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This really was the family reunion from hell. Mycroft couldn't remember the last time they all sat around the table like this, even if you excluded Bea, and it was going... well, about as well as you could expect given that four of the six diners were there against their will.

And Mycroft had a plan to get them out. They just didn't know it yet. So he bit his lip as he watched Sherlock give away Shou'an's location and held back a sigh when he realized his brother was plotting as well.

In some ways, the dinner was not unlike the ones his father, Sherlock, and he had in recent years. Sherlock and his father conversing, Mycroft, silent, watching and waiting for his time to intercede before it all went south. Of course, those dinners were a little less... outwardly hostile.

A Greek Tragedy indeed, Mycroft watched his little brother watch their little sister be given the choice to leave. A choice he knew she wouldn't take because they were all doomed by the plot they had found themselves a part of by virtue of their birth, but a choice he hoped she would -- it would probably throw a wrench in his plan, but who gave a damn. He didn't like his plan -- throw a wrench in for all he cared, he could come up with something better if she gave him something to work with.

But of course not, and suddenly half the table was shouting, and it was so loud, and Mycroft wished he could just have his drink without someone slamming on the table sending echoes of slamming doors through his head, wished they could just get through this dinner so he could enact his plan, and they could get out of here.

And then Bea slammed the table one more time and there was silence, and Mycroft saw his chance and took it, because he wasn't sure how much longer any of them would last.

He coughed slightly, unsure how his father would take the interruption.

"Is something on your mind?" As well as Mycroft could've hoped then.

"If I might have a," Mycroft swallowed. He was doing this then. All in or nothing. "A word in private?"

"Well, anything that can be said can be said in front of this glorious family."

Glorious, Mycroft thought, was one way of putting it. He glanced around. He wondered if Silas somehow knew, knew that Mycroft the protector and peacekeeper was coming to him with an offer, a deal, to placate. Wanted it to be public, a show of power. Or maybe he'd just finally decided that after twelve years they'd had enough secrets. All in or nothing, right? "Right, I've had contact with Her Majesty's government."

"They're coming for you, Silas. You will spend your last days behind bars."

Mycroft couldn't look at his mother, at the triumph he expected in her face. He could still see Sherlock, across the table. His brother was bracing for something, and Mycroft could feel Moriarty's eyes on him, could practically hear both their brains going, putting together pieces Mycroft was sure -- about why Mycroft might want to speak to their father in private, about why Mycroft would ruin Her Majesty's element of surprise if they were coming for them.

"They want their weapon back."

"Yes, I imagine they do."

"And they are willing to pay for it." Sherlock stiffened and Mycroft heard Moriarty shift next to him. Whatever they were expecting from Mycroft, evidently this wasn't it.

"Pay for it?" Sherlock repeated.

"Handsomely."

"Mycroft." Mycroft was still looking at his lap, the table, anywhere but his brother staring at him, anywhere but his father perking up.

"How handsome is handsome?"

"I think you could," Mycroft glanced up at the ceiling, God give him strength, if he could not hold himself together through this, the proposition, he had no chance during the execution. "Name your price. There is one... um... stipulation, they are to be the sole buyer." Quoting his government's words at his father, Mycroft chanced a glance to see how he was taking it.

"And you are to be the negotiator, my go-between?" Hook, line, and sinker then, Mycroft glanced away, back at the table.

"Yes." Really, the only part of this all that was actually a lie. Everything he'd said about Her Majesty's government was true, it was merely that he had no plans to be a go-between, not between his father and his government.

"You complete and utter Judas."

Mycroft glanced at his brother, sitting crestfallen. He almost broke right then and there, wanted to say no, he would never. It was Moriarty who saved him, practically shouting in Mycroft's ear, pulling his gaze away from his brother.

"Mycroft, you cute hoor! Jesus, I didn't think you had it in you."

"See? That's what I'm talking about. Gumption! Ambition!"

Mycroft couldn't look at any of them for long. Not his father, proud of him, or his mother, holding back tears. "They want the weapon within one week or no deal."

"Bea?"

"We can do that."

"Good." The last piece of the plan. This was all for naught if it didn't work. "I'll need to wire the Foreign Office."

"Well, I'll have you escorted to the telegraph office the moment it opens in the morning."

"Right," Mycroft glanced around wildly one more time, before staring back at his father. "Thank you... Father."

"Do you hear that, Bea? One of my sons still calls me father." And that was why Mycroft did it. He didn't really know if Silas felt like his father, if his father had felt like his father for a long time, but Mycroft still knew him, knew what pleased him, what placated him. "Maybe there's a way back for me after all."

Silas stood. "Well, it appears Beatrice and I have to pay a visit to our little factory." Mycroft stared at the table, even as he heard Silas come around behind him, but he wasn't expecting the hand on his shoulder, to feel Silas's breath on his neck. "As a matter of urgency. You will stay here until Shou'an is found." Mycroft found he couldn't relax even as his father walked away. "Beatrice, let us prepare for our journey."

He couldn't even relax as they left the room. The door wasn't even closed before his mother burst out, "How could you?"

And there was nothing really to say to that, was there? How could he. He couldn't tell her the truth, not when they were still being watched. There was nothing to say that could make this better, make his betrayal more palatable.

"Hope you're happy, brother dear." Looking at Sherlock, Mycroft felt as though he might've been the one to be shot. His brother was on the verge of crying, and Mycroft had caused it. Those tears were Mycroft's fault.

