*Brother's Opium War*

by: WhiteGloves

The longest chapter to date! Divided into three parts!

Warning for heavy angst and consequences! Let the final battle begin!

Thanks for reading :)


Seven: The Final Battle


Prologue:

Sherlock stared blankly at the white wall opposite him as he sat by the floor with arms hanging limply on his knees. There was nothing in his surrounding except the brick wall, a metal bed across him on the right, and a metal door. Such incarceration was not new to him, Mycroft had always threatened to lock him up if he ever crossed the line; crossed the line he did and that was by pulling the gun on Magnussen's head. He does not regret that he was there; he just hoped there was something to do in his boredom because right not in his mind palace, Mrs. Hudson was there and forever scolding him for a 'bad job' because then who was going to look after John? Yes, she was punishing him enough.

Sherlock was just preparing a reply when he heard footsteps outside his cell and he was pulled back in his reality. He did not blink, he did not give a damn that he recognize the light footsteps of his brother. He did not even glance around when the metal doors opened and closed. Didn't even give the slightest attention that Mycroft came in and stood still on his ground for a few seconds, before crossing his line of sight and sitting on the metal bed after some thought.

And there we find the Holmes brothers together in that confined space. Sherlock continued ignoring him till he heard the older Holmes heave a sigh, his hands awkwardly positioned on his legs in the absence of his umbrella, his grand bearings of his grey three-piece suit was as unparalleled as ever. Mycroft cleared his throat but he never spoke.

Sherlock dropped his head on his chest and sighed as well. "Come to have a good gloat?"

"Gloating suggests that I am successful with my endeavors and with some malignant pleasure at another's misfortune. I am feeling neither Sherlock. In fact—I don't feel anything. But I must admit, I am a little troubled, that's all."

"And why would my perfect brother be troubled?" he asked scathingly.

There was a few seconds silence— to which he visualized his brother choosing his words.

"Well, you did just kill a man."

"I am capable."

"You are. But ending another person's life, taking something of value to others or to the man himself, brother, is hardly a justifiable act. Are we really the type of people to kill just because we could? I can't help but feel troubled with your logic at the end of the day. You lost, therefore you killed. And you call yourself Sherlock Holmes—?"

Sherlock made a hissing sound and lashed angrily to that calm presence that had no right to be there in that contained space with him when he was a mess— "And what would you had me do?"

"You lost." Mycroft said simply, "Therefore surrender."

"And do you know what my surrender would mean to John and Mary?"

Mycroft frowned, "I don't really see how they are going to suffer seeing as they were only mere tools to be used as leverage to me. No harm would have been done to them at all, since the real target was me."

The two exchanged silent looks till Sherlock grunted more than answered—

"You know that was never an option."

"Not to you."

"I will not be used as leverage."

"How many times has that happened?"

"Once and the only time the woman nearly won." It was with airplane bombing and the Coventry lot years ago.

Mycroft nodded, "And when she did—did I ever threaten to kill her just because I could?"

Indeed, Sherlock remembered it full well as if it was yesterday, how the government nearly fell to its knees because of his mistake. Mycroft never took it against him; Mycroft actually greeted the defeat with calmness only he could display when others would have violated any truce. But Mycroft was the real justice between them. He was the eldest. The one who tolerates mistakes. His younger brother's mistakes.

Sherlock felt his face grew hot and gave a terse reply. "This is different."

"It really isn't." the older Holmes said sternly, making Sherlock put his hands on his curls. "Blackmail. Battle of wits. Win and lose. You had the satisfaction of winning right under her nose. So were you satisfied of putting a bullet in his head?"

"I don't regret it."

"Then you should. Because when you go this far brother, even I wouldn't be able to protect you."

"I don't care."

"Easy for you to say just because you know you have me." It was said in an exasperated tone, making the consulting detective grin for the first time, with light coming back on his eyes. He caught his brother's eyes who gave him a narrowed look, till Mycroft pressed his lips and let his eyebrows reach his hairline. "I don't doubt this will get repeated, brothermine. As long as I am in position and you are who you are."

"Family is always difficult."

"Agree."

"So what happens now?" the younger Holmes fell back on staring at the opposite wall, draining his emotions out and wait for the inevitable. "Am I going to get hanged?"

"I don't make killings often." Mycroft offered with a small strained smile, "I would not bore you with the tedious meeting but to make it light, you will be sent to Eastern Europe."

"Your initiative?"

"Indeed."

"Slow kill." Sherlock said shortly, eyes falling on his hands. Mycroft's face had gone blank again.

"I need to make you see that murder is not an answer, brothermine." Sherlock refused to answer so his older continued. "But… London will always need you. Expect your contract to be revoked earlier."

"You better not miss me too much then."

Mycroft didn't say anything anymore and silence once again fell with the Holmes brothers. Sherlock could have sworn Mrs. Hudson was preparing him tea just now, which reminded him to remind his brother to keep his flat as it always was. Then he remembered at the last minute that Wiggins had to be taken out of prison as well. His brother was never forgetful of attacks even when the young man was only an accomplice.

It was a long time before one of them spoke; Sherlock would have forgotten he was there had he not spoken again.

"Sherlock." It was with some reverie. "You know I'll always be watching you wherever you are. You know that."

The younger Holmes felt his brother's eyes bore on him but made no attempt to reply.

"Sherlock." Mycroft's voice was full and firm. "I will always be there."


Part I WAR


"Sherlock?" John called his friend back to this reality and Sherlock opened his eyes to the darkness of his surrounding and the imminent action ahead. The detective focused and closed the memory lane of his mind palace.

Sound of wheels passing on the graveled road and low headlights signaled the arrival of the much-awaited convoy.

"Are you sure the other cartels are here?" John said, sounding doubtful as they saw black cars came one after another and still there were no movements coming from anywhere. Is it possible Sherlock was wrong and that they came here without any alternative plans? They were counting on war as the distraction after all!

Sherlock snorted as if insulted, seemingly reading John's tone.

