*Eyepatch in the Suit*

by: Whitegloves

a/n: We're almost there. I feel for Mycroft in this chapter!

Enjoy the story! :)

7. Abandon Ship

Mycroft stared at the broken pieces of what was once a mobile phone down the ground with his jaw set, his eyes levelled and his expression unreadable. Around him, the pirate kingpin, Garlack was seated on his throne with one knee up, his one arm resting on it while he chewed on khat. The amount of disagreement and anger was visible on his face. From where he stood, Mycroft could see his dirty knuckles smudged with blood.

From where he stood also, he could see the struggle that had happened between his brother and the pirate leader as if he was there when it happened. The broken bowl on the floor, the fruits it contained still lying around, the traces of disturbance on sand in areas of the room that no feet had business dawdling at—and then the traces of dried blood as blotted marks on the floor. Mycroft saw everything till his eyes fell on the broken pieces of the mobile again, his mind replicating that of his younger brother to have his questions answered.

Why destroy it?

It contained important information. Answered his brother.

Why destroy it?

The very information you are looking for are there.

Be reasonable. Why destroy it?

…

Mycroft gritted his teeth as he diverted his eyes to Garlack, half his mind still waiting for Sherlock to respond. His brother was really one to make chaos out of a trifle, but he was never one to be reckless at critical time. The only time he would, and the only time Mycroft couldn't get a reasonable answer from him was when his brother allowed his emotion to cloud his judgement. His mental state would always be unpredictable whenever it happens which makes it difficult even for the older Holmes to foresee his next move. Therefore, Mycroft does believe the only explanation for such a behavior was because Sherlock got driven by his emotional rage judging also by the damage on the phone. He couldn't help recalling his brother smashing an empty coffin back in Sherrinford with his bare hands only because his fragile heart was played at. Sherlock was angry then and Sherlock was angry now. But why?

Of course, if it was about his brother's heart, Mycroft had no device to understand it. It was something Mycroft could never calculate that's why he hated the randomicity of an active heart. But what could be so dangerous, so alarming that got Sherlock risking everything? Typically, if they were in London, Mycroft's first impression was because someone from 221B got involved. Sherlock is and will always will be protective of his turf whether it means throwing American CIA operatives off his window or cornering suspected assassins in Morocco. This time however, they were out of the country with the only information worth risking lives for was the Davy Jones file connecting to Eurus. Did Sherlock find something that could risk Eurus' life? It was plausible.

Yet he would never praise his brother for it.

Mycroft blinked slowly and sighed. With his brother drugged and tortured, it would only mean he had to make sure none of the enemies come any closer when he was in withdrawal from the drug. He knew his younger brother better than anyone when it comes to his drug abuse and well equipped to deal with them. All he had to do was to make sure none of them, especially the man who just came in, intercepts, else Mycroft was afraid it would turn more out of hand.

Jones whistled as he came in and saw the mobile phone on the ground.

"What's with all these people getting their hands itchy when they see mobiles?"

Mycroft felt the man's eyes turn to him but he kept his silence. Garlack grunted and spat his red khat leaves on the ground with beady eyes darker than ever.

"Kill him."

Mycroft's eyes widened and hastened to make amends. In quick Somali tongue, he reiterated, "He's a hostage. Kill him and you're sealing death among your men."

Garlack's eyes fell on Mycroft and the older Holmes looked back undaunted at those murderous orbs.

"You said it happened while you were calling the German negotiator. It is possible he didn't want any contact home." He continued coldly in English this time, "If he was in anyway a spy, why would he destroy an evidence that must've contained a list of people on your contact that could provide high intel to whoever his working for? If he is working for anyone, that is." Eyebrows raising, Mycroft was able to add a nonchalant expression as he went on, "Well, clearly this is the work of an amateur whose first impulse is to contradict his captor out of sheer stubbornness. You saw him," he turned to Jones with deadpan eyes, "you even said he isn't your regular captive. Surely, he isn't one to bend at the will of others?"

"I can make sure he will." Jones replied with a smile at Mycroft.

Mycroft never doubted that as he turned to Garlack again. "He's under the influence of drug… I can make him talk."

A heavy hand then clamped on Mycroft's right shoulder and squeezed it tight which made him grit his teeth again. Jones suddenly made a pull at him till they were standing next to each other. He always hated the sudden moves of the American.

