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Chapter Text

It was a calm Wednesday until Mycroft’s mobile began to ring.  Mycroft smiled, setting down his red biro.  He did not even glance at the screen; he knew who it was.  Greg had texted just minutes before, a sweet message about missing Mycroft and looking forward to seeing him later.  Can I call you in a sec? the message had read.  Not for long.  Weird day.  Just want to hear your voice.

Of course, Mycroft had replied.  I have a few free minutes until my next meeting.

He had forced himself to continue working, keeping himself from waiting by the phone like a teenager.  The report he was marking was horribly dull, but kept him occupied for the few minutes between Greg’s text and the quiet vibration signalling his call.  Excellent.

“Hello,” Mycroft said as he picked up, smiling and leaning back in his chair.  “Are you doing alright, darling?”

“Yeah, he’s great,” a deep, gravelly voice drawled.  “Bit rude, your fella.  The hell do you see in him?”

Mycroft sat up straight immediately, inhaling sharply through his nose.  That was not Greg.  That was not a voice he’d ever heard before.  “What?”

The stranger laughed.  “Yeah…” he sighed, audibly smiling.  The effect was chilling.  “You’d think a copper would be able to handle a little chat with grace and courtesy.  But your boy’s a bit of a bastard, now, isn’t he?”  Mycroft heard a crackling and shifting on the other end of the line before the man spoke again.  “Wanna add something, mate?”

Mycroft couldn’t make out the words, but what he could hear was crushing enough.  That was Greg’s voice.  Static-broken and cracked, that was Greg’s voice.  Mycr— he heard, the line cutting in and out, Greg sounding like he was some distance away from the mobile.  My— Don’t—

Mycroft quietly pressed the button on the underside of his desk that would signal Anthea.  He did not signal full panic; there were no armed forces in his own office.  Not yet.

“That’s enough,” the stranger suddenly barked.  A dull thud followed, crackled by the static.  A broken cry some distance away from the phone.

Mycroft’s heart leapt into his throat.  “What are your intentions with him?”

“Shut up,” the man sneered.  “My intentions are to fucking kill him, Mycroft Holmes.  My intentions are to get what I want from you.  Or I kill your little boyfriend, here, yeah?  Are we clear?”

“What do you want?”

The stranger’s laugh turned Mycroft’s body to ice.  “Oh, Mycroft.  It’s not much.  I don’t want a lot.  A few little words in exchange for him.  It’s an easy trade.”

“What do you want?”

“The radar codes,” the man said flatly.  “I know you have them.  You have the power to access everything I need.  Give them to me.  Give them to me, and I’ll stop hurting him.”

“No.”  The response was automatic, seared into Mycroft’s brain from decades of experience and training.  Never compromise information.  Never.  Never compromise safety.  Not for the price of your life.  Not for someone else’s.

“Nobody has to know,” the man crooned.  “No one will ever know it was you.  Nothing I’ve done to your little fucktoy is permanent, yet.  Let me see the fucking radars.  It’s small, really.  It’s all I ask.”

Nearly seventy million people.  Seventy million people.  Seventy million endangered if Mycroft said yes.  Everyone he knew.  Everyone he didn’t know.  If Mycroft gave it up, if he traded his credentials… who knew what would follow?  

No.  He knew.  He knew what would follow.

Unspeakable horrors.  Death.  Destruction.  Air raids that were impossible to predict or stop.  Surveillance they would never detect.  Drones.  Missiles.  An invasion of such magnitude that it should be impossible.  Unspeakable, unimaginable horrors.

“I’ll let you think about it,” the man said, laughing.  Another dull thud sounded over the line, followed by a pained cry.

And the line went dead.

Mycroft looked up, unbreathing.

How long had Anthea been there?  How much had she heard?

“They have him,” Mycroft said, voice cracked and dry.  “Greg has been abducted.”

It was a testament to her professionalism that she showed absolutely no reaction.  

Mycroft did not know what he had expected.  Surprise?  No.  She knew about Greg, of course.  Mycroft had not told her so much as simply begun spending his weekends and every spare moment with him.  She had grown accustomed to Greg’s cheerful alright, Anthea? every time he strolled into the office that no one outside their team was meant to know about.  She had likely known that Mycroft loved Greg before Mycroft even know that himself.

