Hiya, sorry about the wait, I'm at Uni and very busy. Hope you enjoy!

"John, are you at Baker Street? I'm looking for Sherlock."

"I'm just getting in the door now. Did you find his phone then?" John asked, surprised, but relieved at the quick work of the Scotland Yard detective. He didn't really want to imagine what kind of information might be found on Sherlock's phone, but he trusted it was not safe for public viewing.

"Yeah I did, there's something else though, emergency, could you put him on?" Lestrade replied, unable to keep the pained note out of his voice.

John hesitated, about to ask what was going on, feeling a twinge of anxiety clench his chest. Sherlock looked up as he entered the living room, still holding his phone to his ear but frowning in silence. He held out his phone to Sherlock, thinking better of questioning and watching him instead.

"Lestrade?" Sherlock asked, expression unchanging, but a slight twinge of concern in his voice.

John tried to listen in the pause, but could make nothing out of Lestrade's voice responding. A tiny frown line creased Sherlock's forehead.

…"Did you find my phone?" He asked when the line went quiet.

There was a short pause on the other end, before the unintelligible voice spoke again. Lestrade must have been about to end the conversation, as Sherlock interrupted him hurriedly. John's heart jumped as he saw a flash of something altogether less calm and cool as Sherlock always appeared, cross the detective's face.
"-Lestrade. …Where is he now?"

Lestrade's voice was quieter suddenly, no more than a distant hum in Sherlock's phone, to John.

"Right." Sherlock murmured. "Half an hour."

Sherlock pressed the end call button, staring into space, while John looked on. He gave the detective a few seconds, before his patience ran out and he asked what was going on.

Sherlock remained staring into space, a look John was used to, as Sherlock concentrated on the tiny clues no one else noticed, in his mind's eye.

"Mycroft's been attacked, Lestrade wants me to meet him at Scotland Yard." Sherlock mumbled calmly.

John's heart gave a second jump, racing as he stared, confused and stunned.
"What? How? Is he okay?" John asked in amazement. Lestrade's call was supposed to be about Sherlock's phone, not his brother. John also didn't want to think about what kind of a man could successfully attack Mycroft Holmes. He was less a man, more an institution.

"Lestrade said he thinks he will be." Sherlock replied, voice robotic, not looking at John. "I'm going out, I'll see you later."

John didn't try to stop Sherlock leaving, or attempt to get any more information out of him. The flat, monotone of his voice was familiar, the calm, deliberate stance also carefully controlled. John had seen it too many times to bother arguing. He watched Sherlock leave, mind jumbled between anxiety and frustration, not wanting to leave him alone but aware of the futility of trying to follow him. He left it about thirty seconds after Sherlock left, to call Lestrade and attempt to get answers himself.

...

...

'Myc, need to talk to you. Important. 12 Bolton Rd, level 3, 14:30. S'

Lestrade had been staring at the text sent from Sherlock's phone for over ten minutes, without working out what was wrong with it. John had called, a few minutes after he'd spoken to Sherlock, but he'd ignored it. Dealing with Sherlock's worried flatmate, he would have to leave to the detective himself this time. He was more concerned with who had sent Mycroft Holmes the text that had nearly gotten him killed.

Mycroft had woken up just seconds after he finished talking to Sherlock, though he passed out again almost immediately after. It had been long enough for Lestrade to suspect he'd been drugged, another feat he would have considered near to impossible. The ambulance arrived a minute of so later and from there, Lestrade knew he could be far more useful to both of the Holmes brothers, from his post in Scotland Yard. Sherlock wouldn't be long in following, as he'd given Lestrade a maximum of thirty minutes to meet him there.

As he'd arrived at Scotland yard, he'd been given a message from the desk from his sergeant, to say someone called Anthea had taken over at the warehouse and that Mycroft had been taken to a private hospital somewhere. Lestrade fought the urge to roll his eyes. Mycroft was unconscious and he was still somehow running the show.

