Sherlock had spent the past two years trying and succeeding in dismantling all of the conceivable strongholds that Moriarty had created, before he quite unceremoniously committed suicide on the roof of St Bart’s Hospital.
As he reflected on the many places he had visited throughout his two years of ‘death’ including the Parisian streets, Asia and now Serbia, Sherlock realised that he missed his home in London- 221B Baker Street to be exact. These thought occupied his mind as the Serbian thug delivered another hard blow to his stomach, causing him to cough and stare at the cold, unforgiving concrete floor beneath his bare feet. Never would he admit that he was in any pain, for he believed that to be a weakness of the worst kind. Only people like John admitted to weakness and he laughed at John when he admitted such things.
Until that point in time, Sherlock, being Sherlock, had not spared a thought for his friend and the inevitable pain that his ‘death’ would bring. Never once did he believe that John would grieve for the loss of his friend, or indeed move on. In Sherlock’s logically illogical mind, people simply didn’t move on, they were always the same when he returned. He considered this to be dull, however anything other than cases managed to excite the detective.
At that moment, he wished for the imbecile punching him to stop and he knew just how to do it. Once the man was out of the way, the officer who had been in the room whilst he was being beaten spoke from his position in the shadows. It was none other than Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock bristled in annoyance that he had not been able to escape successfully and Mycroft seemed rather smug at being the one to free his baby brother, smirking at him.
“Come Sherlock, we do not have much time. They may already suspect that there is a traitor in their midst.” Mycroft stated urgently, glancing at the door as he uncuffed his brother.
Sherlock staggered for a few moments before his legs gave out, causing him to reunite with the concrete floor, causing his stomach to bear the brunt of the fall. Mycroft sighed, knowing that he would have to carry his brother out of the camp. Whilst he did not look to be very heavy given his wiry frame, Mycroft had some difficulty lifting Sherlock to his feet, buckling under the weight as he slowly made his way to the door.
“Mycroft! My back is killing, a little consideration.” Sherlock hissed as his brother continued to carry him as if he were a baby, steadfastly refusing to use his manners when speaking with his brother.
“Shut up Sherlock! We are not safe yet. Since you were so good at being dead, perhaps you could do so now?” Mycroft grunted as he hoisted Sherlock up once more, as he had begun to lose his grip causing Sherlock to fall slightly in his arms.
The pair travelled through the bowels of the camp and finally emerged into the surrounding forest. Mycroft paused for a moment before continuing to carry his brother through the trees to safety.
‘Only a little bit further!’ Mycroft thought to himself as he made his way through the forest to the helicopter he had commandeered to rescue his brother.
At last, they made it. Mycroft gratefully placed Sherlock on the seat beside him as the helicopter lifted into the air. Mycroft was glad that his brother was out of danger, not that he would admit to entertaining feelings of brotherly affection.
Sherlock moaned as his face contorted in pain, causing Mycroft to glance at his younger brother. Sometimes he wished that Sherlock would not be so foolish as he solved cases but he understood his brother’s need to feel the adrenalin pump through his veins in the face of danger. He reached out and brushed the hair from Sherlock’s face, revealing further lacerations and bruises from injuries he had sustained in the process of eliminating the threat that was Moriarty.
Mycroft sighed and gazed out of the window at the stars twinkling above him. He could not wait for the helicopter to touch down in London for as he had remarked to Sherlock, he truly was not cut out for field work.
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