Acrid fog that hung like ground level clouds hid Anderson and Donovan from Mycroft's rogue agents as they picked their way through the rolling grounds that gave way to flatlands on the nearly frozen, but still green estate. A man staggered into sight, aimed his gun at the two cops and fell to his knees. Donovan shot him. She had her orders. She breathed heavily through her gas mask after the act. It wasn't like on TV; cops didn't just shoot people willy-nilly every day.

"This better not be some sort of weird experiment that freak's brother is playing on us," Donovan couldn't help but saying as she adjusted the strap of her gas mask.

Anderson seemed too spooked to speak. He'd heard about the older Holme's brother. There were likely to be ears everywhere, after all, men were dropping like flies all around them, albeit, alive flies. Still, the fact that he felt that none of these men would ever be heard from again kept him silent. That and it would be very nice to have a favour owed by such an important person.

Donovan shook off her regrets and Anderson forced his feet to move. Both cops had dreams of promotions dancing in their heads. The well loomed out of the darkness, small and rather inconspicuous; genius really. "Just what I thought, Alice in freaking wonderland. There's nothing here, let's go."

TAP TAP TAP TAP TAP – TAP TAP

"Was that…" Donovan trailed off.

"Shave and a haircut, yes," Anderson said, answering the call immediately.

"Thank God," Watson uttered as the stethoscope rested against Sherlock's chest again. The older Holmes looked a little put out. Watson had heard that Mycroft was the British Government, but God, no.

Mycroft answered the signal as Molly threw the switch to open the well.

Two guns pointed down, one gun pointed up as three of Scotland Yard's finest squared off just to be sure.

"Bloody hell," whistled Anderson as Lestrade's eyes rolled, but for the first time in his career, the boss was glad to see the banes of his existence. The two cops continued to stare with wide eyes until their platform ground to the bottom and since it was dark outside and their eyes needed no adjustment to the dimly lit bunker, both cops staggered back as soon as they'd entered the room.

"Is that…" Donovan screeched and for a second her gun toting hand came up to aim until she saw that the detective was well and truly subdued.

"What's wrong with 'im then?" she sneered angrily taking in the rise and fall of a chest that was supposed to have been stilled not so long ago. "Freak's gone and…"

"Donovan! That will be quite enough for now. It will all be explained, but right now we have to get out of here," Lestrade reminded the cop.

"Quite so, and Ms. Donovan, that fake Rolex you're wearing could get you fired and have you brought in for questioning about fraud that could be funding terrorism or other atrocities, so I suggest you lose it before you do what you came here to do," Mycroft told the impudent cop, standing to his full height and towering over her despite his own injuries. It was clear by the contrite look on Donovan's face that she had more respect for the older Holme's than she had for the younger. It was legend around the station about people going missing, never to be seen again when Mycroft Holmes had questions he needed answers to. And no one called his brother a freak.

Donovan shot Anderson a clearly perturbed look and he had the good grace to look anywhere but at her or at the man who wasn't supposed to be there. In fact, the man felt so aware of the tension in the room he felt he should almost turn around so as not to cause more disruptions. Clearly, the watch had been a gift from him to Donovan.

"We need to hide Sherlock as best we can and get to the car. Mrs. Hudson will be just over that field on the road any minute," Mycroft told everyone.

"But the frea = um, I mean Holme's is clearly injured," Donovan pointed out. "Why not just get a helicopter?"

"We can't take him to a hospital, you ninny," Mycroft hissed through a pang of pain in his ribs. He's dead, remember?" If it wasn't for his own turncoats he would ask Lestrade why on earth these two imbeciles were allowed to continue with the force at all.

"Those bunks come apart; we can make a gurney and carry my brother to the car. Once we're away from here, the phones should come back online and I'll arrange everything," Mycroft said, glad of something to take his mind from the pain. "You two," he said pointing to Donovan and Anderson, "will be our guests for the next little while until we get this whole mess straightened out."

"Some people would say thank you," Donovan, clearly unable to help herself said. Mycroft didn't rise to her torment. There were ways to deal with her and Anderson later and they had after all carried out their orders to the letter.

"I don't like heaving him up the well standing but we've got no choice," Watson said gravely as he temporarily bound Sherlock's ribs for support.

