Sherlock sat, head in his hands, curled into the smallest ball possible, as he rocked back and forth. The energy welling up inside him was caustic and volatile as he lay in his bed contemplating his options. Right now the only two things on his mind were A) punching a wall and B) getting more cocaine. Or heroin for that matter. Anything to take away the feeling of gravity as it pressed down on his body, of the pile driver targeted towards his brain, and the cyclic thought of need more need more need more racing through his head.

He had gone two days without drugs, two days with nothing but cigarettes and his ritualistic self-deprecation and cravings. It was a small feat, and he wasn't sure he could keep it up. Sure, cocaine was bad, but it wasn't nearly as bad as this. Addiction was fine as long as he could stave off withdrawal. Sherlock had stopped because he wanted to feel in control, he had been ashamed of his night in the drug den, of the feeling of waking up sweaty lying in his own vomit, the embarrassment of having lost all his senses. Yet, he felt very much out of control now. He felt like running around screaming and throwing everything in his room, running down the street until he couldn't run anymore, collapsing and lying in a pile on the cold ground for the rest of eternity. If that was in control, he wanted none of it. He wanted cocaine.

Sherlock had decided to get himself another hit hours ago, the only thing keeping him from giving in was the fact that he had no cash left. With Sebastian no longer paying him for coursework, Sherlock had no cash influx leaving him with three options: ask Mycroft for cash, ask Victor for drugs, or give in to Sebastian's requests.

The anxiety blooming inside him was cracking a fracture that ran from his bottom hip to the center of his chest, pushing outwards, caustic and festering.

He couldn't see Victor… not after Friday night. Sherlock hadn't even heard from him in the past few days. The emotions (ugh) roiling inside him at the thought upset his already sore stomach, and he felt another wave of nausea claw at his throat. He absent-mindedly scratched at the inside of his wrest repetitively, up down up down, it kept him calm, something to rely on. Sherlock thought of honey hair and heroin tendrils, of Victor murmuring, "have some more love" and the warmth that had spread through his body. He thought of the cold light of morning, of the smell of his own rancid vomit covering him, of the drip drip of the rain and the pressure of knowing what he'd done on his chest. Water pricked at the edge of his eyes and he swiped at them angrily. No… he couldn't see Victor.

Mycroft was also out of the question. He was too vulnerable to see his older brother, too shattered to piece himself together enough to ask Mycroft for help or even hide that he needed it. Sherlock swallowed.

That left one thing.

Sherlock slowly released himself and extricated himself from his private cocoon. He donned his peacoat and sweater, tying it softly around his neck. He checked his face in the mirror, feeling it turn rigid and passive, masking what lay underneath.

Sebastian opened the door after the second knock.

"I need money."

Sebastian smiled and opened the door wider. Sherlock walked into the room.

As Sherlock got to his knees and took Sebastian into his mouth, he had the absurd thought that contacting Mycroft would have been better than this. But it was only fleeting as Sebastian gripped his hair tightly, pulling him back and forth roughly as Sherlock tried not to gag, tears pricking at his eyes as Sebastian went farther in than was comfortable, the floor digging into his knees sharply. Sebastian aggressively lurched back and forth, thrusting into Sherlock's mouth, a single tear fell unwillingly as Sebastian hit the back of Sherlock's throat causing a physiological reaction. Sherlock gagged slightly, coughing and trying to escape Sebastian's grasp so he could breathe and think, but Sebastian just grabbed his curls tighter and thrust harder, as Sherlock felt vomit rising in his throat and his legs giving out underneath him. And finally Sebastian started making small moans and let go of Sherlock's hair marginally, and this was it if he wanted to get out as soon as possible this was it, and he worked Sebastian throughout his mouth, tongue running over his head, teeth scraping slightly on the shaft, at least he could breathe, and finally, after Sherlock's legs were numb and his mouth was dry and swollen, it was over.

