John propped Mycroft up to a seated position and did his best to examine the wound. His right eye was bruised and there was evidence that he'd been hit with something that had caused the slight indentation near his ear. John suspected that a combination of blood loss and dehydration was what was keeping him unconscious. It was nothing that a few hours in hospital wouldn't fix.
As John went towards the window to look for the squad of emergency vehicles, he heard a creak coming from outside the room. He'd been all over the house. It was empty.
Immediately he looked around the room for something, anything, that he could use as a weapon. For a man of so many interests his bedroom was devoid of anything useful. That is except the ghastly letter opener that seemed a relic from the gates of Hell. He wrapped his fingers around the coiled snakes that made up the handle and readied himself for an intruder.
As soon as it began, the noise stopped.
Combat training had taught him to not stand down in the apparent end of danger. That was what they expected. He kept the letter opener at his side and his knees bent, ready to pounce.
It was then that he felt the gun barrel against his back.
"Don't turn around."
He stayed perfectly still.
"Drop the weapon."
The letter opener fell with a crash against the floor.
"Call them back."
The voice was deep and muffled. John suspected he was speaking through a mask of some kind but he didn't dare turn around to confirm it. "Call who?"
The man jutted the gun into his spine. "The police."
"I don't know what you're talking about." It was a test Sherlock had taught him-see what they know and not what they assume. It was dangerous but it worked. At least it worked for Sherlock.
"Call them back or I will shoot you."
"And say what?" he asked.
The barrel dug into his back and pinched and prodded at the nerves in his spine. His legs twitched and his entire body ached in response. "Whatever you have to. If I see a cop car, both of you die."
John shut his eyes and grabbed his phone from his pocket. It was one thing to sacrifice himself but Mycroft hadn't done anything wrong. Being brave had run its course. It was time to give in.
"All right," he said with a sigh.
The gun needled in further and John winced as he struggled to find Lestrade's name in his phone. "Hurry."
"I'm trying," John said.
He took a deep breath as the phone began to ring. He prayed that it wasn't too late. He prayed that Sherlock would know what to do next.
It was his only hope.
"He's over there."
A tired office pointed towards a bench that held a glowering teenager in a soiled uniform shirt. His pant leg was torn at the knee and his jaw was bruised and battered. Mycroft moved forward as strongly as he could muster. He'd gotten the call in the middle of class and drove the hour long trip back home just to bail out of his brother. God help the boy if their father found out first.
Sherlock didn't look up as Mycroft sat next to him.
"We can go."
He shook his head. "I don't want to go."
Mycroft stroked the boy's back. "I know, but you can't stay here."
Sherlock buried his head in his hands. There weren't other options. He'd tried to get special dispensation from his school to let Sherlock stay with him but they wouldn't hear of it. He offered to pay for a flat off-campus for Sherlock to stay in but his father wouldn't allow it. His only option was to drop out of school to be a full-time security guard for the next three years. It wasn't reasonable.
When he was at school he could pretend like the world went back to normal and he didn't have to wait in fear for a phone call from the police or the hospital, but that was naive. The moment he left he knew that there was no buffer and the idle threats of a nineteen year old boy meant nothing to his father.
Mrs. Hudson was his only ally. She called when she was afraid for Sherlock. There the call last month when she noticed the large bruise on his back and the call a few months back when Sherlock collapsed in her kitchen because he hadn't eaten in days. There were dozens of those calls and it made every moment like walking through a minefield.
"I'll stay for a bit," he said. He had an exam in the morning but his teacher had been accommodating of his family. It didn't much matter at this rate. If he sent Sherlock home after having run away for the last two days, his father would kill him. The embarrassment alone at his son being carted into a police station was enough to sustain him for days.
He couldn't leave his brother alone. Not this time.
"How long?" Sherlock asked.
"Few days," he said.
The voice that came from Sherlock was so small, so weak. "And then what?"
He didn't have an answer.
He wrapped his arm around Sherlock and pulled him in tight.
Something was wrong. Why wouldn't they tell him?
Mycroft. What had happened to Mycroft? If he was dead they would have told him. Wouldn't they?
He looked over at Lestrade and watched as he spoke. A hint of fear flickered in his eye. There was rush to his movements. No one rushed to a corpse.