"They are here." He said dismissively, eyes transfixed at the car that parked on the left, "As ever you see but you do not observe—they arrived before us. The cars you see parked on those houses along the driveway are not from here. See the rusty cars, they all have something in common—stickers of Las Cruces in front, even on their plates. The cars I saw parked on each drive contained other places' stickers—conclusion, they've been rented, just like ours. Plenty of houses with children trikes and bikes yet even at the late hour no child ever came out. Curtain windows are all done and with the slightest sign of movement. Everyone around here seems to know what's happening. Either they've been warned or they've all been taken hostages."

John gasped and tried to raise his eyes to the seemingly empty houses as Sherlock continued—

"Five men have already walked up around our own car, obviously scouting the area and in their jacket all concealed firearms. Do I really need to say more to that?"

John stared at Sherlock in disbelief. "Do you really think they've all been taken hostages? Even children?"

Sherlock's face was grim and his silence was enough to alarm the doctor.

"Oh Christ…"

"This is war." The detective whispered quietly.

"But they're civilians!"

"John—"

"We should have had the Secret Service inform the USA government! Or at least made plans to save those people! Jesus, Sherlock you knew what was happening—why didn't you do something!"

"Because it's too late—had I done that it would have made all the syndicate around suspicious." Sherlock was calm, but he was not looking at his friend, "This is the chosen war zone, John, and there's nothing we can do with the casualties without compromising the plan."

"What kind of plan does not involve saving people?" John pointed heatedly that had the detective looking at him straight in the eye, "We came here to save your brother, Sherlock—and that includes everyone else!"

The numbers of arriving car finally halted, all of them surrounding the lone house to the left of the drive with metal fence and a large water tank to the side; the house beyond it was dark but it was obviously the target place. The road was eerily silent with only the tall headlights lighting the driveway and when car doors began opening, the shadow of the men were all put in emphasis, growing taller and darker as they all walk around and gather in front of the gate, armed and dangerous.

Sherlock saw the figure of El Pla Za come out of the long car. He knew it was his man because of the scar on his face. The driver went out too, leaving the black car unattended where Mycroft would be, alone and hopefully still capable of sanity. Mycroft was never one to cause him sentiment as much as John but just at that moment, Sherlock knew what he wanted to do much more than anything.

The consulting detective finally turned to his friend with much determination as the doctor displayed.

"Yes, do that—no, listen you go out there, save as many people as you can when all hell break loose in a matter of minute—take all of them to safer place, save as many. But you must do it alone. I can't abandon Mycroft, John. You're right, we can do something for them and that's your job. Then we can meet around the corner or just go as far away, anything will do."

"Sherlock—?"

"No time! Good luck to us both."

Without a word, Sherlock opened his side of the car door and ducked out of sight, leaving John behind and blending in to the night and shadows, heading directly for that long dark car stealthily.

That Mycroft made no appearance could only mean one thing. That they had to stop at a hotel was not consoling either. The red steady tracer pointing at the car was a gleam of warning at the younger Holmes who could only think of one conclusion of his brother's state. Addiction.

Losing no time, Sherlock reached the car, looked around him for the last lookout that stood idly by, before pulling the door open and looking inside. Mycroft was there, body wise, but definitely not in mind. He was half sitting, half lying on the car seat with his head bowed, his legs in an askew position, his injured hand lay forgotten to his right leg. He was unconscious.

"Mycroft," Sherlock called swiftly as he slid inside and pulled on his older brother's shoulder and check his pulse. No response came whatsoever, except the dropping of his head to another direction. His pulse was irregular, his breathing also uneven and too low. Sherlock could not see anything else in the dark but the next thing he knew—guns began firing outside.

Machine guns.

Sherlock gritted his teeth and tried to put Mycroft's weight on him when he heard the car door in front suddenly open sharply and then John Watson slid in looking thoroughly put out and if Sherlock didn't know better—even excited. After him, the sound of battle was ongoing with shouts and bullets hitting everything.

"No time to switch cars," John explained urgently, trying to set the ignition for the key was there in the hole, "It's a code red, we're going to use this as the getaway vehicle."

"Your civilians—?"

"Can't leave you—"

"Drive!" Sherlock closed the door on his side and saw John ducked at the same time when stray bullets hit the front shield and the roof. The detective turned to his brother as the car's engine roared into life.

"It's bullet proof." He called to the doctor as John maneuvered the car, the rattling battle around them ongoing, "It's El Pla Za's car, of course it's bullet proof." To Mycroft, he called out more loudly, "Mycroft! Mycroft! Come on!"

"You know he won't—" whatever he wanted to say, it was engulfed by another a loud bang of metal hitting metal—a collision—and Sherlock's body was thrust forward with a strong jolt— his body almost falling forward if not for his knees. Mycroft had fallen on the car floor helplessly, his whole body curling at the unknown pain—

"John?" Sherlock called at once, sitting straight and seeing that no real damage happened in front except another car tried to reverse as well and hit their front— outside machine guns were pointed in all direction, with sounds of retaliating heavy fire arms and there were also bombs—

"I'm fine." the doctor was already setting the engine that died at the collision— "Shit- the car won't start!"

"Try harder!" Sherlock shouted as he pulled Mycroft on to the chair again, exactly as the engine burst to life, and exactly as the right door of the car opened without warning and El Plaza appeared pointing a gun on Mycroft who was nearer, and then to Sherlock's face.

"So?" the man growled as he slid inside the car, beside the unconscious British man and shut the door close, his gun digging deep on Mycroft's back. "So this is how it's going to be?" he raised his fuming face to John who had stopped dead at the sudden intrusion and barked, "Drive or I'll put bullets inside their skulls!"

There was no argument to that as the doctor did as he was told.

Sherlock kept his eyes at El Plaza, seeing his raging eyes and fiery face meant not only Mycroft was in danger; the three of them were. A man who's lost his treasure, who's left behind his men to flee with no gain from his pain and who's shown his enemy his retreat was a man who can do anything. Above all, he was the Los Zetas leader. They'd be all dead the moment the car stopped—that is if Mycroft survived the man's wrath right there in the car. The Mexican had his older brother in a gunpoint—

"What is it this time you?" It was a growl full of contempt, ferocious even. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"

The gun's hammer was pulled back, Sherlock made quick movements but found the gun pointed in his direction instead. He found El Plaza looking at him in the same fury, his scarred face looming the danger that was to come.

