Chapter Text
The beginning was busy, Mycroft tried to avoid Sherlocks room as much as he could other then bring food and drink while the man was within his withdrawal. He had witnessed it enough to know he wasn’t welcome; his wrist gave a phantom ache from the last time he confronted Sherlock when he was high. It throbbed and Mycroft shook it out absently knowing it wasn’t really injured he signed as took of his reading glasses, something he would keep from Sherlock if possible. Sherlock was not kind when he found a weakness in Mycroft’s armour. He rubbed the bridge of his nose before placing them back on his nose, stress weighing on him the piles of paperwork on his desk to sign alone disregarding the numerous meetings he had to attend today and documents to oversee.
He heard something shatter against the wall a few rooms away and closed his eyes absently, this would be a long day. He heard Sherlock enraged shout and the door slam open. A long, lonely day in this office it seemed. He was not keen to encounter his brother in a high rage, he had a couch in his office purely for days like this to sleep in needed. His back ached from spending hours at a desk, and he longed for a proper bed but he knew he had to deny himself, his shoulder and leg was still stiff from improper and out of practice use he did not wish to give Sherlock any more ammunition then he already had.
The cupboards of the kitchen slammed open, and he could hear no doubt the occupants of the draws being emptied onto the floor. He was looking for a fix it seemed, although why he assumed he would find one was beyond him. His phone light up and he glanced at it passingly, he needed to do more paperwork, it lights up again with a new notification. Something else shattered from the kitchen causing Mycroft to flinch slightly at the unexpected noise, his heart beating loudly in his ears as a flash of gunshots ran through his head, an old mission.
It’s over, he told himself. He was out. He was safe. He was home. Sherlock was safe.
But was he really?
He blinked and released his tight grip on the desk watching as his once white fingered grip turn pink as blood rushed back through. Perhaps a distraction as due, he thought idly as he picked up the mobile and opened the chat, flicking through it.
The group chat had originally been created at the convenience of alerting all guards at once of their task in regards of Sherlock, but over the years it became less strict as the men became more familiar with him.
Bobby, a blond-haired man who was 34 he had spent a few years in the field along with Reed, a red-haired man with a face of freckles - he was younger only 28. Then there was Dominic the brown-haired man who spent every moment attempting to cheer the group up he was 32, and one of his other agents who stuck close together. Then there was Ben, and Alexander the 30 year old blonds who had been friends before he had commanded them, they could be mistaken for brothers if one looked close enough they had taken Kevin under their wing not long after. Fortunately close in age, Sam was one of his oldest guards he had started with the man standing under his own command on missions. He had a wife and daughter, a daughter that was Mycroft’s goddaughter.
Bobby - 11:02 am
Do you think he’s alright?
It was clear who he was talking about, another message came through.
Dom - 11:03 am
He will be Fine Bob, Mycroft’s got him. It’s the same as every other time. Nothing to worry about.
Reed - 11:05 am
Is it the same though?
Reed has a point; Sherlock has had close brushes with death before due to drugs but actively seeking out death was not something he did on a routine basis.
Alexander - 11:05 am
He will be fine.
Ben - 11:06 am
Mycroft got it under control.
Kevin - 11:07 am
Mycroft, do you need anything? Anything at all, a break? We all know how straining it is to stay in the same house as him.
Mycroft stared at the message for a moment before replying,
Mycroft Holmes - 11:08 am
Although the offer is tempting, I am afraid there is nothing you can do at the present time - MH.
Mycroft blinked attempting to wake himself up, he strained to listen to the silent house. He needed to be alert. What had woken him?
He heard a groan and sat up from where he slept on the couch wincing slightly as his phone lit up the time displayed on it made despair sit heavy in his chest. It was only 12 pm, he had only gone to bed 2 hours prior to his meeting with the prime minister of Australia. His eyes fluttered shut heavy with fatigue as his shoulders slumped, he pushed himself into a standing position when he heard the strangled groaning noise again this time followed by a whimper. He rubbed his face trying to chase away his exhaustion. He stepped out of his office and down the hall following the noises of distress to Sherlock’s room where he found the man sweating profusely and tangled in his sheets.