"Donovan, Anderson, you're up first," Lestrade ordered.

"What? You can't just send me up like a Budgie in a mine to check if the gas is inert. This is insane," Anderson grumbled. Mycroft's eyebrows rose so far upwards that it looked like he was trying to bridge the gap between his receding hairline and his forehead with them.

"Well, there aren't enough masks for everyone, so someone has to do it," Lestrade grumbled. Donovan stood resolutely behind her co-worker as he stood on the lift out of the well. Behind her back she held her gas mask.

"Solid as a soup sandwich," Lestrade grumbled quietly.

"The air's clear," Anderson called out after having held his breath for as long as he could to take in the scene around him.

Molly found herself being the crutch of yet another Holmes brother as the two took the next ride up the well. She shivered, letting on it was the sudden, colder air getting to her but the pallour on Sherlock's face told her things were not well. She peered down as Sherlock groaned on his feet, entirely supported by Dr. Watson and Lestrade until they reached the platform on which only two could stand. Out of instinct, Mycroft reached to help carry Sherlock but Anderson and Donovan stepped forward and helped lie the detective down on the gurney. The long sigh of air that left the detective wasn't replaced.

"Shit! Not breathing!" John yelled, bending low and tipping Sherlock's head back and pinching his nostrils to give artificial respiration.

"Heart's beating," Watson gasped between breaths.

Molly's hand rested on Sherlock's chest as Watson stopped breathing for his friend and watched carefully. Molly's small hand rose with a halting breath from the detective and Sherlock's glazed eyes opened.

"Told y-you. 'M f-flattered – not my type," Sherlock whispered.

"Don't try to talk ya great git," John said fondly as Lestrade helped the doctor up so that he and Anderson could pick up the gurney.

Sherlock's head rolled toward Molly and his mouth opened but nothing came out.

"Shh, don't talk," Molly said in a whisper she couldn't explain. There wasn't any need to whisper. Anyone and any thing in the vicinity was in the proverbial poppy field of Mycroft's design.

Watson monitored Sherlock carefully as he was carried toward the road where a car sat idling with what looked like an alien in the front seat behind the wheel.

"Mrs. Hudson, you can take off the mask now, the danger is passed," Mycroft said and the alien became human once more.

XXXX

Donovan and Anderson were glared into sitting in the open boot with a reminder that it could easily be closed when they seemed about to argue. Molly and Mycroft jammed in beside Mrs. Hudson as John and Lestrade carefully pulled Sherlock's tall, lanky form across their laps.

"No bumps if you can help it, please, Mrs. Hudson," John asked quietly, praying his friend would just keep breathing until he could really do something to help him.

A mile from the manor, all phones came to sudden life but Mycroft ordered everyone to turn them off. As for Donovan and Anderson, they couldn't hear anything or text as it was all they could mange to keep the boot lid from hitting them on the head.

"Anthea," Mycroft said with evident relief as though nothing could make it possible that his right hand woman might also be turned. A series of orders were quickly given and taken and in a half hour further from London into the country, Mrs. Hudson followed Mycroft's orders and they pulled up to a brick, one story building with a sign that read, 'Briarwood Veterinary Hospital.' There were several cars parked outside and the building was well lit.

"Mycroft this is a vet's," John said. "Still, there will be some things we can use inside I suppose if we have to. I've made do with worse in the field."

Molly helped Mycroft from the car as John and Lestrade carried the limp form of Sherlock inside. Donovan and Anderson seemed afraid to touch anyone. Whenever Anderson reached a tentative hand toward helping carry Sherlock, a low, almost unintended growl came from the eldest Holmes brother.

"Anderson, Donovan, put those away," Mycroft ordered of the phones in both sets of hands. "You are our guests for the time being and we are incommunicado." Both guests followed reluctantly.

XXXX

Sherlock was gently placed on a covered, stainless steel table. His body trembled and his head tossed back and forth.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" Molly asked.

"His pressure's dropping," Watson announced gravely as he struggled into a pair of surgical gloves and a mask."His diaphragm's in spasm, that's why he stops breathing.