"Far from it." And then he returned to staring at the table. It was the only way he could hold himself together.

Mycroft spent the night alone. Planning, hoping he wasn't in way over his head. Looking around at anything in his room that might be small enough to pocket unnoticeably but useful enough to serve as a weapon. He didn't find anything, which was probably for the best, he didn't want to get caught with it before they even left, but he didn't much like his odds either, if it was only him and his fists against an armed guard or two.

Frankly, he didn't much like his odds at all. Even if he was able to get his hands on a weapon once they left, he still had to indispose of his escort. Even if that worked and he found Shou'an and her associates, they still had to get his family out of this place. The odds were high that he'd put that look on Sherlock's face for nothing.

Sleep didn't come easy that night as Mycroft stared at the ceiling, thinking of all the ways tomorrow could go wrong as Sherlock's voice echoed in his head. Judas.

Mycroft had been hoping to get through the morning without having to see any of his family. But luck was not on his side, perhaps that should've been the first warning.

"Mycroft," his father spotted him from across the courtyard. Looking at Sherlock glare at him, at his mother avoiding his glance put such a lump in his throat that it was actually preferable to look at his father. "Assure Her Majesty's government that they will have their weapons by..."

"By the weekend," Bea provided.

"By the weekend."

"Certainly." And Mycroft's gaze followed as his father walked to his younger brother, and Mycroft broke, just a little bit. "I'm sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock said nothing, he turned away.

"Mother," Mycroft tried.

"Hurry along then," Silas interrupted. "Escort him to the telephone office and bring him right back."

Mycroft turned to go. He'd have to beg for their forgiveness at another time then, when they were all free.

"Oh, and bring another man along will you?" Mycroft's luck did not seem prone to turning.

Mycroft's first plan was to close the door to the telegraph office in his escorts' faces. "I need to send a telegram to London. Urgent."

The door opened and one of his escorts walked in. "Ah, you."

Even Mycroft was not so optimistic to think they would let him send a telegram unsupervised, that telegramming for help was an actual option, but it would've been nice. And at least now there was only one. Time for plan... b, sort of. All his plans were mostly concepts.

The clerk handed him a pencil and paper. "Thank you."

He'd gotten through two words before he broke the pencil. "Damn it. Do you mind sharpening this for me?"

The clerk took out a knife. Small but it would get the job done, Mycroft hoped. As soon as the clerk had set the knife down, Mycroft grabbed it and stabbed behind him, making contact with his escort's leg. His free hand grabbed the escort's gun. This was good. He had control of the situation.

"Turn around," he started, "Open the--"

The front door opened, Mycroft's second escort walked in, Mycroft turned away from the stabbed man for a moment, but then it was two against one and Mycroft didn't stand a chance.

The first escort took the opportunity with Mycroft distracted, lunging for the gun. Even as Mycroft turned back the second was attempting to wrap his arms around his throat. Mycroft lost his grip on the gun as he shoved the second escort away from him. And if things hadn't already started going downhill, well they were about to. The first escort, understandably, Mycroft supposed, was not too happy about his new knife, you know, the one in his leg. He hit Mycroft on the head with the butt of his gun, which Mycroft supposed was better then getting shot with it.

Then he hit Mycroft with the gun a second time, and as Mycroft fell, hitting his head on the counter -- making it three times in about as many seconds if you're keeping count -- he thought, then again, perhaps getting shot was better.

It was, surprisingly, the second escort who stepped in on Mycroft's behalf, putting a hand on the other man's shoulder, murmuring something.

The first escort did not seem pleased, gesturing about with the gun. Mycroft glanced up at the clerk, blinking as blood ran into his vision. "Sorry about all this."

The clerk did not seem to have the capacity to respond, as Mycroft was pulled to his feet by the second escort. A decision had been made. A gun was shoved into his side, and the group shuffled outside, beginning the slow walk back. Perhaps it would've been faster if one wasn't stabbed and one wasn't concussed. Perhaps it was faster, Mycroft's hat was becoming sticky with blood and the world was blurring slightly on the edges. Time felt sticky and slow but he almost missed as they passed the door. The door behind which was Shou'an. And he had a chance. A chance to ensure he didn't fail entirely, so he stumbled, and staggered, and fell against the door with a hearty thud.

Neither of his escorts were amused. He was dragged to his feet, and even as he heard the door open, the gun was jammed into his ribs so hard he was sure it would bruise. A conversation ensued behind him in Turkish but he couldn't make out the voice. Maybe it was Shou'an's associate, maybe not. Even as he thought about turning back, he was shoved forward. He just had to hope it was enough, but based on his luck today. It wouldn't be. He'd screwed everything up, and it had all been for nothing. The gate of the courtyard was opened for them, with much yelling once the others working for his father saw all the blood. His first escort was pulled away, for medical attention ostensibly. The second kept a firm grip on Mycroft's arm, gun still digging into his side. Two or three other people gathered around the two of them, going back and forth with his escort. If the yelling had been loud before, with the head injury it was downright unbearable, Mycroft's ears rang so loud he could barely hear himself say, "If I may--"

He was cut off by a slap, so I may not, he thought as he stared at the courtyard's tiled floor. He thought that his face might've been cut but it was hard to distinguish blood from his head injury with blood from his potential face injury. And so busy had he been mulling that potential, watching the tiles blur in front of his eyes, that he'd made a fatal mistake: taken his eyes of his enemy. A shove came, as he turned a punch met his ribs, and then a second, and fuck that hurt. The yelling increased as his attacker was pulled off, pushed inside by his second escort who was all calming hand motions, even as he yelled something over his shoulder. It was clearly an order of some sort, a decision. Mycroft was shoved against one of the columns lining the courtyard, as a man jumped on a horse and galloped away. Mycroft's hands were wrenched back, and tied.

