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“Now listen to me. There’s an underground terrorist network active in London and a massive attack is imminent. Sorry, but the holiday is over, brother dear.” Mycroft hissed in his brother’s ear before dropping his grip.
“Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes.”
Standing straight up Mycroft began scanning for a key that the dimwitted henchman must of left behind when he ran off to find his cheating wife. Before he could look too much further he heard tinkling of keys behind him.
“You!” the henchman cried, “What are you doing?!”
“Ahh, just giving the prisoner, a taste of what will happen if he doesn’t cooperate.” Mycroft spoke smoothly in his newly learned Serbian.
“Right, well want a go?” the sweaty man asked. Mycroft eyed the object hiding as much disgust as he muster. He abhorred leg work, and he knew at this moment he was going to have to use his years of training to save his brothers hide.
“Oh please, I’ve been waiting to do this since you brought this cretin in”
Mycroft took the weapon from the Serbian’s hand and began to wield it around. He moved around looking as if to decipher the best spot to strike the prisoner. The henchman smiled hoping for maximum pain, but it was a split second later he saw stars. A crack that would make anyone’s stomach sick. He fell to the ground, “Idiot” Mycroft stated before turning to his brother.
“Hmmm” Sherlock groaned, he was of little help now especially chained up and bleeding.
“Hold on, Brother” Mycroft said as ventured off to the entrance. Sherlock heard another crack, and the young guard was knocked unconscious.
“Anymore I should worry about?” Mycroft called out before he turned to see a giant man looking at him.
“You!” he cried out in Serbian, “You traitor!”
Mycroft swiftly dodged the punches thrown and agilely dispatched the man with a few hits to the body that rendered a man defenseless. Wiping his forehead of sweat he rolled his eyes, this was why he hated legwork. One had to deal with, people.
He locked the door, and walked back to the first man he dispatched. He grabbed the keys and unlocked Sherlock’s arms. Sherlock collapsed onto his brother, bleeding profusely. Mycroft looked down at the borrowed uniform and was glad it wasn’t a bespoke Saville row suit that he usually donned. Luckily for Sherlock, the henchman avoided his lovely cheekbones, but instead focused on his chins and bow lips. They were bleeding and beginning to puff up.
“Sherlock” Mycroft said sharply at first while he tried to bring him to his feet. But Sherlock was too weak to stand. Mycroft’s usual steel demeanor cracked slightly, “Brother, you need to stand, I can’t do this alone!” Only a slight hint of panic was detected in Mycroft’s voice.
“Mycroft…” Sherlock uttered quietly before he fully passed out.
“Sherlock!” Mycroft said loudly, knowing fully well this wasn’t the best idea. He felt Sherlock’s pulse and it was there, faint but definitely still pumping. He set Sherlock down on the chair he was occupying earlier and dialed Anthea on his phone.
“Sir?”
“It’s done.”
“Very well…” she paused for a moment, “a helicopter is dispatched and will be there in under two minute”
“Very good” he responded and then coughed.
“Sir?” she asked.
“Get Molly Hooper up. Take her to the location, tell her to bring her medical kit”
“Sir, we can get one of our doctors there.”
“No! Do as I say, I will be outside when the helicopter gets here.”
“Yes, sir” Anthea said before disconnecting the line and the service. Mycroft slammed the phone down onto the concrete and stomped on it. He had to make sure the SIM card was fully destroyed. He then lit it on fire for a final effect.
Looking over at his brother who still was unconscious, he took a deep breath. He rarely was this involved in a mission, but his brother called. Mycroft couldn’t think of the last time he had said no to his little brother, and meant it. It had have been during his drug phase. He said no to adding money to his trust. It may have been the best thing he had done. Soon after he refused, his brother got clean and found a flatmate. The man who saved his little brother’s life, John Watson. Mycroft knew, that as much as he loved his little brother, John Watson was the man who saved him. After John, Sherlock seemed to awaken again. He was that same little boy who used to play pirates in the backyard with their family dog, Red Beard. The man had become someone completely new. He had friends. He cared. He loved, and he was loved.
“Here we go little brother” Mycroft said softly as he lifted Sherlock’s arm around his neck, and he started to drag him out of the bunker. He heard the helicopters overhead and knew that it was safe.