Negotiation's over

Mr. Holmes is my brother.

Agent Marsden was at a loss. The man crouching across the room didn't look injured or otherwise harmed. He was tidy and clean, dressed in a smart blue suit, his hair neatly coiffed. He'd been expecting – well, expecting someone who looked a bit more like they'd been held against their will. The man was absolutely terrified, to be sure. Terrified of them. 'Stockholm Syndrome?' he wondered, taking another hesitant step into the room.

"Mister Holmes, we-"

"'Mister Holmes' is my BROTHER!" The young man shouted, suddenly piercing him with an icy glare, irises a shocking green contrast to the whites of his eyes, now shot through with red.

"I'm fine. I'm happy here. Tell him to GO AWAY!" Sherlock shouted at him. He could hear a half-dozen or more men swarming about the house now. He hoped Jimmy was still at the shops and wouldn't be spotted coming back home.

Marsden crouched in place. "Sherlock," He said quietly. "Your brother, your friends have been worried about you for months. Why don't you just come out of the bathroom so we can talk?"

Sherlock squinted up at the man briefly. - Muscular, late-40s, short haircut, calm demeanor -

"Exactly how long after you left the military before you couldn't bear it, hmm? Before standing behind the yellow tape, performing your little hostage negotiations wasn't enough? One year? You couldn't stand watching the others bashing in doors, having all the fun. Could you, Marsden?" Sherlock spat his rapid-fire deductions at him, taking a short breath before continuing. "And your wife hasn't a clue. She thinks you're still playing it safe for the sake of your family. Tell me, how long do you think she'll believe your injuries are from training exercises? She's not smart, but she's nowhere near as stupid as you seem to think."

Before the agent could recover, a voice came over the two-way. It was one of Marsden's younger agents, gasping painfully. He could tell the man was running as he spoke. "Sir ... in the basement ... thought it was ... a generator ... at first ..."

"Everybody out, NOW!" Marsden shouted into the radio. He sprang to his feet and in one swift movement grabbed Sherlock by the arm, yanking him through the door. He nodded sharply at the agent closest to the bathroom, who took Sherlock's other arm as they rushed him down the stairs.

"Get. OFF. Me!" Sherlock twisted in their grasp, trying to kick them as he was yanked roughly toward the front door. "Please!" He shouted, the terror back in his voice.

Marsden spared a glance at Sherlock as they crossed the threshold out of the house. "Sorry, son. Negotiation's over."

Sherlock found himself running to keep from being dragged down the cobblestone drive as they plowed ahead, following the others to the road.

"But there's – it's nothing," Sherlock panted, trying to look back at the house – my home - but the two agents were stronger than he, and equally motivated by adrenalin. They'd put about 75 feet between themselves and the house before Marsden felt the peculiar whoosh of air flowing back, and his ears popped painfully milliseconds before the explosion knocked them to the ground.

Marsden threw himself over Sherlock, knowing his Kevlar would protect him from at least some of the debris raining over them as the ground shook from the blast. After the worst seemed to be over, Sherlock tried to push the agent off him, but the man shoved him back down. "Basement!" He shouted into Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock was puzzled for the barest moment before his mind caught up. - Basement ... Heater. Boiler. Gas! - A second later, there was another explosion, hotter and more powerful than the first. A geyser of fire shot up from the ruined house as more flaming rubble was ejected into the air. His forehead was slammed into the cobblestones from the force of the shockwave.

Sherlock sensed something hot on his right forearm before the object was roughly brushed off. Then he felt a sharp pain in his left thigh. He screamed, barely able to hear himself over the roaring fire and the ringing in his ears. His instincts shouted at him to run, but he was firmly held to the ground by the weight of the agent on top of him. Sherlock lifted his head as much as he could, his vision blurring. He felt blood running from his forehead into his eyes, down his face to join the rivulets streaming from his nose. He lowered his head again, felt a growing puddle under his chin.

Marsden finally rolled away from him, hauling himself to his feet to check Sherlock and Agent Isabel Freitas for injuries. Both were covered in small cuts, burns, and dust. Freitas had been spared the worst of it by the Kevlar, but as she raised herself to her knees, he saw the bottom of her boot had been split by the jagged piece of metal sticking out of her foot. - She'll live. - He turned his attention to Sherlock, quickly realizing his leg had been pierced by the piece of rebar jutting out of his thigh.