"You will stay here." A man said, like Mycroft had a choice. "Until your father returns."

And that explained the fellow on the horse. Mycroft slid down to the ground, his hat falling in his lap. The once light grey fabric stained dark with his blood. All for nothing.

Sherlock, James, and his mother had been casing the courtyard when all the commotion started, looking for weaknesses, a way out, and then Mycroft was dragged in, his shirt covered in blood, eyes unfocused, and all of that went out the window.

"Mycroft," his mother gasped. "What happened?" She asked like Sherlock had any idea.

"Either his betrayal of us has gone terribly poorly for him," James said. "

Or," Sherlock realized. "He never betrayed us in the first place."

"And that went terribly poorly for him," James concluded.

"Oh!" His mother grabbed Sherlock's arm as one of the men slapped Mycroft, her grip only tightened as a man lunged at him.

"We need to get down there," Sherlock said, and the three of them dashed down the stairs only to be met with an armed guard.

"We need to get past," Cordelia said to him. "My son is down there."

"You are to stay here."

"But--" Cordelia went to push past him but the man stayed firm. "Mycroft -- Mycroft!"

The man yelled something downstairs and a couple more men came into the stairway. "Stay here," he repeated.

"Mother," Sherlock swallowed. "We have to go back upstairs."

"But Mycroft--"

"I know," Sherlock said. "I know." He looped his arm through hers. "We'll find another way."

"Mycroft?"

For a second, Mycroft thought he was hallucinating. It was hot in the courtyard, and though his suit was light and linen, it was starting to be more than he could bear. He'd only been tied up for twenty minutes, maybe thirty, time was moving strange again. He had... a while to wait. There was some sort of math that he could do, his father and sister riding away, a messenger chasing after them, the time it took for them all to return, assuming they were going fast and not enjoying making him sweat both in the literal and metaphorical.

"Mycroft!" Ah yes, the hallucination. Mycroft blinked his eyes open, squinting in the bright sunlight, and there, above his head was Sherlock, peering down from the balcony.

"What," Mycroft swallowed, "What exactly are you doing?"

"Checking in on you," Sherlock said. "James is," his face twisted but it could've just been a trick of the light. "keeping an eye on mother, they're inside."

"How is she?"

"Well, considering that she thought her son betrayed her, only to see him covered in blood and attacked, only to realize he hadn't," Sherlock inhaled, "I'd say she's doing rather well."

"I-- I'm sorry, Sherlock." "Don't be, I'm sure your plan was rather clever before it all went wrong."

"Hmm, perhaps."

"What was your plan?"

"I don't even know anymore."

"You are covered in rather a lot of your own blood. Are you feeling okay?"

"Sure."

"That's... not convincing."

"Well, we can't both be the luckiest Englishman alive." And wasn't that the truth. Where Sherlock had all the luck in the world when he got shot, Mycroft couldn't catch a break. And he wouldn't have had it any other way, perhaps he had spent the last of his favor with lady luck keeping his little brother alive, it was a fair trade.

"Mycroft? What did they say to you?"

"Hm?"

"About their plans? What now?"

"Now, I believe they've gone to tell father that he doesn't need to go to the factory after all."

"I see."

"I really tried, Sherlock."

"I know you did, brother dear. Now, don't you worry about that now. We'll get out of this."

Mycroft didn't see how.

It was almost dark by the time Silas came riding back into the court yard with Bea on his heels. In that time no one else had laid a hand on Mycroft. His mother had come out onto the balcony, but it had clearly distressed her to see him, and maybe Mycroft wasn't all there during the afternoon with the sun at its hottest, but "Don't worry, mother, I pro'bly had it coming," was not as comforting as he'd meant it to be.

Moriarty had been kind enough to take her away. Mycroft wasn't sure how he looked but he was sure it was bad. He thought the wounds on his head had stopped bleeding, but he couldn't really tell. After hours in the sun, he could feel his skin burning, and he wasn't sure if it was the head injuries or dehydration making his skull pound.

All in all, he was not in the mood to get yelled at. "Well, you really are a Judas."

Maybe it was the head injury but Mycroft could feel himself smile, the insult feeling more like a point of pride.

Silas kneeled in front of Mycroft. "Let me take a look at you." Mycroft couldn't help but flinch as Silas took his face, oh so gently, and turned him from side to side. "Oh they really did a number on you, though I heard you did stab someone, so I can't say it wasn't deserved." Silas stood. "Was it true?"

"What?"

"The offer, was it real?"

And that... was not a question Mycroft anticipated getting asked. He hadn't really anticipated getting questioned at all, if he was honest, but now that he was he didn't know how to respond. Going with no meant that Silas wouldn't attempt to contact the Foreign Office on his own terms, going with yes meant that Mycroft might be able to make himself useful once again. Going with no meant that Mycroft lost any leverage, going with yes meant that Silas might try to circumvent him.

"Well?"

Mycroft's head hurt too much to make a decision, so a decision was made for him.

