DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN SHERLOCK

He was in a nightmare. There were no other words that came to him. It would felt frustrating to have to have to resort to such a mundane singular word but frustration at having his though processes stripped from him had long gone. There was only the crisp, numbing clarity of fear. And yes, he did not have time to think about how contradictory the former statement was. He was done. It was over. It had been over when he had to watch Sherlock die for the fourth time while all his attempts to save him had been futile. The story of his life played out in more horrific ways every time it started. He failed to save Sherlock.

He was lying on his back now. His body was one conglomeration of agony; from the shredded soles of his feet to his almost skinless arms. There was nothing of the Mycroft Holmes that had occupied a small position of the British Government. From the corner of his vision someone squatted next to him.

"This is a fine mess Mycroft," a familiar voice said. Mycroft didn't even bother to turn his head.

"I know," he said, his words dull and final.

"What are we going to do about it?" the voice asked. Mycroft did turn his head to gaze at the impeccably dressed Mycroft Holmes that sat on his haunches beside him while leaning heavily on his umbrella.

"There is nothing we can do," Mycroft said to the Mycroft-in-his-head, "It's over. I can't think, therefore I am useless. And I failed to save Sherlock again today; that would make it twenty times I have attempted."

"You know that was just illusions right?" Mycroft-in-his-head said, with an exasperated sigh. That tone would have worked to rile him up but it did not.

"I know," Mycroft replied with something akin to a sob in his voice, "Even in my illusions I fail. If I can't succeed in falsehood how can I hope to succeed in reality?" He turned away from the figment of his imagination.

"Sherlock needs you," Mycroft-in-his-head insisted.

"Sherlock needs someone who can help him when he needs it and when he thinks he doesn't need it but does," Mycroft said, the words flowing from his mouth easily. Goodness knows how many times he had repeated those words to himself as he watched Sherlock pick and choose companions throughout his short violent life and thankfully survived all of them long enough to find John Watson. "That is what John Watson is there for. He doesn't need me; he has John to watch over him." He glared at the Mycroft-in-his-head to send home his point.

The Mycroft-in-his-head sighed and twisted the umbrella in his hand. The figment of his imagination had fixed him with such a look of disappointment, disgust and exasperation that Mycroft colored under it. 'So this is how Sherlock feels when I give him that look, I can understand now,' Mycroft thought. He smiled a little realizing just how far he had gone mentally that he was being brow beaten by a hallucination of himself as he was in his early days. Days before the nightmare. The Look and the Blushing went on for some time till Mycroft sighed.

"What is it?" he asked a ghost of his former impatience slipping in.

"And who will protect John Watson?" Mycroft-in-his-head asked. Mycroft frowned at him. Mycroft in his head tilted its head and raised an eyebrow. It felt a bit disconcerting to be at the receiving end of his own facial reactions.

"What is it that you want me to do?" Mycroft asked the Mycroft-in-his-head. Just then there was a sound of metal against concrete and a cheerful voice echoed in the tiny room that Mycroft was in.

"Are we all done up and rested Mr. Holmes? Are we ready to try and save Sherlock again?"

"What is it that you want me to do?" Mycroft asked his figment again, this time the desperation to know the answer made his voice hoarse.

"Do what needs to be done," Mycroft-in-his-head answered as he got up and dusted off his pants, "No matter what it is. Do what needs to be done." There was a pause as the man belonging to the voice grew nearer.

"And stop feeling sorry for yourself Mycroft. It is unbecoming of a Holmes," his figment said.

"You do know what you are asking me to do will open at least four of the ten serious wounds I have and give me a 87% chance of getting at least six more," Mycroft said to him.

"And how could you calculate those odds?" Mycroft-in-his-head asked as the hallucination's voice and image faded away, "If you weren't thinking?"

A kick to his side sent a wave of pain through Mycroft. He felt a bit surprised since he didn't think he was able to feel any more pain than what he was already feeling. He groaned and tried to roll away. Laughter rang in his ears and then arm grasped his own and yanked him back and up. He groaned again as the swollen soles of his feet made contact with the floor. He felt scabbed over cuts break with hot sensations of pain and knew from the slick feeling under his feet was his blood. The places where the rough hands gripped him also burned and he could almost feel his newly formed skin threatening to tear away. The man who spoke loomed in front of him. He could not see with his left eye, that had swollen shut and the swelling had not gone down. His right eye was just swollen slightly but he could not see well peripherally.

"Well, well, Mr. Holmes," the man said, "I am surprised that you are still alive. But we hope to rectify that today. Today there is only one way to save Sherlock and that is with the ultimate gift." The man paused and thrust his face close to Mycroft's, "That gift will be your life. Remember that."

'Do what needs to be done.' The words of Mycroft-in-his-head came back to him. 'How could you calculate those odds if you were not thinking?' Mycroft bit back a sob. What a time to realize this.

"Bring him," the man said and the men on either side of him began dragging Mycroft along.

'Think, Think,' Mycroft chanted to himself while trying to ignore the way his body shuddered as he was moved. They finally stopped when they had ushered him into the nightmare room. There was a tray on the floor with some knives, a crowbar and hammer. He shuddered again but this time at the thought of what they expected him to do to himself with those objects.

'Do what needs to be done.'

All the years of allowing Sherlock to take the risks. All those years of watching him put himself in danger to protect the ones he loved. All those years of watching from complete safety as his baby brother got shot, cut, bruised and beaten.

The men held him still as the other approached him with a syringe. There was a tiny prick of pain as the needle entered him. He knew what was to follow; his body would start to feel numb and when he tried to move his limbs would betray him causing him to lurch and fall over from attempting even the smallest movements. Then the whispers would begin and would fuel the hallucinations to follow. He needed to time this perfectly. He would do what needed to be done.

"Release him," the man with the syringe said as he pulled away. Mycroft dropped into his hands, wincing a bit. His limbs were already going numb and his vision was blurring.

"You failed all the other times to save your brother," the whispered began, "you have just one more chance Mycroft. Don't fail him this time."

The room began to warp and recede from him. He forced it to stop. Now it felt like he was a room that was like an elongated rectangle; the walls all stretched out and crooked. He crawled his way over to the tray. He would not fail Sherlock this time. No matter what. HE would do what needed to be done.

"That's it," the whispering continued, "Pick them up. Hold them close. You have to save Sherlock. You have to stop him from killing Sherlock."

Mycroft felt the lethargy in his limbs increase as he forced himself to grip the handles of the knife and crowbar. He took several deep breaths trying to clear the fuzzy feeling on his brain. It was almost time. All he needed to do was to get a layout of his surroundings. He tried to get up and found himself lurching to the side. He held back the frustration and fear that wanted to rush in again. He fell onto one elbow and took a slow pan of his warped room. He waited for the whispers to come again.

"Get ready Mycroft," the whispered said and he was ready. He ignored the sensation that the whispered were coming from everywhere. He needed just one more thing to happen. He gripped the crowbar and the knife.

'Do what needs to be done.'

"Look," the whispered said and a long shadowing figure like a distorted arm drifted along the warped walls. Mycroft choked back a sob and lurched to his feet. The pain helped to clear his mind for one second. He saw the three men standing in the corner of the room and one of them had their arm outstretched. Then as the drug began to cloud his mind again, Mycroft Holmes hefted the crowbar and knife. And with a scream that sounded nothing like himself; launched towards the men to do what needed to be done.