It was, Mycroft admits to himself, not the smartest move he could have made. He should have let his people handle it, instead of coming here.
Coming here alone, at that, his mind provides. The man appears every bit as charming and dangerous as he did when he was but a name and a picture on the desk.
He should have let Sherlock know where he was going. What he had found
What was that man rambling about...?
Well, at least Sherlock was somewhere safer than here.
Three guards outside the room, heavily armed. Running is out of the question, then.
On second thought, was Sherlock ever safe…? The kid had a sixth sense when it came to finding trouble. Mycroft chuckles at the memory of a ten-year-old Sherlock stuck in mummy's corset and his indignant face when his ever-so-mature older brother could do nothing but giggle helplessly.
Chuckling is not appreciated by the man with the gun. Mycroft makes another mental note of that while wiping the blood from his mouth.
Also, I should have brought my gun.
The idiot should have brought his bloody gun. Sherlock curses under his breath as he picks the lock.
Hopelessly unoriginal, abandoned warehouse…
"Foolish, reckless, irresponsible…"
Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice that sounds suspiciously like John's mutters, "Family trait". Sherlock opens the door and grins as his tall form melts into the shadows of the dark hallway.
Mycroft blinks.
His brother dislikes guns. Impersonal, he calls them.
Still, it is his brother, his little brother, who now stares at him over the barrel of the gun. Their father's gun.
The man that had just pointed his own at Mycroft's perfect poker face now lays at his feet. He stares at the motionless figure and back at Sherlock. A kill shot.
He understands, for the first time, why people are scared of his brother. The anger, the white-hot-rage that seethes behind the quicksilver eyes, the lips in a thin line, almost as if he wanted to bare his teeth at his now-defeated opponent; this is not the anger Mycroft remembers Sherlock displaying after being followed by one of his big black cars, not the rage he had witnessed after trying to send his brother off to rehab, not the lightning that had flashed in his eyes whenever he mentioned mummy.
Mycroft takes one involuntary step back.
The movement seems to snap his younger brother out of it, whatever it might have been. Sherlock crosses the room in a few steps. Enough for Mycroft to notice the limp, the cut on his head and the way he favours his left side.
"Are you all right?"
Mycroft just stares. Three guards.
"Mycroft."
His eyes are unfocused as well, concussion, going by the way he holds his shoulders
"Mye"
"I'm fine."
Sherlock shakes his head and seems to regret the movement immediately. "You're bleeding," he states.
"So are you," Mycroft gestures to his brother's left arm.
The younger Holmes looks down at himself and blinks, his mouth forming a perfect "oh."
Mycroft takes one step, closing the small distance between them, and drapes his brother's arm over his shoulder. Sherlock winces when an arm is wrapped around his injured side, but does not back away. "No hospitals," he mumbles.
Mycroft shakes his head. "Just taking you home."
Baker Street is only a few blocks away. They sneak in through the back door, trying not to wake John, muttering, bickering and giggling, high on adrenaline and whatever this may be.
"Sherl-"
"-what are-"
"-could you kindly remove those skinny elbows from my –"
"-if you'd have kept to the bloody diet there would be no need to-"
"-oh, shut your mouth or I'll bruise another rib."
-"No, you won't."
-"Wouldn't bet on it. Now sit down."
Sherlock flops down on the bed while Mycroft retrieves a dusty first aid kit from the drawer beneath the pompous head of Johann Sebastian. Sterile patches, tape and some plasters find their way into hands that do their job at patching his brother up without much thinking.
Muscle memory, he supposes.
Sherlock takes one dazed look at his older brother's face and chuckles, mumbling something about looking like Dracula and being an idiot in general.
Mycroft scoffs and tells Sherlock exactly who he thinks is the idiot here, and that he is not the one who got himself concussed.
"There were three guards Mycroft, even you couldn't have missed that," Sherlock mutters, wincing slightly as his knuckles are bandaged.
"I know," Mycroft offers. "How did you - well - what did you…"
Sherlock cocks his head and gives his brother a lopsided smile, "Jab-straightright-lefthook".
"Always a good opening," Mycroft nods. He smiles through the odd taste of pride and regret that has started to bubble in the back of his throat like one of Sherlock's more dubious experiments. "Get some sleep, will you, you look like hell."