"Another move and your dead." Sherlock believed it to be true. El Plaza's menacing eyes was all he needed to see to know how he was ready to pull the trigger and lay waste to anyone against him. His eyes didn't leave the detective as he then yelled at John after securing some distance from the battlefield—

"Stop the fucking car!"

John and Sherlock exchange glances from the rear-view mirror and instantly knew they had to do something before they're both killed. The car had long left the Aztec Drive with its much-engaged gangs, the sounds of battle ongoing. John made the turn and drove the car to an empty field with nothing save the counted trees and their shadows from the single lamp across. Things were not going as expected.

John came out of the car first, then Sherlock. They couldn't do anything for El Plaza's hand was holding his hostage clear, his gun pointed on the half-conscious man he had dragged out of the car. He carried Mycroft singlehandedly with his brute strength, holding on the British man under the right arm and dragging him into the light of the car where the two strangers were already standing, facing him.

"Throw me your guns, I know you're armed." El Plaza ordered in a deadly tone, warning them for any untoward movements. John glanced at Sherlock and saw the detective take his gun out and throw it near the Mexican's feet. The doctor grudgingly did the same and now both were weaponless. "You must be the English Secret Service." El Plaza continued calmly this time but the way his eyes danced like wild fire was enough to put Sherlock on his most alert. "I should've known. Should have known… I've had it with you English people."

He pulled the trigger, its blast echoing in the air, leaving Sherlock staring as slowly John Watson fell on his back, clutching his middle with the most excruciating expression.

"JOHN!"

Sherlock crouched near him, then turned sharply to the Mexican whose gun was now pointing in his direction.

"I don't need to know who you are," the man was saying, taking a step forward and waving the gun to and from, "All I want is for all of you to die the most painful death. I will kill all of you… starting with you." He waved his gun back to Mycroft and was almost about to pull the trigger—when Sherlock shouted at him—

"It's all too late—it's already irreversible. Mycroft's already won, there's nothing you could do about it. He's won!"

"You think so?" El Plaza smirked. "Not after I'm done with him. I thought of giving him a slow death but he's gone too far." With convulsive eyes, the Mexican was ready and Sherlock knew it was his brother's time—

"I'm the one who pulled out the ambush." The younger Holmes shouted fiercely, "I sent your enemies this location—and the treasure! Of course I know it. Even if you kill us here—whoever goes first— the fact that you've already lost your main objective remains! You've lost your precious opium!"

That got El Plaza's deadly eyes staring at him, then with violent movements, he dropped the helpless Mycroft and charged at Sherlock roaring angrily, with guns all out and pulling the trigger in his direction—

Four gunshots rang in the air, one which grazed Sherlock's shoulder before he could duck down. Then all went silent like a radio was turned off. Everything became very still. Sherlock raised his head, unmindful of the superficial wound he received and looked up with some difficulty. The consulting detective was surprised to see El Plaza, standing there, his face showing mild surprise and horror— his body projected in an awkward manner as if something behind him was keeping him from straightening—

Sherlock then realized why as he saw three bullet holes covering his chest, blood splattering around. El Plaza was shot.

And then the man dropped dead on the floor, coughing excessively till he was no more.

Sherlock hurried to raise himself from the ground to see what had happened and then saw, pass the dead body, was Mycroft Holmes whose eyes were wide open and with a gun on his left hand. The look on his face was something Sherlock would never forget: white as a chalk in his shock and utter confusion. Seconds passed and the older Holmes did not let go of the gun, especially when his eyes transfixed on the body on the floor.

Before things could get out of hand, the younger Holmes automatically stepped towards his brother with hands raised just in case he wasn't recognized.

"Mycroft." He called firmly, eyes on the weapon. "Give me the gun."

Mycroft's hand shook and he dropped the gun on the floor and then looked up to Sherlock who held his gaze strongly. The glaze on Mycroft's eyes were intense and too bright. His mental faculties must be in haywire and Sherlock could only imagine how his older brother must see him as a walking anatomy model. But he didn't like the uncontrollable tremor already forming on his left hand so with a last step, he stopped in front of his eldest and reached a steady hand on his left arm, just above the elbow.

"It's alright," he said gently, "You're going to be fine."

Mycroft found his eyes again and Sherlock was surprised and relieved at the same time of how quickly the sharp cutting gaze his brother usually possessed found its place back on his orbs in matter of seconds as he gave a weary reply that was much Mycroft—

"I wish."

Sherlock was struck at how melancholic he sounded and though Mycroft was known for being such a cynic, the tone in his voice alarmed Sherlock that he stared at him for a length of time. Their exchange was deep, both gaze sharing a mutual understanding that they both knew what lies ahead.

John suddenly gasped behind him, making Sherlock look back towards his friend who coughed several times as he tried to sit up and ripping his buttoned upper clothes open to reveal a thick layered vest.

"You okay?" the detective asked, running his eyes on the doctor's bullet proof vest and seeing the bullet caught there. From somewhere a far, they began hearing loud sirens coming.

"What do you think?" John push himself up and then found El Plaza's dead body on the floor. The doctor was silent for a while, before looking up at the Holmes brothers. "You both okay?"

Nobody had a ready answer for him.


(A suggestion to take a break?)

PART II- THE REAL BATTLE


The news spread fast of the clash of the rebel cartels in New Mexico that reached international TV. A façade it seemed, was made to make everyone believed that it was an ambush of the Sinaloa, the Family, and Gulf cartels against the dwindling grip of power of the Los Zetas in South America. Speculations of the events that took place included the involvement of a large sum of drugs, politics, betrayal of members in the group and even kidnapping the heir of El Pla Za that resulted in his death. Whatever the news concluded, not even a whisper of the British nation, let alone its main players involved, were mentioned.

Such was the absolute power of the British Government Head. Not that he was ever aware of it anymore.

He was one of the two persons John Watson didn't see for a good measure of two days right after their rescue and return in the hands of the British Secret Service. True to his words, the man calling himself Harry proceeded in lending them a hand once they were able to reach the British embassy in New Mexico where a jet with the flag of Britain was already waiting for them. Mycroft was sedated on the way after the first attack of the drug's compulsion. John was the first doctor to examine Mycroft before anything else and his own opinion was severe.