Horror, perhaps.  Terror.  Panic.  Some reflection of the emotions no doubt creasing Mycroft’s features right now.  But she was calm.  Settled.  Completely unemotional as she nodded curtly.

Some might have been offended by Anthea’s stoicism, but it was what Mycroft needed just now.  Do not panic, her utterly blank face said.  We handle routine crises like this in our sleep.

“Downstairs,” Anthea said sharply, vanishing from his office as quickly as she had appeared.  “Mobilising all crews, sir.”

Mycroft knew he should go.  He had to move.  He had to go downstairs, hurry down that interminable spiral staircase to the heavily-armoured war room buried deep within his innocuous-looking offices.  But he didn’t want to.

The war room was only used for one thing.

Danger.  Horrible, life-threatening danger.

The last time he’d set foot in it had been just before Sherlock’s “death.”  However temporary, the plans had been traumatic.  Terrifying.

Mycroft had taken pains not to go back there.  But today… today.  He had to go.  He had to.  He forced himself to stand, moving mechanically to the door.  His limbs were stiff, detached.  His joints creaked as he moved, crying out in terror and pain.

Mycroft could not speak.  He was not sure he could speak without his voice shattering into a thousand pieces on the glossy wood floor.  He was not sure he could speak at all.

His staff had never seen him angry.  They had never seen him emotional.  They had seen him frustrated, maybe.  Irritated.  Exhausted.  But they had never seen his fury.  Never seen his rage.

They had never seen his grief.

Anthea fell into step beside him, meeting his eyes for the briefest moment.  I am here, she seemed to murmur.  I am with you.

Together, they crossed the office, Anthea barking orders into her mobile.  Mycroft did not listen.  He could not listen.  He could only walk, turning sharply before the doors to the lift and taking the stairs instead.  Anthea did not question it, following him as she hung up the mobile and then immediately answered another call.

Mycroft did not let himself pause at the armoured door of the war room.  He did not let himself hesitate, did not let himself hurt as he reached for the biometric lock.  He did not think about it as he stepped into the room, did not falter for even a moment.

The room was already exploding with activities.  Screens lit all around the room, casting the windowless chamber in blue and grey light.  Mycroft’s surveillance network was vast.

Too vast.

“We’re trying to find him, sir,” someone called as he entered.

“Try harder!” Anthea snapped, breaking off from him to lean over someone’s shoulder.

Mycroft was spinning.  Spinning and reeling and losing himself in the tide of loud voices and tapping keyboards and dim secrecy shrouding this room.  He was falling apart at the seems, his skin pulling away from his bones as that awful call played over and over in his mind, burned into his psyche.

He couldn’t give them the codes.  He couldn’t.

Seventy million people.  Almost seventy million people in exchange for Greg’s life.

Something in Mycroft wanted to.  Something in him screamed yes, do it, give it up.  Give up yourself.  Give up your country, your work, your people.  Your family.  Colleagues.  Give it all up for him.

For him.

But he couldn’t.  He couldn’t.

Mycroft paced the room, staring unseeingly at computer screens and letting agents’ words fall against him like water.  Nothing meant anything, here.  Nothing was right.  Nothing was enough.

Nothing was Greg.

“Sir?”

Mycroft turned, burning.  Burning with worry, with terror, with desperate hope.  His eyes locked with Anthea’s, serious and wide.

“We found him.”

Mycroft stumbled across the chamber, catching himself on the back of a chair as he nearly tripped over his own feet and fell in his haste.  The screen was paused, a blurry figure frozen mid-motion in the centre of the greyscale image.

“It’s a lead, sir, not his current location,” Anthea clarified.  “The abduction was caught in Peckham as he was leaving an unrelated crime scene.  The team is already following what we have.  We’ll find him, sir.  We’ll get him out of there.”

“Play the footage,” Mycroft said hoarsely.  “Now.”

It was worse than he could have imagined.  The blurry figure of what had to be Greg was walking down the sidewalk, straight through the centre of the camera’s view.  The video jerked and jolted a few times as the camera shifted to follow his motion.  Then—

A van swerved into Greg’s path, nearly running him off the sidewalk.  It narrowly missed smashing into a building, screeching to a halt just in time.

Greg didn’t even have time to cry out.