"Why would you be doing that?" Jones asked, rather sarcastically next to him, "That's my expertise— we don't want your pretty hands to do the dirty work, yeah? You couldn't even hurt a fly."

Mycroft pulled his shoulder away from the American's grasp and gave him a narrowed look.

"There is some torture that require no physical contact."

Jones seemed surprised for a moment at the fearsome atmosphere surrounding the translator and had fallen silent while Garlack called his attention.

"They beat him good." The kingpin raised his fist and showed the scraped skin on his knuckle with an evil grin. "No need more damage but make him talk. Drug him again and if he a spy..." His eyes fell on Mycroft suddenly that was meant to chill the bone but the older Holmes had gotten used to his menace it only made him press his lips. "Pull his tongue if he don't talk."

Not if I can help it. Mycroft answered as he watched the kingpin spat on the ground again, this time on his mobile.

"How long has he been drugged?" Jones seemed to have found his voice as he stood a little behind Mycroft.

"Three hours."

"That should good enough."

"We cannot make any broadcast for ransom if the hostage looks damaged on video." Mycroft interjected because make no mistake, he saw the mischievous twinkle appear on the American's eyes.

"So, did you lose any important files?" Jones went on to Garlack who gave him a grumpy look.

"Not your business."

"I was just asking." Grinned the American as he looked down the mobile again, "You aren't the only one whose phone got targeted, you know. And if you ask me this has something to do with Antarctica again. He wants to find something that's for sure. On mobiles and emails."

"Sure, and smashing mobiles will help a lot." Mycroft offered sardonically and eyes fell on him, "In any case, we were able to finalize the business in Balhaf. Duualey agreed with the proposition, the same with Mohammad Abdu. It shall happen the day after tomorrow."

At that, the kingpin's eyes glinted and a smile touched the corner of his lips.

"We go to sea in two days. Deal with German now."

Mycroft straightened a little and sighed inwardly. In two days' time the pirate meeting in the middle of the Gulf of Aden will transpire. It was something he had in mind ever since he received the report of his spy who died in front of his eyes. The pirates and terrorists from Middle-East will conspire, it said. And he had worked on that knowledge from the moment they went out of Somalia to Aden and communicated with his men. It was finally happening.

It was a do-or-die deal if ever he never managed to get his hands on the keycodes. It could be the time Jones was waiting for to sell the keycodes—for he had never mentioned it to Garlack it seemed.

But first…

Mycroft turned to the door and thought Jones was behind him, only to hear Garlack call the American back. The older Holmes would have wanted to listen but his feet had led him out, and though ordinarily, he hated brisk walking, he was almost running towards where Sherlock was held captive and found his brother's tormentors outside, sitting huddled together under the moonlight with their bloody hands and chewing khat. Mycroft paid them no more heed and none of them stopped him from entering the shack.

The room was semi-dark with only a candle lit by the table when Mycroft came in; he saw his brother's outline sprawled on the floor sideways on the corner as lifeless as an object. Without missing a beat, Mycroft strode towards him and knelt on the ground. Grabbing his brother by the shoulder he turned him so that he was facing him. Sherlock's body was warm and thick on his touch: blood and sweat had mixed together all over his throbbing body and Mycroft did not doubt he was in pain. But there were other threats to come, so grabbing his brother by the neck and cheek, he tried to rouse him.

"Sherlock," he commanded in a firm tone, "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

There was no response so Mycroft tried again with time ticking in his ears. "Sherlock!" he shook the younger Holmes' shoulder vigorously, "Sherlock, come to your senses, you're in danger, you idiot!"

As if the last words were magic words, the consulting detective's eyes fluttered open behind his dark messy hair that eased the heaviness Mycroft was feeling that very second, but his jaw was still set. He watched as his brother's eyes rolled uncontrollably on its sockets so he made the man face him, their nose almost touching and held on to his cheek steadily.

"Sherlock," he hissed with some urgency, willing his eyes to see and to focus which his brother was obstinately not doing, "Listen to my voice, it's me. If you don't get a grip you'll die—Sherlock!"

It took another second for Sherlock's pupils to find the face in front of him. Visible red was now around his eyes and so glad was Mycroft his brother showed no sign of blindness as it settled on him.

"Can you hear me?" he hissed again.

The mouth opened and mumbled something incoherent. Mycroft frowned and would have slapped the man into recognition when he heard him finally breathe out his words.