"Everything's sterile from the autoclave and we have a clean room ready, sir," a doctor McBride told Mycroft, who stood propped against the door frame by sheer will alone.

"Very good, my dear, you'll be assisting Dr. Watson here with whatever he needs and some other equipment will be arriving shortly."

"So, just to be clear, she's a real doctor?" Watson asked Mycroft.

"I'm a vet, a real doctor, yes," the woman said, shaking her brown curls back into a pony tail as if ready to get to work."

"Oh good," said Watson sarcastically. "Molly, 'm gonna need you too."

Mycroft might have done whatever he wanted but in this case, just before he stepped into the sterile room, he was stopped.

"Mycroft, we need to drain his lungs and clean his wound. It's going to be touch and go for a bit. You need to rest until we can get you patched up," John said kindly. Lestrade clapped a hand on Mycroft's shoulder and was able to lead him into another exam room where he found some freshly laundered blankets that Mycroft could use. There was a lounge for people waiting for their pets during office hours and Donovan made herself useful by putting on some coffee.

Mycroft would neither sit nor stand. He paced, hand clasped over his chest, staring at the wall as if he could see through it. A young man in green scrubs and a vet-tech name tag failed to get the older Holme's attention by clearing his throat.

"Um, sir?" he addressed Mycroft. "I know this a bit … unconventional but Dr. Watson wants me to take a few X-rays of your chest." The young man cringed as he fiddled with his name tag.

"I'm quite alright, Reginald," Mycroft replied as he waved his hand dismissively. "Incidentally, nice work on Aces And Eights last week, Her Majesty would have been very upset if she'd lost her prized pony."

The exchange was quite bizarre in its own right but when Anthea walked in the sense of command in the air changed immediately. Mycroft's shoulders visibly relaxed enough to drop below his ears.

"Reginald, Mr. Holmes will need to be X-rayed and Dr. Watson will need the results right away," Anthea said without preamble and she proceeded to follow her boss into an adjacent examination room where through the window, the bizarre continued as Anthea helped the injured man out of his shirt and up onto the cold, steel table, folding her coat under him for a barrier. She then stepped from the room, phone in hand and texted away furiously.

Looking up from her phone for a few brief seconds, she greeted each person in the lounge by name, which by the looks on their faces, freaked Anderson and Donovan out completely for they had never seen this woman before. The three cops held their mugs to their faces feeling completely out of the loop and glad of it.

XXXX

Watson's faith in Dr. McBride's abilities increased when she fabricated a canine ventilator into one that could be used on a human in seconds and prepared the sedation. When the vet tapped a vein in Sherlock's arm, John stopped her.

"No, don't. Let me check his other arm, he had an IV earlier and I think it was properly taped off." John dared the vet to judge his friend with a glare as he rolled Sherlock's shirt up and the track marks from his past came to view. The IV needle was cleanly taped off and viable for use. No need to put another hole in the already pocked landscape of the thin arms.

"J – ohnnn," Sherlock whispered through dry lips. "- Myke … um, My... Myke … noooo."

The heart monitor indicated a rise in blood pressure and heart rate. Sherlock was in no shape to endure the fluctuations.

"It's okay now, Sherlock, just try to relax, everything's okay," John soothed as he slipped the canula onto the needle in his friend's arm.

"N – noooo, you halfta let me out, pl – please. Myke's…"

Sherlock's keening pleas broke the doctor's heart so the soldier took over and pushed the sedation through the needle and sent his friend into oblivion.

Sherlock's eyes roved under their lids until the sedation took affect but the drugs did nothing to quell the stubborn spasm in his diaphragm. Sherlock's stomach dipped further with effort from each attempt to pull oxygen.

"Intubation kit's ready," McBride announced.

Watson examined the near perfect contraption with new found respect for McBride. Molly took her cue from Watson, there was no other choice.

Watson sighed before tilting the curly head back to insert the esophageal airway. He found himself apologizing over and over again to the sleeping detective as the tube met resistance but finally found its place. Molly monitored Sherlock's vital signs; blood pressure, low; oxygen saturation, very low; respirations, weak and shallow. The mechanical click, whoosh, of the ventilator and the mask obscuring his friend's face made it easier to pretend that the person under his barely controlled hands was a stranger.