He sat at his desk, glaring at Sherlock's phone in frustration. Something was wrong. The ostensible problem stood out like a sore thumb, of course. If Sherlock ever bothered to address his brother by name, he filled it with open contempt. Theirs was not a relationship given to shortening of Christian names, nor would the thoroughly dignified elder Holmes, allow such a thing. Something was bothering Lestrade though, the more he looked at it. If he knew at a glance, it hadn't been written by Sherlock, Mycroft must certainly have known. So why had he followed the instructions and done so alone?

His frustrated musings were interrupted by the bang and clatter of his office door.

"Where's Mycroft?"

Lestrade jumped, head snapping up to his doorway as Sherlock entered without warning. Regaining his composure, Lestrade put Sherlock's phone down on the desk between them and gestured to the seat opposite him. On a normal day he'd have gone through the motions of asking how Sherlock had gotten to his office without him being warned. On a normal day, Sherlock would have ignored the offered seat. As Sherlock sat down, Lestrade frowned deeply.

"I was told he was taken to a private hospital. I imagine someone will inform you directly, rather than go through me. I called for an ambulance, his name entered a Government controlled system and his people took over from there." Lestrade answered honestly. He suspected Sherlock knew more about his brother's influence than he did, after all.

Sherlock's stare remained impassive, but Lestrade read an air of disdain in his eyes. The younger man seemed to be struggling with something. He went to speak once, but cut himself off and started again, before he managed to get a full sentence out.
"How is he?" He asked, staring down at the desk in front of him.

Against the sombre mood of the day, Lestrade was filled with an ill timed urge to laugh. He knew Sherlock and Mycroft didn't get on, anyone who had ever met either of them knew it. It was also common knowledge within Sherlock's limited circle of people he could stand, that Mycroft went to extraordinary lengths to watch over his younger brother. For Sherlock it seemed despite this, admitting he was interested in whether Mycroft lived or died, was quite a challenge.

The memory of how he'd left the elder Holmes, wiped any hint of a smile from Lestrade's face.
"He was unconscious when I left him." He started, voice gentle, even if Sherlock would never admit to being truly worried. "It looked mostly superficial to me."

Sherlock raised his head and met the DI's gaze.
"Mostly?"

Lestrade fought back a shudder. "Yeah…Yeah it's pretty much just cuts and bruises, few broken ribs. …His left hand was badly broken though, it looked like whoever it was twisted his fingers right-"

Letsrade cut himself off at the sickened look on Sherlock's face.

"He's going to be fine, Sherlock." He offered, quietly.

Sherlock gave him a humourless smile and nodded.
"Undoubtedly. You called me here because of this, I presume?" Sherlock asked, gesturing to his phone.

Lestrade took his abrupt change of subject to mean he was finished discussing his unfortunate brother's health. It was none of his business really, so he didn't say anything more. It was hard not to feel sorry for Mycroft though. Usually it would have been more or less impossible to do so, but that was when he was playing his role as scary, inscrutable, Government personified. Seeing a man beaten unconscious wasn't ever pleasant, but with Mycroft it was somehow worse, he wasn't supposed to get hurt. Who even knew he was made of human parts.

If it was horrible for him to witness, having only met the man once or twice, it must have been worse for Sherlock to hear, regardless of how determinedly he pretended not to care. Lestrade moved onto his official role without further comment.

"Yes. How long had your phone been missing, before you contacted me?"

"I don't know, I called you as soon as I noticed, which I wouldn't imagine could have been long after." Sherlock responded flatly.

"The thing is Sherlock, Mycroft being attacked would suggest the kind of Government muddy waters we don't get to know about, but your phone and the message sent to him point to something far less aloof." Lestrade explained, trying to point Sherlock in the direction of his own concern, without having to say it.

Sherlock have him a look that could wilt spring blossoms and Lestrade realised he'd misunderstood.
"I know you didn't send it." He clarified.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his deduction, but Lestrade chose to ignore it.
"I mean, that using your phone to ambush your brother, before leaving it with him, is more likely to be a message to you, than anything personal against Mycroft, don't you think?"