"Ten… possibly twelve times," he said after checking Mycroft's left arm and found marks of the needle's injection already in double digits. "A dozen times in thirty-two hours—they were trying to kill him." He looked up at his best friend who had joined him to where Mycroft lay unconscious.

"No." Sherlock took his brother's arm to examine it close, "It was a calculated dosage, enough to drive one to addiction. If they wanted to kill him they could have used their guns anytime. No, they wanted him to get overpowered by the drug, that way it would be easier for him to follow their biddings. Make him act like a dog waiting for a reward." He then traced his fingers on his brother's left arm. "Mycroft never applied this on his own. Someone else was always there to make sure he took it so even if he did not intend to use it, he had no choice."

"How could you tell?" John must've sounded stupid for asking that, nonetheless, Sherlock was in no mood to be sarcastic as he pointed at his brother's injured right hand.

"He wouldn't be able to use that hand to help himself even if he wanted to."

John pursed his lips. "He couldn't be turned into an addict in just a matter of thirty-two hours, could he?"

"Fentanyl has that effect." Sherlock answered quietly as he sat straight and leaned his back on the chair. "But it's not something that cannot be withdrawn. The process will be painstaking and agonizing."

"At least he's alive."

Sherlock smirked, then his eyes fell on his brother.

"At least. We'll see."

John couldn't be sure of his friend's tone for it was like the detective to be vague and act indifferent when his poker face could be easily read by his best friend. John just knew how worried Sherlock is but much to his chagrin, it amused John to some degree to find the brothers in reverse roles as he remembered in a jet plane much the same as this one Mycroft begging him to look after his younger brother; Sherlock probably was also having quite a turn having been the one in constant need of his brother's attention. Now seeing himself as the one in position to take over, the doctor couldn't help wondering if he'd be able to pull it, or pull another Sherlock move where he tasks other people to look after his older brother.

"I could look after him." John suggested once they reached the ever-cold ground of London's airport in the middle of the night where they were greeted by an ambulance and a thick coated secretary previously named Anthea waiting on the side. Mycroft was immediately put on a stretcher and rushed to the ambulance and it was during this time when he ex-army doctor took his cue. "I could help you."

Sherlock rounded on him and shook his head.

"I don't think that's the best idea." He said looking hesitant, even uncertain. "Mycroft's got special medical team for this kind of emergencies—"

"Usually your kind of emergencies—?" John said in understanding.

"Me kind of emergencies." Sherlock nodded, putting both hands inside his coat pocket and pressing his lips together. The two awkwardly stood there in the middle of the airport lights and Secret Service men in suit. Till John shrugged with a frown.

"I'll go home then?"

"To Rosy, yes."

"Why are you acting weird?"

It was Sherlock's turn to frown at him. "We just came out of a battlefield and my brother's drugged, of course I'd act weird." He paused, gave some consideration and added, "How weird?"

John chuckled. "Mycroft's going to be okay, if they can fix you so can they can help him. We're in London, stop getting fidgety, you're Sherlock Holmes." The doctor sighed after a while and turned a look towards the ambulance, "This is Mycroft's first time with an actual drug? That really is going to be painful."

"I can already imagine." Came Sherlock's grim voice.

And that was the last John saw of the Holmes brothers in the next two days that followed.

What he found next, was nothing short of horror.

When Sherlock didn't return for forty-eight hours, John took it up to himself to hail a cab and instruct it to head to Pall Mall where he knew the only place his friend would be—in Mycroft's house. He knew of Mycroft's condition, knew that Sherlock must've been preoccupied of subduing a relentless Mycroft Holmes in need of his fix. John felt sorry for Mycroft for this was something the older Holmes probably loathed the most— out of his own control and too actively in pain. John knew how destructive prohibited drugs could be, he's seen many people fall prey to it and never came back. But this was Mycroft, John hoped he would be okay. Mycroft was the smartest person he's ever known, and he hoped his genius would kick in on moments like this.

How very right he was, in a sense, because Mycroft remained the genius that he was, but not the genius he expected.

When he arrived at Pall Mall, John was surprised to find Mycroft's house nearly empty with only two guards at the main door and one at the hallway. There was scarcely any nurse, or housemaid for that matter. He was led inside the house by a quiet male secretary he's never seen before, and was directed at the library where he had to wait for a bloody Mr. Holmes to see him.

What the hell was that about?

A weary and ragged Sherlock came in after a few minutes in his buttoned white shirt and dark pants and John didn't need to do any deduction to know what was the matter.

"Is it bad?" he asked when they caught each other's eyes. Sherlock moved swiftly pass him without answering.

"It's beyond anything we can imagine." He said finally as he sat on one of the chairs across the doctor and put his face on his hands. John immediately sat near him with a very concerned expression on his features.

"Meaning what? What happened?"

Sherlock emerge from his hands and clasped them together, John easily noticed the dark linings under his eyes, nevertheless, the same eyes retained those usual inquisitive sparkle. "It's quite unique, terribly unique. My brother has become an enigma. Whereas you expected him to run amok, he retained a usual demeanor of calm—but it's not as simple. He refused everything. He refused doctors, he refused everyone and he's never even mentioned the drug. Tell me there are addicts like there with the same response?"

He looked at his friend who shook his head in confusion.

"I didn't think so. I think that's how he's trying to cope up with the addiction in his own way." He glanced at the doctor again whose mouth was hanging open. "On the first day of our return he was already suffering the withdrawal but he was ever quiet. Unlike what was expected, he didn't do anything. Just suffered in silence, a ridiculous action even for himself."

John blinked and somehow could just imagine Mycroft's innate stubbornness. How extraordinary…

"It was truly embarrassing." Sherlock admitted.

"Embarrassing?"

"It made me embarrass." Sherlock pointed out with furrowed brows. "But I myself can control my actions even under the influence—but to totally refuse to ask for the drug? I'm telling you—my brother has topped me with everything. He asked for sedative to calm himself, even said his brain would do the rest and just lay on the bed, in silence and let his body twist, turn and shiver. I've got the whole household get warmed up, even stacked him under a pile of bedsheet till he's comfortable. He was already feverish and delirious during the night and kept asking questions about mundane things."

