Skydance
Of course Mycroft wasn't silenced for long. He had freed his hands in no time, ripping off the tape and complaining straight into Sherlock's ears.
"Brother, of all the crazy feats you have endeavoured, surely thi-"
"Shutt! UPP!"
Mycroft did. Two things unsettled him (apart from the fact that he was dangling almost three hundred meters above ground in a wind swept night): his voice had a tremor in it; and Sherlock was clearly struggling to keep his footing on the slippery glass with the additional weight on his back. He could feel his brother's muscles trembling under the strain, and Sherlock bumped mercilessly into the glass several times, scraping his knees and elbows. He uttered no sound, but it must have hurt, and the pull on his shoulders had to be excruciating.
Still, for a fleeting moment Mycroft appreciated the thrill of dancing down a skyscraper, wind and rain whipping his face, the lights of London and the illuminated Shard beneath him. That is, until Sherlock slipped in earnest, and they raced down several meters, the rope hissing through his hands. Much to his embarrassement, Mycroft tensed up and clung to his brother's back like a frightened meerkat, and he almost bit off his tongue to stifle the shriek that threatened to escape his mouth.
A yell from above, and their assistants managed to stop the fall, but still, Sherlock had to bear the brunt of it. He crashed into the glass, his spine screaming under the weight – it felt as if his vertebrae and spinal cord were close to being ripped apart, and his shoulder joints threatened to come out of their sockets, tearing at the ligaments. Panting with exertion – and perhaps a bit of shock too – he remained still for a few seconds, trying to catch his breath and waiting for his heart to find a rhythm somewhere in its fluttering madness.
They still had half the way to go.
"Are you all right?" Mycroft asked quietly.
"Thank God that diet of yours works," Sherlock rasped. "A few more pounds and it would have been too much." He felt Mycroft smile, but his brother's concern was almost palpable.
"You have trouble breathing," Mycroft noted.
"I have a lot on my back!" Sherlock snapped.
"You're panting with exertion – more than you should."
"Says the man who upholds Churchill's motto no sports," Sherlock snarled.
Mycroft chose to remain silent. Something was clearly wrong with Sherlock, apart from the many other things that were wrong with him – but there was nothing he could do.
After a few moments, Sherlock seemed to regain his strength and they continued their descent. Mycroft felt his heart leap in an undignified way when he realized that the ground was much closer now and both wind and rain seemed to abate, too – they had a chance to make it down safely, he thought, and instantly his mind began plotting again, thinking up strategies and contingency plans to be put into action as soon as his feet touched the ground.
"Stop plotting, Mycroft," Sherlock hissed between clenched teeth. "It's annoying."
Mycroft opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it.
"Anyway," Sherlock continued, assessing the ground carefully, "it's all your fault. If you had believed me, we would have captured Moriarty and and the bomb would be defused by now."
Mycroft bit back a retort; instead, he asked carefully, "What about the phone? The data, the diary?"
"Not important," Sherlock brushed him off, "the data's safe. You'd have it by now, if you hadn't thwarted my plans."
"How can that be?"
"I copied the data, of course," Sherlock spat, "and sent it to you by air mail."
"But how?" Mycroft actually sounded dumbstruck. Sherlock made a mental note to relish it later. "I used a racing pigeon, of course, Mycroft. Do pay attention. I also planted a Trojan horse on the phone to track Moriarty. If I didn't have to lug you around-" he broke off abruptly, wracked by a coughing fit. He stopped their descent, giving his trembling muscles and burning lungs a break.
Mycroft shut his mouth, the question how the hell Sherlock had avoided Moriarty noticing his deception still tingling on his tongue. The straps of the harness bit painfully into his flesh and his legs and arms were so cold by now, he seemed to have lost all feeling in them. He wondered how much worse it had to be for Sherlock, and then there was this troubling cough … "You're ill," he finally realized. "Pneumonia."
"Brilliant deduction, Mycroft," Sherlock retorted scathingly. "That's what you get when you spend your time tied up in damp Russian basements with thugs pouring water down your throat."
Mycroft stopped the urge to reply That's what you get when you don't sleep, don't eat and don't take care of yourself, but it seemed rather inappropriate. He had, of course, noticed his brother's stomach problems, just like he had noticed his abhorrence to be touched. It was hardly his fault, for once.
Mycroft was busy formulating an unoffensive reply when they both noticed movement on the ground. He frowned. "What is going on?"
"Don't know," Sherlock growled, clearly not liking it. They both watched with growing concern: there were far too many cars and even more people, ant-sized and suspiciously organized, moving with purpose and apparently taking cover.