"Silence, then, really?" He said something to one of the men who untied Mycroft and wrenched him to his feet. "Shirt," Silas said, and Mycroft, perhaps it was the head injury, almost, honest to God, giggled. His father was going to belt him like a child, and he couldn't find it in him to care. It had hurt an awful lot to be sure, but if he could take it at eleven, he could take it at twenty-six.

Trying to ignore the eyes on him, Mycroft removed his coat and began to unbutton his waistcoat.

"What are you doing?" Silas turned to see Sherlock coming down the stairs, only to be intercepted. "Wait--"

"Let him through." And just like that, Sherlock was finally, after trying all day, able to reach the courtyard.

"Mycroft, what are you doing?"

Mycroft folded his waistcoat and laid it on a nearby chest with his coat. "Never mind that now, brother dear." He pulled off his tie.

"Are you--" Sherlock turned to his father. "Are you going to beat him?"

"Believe me, it's not by choice," Silas said. "Just until he gives me an answer."

"An answer to what?"

"Whether or not the offer was true-- Mycroft, was it?"

The pros and cons weighed on Mycroft's tongue. He started on his shirt buttons, his fingers slowing.

"It's your hide," Silas said. "Taking your time with those buttons isn't going to save you." Because he knew, of course he did, because Mycroft did it every time. "

Wait, Mycroft-- Silas-- just tell him."

"Yes, Mycroft, listen to your brother."

But how could he when he didn't know what the right thing was to say? He reached the end of his shirt buttons and then paused. "Perhaps you should return upstairs."

"After all the work it took to get down here?" Sherlock shook his head. "I'm not going to leave you alone."

Mycroft looked at Silas, but he would find no ally in his father. "As long as you don't interfere."

Sherlock said nothing. Plausible deniability.

"But mother --" Mycroft started.

"James will look after her," Sherlock promised, glancing up to the balcony. James was watching, seemingly unamused for the first time in a while. He nodded.

"See, now that's all settled, then. I believe I told you to remove your shirt."

Mycroft took a deep breath. His little brother, perhaps his little sister too though he'd lost track of her in the fray, was about to see him belted, surely that would override any concerns about past scars. Nevertheless, as he removed his shirt and placed it next to his other clothes, he kept his back away from Sherlock.

One of his father's men stepped forward with a rope.

"What's that for?" Mycroft asked.

"To keep you in place," Silas said.

That should've raised alarm bells, but, again, head injuries. "I can stay still."

"You can-- oh."

"Oh? Oh what?" Sherlock asked.

Silas didn't take his eyes off Mycroft. "You thought this was going to be a belting. I understand the thought process, but no, my dear boy, you're too old for that now. What I have in mind is... a little more advanced. So if you could be so kind to give that man your hands."

Mycroft was so busy trying to puzzle out what a little more advanced even meant, that he almost missed Sherlock's reaction as he turned, his back facing his little brother for the first time. It wasn't even audible, just a stiffening, putting together pieces -- scars and too old for that now.

"I'm going to kill you," Sherlock murmured, as Mycroft was made to stand facing the column, arms tied around again. He hoped that Sherlock was talking to his father. He wasn't sure what he had done, but then again what hadn't he done, and his head hurt, and-- 

Crack. Oh. Mycroft knew that sound. A little more advanced indeed.

"Hold on--"

"Sherlock, you said you wouldn't interfere."

"That was--"

"Hold him."

Mycroft turned to see two men looping their arms around his little brother, effectively holding him back. "Just let him go upstairs, for God's sake."

"Oh, I don't think he wants to go upstairs, do you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock said nothing, looking between his brother and where Mycroft assumed his father was standing.

"See?" Silas leaned in, and once again Mycroft could feel his father's breath against his neck. "You can stop this all now, you know? Sherlock doesn't have to watch this. Just tell me, was it true?"

And there are too many new variables for Mycroft to even think about responding. What was the best answer? Was yes another betrayal of his family? Would no hurt them more?

And again, his silence was enough. The whip cracked in the air, and Mycroft's back was set alight. He took three lashes on his feet before his knees gave out, and he hit the ground with a thud.

Silas paused.

"I'm going to kill you, you bastard." Mycroft turned his head to see his brother fighting against the two men holding him back. It looked like a third was about to get involved.

"Just go upstairs, Sherlock. It's okay."

Sherlock looked at Mycroft, aghast. "It is not okay. Far from it."

"This all stops with an answer, Mycroft. Was it true?"

And if Mycroft's thinking was scrambled before, it certainly wasn't better now. He rested his head against the column holding him up, savoring the cold marble on his hot skin. "Just get it over with," he murmured.

"As you wish." And the whip came down again.

Mycroft used to think he was quite good at taking his father's beatings, he stopped begging for it to stop by the time he was nine. Stopped crying by the time he was eleven, and if an eleven year old wasn't crying, how bad could it have been? Now, he thought maybe it was just time dulling the memories, the last time had been over half a decade ago, maybe they had all hurt like this, maybe he'd just been stronger at seventeen.

The whip came down again.

Of course, there was the issue of the new appliance. Mycroft had to remember that the whip probably was making it worse. He could already feel the blood running down his back. It wasn't like he'd never bled before, but never this early, and never this much.

The whip came down again.

Vaguely, Mycroft heard a woman scream. She sounded far away. He tried to look up, to see if it was his mother. To tell Moriarty to get her inside. That she shouldn't see this. That she couldn't see this.

The whip came down again.

He could hear his brother screaming too. Threats of violence. Promises of violence. Yelling at Mycroft to just bloody tell him already.