"G…give me…" it whispered.

Mycroft blinked, "Sherlock, listen—I know you can still understand me. Your tolerance to drugs isn't as light as you claim it—you were always the drama queen, now stop it."

"Give…"

Mycroft blinked several times again, and then looked behind him towards the doorway where he could hear people talking. Was Jones outside already? His mind racing, Mycroft turned to his younger brother again and tapped on his cheek several times.

"Dammit, Sherlock, listen!"

"Give me… more…"

Mycroft's eyes widened.

"Sherlock—"

"I need more! Give me some! Khat!"

That very one word rattled Mycroft and for brief seconds he didn't know what to do next. The hold of the drug on his younger brother was unexpected— he thought Sherlock would still be on his senses knowing his dosage would render him most active—but then he remembered Sherlock would always use on controlled dosage. Just how many did they give him? Looking around with a little bit of panic in his eyes but his lips firm, he clutched his brother's wrist and found his pulse most erratic and had to clench his teeth.

"Sherlock!" he turned to his brother quickly, both hands now encircling his younger brother's face. "Wake up! This isn't the time to be fooling around!"

At that moment, he heard Jones' voice outside talking to the guards. Mycroft blinked again and then slowly shut his eyes close. He could not fathom the effects of the drugs to a user like his brother. But if his worst fear had come true, Sherlock may not even be listening to him as he lusted after the chemical. Yet…

He leaned on his brother's ear as he decided the next course to take if his brother ever betrayed him.

"Sherlock…" he breathed heavily, "come to your senses…" he paused as the footsteps outside began to get closer and his mind vowed to make sure they would not get anything from him. Then to his brother he whispered one last time.

"Sherlock, I need your help. Please."

"Hey," Jones had come in the room the exact moment Mycroft was standing with eyes only on his brother's figure. "Is he awake now?"

"Not quite." Mycroft responded shortly and from the corner of his eyes he saw that Jones was carrying a bucket of water. But it wasn't just—his quick eyes saw the steam from it—

"Good." Jones said and without warning, he threw the contents to the unmoving form on the ground—hot and steaming it was—and Sherlock Holmes felt the sting on his skin which made him bolt into a corner with an angry roar. But he only got a glassful of hot splash on his shoulder—for there in front of him standing erect as a wall was Mycroft who had foresaw the action and had deliberately stood in between them—his whole body catching the boiling water that it smoked from it.

Even Jones was flabbergasted.

"What are you doing?" he asked in disbelief.

"I could ask you the same." Mycroft clenched his teeth at the pain across his right arm for his desert cloak protected the rest of him—it was thick added with the bundles of other garments under it for he was one uncomfortable to wear only two pieces. It was his arm that got the full score of the hot water and it now felt hot and raw. He usually never… he never allowed his reflex get the best of him. But just now with a helpless younger brother behind him, he couldn't possibly ignore it… Even his brain had decided that so.

It was painful…

He held Jones' eyes with a glare he could muster as he continued, "We only need the ransom from this person—there's no necessity to harm him further. If you want to ask him—ask him while he's under the influence. Adding damage to him is rather inhuman at this point."

Jones' eyes glinted as he stood straight, eyes fixated at the translator.

Mycroft didn't budge an inch, his eyes squaring with the American. He lowered his arm beside him, the redness and soreness creeping deep on his skin and he was sure it would be much painful later if he doesn't soak it in cold water soon but he held his ground.

"Inhuman?" Jones chuckled, his hands on both his waist, "What?" When Mycroft didn't respond, the American shook his head, still smiling, "I get it, I get it—I get where you're coming from. Does this remind you of the Hungarian spy?"

Mycroft gave no visible expression. This seemed to taunt Jones but he shook his head instead.

"You're rather strange." He said as he walked toward Mycroft, his eyes becoming dark suddenly, "One second you never cared who dies in front of you, the next you're like a dog barking at his master's attacker. Get out of the way, your beloved German's awake."

Mycroft blinked, and then looked behind him. Sure enough, his younger brother had propelled himself on the room's wall with his head bowed and a hand on his shoulder that got caught by the boiling water. Had the water catch him full in the body, his younger brother would have lost his skin and be in extreme pain as half his body was already exposed. Mycroft clutched his raw and burning fist and told himself it was a good decision that he intervened.