McBride set to cleaning Sherlock's previous surgical site. Molly winced as she handed both doctors what they asked for, feeling very useless. Angry red lines surrounded her once pristine stitches. She'd been careful, she knew she had but her doubt didn't go unnoticed.

"Molly, these stitches are superb. It wasn't your fault infection set in. It's clear this was sabotage by Fields," Watson reassured. "McBride, are the wounds going to have to be opened?"

"I'm afraid so," McBride breathed out as her sponge came away slightly green and red. "But I think we can clean it up and use the same site for draining."

Molly wasn't squeamish; it was unbecoming of her job. But this was a living, breathing person. This was Sherlock.

"Suction," Watson ordered as the old stitches were cut away and the wounds oozed.

Molly stifled the sob that wanted to escape her and let the sucking noise drown her small exclamation of, "ohhh," as her steady hands glided the instruments over the wound. Red blood and puss slowly clotted up the clear lines into an attached jar.

"Okay, good, I can see," Watson announced. The scalpel carved even skin edges and McBride held a new drainage tube as Watson poised to drain his friend's lungs.

"Hold," McBride said, just as Sherlock's body seemed to scream in protest. "Bronchial and diaphragm spasm."

"Diazepam," Watson ordered and Molly handed him the pre-filled syringe.

"Come on, Sherlock, quit dicking around," Watson pleaded fondly. It was disconcerting to be able to watch the Diazepam take effect as the chest relatively stilled to barely there breaths.

"Increase oxygen," Watson told McBride.

John had the insane desire to close his eyes as he breached Sherlock's chest cavity to insert the tube into his lung. The sound of cartilage and sinew giving way had never sounded so out of place. Sherlock didn't like to be touched for the most part; this was absolute invasion in every sense and it just felt wrong.

"It's in," John announced gravely. It was only seconds before the drainage tube was doing its job. Liquid flowed freely into the jar below the table as the tube was secured.

Molly was used to draining fluids from corpses but blood was life sustaining in a living person and right now that precious fluid was flowing out of her friend.

"We should be able to see if there's new wounds to the lung shortly," Watson announced as he watched the jar carefully. The liquid that had streamed out at an alarming pace, slowed. The plunger in the ventilator dipped lower and lower, displacing liquid with precious oxygen until it evened out at a steady pace.

Watson blew out an audible sigh of relief and Molly wiped his brow. John placed his stethoscope to Sherlock's chest. "Lung's re-inflated."

"Oxygen sats are coming up and so is his blood pressure," Molly announced, feeling her legs weaken with relief but locking her knees so as not to tremble.

With everything done that could be done to allow for easier breathing, Watson pulled his friend's eyes open one by one, taking a long look.

"Still a bad concussion my friend. You're going to have one hell of story to tell when you wake up." Please wake up, Sherlock. I know I already asked for a miracle and then I beat you up over it, but yeah, just one more, please.

Molly breathed a little easier. John sounded like he'd like to be there to hear that story. Maybe it had hit home how much Sherlock had sacrificed in his deception; it wouldn't be fair to make him pay further.

"Would you like me to redress his head wound, doctor?" McBride asked.

"No, thank you, doctor," John answered sincerely. "Um, thanks, you know, for everything." He waved his arms about, indicating her practice and her person.

"No problem, I understand how much friends mean to us … all friends," she added, tapping a bulletin board filled with pictures of her clients and their owners in happy times, far away from the sometimes miserable places vet offices can be. "Your friend is triggering the vent on his own, that's a very good sign; you know that. I'll be in the other room checking on the other Mr. Holmes."

Molly gently pulled a blanket up to Sherlock's chest as John swabbed the wound on Sherlock's hairline.

"Fields deliberately took proper care of the visible stitches," Watson said gravely, his eyes flicking to the now covered up chest as he shook his head and then concentrated on cleaning the facial and head stitches. "These should be able to come out in a few days."

Molly didn't say anything as Watson's fingers gently palpated the head wound but lingered long enough to brush some hair from Sherlock's sweaty forehead. He injected some antibiotics into the port of the IV.