The whip came down again.

Mycroft began to turn to his little brother. To comfort him. To try to explain to him why he couldn't.

The whip came down again.

Sherlock went silent.

The whip came down again.

Mycroft tried to see why.

The whip came down again.

Sherlock was still--

The whip came down again.

Why wasn't--

The whip came down again.

And again.

And again.

And again. "

He was lying, you fucking idiot!" Noise came rushing back to Mycroft. "There was no deal."

Mycroft waited for the whip. It didn't come.

"What?" Silas asked. "

There was no deal," Sherlock said.

"How do you figure?" Because Silas knew Sherlock didn't watch his brother get beaten and hold onto this information.

"Because if it was true he would've told you by now," Sherlock said. "If it's true, he's indispensable to you. If it's true, he could've made this all stop."

Mycroft could hear the smile in Silas's voice. "Your brother has never been good at prioritizing his own well-being."

"But he's been good at prioritizing mine," Sherlock countered. "If you get the sale from the British government, we could leave."

"You can leave as soon as you give me Shou'an."

"Are you implying that Her Majesty's money wouldn't make it go faster?"

"Do you really think so low of your brother?"

"I think he would be trying to save us. Even if we didn't like it. But he's not. Because the deal doesn't exist."

Mycroft was barely following Sherlock's logic. Was he supposed to say it was true? Was he supposed to agree with Sherlock? Sherlock was making good points for it being true.

"Then why won't he just say it isn't true?"

Mycroft wondered the same thing.

"Because he's still trying to protect us. If you don't know the truth, you're hopeful for a deal that isn't real, you're focused on getting the truth out of him. You forget about the rest of us."

That would've been smart of him.

"Well, Mycroft?" Silas's breath was on his neck again. "Is what your brother says true?"

Mycroft nodded. Sort of. His head just mostly fell. He was tired. Everything hurt. His shoulders hurt. His face hurt. His head hurt. His back screamed. His throat hurt-- maybe he screamed.

"Is that why you lied to me? To protect him?"

He barely lifted his head. But that was the complete and utter truth. Wasn't that why he did most things?

"Very well." The breath left. "Release him."

The ropes were removed from his wrists, and Sherlock was under his arm in a flash holding him up. "I'm all bloody--"

"Never mind that," Sherlock said. "But your clothes--"

"Fuck my clothes."

"Dinner is in twenty," Silas said, as he walked away. "Mycroft please put a shirt on before then." Like he hadn't been the one who told him to take it off in the first place.

Mycroft snatched up his dress shirt, and began to put his arm through, slowly, as it pulled on his wounds.

"Idiot," Sherlock said, as he shifted Mycroft's weight to help him, but the tone was fond. "Do I have to button it too?"

"Let's get upstairs first."

Sherlock grabbed Mycroft's remaining clothes and slotted himself beneath Mycroft's arm. "Right you are, brother dear. Right you are." This tone promised further conversation.

"I can walk you know."

Sherlock laughed dryly. "You needed help walking back this morning. Before all this mess."

And Mycroft supposed that was true.

Moriarty met them on the stairs up. "Jesus," he swore when he saw the blood. "Your old man really took his pound of flesh."

"James, are you going to help or not?" Sherlock admonished.

Moriarty slotted himself under Mycroft's other arm. "Your mother is quite worried, but I convinced her to wait."

"Thank you." Mycroft hissed as they began up the stairs. He was barely making contact with the ground, and it still hurt. "I'd rather not have her see me covered in blood. Makes it look worse than it is."

"It's pretty bad," Moriarty countered. And if Moriarty was saying that, it probably was. They'd just set Mycroft down on a chair in his room-- "James, grab him a glass of water, will you?"-- When a knock sounded on the door.

Moriarty and Sherlock exchanged glances over Mycroft's head-- Mycroft who was now trying to re-do his shirt buttons, which, was stupid given they still hadn't bandaged any wounds. Not that they had bandages.

The door swung open revealing Beatrice.

"What are you doing here?" Mycroft flinched at the volume of Sherlock's voice.

"Relax, brother dear, I come in peace," She held up the bundle in her arms. "I brought bandages and iodine."

"He doesn't need that, what he needs is a surgeon!"

"Sherlock, calm down, you're going to give your brother a conniption, if you don't stop shouting." Moriarty grabbed the supplies from Beatrice's hands. "Thank you, darling."

Sherlock stared at Beatrice for a moment longer before following Moriarty over to Mycroft. "Mycroft, stop trying to button that shirt."

Mycroft wasn't so much buttoning the shirt as he was just holding the two sides of it in his hands, but he didn't protest when Sherlock pushed the shirt back down his arms so Moriarty could get a look at his back.

Moriarty whistled, as he dabbed at the blood. "There's so much, you can barely see the scarring. Though you'll probably get a whole new set out of this."

"James, not helpful," Sherlock said, dabbing at Mycroft's head in the same fashion.

"Just making conversation."

"Mycroft, Mycroft look at me."

Mycroft opened his eyes. He wasn't quite sure when he had closed them. "Yes?"

"Are you hurt anywhere I can't see?"

Mycroft paused, taking stock. Everything hurt. "I don't think so."

"You don't think-- alright. Is there any other bleeding-- back, head-- anything else?"

This he was a little more sure of. "No."

"Good," Sherlock reached for the iodine tincture. "Give me that," Mycroft said.