Sherlock stood up and tried not to look at Sebastian as he passed him a hundred quid. Rich bastard. He went straight to Mariah down the hall, worse cut than the London dealers but much closer and he needed a hit as he tried to keep from vomiting Sebastian's cum. Which he was tempted to do just out of principle.

As he lay later in bed, trying to mask the taste of salt that ran down his raw throat with a cigarette, and lightly touching the bruises just forming on the back of his neck as he prepared a syringe full of a ten percent solution he couldn't help thinking of when he had been younger and his mother, home for once from business abroad, had held him in her arms, kissed his temple, and told him that her special boy would do great things for the world. Sherlock's skin crawled as he poked around for a vein, the weight of his body feeling distant from himself, transport for his detached mind. He thought of what his mother would say if she saw him now, ruffled and ruined after having sucked off a closet queer for enough money for two grams because his pride wouldn't allow him to just ask for money from his brother.

Sherlock injected himself, allowing his white mistress to hold him and kiss his temple. He collapsed onto the bed, everything slowing down around him, and at that moment it almost felt worth it.


Being the oldest brother had never been a particularly easy task, especially when he was the oldest of the Holmes' boys. Mycroft couldn't pinpoint the exact moment that he had realized the weight that lay upon his shoulders, but it was likely around the time he realized that when Father went on vacations he could be gone for months, and that when Mother left for work he wouldn't see her again for a couple days. There were maids, of course, and tutors and all sorts of hired staff to help oversee that Mycroft, Gideon, and Sherlock stayed out of trouble, but the problem was that they were shit at their task, and Sherlock and Gideon and that bloody dog Redbeard would get into more mischief than could be thought possible. So the task fell to him, because he was the oldest and because he understood the terribly bright minds of his younger brothers better than any hired psychologist or highly recommended tutor could. He knew that when Sherlock came to dinner with washed hands and fresh pressed clothes, it was because he had been dissecting a frog earlier requiring he clean up. He knew that when Gideon went missing for days on end it was because he had got ahold of some spare computer parts and was hyperfocusing on building the pieces back together. It didn't take a genius, and Mycroft was one.

Gideon and Sherlock couldn't have been more different.

Sherlock was energy personified, brought to life so intensely that even when he lay perfectly still for hours during one of his "I'm thinking" periods, you could still sense the maelstrom that raged underneath. He whirled from place to place, from thought to thought, only stopping when he crashed and only crashing when he was at limits far greater than any other person could reach. Sherlock was a child with a man's mind, immature in every way except his own brand of logic.

Gideon was energy internalized. His life force was his computer, in the soft whirring of internal fans and the glow of LED screens as 0's and 1's illuminated his spectacled face. Like Sherlock, he had always had a knack for getting himself into trouble, but where Sherlock was more physical in his mischief, raising beehives for fun and dissecting the gardener's dead cat, Gideon's trouble was far more discreet. By the age of 8 he had built his own computer, and by the age of 10 had hacked into Mycroft's secondary school system from home to change Mycroft's Politics grade to failing. When Gideon was 13 he had infiltrated the traffic systems in town to constantly make the traffic signals red whenever Mycroft was on the road, synced up with the traffic cameras that read the license plate.

Mycroft was thankful that Mother and Father hadn't noticed.

Of course, they never did seem to notice anything about their children, focusing instead on long trips away and heated fights about infidelity upon their returns. The Holmes' manor was huge, but even so Violet and Alvin's arguing permeated throughout the house, making Alvin's affair and Violet's alcoholism well known to everyone residing inside, children and hired help.

It didn't bother Mycroft that his parents weren't perfect individuals. In contrast, he found their emotions fascinating. How was it that two people who were so intelligent be so capable of base human reactions?

