There was excruciating pain. His brain was being torn apart... even breathing was agonizing...

The memory was vague but his senses were heightened... the smell of fire on wax and wood... dirt and dust... the overpowering sweet smell of cocaine and plastic... his sweat... but the memory was vague.

Pain kicked him. And again—and again till it was almost too much to bear. He was writhing. The beguiling feeling of ecstasy and elation had long gone and was replaced by torture. He was crying.

Nobody was there. He was all by himself and he thought he was about to die alone— nobody even noticed—not one could see what he was going through and he wanted it to be so. He had always been alone.

But in the middle of mist and confusion and pain, there was a voice. A familiar voice calling to him urgently, insistently... but he was lost and he could not find its owner.

The sound of ambulance.

"Sherlock!"

Of course it was him. It was always him. Whoever put in his mind that he was ever alone?

There was always him and his brother since the beginning.

"I'm here, Sherlock."

"Help me..."

"I'm always here." The sound was smooth, gentle and dependable. "Now prepare a list." It grew angry. One of the rare occasion that he was actually intimidated by his brother's person. The list was always ready.

It was a vague memory evoked in his subconscious as he heard the sound of ambulance again. He had been hearing the sound quite often and in his midlife too... hasn't he gotten old enough to stop making people worry?

The sound was loud but the voice was ever near. His subconscious recognised the voice and knew there was nothing left to fear. There was no way he would be dying when that person was near.


Every time Mycroft closes his eyes all he could see were the flashes of the passenger capsule falling down and crashing on the riverside, and his younger brother's body being pulled up from the water by his secret service men minutes after. They had been on Sherlock's shadow since he left Baker Street, but just as Mycroft thought, something was brewing.

When Mycroft heard his brother was at London Eye he resented Sherrinford more and sent even the Special Forces without ado. An attack was coming. He tried calling Sherlock but his phone was out of reach. The next report he received almost made him order all units to engage as Sherlock apparently occupied one of the passenger capsules alone.

The detective may just have turned the on button.

Mycroft tried calling Sherlock again to warn him—although he knew Sherlock must know it already— it was such a relief when the detective answered his phone but too late—a loud gunshot came that turned all tides.

It was a simultaneous shot however, as one of his snipers were also ready on air that ended with a body on the ground. Rest assured that the person acting him was well geared when he was shot at the back. It would have been a different business if the aim was at the head. And one body lay on the ground—dead.

Then came the sudden explosions and the image of the hurtling capsule plummeting under that would forever be in Mycroft's memory. Given his gifted mind, it was impossible to forget every detail. He remembered the phone falling out of his hand and stepping out of the sedan despite his safety issues as people screamed and ran about. His men were charging towards the river and before he knew it so was he. He remembered them pulling out Sherlock's soaked and unresponsive body and it being revived, his dark locks wet and plastered on his white face, his chest not moving.

Mycroft stood there, dumbfounded the entire moment for nothing could have prepared him for it.

Sherlock was unconscious... his eyes weren't moving.

Mycroft took steps closer, quietly and uncertainly.

There were gashes on his head... a haemorrhage was ever possible...

He stood there, rooted on the spot and not breathing, but his mind wouldn't just stop thinking.

If he doesn't wake up now... Sherlock will most certainly die.

He stood his ground despite the urge to do something... but what does it matter? Sherlock was dying...

Mycroft could barely close his fist and had wanted to tell his people to send the body to the ambulance immediately but he just stood there, unexpectedly helpless, his strength sapped by his dreaded vision that came to reality. Waiting...

It was the longest seconds in Mycroft's life as things began to whirl inside his mind—the door of his what-could-be was opening slowly to the possibilities—dark possibilities— that after all he was the one going to be left behind with a broken heart and not the other way around when a cough from the body told him otherwise. Plenty of coughing sound came and Sherlock's body began to shake violently and Mycroft could not remember how he got there but he was beside his brother at once—and he saw his younger brother's eyes flutter open.

Oh.

Sherlock breathed air painfully and that was when Mycroft was assured his brother had escaped the clutches of death when he saw the detective look at him. That was when the older Holmes remembered to breathe too and before he knew it, he was taking command.