Jones pushed pass Mycroft this time and recklessly took the man from the floor with his large hand covering Sherlock's throat. The American pushed him up and nearly lifted him, making Mycroft aware of how strong the ex-Blackwater mercenary was.

Sherlock choked, his unruly hair covering his sweaty face. Jones observed his features and seemed satisfied.

"This should be easy. His carnal desire's been awoken. Hey, you see this?" Jones took something from his pocket and Mycroft saw him raise a syringe. Eyes flickering, Mycroft saw Sherlock's dark eyes found and reflect the syringe. Hunger was visible on his younger brother's face and all the British Government Head could do was look down the ground and consider his options.

To die.

But that would not be without pain. He closed his eyes and then opened them as he looked at the floor. They would not get anything from him. And should Sherlock….

"Give me…" Sherlock's hoarse voice resonated from his thick throat and even managed to raise his shaking hand towards the object. Mycroft bit his lips with his forehead creasing. Sherlock wanted the drug more than ever.

"You want this?" Jones shook the syringe in Sherlock's face, and then pulled it away, his eyes severe. "Then tell me who you are? Are you a spy?"

Sherlock's pupils rolled back a second, but then his eyes focused on Jones and there was hatred there for not receiving his due need. "Give me…"

"I won't give anything to you until you give me what I want. It's a simple trade see? Hurry up before I pull your eyes out. Who are you?"

Sherlock chocked again and his eyes was just about to lose focus when it saw someone standing past the man holding him. Mycroft saw Sherlock's eyes locked with his own, before it rolled back again in his head.

"He can't answer you if you're choking him." Mycroft interjected, "Be reasonable."

Jones didn't make any move for a second, and then he let the captive fall under his grasp and Sherlock dropped on the floor choking his heart out. In a few strides, however, the American had brought his feet in front of Mycroft with a devilish glare on his face as he grasped the older Holmes by the collar and pulled him gruffly.

"I'd kill him if I want to if it is reasonable or not, I'll decide! So back off now before I do anything to you you'll regret."

Mycroft held his breath, knowing the threat was sound and confirming what a psychopath with penchant for harming others the American really was, but before he could respond, another voice spoke that made the two men stare at each other, before turning to the person on the floor. It was Sherlock.

"Reporter…" he wheezed as he looked at them with unfocused eyes, his mouth slavering, one of his hand raised as it clutched in the air and seemingly waiting for someone to give him something, "Khat… give me more… I'm…reporter… please…"

Jones left Mycroft alone and knelt in front of the captive.

"Reporter, are you?" he asked rather unconvinced, then showing the syringe again, he continued, "I know when you're lying. Are you a reporter or not?"

Sherlock's eyes were only focused on the syringe, "Give me more…"

"Why did you destroy the mobile phone?"

Sherlock seemed to muster his memory as he blinked several times, obviously in haze, but his response nearly let Mycroft sigh in relief. "No call… no money… useless…"

Jones stared at his captive with a disagreeable expression.

"You heard him." Mycroft had stepped forward now, aware that another step would make him one good distance from being choked as well. It seemed Jones had settled his mind on having a prey tonight for torture, and now that he wasn't having it, he was quite disappointed. Obvious sign of a psychopath. He had to get Sherlock out of his target lock now. "Under the influence of the drug, no man should be lying… the last one told you he was a spy even."

The American did not move and Mycroft became a little worried at how little self-control the man had over his animal instinct. He wanted to kill, he wanted to harm people and that satisfies him. Jones was a bigger threat to them than Garlack will ever be and this worried him.

But Jones did stand up after a few minutes' hesitation, and when he did, he stopped in front of Mycroft. The older Holmes held his ground as he saw the look on the man's face. The devil was in front of him. The American had a streak resembling to one as he walked over to Mycroft and gave him a heavy tap on the chest that had the older Holmes stepping backwards and coughing at the force.

And then he was gone from the room.

Mycroft remained immobile for a while with a sweat drop falling on the side of his head. The next thing he had gone to his younger brother who was still by the wall and when he got to him, his eyes widened at what he saw.

The syringe was sticking out of Sherlock's arms. Jones had stabbed it to him before he stood up.

With face contorting defeatedly, Mycroft reached for his brother's limp shoulder and let out a heavy sigh.

This would be another long night.

