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They should have known the situation they were in would turn to shit. Of course it would. Mycroft had contacted Sherlock with an urgent case involving a kidnapped daughter of a woman high-up in the Secret Service. Mycroft had insisted on coming with them, to John’s bewilderment. Apparently MI6 had been hunting down the kidnappers' hideout for years, and this was the perfect opportunity. The kidnappers weren’t smart by any means, but they hungered for money and were extortionists. Stupid and dangerous was not a good combination. They had found the location. Gotten themselves ‘captured’. They, however, had not expected how severely injured their victim was.
They found themselves dragged into an underground jail cell. And in the middle of the room, sprawled over the floor in a small pool of blood, was their victim. Sarah Halstead. She would have appeared dead if not for the miniscule rise and fall of her chest. She was a barely conscious, bleeding 14-year old. Contusions covered almost every inch of her skin. John was immediately beside the girl, examining her. A crappy bandage was wrapped around her torso and it was soaked through with blood.
“Sarah? Sarah!”
The girl sobbed, opening her eyes. “...H…help. Please.”
“We’re here. Just stay with us, okay?’
The girl only groaned.
“She has a stab wound on her side. She’s losing too much blood. Thready pulse.”
“This plan of yours better work, Sherlock.” Mycroft said as John continued hastily examining the girl. Mycroft didn’t look fazed, only vaguely annoyed.
“Won’t matter now considering your victim’s two hair’s away being in the grave.” Sherlock pointed out. He was clearly annoyed. “I can’t believe we’re counting on your hidden GPS tracker. Is your team even going to arrive?”
“Of course they are. We’re not the Commonwealth.”
“We don’t even have any medical supplies.”
“Yes, we do.” John took off his thick jacket, unearthing a belt of medical supplies attached to its lining. He rapidly chose his equipment.
“How did you think of that?”
“I was a soldier, Sherlock.”
“A doctor.”
“An army doctor. You won’t believe the kind of crap we have to go through to save lives. Sherlock, do you know how long before the kidnappers return?”
“Twenty-five minutes and 52 seconds,” Mycroft answered without missing a beat. “Judging by the minute their Ford Transit left the pavement.”
“How did you--oh, nevermind.” John was trying to stop the blood flow with new gauze, but it wasn’t working. “She’s going to faint at this rate. Judging by her pulse and colour, she’s lost more blood before this. The problem is, we have no way of knowing for sure what had happened to her if she isn't conscious enough.”
Mycroft stepped near John and took one sweeping look over her.
"Approximately two hours and ten minutes ago, she was stabbed at the right side with a 14-inch daggger, judging from the size of the cut and colour of blood. There is most probably internal bleeding on her torso, and by the pattern of the contusions she was kicked with enough force for at least twenty times. The lacerations around her neck and its faded colour and textured imprints means she had been binded by a polypropylene rope and tried to break free. The bandage they threw around her was not to help her, it was to ensure she stayed alive long enough to be a bargaining chip, which explains why the bandage is soaked through. There was no pressure on it. Her right arm is also fractured in two places at the wrist and elbow from being slammed to a pillar."
John's jaw bobbed open and close like a stunned goldfish. For a minute he couldn't speak. "H-H-How..how did you know that?"
"I've seen cases like this before, John."
"You have?"
"Contrary to popular belief, I don't just lounge in my office and whirl around on a roller chair."
John flushed betroot. Of course, he had assumed Mycroft was exactly the sort. But it was the way Mycroft said it that made John realise the difference between the two brothers. Sherlock thrived on dangerous cases and interesting scenes. Blood. Threat. He would ramble on and boast about his deductions like an overzealous scientist, relishing in the attention and sense of being right. Mycroft, on the other hand, was the polar opposite. Every deduction he said sounded clinical, factual, and detached, as if he had experienced it many, many times before. Not to the point of being icily cold, but detached because he had to be. It strangely reminded John of the higher-up doctors he had in the army as a trainee, the way they recounted the horrors of war without even a bat of an eyelid. One sounded cold not because they were but because they had to be. Sherlock, while intelligent had probably not been exposed enough to sound detached. Any human knew that was a way to survive. In war, if you bled too much into the emotions, you would practically lose your mind. If Sherlock had seen too little, maybe Mycroft had seen too much? No wonder John sometimes sympathised with Mycroft, as much as he disliked the mysterious man. Slightly ashamed of his assumptions, John forced himself to focus back on the issue and checked her one more time. He was rendered speechless. Every single deduction Mycroft had made had hit the nail on the spot.
“Great...great work, Mycroft. She does need emergency blood transfusion, or she’ll die.”
“In case you aren’t aware, John, we’re trapped in a jail cell.” Sherlock said. “Mycroft, this has been the stupidest mistake I’ve probably seen you make. This isn't like you.”
