"What … what are you doing?" John asked with a quaver in his voice as he raised his hands, trying to look as unthreatening as possible.

"Just step back, Dr Watson. I don't want to hurt you," Porter said, holding the gun steady with both hands as he looked into the living room. "Where is he?"

As the man peered through the door, John carefully pulled his phone from his pocket, hitting speed dial 3 and then hitting the mute button. Mycroft was supposed to be asleep in the study, and there was no way he was leading a man with a gun his way, but he needed to alert the man somehow.

And so, as he slid the phone back into his jeans, he glanced up the stairs, licking his lips before saying, "I told you. Mycroft was going for a nap. What do you want? Because if you're here about a raise, I'm pretty sure this isn't the best way to go about it."

"It's not about money, Dr Watson," Porter told him, looking mildly offended as he gestured up the stairs with the gun. "Lead the way."

John gave a hesitant nod, mind working furiously as he tried to remember the layout of the upstairs. He had slept in the guest room that first night, but otherwise, wasn't sure where the multitude of doors went. The only thing he was sure of was that Mycroft was downstairs in his study, so leading the lunatic with a gun upstairs would keep his patient safe. Or, well, safer, anyway.

He thought furiously, trying to find a tactical advantage to any of the doorways upstairs. There were no alcoves he could suddenly twist into, no decorative chairs to 'accidentally' trip over. He couldn't even risk walking heavily to alert Mycroft as to their whereabouts. Porter had seemed nervous earlier, but now that he had taken action, that had dropped away—superficially at least. Maybe he wasn't as confident as he pretended? "So, you're the one who attacked Mycroft the other night?" John asked as they climbed the stairs.

Porter's gun nudged his ribs. "Don't be stupid, Dr Watson. I don't want to have to kill you, too."

John paused mid-flight. "Kill?"

"Damn it." There was actual remorse in the younger man's voice. "You weren't supposed to be involved—only Holmes—but his head is obviously harder than I thought, and it's too dangerous…. He tried to pretend he didn't know this morning, but I know it was just a bluff. This is my only chance to take care of … all this. All you need to do is take me to the right door and then I'll knock you out. I don't want to hurt you—you've been too good for Sherlock."

"Sherlock?" John was surprised. What did Sherlock have to do with this? "You know Sherlock?"

"In a manner of speaking. I knew him in Uni and I was the one who saved his life when he overdosed five years ago. His big brother was so grateful, he kept me around to keep an eye on him. It wasn't easy, either. Well, you know how demanding he is—both of them. And don't think it hasn't been useful, working for him. My father's been impressed with me for the first time in, well, ever, and there are perqs…"

"Such as?" John asked, pausing to lean against the wall, rubbing his leg. "Sorry. My leg still acts up sometimes, especially on stairs, and I left my cane back at the flat."

"You still have that?" Porter sounded surprised. "I thought you'd stopped using it a year ago."

John tried not to think about how odd this conversation was, with this oddly concerned man with a gun. He just hoped Mycroft was listening and had called the police while John stalled. "It's a PTSD thing I really have no control over. Most of the time it's fine, and then sometimes … it's not. Your gun probably isn't helping matters. But please, don't let me slow you down. Feel free to go on ahead."

"Nice try, Dr Watson, but I'll wait."

John nodded, trying to look as inoffensive as possible as he massaged his perfectly fine thigh. "You said there are perqs, working for Mycroft? I'd imagine it's helpful getting a paycheck, for one, which is more than I get for chasing after Sherlock."

The man gave a tight smile. "Yes. The company is good, too, even if Mr Holmes doesn't appreciate her properly."

He didn't seem to realize he'd slipped, thought John, who asked, "Her?"

But the man's face had shut down and he waved his gun. "You've rested long enough. Go on—quietly."

Limping, John continued up the stairs. He only knew of one woman who had lasted in Mycroft's office … though, to be fair, his knowledge of Mycroft's workplace was extremely limited. "You mean Anthea, don't you? Or, at least, that's what she told me to call her. She's never bothered to tell me her real name. I'd imagine having her around helps brighten the day, yeah?"