Sherlock sped up, almost running down now, and Mycroft kept his mouth shut, afraid that any sound coming out of it would be a mere squeak. He wasn't really scared of heights, but Sherlock's abseiling stunt lacked all safety measures – he hadn't planned on carrying his brother, and he himself did not bother with tedious and time-consuming precautions. Now, he simply abandoned all caution and Mycroft wondered how he had survived those three years, for this was clearly not the first time he was heading into danger regardless of the consequences.
However, a second later he knew why. Nothing, not even the ground madly rushing towards them, was as dangerous as their current position: a bullet whistled past him, ricocheting crazily on the glass.
"Damn it!" Mycroft yelled, jumping from the unexpected noise.
"Hold still!" Sherlock hissed, moving even faster.
Mycroft wondered where he took the strength from, but adrenaline apparently worked miracles.
"Who's shooting?" Sherlock bit out between strained gasps.
Mycroft looked down, trying not to shift his weight.
"Moriarty's men, I would say."
"Damn it!" Sherlock cursed, adding a few choice words he could only have picked up in Russia.
"Watch your language," Mycroft remarked mildly, "there's no need to be common."
The lack of an acid reply was deeply unsettling; it meant Sherlock was barely hanging on. Literally.
Another bullet. Even closer. His ears rang from the noise, and it seemed the shooter had only missed because Sherlock was descending faster than anticipated. Really, they were like sitting ducks – well, dangling ducks, but it was just a matter of time until they were hit.
At least, someone was trying to prevent it: there was shouting and running, sirens wailing and lights flashing – someone clearly tried to intercept the gunman, but bullets whistled past them yet again.
Mycroft braced himself mentally; he swore to himself he would not cry out when he was finally hit.
He had no plan in case Sherlock was hit.
They were close to the ground now; he fleetingly wondered how they would descend the remaining distance – the glass ended abruptly, falling away into nothingness – wasn't the building propped up on pillars on this side? Stupid architecture – and it seemed the rope was not long enough – how could it not be? Annoyed, Mycroft frowned, huffing slightly.
"I hadn't planned on going down the entire building!" Sherlock hissed angrily, sensing his brother's irritation. "Rope is heavy and cumbersome, one does not carry more than necessary!"
"Certainly," Mycroft hurried to say, "I did not mean to-aaaah!"
They were falling. Free falling – he saw the rope dancing away like a snake charmer's animal … unbelievably, the last bullet had cut right through it.
Oh Lord.
How he did it, Mycroft had no idea. But Sherlock somehow clung on to the glass, sliding down at a mad speed, breaking the fall every time they skidded over a joint gap. God, it must hurt.
Still, hitting the pavement would most likely end with broken legs, shattered ribs, possibly a fractured skull – dear God, his stomach dropped, everything became a blur of lights and noise – gunshots, some wild, some well-aimed, clearly a shootout –
He tucked in his chin, trying to avoid hitting the ground head-first, also trying to curl around Sherlock, in a mad attempt to protect his little brother. He wasn't thinking clearly, Mycroft mused …
Impact. Too soon and not as bad as feared – why? Was that the effect of the adrenaline?
He was smashed down face first, landing on Sherlock. His crazy brother had managed to twist around, taking the worst of the fall. Mycroft slammed into muscle and bone and coat and wet curls, crushing the warm body underneath.
Stunned, his ears roaring with white noise, he scrambled to his knees and unhooked himself from the harness. Oh – they were not on the ground! They had landed on the glass canopy projecting out from the building and covering the entrance; and it had undoubtedly saved their lives. The rope might actually have been long enough, it struck him. Not important. "Sherlock," he wheezed, bending over his brother and frantically searching for a pulse – there it was. He paid no attention to what was happening below, although the shouts and screeching tires were tell-tale enough: a mad flight was taking place. Not his problem right now; he needed to look after his brother, and thank God, the brilliant idiot was stirring.
Mycroft exhaled deeply. "Sherlock, how many more times do you intend to fall from a building?" he managed to drawl, but to his annoyance, he did not sound quite as admonishing as he had planned: his voice was trembling. He cleared his throat. "Perhaps until you succeed in killing yourself? Surely, there is no need – argh! What-!" He was yanked down violently, a hand closing around his throat, paralyzing him with shocking efficiency.
A bullet smashed into the glass behind him.
"Shut up and keep your head down," Sherlock growled, "unless you want to lose it!" He was abruptly released, and before he could even think of a tart reply, Sherlock was gone, silently creeping towards the edge of the glass canopy, dragging the rope with him.
And finally, Mycroft Holmes became aware of the drama unfolding at his feet.