But then, he was guilty of that as well wasn't he? Mycroft cared about his brothers. And caring was never an advantage.

xxxxxxx

The trouble had really started when Mycroft had left the Holmes manor, when he had graduated a year early and left for Cambridge, hoping to climb the political ranks. Mycroft hadn't exactly known then what or who he would become, but he knew that he understood people, at least in the way that a scientist understands their specimens. Mycroft knew how their brains worked, and in that way he understood how to manipulate and extort, makingpeople bend to his will without leaving a trace of his inception. Secondary school had just been a playground for his manipulations; it was time to test his prowess in the real world.

Of course, when he left, saying goodbye to Mother who even managed to squeeze a tear out and a firm followed up with a distant handshake from father, Gideon and Sherlock were nowhere to be found.

"Probably busy doing schoolwork," Mother had said, waving away her younger sons behavior as her white teeth clinked a champagne glass. "Don't worry about them."

Mycroft was far past the option of 'not worrying about them' at this point.

When he had climbed into the car, the chauffeur closing the door behind him, he had found a note on his seat.

Take care Mycroft. And may I suggest that you lay off the doughnuts. Fat politicians are statistically less likely to succeed.

~SH

When he finally settles into Cambridge and opens up his laptop, a text file is open on his computer.

Good luck My. Don't worry about Sherlock. ~Gideon

Mycroft snorts, not even bothering to question how Gideon had hacked his computer. He leans back in his chair, laughing quietly even though something inside him feels like it's breaking.

xxxxxxx

Three months later and Mycroft wonders how his parents ever thought it safe to perpetuate their genes to not only one, or two, but three bloody children. He doesn't think the world can handle three Holmes'.

"Gideon, what the bloody hell did you do?"

He can hear the smirk in the fifteen year olds voice across the line, can practically see his computer illuminated face and his large black glasses. "Hello to you too, Mycroft?"

"I'm not even going to ask you how you penetrated the highest security banking system in England, but I really do need my tuition paid for the semester and I can't do that when you've remotely transferred it into your personal account."

Gideon snickered, his level, tech-voice coming through. "High security my ass. Fuckers relied on some in-testing port thinking that meant that no one could infiltrate because no known exploits. Would've taken me an hour more if they'd just used regular HTTP. Amateurs. I'd find another 'high security banking system'"

Mycroft clenched his fists. "Gideon, transfer the money back."

"How would you feel if I told you that you've just funded a startup for a small Swedish tech company?"

Mycroft hung up, slamming the phone down.

A week later his tuition was anonymously settled and Mycroft was certain that one if not both of his brothers would end up in jail before they could go to university.

xxxxxxx

Mycroft graduated university around the same time Gideon entered, leaving Cambridge a year earlier than he had anticipated and already scooped up by SIS to be a fledgling analyst. They had approached Mycroft as he was attempting to go to a Conflict Resolution lecture, rolling up in an expensive black Rolls Royce, a chauffeur opening the door and giving him no choice but to get inside.

As Mycroft attempted to sit neatly in the small seat, feeling altogether self-conscious about his growing girth, he stared across at the man across from him. Already had deduced that this wasn't a kidnapping; government clearance tag in the right corner of the window, obscured police lights underneath the windshield, so he wasn't scared. Rather, he was unsure.

"Mycroft Holmes." The man across from him was large and muscular, wearing an expensive Armani suit, gun concealed underneath…no… two guns. Ring on his left middle finger, but no other jewelry. Single, despite being at an age to marry. Cropped hair, army background, or Navy? Government agent. It had to be.

"What am I doing in a government vehicle?" For a second, Mycroft thought of his brothers. Good God, he hoped that Gideon hadn't caused some sort of meltdown on Wall Street or Sherlock hadn't snuck into a government facility to chase a puzzle. Both were likely.

The man didn't seem phased by his apt deduction. "We have some questions to ask you."

Mycroft nodded, folding his hands across his lap and looking out the window for the remainder of the ride. They eventually pulled up to a warehouse, bleak and dark from the outside. He made a point not to fidget despite his nerves. The agent ushered him out and inside, the walls dripping with moisture, abandoned and rusting machinery lay all along the main floor, naked cables hanging from the ceiling. Mycroft was led to the back of the room, where a table and chairs sat.

