Sold. His brother had been sold by these barbaric fools calling themselves men of learning.

He would have him back. If he had been further harmed…the blood of his ancestors sang of vengeance. He ruthlessly controlled the impulse to violence. Controlled, but did not release it. He held it close, a burning ember in his chest, almost hot enough to burn away the fear. He would have his brother back.

…

"Doctor John H. Watson," a sardonic voice announced.

I looked up sharply in alarm, reaching for the gun I wasn't carrying.

A tall man stood in my sitting room, the revolver in his hand trained on me and a look in his eyes that chilled me to the bone. I had seen that look often enough in war to know it intimately: the desire for blood.

Unarmed and too far from him for my fists to do any good, I watched him warily, hands loose at my sides. "Yes, I am. What can I do for you?" I asked mildly, hoping my even tone would keep the gunman calm while my mind searched for a way out of the mortal peril I sensed from him.

The man examined me coldly as he crossed the room and firmly closed the sitting room door, carefully keeping a couple of paces between us. "You can tell me the location of the man calling himself Sherlock Holmes," he ordered icily, his grip worryingly tight on the gun scant feet from me.

Dread filled me. He was after Sherlock. I cursed my inability to lie convincingly, for he instantly read something in my face, his cold gaze sharpening. "We have reason to believe you are aware of his whereabouts."

"I'm afraid I don't know anyone by that name," I answered, keeping my face carefully blank. I would do nothing to betray my friend's hard-won safety. I would never see him sent back to the inhuman treatment he had received before our meeting.

The gunman's eyes narrowed. "I have orders to take him into custody. You will turn over to me the man called Sherlock Holmes or any information you have on his location."

"Regrettably, I cannot," I said firmly. Over my dead body, I thought savagely, aware too late that I had failed to hide the fire in my eyes.

He suddenly stepped forward menacingly, bringing the gun up to aim at my head, anger darkening his features. "I know you have him. I know what you paid for him. You will turn him over to me immediately, or I will kill you and tear apart every place and everyone you have associated with to find him," he snarled.

I gave him a hard smile and held his gaze unflinching. If he was going to kill me, as seemed rather likely, he was going to do so knowing he had failed to elicit enough fear to force my betrayal of Sherlock.

The front door banged open downstairs, and a rapid tread ascended the stairs.

"Watson!" the voice hollered enthusiastically.

The gunman looked sharply toward the door.

I took a step forward, alarmed at Sherlock walking into this danger.

The gunman's sharp gaze and deftly aimed pistol stopped me once more.

"Watson!" Sherlock repeated, bursting through the door.

I took that moment of distraction to try and wrest the pistol away from the gunman, but he was lightning quick, and for a moment we began to grapple over the gun.

Sherlock leapt forward, hand darting out to touch the man's shoulder, and he dropped like a stone. "Watson!" he shouted, hand out in a command to stop, as I was startled to suddenly find myself holding the weapon and looking down at the unconscious intruder.

Nervously smoothing his hair back into place, Sherlock nodded at the man sprawled on our floor. "Watson, this rather overprotective fellow is my brother."

"Your brother! Then why…" I gestured to the unconscious man at our feet.

"It seemed the most expedient method to prevent the two of you shooting one another," Sherlock said drily.

I stared at the man. "He implied he was an agent, here to take you into custody."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "An unfortunate choice of cover identity," he said. "All will be put right when he wakes."

He looked at me, concerned. "You are not hurt?" he asked solicitously.

I shook my head. "No, no I'm perfectly fine. Only a bit rattled to have an armed man appear in our sitting room demanding your whereabouts." I considered for a moment. "If he's been tracking you, I think I may be lucky he didn't shoot me on sight."

Sherlock hummed his agreement, and then a mischievous sparkle came into his eyes. After arranging his brother, Mycroft, in a more comfortable position on our sitting room couch, he perched himself in his brother's line of site in his favorite armchair. His gesture invited me to join him, and we passed some pleasant minutes conversing and smoking quietly before the fire, as had become our evening habit.

By the time Mycroft began to stir, my nerves were quite restored, and I was happy to join Sherlock in his little game. I listened attentively to the mystery he was unravelling, captivated by the story and his graceful gestures and the light in his eyes. When I remembered to glance at our guest again, I found his eyes open, watching us with the most baffled expression on his face.

I choked a laugh, unfortunately interrupting Sherlock's tale.

"What? Ah, Mycroft, good of you to join us," he turned to his brother.

The large man rose from the couch, eyes fixed on his brother. "Sherlock," he breathed.

I saw the teasing glint in my friend's eye soften. "I am well, Mycroft," he assured his brother, "Though do avoid shooting my flat-mate in the future if you please," he added. "I've become rather fond of him."

"Likewise," I said to Sherlock with a smile.

"My apologies," Mycroft said slowly, assessing gaze darting between the two of us.

"A reasonable misunderstanding, given how Sherlock and I met. I tend to be a bit protective of him myself." I offered my hand. "John Watson."

"Mycroft," he said, shaking my hand slowly.

I let my grip linger, suspecting he would wish to ascertain all he could about my character from the contact. I saw his eyes widen when he recognized what I was doing, and he loosened his grip. Keeping his gaze, I withdrew my hand slightly, offering my upturned palm, as I had learned from Sherlock that fingertips seemed the more effective contact point for reading my emotions and, as he had put it, 'surface thoughts.'

Mycroft's surprised gaze darted from my face to my offered hand. "If I may," he said hesitantly, and I got the sudden impression that Sherlock had perhaps been freer with this method of communication than was strictly proper. I didn't mind, considering the circumstances of our meeting and the degree of reassurance he had needed after what had been done to him.

"I'm asking for a great deal of trust," I said, nodding and extending my hand. "Please."

Mycroft laid his fingertips over mine, closing his eyes for a couple of silent minutes. Then he withdrew his hand. "Thank you," he murmured.

Sherlock met his brother's gaze with a smugly pleased look.