"We need to watch for spasm and get his fever down before I can declare him stable," John said to Molly. Leaning lower as he changed his gloves, he whispered, "did you hear that, Sherlock? Don't make me have to tell your brother that you…"

"In other words, don't get your best friend into trouble with the British Government," Molly smiled wanly behind her surgical mask.

"John, you should stretch your legs, get some coffee maybe. I'll watch him. I'll call you, I promise," Molly told the doctor.

"Yeah, I'll go and check on Mycroft," John said past the lump in his throat.

XXXX

John could have kissed Anthea, or whatever her real name was, as she pressed her polished texting finger to her lips in a gesture of shush as she indicated the sleeping man on the lounger. The fact that Mycroft Holmes would even close his eyes in the presence of the clinic's staff and his top aide spoke volumes. Anthea winked at the good doctor and held up a syringe. John wondered if he'd ever see Anthea again once Mycroft woke to find he'd been drugged, but the woman's calm features told him it probably wasn't the first time she'd made a decision above her pay grade.

"Mr. Holme's has a couple of broken ribs and he's heavily bruised above his right clavicle, just as you'd diagnosed. He was very concerned about his brother. I suggested he rest. I'm given to understand that Sherlock is out of surgery and progressing well if you're here?"

John explained Sherlock's condition to Mycroft's aide and excused himself to stretch his legs. Standing in one position for so long during the surgery brought his old wounds to the surface.

John scooped a five year old magazine from a table and busied himself looking for Waldo in its pages, laughing ruefully upon finding him and remembering the time that Sherlock had come home to Baker Street looking like he'd had the time of his life and resembling said constantly lost Waldo in his disguise of glasses, a sweater and hat. He put the magazine down to peruse the art that graced the long hallways.

The portraits on the walls showed royal stallions and corgi dogs and a pair of bodiless, expensively gloved hands reaching for them with a biscuit outstretched, the person belonging in those gloves cleverly hidden behind the gilt frames which contrasted the otherwise modest practice. Watson smiled as Sherlock's voice softly spoke in his head as he stared at the gloved hands.

Notice the bit of extra body weight, if we can go by the rather plump fingers, the big stone, probably a diamond, sticking up through the expensive, white, silk material in the right ring finger; female, married, wealthy judging by the size of the ring and several other rings on the other hand, all of similar size, indicating gifts, so married then, for a long time; out of commitment more than sentiment because those rings have to be uncomfortable against a dog leash during what should be a leisurely walk. So it's a dog show then. The woman in the white gloves is the Queen of our great nation.

Watson sat on a cushioned bench in the hallway running his hand across his face and feeling very thinly spread. Fatigue more than anything else had him smiling again in an overtired sort of way as he thought of titling this whole encounter, The Case Of The White Gloved Lady. Because really, if Mycroft Holmes had anything to do with it, there would be no blogs about what happened over the last week; ever.

XXXX

An hour later, a still tired looking Mycroft reclined on a plush chair in the veterinarian's lounge where between swallowing some pain tablets, he informed Lestrade that he would be allowed a phone call to his wife in which he would tell her his presence was ordered in a most delicate, undercover matter for Scotland Yard. Anderson cringed as he had to tell his wife that he loved her in front of Donovan but that he would be absent for some time. Something to the affect of not-bothering-to-come-home-at-all-you-bastard, was heard through the phone by everyone before Anderson awkwardly said goodbye to no one in the hopes they hadn't heard the rather loud hang up. Donovan merely shook her head in the negative when asked if she needed to make a phone call and no one was particularly surprised. Anderson bumped her shoulder in a friendly sort of way, which was rejected.

XXXX

As it was Sunday, the group's new hideout was thankfully closed, all cases referred to an emergency care facility in the city. The early morning sun feebly burned off the fog of the previous evening. John and Molly had taken turns trying to sleep while keeping an eye on Sherlock who was somewhat improved but still unconscious. It was Molly's watch. She'd stared at Sherlock for hours between looking at pictures of people with their dogs and cats looking so happy.

Molly's eyes filled with tears which she tried to order back inside but they dripped down her nose onto the floor defiantly. It was very likely she'd never see her cat, Bonesaw, again. Mycroft had gotten word that her flat had been searched again and the door had been left open. It would seem foolish to ask a government agent … or whatever Mycroft was, what became of a cat … he was jus a cat. Amongst all of this trouble - just a cat.

