"…Molly? …Molly, slow do- … … I'm on my way, but stay on the line with me."

Inspector Lestrade leapt up from his chair, tucking the mobile phone against his shoulder as he swung his coat on. He kept Molly's frightened voice there in his ear even as he picked up his desk phone and stabbed at the number pad, yelling into it that he needed a bomb squad at her address. He kept her talking as he rang up the boys who would know how to trace the call, set others on the task of evacuating Molly's building, and still others on finding out the last known locations of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. An after-thought made him pause, made his stomach drop a few feet, but he ignored the feeling and just rang up bomb disposal again, telling them to give the Scotland Yard building itself a good looking over. The same thought made him ring Mrs. Hudson to tell her to leave her Baker street flat until they had a chance to come check it out and make sure it was safe. He put the desk phone down and let out a breath. If this sort of thing kept up, he might have to think about emigrating.

"They're on their way, Molly. And I'm right behind them," he said as he whisked through the office. "Just stay where you are, and don't go near the building. …Yes, the evacuation is in progress. …I've got people working on it. We'll find them. Just try to stay calm-"

His phone beeped to tell him that he had a text.

"Was there anything else that you heard in the background, any ambient noises that might tell us where they were? … And you're sure you didn't recognize the woman's voice?"

It beeped again. Impulse made him pull the phone away from his face to give it half a moment's glance, but he did a double take and stared at the text alert.

"…Hang on Molly… Whoever it is, they sent us directions."

The text from Sherlock's number contained a set of GPS coordinates and a message that read:

I was going to let you try. But on second thought, I don't trust you to figure it out on your own. Here's some help. Come. But not too soon. If you approach within a mile before I tell you that you may, I will remotely detonate the 10 other explosives I have planted in various densely populated areas. I will provide you with the coordinates of 3 of them as a sample of the damage I am prepared to do.

Another three sets of GPS coordinates came through.

Based on the observations I've made of these places, taking into account the weather and time of day, I estimate that I would end the lives of 260-340 people. Maybe up to 375 or so if I was very lucky and the school transport happened to be passing by. Please wait for my text.

A smiley face emoji beamed up at Lestrade.

~ — ~

Mycroft leaned lightly on the doorframe with his arms crossed and watched his brother suffer. His posture and his frown were outwardly disdainful. Perhaps a touch disappointed. He didn't offer any help or comfort. That was John Watson's area, and he was already making the attempt as Mycroft watched. A last pang of bitterness squeezed at him as he saw Sherlock respond, saw his pain ease, and was reminded again that cleverness wasn't always the best skill for the job.

It wasn't that he didn't want to. He wanted to every time. Even the times when he truly was disdainful. When Sherlock flew himself too closely to the fire on Icarus wings and tumbled down into withdrawal. Even then, when Mycroft had to watch the cycle of self-destruction, he wanted to give Sherlock comfort. But what comfort was there to give? Mycroft had always been there to tend to the pains of the body, but he didn't know any cures for the heart. If he did, he would use them himself. All he understood were the preventative measures. And those he schooled his brother in tirelessly.

Or at least he had tried. For all the good that it had done him. Sherlock didn't listen at all. He formed attachments left and right.

He watched as Watson took his brother's hand and hoisted him up. The bitterness flared, and he held it for a long moment, felt the envy like bile in his gut, was aware of self preservation rearing it's head and spurring him to do something, anything, to change the probability of Sherlock's choice… And then he let it trickle away with a slow exhale of breath. Sherlock's choice had been made ages ago, when Mycroft wasn't paying close enough attention. There was nothing he could do to change it now. And if he was going to be honest with himself, which he feared he must at this stage, it was probably the right choice. For Sherlock, anyway. The country itself would suffer his loss terribly. But if the honesty was forced to continue, the country never really had come before Sherlock in Mycroft's thoughts.

Mycroft wouldn't be there to protect Sherlock anymore. To shepherd him away from the potential for pain. But maybe that had been his mistake all along. He really was a colossal idiot.

Redbeard. He might have torn down Sherlock's fantasy, there at the beginning. Forced him to cope some other way. But in the face of Sherlock's pain, he'd chosen instead to help him nurture the fantasy, and bought him a dog bowl and a leash with his earnings. Mycroft set his brother on a path that led him away from forming any such attachments ever again, and reminded him at every chance he got that they were different from other people.

Well. There was no sense regretting it now.

Mycroft unfolded his arms and pushed off from the wall, turning to lead the way into the next cell. Glancing around, he perceived the lack of props, and concluded that the time had in fact come. He cast a glance at the pistol in Sherlock's hand. It would be quick, at least. But he did wish that it didn't have to be Sherlock. Though that was the whole point, he supposed.

He had brought Sherlock here himself.

What a moron he had been.

"Hey, sis, don't mean to complain, but this one's empty." Think, Sherlock. She's given you every clue that this was coming. "What happened, did you run out of ideas?" You know, even if you don't want to admit it.

"It's not empty, Sherlock. You've still got the gun, haven't you?"

Mycroft let his breath out through his nose in long sigh, and tried to swallow down the fear that had crept up from his gut. It was no wonder that the ancient Greeks and Hebrews regarded the bowels rather than the heart as the seat of certain emotions, he thought.

"I told you you'd need it, because only two can play the next game."

If Sherlock chose his mark, it would in all probability be the head. Which would be a shame considering the value that his brain posed to research, but would also mean that death should be blissfully instantaneous. He had faith that Sherlock knew where the best kill shot to the brain would be. He really would have made a magnificent murderer if he hadn't dedicated himself to more wholesome occupations.