"When she's not with Mr Holmes, yes. We're both busy, of course, but she's so friendly." Porter's voice was fond and John couldn't help thinking they were talking about two entirely different people. Anthea had never seemed particularly friendly to him. "But then things changed."

"Oh? What things?" John asked, as they reached the top of the stairs and he hurriedly scanned the available doors, choosing to pick the one furthest down the hallway.

"Mr Holmes, of course," and now he could hear hatred in Porter's voice. "As if it weren't bad enough that he takes all her time professionally—and don't get me wrong, I understand that. I do. But when he started making advances … that's just not right."

John came to a halt, stunned. "No, that's just not possible. Mycroft would never…"

"But he did!" For a moment, Porter's focus had left John and the gun sight circled as he waved his arms. John watched, waiting his chance to dive in under his guard. "They were having an affair, and … that's just inappropriate. How could he do that? Use his power to … to make her…"

"But," John said, "He wouldn't do that. I mean, neither of them is married, so there's nothing wrong with…"

"You've never heard of sexual harassment in the workplace, Dr Watson? Of course he was forcing her. Why else would she … when I…"

"When you wanted her yourself."

#

Foggy with sleep, Mycroft answered his phone. "John? The house isn't that big, is it? You didn't need to call. John?"

Through the phone he heard a rustling noise and the sound of a muffled voice, but not John's. "It's not about money, Dr Watson. Lead the way." Mycroft knew that voice. Porter, from the office, who had stood so uncertainly in front of his desk this morning. What was he doing here?

He was on his feet now, ignoring his headache as he listened hard through the phone as he quietly padded over to his desk.

"You weren't supposed to be involved—only Holmes—but his head is obviously harder than I thought, and it's too dangerous…"

Mycroft paused, hand on the drawer handle, stunned. Porter had been the one to attack him? But why? He'd been more generous to the boy than his performance reviews warranted, due to a frankly sentimental appreciation for his efforts at looking after Sherlock both during and after University (not that Sherlock knew that). What reason could he possibly have for wanting to kill him? He was far too ineffectual to be a tempting target for enemy coercion, and surely no foreign intelligence agency would be interested in recruiting him. Or was his nervous persona merely a pose? No, Mycroft thought, he simply couldn't be that good.

His hand hovered over his alarm button, but hesitated. Was Porter on the list of people who would receive a security alert? (Damn this amnesia!) He daren't risk it, he decided, but taking a page from John's book sent a quick text alert to Sherlock, hoping his brother wasn't going to overreact, but there really wasn't any more time to consider.

He listened to the man prodding John forward with a gun and wondered where they were. He couldn't hear anything in the hallway outside his door, and … ah. John mentioned stairs. He was leading the man away from him. Why would he do that? It just put his own life at risk. But he had been an army doctor—protecting people at the risk to his own life was what he did. In fact, it probably explained a lot about how he had survived Sherlock all these months.

It was unacceptable, though. He had watched his brother laughing (laughing!) with this man, and if he let anything happen to John Watson, Sherlock would never forgive him.

It was possible he wouldn't forgive himself.

Quietly, he left the room and, listening to the voices coming from the stairs, headed toward the back of the house. He made his way through the dark kitchen to the backstairs and, mindful of the squeaks on the fourth and seventh steps, crept upstairs.

He almost dropped his own gun when he heard Porter accuse him of an inappropriate relationship with Anthea. How could … he would never do that!

True, Mycroft had lost his memory of the last five years, but he knew the kind of man he was, and he was quite sure that he had never pressed his advances without Anthea's consent and encouragement. For that matter, he wasn't sure that he had pressed anything at all. He had no memory of any of this … though that, of course, was the entire problem.

He was confident that Porter had gotten the wrong end of the stick as regards harassment, so who was to say he wasn't mistaken about all of it? That he wasn't misconstruing a perfectly proper business relationship (no matter how long the hours) because of his own jealous regard? Because, surely Mycroft would remember if … if ..

He had a sudden flash of a tumble of dark hair, a soft laugh. A whiff of Chanel Number Five.