Mycroft would be lying if he said this was his first-time nursing Sherlock to life when he was so disabled after a dosage of his addiction. It started when his younger brother had reached the age of twenty. A rebellious phase. Those times when Mycroft couldn't spend all his time watching over the younger brother who was once so reliant to him after the grim childhood. It wasn't that Sherlock forgot how to care after forgetting Eurus and Redbeard, no. Mycroft had to cover little of his part in the story when he confessed to the 221B residence of their sister's existence and Sherlock's mental state. The truth was, his brother had always heavily relied on him, and relied on him even after he altered his memory.

And Mycroft never ceased to show Sherlock the right way and the proper way using the strength of his mind. If he could not help his brother emotionally, then at least, he will make his brother in par with his intellect. Never let your judgment be impaired with your emotions, he would always say to the young one.

Gradually, his younger brother learned to cope with him. They were always together and the ship that was once shared with Redbeard and was left empty when he disappeared was once again filled with hope. Yet something bothered Mycroft for a loyal follower Sherlock was, he could never live in the shadows of his older brother. He believed Sherlock was meant for greater things and sheltering him from harm, growing even, was an older brother's mistake.

He would not underestimate Sherlock.

Which is why Mycroft had to do something otherwise his younger brother would not be able to stand on his own feet. He began drifting away. He began leaving him. Abandoned their ship. For Sherlock's sake.

His failure, however, was to see Sherlock's response to his kindness. Sherlock began to resent him. It was not the battle of the minds nor the slate of scores against each other as Doctor Watson once suggested. It was more on personal level.

Of Sherlock begrudging the sudden independence that was given to him.

Sherlock thought he was abandoned and thus began seeking way to get attention. Wreaking havoc in the city, trying his best to raise alarm while knowing his older brother was always watching from the distance. Mycroft knew that. But his mistake remained to this day was inability to see Sherlock's depression even though he knew from the past of his brother's trauma. Sherlock began using drugs.

It was a mistake Mycroft will always blame himself for. And he was there the first time Sherlock fell on the drug's clutches. And he was always there every time Sherlock needed someone to pull him up to the surface. Mycroft made it his life's mission to save Sherlock since then. Even made his younger brother, under verbal disagreement to make a list. Sherlock never agreed but eventually he did. Because Mycroft won't leave him alone, not even at the risk of his own life.

Because Sherlock, when high, was capable of anything harmful.

With this in mind, Mycroft remained in the room that night, in silent vigil while Sherlock lied on the floor, flexing in agony before him. It had been four hours since he was injected with the drugs and he was feeling the full power of it.

Mycroft had cleaned him up with a fresh water and cloth, his skin no longer had any stains of red though his raw and bluish wounds remained burning. His clothes had been changed too, but the way he was rolling on the floor under the influence of drugs, his clothes would soon be spoiled; while Mycroft's own burnt arm had been wrapped neatly with damp towel. Mycroft had been there beside Sherlock, seated quietly as he watched over his younger brother.

And no, it was not a new sight to him.

But it would always cause him sadness every time it happened, that all he could do was to clutch his hands and wait for the effects to subside, reprimand his brother once he was sober and get into argument. That was their cycle.

He now watched Sherlock clutch his clothes as he recoiled, heard him breath rapidly and murmur names he knew meant something deadly to those who don't know. Moriarty too was mentioned. But no more Redbeard. Above everything, this was the name Mycroft would always hear.

But no more Redbeard.

The list went on and Mycroft was unsurprised to hear his name more than twice. But he waited and watched patiently with a clean glass of water whenever his brother would choke on his own saliva or when his brother felt much dried. The rest of the night was full of his younger brother's groans and Mycroft never tire of looking after him.

The only times Mycroft stood up was when he had to replace the candle light and when heard commotion outside. Hours had passed again and it was the break of dawn. The older Holmes blinked his blurry eyes with the light from the candle giving him a little idea of his surroundings. Looking before him, he found Sherlock peacefully sleeping in front of him, his wounds as fresh as before, his arms about him with his chest heaving up and down and fast asleep. Then he moved the first time in the rest of the night towards the doorway and stole a look outside, he saw Jones and Garlack on the land rover and driving away from the camp.

Frowning, he pulled back into the room with his thoughts piling one after another. He was just about to come out of the room to inquire on the guards outside when he felt strong hands pulled him back—and the next thing he knew he was hovering onto the air with his body smashing heavily down the table with a loud crash. The pain was all over his body as the next instant he realized what had happened: Sherlock.