"Mundane things like?"

"Unimportant— why nobody's mentioned Big Ben's late hand for 0.08 seconds, or if anyone's actually paying attention to our banknotes that has decreased in size since a year ago. Or the change of human's understanding of New Physics. Or why the Tories would bother when the Labour party will win in the next general election on 2030."

"He's making prediction now."

"Always accurate."

"He's really doing a good job if you ask me."

But a dark gloom shaded Sherlock's expression next. John was used to seeing the consulting detective fall in this kind of reverie, there were times that Sherlock would fall silent and be this way and John wouldn't have paid him any heed because that was Sherlock. He could bloody be thinking of stuffing a whole human's body in the fridge and find it would be with some difficulty. For such an expression to appear now worried the doctor.

"Sherlock?"

"He's gotten over the fever now. After two whole days." The consulting detective said with a pause, but there was really something in his eyes that couldn't quite express his meaning. "He's… not better, he barely had nourishments since the incident… but he's functioning."

"What did his doctor say?"

"Weren't you listening? He sent them all away, even the most trusted—"

"What?" John demanded, "You mean you've been taking care of him for days? Just you?"

"It's Mycroft. He doesn't make it easy for normal people—"

"Normal people or not everyone's got the same physiology, Jesus." John hastened to stand up. "Where is he?"

"I don't think that's a good idea." Sherlock said with such a regarding look at the doctor who eyed him back, "Listen… Mycroft is not the same. I told you he's become an enigma. When a person is overdosed with drugs, their senses get heightened, their emotions are erratic. My brother's display is different: it heightened every single cell of his mental faculties and that's all. That's what he's ever is. Imagine a heartless genius. A literal heartless genius, John. It makes the old Mycroft appear sweet. Didn't you notice the lack of nurses? Because Mycroft hates them all and made it known. He's grown to hate everyone's sight without prejudice. That's what he's become."

John shook his head. "I still don't understand. Where is he?"

Sherlock was watching him. "You're really very bad at listening.

"I heard you say I have a grumpy patient."

The consulting detective gave his friend a long look, followed by a slight smile that seemed new to his pale face. Then he stood up, leaving John to sigh quietly and be glad he was there at moments like this when Sherlock and Mycroft were both idiots.

Minutes later, they were both outside the older Holmes' room where Sherlock stopped, somewhat hesitant as he put a hand on the knob.

"It's not going to be easy." The younger Holmes said quietly with an eye to his friend. "Try not to let him get the best of you. And try not to punch him."

"Like I haven't got enough practice with you."

"Still… don't come too near."

"What? He's my bloody patient—"

The door was opened and John was met with a half-darkened room with all the curtains drawn, the fireside blazing at the heart of it all, and then the shadow of the bed where he could just outline a man's figure in a sitting position. John's eyes adjusted to the room as they entered and couldn't help gasping at how thin Mycroft had become. He felt Sherlock stood rigidly by the door and heard him close it.

"Mycroft," he said after a long pause, "You've got a visitor."

Mycroft gave no sign of noticing their presence. His appeared like a statue, immovable and firm. His head was towards the fireplace, his gauntness shown by its light. He looked at peace yet forbidding at the same time and John couldn't make anything out of him, but the way Sherlock regarded him made the doctor decide to tread lightly.

It was like entering a lion's den there and then.

"Hello, Mycroft." He began conversationally, walking in and trying to catch a glimpse of the man's face. "How are you feeling?"

"What is this?" came Mycroft's severe reply. "You really think a cripple's visit would make any difference?"

John blinked, surprised, as he stood his ground while Sherlock slowly walked near the bed. The older Holmes' voice was hoarse but very strong. He was steady and firm too despite the sudden decrease on his measure; the darkness surrounding his bed wasn't helping, not when his shadow casted by the fire looked truly ominous.

"He's here to check on you." Sherlock explained quietly. "He—"

Then came the storm—

"Can you never once in your life follow an order, you stupid man?" his tone was so harsh and full of vile acidity that got the doctor staring from one Holmes to the other. John was used with Mycroft's snappish way when there were only the three of them added with his overbearing formality but he's never seen him act this strange. John saw the older Holmes' bony left hand clutch on his bedsheet with rage, his expression threatening, "I don't need attention. Get your filth out this room."

John was thoroughly taken aback for a moment while Sherlock, having been with his brother for some time now, looked unaffected when such words would usually make the old Sherlock stomping out of the room.

"He can help you." The younger Holmes offered quietly.

"With what?"

"With your health. You must've realized you're deteriorating."

Mycroft fell silent only for a moment. Then John felt more than see, his eyes bore on him.

"But there's nothing in there, is it?" he began skeptically, his anger forgotten. "Just the mere sight of him… too shabby, too insignificant. He doesn't even begin to make of an object of interest. To be in the same house of a brainless cripple I'd rather curse myself to death. Get him out, the ordinary does not need to make their presence known." he turned his head to his brother again with asperity, "Who the hell is he to be in the same room as me?"

"He's John." Sherlock caught John's eyes and shook his head. "He's a doctor. And a friend."

"But that's your substandard isn't it? You've always wanted to be superior. But I must impose that no dim creatures be admitted in my damn room without my permission." Mycroft turned his gaze to John who saw his eyes—they were glinting darkly, wide, seeing and unblinking, unrecognizable. Like a blackhole sucking him to its oblivion—

John was not a cowardly man but before he knew it, he took a step back.

"Wise." Came Mycroft's cold tone, the glaze in his eyes not disappearing, "You come to help but you are no better than the others who came and tried. I don't seek medical attention, not from one who's delayed paying his bills because his pension could not afford it, what more with a child at hand and a single parent at that; a loser such as you—" he spat on the ground. "I shall die before I let you contaminate me with your filth!"

John clenched his jaw, his features changing abruptly but he stood his ground. This was not Mycroft speaking—

"Mycroft." Sherlock said through gritted teeth, but he was ignored as the older Holmes continued addressing his friend in such a manner no one has seen before.