John shot him a warning glare. “Sherlock. Cut it out.”
Sherlock pressed on, sneering, “That’s why you’re even with us doing legwork, right? You said she was the daughter of someone high-up. My guess is you or your team of minions were bartering with the kidnappers but something went wrong in the process. Someone from your team probably desperate to get recognition leaked information to use the girl as a lure without your knowledge and it went south. You wouldn't even come on normal cases or bother yourself with us."
"Sherlock, quit being a twat. What's wrong with you?"
"Oh, come on!" Sherlock exploded. "Mycroft's always been on my arse everytime I screwed up since I was little. Now it's his turn to fuck up and he won't even admit it." He pointedly glared at Mycroft. "The only other posibility for you to be here and risk your life is that you somehow care for this girl, which I think is as possible as winning the lottery because A. You're a cold-hearted bastard and B. Your team used her as a dangling fish bait.”
"Sherlock. I really want to punch you right now. Take a walk." John growled.
Mycroft’s eye twitched.
“I do not care what happens to her,” Mycroft answered. I care about extricating her out of this cell and getting the kidnappers captured.”
“Of course you don't care," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "This isn't about the victim. It's about your reputation. And you don't usually use the word extricating unless you’re in deep shit.”
“Might I remind you of your last disastrous case? Which I had to save you from said 'deep shit'?”
“At least I don’t use a young civillian as bait. You’re more ruthless than I thought.”
Something flashed angrily in Mycroft’s eyes. “He did it without our knowledge.”
“Boys, shut up!”
John had his doctor mode on. Sarah had turned white as paper. No matter how much John pressed against the wound, blood still ebbed out. There was no other way unless...
He gently shook her awake.
“Sarah? I need you to tell me what blood type you are.”
The girl groaned. “A…B positive.”
John resisted a curse. “I’m not a match.”
Sherlock gaped. “John, you can’t transfuse blood here. This cell looks like it holds about a thousand diseases in its grimy walls.”
Before John could reply, Sarah’s eyes rolled back and she fainted.
“Sarah?! Sarah! Damn it! She needs blood. She's losing too much."
Sherlock seemed to have dropped the fight, coming back into reality. “She needs the hospital.”
“We can’t go anywhere! Mycroft, how long before your people track us down?”
Mycroft checked his watch. “Fourteen minutes and 12 seconds.”
“She’ll die before that.”
Sherlock frowned. “Well none of us are a match. You must have another solution, John. You're the doctor.”
“Take my blood.” Mycroft suddenly said. Both snapped their heads at him as if he had grown three heads. He looked vaguely annoyed but extended out an arm already. “Hurry up. I’m AB.”
“A-Are you sure?”
“I don’t do things I’m not sure of, John.”
“John, this really doesn’t sound very safe.” Sherlock said.
“I get tested regularly as part of my job,” Mycroft answered dryly. “Either she gets the blood or dies. You’re an A neg, Dr. Watson’s a B neg.”
“I’m not even going to ask you how you knew mine.” John took out a tube and needle. “Mycroft, you’d better be sure. Sherlock, monitor her pulse.”
He steadied the needle on Mycroft’s arm, looked at him one last time for confirmation, and inserted the needle and began the process. Sherlock pressed his fingers on her neck.
“BP 65 over 40,” Sherlock observed.
Mycroft rolled up his sleeve and watched as the needle slid in emotionlessly into his vein, as if he had done it hundreds of times. John didn’t know why it surprised him; some patients were terrified of needles and he had thought Mycroft was the kind who squirmed at blood or pain. But the man looked at the needle and even clenched his fists to produce a better vein like he had experience. They watched as fresh, dark crimson blood slowly flowed through the plastic tube. John stared, slightly intrigued. It was a silly thing, but it had never occurred to him that Mycroft bled. Of course he did. He was human. He had seen Sherlock in all sorts of predicament and injuries, but Mycroft? Never. Sherlock watched the procedure quietly. The air in the cell was thick, tense. Seconds seemed to last hours as the girl’s life hung by the edge of a knife, relying only on Mycroft's blood to keep her alive. The only sound was the laboured breathing of the unconscious teenager. John eyed Mycroft carefully, knowing the procedure could be dangerous for the donor.
One minute…
three minutes…
five minutes….
Red slowly returned to the girl’s cheeks.
“She’s better,” John cried in relief. “Colour’s come back.”
Throughout the whole time, Mycroft had been mutely silent as he eyed the girl’s condition. John knew the man hardly showed emotions. He didn’t know if it was his imagination, but Mycroft’s skin looked paler under the dim light. He must have donated close to a full bag already. For regular people, this was the maximum recommended. However, the girl had lost more than a bag, and they both knew it.