"Get him out of here!" his voice was stronger than he expected—

It was fast as men after men came to their aid and Sherlock was on a stretcher within seconds with oxygen mask ready at hand. Mycroft clenched his jaw and replied tersely to any delays when he suddenly felt a strong tug on his sleeve's cuff. Sherlock was holding him with eyes surprisingly full of life.

Looking down at his brother and meeting his determined eyes, Mycroft somehow understood what it was about and reached for the top of Sherlock's hand and gave it a light squeeze. The detective held on for another second insistently despite his position, before finally letting go as the medical personnel carried his stretcher to the waiting ambulance.

And Mycroft watched them go with eyes clouding dark, jaw squaring and hands finally closed into fists.

His position hadn't change since he arrived at the central hospital few minutes later after the accident. Standing there, solid as a pole, Mycroft Holmes waited with arms crossed outside the emergency room, an action he hadn't done for a long time since Sherlock got too lost with his addiction few years ago. Now that he was back, it reminded him of many things about his brother and had to close his eyes with a palm on his face.

He wasn't one to soften up with memories, no. But Sherlock's near death experiences had always been a death of a part of him too. That was something Mycroft won't be able to remove from his system. It was his obsession.

Security of the hospital and out of reach from the media was the first thing he had carried out before stepping into the white corridor. His phone had been used many times on service areas during his wait too for he could not afford not to work when he knew the person responsible for this was bidding his time and waiting for another attack. He would have gone out to handle the matter knowing Sherlock was alive but he just couldn't leave, not without trusted people about.

Silence filled Mycroft as his only companion was himself.

If only that red light would stop blinking already...

He was then distracted of the double doors from the opposite hall suddenly opening and there came hand in hand were Mr. and Mrs. Watson, both clad in dark jackets and wearing urgent and solemn expressions. The older Holmes pressed his lips tight, feeling that unusual relief every time he saw John Watson around and turned to them with hands falling on his side with expression naturally blank.

"Oh, god how is he?" Mary breathed out, her eyes full of honest concern that made Mycroft raise an eyebrow—his mind palace jumping at the fact that she shot her once— and looked towards her husband.

"He's breathing... probably broken a few bones. But he's always been resilient."

John was looking at him accusingly and the older Holmes had to steel his eyes at the doctor.

"I know. This is all my fault."

"I'm not blaming you." John responded briskly with his too easy to read expression, "Sherlock's an idiot too. I shouldn't have left him—he already predicted something like this would happen—he knew it was coming."

"How much do you know?"

"Enough about you brothers to understand you're all the same... idiots. Why can't the three of you just simply sit it out in a cafe or watch some football game and talk about what's eating you? Not murdering each other."

Mycroft sighed and shook his head. "If it's that simple—"

"No, it's that simple! You people are the one making it complicated!"

"John." Mary whispered with a glance at her husband who looked her way before looking back at the British government head. Mycroft simply raised another eyebrow and travelled his eyes on the doctor's shoulder.

"Well... you already understand that I and my brothers are not like anyone else. Simply putting off our history and laying it before each other would do more harm than good. What you have to understand, John, is that this is not a matter of misunderstanding. The three of us understand each other perfectly well that is why we are standing where we are."

He locked eyes with the doctor with coldness he was meant to be giving to his eldest.

"Our eldest brother has long left his crossroads. He always had the taste for the dark. How do you think Sherlock and I found the difference between the good and the bad and made a choice? Because we saw our eldest brother on the path of destruction and he didn't want to go alone. What else is there to do but to oppose him?"

John's face paled and silence fell that was followed by the doctor's voice of indignation.

"You can list up his crime if you want but I still don't understand why he wants to harm both of you... I really don't."

Mycroft smiled.

"You don't have to understand him." The British government head stood in his full height as he raised his face and looked away, "I'm quite enough to do that. All you have to do is brace yourselves with the wave and survive. When we deal with things like this sometimes we have to forget the roots. We first just have to stop it at all cost. That has always been the protocol."

He glanced sideways towards the emergency door for awhile, before blinking and nodding at the couple.