"Comprising a list of suspects with people who have a grudge against me, won't narrow things down for you much." Sherlock answered dryly.

Lestrade shrugged, seeing no reason to mislead Sherlock in his motives for asking. He had to question him as protocol, but it didn't have to be a complete waste of time. "Maybe not, and I can't really ask for your help in this case, but I'd like to know we're on the same page, before I start."

If he didn't know better he'd have said Sherlock looked a little ashamed, as he realised Lestrade was asking for his opinion. The impression vanished almost instantly and he gave Lestrade a sharp, contemptuous look.
"Yes, well, so much for the obvious." He snapped, with thoroughly familiar impatience. Lestrade was careful to cover his relief at the sound.
"If you can't accept my help in this case I'll leave you to it." He added, standing up abruptly and pushing his chair back.

Lestrade didn't attempt to stop him, concern still churning in his stomach at the younger man's obvious vexation. He couldn't let Sherlock work on their case. Apart from anything else, he was a key witness and most likely the real target of Mycroft's attack. Sherlock would of course, take matters into his own hands and Lestrade couldn't stop him. Involving him in the official investigation though, smacked far too much of the early stages of Moriarty's war. He was relieved, if a little surprised, that Sherlock didn't try to argue with him.

Sherlock turned back as he reached the door.
"Lestrade…" He started, sounding wrong footed all of a sudden. Lestrade fought hard not to visibly squirm. The uncertainty was shut off suddenly, behind Sherlock's familiar mask.
"Let me know when I can have my phone back."

Lestrade breathed out heavily as the door closed behind him. He didn't like the case at all. Something felt very, very wrong and for the first time in his career, he was rather glad that a Mycroft-ordered hand from on high was very likely to take it off him, before long. Sherlock would be safely uninvolved or at the very least, protected by Big Brother. Until the man himself could be relied upon though, Lestrade thought he'd better return one of the many calls from Sherlock's fretting body guard and bring him up to speed.

...

...

Mycroft had known, the moment his name was given to the police, his own people would be alerted and would take control of the situation, without him having to do anything. Taking action himself had been out of the question as he'd been unconscious, but it was comforting to know his office was just as organised and omniscient as he liked to imagine.

Avoiding a trip to some form of medical facility, was impossible. His hand needed resetting, apart from anything else, a more unpleasant experience he hoped never to encounter again. He'd been awake by that point, feeling much worse for wear and been told that they couldn't administer painkillers as he was already heavily drugged. Not nearly heavily enough, in Mycroft's opinion. It had taken every last ounce of his not inconsiderable will, to remain stoic during the post surgery cast setting of his hand and wrist, for which he'd been conscious.

Once it was finished, he instructed his enigmatic PA he would be in his own house within the hour, by any means necessary and that she would be advised to procure said means. He didn't particularly like threatening her, as she was his greatest asset, but then he knew he neither looked nor sounded particularly threatening at that moment. 'Anthea' wouldn't mind.

He knew within moments of returning to his own home, he would have superiors (in the technical sense) questioning from all corners. He wasn't concerned by that. He could assure them very truthfully, it was not a politically motivated attack. It looked exactly as it was meant to look; like he'd been used to send a message to his younger brother. That part, was much more of a concern. He'd been successful in his effort to scare the intensely private hospital staff with his sheer apathy towards his injuries and attack. His own staff were used to the same pretence, but at least a little bit surprised to find Mycroft genuinely unfazed, especially given his maimed hand and the clumsy impractical claw the plaster cast left him with.

Mycroft ignored the distant, gnawing irritant, whispering traitorous reminders he had no been nearly quite so cool, during the incident itself. Focusing on the more practical issue to hand, Mycroft knew he had to talk to his brother. He would, whether Sherlock wanted him to or not, be taking over whatever case had led to the morning's unpleasantness but first, he needed information only Sherlock had. He intended, beyond that point to ensure it got no further than himself, and Sherlock.