This is all rather dramatic, Mycroft thought. Trying to impress me with their urban decay landscape?

He remained still and stoic, despite the natural Holmes response to need to know coursing within him.

The agent sat down at the table and gestured for Mycroft to sit across from him. He pulled some files out of the leather bag he had been carrying and handed them to Mycroft.

"I would like you to read these."

Interesting. Mycroft quickly scanned through the files. There were a few interviews with various MI6 agents all surrounding the location of a mysterious disc with secret files on it, information about each location and known terror organizations in that area, interviews with captured terrorists…he was finished in about five minutes.

Mycroft placed the file back down and looked back at the agent who cocked an eyebrow. Mycroft resisted the urge to do the same back to him, instead opting to wait for instructions.

"What do you think?" the agent asked.

"The disc is in Cuba at the moment."

"How do you know?"

"Cuba's attacks have been too informed to be random, and their "distraction" attacks have been a poor diversion to try to hide the fact that they have this information."

The agent nodded. "How'd you know?"

"Mostly subliminal hints given by the wording of the Cuban prisoners, which were indicative even taking into account the cultural linguistic differences. Any other idiot would have probably considered the Russian's to be in control, something about the callousness of their operatives really unnerves people, and we've been quick to jump on them since the Cold War, they don't understand South American culture really, the sly way that their operatives operate, that they can lie with a smile. Have to look for subliminal tells, for the things they can't cover up. It might interest you to know the Cuban terrorist organization has been in control of some of US secret information for years."

The agent nodded, standing up and ushering Mycroft back towards the door. They got back into the car and Mycroft was dropped off in front of his lecture hall for his next class. How they knew his schedule was lost on Mycroft.

"We'll be in contact Mr. Holmes," the agent intoned from inside the vehicle.

Two days later Mycroft Holmes was employed by the crown to protect Queen and country with his deduction and analysis.

Around the same time Mother began living in France and Father started bringing more women home. Sherlock was left alone as Gideon began his stint in Cambridge, alone with a distant father in a large house, lost in a sea of being different with none of his also different brothers around to understand.

It was around that time he began experimenting with drugs.

xxxxxxx

Three years later and Gideon hacked into the NSA one night while at Cambridge. He didn't do anything malicious, he didn't even leave a trace, just did it for the fun of it. When Mycroft was informed the next day that NSA in the States had been hacked with no known reason, Mycroft instantly thought of his brother. As more information was obtained, such as the fact that the assailants location was being reconfigured with a polymorphic engine, which updates the signal broadcast from different proxies around the world, and the fact that all these places were travel spots the Holmes' had visited in the past few years, Mycroft knew Gideon's was involved.

He picked Gideon up two days later in his government black Royce with tinted windows, which came with his recent promotion to assistant to the senior analyst. Gideon didn't look surprised to see him, as he adjusted his glasses and cardigan, stomped out his cigarette, and got into the car.

"Smoking is an unattractive addiction."

"You smoke too, Myc."

Gideon had him there.

"I know why you're here," Gideon continued, meeting Mycroft's gaze unabashedly. "And the answer is yes, I hacked the NSA."

Mycroft wasn't nearly as surprised as he should have been.

"If you had been caught you would have been tagged as a terrorist, they wouldn't even consider that you're a bored overactive student with a knack for infiltrating high security cybersystems," Mycroft continued. "You could've put my job in jeopardy."

"Cyberterrorism is a hell of a lot more interesting than Discrete Mathematics lecture."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "You're lucky my car isn't bugged, Gideon, or that would've been recorded."

"If it was, I could just hack into MI5 and delete the files later." Gideon's smirk was minute but seemed to take up his whole face nonetheless.

