Sherlock remained seated on the floor, still refusing medical attention, legs crossed and arms laid out over his knees. He could still hear the faint siren of the ambulance as it threaded its way through the streets. John will be fine. He will be fine. And when I get there, we will laugh about all this, and he will ask when the next case will be, and we will plan how to work around his current infirmity. Everything will be as it was before. I am back. I came for him, and he is going to be fine. He was continuing on in this line of thought when the elder Holmes entered the room.

Mycroft's eyes took in the scene before him stoically, noting that his little brother was plastered head to shoe with blood and…bits. He nodded in greeting as he crossed to stand before him, his dark suit impeccable as always. "I am assuming since you are not being transported to hospital nor attended by medics that this…detritus, covering you is not of your own?" The British Government was silent, awaiting an answer. "It isn't John's?" he added a moment later, a bit perturbed at his brother's silence.

Those grey-blue eyes rose slowly to meet his, then began to turn. In an unnerving fashion, Sherlock's eyes and head both rotated slowly, so slowly, to face another part of the room. Mycroft looked in the direction indicated and took in the damage to the wall, the wiring hanging through it, the body laid out beneath it. He made noise low in his throat, and stepped around Sherlock to investigate, who seemed mostly oblivious to his continued presence. His steps were slow, evenly measured, and he took a deep breath at the carnage displayed at his feet.

Sebastian Moran, what was left of him, was a twisted figurine that had once been human. He looked for all the world like a doll whose stuffing had been pulled, and forcibly, out. His torso was so shredded as to be barely recognizable as much other than a burst meat purse. The spine had been partially pulled through the front of his throat and then left to jut out grossly. The face was remarkably well kept, when considering the state of the rest of the body anyway. It was only bruised and had a few scrapes along the cheek and brow. But then again, Mycroft leaned in closer, noting the distinct lack of a tongue but the presence of a goodly wadding of wire, maybe not so untouched after all.

Mycroft noticed he was crouched next to a long metal instrument. Looks like a harpoon of some sort. Kind of. Or maybe it used to be. But now, it was bent viciously in the middle, and the prongs were so out of form as to almost be one complete tangle of steel yarn; probably from repetitive blunt force. Sighing loudly, he pushed up and stood once again, then noted something on the wall beside him. Well, at least we won't have to go looking for the tongue anymore, he remarked to himself as he stared at the smallish piece of flesh suspended from a dagger driven into the wall.

He turned to face his brother with a heaviness of thought, "Sherlock…really? All this?" He gestured around inclusively at the gory scene beside him.

"He hurt John," was the only reply. Sherlock was now faced back the way he had been gazing when Mycroft had first entered. He looked so small and fragile sitting curled into himself like that. Deceptive is my brother, thought the elder Holmes. Then he crossed to stand before him, the better to hold his attention.

"His tongue is staked to the wall; and those fingers have been surgically dissected at the proximal joints. I can't see those, among other things, as being anything remotely defensive in nature." Something occurred to him then. "Though I hate to imagine where his digits might be at this moment…" Sherlock grinned sickeningly in response before speaking.

"He hurt John," repeated the dark haired detective, voice calm in its explanation of what he believed to be a rationale course of actions.

And there it was. His brother's potential for madness, finally laid bare. Sally Donovan would claim she had known all along the things he was capable of. But even she couldn't dream up his true potential. That dark side of himself that he had kept so well reigned in. That was held in check by his brother once, and then more so later by John Watson's grounded and loyal presence. And now, it had finally made an appearance when the detective found himself in an untenable emotional crisis of epic proportions. Truly, his capacity to become the stuff of nightmares was terrifying in its breadth and scope. The elder Holmes dropped a hand to Sherlock's shoulder, shuddering inwardly as he contemplated the terrible possibilities. Oh, thought Mycroft, what has been broken here? And the next thought followed quickly on its heels as he observed the dead look reflecting out of his brother's eyes. And can it be fixed?