He knew better, but he did it anyway. He couldn’t help the big brother’s urge to try and chase away his brother’s dreams. He reached out and placed a hand on Sherlock’s trembling shoulder only to find himself gasping in pain as his wrist was captured and his chest was forced into the wall beside the bed his arm wrenched behind his back straining his wrist painfully; reminding him of the last time he had helped sherlock. He had found himself in the same position only this time there was no John Watson to cut through Sherlock’s drugged mind.
“Sherlock!” the call cut through the silent air sharply, attempting to bring the man back into the real world the grip on arm tightened and his shoulder pulled at the awkward position, he felt the huffed breath sherlock let out against his neck as the men pushed flush against him using his own weight as leverage against Mycroft trapped limb.
“Sherlock!” he hissed in pain as he felt his shoulder drop in resistance, the feeling of lighting shot up his arm into his chest. He was oddly surprised it was his shoulder that gave out first, again with the time he spent in the field it wasn’t awfully surprising he always had trouble with this one.
He was jerked and almost shoved away into the wall and Sherlock let out an angry growl releasing him as if freeing himself of someone below him, he turned careful not to reveal his now aching shoulder and the obvious drop in his form, agony ran through him as he shifted as he kept his face blank.
“Get out!” Sherlock clenched his teeth as his tense body struggled to contain the underlying rage waiting to burrow out of his body. Mycroft had stuck around too often to know what happens when Sherlock was in this mood. He shifted and slipped out of the room ignoring the slam of the door behind him as he slipped back into his office sliding onto the couch and leaning back. Hissing and grinding his teeth as he shifted his solder to rest on the sofa armrest. His shoulder hadn’t pulled, it had dislocated. This was something he would need to fix. He picked up his mobile with his free hand and sent a message into the chat, he knew it wouldn’t be well received.
Mycroft Holmes – 12:12 am
I require medical assistance - MH.
“Jesus” Domenic whispered as he shifted Mycroft’s shoulder taking in the man’s back and the bruise forming around the man’s wrist. This wasn’t done accidentally his eyes cause Alexanders who nodded in agreement, “you’re not staying here alone with him” he announced. Mycroft stiffened immediately at the words; he knew he would. His boss had the habit of denying help when he needed it.
“I do not require a babysitter,” Mycroft said bitterly, Alex sat next to the man “we didn’t say you did” he soothed the man, he caught his eye again over the politician’s shoulder. “But we both know for a fact your shoulder didn’t just pop out like that”.
Domenic had been rightfully worried when he had received the message earlier that morning, he expected to find Sherlock in some sort of drug-induced fever or delusion that Mycroft might need assistance in controlling. He hadn’t thought that Mycroft himself had been injured, to walk into the penthouse with Alex by his side to find the kitchen destroyed, the smashed glass and emptied draws left on the ground he had feared for the worst. But to find Mycroft leaning back on the sofa in his study cradling an obviously dislocated arm to his chest hadn’t set well with him.
He respected Mycroft’s orders he truly did, but the man had no self-preservation. He had no idea how to care for himself properly. No doubt he would attempt to return straight back to work after this shoulder was fixed not mentioning a word of the injury if he hadn’t required assistance. His lack of self-care scared him, what if one day he pushed too hard and didn’t get back up?
“Just let us stay for a few days while Sherlock waits out his high, well be gone before he’s conscious enough to realise we were there” Alex reasoned, “you can work without being distracted with trying to care for sherlock for a few days”.
Mycroft signed; he did need the extra time to catch up on some documents Athena had sent through. Reluctantly he did see the benefit to the decision, “only this once” he concluded. Alex smiled at the man and nodded silently knowing better than to push any further and risk losing the deal altogether.
Domenic distracted him bringing him back to the task at hand, his hands were carefully placed on the injured arm lifting it to its needed place before resetting it. Mycroft grunted slightly, wincing “I can’t administer any pain medication,” Domenic said apologetically mainly for the sake of it. They had found out the hard way Mycroft didn’t do well with pain medication, he nodded slightly giving him permission. Alex’s hands found his other side holding him in place at the sudden wrenching on his arm as the shoulder slid back into place his body jerked involuntarily away from Domenic into Alex’s hold.
His vision wavered slightly as his shoulder erupted in pain, he felt sick. He felt himself being laid back before his eyes slid shut too heavy to reopen and he slept.