Mycroft regarded him coldly, remaining perfectly still, hands folded neatly in his lap.

"You're leaving school soon."

"Yes, I am."

"Any plans for a career?"

"Anything that isn't boring. And most things are boring, Mycroft."

"What about academia?"

"Writing papers and lecturing about computer science? No thanks. I need the practical applications of my work."

"You'd settle for nothing less than being a hacker as your career I presume?"

Gideon paused slightly before nodding. Nothing else was interesting enough to keep him sane. Nothing else was worth it, even with the huge odds against him. It was what made the game so fun anyways.

Mycroft nodded once, moving slightly to turn out the window. "How's your technical engineering skills?"

Gideon shrugged. "I built a pen that can explode the other day?"

Mycroft watched him incredulously. "What possible application could that have for you at university?"

"Good way to cancel classes for the day."

"Gideon Holmes, you're a bloody terrorist."

"I'd only be a terrorist if I had a target, Mycroft, don't be so overdramatic. I can't be a terrorist if I target everyone indiscriminately."

"Good God, I have to keep a close eye on you."

"You're last round of bugs are flushed out, by the way, so good luck keeping that going."

Mycroft frowned slightly, giving Gideon the same low stare he had given him earlier, sizing him up, and gestured him out of the car.

"I'm going to see if I can't get this terrorist employed in a safe environment, safe for you and for the rest of the Queen's country. Don't do anything astronomically severe in the next few days, please, if you can manage," Mycroft quipped sarcastically.

Gideon left the car, lighting a cigarette as he did so. He turned back to Mycroft before he closed the door. "Heard anything from Sherlock recently?"

Mycroft shrugged, not bothering to mention that between conflicts in Russia and North Korea he hadn't been keeping up with Sherlock as he should be. Hadn't even thought of contacting Gideon if he hadn't fucking hacked the NSA.

"You should call him sometime Mycroft, he sounds sad whenever I ring him."

xxxxxxx

A few days later and Mycroft and Gideon sat across from each other in the same car as they had two days previously. Gideon had his arms folded across his chest and Mycroft leaned back casually, yet professionally, in his chair.

"You have been offered a position within MI6, Gideon."

Gideon's eyes narrowed slightly. "How did that come about, I wonder?"

"I simply told our security branch that I had found and interrogated the hacker who recently infiltrated the NSA, and explained the… recreational aspect of your hacking. They have a spot open, they need a brain to practice hacking into their system to find any weak spots, and then fix those weak spots."

Gideon's eyes remained narrowed even though he seemed to soften a bit. "Why do you think I would enjoy working for the government?"

"Because it's the only place where you can be well paid and not imprisoned for hacking into high security government servers."

Gideon smiled slightly, resting his hands into his lap. Mycroft took that as a confirmation.

"There's only one thing, Gideon, that has to be done before you work for MI6."

Gideon frowned. "What's that?"

"You have to lose your identity."

"What exactly does that entail?"

"You have to fake your death. You have to die."

"Why didn't you have to?"

"I'm an analyst not an intelligence operative. We're the known targets, and we stay that way so the unidentified in the shadows can gather the information we analyze."

"Will Sherlock know I'm alive?"

"No one can know you're alive."

Gideon nodded, leaning back on his chair. "After Christmas, then Mycroft. Give me time to graduate and see Sherlock. Then I'll begin my career in espionage."

Mycroft nodded affirmation. Sherlock would be fine. He was a Holmes, he would take it in the same pragmatic way that Gideon was accepting his own death. Chances were he would join MI6 at some point anyways, the only place to put to good use his unbridled energy and analytic mind. A few years in the dark and then a nice surprise to find Gideon still alive. It would be fine.

xxxxxxx

"You killed him Mycroft."

Sherlock stood in front of him, hands clasped into fists at his sides, his eyes narrowed into a ghastly expression. Mycroft wasn't frequently scared of his brothers, but at this moment he was aware of just how volatile and just how terrifying his brother could be.

