and hurt and, more often than not, killed. These days they were about other people, and this was something Sherlock just couldn't understand. He couldn't see what had changed, why all of a sudden he was so bothered by everyone else. And Sherlock wasn't used to not knowing things, it was something that made him, uncomfortable, to say the least. Something that could, potentially, make him scared.

"Sherlock? I'm back… Sherlock? Are you there?"

Sherlock thumped down the stairs "Of course I'm here, Mycroft. I've been here every single day this week."

Mycroft rolled his eyes "Oh shut up Sherlock, you're been here for four days. It's hardly that tortuous."

"You had something to tell me." Sherlock deduces, hardly in the mood to deal with his brother.

"Yes…yes I did. And it's good, too." Mycroft smiles slightly, clearly proud of himself. "Firstly, they finally found Nikolas. Dead as a stone, did it himself, too. Apparently just couldn't handle all the running." Sherlock nods grimly, finding it somewhat difficult to take pleasure in the death of a man that he never met and never would. "Secondly, we've located Moran."

"Good." Mycroft frowns at Sherlock short response and opens his mouth to say something just as Sherlock turns and walks into the kitchen. Mycroft followed, a little put out and stars to scold his brother when Sherlock interrupts, "This wasn't how I wanted things to go." After a long pause Sherlock turns around and elaborates, "You finding men, killing them, while I just stay here. This is my fault, but, all I can do is…sleep." Mycroft sighs but Sherlock isn't done "This just isn't, I can't go on like this, Mycroft. I…" he frowns, "Where is he?"

Mycroft gives a minute shake of his head, his borhter is making even less sense than usual. "Why? What do you think you're going to do?"

Sherlock just stares at his brother, his eyes somehow seem even more sunken in then they did when he first arrived and Mycroft is certain that, despite orders, he hasn't eaten. "I couldn't just let you go, Sherlock."

"Please."

Mycroft raises his hands "So what? I just tell my guys to back off?" Sherlock only nods, pouring out a cup of tea for Mycroft. "Right." He pulls out a sticky note from his pocket and place is on the table, hesitantly. "At least stay tonight. Rest."

"I'll stay, but tomorrow morning, I'm gone."

Mycroft exhales slowly and rises to leave the room, certain that there was so much more to say, but equally certain that he had no interest in saying it. "Yes. Well. Goodnight, Sherlock. Don't do anything… " he sighs and tries desperately to avoid his borthers eyes, his terrible, dark eye. "…stupid. Try to keep me, er, in the loop." Sherlock smirks and points out that, Mycroft would always be in the loop, no matter how hard he tried to change that.

"Thank you, though." Sherlock leans back against the kitchen counter, looking disconcertingly unsure of himself.

"I mean it, Sherlock. We'll always be here. All of us."

Sherlock bites his lip, "I wouldn't be so sure, after all this time…"

Mycroft smiles, glad to finally know precisely what to say, "Oh, I would."


Mycroft awoke the next morning to a once again empty house. He got out of bed, made himself breakfast, and then headed to work. At 12 o'clock, he broke. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and made the call that he swore to Sherlock he wouldn't make, speed-dial four. The call was answered immediately and Mycroft apologises, claiming he didn't want to interrupt something. The man at the end only laughs bitterly, "You know perfectly well that you aren't interrupting something, Mycroft."

Mycroft exhales and rubs his temples, "I'm sorry, John."