Tracing her finger over a photo of a cat that looked just like her Bonesaw, Molly was transported back to the day she'd met her furry friend. It was shortly after her father had died and Molly had taken a new flat. The previous tenants had obviously moved in a hurry. Careless removal of wall art had left huge gouges in the plaster and as Molly set about filling the holes and painting, she ventilated the paint fumes through the open door. Bonesaw marched inside like he owned the place, and in fairness, he was entitled to that opinion, he'd been there longer than her even though his role had been mostly to clean mice from the filthy previous tenants abode.

Startled by the enquiring meow, which issued from the diminutive little beast, Molly lost her balance on the stool and fell, knocking over the can of paint. Deciding that only her pride was bruised, Molly stared at the cat that proceeded to stamp his newly painted paws onto the hardwood as he purred around her prone body. Molly got up and plucked the cat up and put him outside, shutting the screen door. Feeling guilty as she cleaned the paint up the best she could, she decided she couldn't leave the paint on the cat's paws even if it was his fault. Naturally the cat ran back inside once the door had reopened; only it had started to snow so water and paint mixed to form chalky puddles all the way to the kitchen where Molly promised to clean him up if he promised not to scratch. Both had kept their bargains and they'd owned each other ever since.

Molly smiled ruefully against the tears. Seemed she was attracted to cats, indifferent and sweet and ignorant and beautiful, just like Sherlock. She stretched her hand out tentatively and placed her palm on his too warm forehead. He leaned into the touch but didn't open his eyes.

XXXX

Late fall gave back some of the warmth and sunshine it had stolen days before. The fallen leaves, face up on the ground outside the window missed out on the last of summer's ghost. Some of them blew away once liberated by the drying of the ground to which they'd been stuck as if they were stalking away in disgust at having missed such a wondrous day. But there was one person who would not miss this beautiful day. Sherlock Holmes was awake.

"Molly, I'm going to need your help," John called to her, sticking his head around the corner into the hallway.

"Sherlock, just let the machine breathe for you, don't fight it, we're going to remove it in a minute, okay?" John told the gasping man.

Sherlock's eyes were wide. He didn't like to be out of control, of anything. He ceased pulling at the tube, his hands gripping the white sheets beside him. He blinked in pain as the tape was gently pulled off.

"Okay, I'm just going to pull it up gently. Your job is to breathe, do you understand?"

John was grateful for the famous incredulous look Sherlock shot him. With one hand on his friend's chin and the other gently pulling the tube, the job was done in under a minute. John's hand lay flat against Sherlock's chest to study the rise and fall.

"That's it, just keep breathing, it'll get easier with each intake," John soothed.

Sherlock panted and gagged, tears forming in the corners of his eyes until his breathing evened out, John still quietly encouraging him.

"So what's the fur-dict, Doctor?" Molly smiled as she noted with some amusement Sherlock's deductive reasoning kicking in to notice just where he was.

Sherlock always told her she wasn't funny but this one time, he allowed the corners of his lips to curl into a small smile. He shifted painfully on the table.

"Yeah, not too comfortable, we'll see about getting you onto a lounger today."

"How long?" Sherlock rasped, his hand on his throat as if to aid his newly found voice.

"You've been out for about eighteen hours," Watson replied.

Sherlock looked at the ceiling as if trying to measure the damage of this down time.

"G-get Mycroft – please," Sherlock said, his eyes closing. "Not dead…" he said defiantly to the person chained in the mind palace's dungeon. Only he'd said it aloud.

Molly shot a look of bewilderment that John didn't share; he knew that Sherlock would have already deduced who was here.

John really wanted to do the whole concussion protocol with the young detective, whose pupils were still alarmingly large but Sherlock was not a normal patient. John would just have to use his own deductive reasoning in listening to the conversation between the eldest Holmes and his brother to determine the extent of outstanding impairment.

Mycroft Holmes walked slowly but amazingly upright into his brother's room. Image was everything; for one thing, Mycroft Holmes was never out of control; two, Mycroft Holmes was concerned, never worried and never in personal pain, physical or otherwise. His amazingly clean suit jacket hung over his shoulders and hid his right arm which was in a sling to take some of the weight from his chest.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said.