"Come now, you don't need to hold back." It was a sneer only Mycroft was capable of, "The violent sort. The impatient, bored, dissatisfied fellow who couldn't even live a day without life on the line. Haven't you realized that's the very trait that got your life in this mess—? Humans who never cease to hope for the better even when they had no means to achieve it."

"Everyone is like that." Sherlock gave John a meaningful look.

"Stop deluding yourselves, humans are meant to be in constant flux yet, with your excuses and incapability, you found comfort in the norm that everyone is imperfect. Savage fools, the air you breathe shouldn't have been free—"

"Mycroft, enough." Sherlock sighed coaxingly as he finally reached the side of the bed where his older brother surveyed him with severity. John saw that Sherlock noticed the intermittent shaking of his brother's left hand and busied himself on the drawer next to him. "Just let him examine you. You have not seen a doctor since the first day when you told Dr. Smith he will have a heart attack in three days' time because of overwork."

"Yes, should have let him die." His eyes found John again and it glinted malevolently. "A creature of habit—38 years of age, an active medical man who takes breakfast at 10 am with black coffee he usually never finishes, sleeps no lesser than four hours—"

"Mycroft—"

"Oh, even your death is boring, doctor—old age."

"Calm down." For his shoulders were shuddering.

"And then there's you. The brother I never needed." Mycroft continued in complete vexation as John threw his friend a wary look. "Pray tell how much would it cost you to cover your expenses to be free from your influence? Because in all honesty you've been nothing but a burden to me, boy, ever since I laid eyes on you. Why I even bothered to concern myself with your defects, I couldn't even begin to understand. But since your only purpose of approaching me daily is to cover up for your misbehavior, I'd gladly bargain you a price. How much do you want?"

"I don't need your money."

"Of course you do. When you refuse to get boring cases to whom do you come to? It's always been me." Sherlock pressed his lips as Mycroft's glazed eyes remained blank. "Any amount? Just to save me the trouble of your incompetence I abhor."

John admired Sherlock's ability to endure for this was no easy fit. It was truly exhausting to be around a patient with such convulsive energy; be it verbal or not. With respect, John imitated his manner for there was a patient and a brother in desperate need of their help even when he was so cross about it. Somehow, John always knew Mycroft would be a very difficult patient in the future. Both the Holmes brothers actually.

"Just rest, Mycroft, and let him see you. You'll be better soon." The younger brother goaded.

"An amount, Sherlock!"

"It's nothing you can afford!" Sherlock's own eyes was glinting sharply now as the brothers were face to face. Mycroft was unaware of his brother's dilemma and went on in the same manner, his whole body shaking now— panic, like he was truly troubled—he was.

"Then since there's no exchange, how do I make you disappear? I hate the very sight of you, it reminds me of things in the past too unpleasant to recall—you and that malfunctioning sister. Everything a failure. It's not your characters that made you the way you are, it's the defect in your abilities. How you both held me back. Such a pity and troublesome— I will forever curse the day you both became my siblings. Till I die."

John saw Mycroft in another light— a crueler one. Mycroft was not one you would consider kind or considerate, but he's always been just and if he does commit error, he makes amends. This person in front of him was not Mycroft Holmes. It was a new person altogether with the same brain—

"Incompetent. Childish. It's always you whose causing me grief. Always you!" came the panic-stricken tone—

"Yes, it's always me." sighed the detective with controlled patience, putting gentle hands on his either side of his brother's shoulder and prod him to lay down the bed, "I won't do it again… just lay down and rest…"

Sherlock took something from the bedside table just as Mycroft followed his bidding and jabbed an injection on his arm. He continued muttering offensive remarks at his sibling, often his regrets. Till his voice died down as the effect of the medicine was instantaneous that John was able to come closer in time to see the older Holmes' eyes flutter and then close peacefully.

"Sedative?" he asked when he saw Sherlock put down the injection and see him nod. The doctor motioned for him to step away from the bed since the real doctor was in.

"How long has he been like this?" he checked Mycroft's pulse and pointed that he needed real lights. Sherlock turned it on for him and the dark veil covering the room was lifted. The room as very warm.

"Since this morning. He's been very abusive ever since he woke up. It must be his way of coping up with the withdrawal. He's using this rhetoric. He was much worse in the morning."

"Well, he is low blood." John took the stethoscope given to him by the detective and checked the man's chest. "He's barely got the energy to breathe, where'd he gotten all his energy speaking like that? You could have called a doctor when he's like this."

"I can't always sedate him." Sherlock murmured, falling on the comfortable chair beside the bed and putting his hand on his face again. "He can't rely on sedative. The only time I did use one heavy dose was when he threatened to throw himself off the window."

John's lips thinned as he buttoned Mycroft's sleeping dress and stared at his friend.

"It would help a lot if at least one of you is getting nourishment, you know."

"I'm fine."

"You're really not." John sighed and stepped in front of his friend. "You're not believing anything he's said, right? Whatever it was about not needing you… you know its' not him speaking right?"

"How is he?"

John gave way, "Undernourished. Still slightly feverish and he will remain like that if he doesn't get a proper meal. We need to get him some food. You know what comes after this, Sherlock. It's dangerous if his body cannot keep up."

What comes next, the doctor thought silently as he watched the detective. At this moment the drug was being torn from his body, what comes next will be the turning point on the road to recovery. But men were known to die from it. John didn't have to mention that. Sherlock obviously knew. With a tap on his shoulder, John prodded the detective to get some food while his brother was still sleeping and he will remain to watch over him. The detective obliged quietly and stood up, his head bow, his shoulders low, making him appear like a dejected creature. John heaved a sigh and pulled his eyes back to his patient.

How old was Mycroft? It seemed important now for the battle coming next. Does he have any medical history of heart disease? John slumped on the empty chair Sherlock just abandoned and pondered on these thoughts.

He would advise an ambulance. Yes, he should. He would make sure Mycroft had an IV drop just in case. It would have been dangerous too put it any later than this. John was glad he came.

Another night of spasms and twisting came, but this time John made sure Sherlock was not alone.


On the third day following the fever and open-hate delirium, Mycroft Holmes woke up, seemingly calm and with a normal temperature. Sherlock and John were both there when he did, and eyed the two with some mellow sleepiness.

