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All plans of going to London and leaving my friend behind were abandoned now. I sat in the cab and prayed, not for the first time this evening, that we would reach our destination soon. My thoughts were filled with horrible images of Holmes in his black moods and what such a mood might do to him in an energized state. I was beginning to think the worst when Mycroft sat bolt upright.
"Stop the cab!" he shouted, thumping viciously at the roof with his cane.
The cab came to a wrenching stop. "Foolish, foolish!" Mycroft growled to himself as he tried to untangle himself from the suitcases that surrounded him. "Why hadn't I thought of it sooner?"
"Mycroft? Mycroft, what the devil is…"
Before I could complete my sentence, Mycroft leapt from the cab in an explosion of luggage and began sprinting into the nearby woods. I asked the cabbie to wait for a moment before leaping out myself.
For a man of Mycroft's bulk, he was surprisingly quick-footed, especially given the roots, branches, and rocks that made each footstep an adventure in of itself. By the time we'd made it halfway into the forest, I had to locate Holmes' elder brother by the sound of his wheezing rather than any sort of visual clues.
Finally, Mycroft came to a halt at the edge of a thicket.
There, halfway in and halfway out of the trees, was a man sprawled on the ground. Under the cover of night, I could only see a vague outline of the man's head and chest as they stuck out into the glen. Even in that dim moonlight, I could see that he was still breathing, though his breaths were ragged ones, as if he had been running a great distance. For a moment, I wondered who it was and why Mycroft was taking such interest in him. Then the figure turned so that his head was in profile.
I do not flatter myself with saying that I can recognize any man from his outline in the moonlight. However, my years of living at Baker Street had given me an eye for being able to pick out the silhouette of Sherlock Holmes.
Mycroft knelt down slowly by his little brother, still panting from his exertions. For a moment, I wondered how many times in their youth Mycroft had gone bolting after Holmes. He certainly seemed to be accustomed to the idea if he was berating himself for not having thought of it earlier.
I took a few steps closer-close enough to see, but not be seen by the two brothers in the darkness. I hadn't the faintest idea how much damage my words had caused when I said them, though now I was beginning to appreciate their effect. As a medical man, I did not want to put my friend under any sort of unwarranted duress, and I feared that my appearance after such a fallout would be just the thing to send him limping and wounded back into the forest before Mycroft could attend to him. So, rather than join him, I watched as Mycroft smoothed a little bit of his brother's hair out of his eyes and gave a little sad sigh.
"Sherlock," he said fondly. "You know you can't go running forever."
Quite right, Mycroft.
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