"With this development with Sherlock, I believe all my doubts had been erased." His eyes glinted as he looked at the doctor one last time. "I'm afraid this time... I might be the one to pull the trigger."

"Because he's thinking the same." John added as Mycroft walked pass him who echoed his words with eyes resolute.

"Because he's doing the same."

"Where are you going?" the doctor called to the older Holmes who walked along the corridor towards the exit door, "Mycroft?"

"Where I should be. I need to deal with this, John. Take care of Sherlock—"

A pause then—

"No—wait!" running steps could be heard as the doctor tried to catch up with Mycroft who stopped to turn around and look at the man with a little curt of his eyebrows. John shook his head as he faced Mycroft. "I can't let you out, I'm sorry."

There was Mycroft's threatening eyebrow raising that made John lick his lip.

"Excuse me—?"

"I can't— not until Sherlock wakes up."

"It'd be for his good too if he wakes up and find things already fixed—"

"Not if he doesn't find his brother—"

"For goodness sake, John—"

"I'm telling you, anything could happen when you walk out right now in that battlefield. I know it." John's eyes glinted gravely and his surmounting emotion made the older Holmes raise his chin. "And I know the feeling of someone whose ready to throw it all—Mycroft—I don't want to be the person to tell Sherlock his older brother's gone somewhere nobody knows about!"

Mycroft watched the doctor in a strange way. "Sentiments will not keep me here when there's a work to be done."

"You know Sherlock will look for you the moment he wakes up." The doctor spoke strongly this time with all bit of his emotion sizing up, "I'm speaking of facts—he will try to get to Sherrinford if you shut him out again and before we know it he'll be endangering himself all over—all since the two of you won't talk about it because you're both too fixated in protecting each other!"

Another pause. And Mycroft arched an eyebrow.


He saw him stand there the moment he opened his eyes and knew it wasn't a trick of his mind for he could feel his sore body hit his consciousness the moment he took a deep breath. His joints responded with a little ache now and then, but he could feel no lasting damage. And Sherlock came to and uttered his first words.

"That's new. Did I really nearly die?"

His throat was dry; he even thought it was inflamed as he addressed the rare scene of a tall man in suit standing at the foot of his bed. Mycroft Holmes was watching him with his usual dull eyes, arms crossed and press of a fake smile. Sherlock studied his brother in one glance and knew he had been distressed. His tie was all wrinkled.

"If you had gone deep enough you might have, little brother." His tone was icy. He was not on for any humour. "You should consider yourself lucky. Having to fall at such a height—you could have suffered—"

"How long was I gone?" Sherlock ignored him and blinked his eyes to his surroundings as he tried to sit up and feeling a dull pain by his right shoulder before looking up at his brother's figure again. They were the only people in the room but the contents on the side table said much of a woman's presence and side chairs used by others. Mycroft didn't move from his position with eyes fixated on his younger brother sourly.

"Twenty five hours. My secretary had been coming back and forth too. She will be here again in half an hour."

Sherlock's eyebrows curt as it narrowed to his brother suspiciously.

"And you're still here, why?"

Mycroft sighed. "Because your staunch friend, John Watson, can be very wordy at times."

The dark haired detective smirked and touched the IV drip on his wrist before thoughtfully looking up again.

"You never listen to John."

"Quite right... but he can be very convincing, that fellow. Still, I will make no excuse to tell you how... sorry I am for what happened, Sherlock..."

"You always think everything is your fault." Sherlock muttered with a stretch on his arm and avoiding Mycroft's gaze who stood his ground with a firm look in his eyes. "Everything that has happened, people that have died, Sherrinford's return, my drug abuse—you always take them on you. Can't we be responsible of our actions?"

"No." The British government head said simply. "The laws of celestial mechanics state when objects collide, a damage of collateral nature is always guaranteed. This war between myself and our eldest has been the root of all our afflictions—all the damage taken, everything up to this point— and the only solution is for both mobility to be stopped completely in order to restore peace."

Sherlock grinded his teeth. The meaning of his brother needed not any elaboration.

"Mycroft—"

"It's a balance of probability. One we could not deny."