"Afraid not, brother dear. You'll pull on your back."

"Sherlock, I'm about to have to go eat dinner. I'm going to pull on my back."

"Yes, well, let's delay it then." Sherlock left no room for argument, clicking his tongue every time Mycroft dared to think about raising his hands. "Good news, is your head has mostly stopped bleeding."

"That is good news," Mycroft agreed.

"Yes, so let's take a look at your back then, shall we?"

Moriarty scooted over so Sherlock could begin applying iodine to Mycroft's back. "This might sting a little," Sherlock warned. But no sting came.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft glanced over to see Moriarty staring at Sherlock.

"Right, sorry." Then the sting came. But Mycroft's back had just been torn open, so it was comparatively mild. He picked up the bandages Bea had brought only for them to be plucked out of his hands by Moriarty.

"You can't possibly be considering bandaging yourself up."

Mycroft inhaled. "I am more than capable." And wasn't he? Hadn't he cared for himself at eleven? At seventeen?

"I'm sure you are, brother dear, but I'm already here," Sherlock said, grabbing the bandages from Moriarty, but he let Mycroft help, passing the bandage across his front from Sherlock's one hand to the other.

"Is this the only suit you have?" Bea asked, holding up his bloody jacket.

Mycroft stood as Sherlock tucked in the last of the bandage, ignoring the way the room spun, ignoring the way Moriarty tensed like he would have to stop him from crashing to the floor. "As a matter of fact, yes. I don't know if you recall but I didn't exactly have time to pack a spare set of clothes when getting brought here at gun point."

Bea rolled her eyes. "I was just checking, if you want to wear your blood soaked clothes to dinner that's on you."

"I think you'll find it's much less a matter of choice and more of practicality," Mycroft said pulling his shirt back over his shoulders, trying not to wince at the sharp flare of pain.

Given how Bea's face softened, he'd failed. "Let me help with that, Sherlock you do his tie."

"I can dress myself," Mycroft said, trying to swat her hands away. It was like moving through honey, his hands reached where hers had been seconds ago. "I have not forgotten."

"With that head injury, I wouldn't be surprised if you had done," Moriarty said, flicking at the blood on his waistcoat. "How many times did they get you?"

Mycroft paused. "Two? No, three. Sort of."

Moriarty gave a low whistle as he handed the waistcoat to Sherlock. "What a pair the two of you make, getting shot and beaten."

"Not funny, James," Sherlock said, as he helped Mycroft put his waistcoat on. He, thankfully, did let Mycroft do up the buttons this time.

Bea handed over his jacket, and once that was on, his cane. "You look-- well, frankly, awful."

"Well, some ladies could like the... bloody look," Moriarty countered.

"He looks like he's about to fall over."

"He is right here," Mycroft said, brushing his fingers through his hair in an attempt to make it look presentable. "And we must get to dinner."

"Always so responsible," Moriarty said, striding towards the door. "Shall we?"

Mycroft glanced at his siblings, both looking at him, one nakedly and one pretending not to do so, both waiting for him to go first. It was almost like before. Like they were kids again. Mycroft took the first step.

And then the next. And as they shuffled down the hall to family dinner, Moriarty leading the way-- stoping to adjust his hat, stare at a painting, brush some dust from a railing whenever they fell behind--, Sherlock a pace behind Mycroft, Bea slotted herself next to him, offered him her arm, and it felt like an olive branch. An apology. And Mycroft took it, because he could never hold her responsible for Silas's actions, and so they walked to dinner, arm in arm.

Cordelia was outside the dining room, waiting for them. "Mycroft!" She went to hug him but abruptly stopped, her hands hovering. "Are you in pain?"

Yes. "I'm fine, mother." Mycroft smiled. From the way Sherlock shook his head at him, he worried it looked like a grimace. Perhaps he had blood on his teeth. He ran his tongue around his mouth to check -- he didn't taste blood.

"But--"

"I'm fine." And maybe he was a little harsh, and maybe that was patently untrue but all of the fussing was starting to get to him. He had survived before, alone, and he endeavored to do so now.

"I'm sorry that I ever doubted you," His mother said.

And the guilt clawed its way back into his throat. That wasn't what this was about at all. "Don't worry, Mother. I would've doubted me too, given the circumstances." He just had to get through this dinner, and then he could crawl into bed and be in pain in peace. "Shall we?"

His mother gaped as he pushed open the door. Silas was waiting for them. "Glad to see you all could make it."

No one said anything. They just trudged to their seats. Mycroft waved off both Sherlock and his mother, as they attempted to help him sit. If he was leaning on his cane more than usual, that was no one's business but his.

He could feel Bea's eyes on him as he perched himself on the edge of his chair, and he wished, unlike the previous night, that Silas would say something, bang on the table again, that an argument would break out and he would fade into the background. But everyone, especially Silas, seemed fine to sit in the silence. Silas seemed to bask in the discomfort, quietly beginning his meal, saying nothing when Sherlock poured Mycroft water, saying nothing as Cordelia glared at him, he just ate, asked for Moriarty to pass the potatoes, and ate.

Mycroft didn't know if he'd been nauseous before, but he certainly was now. He picked at the edges of his plate, and drank the water Sherlock kept pouring him. He knew he'd been out in the sun too long, his peeling face was evidence of that, that he should drink, should feel thirsty-- he knew that he hadn't eaten since breakfast, and that he should feel hungry-- but all he felt was sickened. Sickened by the way everyone was watching him, aware of him, even when their eyes weren't on him. Sickened by the way they all knew what was under his increasingly bloody suit and how his brother looked as he put together pieces from moments of his childhood that hadn't felt quite right.

