John stumbled tiredly to the front door. Just before he reached it, the persistent knocking stopped. A frightened voice replaced it. "Please, John?"

John's heart leapt into his throat. All tiredness drained away when he yanked open the door and Mycroft fell inside. John caught the boy just before he hit the floor. "Mycroft!"

"Mycroft! What are you doing here? Jesus Christ."

Instinctively, Mycroft pulled away from John. John caught him by the shoulders again and tipped his head back to get a better look at what he'd glimpsed before. Angry red welts marred Mycroft's face; one eye was almost swollen shut. John took a deep breath to steady his voice. "Who hit you?"

Though Mycroft seemed near tears, he still managed a scornful look. "You know it was my father. You knew it at the hospital! I was just too-too afraid to say it to the Detective Inspector around my father. They frightened me. John, you have to help me! Please."

"Okay, okay. It's all right." John tightened his grip on Mycroft's shoulder. "You're safe now. What happened?"

"Father won't let me see Sherlock. I think he's done something to him!"

John's spine stiffened. When Mycroft took a frightened step backward, John unclenched his fists with a start. "Oh, no, sorry. I'm so sorry, Mycroft." Quickly, he dropped into a crouch in front of the boy so they were closer to eye-to-eye. "I'm not angry with you." John took a deep breath to steady his trembling growl. "I promise I'm not angry with you."

Mycroft nodded. "You're angry with my father, aren't you? That's why I looked you up in the directory. I knew you were angry with my father when he took Sherlock away. I knew you would help me."

John nodded swiftly. "Yes, I will. Just tell me what happened."

Mycroft folded his chubby hands in front of him, as if he were praying. "Once we got home from the hospital, Father—" The boy breathed in shakily. "Father took Sherlock up to the nursery to have a talk with him. He does that when Sherlock's been naughty. It always upsets Sherlock. He never learns. He just throws fits. I'm the only one who can calm him. Sherlock will listen to me sometimes," Mycroft added almost proudly. His face fell, though, as he continued speaking.

"I could hear the door open and close and Sherlock having one of his screaming fits, so I went upstairs to calm him. I'd just got to the door when Father stopped me. He told me not to be a fat sissy. He said I…" Mycroft searched for the word, "coddled Sherlock too much, that he would be weak if I kept doing it and that we both needed to learn not to embarrass our family. I didn't mean to, John, I really didn't, but Father wouldn't listen. He boxed my ears," Mycroft whispered. "He does that when I'm naughty. I try to behave, John. I try not to be an embarrassment! I promise, I swear I never meant to be an embarrassment!"

"You aren't," John said swiftly. "You're brave, coming here."

"But I'm not!" Mycroft cried. "I knew I was in terrible trouble. My face doesn't usually hurt this much. I sat in my room the way Father told me to and thought about how I'd embarrassed the family, but then I got frightened. It was too quiet. Sherlock always makes sounds, even in his sleep. He's never silent, Doctor Watson! Never! When Father found me outside Sherlock's room again, he looked so angry that I ran away. I ran! I was a sissy boy, and now Father will hurt Sherlock even more because I ran! I'm sorry, John—"

Instantly, John shook his head. "No. No. This isn't your fault!" When Mycroft flinched, John softened his voice slightly. "You did the right thing, coming here, Mycroft. Don't move."

Mycroft watched worriedly as John took the stairs two at a time. "Where are you going?"

"Stay there!" John ordered. Quickly, Mycroft slipped back into the shadows.

In John's bedroom, under a certain loose floorboard beneath the bed, an Army Browning L9A1 lay in wait for any sign of trouble. Technically, since John wasn't on active duty, he shouldn't have had it, but his captain hadn't said a word when he'd seen John smuggle it back with the rest of his things. At the time, John hadn't understood himself why he'd brought it back to London. Now, as he loaded it and tucked it in his waistband, he was extremely glad he had. His military training told him to never ignore his sixth sense, and right now it screamed to him that Sherlock and Mycroft were in very real danger.

To John's relief, Mycroft stood obediently by the door when he returned. Gently, John laid an ice pack over Mycroft's bruised face. "Hold that on there as long as you can stand. Let's go."

Mycroft's brow furrowed. "Go where?"

"To see a friend." At least I hope he's a friend. All right, Detective Sergeant, let's see if you're as good of a man as you claim to be. While he waited for a cab to pull over, John dialed the number from the crumpled slip of paper into his mobile phone. It rang once, twice, three times as he helped Mycroft into the cab. Damn it, pick up—

"Detective Sergeant Lestrade."

