"Guardian of the Fox"
Chapter 3
"Rise of the protector."
To be quite honest with himself, Mycroft wasn't exactly sure what he expected to see the next time he opened his eyes.
The most logical thing that came to his mind at the moment was that he'll be blinded by the lights of the hospital ceiling, then promptly informed that his stupid baby brother found him before he even had the chance to die properly.
Everything that happened: appearing in a strange place glowing a bright orange color, and speaking with the floating figure that possessed the weirdest purple eyes he's ever seen, was nothing but a hallucination caused by blood-loss.
He'd be faced with the reprimanding and terrified look on his little brother's face, and a long scolding from his parents about being selfish.
How could he even think about offing himself when Eurus still needs all the help she can get? Is he really expecting Sherlock to fix the terrible mess he made? Does he ever think about someone besides himself?
Really, hearing all those questions/accusations leave the mouths of his parents, one could get the impression that Mycroft didn't spend his entire life trying to look out for his family.
Had he been a lesser man, the elder Holmes brother would have taken insult to such statements and properly defended himself, an aura of absolute control and raw power oozing from every icy word he spoke, all the way back during the faithful conversation about a girl long since thought dead.
But Mycroft was Mycroft.
He felt disappointed in himself as did his parents (he could have done better), felt guilty about not being able to tell them about his sister (he would if he could) and angry at his peers for getting him to agree to the meeting of Eurus Holmes and James Moriarty (he should have known they'd use the opportunity of him running on fumes to their advantage).
But most importantly though…
He just felt used.
Like a vacuum cleaner.
Only reached for when there is a mess to clean up. Expected to deal with the mess and then go back to the corner until further notice.
What use was he to them now that he was broken?
He foresaw this among the first fifteen likely scenarios to happen in his wake.
What he most definitely did not foresee, was materializing into a strange new world, looking like a slimmer version of the ten-year-old chubby child he once was, dressed in a white t-shirt and black pants.
True, he was informed that he'd be placed into a new dimension and tasked with taking care of a young boy but…
He honestly hoped he would at least retain his adult body.
Now he was stuck with one that is four times too small.
But, at the moment, none of this mattered.
Right now, what mattered was showing those damned villagers just what happens to those who beat up innocent children on his watch.
"What the hell man?!" The bully (seventeen-year-old, third eldest brother. Obvious leader of this mob. No father, mother alcoholic. Owns a mongrel, is allergic to peanuts, has an unexplained hatred towards the child I'm now protecting) yelled rubbing his cheek.
Narrowing his eyes and schooling his face into a perfect Iceman mask, he fell into a basic defensive position.
"Leave." His squeaky ten-year-old voice was far from the intimidating velvet tones he grew accustomed to, but beggars can't be choosers. "Or you'll end up with something more fatal than a punch in the face."
The teen growled and got to his feet, his followers murmuring behind him.
"Listen, kid, you're needlessly getting into something that doesn't involve you." The annoying prat had the gall to say. "Step away from the demon child and we'll forget this ever happened."
At this point all rationality has left the elder Holmes brother, his mind going back to the time both he and Sherlock were mercilessly bullied back in their childhood.
He remembered their faces, each and every one of them. He remembered their names, addresses, phone numbers and where they struck him when he jumped between them and his brother.
The fox-haired sibling didn't care if they beat him up, lock him in a locker or take away his homework.
Mycroft was strong. He could take it and pretend nothing happened the next day.
It was when they began turning on Sherlock when he started holding grudges.
Years later, when he had enough power and control to bend the law as he saw fit, he tracked them down…
And proceeded to completely destroy them.
Their work? He made sure nobody in their right mind would hire them.
Their families? He dug out all their embarrassing secrets just by looking at them, and then sent them on a silver platter to their wives or husbands, along with divorce papers filled up and just needing their signatures to be empowered.
Their homes? Sold, destroyed, burned.
It didn't matter that they were just kids when this all occurred.
It didn't matter that they most likely didn't even remember why all those things were happening to them in the first place.
What mattered was they dared to lift a finger against someone he held dear.
Their fates were sealed the moment their fists connected with Sherlock's cheeks.
Mycroft was a born protector, a guardian.
He never took kindly to people threatening his charges, and he made sure it was known.
None of Sherlock's offenders lived to tell the tale.
Depending on the scale of said offence, they died either from having nothing left to live for or sent to the war front and torn to shreds by bullets.
The rules were simple: Never hurt anyone that Mycroft Holmes cares about, if you do he'll hurt you right back ten times harder.
Demon. He thought, fist shaking in anger. He called this poor, defenseless child a demon.
Those unfortunate villagers were about to experience the consequences of breaking that one crucial rule.
"I'm not going anywhere." He said, the eerie calmness in his tone doing wonders to cover the squeakiness of his childish voice. "And if you're unlucky enough…"
Mycroft's deducting skills didn't have enough data to figure out why said man decided to brand this seven-year-old with such an insult.
Maybe he had his reasons.
Maybe he did it to feel in control for once in his life.
Maybe this was the only way he knew how to cope with his father being gone and his mother slowly drinking herself to death.
Or maybe he was just a jerk that enjoyed preying on smaller children for his own amusement.
Mycroft couldn't care less.
There was nothing a boy like this could have done to deserve such treatment.
And the elder Holmes would be damned if he let them lay another finger on this unfortunate soul.
"Neither are you."
The mere second those words left his mouth he launched, movements far faster than those of a child his age should be, fist heading towards an unprotected cheek.
With Mycroft's mind not yet accustomed to occupying a much smaller body, it was a miracle the hit even landed.
But, fortunately, it did.
Giving the elder Holmes both the satisfaction of seeing the offender fall to his backside again, and the knowledge that the teenager had no combat training whatsoever. If he had, he would have blocked that pathetic punch.
And if the self-proclaimed leader of the gang didn't have any martial arts training… then neither did his lackeys.
Those brutes relied mostly on their large numbers and raw brute strength to instill fear in their chosen prey.
Obviously. His inner Iceman scoffed. Why do you think they only target little children?
An image of a terrified five-year-old Sherlock popped up in his mind. Tiny nose bleeding and small hands covering dark locks to prevent further harm coming to his face and head.
At this point, Mycroft saw red.
He lashed out, body kicking into a rusty autopilot from years spent being a MI6 agent.
His body was a whirlwind of movement, his hands missing the trusty weight of his beloved butterfly knives as they had to make do with punches and slaps, feet finding their way up one person's face before switching to crush another man's guts under their pressure.
The elder Holmes was caught up in a dance he hasn't been danced in a long long time, taking down assailant after assailant and leaving them moaning on the ground.
The poor fools didn't stand a chance.
Soon there was nobody left standing, save for the unfortunate leader held up by the pissed off fox-haired child.
"Listen to me, you pathetic waste of oxygen." He hissed in Japanese, since the language seems to be local in this place. "If you hurt this or any child again, I'll make sure you spend the rest of your pathetic life as a helpless cripple. Seen as nothing but an additional weight to you already broken family."
The brute had the dignity to stop himself from crying.
"You have no idea what you are protecting." The boy whispered, looking deep into Mycroft's eyes. "He's a monster."
The elder Holmes's saw the truthfulness in his words.
Even if the boy was wrong… he believed himself to be correct.
Mycroft's resolve steeled.
This changes nothing.
"I don't care." He whispered to the teenager's ear, before punching the poor sod into oblivion.
The elder Holmes forgot the boy he was protecting was right there until he heard him breathe out:
"Woah…"