"Just two of you go on from here, your choice. It's make-your-mind-up time."

It was possible, he admitted, that he might choose the heart instead, possibly as a last metaphorical jab at him. Mycroft supposed that that would be his own preference, since it would preserve the brain matter, but it meant a higher probability of physical pain. Unless he was a very good shot. Mycroft thought of the bullet holes through the eyes of the smiley face on wall at 221B, and decided that Sherlock was capable. So, accounting for the caliber of the bullet and allowing a small window for miscalculation due to anxiety, potentially five or so seconds of pain before adrenaline compensated, and probably ten full seconds of consciousness altogether before shock took hold. Not instantaneous, but not too terrible.

"Who's help do you need the most: John, or Mycroft?"

Mycroft picked up John's movement in his peripheral. He looked up from his thoughts to make eye contact with his rival across the room. In a last second fit of survival instinct, his mind rebelled, defiant in the knowledge that he was cleverest and so would always be the most helpful. Somewhere deep in his heart there kindled a last tiny candle-flame of hope that Sherlock might do something unexpected.

"It's an elimination round. You choose one and kill the other."

Sherlock looked at John Watson first.

Danger always exposed people's true priorities. Mycroft let his eyes drop and passed a hand over his face as he came to grips with the inevitability at hand. He was surprised, there at the end, how peaceful he actually felt, once hope truly died and he was sure of the outcome. He forgave Sherlock easily. Much more easily than he'd expected to.

"You have to choose, family or friend. Mycroft or John Watson."

It was time for a performance.

"Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick- "

"Eurus, enough."

"Not yet, I think. But nearly."

Eurus focused on their faces so intently that she wasn't aware of her lips parting, and the hungry look in her eyes was broadcast plainly onto the screens that surrounded them on thee sides. Brother Mycroft was being unexpected again. He was saying the things that he was expected to say, but surprisingly he didn't mean them. And Sherlock… Sherlock wasn't displaying anger at all the way she had anticipated, only pain. A new kind of pain. The seventh variety at least that she'd observed within the confines of this experiment. Pain was such a broad term for such a florid response, she thought; there should be many more quantitative terms.

Even John Watson drew her eye, making her marvel at his ability to disregard the chemical impulses to fight that must have been sparking through his brain. He simply gave in to reason, and at the most unexpected time. How terribly interesting. To struggle so hard before with counter intuitive morals at no risk, and then to stand there in the shadow of a gun and dismiss the strongest animal instinct written into his DNA…

"…You shame us all. You shame the family name."

Eurus spared a moment's glance at Mycroft's face before turning her eyes back to Sherlock.

"Now for once in your life, do the right thing. Put this stupid little man out of all our misery. Shoot him!"

Mycroft hissed the last, and Eurus thought it rather too obvious. But it was difficult to focus on that because Sherlock was flinching away from the words, physically turning his face away. It was a subset of revulsion, she thought.

"Stop it," Sherlock said quietly.

"Look at him, what is he? Nothing more than a distraction, a little scrap of ordinariness for you to impress, to dazzle with your cleverness. You'll find another."

"Please, for God's sake, just stop it."

Something in Sherlock's tone of voice made Eurus's breath catch.

"Why?"

Her face pressed closer as Sherlock turned, head cocked with animal interest, and pinpointed the moment when her brothers acknowledged to each other what was about to happen. When Sherlock spoke, he sounded tired.

"Because, on balance, even your Lady Bracknell was more convincing."

Mycroft straightened with a self conscious little shuffle of his feet while Sherlock turned his head to look at John Watson.

"Ignore everything he just said, he's being kind. He's trying to make it easy for me to kill him."

Mycroft made a feeble effort to mask his embarrassment by scratching at an unfelt itch at his temple, his grin as he looked up at his little brother plainly sheepish.

"…which is why this going to be so much harder."

It was so inexplicably difficult to breath that it felt to Eurus as if the space containing her lungs had shrunk. There was a hoped for outcome, of course. Logic abhorred hope, but it forced itself on her all the same, now and then. Still, she had never been sure which it would be until Sherlock actually leveled the gun at his brother.

"…You said you liked my Lady Bracknell," Mycroft said, still grinning, and sounding just the tiniest bit hurt.

Watson moved to intervene. "Sherlock, don't."

"It's not your decision, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said, truly shutting him out this time, his tone a warning not to intrude on what was solely his and his brother's. Seeing in his face that John would respect that, he turned back to Sherlock and added, "Not in the face, though, please. I've promised my brain to the Royal Society."

"Where would you suggest?" Sherlock asked with difficulty.

"Well," Mycroft said, taking a moment to button his collar and meticulously straighten his tie, "I suppose there is a heart, somewhere inside me. I don't imagine it's much of a target…" The corners of Sherlock's lips lifted in a tremulous smile. "…but, why don't we try for that." Mycroft straightened his posture and faced his brother squarely with a smile that seemed strong and sure.

John Watson intruded between them again, apparently unable to help himself. "I won't allow this."

A look of annoyance flashed over Mycroft's face, but it faded quickly. As did his determined countenance. He relaxed his posture, seeming to diminish, as he admitted to them both, "This is my fault." His eyes locked with Sherlock, knowing that only he would truly understand the scope of his folly. "Moriarty."

"Moriarty?" Sherlock probed.

"Her Christmas treat. Five minutes conversation with Jim Moriarty, five years ago."

"What did they discuss…?"

"Five minutes conversation…" Mycroft watched the realization of his mistake spread over Sherlock's face, and was so deeply ashamed of his own stupidity that he dropped his gaze. "…unsupervised."