There was a pause as Sherlock frowned to himself. His brother was really a pain... speaking of finishing business like it was meant to be so. A death wish. The dark haired detective inhaled painfully as he shook his head.

"You won't die... but that person... the one I watched gunned down... who looked like you..."

"He's alive...fortunately." Mycroft smiled that didn't reach his eyes. "I was taking chances on him be targeted by the shoulder or others limbs but you know how these things can turn ugly in the next second—"

"You use other people as your shield?"

"It isn't the first time." Mycroft's aura turned very grave and sombre as his arms fell on his sides silently, with eyes flickering. "There are certain practice to these things, brothermine... even I am of no exception especially when we're speaking of national security. People of a resemblance to me, with combat background of course, hired for the sole purpose of acting as me...the Uncle Protocols I call it. You don't expect me to come around unguarded, do you?"

"Which means threats your way is always imminent if you have identical men posing as you around?" Sherlock muttered more to himself as he distractedly looked around with mind palace in super speed. "That's why most of my network get confuse of who to follow or your whereabouts... decoys... brilliant."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows slightly.

"You're surprisingly lackadaisical when you've seen one of my samples from a recent encounter. Don't you remember that one up close? You even thought it was me and went as far as getting kidnapped in the process."

Sherlock slowly met his brother's eyes with a sudden realisation—and the image of a body on the floor inside a large, dark warehouse with its missing ring finger lying dead... the same body that was brought to Bart's morgue weeks after his older brother's facade death.

"James Moriarty's dead body of you..."

"An inauspicious missing man from my line of service men." Mycroft went on, "We always take it as a threat when one of me goes missing. He was reportedly seen last in a hotel and disappeared completely on the next twenty four hours. Who would have thought we would find him under the pieces of the warehouse you demolished."

The detective stared at his brother who nodded quietly.

"Yes. John told me all about the finger sent your way and I have received the report from my secretary. That missing piece of the puzzle I kept pondering about... and all this time I thought of James Moriarty getting you was all because of your whimsical gesture of jumping to all rabbit holes you find curious."

"You're one to talk. You knew one of your men was missing yet you still risk you life just to save mine?"

Mycroft's eyes twinkled. "Old habits."

"Fair enough." Sherlock raised an eyebrow in agreement as he cleared his throat. "Which lead to various things of your abduction...because James Moriarty was playing cahoots with our eldest brother?"

"Add him on the list."

Sherlock glowered and licked his lips. "Why do I have a feeling our eldest brother's trying to kill us?"

"You must have hit your head hard." Mycroft eluded as he put both hands on his pocket, the icy glint on his eyes returning. "Whether he tried to kill us or not, it was still a mistake on my part to leave you if I hadn't seen that piece of paper."

"So there's more?" the younger Holmes abruptly pointed out—bedridden as he was his mind was still quick to catch castaway words of most significance. "He's really after something else?"

"Of course he is." Mycroft frowned deeply. "But under the circumstances of you accident you are to stay here and not leave. I beg you to do nothing rash anymore. I will most likely find his whereabouts and deal with him... either he submits or heaven be his judge. In any case, it's almost concluding... there is nothing left for you to do."

"Isn't there?" the detective straightened his paining shoulders and stared at his brother suspiciously.

"Not this time. You've gone through enough." He looked at the man on the bed with a slight crossness Sherlock normally sees in his brother's eyes anyways. He then looked sideways and saw the emergency button right by his pillow instead of his phone. Where the hell was his phone?

Underwater. With fish.

Sherlock's eyes glinted in vengeance.

There was a knock on the door and John Watson came in with Mary and their sigh of relief was more than enough for Sherlock to give his best friend a dark, meaningful look. John was used to those things and immediately replied with his usual contortedly confused one.

"Should you be sitting up?" Mrs. Watson went to the side of the bed questioningly while John stood behind her, eyes still at the detective who stretched his neck and looked at the couple.

"It's been twenty-five hours, why shouldn't I be?"

"Why, still going somewhere? Your brother can't stop you?" John asked that made Sherlock scowl at him.

