Crickets chirped in the calm silence of the summer night, a soft breeze was drifting lazily through the window of the lesser-known government figure's bedroom, making the thin curtains billow and dance with equal laziness.
Mycroft's soft snores could barely be heard over the sounds coming through the window as cars and pedestrians on the street barely visible from the window passed by unaware of their proximity to the most powerful man in the country, though the gentle creak of wood underfoot made a more distinct sound.
The silhouetted figure, shrouded in dark clothing, stood in the doorway. Warm, toned light from the hallway sliced an illuminating line across the room and landed on the sleeping figure in the large bed. The man continued to stand in the arch of the entryway, absentmindedly fiddling with his revolver while he contemplated life and the ethics of what he had been hired to do. The gun's cold weight seemed to be accentuated in the looming darkness of both his philosophical ponderings and the room he currently stood in.
"Mr. Holmes!" A voice cut through the summer night in a sharp tenor voice, footsteps pounding through the house and starting up the stairwell, alerting both the assassin and the owner of the name that was cried. The assassin spun from his position in the doorway and leaned out, shooting at the young man running up the stairs. The bullet missed, lodging itself in the wall just ahead of the charging figure, but caused the guard to hunker down just long enough for the hired killer to step back into Mycroft's bedroom and slam the door shut, clicking the lock into place with deft fingers before spinning around to face his target once again.
As his eyes quickly readjusted to the room, he heard what seemed to be the last notes of a click, darkness giving way to the figure in the bed who now locked eyes with him, Mycroft's eyes sparkling with apprehension and cold knowledge. There were no questions between them, and they both knew it.
"He's in here!" The guard's voice, who the assassin recognized as the young man he had shot at and who Mycroft recognized as Gerald, a promising young lad who seemed dedicated to his job and eager to please, if not a touch inexperienced, came from the other side of the door before the distinctly deep and muffled pounding of someone throwing their body against the door was filling the room. If the situation wasn't dire, Mycroft would have needed to suppress the urge to sigh, the boy was clearly forgetting his training in the heat and panic of the moment- trying to muscle his way in using his size and strength instead of targeting the weakest point of the door and kicking near the door handle.
Mycroft moved faster than the assassin thought possible, his target raising his arm to level with him before it registered in his own mind to raise his own gun.
Outside of the room, Gerald frantically radioed for assistance, listening for his coworkers to make their entrance while continuing to hit the door repeatedly with his shoulder in hopes that the rich wood would give way and let him protect his employer. He hadn't been in this position for long, but in the short time he'd been here, Mycroft Holmes had revealed himself to be a caring and fair boss as well as a better person than most of the whispers he had heard gave him credit for. He would be damned if this man he had sworn to protect died on his watch. His head pounded in time with his shoulder hitting the door- who would have thought that in today's advanced technology, with all of the cameras and microphones and spy gear, a simple crowbar to the head was still sufficient to get through security? He could worry about his own injuries later though, when a man's life was on the line behind 2 inches of hardwood.
Two gunshots, fired in such rapid succession that they almost echoed as one, made him freeze for less than a second. Cold shock and fear flooded his veins and in the pause, his adrenaline gave way to logical thought just long enough for neurons to finally connect and he remembered his training, planting his foot on the ground and delivering a powerful kick just above the door handle that broke through the latch pocket and sent the wooden slab swinging inward with a sharp cracking sound.
Surveying the room where the hallway light now illuminated the space, Gerald first noted the assassin as he made his way in, body crumpled and shoved to the side by the door, a neat hole in his forehead oozing a slow line of blood while his glazed eyes stared at nothing. Immediately after assuring himself that the perpetrator was now secure and no longer a threat, he turned his attention to his employer, breath catching in his throat as he took in the normally imposing figure and made his way across the room.
Holmes' shallow pants struggled past his lips while his shaking hands, usually so precise and careful, clumsily tried to keep pressure on the dark stain growing from his abdomen, normally keen eyes already unfocused and cold sweat quickly creating a glossy layer on his face. His umbrella lay on the sheets next to him, gun pulled from the handle and discarded as soon as the attacker had been disposed of.
"Sir!" Gerald bunched up the sheets as he quickly approached his boss, gently pushing Mycroft's trembling hands aside and applying the bundle over the wound, pushing down hard. A wheeze and breathy moan of pain was his response from the dazed figure as Mr. Holmes slowly sank into his bed, unfocused eyes becoming more glazed as he stared unseeing at the ceiling.
"Mr. Holmes, hang on!" Gerald focused on his efforts to staunch the bleeding while listening to several more pairs of footsteps rush up the stairs and down the hallway. More guards appeared in the illuminated doorway, pausing only briefly to look at the scene before jumping in to help. One turned to check on the assassin, searching his body for identification, one turned on the lights before continuing towards the bed, another climbed onto the bed to help Gerald with the bleeding.