"Mycroft," Sherlock rasped back as if the whole rescue and last few days hadn't happened.

Molly rolled her eyes as the stiffness between the two became thick in the three feet between them.

"How is my brother, doctor?" Mycroft asked.

John cleared his throat, looking from Sherlock back to Mycroft not sure at all what Mycroft was asking. Most relatives asked their loved ones how they were feeling before asking a cold, medical opinion.

"My – ribs were - manipulated last night back into place – still there, yes," Sherlock replied, his hand lightly smoothing the blanket that covered his naked chest to examine the results. "There's th-thankfully only one of y-you today in my vision and …" Sherlock cheekily lifted the blanket and looked down, "it seems you haven't had me n-neutered. So good I guess."

"Quite," Mycroft said with that curious little smug smile he sometimes wore.

The patient on the table smelled the air suddenly.

"You used the gas?"

"No choice, we had to get you out," Mycroft answered. "Six dead and three in – questioning."

"Learned anything yet?"

"Our intelligence tells us that Fields is still expected to meet up with a contact at a hotel in London in three hours. We have Fields – he's been uncooperative despite our efforts."

Sherlock closed his eyes, memories flashing before him. Fields had at least one child, five or six. He'd had two lollypops in his left hand suit jacket that Sherlock had liberated to eat when no one was looking. Green jelly did not a magnificent brain like his run. As it was, Sherlock had eaten one of lollies when Mycroft caught him and confiscated the other.

In minutes, Lestrade and Mycroft were making plans with Sherlock. John didn't have to like the overstimulation his patient was putting himself through but he knew this has to end and there was only one way for it to happen.

No one liked involving a child in matters like this but within the hour, one Emily Fields had been picked up at her school and taken to a secret location.

"She's not going to be hurt?" Molly said in horror.

Sherlock's head turned toward Molly and Mycroft could see the hurt look behind the eyes; he'd seen it every time someone called his little brother a freak; he'd seen it every time Sherlock messed up and failed to show that he did indeed have feelings somewhere inside of him and that he knew right from wrong.

"Emily Fields is at a candy factory – in London, with an agent. She's g-getting that lollypop I s-stole, that Mycrfot stole from me. No, it's not poison or I'd be dead. Her fath-father, will be shown a video of her with the agent. His own – his own – imagination from th-things he would not hesitate to do in our position will own him. He will do what we ask. After all, I poisoned children b-before, as far as anyone believes."

"I'm sorry," Molly whispered and Donovan, who'd been allowed an update, cleared her throat uncomfortably, clearly having thought of the same horrors.

Resolve settled over Sherlock's features as he breathed deliberately to clear his mind. John wanted to tell everyone to get out but he knew it would never fly with Mycroft or Sherlock.

Mycroft's pocket vibrated and the eldest Holmes winced slightly as he made haste to answer it.

"Excellent, well done Anthea," Mycroft beamed.

"Fields is to be given back his car. He's to present the story of my demise as we have laid it out to him and meet his contacts at the hotel as planned. We have the place monitored."

Mycroft ordered everyone from the room. Turning to John he said, "Don't worry; you'll have your patient back in a minute or two."

The door closed behind the doctor and both brothers exchanged a look of satisfaction that they would not be monitored, for excited chatter broke out immediately on the other side of the door.

"Moriarty, real-really dead?" Sherlock whispered.

"He is. The suicide was real. Unfortunately he left some significant obstacles for you should you outwit him. Without their leader, this remnant of about forty former agents and hitmen are stupid enough to meet under one roof. We hit them clean and hard, tonight."

"And you think taking out, The Remnant as his network call themselves – will stop this?"

"I do."

"What if there are innocents inside? It's a big hotel." Sherlock asked, his heart monitor beeping faster as Mycroft turned the volume down to prevent Watson from flying back.

"We're doing our best," Mycroft assured.

"I have an – idea," Sherlock said, growing sleepy with every word as though the light bulb that had come on inside his head had suddenly burned out as fast. "Um – this hotel, The Placid Pear, you said?"

