Sitting up straight in bed, sweat running down his brow, Mycroft Holmes wakes. His dreams have been indecent, skin rolling against skin, lips caressing arms, legs, bellies. It shouldn't have frightened him so, but it does. For some reason, the thought of those long white fingers touching him fills him with terror.
He goes to work looking behind him as if devils are pursuing him. When a call comes, he leaves work at once. Anything to get away from the way his skin crawls when he sits still, remembering the feel of lips against his ear.
“Yes, John. What is it?”
“It's Sherlock. He's gone, but I don't know where.”
Mycroft storms through the flat, searching for drugs, searching for anything to tell where his little brother has gone. In the end he finds that his overnight bag is gone as well as his violin. The realization hits him. It fills him with dread.
He makes security arrangements with his assistant before leaving. On the flight, images come unbidden in flashes that should be erotic, but only seem to frighten him.
Mycroft isn't one for human relations. There were a few times with Lady Smallwood. Tiny hands with peach colored fingernails rolling across his shoulders, a wrinkled lip pressing against his. It was an experiment more than anything else. A pleasant encounter with little emotional attachment. Nothing like the flashes of lust he feels when he closes his eyes. An image of dark hair and white thighs, pale legs that had never seen the sun. His own member thrusting in greedily, desperately between them as his hand clenches on those pale hips raising red bruises in his urgency.
He checks for the lump under his forearm that tells him the transponder is still there just as the helicopter lands at Sherrinford. Once in the office, he ignores the director, going instead for the logs which are read only and can not be erased.
Sherlock arrived two days ago, but he did not leave. Mycroft signals the helicopter crew to be on alert while he searches the video records for his brother.
He finds him in the infirmary fast asleep, a puncture wound in the crook of his left arm. Eurus is at it again, he's sure of it. She must have done something to him, or got others to do it for her. The medical staff are surely compromised. He reaches for his phone, only to have hands snatch it from him. His recent combat lessons proving ineffective as a needle sinks into the back of his neck.
He wakes in a familiar room. The cold sweats returning as he sees the silver walls of Eurus' cell. He looks up to find his sister, Eurus, sitting beside him, face cold and impassive.
She brushes his hair out of his eyes, a gesture that should be kind but feels as clinical and impersonal as brushing a leaf out of the path of an ant. He tamps down panic, breathing slowly to calm his heart lest she notice it. Too late.
“Did you have a pleasant sleep.”
“What are you doing, Eurus?”
“Now, now. Play along. I am attempting small talk. The least that you can do is work with me.”
He sits up, The glass appears intact, there are two violins in the corner of the room.
“What did they give to Sherlock?”
“Nothing much. Something to make him rest, some TD12 to make him forget.”
Eurus reaches out and cups his cheek. He tries not to cringe away, but when she tilts her head and leans forward. Mycroft falls out of the bed in his effort to escape her.
“What are you doing?”
Eurus drops her hand to her side. “You weren't this way the last time.”
“What last time?”
“Why are you looking at me that way, brother? I haven't killed anyone, yet.”
Mycroft rises to his feet. He stares up into the cameras, wondering who's watching.
“No one's there. I know that you don't like them seeing.”
“Seeing what? How often have we...?”
“This is only the second time for you. I thought that I should keep you fully conscious since I'll need your help when the time comes.”
“When what time comes for what?”
“When I have the baby.”
She lifts the front of her white shirt to show the small hump on her abdomen. Mycroft backs away slowly.”
“Who...” he begins but horror shuts his throat before he can voice the rest of the question.
“You know who the father is, Mycroft. My child should be at least as smart as me. The only way to guarantee it is if both parents are geniuses.”
“Sh..Sherlock?” he stutters.
She shakes her head slowly. He's just here to teach me how to touch it. You're the father.
The warning sign on the glass swirls before his eyes and he drops to the floor. He hadn't known before that it was actually possible to faint from shock, but he does.