"Sherlock?" was his first word in a feeble voice John hardly recognized as he too stood up. The younger Holmes approached the side of his bed. "Is it you, brothermine?"

"Mycroft." Was the gentle reply. "Yes, of course its me."

Mycroft blinked, his eyelids almost closing again while the doctor checked his pulse and temperature, curt his eyebrows before nodding at his best friend who drew a chair next to the bed.

"John says you're going to get better now."

Mycroft slightly opened his eyes and fixed it at his brother. "Oh?"

Sherlock eyed John, then to his brother he added, "Do you want to eat anything?"

Mycroft stared at him vacantly, and nodded all his energy obviously drained. When a tray of food was set in front of him however, he didn't even notice it. He fell asleep soon after, and did not wake up till later in the evening where he requested for water but ignored when given. Sherlock willingly took the glass of water and set it on the bedside table while his brother quietly sat there, not saying anything.

Sherlock called to him once, twice. No response came.

The fourth and fifth day were as uneventful with Mycroft indifferent to his surroundings and his meal that they decided to keep the IV fluid running, something which the older Holmes also seemed to fail to notice. His lack of enthusiasm was nothing new, but his complete obliviousness to everything was alarming. That afternoon, Sherlock pulled John near the fireside for a talk regarding this development.

"I don't like it." John admitted while Sherlock hang on his every word, "His pulse is very weak, but steady. He's obviously thrown off the drugs, but when lethargy is the problem—"

"Mycroft is lethargy— how is that a problem?"

"It's about the patience' spirit," John explained, finding it new to be the one Sherlock was consulting, "Some, after extreme undergoing to recovery are rob of the will to live and that's dangerous, Sherlock. But give him time… this ordeal was new to him. Let's just make sure he doesn't end up like—"

"Eurus." Sherlock breathed, remembering his unresponsive younger sister and pressed his eyes closed. John patted him on the back as a show of solidarity. The detective looked at him.

"I was going to say," the doctor said, "if Mycroft was ever interested in anything in this world, something that can pull him back to his senses, it's going to be you. Do you want to rehearse the clown again?"

Sherlock chuckled and gave his doctor a slight pat in the back.

Two weeks passed and Mycroft remained the listless patient that he is. Several doctors had come in for second opinion and they all had the same conclusion as John's: Mycroft was waned of his spirit to which only time could recuperate him. There were plenty of advises as to send him to an asylum for recovering patients, but Sherlock decided otherwise. Mycroft would never forgive him.

So there they stayed for weeks.

A night came when Sherlock woke up with John gone after deciding to stay a night with Rosamund that he found Mycroft's bed empty. Sherlock scanned the room, observed the bedsheet pulled side and the slippers gone, and immediately bolted up from the chair and out the door in great haste to search for his brother.


(Rest your eyes, listen to music, eat chips!)

Part III End of war


It was the violin that awoke him in the middle of his sleep. A sweet, melancholic sound of string that touches him to the core; something he has heard from somewhere a far. Something vividly strong and familiar. A kid with fluffy curly hair.

Oh yes, Sherlock.

He found himself watching that little fat boy that he is and that toddler, barely four years old running around cairns he put together around the lake. Him and his brother. It amused him how the little boy's laughter was contaminating.

He heard the door behind him opened, followed by a sigh of relief. Mycroft slowly closed his right hand and found it working despite some pain. That was the most important part. Pain.

"You're awake." Sherlock greeted him.

"I heard you." Mycroft croaked, as Sherlock closed the door behind him. "Your awful violin. I would always hear it." He paused. "Two weeks? Judging from the state of my wound, it's been that long." He raised his eyes to his screen. "How did we do?"

"You won." Sherlock said simply. "They were all taken…"

"Dozens died."

"All justified members of the gangs. No civilian casualties. You had them moved out before hand." Sherlock eyed his brother quietly. "Your influence sometimes still astounds me."

"You should never underestimate my heightened mental powers." Mycroft chuckled lightly. "As I didn't yours. Sherlock… my brother, I wouldn't have left you those clues if for a single moment I thought you couldn't handle the danger."

"I know." Sherlock approached his chair and stood behind him, his voice solemn. "I know."

Mycroft continued in a tone that suggested it was of utmost importance to be explained— "I never wanted to put you in any peril— no matter how you may think I enjoy it. I—many times in my mind I would convince you not to follow, but the you in my head would always have the same stubborn answer— my cynic mind would tell me it's a must to do—" Mycroft's voice cracked uncharacteristically, making Sherlock press his lips and reach a hand—stopped in midair—and then placed a hand on his brother's left shoulder quietly, to assure him he was never blamed. Mycroft was still in a vulnerable state. It was important that he was heard out before he secluded himself again.

"It's not your fault. It's what we do."

A brief silence fell.

"I… killed El Plaza… I suppose."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes."

Mycroft nodded too. "I'm glad I did." There was so much emotion in those words. "I wouldn't have forgiven myself if you did. I already used you enough."

"You didn't." Sherlock was now looking at the back of his brother's head. "It was all on my own accord. I would have shot him for your sake." It was important that Mycroft understands.

"Oh…" his voice faltered.

"Where is the treasure then?" Sherlock cleared his throat, just to change the subject.

"I already told you." Mycroft muttered quietly, now distracted. "I already sent you there to retrieve it, didn't I? In Newport, Cardiff? It was the nearest port for the cargo to be sent from Atlantic. The treasure was relocated there an hour after it was taken by my agents. I thought you would have—are you laughing?"

Because Sherlock Holmes was, and staggering at that. To think his brother really had thought of everything right after their rescue from the Park Plaza Hotel and in the middle of crisis because of his drug dosage! How the older Holmes managed to do that in a short time—fifteen minutes was all he needed! And what happens in fifteen minutes? Treasures relocated, civilians evacuated and deadly gangsters entrapped so it seems. And all because Mycroft.

So Sherlock laughed till his stomach ached while his brother remained sitting still and left him at his outbursts.