Lestrade would still have Sherlock's phone, it would certainly look somewhat suspicious for Mycroft to call or text him. Probably text. His throat was raw and painful, leading him to surmise and subsequently remember, he'd indulged in some thoroughly undignified screaming. He had been under the influence of some very unpleasant chemicals at the time, which he felt excused him. In ordinary circumstances it would have been a near impossible feat, to make him give away such levels of distress.

Some years previously, he had been subjected to sensory deprivation torture at the hands of some overzealous and ill informed counter terrorist intelligence agents, for several days. In the entire time he had not made a sound. Sherlock's attack, while not likely to be his fondest memory, wasn't so terrible by comparison. Even he though, couldn't always control his body's reaction. Drugged and struggling to breathe, apparently made having his little brother break his hand in nine places, (his doctor had informed him) too much to take quietly.

He shuddered slightly at the memory. A frisson of anger surged through his veins, partly at himself for his reaction, partly at Sherlock, for taking away his control, but mostly, at whoever had put his brother in such a position. Sherlock was a selfish, tactless, arrogant little git, but he was not cruel or spiteful. He used violence only when necessary to defend himself or the handful of people in the world he about. He made a mental note to give Sherlock a chance to find the man himself, under his watchful eye of course, before making his own move.

As he couldn't text Sherlock, the obvious method seemed to be to text John instead, but a text in such a situation, to an acquaintance, seemed inappropriate. His throat would just have to cope.

...

...

John stared at his phone display, unexplained anxiety gripping his chest at the name. John knew Mycroft was seriously injured in hospital. Lestrade had called him to update him, explaining the elder Holmes had been unconscious when last he'd seen him. He also knew, that thinking one of the Holmes brothers had contacted him when it had not been possible, was what had put him there. Still, he knew he couldn't ignore it. It could be a clue as to who was messing with Sherlock.

"Hello?" He spoke hesitantly, raising the phone to his ear.

"Hello John." Mycroft responded, voice calm and tinged with an audible polite smile.

John's brow furrowed in confusion, mind racing.
"Mycroft …What's going on…Are you okay?" He asked, trepidation increasing at the sound of Mycroft's voice. He sounded exactly as he usually did, if slightly hoarse. Was it possible someone had got to him again? Was he being made to call him?

"…I'm fine, John, thank you. I was just wanting to let Sherlock know I'm at home, as I assume the police have his phone." Mycroft replied. There was a short pause, before he continued. "…Are you quite alright, John?" He added, with the tone of a raised eyebrow.

John ignored the tone, as he was well practiced at doing.
"What? Yeah I'm fine, but why are you at home, I thought you were in hospital?" John demanded, starting to get annoyed at being asked such a question while he was very reasonably worried about kidnapping.

"Yes I was, hence I wanted to let Sherlock know I am no longer. I imagine the police wanted him for questioning, has he returned?" Mycroft inquired, waving off his earlier stay in hospital as though he'd been out for a stroll.

"…No, not yet, but I spoke to Lestrade and he said Sherlock wanted to know where you were. I could phone him and tell him to pass on your message?" John offered wearily.

Clearly, Mycroft was not in immediate peril. He had seemed inhuman to John in the past, but his apparent ability to shake off what Lestrade had described as a vicious attack, in a morning, was strangely alienating even by his standards.

"Thank you John, that would be ideal." Mycroft replied, sounding at least, mostly sincere. "How is he?" He added, leaving John confused for a moment.

"How is who?"

"…Sherlock." The dry response sounded.

John frowned, relieved Mycroft couldn't see it, if suspicious he could hear or sense it.
"Oh, um, yeah, he seemed fine." John felt embarrassment rising as he spoke. Was it a little bit tactless, to tell Mycroft Sherlock hadn't really reacted at all, to the news he'd been attacked?
"Well, you know Sherlock." He added, realizing his efforts were somewhat clumsy.

A dry, hollow chuckle sounded in his ear and John gave an involuntary shudder.
"Oh yes. Thank you, John."