"What the hell?" Lestrade stared out the window. He pulled over and parked. "Stay here. I'm going-"
A young woman plunged out of the trees, sobbing heavily. Strands of her wild red hair stuck to her tear-streaked face, and she held her ripped T-shirt closed over her chest. "Please!" she cried, stumbling toward them. "Please get me out of here!"
Lestrade exited the vehicle and hurried toward her. "What's happened, Miss?" He reached into his trouser pocket and flashed a badge. "Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, Scotland Yard."
"Please," she wailed, too terrified to do more than beg. She stared over her shoulder just as four hulking shapes broke out of the trees into the clearing.
Mycroft tagged the four men immediately: strangers to the area, manual laborers (calloused palms, weathered faces, and sunburned extremities suggested outdoor construction), and drunk enough to be dangerous. The girl was shocked as well as terrified: therefore, she knew one or more of them, and their aggression had come as an unwelcome surprise.
Mycroft undid his seat belt and exited the idling vehicle. Leaving Gregory to face four wild-eyed, snarling drunks alone was not an option.
"Get in the car, Miss," Lestrade said without taking his eyes off of her assailants. "And you lot- off with you."
"Don't think so." The largest, a curly-haired specimen who reeked of cheap beer and bad cologne, ambled forward. Lestrade flashed his badge again.
"I said off with you."
The other three hesitated, probably wondering whether the policeman was armed. The ringleader didn't seem to care.
"Piss off. I'd as soon beat on a copper as a slag."
The girl whimpered. Mycroft instinctively stepped in front of her. That weird fluttering started up in his chest again, but it was negligible compared to the blood that now thundered in his ears. He felt alert, excited, like every nerve was gearing for action.
"Someone could come along this road any minute," Lestrade said. "So there's no chance of you getting away with beating on anyone."
"He's right, boys," the ringleader jeered. "So I guess we'd better do this quickly."
Mycroft had not been in a fist fight since he'd ceased being a field agent over fifteen years ago. When he became the British government, the security around him had always been so tight that he only had to draw a gun less than a dozen times. His only physical altercations had been with his own brother, and in recent years John had been around to keep most of those tussles from progressing to the blood and bruises stage. Being sheltered and out of practice did not mean he'd forgotten the technique, though. Or the cardinal rule- throw the first punch, and make it a good one.
"This is your final warning," he said to the ringleader in those steel-edged tones that had shattered the bravado of many a terrorism suspect. "The young lady is obviously not interested. So go back in the trees with your friends and pull one off."
The girl gasped. Lestrade's mouth fell open.
"Or what? You'll rap my knuckles like one of your poncey headmasters?"
"I never rap knuckles." Mycroft smiled like a shark. "When a man irritates me, I usually kill him."
He gave the drunken fool 0.12 seconds to process that. Then he swung.
Mycroft's punch –a fierce uppercut that connected with the chin- sent his opponent sailing through the air. The man crashed onto the ground and lay there, breathing heavily and licking at the blood that trickled out of his swelling mouth. When he coughed, two broken teeth shot out. Mycroft knew, however, that he was too drunk to process the pain and let it stop him. Sure enough, he staggered to his feet, roared like an enraged bear, and lumbered forward.
Lestrade tried to intercept him, which galvanized the other three into action. When they lunged, the policeman swerved and struck. One went down immediately; the other two circled, looking for an opportunity to rush in and throw Lestrade off his feet.
The ringleader grabbed for Mycroft, who ducked and kicked him in the ribs. He could remember the advice of his MI6 instructors: Holmes, you're tall but you lack bulk. So avoid grappling and wrestling if at all possible. Use your fists, elbows, knees, and feet and put all your strength behind each strike….
A sharp and sudden pain in his chest interrupted his recall. He tried to cough, but all that came out was a gasping wheeze, followed by numbness in his left arm. When his opponent charged again, he managed to dodge out of reach, but the chest pain was intensifying and his airways now felt pinhole-thin.
This is it. I'm having a heart attack.
Mycroft felt the raging drunk punch him in the face just before the world spun into a kaleidoscope of green grass and blue sky and dim forest. Now he was lying on his back, the pain blossoming from his left cheek a small annoyance compared to the fire that consumed his chest and squeezed his lungs. Gregory shouted and the girl screamed, but his fading senses barely registered either sound.
He felt a heavy object- a fist? A foot? – connect with his left side, flipping him onto his stomach. Now he was losing control of his eye movements-visual fragments assaulted his brain, intensifying the dizziness from lack of air.
It was agonizing. The pills had been more peaceful...
The earth rumbled. A vehicle was approaching. Mycroft heard doors slamming and footsteps pounding in his general direction.
"Get back! Or I'll shoot! I mean it!"
John Watson sounded like he was speaking at the other end of a long, hazy tunnel, but Mycroft still recognized him. Someone was turning him onto his back and opening his collar, but his now-cloudy vision could only make out silhouettes.
"Mycroft!" Lestrade hovered over him. His breath reeked of blood and fear. "John, he's not breathing!"
Air suddenly rushed into Mycroft's tortured lungs. He gulped frantically, willing the darkness and pain to retreat. Instead, nausea erupted and compounded the throbbing around his heart. His stomach lurched, and he vomited all over the muddied, torn sweater that Sherlock had cherished. Then he knew nothing more.