"Not hungry, Mycroft?" Mycroft glanced at his father and then back to his plate.

"Come on, now, don't be like that." Silas reached out to pat him on the shoulder. Mycroft flinched.

"Don't touch him!" His mother shrieked, and Mycroft flinched again, it was just so loud.

"You don't get to tell me what I can and can't do to my son!"

"Oh, your son?"

"Yes, my son."

Mycroft felt a little nudge at his ankle, Bea. He glanced at her, she wasn't looking at him, but he could tell she was worried about him. Sherlock was still watching him, appraising.

"You weren't there for him!"

"Because you locked me in an asylum!" His mother stood. "How could I have been there when you locked me away!"

Silas stood too, clasping Mycroft's shoulder again. He could feel blood seeping through the bandages, through his shirt. "I wasn't the one who kept you there."

Mycroft stared at his plate, the insinuation was clear. His father was in Vienna, he wasn't the one with access to mother, he wasn't the one who was right there.

"How dare--"

The window behind Mycroft shattered in an explosion of glass.

"Get down!" Mycroft wasn't even sure who yelled, as he ducked underneath the table. Clearly it wasn't Moriarty, whose sense of self-preservation was clearly lacking, given he leapt to his feet, turning towards the action, not even waiting for the shards to finish landing.

Mycroft locked eyes with his mother under the table. Sherlock was already beginning to get up, following Moriarty into the fray. Mycroft glanced at the two of them and sighed. They were going to be the death of him. "Stay here," he told his mother.

"What are you going to do?"

It was an excellent question. He was wondering the same thing, as he pushed himself to his feet, figure out exactly what was happening above his head at the very least. He blinked as he turned to what was left of the window -- there stood Shou'an and her compatriot, both armed, perhaps he'd been under the table longer than he thought because somehow Moriarty had also acquired a firearm.

Shou'an tilted her head at him. "You look terrible."

And, well, she wasn't wrong.

"How did you find us?" Silas demanded, grabbing a gun from one of his men who had been knocked out by the explosion.

"We received your son's message," Shou'an said simply.

"Sherlock sent you a message?"

"No, Mycroft."

All eyes turned to Mycroft, as he almost dropped into his chair, gripping its back for support. "I didn't think you'd have received it." He didn't even know why he said it -- in gratitude, for the long shot working out? As an excuse for Silas -- that he couldn't be held responsible he didn't think it would work?

"Impressive, brother dear."

Mycroft was too exhausted to even think of a response to Sherlock. The ending was in sight, he just had to get to it.

"You cannot take my family," Silas said. "My men will have heard you by now, you don't think they're on their way?"

Shou'an turned her gun on him. "I believe that is the least of your worries."

The ending was not as close as Mycroft thought. Perhaps it was a false light at the end of the tunnel, an exit, but one too small for him now, barely big enough for one ten years his junior. He shouldn't have been relieved. He should've been watching his back, he should've been keeping an eye on Silas. Instead, he only realized how close Silas was when it was too late, when he felt a hand on his shoulder, and cool steel digging into the base of his neck.

"You wouldn't dare shoot him," Silas said, pulling Mycroft closer too him, Mycroft tensed as he felt his father's breath.

"Actually, I think she would," he murmured, like it would help get him out of this situation. Like anything would get him out of this situation. He could see it now-- Shou'an would shoot his father through him. His father would shoot him through the neck, and he would die here, in Constantinople, choking on his own blood.

Silas pulled Mycroft closer so he could meet his eyes. "Are you afraid to die, my dear boy?"

Mycroft tried not to squirm as his father's shoulder pressed into his leaking wounds. "You're the one threatening your own son to avoid it."

"Perhaps I just want to take you with me." Silas clicked the safety off, and Mycroft flinched. He could feel the eyes of the room on him again, watching the exchange, perhaps waiting for him to betray them again, make a barter for his safety. But it was never about his safety was it? It was about theirs, and as long as Silas was out of the picture, they would be safe.

"Mother," Mycroft said, staring not at her, but at Shou'an, willing her to understand just as she had understood his message that morning. "Forgive me."

"Myc--" He cut her off by slamming the end of his cane into his father's foot. He didn't even have to put any effort into the second part of his plan, it turned out that picking up his cane had used the last of whatever little energy he had left. He hadn't exactly planned on passing out, but it got him to the ground all the same. He heard gun shots over his head, but didn't feel any fire as if he'd been shot, though perhaps he wouldn't be able to tell. His back wasn't even hurting now, it all felt blissfully far away, his back a buzzing of honeybees rather than the sharp pain it had been mere moments ago.

"Mycroft!" He blinked slowly, to see Sherlock's face swimming into focus.

"Are you alright, brother dear?" He asked, and then, before he could hear the answer, the world went dark.

Consciousness floated up to Mycroft in pieces, over time. He heard voices murmuring, only for it all to go quiet. Felt water trickling down his throat, only to end up parched, Felt a hand on his head, only to feel so incredibly alone.

The first time he opened his eyes it was to his mother.

"How are you feeling, my dear?"

"Have I been shot?" His head felt like cotton. It would make sense with the last thing he remembered.

"Not for a lack of trying."

"That's good. I'm sorry." He couldn't quite remember for what.