"He's not going anywhere." Mycroft raised both eyebrows just as he fished his phone out of his pocket which seemed to be vibrating of a call just then. He turned his back at the group with Sherlock's wide eyes looming at the phone. "Yes?"

John suddenly blocked his view of Mycroft and glared at the patient.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock hissed to the former army doctor.

"What are you?" John retorted back hotly. "I told your brother to stay so you both can keep eye on each other—not plotting any more escapes behind anyone's back!"

"Well, sorry to disappoint you," the detective answered back with a look over his friend's shoulder towards his older brother, "but the game isn't over and if I don't make my move someone's going to die."

"And it sure is not going to be you again?"

"Enough, John—we're on schedule—"

"What schedule?"

"Can you boys just shut it?" Mary glared at the men and shook her head. "It's either we act or get acted upon—which in your case Sherlock was shameful when he got you—"

"It's all part of an act—you think I'll let myself go there without a plan?"

John cursed aloud that made Mycroft turn their way while his wife close her eyes wisely before looking at the patient again. Sherlock suddenly gave the doctor a warning look just as the older Holmes said—

"I understand." And hung up on his phone. Turning to the lively group, Mycroft looked over his brother quietly.

"I have to be going. It is of utmost importance that I present myself... to individuals." He glanced at the former army doctor pointedly. "Look after him for me, John. If you would please."

"You'll be fine on your own, Mycroft?" John asked with sudden urge to ask.

The British government head looked really bemused. "I am never on my own."

Sherlock caught his brother's eyes just then when the door opened again and a female nurse carrying a tray of medicine came in a hurry. The group looked at her questioningly while the nurse gazed at the bedside in confusion.

"I thought there was an emergency call." She explained as she put the tray on the table with a frown on herself, "The red light for the emergency service was blinking..." her voice trailed away at the look she received from the detective.

"The only emergency I see is my brother's losing weight." Sherlock pressed a smile and saw John giving him a look of dawning comprehension as he saw the detective hide the emergency button behind him when everyone else was not looking. "Give him a pudding."

"Amusing." Mycroft replied crossly just as the nurse ducked down towards the door.

"I will check system." She said and disappeared.

"Please do." Sherlock called just as Mycroft stood on the side of the bed and followed the nurse with his eyes rising in mild suspicion.

"Sherlock, why did you just—" he began—but the words hadn't been out of his mouth when things happened all at once— Sherlock out of nowhere—suddenly grabbed his brother's neck from behind and instantly injected something in it from the nurse's tray that he snatched when everyone else was not looking except John—

Mary watched with a hand over her mouth as Mycroft slowly passed out from the tranquilizer's effect. Sherlock caught his brother under the arms while John helped him and together, the two heaved the tall older Holmes on the bed and gazed at him for a moment.

"God, Sherlock..." John was muttering with eyes on Mycroft as he snatched the injection from the detective's hand and then checked the contents of the tray. "Jesus... do you know who you just attacked? It's the British Government! Do you want to be accused of treason!?"

"It's just my brother." Sherlock said as he pulled away from his IV drip and rounded on the bed, opening his older brother's chest coat and fumbling for his brother's phone and inspected it. "There's no harm in making him take a shot, my brother."

"Why do you always have to physically intimidate him?" John was obviously referring to that event back when the detective twisted his brother's arms out of drug's effect. Sherlock raised all eyebrows.

"I'm the only one allowed to do that— even Sherrinford has lost all privilege."

"Kind of a turn on this, 'nobody-harms-my-brother except me', dialogue." Mary said with a shake of her head. "But he will definitely be pissed off, Sherlock."

"Why are we doing this?" John wanted to know heatedly—

"Obviously," Sherlock busied himself in taking out other stuff and finally saw a red notebook. "because my brother's not thinking straight."

"Oh, I think there's a question to that." John watched Sherlock open the notebook and pieces of papers fell on the floor. Both bending down to pick the pieces up, the doctor recognized the torn down as the list of medication Sherlock had once scribbled down back at the jet plane. Seemingly remembering it too, the detective gave him the other pieces except one.