Sherlock resists the urge to roll his eyes –previous experience has taught him that the combination Eyeroll-Concussion is Not Good. Not good at all – and lies down, glancing at his brother's busted lip and grinning: "Fix your face, Mycroft".
Mycroft stares.
Mirror-Mycroft stares right back. He frowns and wonders when his hair has gotten thinner, what has made the lines in his face grow deeper, and most of all, when his eyes have grown cold.
He doesn't know.
He washes the blood from his face and tries again.
Well, he mutters inaudibly, that didn't help much, did it? With the swollen nose, grayish stubble and purple bags under his eyes it is even more obvious. His father stares at him through the mirror, a look of resigned disappointment present on his face. Mycroft shuts his eyes, shakes his head and leaves the bathroom.
Mycroft is awake when Sherlock wakes up. Not that he has slept much.
At first he had tried to wake Sherlock every hour, as that is what people seem to do when taking care of a concussed person, isn't it? Unfortunately, his concussed person had not been too open to this theory, and after having his hand nearly bitten off by a rather grumpy younger brother, Mycroft had abandoned the idea.
Deducing Sherlock's room had been far more interesting. Periodic table – as if he needs it in print, the little show-off. Mycroft suppresses a grin as he remembers his brother's colourful sketch of the whole thing in his old bedroom –science books were expensive. Mummy had not been pleased, even though a nine-year-old Sherlock had assured her that it was a really accurate periodic table, and had it painted over.
A soft snore from the bed brings him back to the room. The épée, proudly hung on the wall opposite the Judo certificate, brings a smile to his face. How easily people underestimated his brother.
Morons.
–Bach, obviously. Drama was Sherlock's division. Never liked Mendelssohn, too much sugar, he had said. Mother had liked Mendelssohn though- Ah, bug collection. Does that bring back memories, Mycroft grins, for real this time. He clearly, clearly remembers his brother finding the disgusting red-and-black one (Mylabris pustulata, Sherlock, not red-and-black-monster-bug, now, repeat after me…) He had been hyper for a week.
He falters at the picture.
He knew it existed. He had seen it at Mummy's house, had seen it in one of the few albums she kept, God, he even remembers when it was taken, and where, what he wore and how Sherlock wouldn't sit still, how he had to keep his brother half on his lap, one arm draped over his shoulder to prevent them both from falling off the rickety piano stool, how his mother had to pry the black eye patch out of Sherlock's sticky hands, and how he made him sneeze on purpose by tickling his black curls in his brother's nose.
Mummy had cut his hair the very next day.
He picks up the light frame and stares, mesmerized. The Holmes boys, father had stated proudly. Sherlock had been four. Before the bugs, before the science, seeing everything and Bach's haunting partitas, and before jab-jab-righthook, again Mye again!
Mycroft stares, catalogues and remembers.
He is still awake when Sherlock wakes up.
John makes breakfast while muttering angrily at the both of them; Sherlock happily ignores his indignant mumbles of imbeciles, idiots and bloody irresponsible; Mycroft thanks him for the tea.
John decides to ignore them both and leaves the flat.
Jabs and insults are exchanged, some in French, some in English, and some are not quite insults. They spend some time deducing the name, address and profession of John's new girlfriend, and switch to more pressing matters: the loose ends of the case (wrapped up-dull), Mycroft's diet (eloquent as always, little brother) and Sherlock's need to rest (oh piss off, Mycroft).
As the older Holmes shrugs on his coat, after promising Sherlock that he will send someone to personally knock him out if he doesn't lie down at some point during the day, Sherlock suddenly nods, gives something that isn't a grimace but not quite a smile either and shrugs,
"Thanks, Mycroft," and then looks away to some interesting pattern on the floor no one else has yet discovered.
Mycroft resists the urge to bite his lip, "Thank you, Sherlock"
He turns to leave before hesitating.
"Sherlock, I'm, I wish I… I should have –"
"Don't," his brother shakes his head and briefly, very briefly, rests his hand on Mycroft's shoulder. "You were never like him."
He turns, goes inside, and is gone again.
End
I loved writing this...
Thank you for reading. And above all, a huge thank you to my wonderfull betas: Impishtubist and Sidney Sussex. Thanks for the proofreading, britpicking, style-suggestions and general nice-being-ness, you are awesome!
And of course, TadPole11, thanks for prompting a Sherlock-and-Mycroft-on-a-case prompt!