"Medical is on it's way." One of the men quickly updated, standing off to the side with both phone and radio in hand as he efficiently communicated to all necessary sources about the situation at hand.
Mycroft distantly heard the update, like listening to a conversation while underwater, the loss of blood making everything muffled and fuzzy. His skin crawled as he felt the hands of several people on him, touching and pushing and pressing and brushing, he felt a wave a nausea flood through him as his world was tilted off it's axis- it took a second too long for him to realize it was people trying to carefully maneuver him to check if there was an exit wound anywhere. A sudden red-hot stab of pain in his back screamed that they had found one and he distantly heard a pained groan that he barely recognized as his own. Inwardly he cursed himself for being so undignified but found the emotion fleeting, draining away as quickly as the rest of his thoughts and energy.
The briefest tendrils of helplessness crept into his mind but soon ebbed as a pain-free cloud of darkness began to sweep through him. No... I have to... stay... focused... His thoughts slurred together and slowed to a crawl and soon he realized that he couldn't hear his guards any more, couldn't feel their anxious hands, his body floating aimlessly through the blackness.
No thoughts. No feelings. No noise. It would be almost blissful if Mycroft didn't distantly realize exactly what was happening at the moment. But it was so comfortable. It wasn't hot. It wasn't cold. It was like the most peaceful sleep he had ever experienced. He could just relax, rest for a bit. He could feel himself slipping away like sand through an open hand.
Sherlock! The single thought was enough to jolt him back into consciousness, pain hitting him like a bolt of electricity that rattled through his body, though he found himself only able to focus on what could have been his last thought. He had to stay awake, he had to stay aware, he couldn't rest- not while Sherlock still needed him.
Gerald winced at the sudden cry of pain that stuttered from his boss but couldn't deny he was grateful for the noise. In the time since he'd first applied pressure to the bullet wound, the groans had turned into quiet moans which had finally turned into Mr. Holmes' lips simply trembling. Finally his mouth had stopped twitching at all, an unsettling and deathly still silence had fallen over him while the guards called to him, pleading for him to respond. A hand had grabbed one of his wrists, and another hand gently prodded his neck, the other men desperate to check for a pulse in hopes that their employer was still alive despite his unmoving chest.
Sirens filled the air outside and one of the men hurried to the top of the staircase to help the guard downstairs guide the paramedics into the bedroom, ushering them quickly with hopes that it was not too late.
Gerald stepped to the side as the medics rushed the stretcher in, watching with worry as the man on the bed was quickly lifted onto it, wincing at the cry that tore from Mr. Holmes as he was jostled from one surface to the other, and watched silently as his boss was carted away. As some of the other guards followed the medical team out, the young man couldn't help feeling frozen in place- staring at the large dark red stain that now covered the once pristine white sheets. The umbrella continued to lay where it had been discarded, no longer as big of a contrast against the bedding as it should have been.
Sherlock smoothly entered the large house without knocking, letting the front door slam carelessly behind him as he marched through the house, mud and dirt from his shoes trailing behind him and scuffing the rugs laid down in the entryway. He scoffed aloud when he turned his head and found his brother lounging in a large, plush leather chair, tea already being set to the side on a small table and book being folded with the page number already memorized and stored away for after this interaction was over. Sherlock approached the reclined figure with distain and disinterest, glancing around the room to see what wealth was visible before refocusing on the man in front of him.
"Why do you always insist on coming over without an invitation, brother dear?" Mycroft sighed and tilted his head up to his younger brother, annoyance drawn on his face and inconvenience pulling at his posture.
"I heard there was some kind of disturbance here last week." Sherlock's baritone voice filled the tense space between them, the older of the pair simply raising his eyebrows in nonchalant indifference.
"Yes, a rather inconvenient false alarm from one of the people who monitor the area at night. They had seen a shadow from the corner of their eye and instead of investigating it like a reasonable person, they raised the alarm and set the grounds into a panic." Mycroft spoke flawlessly, conveying nothing but irritation and exasperation. The bandages under his suit tugged at his skin and tightened around his chest, bringing vague and blurry memories to his mind but his expression and the smoothness of his voice never faltered through the lie.
"Hmm." Sherlock hummed with accepting disapproval, mind already becoming disinterested with the subject as he had no doubt that one of those bumbling idiots could have made a mistake like that.
"Now, if you're quite through with intruding, I do have a schedule to keep." Mycroft kept his tone cold and even, voice giving no indication towards the pain starting to grow throughout his torso as his injuries became irritated from the conversation and movement.
Sherlock's eyes refocused on him for a brief moment, eyes flickering across Mycroft and the room, trying to deduce if he had missed anything. With nothing else to find though, Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned on his heel, walking out of the house as swiftly as he had come in, the front door once again slamming behind him as Mycroft took a calming breath and reopened his novel, hand already reaching out to grab back the slightly-cooled tea.