"Two down!" He shouted into his radio, unsure if it still worked. His agents streamed towards them. Wary of the potential for another explosion, they pulled Sherlock and Freitas up and ran, dragging them to the end of the lane and behind one of the SUVs they were using as cover.

Sherlock blinked, trying to restore his vision, catching a glimpse of the vehicles as he was carefully lowered to the road on his stomach, his arms at his sides. A neck brace appeared from somewhere and was quickly wrapped around his head and neck. He wondered why he wasn't on his back. - Something ... something hit my leg. - He didn't feel any pain and knew that was a bad sign.

He saw an agent's boots, then knees come into view as the man crouched in front of him – medic. - Sherlock spoke as the man checked him over for more injuries. "Little damage to the vehicles ... reinforced," He said. "Windows cracked, not broken. Bulletproof glass. Car is undamaged."

The medic looked at him, bemused. "Yeah." He placed a stethoscope over several spots on Sherlock's back, checking his breathing, then held his left wrist to count his pulse. The man pulled out a small torch, then lay on the ground to get a better view of Sherlock's face. He shined the torch in one eye, then the other. Sherlock winced at the intrusion of light, wishing he could see more than a few feet around him. Sirens howled in the distance over the sound of the fire. The sky had turned dark, the smoke obscuring what had been a sunny day.

In the back of his mind, he heard the car door being slammed shut, several sets of footsteps – three, male – running towards him. "My-my leg. Is it still there?" He asked suddenly.

"Oh, your leg's still there, mate. It's just got an uninvited guest," he said, moving back to a crouching position. "But don't worry, we'll evict it soon enough. Just lie still. The ambulance is almost here." The man tapped Sherlock's left hand. "Make a fist for me? Good. Now the other one – just wiggle your fingers if it hurts too much. You've got a pretty decent burn on your arm. Well done. Once the ambulance gets here with a backboard, we'll move you onto your side. You're gonna be okay."

"Mmph," Sherlock replied groggily.

"Hey there," the man tapped his left hand again. "You still with me?"

"Yes," Sherlock groaned, wishing he weren't. The medic was entirely too cheerful. "I'm sleepy."

"I don't doubt it, mate. You've had a busy day. The ambulance is here, just stay awake for now."

Sherlock couldn't see the ambulance or fire trucks he knew had arrived, but he could feel the hum of powerful motors and see the flashing lights reflected on the road.

The medic stood quickly. His boots were joined by three sets of men's shoes.

"You can tend to your own now – I'm a doctor. I'll watch over him while they set up." The voice was familiar, but Sherlock couldn't quite place it. He focused on the shoes instead.

One set, dark brown, well-polished, very expensive. Another, black business shoes, well worn. The last were light brown, unremarkable, sturdy.

He heard the paramedics approach him, rolling a trolley between them. They placed a board on the ground and slowly rolled him onto his right side. He felt a piece of foam being set under his neck before they lashed him securely onto the board. His stomach lurched as they lifted him onto the trolley. He closed his eyes as his vitals were checked again and an oxygen mask was placed over his mouth and nose.

Sherlock's eyes slowly opened. He observed three men standing close by.

Mycroft. - Of course. I should have recognized his shoes. Wanker. -

His eyes flickered over the other two men. His vision was blurring again as he felt darkness beckoning.

The man with greying hair looked at him anxiously. - Lestrade. -

Sherlock squinted up at the man who was suddenly at his side, clutching his hand in a desperate grip.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?"

"John Watson," he said quietly as his eyes slid shut.

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AN: The gang's finally back together ... sort of. I hope to have another chapter up Sunday, depending on how this cold decides to treat me.

As always, thank you for reading, reviewing, following, and especially favorite-ing this story. I really appreciate it. I had no idea it would end up so long when I started, especially since it's barely half-over, if that!

On a totally unrelated note: Happy Birthday to me! Yep, it's my birthday today. Yay!

- j -

DFTBA