"Yeah, this is Dr. John Watson."

"Lieutenant! Did you find anything?"

"No, actually, anything found me." John glanced at Mycroft's shivering form. "Mycroft Holmes came to my flat. He must have looked up my address in the directory. He's frightened and hurt, and he thinks Sherlock's been seriously hurt as well."

Lestrade's voice sharpened immediately. "By whom? Their father?"

"Yes," a quiet voice to John's left murmured. John winced. Obviously, Mycroft could hear the other end of the conversation perfectly well. John repeated the answer and then gave the impatient cabbie a hard glare.

"Listen, we need to act now. Sherlock's in trouble. If you can't help me, fine, but at least help Mycroft. He needs a safe place to stay. I'm coming to the Yard."

"Of course I'll help. Don't come to the Yard, though. Gregson's still here. D'you have a pen and paper? Write this address down. I'll meet you there."

"Okay…" Quickly, John relayed the address to the cab driver. As the cab pulled away from the kerb, John asked Lestrade, "So where exactly—"

Only then did he realize the DS had hung up.

Mycroft studied the row of flats curiously. Without thinking, John took one of his hands while they crossed the street. He only noticed the contact when he tried to pull his hand away to retrieve the address from his pocket and Mycroft tightened his grip. John grimaced and dug around with the other hand instead. "Flat C," Mycroft supplied quietly.

"Oh. Right." As the two of them climbed the stairs to the flat, John looked around for DS Lestrade. The man was nowhere in sight, though maybe he was already inside the flat. In the seconds between John's hard rap on the door and the door swinging open, John's mind flew ahead to an unknown house somewhere—mansion, probably, look at how Mycroft dresses every day, so there's a lot of rooms, but Mycroft said the nursery's upstairs. If we can figure out which room, Lestrade can go through the window while I try the door—or the other way 'round, I'm the only one with a gun, after all. Come on, Sherlock. Hang in there. I'm coming. Lestrade, open the fucking door—

"'Lo?" a tiny voice asked uncertainly.

John jumped and looked down at the tousle-haired little girl in the doorway. He'd never been good with ages, but he could guess from her size that the girl was a bit older than Sherlock. "Oh, sorry," John said, already backing away. "We must have the wrong—"

"No, we don't," Mycroft countered. A pained smile flashed across his face while he crouched in front of the uncertain girl. "Hello, Maria Lestrade. My name is Mycroft Holmes. That's Doctor John Watson. Would you please go fetch your father for us?"

"He isn't home," Maria mumbled around the thumb she'd popped in her mouth while John tried to wrap his mind around the fact that the DS had sent them to his own home. "What's wrong with your face?"

Before Mycroft could answer, a slender woman appeared in the doorway and scooped Maria up. "'Rie! You know better than to open the door without Mummy there! My husband's not home," Mrs. Lestrade informed John before she looked down at Mycroft's earnest, bruised face and paused. "What on earth…who sent you here?"

Heavy footsteps on the stairs interrupted John's answer. "I did. Hey, Miss Sunshine," Lestrade laughed when Maria launched from her mother's arms into his. "Go back to your mum. It's way past your bedtime."

"But there are people here!" Maria protested.

"Yeh, I noticed. Mycroft's going to spend the night, if that's all right with Lieutenant Watson."

John blinked. Didn't know that was my decision, DS. "Of course it is. We have work to do."

Lestrade's face darkened as he looked over Mycroft's bruised face. He tapped the underside of Mycroft's chin gently. "Oh, yes, we do. Mycroft, would you please take Maria inside and pick out a bedtime story for her? My wife'll come check on you two in a few."

A shy smile crossed Mycroft's features. "What sort of story?"

When Lestrade shrugged, John answered for him. "One Sherlock likes."

Immediately, Mycroft brightened. Mrs. Lestrade set Maria on her feet. Mycroft took the smaller girl's hand and led her inside the cramped flat. "Now, Maria, have you ever read anything by J. M. Barrie? My brother enjoys the pirates in Peter Pan..."

"Right, that's settled. I'll be back in the morning, Elise," Lestrade said as he leaned over to kiss his wife. She frowned and caught his arm.

"Where are you going, Greg? Who's that boy?"

"His name's Mycroft, and I'm going to go arrest his father for child abuse. Don't ask why he's here and not at the Yard. It's complicated. Go easy on him."

Elise paled. "'Course I will, Greg. Poor thing."