"Correct," Mycroft allowed, becoming a bit agitated by all the questions. There was no other way and he wasn't only protecting his little brother, the same organization was entirely funded by atrocious crimes against the citizens of Britain.

"I read something about a labour dispute at the Placid Pear. Mycroft, call a union walkout. Book a room at the competing hotel across the street from The Pear. Everyone will l-leave for a meeting about a str-strike. It was a hundred percent unanimous already to t-turn down the latest contract offer."

Sherlock's shoulders relaxed for the first time for as long as he could remember.

Mycroft didn't reply. His fingers flicked expertly across the keyboard and in minutes Anthea had worked her miracles again.

"It's done, Sherlock. You need to sleep now. I'll send Dr. Watson back in. Please be good." Mycroft patted Sherlock's shoulder awkwardly and for his part, Sherlock didn't flinch away. It was a start. Not a Christmas cracker between family start but something. Mycroft thought about leaving the room to sit down but Sherlock's eyes closed and in seconds, were roaming about in thought under their heavy lids.

John knocked and entered. He shot a dirty look at Mycroft who thought he'd gotten away with reaching around to turn the volume back up on the heart monitor.

"He seems oriented," John commented. "If a bit more emotional than usual for him but that's likely the concussion."

"My brother has a moral compass," Mycroft said. "You're just usually the face of it. It troubled him deeply that Moriarty's men had poisoned that little girl he helped save against him. He'd shown her photos of my brother at crime scenes taken out of context and psychologically and physically inflicting pain upon her every time she saw those photos. That little trick of Moriarty's nearly destroyed him. I could go broke paying his homeless network not to deal for him at times like that."

"I guess I knew that," John said, adjusting the drip on Sherlock's IV taking in the faded scars of pains past.

Mycroft turned the door handle and Sherlock's heart monitors increased. The detective's eyes opened again.

"What now, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked but his tone was soft.

"Didn't – um – didn't think you could die, My – Mycroft. Lestrade, J-John, Mrs. Hudson, yes. But…"

Sherlock's eyes closed again and a sob came from deep within him.

John was dumbstruck as Mycroft crossed the room and took his brother's hand as if he knew exactly what Sherlock was saying.

"I told you not to engage in sentiment. The minute you let out that you saw me as someone you cared about, his men were alerted to it. Moriarty got to you; he'll use this familial tie against you."

"Mycroft!" John bellowed louder than he'd intended.

"Keep out of this, John, it doesn't concern you. You know his body, I know his mind. He saw me stagger into the bunker. Moriarty told him I was dead."

"This is nonsense, you just said Moriarty is dead. Get out now," John ordered, preparing a sedative as Sherlock's eyes opened again and he swallowed tears.

"Moriarty lives here," Mycroft said, placing his hand on his brother's curls. "And until this is all over, his flat will just get bigger and bigger. You said yourself that concussions exacerbate problems, how do think concussion will affect a brain like Sherlock's?"

John sat down heavily and raked his hands against his face.

"I told you that I was concerned for my brother – always," Mycroft reminded John. "Because up until quite recently, I was the only one who could reason with him, the only one who could save him from himself and from criminals alike." Mycroft's voice gentled as his hand stroked his brother's hair absent mindedly.

"I was indestructible in his eyes until two days ago," Mycroft said, touching his bullet induced wound sub consciously. I'm supposed to come for him. Always…"

And suddenly John Watson understood Mycroft Holmes.

"Sherlock, what your git brother is telling you is that he loves you too and he's sort of flattered that you fitted him into your list of perishable goods like Lestrade, me, Mrs. Hudson and Molly. He was scared of being the only one who could protect you and he's relieved that isn't the case anymore but he's worried about you. And Sherlock – we're not going to let Moriarty hurt you ever again.

Mycroft's mouth gaped but he said nothing. The truth hurt and ripped away a blanket of protection.

"But hey, what happens in a veterinarian's office stays in a veterinarian's office, eh?" John said awkwardly. After all, he'd just told off the British government.

Mycroft sat down in a chair beside Sherlock's lounger. He squeezed his younger brother's hand and John watched as Sherlock's fingers interlaced with his. The creases in the detective's forehead smoothed and John sighed in relief as his readings on his monitors evened out in sleep.