Her face did something complicated. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

And the darkness rushed to meet him again.

The second time he opened his eyes, it was the second action he took. The first was an attempt at standing. In his defense, consciousness had decided to hit him hard this time around, memories coming back in spurts, context non-existent. All he knew is that he didn't know where he was, he didn't know where Sherlock was, and danger was afoot.

"Don't--" He opened his eyes as hands caught his shoulders, pushed him back to the bed.

"Sherlock."

"I'm here, what do you need?"

"I was looking for you." He scanned his brother's face. "Are you safe?"

"Yes, we're safe, we're at Shou'an--"

The darkness came back.

The third time, he opened his eyes first, to the dim light of a room he'd never seen before.

"Don't try to get up again," Sherlock warned from his chair in the corner.

"Where are we?"

"It's a place owned by one of Shou'an's associates."

"We're still in Constantinople, then?"

"It didn't seem wise to move you far in your condition."

"What is my condition?" Sherlock leaned forward.

"Why don't you tell me what you think your condition is? How's your pain? We've been giving you some medication, but clearly not enough given you thought you got shot."

"The last thing I remembered was quite a bit of gunfire, it was a fair assumption."

"You weren't shot," Sherlock said, "It seems you just pushed yourself too far right after getting beaten and are now paying the price."

"You speak as though I had a choice in the matter." Sherlock glanced up at his brother, assessing if he was well enough to have this argument. "You had choices. No one told you to hit Silas with your cane. No one asked you to pull that stunt in the telegraph office in the first place!"

"You didn't need to ask, did you seriously expect me to leave you all, my family, in danger and do nothing about it?"

"You put yourself in danger!"

"It worked, didn't it?"

"It almost didn't! It almost didn't work and then you almost got shot--"

"But I didn't!" Mycroft spread his arms, ignoring the pain that shot down his spine at the abrupt movement. "I'm okay, Sherlock, I'm okay."

"You don't know that."

"Well, I figure if you had reason to believe otherwise, you would've begun with that," Mycroft raised a brow. "Is there reason to believe otherwise?"

"There'll be scaring," Sherlock said. "Though it seems that's nothing new."

Ah, he was bitter about that too. "Sherlock, that didn't concern you."

"He was my father too, of course it concerned me!"

"You're telling me that you would've told me if father had beat you?" There was a horrible moment, as the question came out, that Mycroft worried maybe Silas had beat Sherlock, that maybe all his efforts had been in vain.

"Of course I would've, you're my brother!"

Oh. That was, not the response Mycroft had been expecting, honestly. He supposed that was the difference between brother and guardian. Little brother versus older brother. "There wasn't anything to be done about it, Sherlock," he said, softly.

Sherlock scoffed. "I would've done something about it."

And it was like seeing the ferocious child Sherlock had been. "I'm sure you would've," Mycroft said, placating, "But you were a child."

Sherlock met his stare. "So were you."

Mycroft was saved from responding by the door being pushed in.

"Oh, you're awake."

Mycroft stared at Beatrice. "You're here."

"Oh, Sherlock didn't tell you?"

"There hadn't really been a chance, yet."

"Tell me what?" Mycroft asked.

Beatrice smiled like she was telling him a secret. "I shot father."

Mycroft was sure he misheard. "You what?"

"Shot father."

"He's dead?"

"Remains to be seen," Beatrice pouted. "His men pulled him away, but Shou'an's got her ear out for any news."

"Huh."

"What does that mean?" Beatrice asked Sherlock.

"Not sure yet, he gets snappy if you ask about it."

"I'm right here, you know, and I do not get snappy."

Beatrice glanced at Sherlock. "I see what you mean."

"A man is allowed to have complicated feelings when his sister shoots his father."

"He was about to shoot you," Beatrice pointed out.

"All the more reason to have complicated feelings."

"Well, my feelings aren't complicated," Sherlock said. "He's a bastard, and he's lucky if he never sees us again."

Mycroft hoped they would be so lucky.

"How are you feeling?" Beatrice asked.

Mycroft tilted his head, assessing. "Certainly better, my head feels much clearer. If I could just stand--"

"Absolutely not," Beatrice turned to Sherlock, "Is he serious? He can't be serious."

"Mycroft absolutely hates being unable to do everything himself, his way," Sherlock said. "He works when he's ill and goes out when he's injured."

"Exactly, so if you'd just let me--"

"But that's why we'll be here to make sure you want for nothing, brother dear," Sherlock smiled knowingly. "After all, you wouldn't want to upset mother by dashing your recovery just because you're stubborn."

"Mother, how is she?" Mycroft regretted not asking sooner. "She was here, earlier."

"She's sleeping now," Beatrice said, "Finally."

"She was worried about you," Sherlock said. "Gained one child back from death only to almost lose another."

"You act like you weren't shot days ago!"

"Ah, but now I am better, and you must rest."

Mycroft flung his head back onto his pillow. "At least let me go for a walk."

"Perhaps tomorrow," Beatrice said, he could hear a laugh in her voice. And the part of him that had turned prickly and sharp at the thought of needing to be helped, at the inkling of being a burden, smoothed itself over slightly. It had been so long since he'd heard that laugh, it had practically been in someone else's voice, a voice still new to life, he wanted to hear it again. Wanted to make her happy again, spoil her in the ways he never got to. And as he drifted off, the darkness creeping back in again, it was to the sound of his siblings reunited, laughing and murmuring by his bedside.