By now, John stood halfway down the stairs, shifting from foot to foot impatiently. "Ready?"

"Yeh." Lestrade followed John down to the street, where the DS held open the passenger door of an unmarked police car. As John settled into the passenger seat, Lestrade dug what looked suspiciously like a pistol out of the glove compartment and loaded it. At John's questioning look, Lestrade said, "Yes, I do know it's illegal, and yes, I do know how to shoot straight. Just because I can't legally carry a gun doesn't mean people don't shoot at me sometimes. You managed to sneak your gun back, didn't you?"

"You do have a point there. Just as long as you can aim," John muttered. "I didn't get shot in Afghanistan. I'd prefer not to get shot by you. Do you know exactly how to get to the Holmes' house?"

"I looked over a map before I left the Yard." As he pulled out into traffic, Lestrade flicked a switch on the dashboard. Instantly, a blue light behind the rear-view mirror began to flash, and the unmistakable sound of a police siren filled the air. When John scowled, Lestrade rolled his eyes. "I'll turn them off before we get too close. It's a bit of a drive out there. If Sherlock's in danger, we can't waste any time in traffic."

Other than the eternal wail of the siren, the drive into the countryside passed in relative silence. John compulsively unloaded and reloaded his handgun while Lestrade's fingers drummed on the steering wheel. If Mr. Holmes backhands Sherlock the way he does Mycroft… John nearly phoned Sarah to warn her he might be bringing Sherlock Holmes back to the hospital in the near future but decided against it. She let him leave the hospital. If she's not on Sherlock's side, and she tips off Gregson, Sherlock'll be in even worse trouble than he is now. John caught himself in the middle of unloading the gun yet again and grimaced. Stop it, Lieutenant, he reprimanded himself. Focus. Strategize. Do something productive.

As they rolled off the highway onto a quieter country road, Lestrade flicked off the siren and flashing light. Suddenly, dark silence enveloped the car. Lestrade's grip on the steering wheel tightened. "Do you know what storey of the house Sherlock's on?"

"Second, probably. Third if they've got one. Mycroft said he was upstairs."

Lestrade nodded. "How much danger do you honestly think Sherlock's in?"

"You're the DS. You deal with cases like this all the time."

"Oh, no, not like this. Not with genius kids and an army doctor and a da who works for—well, let's just say nothing about this is normal." John frowned and began to ask A da who works for what, exactly? when the car crested a hill and Lestrade switched off the headlights entirely. The doctor's eyes widened when he saw the behemoth of a house crouching in the valley below. Beside him, Lestrade whistled. "It's a bloody fortress. Look at the tower."

"Let's hope Sherlock's not in that," John mumbled. "Second or third storey, remember?"

"Right." Lestrade parked the car on the shoulder and took a deep breath. His fingers ran circles around the outline of a nicotine patch on his right arm. "You're a crack shot?"

With a shrug, John threw open his car door. "I'm not afraid to shoot if Sherlock's in danger, if that's what you're asking. What's got you so spooked, Detective?"

Lestrade opened his mouth to reply and then shook his head. His dark eyes reflected the faint light coming from the manse in the valley. "I don't know everything, John. All I'm saying is Gregson had his reasons for being afraid of Holmes. He has a lot of power."

John snorted. "I'm not afraid. No man's above the law here, no matter how powerful they are. Now come on! The longer we wait, the more danger Sherlock's in. Are you going to help him or not?"

Without waiting for Lestrade to reply, John strode down the sloping hill toward the mansion. Lestrade followed almost silently in his footsteps. Clouds blanketed the night sky and cloaked the two figures in inky blackness.

As he approached the base of the hill, John's heart sank. So many windows. So many rooms. Come on, Sherlock, yours has to be recognizable somehow. "Which one?" Lestrade hissed beside him, echoing John's thoughts.

John nearly shrugged when a flash of light caught his eye. An umbrella handle leaned against one of the second-storey windows. John nearly grinned before he caught himself. "There's Mycroft's room. If he can hear Sherlock yelling, he must be right below him."

Lestrade's breath came out in a woosh. "Three storeys up. What's your plan?"

"I'll scale it if you go in the front door and distract them. Sherlock'll need medical attention. Do you have a warrant, or…"

Lestrade nodded and dug one hand into his overcoat's inner pocket. "Luckily for us, not all judges are as big of cowards as Gregson is. You're sure you can make it all the way up there?"

