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Mycroft Holmes sits behind a tree and vomits violently into the snow.
After a short while, there is only gall. Bitter and burning.
Mycroft takes a trembling breath. He wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his thick coat.
Then he closes his eyes for a moment and tries to regain his composure.
He expected it to be unpleasant.
But nothing in the world could have prepared him for this. Nothing.
He still sees it all before his eyes.
Like a nightmare manifesting itself before his very eyes.
*
Mycroft had prepared words. Words he would say to Sherlock as soon as he had the opportunity. About things like disappearing to Eastern Europe without a word. It took way too long to find out where Sherlock went. He had a lot to say about this.
The moment he saw his brother again, he forgot everything he wanted to say.
He stepped into the cellar, saw Sherlock, and didn’t manage to suppress a horrified gasp. He failed to maintain his emotionless expression.
Fortunately the Serbian, named Branko, who wanted to “introduce” him to the English spy they captured, didn’t listen. He was busy pulling out a chair and placing it in front of Mycroft. “There,” he grunted meaningfully. “Sit down, comrade.”
Mycroft tried to put an indifferent expression back on his face.
“Thank you,” he said, sinking into the chair. His legs trembled slightly.
He let his gaze wander over Sherlock.
His little brother, kneeling motionless on the ground, held upright by the chains around his wrists. Dressed only in a pair of pants caked in dirt. His hair, which had grown past his shoulders, hid his face. But the rest was all too visible. Sherlock was emaciated. Mycroft could count every rib. His upper body was covered in bruises and open wounds, which were undoubtedly from a knife.
In one short moment, several emotions raced through Mycroft. Fright. Sadness. Regret. And rage, rage, rage - so much RAGE.
His attention was taken off Sherlock, when Branko spoke again.
“He’s really tough. You have to admit that. We had to be creative. After 2 - oh no, it was 3 fingernails, he at least spit out his name. Right, Scott?”
Mycroft got sick.
He watched as Branko stamped to Sherlock, and everything inside him screamed to jump up, to keep this barbarian from his brother. To shoot him then and there. With the gun that was hidden under his thick coat. But he remained seated. And secretly digged his fingernails into his own arm until it bled.
He saw Sherlock gently flinching as the Serbian man stood directly in front of him. So he was awake then. Mycroft wished he could make Sherlock aware of him.
“Hello, English bastard,” Branko said with a grin, and then he rammed his fist into Sherlock’s stomach without hesitation.
Sherlock gasped, the chains rattled, Mycroft bit his lip tightly.
Again and again, Branko punched Sherlock.
The wheezing slowly became half-suppressed screams.
Mycroft soon tasted blood in his mouth.
At last, after what seemed to be an eternity, the man stopped.
"I brought a viewer today. Say hello. Sergej has never seen an interrogation, has he? Eh, Sergej?”
There it was. The opportunity to make Sherlock finally notice him.
“No,” said Mycroft in Serbian, emphatically. “Just an execution. Once. Of an agent with the code name Redbeard.”
He saw how Sherlock’s head twitched in his direction. Good. He had understood …
“Was it bloody?” Branko asked with an ugly grin on his face.
“Yes,” replied Mycroft. Oh this furious rage in him as he stared into the eyes of the torturer …
“Good. I bet the execution of this little bastard will also be quite bloody. Has shot one of our best men,” Branko growled and spat in front of Sherlock.
“Shame,” Mycroft said. I cannot wait to see you with a bullet in your head.
Branko grunted in agreement and reached for a heavy metal bar.
Mycroft’s breath caught in his throat.
God, Sherlock, do something. Say something … It will still be a while until my team comes in. I can’t watch this. I can’t …
“So, back to the important questions,” Branko said, weighing the bar in his hands. “You broke in here for a reason. Just tell us why and you can sleep. Remember sleep?”
He lunged out. And in the next moment Sherlock began to speak.
*
“Mr. Holmes, "says a voice behind Mycroft. "We’re ready to leave.”
“Yes. Good, "Mycroft replies, hastily. He turns around and sees one of his agents in front of him. "I’m coming.”
He follows the other man to a large off-road vehicle.
There is the doctor who has travelled with them and has taken care of Sherlock for the last half hour.
“How is he?” Mycroft asks.
“He’s sleeping now. He has no life-threatening wounds, but he is seriously dehydrated and we have to make sure that none of the injuries are infected,” the doctor explains. “He should get to a hospital as soon as possible.”
“Good. Thank you Doctor. We’re going straight to the airport,” Mycroft says.
Before he gets into the car, he throws a last glance at the building he has just carried his brother out from …
*
As soon as Branko had left the cellar, Mycroft hurried to Sherlock and sank to his knees on the dirty ground in front of him.
He took Sherlock’s face in his hands and carefully lifted it.
Frothy eyes stared at him. Dry, cracked lips twisted into a half smile. "You … are late.” Sherlock coughed violently.