Gideon had "died" four days ago. Mycroft's people had organized an explosion in his new apartment, causing a disfigured body that resembled Gideon enough to throw anyone except Sherlock off. Now his middle brother was comfortable in his new flat, having bought a new cat, and was busy hacking his way into his first official assignment.

Mycroft had been worried that Sherlock would poke around trying to find evidence for his brother's death, which would have been disastrous, but his brother seemed too caught up in grief to do anything except lock himself in his room, only stalking out in the middle of the night to grab some toast and some pills from Mother's medicine cabinet. Mycroft had told him to stop taking un-prescribed Vicodin, but Sherlock had just laughed in his face and walked back to his room, popping four on the way up the stairs.

Sherlock was different from when Mycroft had seen him last two Christmas' ago. He was still energy defined, yes, but instead of the manic and brilliant energy, brimming with curiosity and naïve interest, there was instead a dark hint. Sherlock's mania had taken a turn to self-destruction, as he lit cigarette after cigarette and kept mysterious pill bottles in his room with the labels torn off. He was thinner, somehow, and not only physically.

Mycroft had been trying to talk to him since he came to the Holmes' manor three days ago for his brother's wake and funeral. And now here Sherlock was at his bedroom door at two in the morning, eyes tinted red and swaying slightly on his feet, giving Mycroft the impression that he had just downed more Vicodin. That would be dealt with later.

"You killed Gideon," Sherlock repeated, moving into Mycroft's room. His back arched menacingly. "I saw him at Christmas. He told me you got him a job with MI6. He said he was looking forward to it. You got him the job, Mycroft, and then he dies two weeks later in an untraceable explosion."

"It was probably just a gas leak."

Sherlock laughs roughly, no mirth inside it. "The best hacker in England joins MI6 and is blown to bits, and you think it's a fucking gas leak. You're a shit political analyst, how the fuck did you even get the job?"

"Sherlock, could you not speak so crudely?"

"Why, do they not say 'fuck' in the Diogenes Club?"

"Well, they don't say anything in the Diogenes Club."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned to stare out the window. "Why didn't you protect him? You're second hand to the goddamn government at the moment, Mycroft, why couldn't you protect him?"

Mycroft shrugged impassively. Sherlock looked at him sharply, eyes narrowed, his eyes glimmering with held back tears. "How can you do that? How can you just…not care?"

And it was so hard for Mycroft in that moment to not break, to not tell Sherlock everything, because he could see the tortured look in the teenagers eyes, had seen him stand on the roof with blood dripping from his hands after what was left of the body had been brought to the manor, he knew that Sherlock had lost his best friend, probably the only person who could understand and empathize with him because Mycroft was too old and too protective to do anything except chastise. Instead, he took a sharp breath through his nose and placed the iciest look he could muster on his face.

"Because, Sherlock, caring is not an advantage."

Sherlock paused, his face slightly shocked, his eyes wide, a tear managing to slip out from under his eyelid which he swiped at angrily. Then he scoffed, his expression turning dark and stormy.

"You're a complete and utter asshole, Mycroft Holmes," he said before turning heel and leaving the room.

The next time Mycroft saw Sherlock was when he showed up at his place in London unannounced and asked for money.


Smoke curled out of Mycroft's mouth as he exhaled his cigarette. He tried not to let anyone know about this little habit, and he only smoked occasionally when coffee wasn't holding him together, but it was deeply ingrained Holmes' habit he supposed. The canopy of the café he was standing outside of dripped with rain. He inhaled again.

He had just received a phone call from Gloria.

"Sherlock's done heroin. Victor just came in junk sick from a few days binge. Said Sherlock had been with him for a bit." Gloria paused, before going on. "Victor's in a bad way. His father visited him and threatened him. You may want to check on Sherlock."