Had he and Anthea progressed their relationship beyond the purely professional?

Had he … forced her? Pressured her, however inadvertently? He was her employer. No matter how he might have expressed himself, she still could have felt obligated …

He felt nauseated at the thought. Blindly, he put his hand out against the wall, fighting to keep his balance as he fought against the sick feeling rising up from his gut. He couldn't have … couldn't remember. Surely he valued Anthea too much as an assistant, as a person to have coerced her? He wasn't that kind of man.

But that was the problem. He knew with utter confidence that he hadn't been five years ago, but … what if he had changed? What if he had become the power-hungry kind of monster he had always hated, abusing their positions simply because they could, rather than working for Right. The kind of man Porter was accusing him of becoming?

Mycroft could hear Sherlock's voice in his head, echoing from a distance. "Just leave me alone, Mycroft! You can't control my life!

He felt his knees hit the steps as his head exploded with pain. All thought of Porter or John left him as he was swamped with a flood of memories—means of control over his little brother. Abuses of power. Bribing other children to play with him. Paying dealers to ignore him (not that they ever did, not for money, anyway). Using every resource in his power to watch him, to keep him safe, regardless of any desire his brother had for privacy, regardless of his pleas to just let him live his own life for God's sake, Mycroft.

He had a sudden memory of an empty warehouse, facing a stubborn, straight-backed doctor who resisted every coercion Mycroft could come up with. He remembered his own desperation as the conversation progressed as every intimidation tactic he had came up empty. Then like a movie fast-forwarding, there were pictures and sounds streaming through his mind—Sherlock standing with an orange blanket, Sherlock laughing with John. Images of Sherlock helping a concussed John home after the Chinese Tong case. The way they had clung together after the affair with Moriarty in the Pool, and dozens more.

He could remember … could remember … the burning jealousy at knowing his brother didn't need him anymore … the doubt that he ever had. He knew exactly how it had felt when he realized that any responsibility he had had to keep his brother safe was no longer his concern, because his brother had finally found someone his own power could not touch. A friend.

It was true, he thought, with what little part of his brain could still summon coherent thought. He had abused his power—certainly where Sherlock was concerned. This constant interference with his life might have started from the need to protect a too-vulnerable little brother, but it had escalated to a measure of control that frankly made him feel ill.

Literally, because his stomach was roiling from the pains shooting through his head. No wonder Porter wanted to kill him. He was obviously a monster. If he had treated his own brother this way … what must he have done to Anthea?

#

John walked down the hall, still trying to think of a way to get the gun away from Porter. He wondered if Mycroft had had sense enough to leave the house while he could, if he had called the police, or his minions. It would be helpful to know if he and Porter were the only ones left in the house, if help was coming, but he was determined to take care of this now, somehow, without giving the gunman a chance to go after Mycroft. He wouldn't risk walking danger to anyone's door.

So it was with a sense of horror that he heard a thump and a groan at the end of the hallway. He could see Mycroft at the top of the stairs, head pressed into the carpet. What had happened?

Without a thought to the man behind him with a gun, John ran forward. "Mycroft! What's wrong?"

Frantically, he took in the pale face, gleaming with the sheen of sweat. Unfocused eyes, staring at nothing as Mycroft's hands gripped his head, groaning softly to himself. Christ, the man was going into shock, thought John, as he ran his hands over him, trying to see if there was a wound, an injury, or … He took another look at the man's face and realized—his entire focus was internal. John knew this look—had seen it (without the shock and trauma) on Sherlock's face when he visited his Mind Palace.

Mycroft's memories were coming back.

Or so John hoped. From what he knew, the flood of returning memories could be overwhelming, even for a mind like Mycroft's. (That would account for the shock, he hoped.) Judging by the way the poor man was holding his head, reconnecting synapses was a painful ordeal, and as happy as John was to see it happening, the timing was terrible.

All this ran through his mind in seconds, and then a quiet voice behind him asked, "What's wrong with him?"

"After effect of the concussion you gave him," John said, supporting Mycroft's shoulders as the man gasped into the carpet, shuddering.

"Step aside, Dr Watson."