With teary eyes, Sherlock controlled his snigger and heaved a final sigh. It was good to laugh after a long time. It was so good. Mycroft had turned off the screen and turned his side table lamp on, shedding light into the multimedia room. The detective looked around as he got a hold of himself, and waited for his brother to speak.

He didn't. Sherlock saw him staring vacantly into space again.

"You should get back to bed." He suggested.

There was a silent sigh. "You don't get to patronize me, Sherlock."

"I already did. For two weeks." The younger Holmes pressed his lips closed but his silence was enough to make his brother give him an uncertain side glance.

"I seem to recall…" he started again, with the first expression of frown appearing on his face, "saying… a lot of things to you… and John. I can't… I wish I could tell you I don't remember them but I do. I…"

Sherlock shook his head. "It's alright."

"Apology should be in order… Sherlock I'm—"

"For godsake, go rest." The detective cut him short, suddenly finding energy to finally round the chair to face his brother and saw how pale his face was still looking, "You're apologizing, clearly you're still not right in the head." He looked him in the eye, took his left hand, checked his pulse and nodded. "Yep, to bed with you."

Mycroft pulled his hand back slowly and stared at his brother with a weary smile.

"Well, at least… thank you for taking care of me."

Sherlock's eyes flashed—and in those seconds he remembered everything Mycroft had done for him from the moment he realized there was a strong presence protecting him as a child, a character shielding him from everything, teaching him as a mentor, an absolute guide and guardian who was ever a huge part of his childhood, never leaving even in his most difficult trials; always there to a point that he learned not to fear anything; someone he truly trusted so naturally, someone his very instincts would recall in times of danger, the only person he ever whole heartedly relied on— his older brother—

"You don't get to say that." Sherlock said somberly, his hands closing tight, "You of all people… don't get to thank me. I should be… Mycroft, for godsake, we're brothers. That's all you needed to remember."

He thought he saw his brother's eyes moisten but it disappeared the moment he blinked.

He wished Mycroft would remember that as he helped his brother up and lead him back to his bed in silence. But then again, as Sherlock sat slowly down the comfortable chair he had been sleeping on, a sudden thought occurred to him. Mycroft never really forgets anything. His memory was glued the moment his mind was set to an event, be it under drug dosages or life and death situations. His memory was something he trusted. He was sure they would talk about this someday, but given his older brother's annoying character when he was well, it would surely take a long time to be discussed. They never did.

The next morning, Mycroft Holmes was unable to function again. His lapses on response and inability to recognize his surrounding hampered his being that three days later, Sherlock was forced to agree to send him to the hospital. There he found from a number of tests and brain scans that Fentanyl was much more destructive than they thought and its withdrawal doesn't necessarily mean the patient's recovery. The drug was a hundred times more powerful than any other drug as it affects the nervous system the most. It could heighten the senses as much as it could damage. What would be left of its user after consecutive dosage for three days?

"Paralysis. Death." Confirmed one doctor.

Mycroft was given the drugs for almost 32 hours. He never came back after that night that would be considered the brother's last active conversation. Sherlock had to inform his parents of this sad development after some persuading from John who told him his parents ought to know no matter how much it breaks them. Because if he didn't, would Sherlock be able to handle the matter by himself?

"My brother did with Eurus."

"You're not your brother." Was all John had to say.

Sherlock stayed in his brother's multimedia room for a whole day after Mycroft was taken to the asylum. He received a lot of calls of inquiry, especially from high officials of the government but he ignored them all. There were plenty of cases ringing on his doorstep in 221B but he's thrown them aside. He needed silence, he needed his mind palace.

What would Mycroft do?

"It's all up to me, isn't it?" said the Mycroft in his head. "I won the battle but lost the war. Stop pestering me and get on with your life."

So much like Mycroft. Sherlock pressed his hands on his temple with a loud sigh. How did things end up this way?

"Sherlock?" came John's voice from the doorway. The detective didn't have to look up. "Sherlock, we have to go, they're waiting."

There was no response. John Watson paused by the doorway and lingered there, watching his best friend with his head bowed and hands on his face. The doctor wanted to say a lot of things but didn't. It was not what Sherlock needed, not when he never looked so alone yet not wanting company at the same time.

"I'll… wait for you outside." The door closed.

And Sherlock raised his head, his eyes glinting darkly. He knew the thought that crossed John's head just now—alone.

Alone protects me. That was what Sherlock remembered saying but there was never a truth in that. He was never alone back then. Except now when he felt much more than see how truly alone he was.

But never protected.

And it confused him.

"Well now," came Mycroft's voice again, "You have to do something about that. Don't make me come out there and scold you, brothermine."

By all means. Sherlock countered and couldn't help beating himself at his lost as he shielded his eyes with his palm.

If only things ended differently… if only… but as hard as it was to admit, Sherlock and Mycroft both lost the battle like many soldiers do when it was uncontrollable. Terrible sacrifices amidst victory that takes the greatest of men, in this case Sherlock's confidant and shelter; the one and only irreplaceable person who can ever be entitled, despite his faults, to be called 'older brother'. The man who sacrificed many things and received so little.

Sherlock tried to elude the facts but John's voice wouldn't let him.

It is what it is.


-The End-


A/N: ;( We win as much as we lose.

Thanks to everyone whose reached this final chapter!

It is what it is.

But we must remain hopeful for the future!

Thank you for the unending support to all my titled fanfics from the very beginning (which I own nothing!)

This may very well be one of the last (unless season 5!)

So I'll leave this here, to the fandom and readers :)

Once again, thank you so much!

Thanks for reading! ^_^

~W.G~

and now...


Epilogue


Sherlock's eyes opened wide as he remembered Mycroft's words during the night of their last conversation.

"Your awful violin. I would always hear it."

A moment passed, then the detective rushed out of the room, into Mycroft's bedroom where he had left his violin after playing it for him nights ago— he found it there, just as he left it. He never felt his hand shake that much when he took it. And he came out of the house with more determination that he had ever felt.

Time to awaken the sleeping dragon he never meant to leave alone because that's what pirates do—chase after and hold on to their treasures. And this time, he will hold on tight.

Years later as Sherlock remembered this event, he assured everyone that his violin never failed him as it proved, Mycroft still calls it awful.


*Thank you :)