“I’m sorry,” Mycroft said softly, swallowing hard.
Sherlock closed his eyes again. Obviously too weak to keep them open any longer.
“My … water, please.”
“We have to wait another moment, Lock. Just a little moment,” Mycroft said, brushing a streak of hair off Sherlock’s face. "Just a minute …”
And then he heard it.
The first shot. And angry, shocked screams.
There were many more shots. They echoed in the building.
With each one, Sherlock’s body twitched violently and Mycroft stroked his hair soothingly.
Suddenly, the door was slammed open and Branko stormed in, his face a mask of burning rage. He growled in raging anger, Sherlock whimpered fearfully, Mycroft grabbed his gun and shot the man between his eyes without hesitation. The Serbian dropped to the ground immediately.
Mycroft put the gun away and stroked Sherlock’s hair again. “He’s dead, Lock. He can’t hurt you anymore …”
When the noise of the fight was finally over, Mycroft’s team came into the cellar.
“The area is safe, Sir. The targets are neutralised.”
“Good. I need keys for the chains. And bring me water,” Mycroft said urgently.
The next moment, someone pushed a bottle of water into his hand, and Mycroft hastily opened it. He held it to Sherlock’s dry lips and whispered “slowly,” while Sherlock greedily took a few sips from the bottle. “Thanks My,” he whispered barely audible and Mycroft’s heart chlenched.
After what seemed to be an eternity, one of the agents came to the cellar with a key ring. One after the other, he tried the keys on the chains until one of them opened them.
Sherlock’s body sank forward without resistance, into Mycroft’s waiting arms. “OK. I’ve got you. I’ve got you now.”
Finally …
Mycroft Holmes wrapped his hurt little brother in a blanket, lifted him without much trouble, and silently carried him out of the cellar, into the cool night.
*
The drive to the airport is long.
It goes through seemingly endless deserts of snow and bare trees.
Mycroft sits in the back of the car, Sherlock’s head in his lap. He strokes through Sherlock’s hair and looks at his sleeping face.
When he sees that Sherlock has goose bumbs, Mycroft pulls the blanket higher, up to Sherlock’s chin.
His brother sighs, and mumbles, “thank you” again. Mycroft feels tears in his eyes. He suppresses them.
*
“Please, Mycroft. I want … I can’t stay here.”
“There is no risk to John and the others, Sherlock. I swear …”
“I have not finished the mission, I …. We can’t be sure. Please Mycroft. Get me out of here.”
“Oh Sherlock … okay.” Mycroft sighs and leaves Sherlock’s private room to talk to the doctors.
Actually, he should not be surprised that Sherlock doesn’t want to stay in the hospital.
Some things never change.
As expected, the doctor is more than appalled that Mycroft wants to take Sherlock with him.
“With all due respect, sir, he needs professional help. He is still in danger of sepsis and we do not know yet how the experiences influenced him psychologically … ”
“I know, Doctor. I will have Sherlock supervised by a specialist. At my home.”
“Well … it’s your decision.”
*
After a few days, Mycroft is sure Sherlock has suffered a trauma.
Sherlock’s wounds heal well. There is no infection. No permanent damage.
But Sherlock’s psyche … is another matter.
Mycroft is awakened by screams in the middle of the night. Screams that go right through him. They carry an unspeakable, endless horror within themselves.
When he hurries into Sherlock’s room, he finds his brother sitting upright in bed, his eyes wide open, staring at nothing. His chest is violently rising and falling. His freshly cut hair sticks to his skin, soaked in cold sweat.
When he goes to Sherlock and takes him into his arms, soothes him, reminds him that he is safe now, Sherlock’s tears soon soak his shirt.
Violent sobs shake his brother’s fragile body for eternities. And Mycroft sits there, holds him, and feels desperate.
What have they done to you, Mycroft thinks sadly, while he strokes Sherlock’s back. What have they done.
Sherlock never talks about Serbia with him. But his empty eyes alone can tell a whole story.
Mycroft’s desperation grows when Sherlock starts to flinch at every loud noise.
When he squints his eyes, as if waiting for a blow, when someone hurriedly steps through the house. Most of the time it is the cleaning woman. Mycroft soon asks her to walk a little quieter and slower.
One morning, as they sit at the table and Sherlock slowly, reluctantly, eats his scrambled eggs, Mycroft says softly. “Maybe we should … there is a good therapist I know. He has …”
“No,” Sherlock says.
Not more than that. But it’s a definitive answer.
The next evening, when Sherlock has a horrible panic attack, because a thunderstorm causes a blackout in the house, Mycroft makes a decision. He can’t do this alone. Sherlock won’t accept help. There’s only one option.
The next day he rings at a well known door which is immediately opened.
A tired, surprised face looks at him.
“Hello, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft says quietly. “I need your help.”