John looked back at Porter and his steady gun. "No."

"I don't want to hurt you, Dr Watson."

"Maybe not, but it's the only way you're going to get to him. I was an army doctor, remember? I don't let men with guns near my patients … especially when they're friends."

Mycroft stirred behind him. "Friends?" he asked weakly.

John was crouching at the top of the stairs now, shielding Mycroft with his body. He didn't turn his head back toward Mycroft, but he rested a steady hand on the man's shoulder. "Something like that, when you're not busy kidnapping me to empty warehouses. Maybe more like family, but that doesn't matter right now. I'm not stepping aside, Porter. It's not happening. Instead, why don't you tell Mycroft why you're so upset? Maybe he can explain?"

It was a risk, he knew. Maybe Mycroft's memories were as lost as ever. Maybe he wouldn't be able to get past the pain to help reason his way out of this. But stalling Porter by getting him to talk, buying the time to figure a way out of this, was the best he could do.

If worse came to worst, he would push Mycroft back down the stairs and tackle Porter himself.

"I told you, Dr Watson. He forced himself on a woman I very much admire, and that simply cannot be allowed to continue."

"If that's true, I agree with you," John said. "But not by killing him. There are better ways to handle that—wouldn't it be better to bring it to the public's attention? The papers would be scandalized, his career would be over. Wouldn't that make him suffer more?"

He refused to look down at Mycroft, but he felt the man's breaths coming quick but steady. There was no jolt of guilt at the accusation, but with the amnesia, that didn't necessarily mean anything.

"Not necessarily, Dr Watson," Porter said. "You know what kind of power he has. He would weasel out of any accusation—if he didn't block the stories in the first place. You know he would. This is the only way. Now, step aside."

John just shook his head. That was so not happening. "I can't do that. This isn't the way to handle this."

Porter's face was a mask as he gave a nod, shifted his aim, and fired.

#

Mycroft knelt at the top of the stairs, head pounding as it was flooded with five years' worth of memories. He was drowning in them, lost and floundering at the torrent of information as the contusion behind his ear burned and throbbed. He didn't remember ever feeling this kind of pain before.

And then, as he struggled to find his footing, to find his way through the images flashing behind his eyelids … a lifeline.

"Mycroft? What's wrong?"

John, he thought, feeling the warm hands on his shoulders, steadying him, anchoring him and helping him keep from being tumbled away by the rush of new (old) knowledge in his head. Dr John Hamish Watson, retired Captain, RAMC. Sherlock's flatmate and unprecedented best friend. Yes, he remembered John, and his presence reassured him even while it worried him.

Worried him? Why would … and then he heard Porter's voice, telling John to move, and Mycroft remembered why he was here—remembered that both he and John were in mortal danger.

"I don't let men with guns near my patients … especially when they're friends," John was saying, voice calm but steadfast.

Mycroft blinked, caught by the word. When had John begun thinking of him as … "Friends?" he asked. Surely that wasn't true. He really did remember now, how John seemed to suffer him merely for Sherlock's sake … and how Sherlock didn't suffer his presence at all. That memory was like a blow, that his relationship with his brother really had not improved these last five years.

But John was telling him that he was like family, and Mycroft was caught in an eddy of confusion as he pondered that. Family to him had always meant obligation and duty, not affection. He further knew how little contact John had with his sister. (Harry, short for Harriet, divorced, alcoholic, and really, it was such a relief to be able to remember these things). Did that mean he considered Mycroft an obligation, too?

Or, no, his tone of voice had been steely and determined, but there was affection there, as well, and Mycroft remembered the almost family-like bonds between Sherlock, John, and Mrs Hudson—family they'd chosen, rather than family they'd been born to. Apparently he was included in John's, and he felt incredibly touched.

He shook his head again, trying to clear it, to focus on the conversation between John and Porter. He had had no idea that Porter was attracted to Anthea. How had he missed that? What he did know, though, was that nothing inappropriate had occurred between him and Anthea. Their affection … no, love … had been … was sincere.

He started to lift his head, ready to enter into this oh-so-important conversation when Porter raised his gun and fired.

#