I'm not sure I like this one as much as the first one, but here is Mycroft's POV in this little charade. I will most likely write one from John's POV, set later, when they are home safe at Baker Street, to finish it off. Thank you to those who reviewed. I have to say though that swearing is definitely not a way to get me to write faster. ::smirks::
It should not have surprised me as it did when he fell forward ill. Though his body clung to me physically, my mind was working on the numerous twists and plots which have lead first me, then my brother here. He was foolish to get caught, thus being a pawn to be used against me. That he managed to then free us both, and lead us to this place before collapsing into almost insensibility was almost intolerable. What did I know of his world, that I should be the one to run and scamper and play cat to the mice like he? Just because my logic was superior to his own did not mean I wished to use it in this fashion.
It was thoughts like these that distracted me from him long enough so I missed what signs he gave of warning. I barely had enough time to grasp his shirt as he fell, the meek sound of pain causing me to pale. "Sherlock?"
He did not answer, too busy being wrenchingly ill. Frowning, I looked him over closely, chastening myself for my inattention. The needle mark was glaringly apparently had I taken the time to really look at my brother, instead of chastising him in my mind. More sounds, like those of an abused pup, came from him, as he struggled to breathe through the spasms. He was dreadfully pale, sweating and I frowned more, categorizing his symptoms as my fist tightened in his shirt to keep him from falling into what his stomach ejected. Poison to be sure, but what type? Over his agony I hear a sound, a door slam and footsteps hurrying. Tugging at his shirt, I tried to ease him to his feet. I could not let him fall into their hands again.
"Up, Sherlock."
Simple words seemed to be the best way to communicate, as he did not seem lucid. My voice was tense with anxiety over the thought of his returning to mercies of our ex-captures. I shifted myself to get a better grip on him, and urged him forward. "They are coming, Sherlock. We must be gone."
I saw no sign of understanding as he stood trembling, face grey with pain and sickness. I tugged at his arm, and he took a few steps forward, before almost pitching over again. I hurried to drag him close to my body, pinning him against my side. I longed to let him rest, but we could not be captured again! Why had he lead us to this abandoned spot? I stood for a moment, clearing my mind of the dregs of panic, trying to think like my brother. It was not a hard feat. He would not have lead us here unless he had good reason, for he was a logical man. Help must be near-by. Sherlock had been leading us towards the boathouse before he became insensible. I would wager that Dr. Watson at least was waiting there to assist us. Tugging him a little tighter to offer him more support, I urged him forward.
"Now, walk."
I don't know how he kept to his feet, with the way he shook and trembled. We had walked most of the distance through the abandoned tenant building, and were almost to the boat works when he gave a great cry of pain and the tears started. A voice which I have never heard from him, breathless and thready, began to beg me to stop his torment. In truth, though I continued to move forward, it being the only logical thing to do, I still shudder at the pleading quality my brother's voice held.
"Please, Brother Mine, what have I done? I am sorry, I truly am. Please stop. I cannot. It hurts. Please."
I tried to assure him the best I could, but he did not seem to hear my words, lost in his own word of pain. Whimpers were all the answers I received to my whispered assurances. I can say then, with great certainty, that few sights were as welcome to me as Dr. Watson hurrying towards us in that dim alley between the tenant building and the boat works. As he reached us, I found myself shaky with relief, and sunk down upon the ground, drawing Sherlock up into my lap so he would not have to touch the filth around us. He shook with pain and cold, and even as I explained in simple, logical terms to Dr. Watson what I thought was wrong with him, (poison, likely from a coral snake), I stroked his hair soothingly, as I did when he was a boy. As Dr. Watson gave him something for the pain, and rambled on about anti-venom and Scotland Yard and the criminals, I hummed a piece of music, a snatch at a boyhood memory, which used to calm an upset Sherlock when we were children. In a few moments, I would return to the aloof man I had become, and let the emotions Sherlock stirred in me return back into the recesses of my mind. However, the pleading of my brother still clear in my mind, I soothed us both for a little while longer.