Shattered Composure

A/N: This came to me last night and I had to get it out, so here it is, my first Sherlock Fanfic! I hope y'all like this idea!

Disclaimer: I own nothing, but the love of writing! Enjoy!


The sun shone through the open window of 221B, as Sherlock Holmes paced back and forth with his hands behind his back. Across the room sat John Watson, sipping his tea and reading the morning paper quietly. Miss Hudson, the sweet landlady, was busy in Sherlock's messy kitchen dusting off random containers with odd parts inside. Everything was peaceful until it wasn't…

The sound of the downstairs front door slamming open, pulled the three companions out of their peace and quiet. They listened as heavy and almost laboured footsteps made their way up the stairs. Then the door to the small apartment room opened to reveal Mycroft Holmes, all tall and imposing as he stumbled in and suddenly fell to his knees and passed out.

John immediately jumped to his feet and ran over to Mycroft's passed out form. He checked his pulse, which was beating pretty fast, then flipped him over onto his stomach to check his back. What he found made his heart sink. Mycroft had four gunshot wounds in his back and they were bleeding pretty badly. John suddenly went into his doctor mode.

"Miss Hudson, I need towels now! We need to stop his bleeding!" John barked the order out without missing a beat, then he turned to Sherlock's shocked form.

"Sherlock, I need you to focus! We need to get your brother onto the couch, so I can fix his wounds. Help me lift him." John said, grabbing Mycroft's arms and waiting for Sherlock's help.

Sherlock shook his head and hurried over to help lift his brothers still passed out form. After much effort, they finally laid Mycroft on the couch with his body turned on his stomach.

Miss Hudson finally returned with two towels and handed them to John, who set them aside for later. First they had to pull off Mycroft's Suit jacket and shirt in order to get to his wounds. Once that task was done, next came the hard part, cleaning the wound. John took out the alcohol from his med kit and put some onto one of the towels. Then with steady hands, he began to clean the first bullet hole.

The first contact with the alcohol and towel sent a sudden tremor through Mycroft's body, and then, suddenly, he stirred. With a groan of discomfort, Mycroft's eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused. Panic set into his features, as he registered the pain. His groans soon escalated into sharp cries.

"No!" Mycroft rasped, his voice hoarse and stained as he attempted to move away from John's hands.

"Mycroft, don't move!" John said firmly, pressing him back down.

Mycroft's panic grew. His eyes, wild, as he thrashed weakly against John's grip. Each movement sent fresh waves of pain through him, causing his cries to grow louder.

Sherlock suddenly jumped forwards and held his brothers thrashing shoulders down. "You're only making this worse - Mycroft please, stay still!"

As Mycroft continued to struggle, Miss Hudson finally jumped in as well, holding his kicking legs down. "Please, ! You're only hurting yourself by moving!" She said, trying her best to hold his kicking legs down.

Mycroft's muscles flexed and tensed as he fought against them, his strength startling in his weakened state. The cries of pain that escaped him were raw, gut-wrenching, and filled the room with an unbearable tension. John worked as quickly and carefully as he could, pulling tweezers from his kit and beginning the delicate process of extracting the bullets.

The first bullet came free with a sickening sound, Mycroft's body arching in agony.

"Hold him down! John barked out, straining to see the next bullet as Mycroft moved again.

Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson redoubled their efforts, their combined strength barely enough to keep Mycroft from thrashing. The sheer force of his movements left them stunned.

"Why is he so strong!? Shouldn't he be weak right now?" Sherlock asked in shock, trying his best to hold his panicking elder brother down.

"It's the adrenaline! It does that to the body when they're in pain!" John replied, quickly removing the third bullet.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the last bullet was removed. Mycroft's body slumped, his strength finally giving way to exhaustion. His breathing was shallow but steady, and his eyes drifted closed, the panic receding as his consciousness faded once more.

The End