In his pain, he saw Sherlock slowly walking toward him, his expression was of hunger and thirst—a madman in flesh seeking his pleasured chemical. The older Holmes blinked and was aware when Sherlock's hands wrapped around his neck to choke him.

"S-Sherlock!" he gasped for air as Sherlock's hands got tighter and tighter that blurred his sight.

"I need it…" whispered the younger Holmes in deep voice, his eyes flickering in the darkness that enveloped him after the candlelight was knocked out. He couldn't recognize! Then pulling his older brother up, Sherlock dragged the man in the middle of the room and threw him to the wall. Mycroft's back hit it with considerable force it nearly rendered him unconscious as he fell on the ground, choking.

Raising his wounded arm that had lost the wrapping of the towel, Mycroft halted his younger brother who was advancing on him. It was physically too painful to be a dream. Again, this was not new to him. Sherlock had assaulted him a number of times when his overdose got the best of him—and one time nearly had Mycroft fall from the fourth floor of a building had it not for Sherlock coming to his senses. That was the moment his younger brother had agreed to give him the list. The only moment Sherlock looked apologetic with everything that had happened between them.

He never wanted to have his brother regret anything here and so Mycroft stood his ground. Yet the pain that hit his whole body nearly had him kneeling. His shoulder that had never quite healed after for it was never taken care of by doctors.

"Sherlock!" he said strongly, straightening and heaving a sigh at the same time, "Please, stop!"

Sherlock ogled at him with his red eyes and Mycroft just knew the hold of the drug was strong. Khat was not something unfamiliar to them in London and it's not even fatal, but its over-dosage could be threatening and to Sherlock who had been a user and who was never one to be stable when it comes to his mental state, he knew his brother needed to be restrained. Before things got out of hand.

"Oi!" a Somalian pirate suddenly entered the room frantically at the darkness as they heard the tumult inside.

Mycroft shut his eyes. My word!

The Somalian shouted for someone to bring some light and when his companion did, they saw the brothers in a wrestling match, with Mycroft easily overpowered as he got pinned on the wall with his injured arm behind him—Sherlock was clutching on his sore skin and it was taking him everything he could not to scream.

The two Somalian guards shouted warning and Mycroft felt someone pulled Sherlock away from him. Then things quickly developed into something much more horrific as the Somali guards tried to subdue the drug-induced agent on the floor with a gun pointed on his head—

Sherlock being a nimble man ever since had managed to set himself free—and combatted for the gun easily as he struck the guard on the head and took his gun—Mycroft watched with open mouth as his younger brother pointed it at the other Somali guard who was trying to aide his companion with a gun also pointed at Sherlock—it was chaos!

"Stop!" Mycroft shouted in Somali language, both his hands now raised as he pointed both palm at each one to Sherlock and the guards. Then to the pirates, he ordered, "Get out! I will take care of this! Just don't shoot him! He is our hostage and you will anger Garlack if you harm him."

The Somalians both looked angrily at Sherlock who never blinked at them but kept a steady hold on the gun. But with Mycroft's goading, the two of them backed away from the door with the candlelight—to which the older Holmes quickly called out—

"Leave the candle…don't let anyone in. I'll handle him."

I always do.

The guard nodded and then frantically backed out of the room. Leaving Mycroft with Sherlock, who had never quite forgotten his presence. Mycroft was weary of the gun, but he was wearier of the Somalians who can shoot his brother, or that his brother shooting any Somalians. Either way, he will be dead.

"Sherlock…" Mycroft whispered, tasting blood on his lips. "It's me…"

His voice did nothing but to have his brother point the gun at him in one swift movement.

And again, this was nothing new to him.

There was only so much thing one can experience with Sherlock Holmes. His younger brother once claimed that he wished his brother would act like any 'proper big brother', but no matter how hard Mycroft tried, it was something that would forever be out of his league.

Their lives weren't proper to begin with.

There would always be a gun between them.

Mycroft lowered his hands and straightened, eyes transfixed at his brother.

"Brothermine," he started softly, all guards down, "do sit down now. You're opening your wounds."

Sherlock's response was not quite what Mycroft should like.

Because he pulled the trigger with his itching finger and did it nonstop.

-To be Continued-

A/N: Mycroft's always watching youuuuuu!

*cries in a corner*

Thank you for reading!