Yet he stood without information. His heart pounded as he strained to hear something, anything, to calm his fears. But Lestrade simply turned and nodded. "I have to go."
Sherlock pounded on the bars. "Tell me," he begged.
"Not yet. Not 'til I know what's going on."
He felt light-headed. If he ate, he'd grow drowsy. No, he had to stay alert. Every moment was essential. Even without a weapon, he was still in this fight. "Greg…" he said.
Lestrade bowed his head. "Sherlock, sit down. You look awful."
He gritted his teeth. "I feel fine. Just tell me. I can take it."
There was a long silence between them as Lestrade looked off to the distance. Sherlock could see his clogged cogs working behind his tired eyes. He'd been on the clock for nearly a day and the work had worn him. If Lestrade was smart, he'd keep Sherlock in the loop.
"There was an attack…" he began.
"Mycroft...how is he?"
Lestrade's quickly flickered down to the ground before he spoke. He was formulating a lie. "He's all right."
Sherlock gripped the bars. "Tell me the truth."
"That is the truth."
He felt his chest grow tight and the room undulate all around him. Just to stay upright he held the bars for dear life. "Is he dead?" he said so quietly he could hardly hear himself.
"No," Lestrade answered quickly.
The truth. Finally.
"How bad?"
There was helplessness laced in his voice. "I really don't know. John's with him."
It was then that his mobile rang.
"Who is it?" Sherlock asked.
Lestrade shielded the screen from Sherlock which only served to infuriate him further. He took a few steps away and held the phone tight to his ear.
Sherlock fell against the wall as his last thread of hope walked away. It all felt unreal. He had to run his hand over the concrete on the walls just to confirm that it all wasn't a grotesque nightmare.
If Mycroft was attacked, it was only a matter of time before it was John. His entire body seized at the idea of it. He felt the lump in his throat grow until it nearly suffocated him. What monster was doing this. Why him? Why now?
He fell to the floor and clutched his knees to his chest. The harder he shut his eyes, the louder his father's voice rang in his ears.
It's your fault!
He cupped his ears to rid himself of the sound.
She was your responsibility! You should have watched her!
He smacked his fist against his leg. The pain only made it worse.
She only did it because of you. A burden. That's what she called you. A burden and a waste.
He saw her on the ground, her wrists slashed the blood pooled on either side of her body. It had been fifteen minutes since he'd last looked in on her. The last time he saw her she smiled at him.
She looked so happy.
How could he have known?
He heard the closet door slam and the lock click. The buzz of the timer by his side was his only company for the hour after his father returned home. It was to teach him a lesson but soon became a habit. He'd crawl in without being asked. It was the only place that he was safe. It was the only place he couldn't hurt him.
A burden.
"Sherlock!" Lestrade said as he came over. He held the phone out like it was radioactive.
He couldn't speak. His throat was raw and his chest ached.
"John called off the ambulances."
He looked up.
It was odd but not incredible. "Why?"
Lestrade shook his head. "No idea."
"What did he say?"
Mycroft was dead.
That's why there was no reason to rush over an ambulance. He slammed his head back against the wall and the thud of concrete against his skull rattled down his body. For a moment he didn't feel the ache in his gut.
"That he could handle it."
Sherlock wiped away the tears that came to his eyes. "I see…"
How he wished for the closet. The darkness, the solitude, was the only place he could escape to. His father found it a punishment but after a day of being bullied and shouted to by everyone from peers and teachers to shopkeepers and bus drivers, it was silence. Being alone was his only protection. Everything else was too dangerous.
Loving something only meant that he could lose it.
It only meant heartbreak.
"He said something...it was for you. He said that you should look on the top shelf. Something like that. Does that make sense?"
Top shelf.
It had been ages since they'd agreed to that.
It was their code.
If anyone was being held against their will and was being forced to speak, that was the cue.
John. He'd done it.
Brilliant.
Sherlock sat up. "He's being held hostage."
Lestrade laughed in shock. "What?"
"Code. That was code."
"He sounded fine. Maybe you're just reading into-"
Sherlock sighed. "He's in trouble. You have to help him."
Lestrade looked up with pain in his eyes. "It's too late," he said.
Sherlock gripped his leg. "What do you mean?"
He clenched his jaw and tried to his face from Sherlock. "They're already there."