The last paper was not torn to pieces, it was a whole sheet. And written on it, as John and Mary looked over the shoulder of the detective was fine scribbling—the same handwriting Sherlock saw on his wall— three words:

I want this.

Sherlock crumpled the paper and looked around for his change of clothes. When he spotted them, he quickly looked at his friends and blinked once—especially John looking so unconvinced and confuse—

"I'm going to go meet my eldest brother now. I have an appointment." He said like it was enough explanation.

"Wait—" John uttered a curse next as Sherlock walk past him to get his clothes. "You're going to meet the guy who nearly blew you up to bits like it's some sort of picnic?"

"He did blow me up." Sherlock was changing fast with Mary shaking her head again and back turned away from him. "Mycroft wasn't lying when he said he's about to find him soon. We can't let him do that. Twenty-five hours is enough for Mycroft to stage that but Sherrinford is no fool. He will strike from many directions like what he did at London Eye... Mycroft sitting here waiting means he has the upper hand... apparently this notebook. And then that call... was likely my least favourite eldest brother. This phone is ever the semblance of the ones he loved to give away on crowded places. Must've sent one to Mycroft."

"What?"

"You think this Sherrinford will kill Mycroft?" Mary asked once he was decent with his clothes again and Sherlock nodded with compression of lips.

"It's a duel—Sherrinford tried to kill him too you know while I'm watching. Can't really escape the dramatic in the family. That psycho brother. I'm only a distraction and always the bait." Sherlock put the notebook inside his coat and glance at his sleeping brother. "He's an idiot if he thinks he can talk Sherrinford to admit defeat."

"So why did you have to tranquilize your brother when he's the one who knows the plan?"

"So I won't be anyone's bait—nobody will go to the bait—how come I'm always the bait?" Sherlock turned to his friend agitatedly. "A repetitive action is dull! And I don't like his plan."

"You know his plan?"

"Of course I do." A scowl was thrown to the doctor. "Why do you ask so many questions—we have to go, it's dangerous!"

"Dammit, Sherlock." John shook his head as both men turned to Mary whose eyebrows were all raised testily.

"Please take care of my brother." Sherlock suddenly was solemn, like a kid entrusting a favourite toy to another. "And if you can add more tranquilizers that would be better. I don't want to worry about him being in danger again. He's a stupid brother, but he's all I got."

"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs. Watson clutched his arm and squeezed it, "I will look after him... but when he wakes up he will be beastly."

"And murderous, yes." Sherlock nodded with a smirk, "that's why I'm leaving you."

"He won't take it personally right?" John asked as they left the building that night after criss-crossing Mycroft's guards and using the back door of the hospital as an exit getaway. "I know he doesn't mix business with personal but this one is quite personal, Sherlock."

"He might." Sherlock said as he kept on texting on the phone he didn't own just as they hired a cab out of the alley a few blocks away from the hospital. "But I don't care. As far as I'm concerned this is as personal to me as it is to him."

"Who are you texting?"

"My network. They've all been very useful..." The two jumped inside the cab, and shut the door close. "...they've been following the tall man I met at London Eye and gave me the phone. I specifically instructed them to tail him and the people he meets with... now I'm reaping the harvest."

"So where are we going?"

"My cemetery."

"Y-your cemetery?"

"You know what I mean."

John sighed and told the cab the destination of Sherlock's old gravestone yard.

"That's why I said—why not invite each other in a cup of tea inside Speedy's?"

"We could." The detective answered. "And bring the graveyard over there."


Out in the middle of that night within in London, in a cemetery and seated under a large tree was Sherrinford Holmes. Tall, lanky and wearing an American suit and tie with short, dark hair almost the same with his brothers. His eyes were sharp and glint in the dark; he was poised with elbows on his knees, hands entwined together and waiting...

Before him, the earth was dug deep into two grave plots with mounting soil at the side. A piece of paper was on the ground too and listed on it were the names of both his brothers all crossed out.

And dozens of red blinking lights flashing ominously and quite hidden underneath the ground.

Everyone digs their own grave often.

And sometimes they just get blown away.


List


~To be continued~

Two chapters to go :)

Thanks for reading!