Pick me up. - SH

The three simple words were enough to furrow the older Holmes' brow with worry. Sherlock was never one to ask for help, especially not from him, and the blatant request for assistance beat at Mycroft's executive heart with familial concern. What had his younger brother gotten into this time? He had agreed wholeheartedly to support him in his disappearance, had fed him information on John Watson's well-being, tracked down the movements of Moriarty's web with him - albeit remotely - even bothered to check in once in a while during his absence from London conversationally. It had been, after all, partially his fault Moriarty knew quite so much about Sherlock.

But Moriarty was, for all intents and purposes, out of the picture. What could possibly be distressing Sherlock Holmes now?

Drugs, as it happened.

Mycroft picked the empty syringe out of his unresponsive brother's hand and narrowed his eyes. Sherlock still had his coat on, and from the looks of things hadn't had it removed recently. The needle certainly hadn't gone into his arm. A quick and ginger turn of his brother's head exposed a small puncture in the side of his neck, angled awkwardly - whoever had administered it had been behind him at the time. Mycroft was almost relieved - the younger Holmes was exhibiting none of the symptoms of overdose, or of the use of any of the hard drugs with which he had previously been familiar. He was, however, more than a little incensed.

"Take him. He's coming back with us," he said to the men standing at his elbow. He turned back to the sleek black thing occupying the entrance to the alleyway behind them. "And be careful with him, for God's sake!" he added. It was already quite evident that the less than savory characters of the London streets were abusing his younger brother; he wasn't going to have his own men manhandling him, too.

Sherlock was not the type of man to be bothered by nightmares, nor was he the type of man to dream of anything at all, except the study of something in his mind palace. It was rare that Mycroft ever saw him toss and turn- in fact, he hadn't seen his younger brother in the throes of a bad dream since they were children.

"Sherlock," he said softly, refraining himself from reaching out and shaking the younger Holmes by the shoulders. The drug he had been given was not dangerous, Mycroft had concluded. Sherlock was, by and large, in no medical distress, merely unconscious. It had been at least an hour - Mycroft had been able to successfully implant the idea of foreign occupation to Parliament during that time - since he'd found his brother out on the alleyway floor, and he was due to answer some of the older Holmes' questions.

"Sherlock," he said more firmly, and the slender brunette shifted on the couch cushions, eyelids fluttering as his mind wrestled off the effects of the drug.

"Nrshh gohnnn…" he mumbled.

"Sherlock, you're being incoherent. Get a hold of yourself."

The younger Holmes raised his head off of his pillow by a fraction of an inch, eyes half-closed and mouth hanging open. He groaned and attempted to sit up, his hands groping clumsily for purchase underneath him. Mycroft checked his pocket watch impatiently. He had things to attend to, and he just knew it would be unfair to Korea if his mind were half-distracted with worry over his baby brother. But Sherlock was finally sitting up, his upper body swaying uncertainly as he grabbed his head, pale hands digging into the thick head of curls in attempt to steady himself.

"Has it only been an hour?"

"Two, Sherlock. You were unconscious for at least an hour before we found you."

Sherlock muttered an obscenity under his breath, one hand moving to cup the area around the puncture on his neck.

"Do you know how many people saw you scampering about on their balconies?" Mycroft said, and Sherlock slapped his hands down on the cushions.

"They didn't see me, they saw him. Have you seen him, or weren't you paying close enough attention?" he hissed, surprisingly venomous for someone waking from a drug-induced slumber. '

Mycroft had been following Sherlock's progress, been watching the back forth between his little brother and the young surgeon-cannibal Niles Cohen. It was alarming how personal Sherlock was taking the man's actions. Mycroft had, of course, in his observation of his brother and John Watson during their time together at Baker Street surmised there might have been attachment there, even attraction, but had never been quite certain as to how strong. While he was certainly glad his brother had found some reliable, the effect it had on his priorities and his personal defenses was more than disconcerting.

"You're growing careless, Sherlock. You're in such a terrible hurry."

"He has to be stopped, Mycroft!" Sherlock replied angrily.

"There are plenty of murderers in London. What makes this one such a priority?" Mycroft knew exactly what, of course, but Sherlock needed to be able to admit it for himself.

"He's dangerous," answered Sherlock petulantly. He was regaining his orientation and his awareness, strong enough already to get to his feet and begin to pace.

"To whom? His patients? Certainly not - he's good enough to keep his professional and his criminal lives separate. To his intended victims? Well, of course. Every killer is. But you couldn't care less about them, could you?"

"Shut up, I'm thinking!"

"Not about the right thing, Sherlock. Why does this matter so much to you? Think. Priorities have never been your strong suit, but if you would only sit and sort them you'd find your focus much quicker."

"Don't patronize me, Mycroft."

Sherlock was blocking him out, he knew it, but that wasn't going to stop him from saying what he needed to hear.

"Play your game with the surgeon, then, Sherlock. Just remember that the longer you do, the longer he has to play with Dr. Watson."

Sherlock turned his gaze on his brother, and if Mycroft had been any other man he might have quivered under that stare. Instead he held his eyes, his chin lifted, unperturbed by the darkened grey.

"Show me the screens."

"That would be exceedingly unproductive."

Mycroft had opted not to give Sherlock access to the video feeds of Baker Street. After what he had seen the young surgeon and Dr. Watson doing that one evening prior to Sherlock's inoculation, he was absolutely sure his younger brother would do something stupid if allowed to view them. But even Mycroft had his weaknesses - he was, by and large, a good older brother, after all - and Sherlock being polite was one of them.

"Show me the screens… please."