“Mycroft?” John asked worriedly.
“I’m fine. Just…just hurry up.” he said faintly.
“I’m going to have to stop. It’s too much-”
“Clearly…she’s lost more than a bag of blood. I said..I'm fine.”
"As a doctor, I can't-"
"Do it."
“BP 80 over 50 and rising,” Sherlock announced, sounding almost surprised it was working.
Fifteen minutes.
Mycroft’s skin had gone clammy and his body was trembling. Though the iceman tried to look fine, his breathing was laboured. delibrately slow and his skin was ashen and dotted with perspiration.
The girl began to groan as consciousness slowly returned. Her cheeks were flushed pink now, breathing more even.
“Good job, good job…” John muttered to her.
Sherlock felt her neck. “She's got a strong pulse back!” Sherlock exclaimed.
The second Sherlock finished that sentence, Mycroft’s eyelids slid shut and his body slumped back like a marionette with its strings cut. His limp body would have nearly smashed against the brick floor if Sherlock had not instinctively grabbed him, his other hand steading his brother's arm containing the needle and transfusion tube. John saw Sherlock’s eyes widen marginally, a flash of - worry? - betraying his usually irritated exterior. He looked stunned, clearly having never seen Mycroft in this position before. John was on his feet immediately.
"Damn it, he must have been holding back until he really couldn't. I'm surprised he lasted this long." John said. He must have donated close to two bags. "Looks like both of you share that stubborness trait."
He knew Mycroft had fallen dead unconscious because there was no resistance or reaction as his body crumpled against Sherlock’s, head lolling into his shoulder. His eyes had fallen shut, lips slightly parted. Obviously, both brothers weren’t used to such a situation. John quickly stopped the transfusion and carefully slid the needle out of the cubital vein. He then pressed two fingers on Mycroft's neck. After a pause, he sighed.
“He’s just fainted, that’s all. Lay him down, there we go.”
Sherlock was silent, but John knew he was worried. Sherlock laid Mycroft down with surprising gentleness and placed the coat under his head. Mycroft was perspiring with cold sweat.
Sherlock finally blurted out, eyes transfixed on his brother. “Is he going to be okay?”
“He fainted due to the loss of blood but his pulse is strong. He donated too much. He will be fine. Give him some time.”
John watched over Mycroft, feeling a strange sense of unfamiliarity. He realised he had never seen Mycroft vulnerable before. Without that controlled expression, he looked somewhat younger.
Sherlock was looking at his brother with an unreadable expression.
“You okay?”
“He said he didn’t care,” Sherlock muttered quietly, shaking his head.
John’s eyes softened in sympathy. “I think he does, Sherlock.”
A sudden loud clang made them jump.
“Are they back?!” John quickly scrambled up in a defensive position but Sherlock grabbed his arm, staring at the stony steps.
“No.” A wry, nervous smile spread across Sherlock’s face. “It’s the Secret Service.”
Mycroft awoke, out of all places, on the back of an ambulance. Not just any ambulance, but one the Secret Service called for emergency and confidential cases.
He absolutely hated ambulances and hospitals no matter where it came from, having had his fair share of it. The first thing he saw was John's face, followed by his brother. The paramedic checked him over profusely, muttering a string of sentences Mycroft had no care for. But...
"The girl?" He whispered.
"Alive. She's alive thanks to you, you insane man." John laughed weakly.
Mycroft closed his eyes for a while.
"Bouaké." Mycroft said with a wry smile.
John blinked. "What?"
"A small city in Africa. Back there, something similar happened. Only...only he didn't make it. I knew he wouldn't make it. Deduced it. But still I tried to...tried to..." Mycroft trailed off, eyes glazed.
John didn't know what to say, stunned again by something he learnt for the first time. You learn not to care due to pain.
Sherlock had been staring at his brother the whole time and finally he spoke. "But...but that's not logical. You've always been logical."
"Sometimes, Sherlock, you'll find that those things are exactly logical...logical to human beings, that is. I....I'm sorry for how I treated you over the past few years."
"Why are you apologising?" Sherlock said quietly. "I was the ass. I've got a fat ego too. I'm sorry for what I said in the cell." Indeed, Sherlock felt terrible. There was too little he knew about his brother despite being his brother. "You-you've always known everything about me. My life. Where I go. What I do. But I know almost nothing about you. I don't know you enough, My." At the last whispered sentence, Sherlock finally seemed to let down his walls, looking vulnurable.
"I'm sorry. It's to protect you."
"I don't need protecting anymore. And even if I did, it doesn't mean I can't protect you. You can let me in."
Mycroft smiled faintly. "Then maybe it's time you knew more."