A/N I am so, so sorry I haven't updated in months. Life has been unbelievably busy (going back to school, new job, etc), and my Sherlock muse is kind of...dead, unfortunately. Hopefully it'll be back soon, but in the meantime, enjoy!

"Sherlock, must you play with everything you see?" Mycroft asked as his brother picked up the only paperweight on Mycroft's desk and started playing with it.

Sherlock put it down with a pout, "Why do you even have it anyway? There aren't any papers on your desk."

"Well, of course not," Mycroft said. "Do you think I want my office to look like your flat, with clutter everywhere? How is anyone supposed to work like that?"

John laughed quietly into his hand and both Sherlock and Mycroft looked over at him. "Ah, sorry," he said.

Mycroft turned his attention back to his brother. "Here is the file, Sherlock. Now, Wyle is an extremely dangerous foreign agent. All I need you to do is place the incriminating information in his desk drawer and leave. Nothing else. Do you understand me, Sherlock?"

"Yes, Dad," Sherlock said, snatching the file out of Mycroft's hand.

"Just so we're clear," John said, raising a hand, "this is breaking and entering. Not to mention planting evidence."

"Of course it is, John," Sherlock said, getting up and throwing his scarf around his neck. "Do you have a problem with that?"

"No, no, just making sure we're clear," John said. Mycroft watched interestedly. He knew he could trust Sherlock, however...chaotic his methods, but he hadn't expected the new flatmate to come along. Not that he objected to John Watson's presence. Sherlock would still get the job done, and it would be an interesting experiment to see how far this new friend of his brother's was willing to go.

"It is, unfortunately, the only way to get him out of the country before something truly disastrous happens," Mycroft said by way of explanation. John nodded, and he could tell the former soldier resisted the urge to salute as he left. Mycroft smiled. He had that effect on people.

Mycroft stayed at his desk late that night, a somewhat unusual occurrence. He had some paperwork to do about the situation in Uganda, which is what he was occupied with when his phone rang.

Mycroft sighed; he bitterly resented any change to his routine and someone calling this late was out of the ordinary in the extreme. "Hello?" he said.

"Mycroft?" John Watson's panicked voice filled the other end of the phone. "What the hell have you sent us into?"

"John, what is it?" Mycroft asked calmly, signing the last page with a flourish. Done. The simple joy of a day's work well done.

"They were expecting us!" John yelled. "The alarm code had been changed and it was like they all came out of the bloody walls!"

A cold, sick feeling took its place in Mycroft's stomach, eradicating his earlier satisfaction, "John, how did you get this number?"

"It's in his phone - Sherlock's phone," John said, his voice shaking. "We tried to get out, he pushed me down but he wasn't fast enough."

"John, is he alive?" Mycroft asked, a steel even he barely knew he possessed entering his voice. He was already thinking of the number of ways this could end, and none of them were good. Either for the country or his brother.

"Yes, yes," John finally said. "But there's a lot of blood and he lost consciousness right away. I managed to carry him out to the street, and the ambulance is on its way."

Mycroft paused a moment, his mind filled with images of John carrying Sherlock's tall, limp form out of the building while firing shots at the bodyguards who had been waiting for them. Quite the hero. He shook his head - where had those fanciful images come from? - and said, "The nearest hospital to where you are is Charing Cross. Tell the ambulance to take you there. I'll meet you there." He hung up without waiting for John's reply, grabbing his coat.

John was sitting in the reception area when Mycroft arrived. "He's in surgery," the younger man said without preamble. "I managed to slow the bleeding but he still lost a lot of blood. Here's your damn file." He threw the file at Mycroft's feet and sat down angrily.

"John, I understand you've been through a lot of stress," Mycroft started, "But I need-"

John started to laugh mirthlessly, "Oh, yeah, a lot of stress. I only just watched my friend get shot multiple times because his brother sent him to do his dirty work."

"John-"

"And I know we agreed to it, but honestly, Sherlock would agree to have a hornet's nest built around him if it meant he'd never get bored, and-"

"John!" Mycroft said sharply. He lowered his tone when John looked at him. "I need to know exactly what happened. Did any of them get a good look at you?"

"No, I don't think so," John said heavily, seemingly exhausted by stress and worry. "We were wearing these." He pulled a black ski mask out of his pocket.

Mycroft sighed, running a hand over his forehead, "Well, that's a relief. It would have required you both to have round the clock protection. The paperwork would have been staggering." His mind was racing, figuring out how to deal with the minutiae that would arise from this mess of a job. He knew he shouldn't have agreed to do this; this was why he so rarely did favors for any other department. They were all so incompetent, and in his line of work it usually got people killed.

John stared openly at Mycroft, "That's really all you care about, isn't it?"

Mycroft was about to answer when a doctor came out of the nearest door. "Are either of you here for Sherlock Holmes?" she asked.

"Yes, we, uh, both are," John said, getting up.

The doctor smiled, "Well, then, I'm glad to tell you he'll be just fine. We managed to get all the bullets out and patch him up. He should be fine after a couple of weeks of bed rest."

Bullets? How many were there? Mycroft wondered, but then he saw John's weak smile of relief and the the second part of the doctor's statement sank in. Sherlock would be fine.

"Thank you, Doctor," Mycroft said, covering for John who had sat down, sighing in relief as the shock kicked in. If he were a different sort of man, Mycroft might have placed a comforting hand on John's shoulder but, well, he wasn't a very comforting person, and so he simply looked expectantly at the doctor.

"Don't thank me," she said. "I only finished the job. Whoever kept him from bleeding out is the real hero. I wouldn't have been able to do a thing with him otherwise." She handed them Sherlock's room assignment, and left.

"John," Mycroft said.

"What?" John asked acidly. "Got another assignment for us? Because I don't think he's gonna be up for it yet."

"Thank you," Mycroft said quietly, not looking John in the eye.

John's brows furrowed, confused, "What?"

Mycroft nodded toward the door the doctor had left through. "She said he wouldn't have made it if you hadn't kept him from bleeding out. Thank you."

John blinked, taken aback, "I, er, you're welcome."

"It isn't only the mission I care about, John," Mycroft said quietly as he left. Sherlock wouldn't want to see him anyway. But, he had learned how far John Watson was willing to go.

The next day, Mycroft brought the folder over to Derek Hilt, Head of the Foreign Office.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes," Hilt said. His face fell when he saw what Mycroft was holding. "You didn't plant it? You knew that was the only way of catching him!"

Mycroft slammed the file down on Hilt's desk. "They were nearly caught. My brother is in the hospital right now with multiple gunshot wounds because of this mission." His voice took on deadly quiet, the one that let his staff know to avoid him until further notice.

"Mr. Holmes, I'm, uh, sorry," Hilt stammered under the force of Mycroft's glare.

"No, you're not, you're just scared," Mycroft said, switching instantaneously to a pleasant tone, enjoying the effect of Hilt visibly losing his confidence. "And you should be."

"You're not gonna do anything, are you?" Hilt asked, his voice shaking. Mycroft could almost see him thinking: maybe all those stories about Mycroft Holmes were true after all.

"No," Mycroft said, making sure he sounded regretful. "He will live, since you didn't ask."

"Well, that's good," Hilt said, laughing nervously. "Next time I'll-"

"There won't be a next time, Mr. Hilt," Mycroft said as he left.

Ten months later, when it came time to evaluate government performance, Derek Hilt found himself removed from his position and sent to the Orkneys to oversee the post offices. Mycroft smiled to himself as he signed the order.

He so rarely had the chance to have fun with his position, after all.