Scowling, John pulled himself up to his full height. "I invaded Afghanistan, Detective Sergeant. The real question is, can you walk in that front door without getting yourself killed?"

"Yes, sir, I think I can." Lestrade squared his shoulders as John turned to study the brick expanse before him. "I'll see you on the other side."

Hopefully, Lestrade would wait to ring the doorbell until John'd climbed through Sherlock's window. The ledge outside the ground-floor window gave John the perfect leverage onto one of the lower branches of a great oak tree outside the mansion. From there, he swung himself up to the ledge outside of Sherlock's room. With a grunt, John shouldered the window open and looked inside.

Overturned furniture littered the expansive room. A few broken toys lay on a fragile-looking desk in one corner, but John was far more concerned with the prone form inside the wooden crib in the middle of the room. "Sherlock?" he whispered.

No response.

Downstairs, the doorbell rang. As voices echoed through the faraway hall, John lowered himself into Sherlock's room and slipped over to the bed. Halfway there, he tripped on something solid. His stomach clenched when he realized it was Sherlock's plaster cast, broken and abandoned.

"I thought we had already cleared this ugly matter up, Detective Sergeant."

"Actually, no, we hadn't. See, this here is a warrant for your arrest."

"On what charges? Surely your colleagues have realized by now that I am no child abuser."

"It doesn't matter what my colleagues think, Mr. Holmes. The bruises on your son's face say otherwise."

"Sherlock!" John hissed again. The pale boy in the crib didn't respond, not even when John leaned over and gently lifted him out of his bed. The boy's bloodied head lolled back, revealing a thin, pale neck mottled with bruises. With a curse, John lowered the boy to the wooden floor, ignoring the heated argument downstairs. His fingers fumbled for Sherlock's tiny vein in his wrist; when he couldn't find it, he lowered his head to Sherlock's chest instead and listened.

Nothing.

Jesus Christ, no.

"I won't have you invading my home and slandering my name—"

"I won't have you abusing your children."

The Kiss of Life: pinch the nose, tip the head back, two breaths. Listen for a heartbeat. Nothing? Pump.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

"They are my children, and you, Detective Sergeant, are entirely out of your division."

Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty.

"I don't care if you are the bloody government! You aren't above the law! Now, hands in the air!"

Twenty-one. Twenty-two.

"I said hands in the air!"

Twenty-three. Twenty-four.

"You shouldn't have done that, Detective Sergeant. You just don't know when to stop playing. What will your wife and daughter think? Elise, is it, and Maria? A traitor husband and father, hmm."

"You stay the hell away from them!"

Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight.

"Really not your division, Detective Sergeant. I did warn you and your superior and that little doctor of yours, didn't I? How does it feel to be a traitor to the Crown?"

Twenty-nine.

"A lot better than knowing that two innocent kids are trapped with you!"

Thirty.

Listen.

Nothing.

"What on earth—oh my God. Oh my God."

Furs and silk in the doorway—Mrs. Holmes, reeking of alcohol and shrieking. God. "Call 999! NOW!" Two breaths and then pump to thirty. It felt like being back in Afghanistan, hot and bloody with someone else's life seeping out underneath his hands, except those had been grown men, soldiers, not tiny boys inside their nurseries! They hadn't been Sherlock!

No. God. Sherlock.

Please, God, let him live!

.

.

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Obligatory Author's Notes: As usual, thanks to teacrumpetsandjam for catching my goofs. My American was definitely showing in the first few drafts of this chapter. Example: people don't carry (legal) guns in the UK. Culture shock! Many of my friends here own and carry handguns. I don't—I'd shoot myself in the foot by accident or something—but guns are in a way omnipresent. It took me several tries to write them into this chapter without turning the UK into the US, and even now I'm not sure I pulled it off properly.

I'll be heading to the library this week to do some heavy-duty research about Britain's legal system. If any of you can recommend some sites or books, please do. I'm trying desperately to make this storyline believable.

In regards to the CPR: I'm trained in adult CPR, but that differs slightly from child CPR, and I'm up for my yearly retraining soon. I'm a bit rusty—happily, I've never had to use it in real life. Hopefully John did an all right job of it.

I've added more songs to the playlist for this story! While I wrote the end of this chapter, I listened to "Deep Shadows," the Hunger Games trailer song. Here's the playlist (delete the spaces first, of course). ht tp: / / ww w.y o utube . c om /pla ylis t?lis t=PL 63C EEDDB8 999 4D38& feature e=mh _lolz

Thanks for reading! –Icey.