Which left Mycroft at a bit of an impasse. Does he sacrifice all and visit Sherlock, like his gut was telling him to do? Or does he do what is most pragmatic and not sacrifice the opportunity to bust the Trevor ring?

Obviously, he should do the latter. Sherlock moving on to more addictive substances wasn't particularly surprising, he'd been bouncing around from substance to substance since grade school. Of course he would always laud cocaine above all, but with his new association with Victor Trevor who did have a history with opiates, Sherlock's trying of heroin wasn't really all that drastic. And if Mycroft moved in now and tried to step in, put Sherlock in rehab like he really should, he would jeopardize his association with Gloria and the biggest chance of breaking the Trevor ring that they'd had in years. Nobody's druggie little brother was worth that.

But Sherlock was Mycroft's druggie little brother, and as much of a pain as he was, Mycroft was still morbidly protective of him. To a fault. More so after Gideon's "death". Given this, despite the logistics pointing him in the direction he should take as a political analyst for Queen and country, his zone of influence right now encompassing all of London and expanding rapidly outwards, all he wanted to do was bust into Sherlock's room and put him in a car pointed in the direction of a rehabilitation center. Which was all a bit dramatic, to be honest, but that was what they did.

Mycroft stomped out the cigarette and tapped his black umbrella against his toes. He had to balance logic and sentimentality here. Find out more information as to how long this little game with Gloria Scott and Victor's father would go on. Make an assessment of whether or not this was an appropriate amount of time to leave Sherlock to his destructive devices.

Mycroft took out his cell phone and rang his assistant. "Marie, could you please put me through to Gloria Scott. Private call, of course. Block all trace backs." If Sherlock got ahold of Gloria's phone he didn't want his association with her to become clear.

The phone in his ear buzzed a few times before Gloria's voice appeared on the other end.

"Hello?"

"Gloria, it's Mycroft Holmes, how are you doing?"

He heard a pause at the other end and a noise as though the girl was shuffling things around. "I'm doing fine, thanks. What do you need? I thought I would always be the one to call you."

"Well, I needed a bit more information from you. I was just wondering if you could possibly tell me any information you have about the Trevor ring from your undercover work."

Another pause. "Well, Victor was telling me about how his father is in quite a state. Apparently this guy from his past has been in contact with him, someone he never wanted to see again. This man contacted him and he storms over to Victor's place demanding to know how and why Victor led this guy to him. That's all I know really. Victor was pretty much babbling when he told me."

Mycroft frowned. Jay Trevor was a terribly powerful man with a lot of enemies. It was conceivable that any number of people could have contacted him. But, why then would he be so nervous of this particular person. If death threats were a common occurrence for him, what set this one apart?

"Can you tell me this mystery person's name?"

"Yeah, Vic said his name was Armitage."

Mycroft felt his stomach drop a bit, almost as quickly as it had when he'd heard that Sherlock was in hospital. He tapped his toe with his umbrella more rapidly. This situation was worse than he'd thought.

"Thank you, Ms. Scott. Keep in contact." He hung up, pocketing the phone.

Mycroft reached for another cigarette in his pocket, sticking it in his mouth.

All signs pointed to the fact that the Trevor ring would be in turmoil very soon, that there were loose strings fraying all along its edges and that if he plucked one of them, the whole array would unravel before him.

Despite how good that sounded, he now realized that Sherlock was in a much more dangerous position than Mycroft had anticipated.

Mycroft sighed. It was really quite hard being the eldest Holmes brother.

A/N- Sorry guys, if it wasn't for lovely guest Erin I would've completely forgotten I was posting on FF. For a few months the doc uploader wasn't working and I couldn't get my chapters up, so I sort of fell out of the habit of posting here. I update regularly on Archive of our Own, so it may be the better option for following me! Chapter 8 is in the works, but I'm super busy lately jetting around the country interviewing for PhD.

Also I made a playlist for this fanfiction on 8tracks. Go to my username restlesswanderings to find it.