In an instant, four large figures jumped from the van, descending upon him.  Greg reeled after the first punch, balling his fists to retaliate, but the second and third strikes knocked him further back.  One of them grabbed him from behind as he struggled; he escaped that, but then was suddenly on the ground and they were kicking him, kicking him, kicking him—

Greg was limp as they lifted him, but began to struggle as they tried to put him in the van.  He fought and fought, struggling and shouting as four men attacked one, slowly succeeding in manhandling him into their vehicle.

And— And.  Oh.  Oh, God.  Blurry dark spots marred the sidewalk where Greg had fallen.

Oh, God.

Blood.

Greg’s blood.

Mycroft could feel nothing.  Nothing.  His limbs buzzed with static, his vision spinning and blurring.  And it didn’t stop.  It didn’t stop.  The camera had no sound, but Mycroft could hear it.  He could hear the blows landing, the cries, the sobs of pain.  He could hear his lover’s voice as lips formed silent syllables.

Mycroft! Greg was screaming.  Mycroft!

Mycroft tried to reach out, tried to touch the screen, tried to fix this, but he couldn’t, couldn’t move, couldn’t help him, couldn’t save him— He could feel nothing, nothing at all.  Was he breathing?  Was his heart beating?  He didn’t know.  He didn’t know.  He— He—

Anthea stepped close just in time to catch him as Mycroft fainted.

Chapter Text

Hello.

Oh, Christ.  He sounded cheerful.  Happy.  

Greg still didn’t know how the man had unlocked his phone, but he had.  He had grinned horribly as he texted, all sharp teeth and hideous, twisted features.  

Don’t answer, Greg had thought desperately.  Please don’t.  Don’t answer.  It’s dangerous.  Don’t put yourself in danger.

Yet just moments later, his mobile had begun to ring.  And Greg’s heart tore itself in two when he heard the voice on the line, crackling through the static.

Are you doing alright, darling?

“No!  Hang up!” Greg shouted, earning himself a sudden, swift kick in the stomach for his trouble.  He collapsed face-first once more onto the floor of the small room, coughing and wheezing.

His captor glared at him, pressing a shushing finger to his lips.  “Yeah, he’s great,” he drawled.  “Bit rude, your fella.  The hell do you see in him?”

What?

Greg spat and swore, struggling to sit back up with his hands bound behind him.

The man laughed, shoving him just hard enough with the toe of his boot that Greg toppled once more to the floor.

“Yeah…” the man sighed, hideous smile twisting his features again.  “You’d think a copper would be able to handle a little chat with grace and courtesy.  But your boy’s a bit of a bastard, now, isn’t he?”  

Greg glared at him, hissing and swearing as he pushed himself up to sit on his knees.  His entire body ached.  Where hadn’t he been hit, at this point?  He’d been beaten and battered near-constantly from the moment he was torn off the street and bundled into the unmarked lorry.  Nothing felt broken—yet—but everything felt awful.

Greg’s captor held the mobile away from his face a bit, leering down at him.  “Wanna add something, mate?” he asked, dangling the phone teasingly in front of Greg.

Greg snarled at him, but knew this was his chance.  “Hang up, Mycroft!” he shouted, desperately shuffling closer on his knees.  “Track my phone and hang up, Myc!  Don’t—”

“That’s enough,” his captor barked.

Greg really wasn’t ready for the boot in his gut that time.  He folded inwards, breath leaving him in a pained oof.  Another kick sent Greg tumbling onto his side, wheezing and coughing.  Every muscle in his body was on fire, burning with screaming, horrible pain.

He didn’t hear what Mycroft said next, vision and hearing both blacking out for a few seconds as he desperately struggled to breathe.  He caught only one word that mattered: kill.

Chills ran up and down Greg’s body, briefly overshadowing the ache.  They were going to kill him.  Mycroft too, likely, if they could get their hands on him.

Don’t come for me, love, Greg thought desperately.  ‘M not worth it.  I’m not worth whatever he’s asking for.

What do you want? came Mycroft’s voice, brisk and cold.

Mycroft was afraid.  Greg knew that tone, knew that particular cadence of speech.  Mycroft only got that clipped, that icy, when everything was going to hell and back.  When things weren’t going his way.  When he was terrified.

Greg struggled back up onto his knees as the stranger mocked Mycroft, singsonging some bullshit about an “easy trade.”  Nothing was ever an easy trade.  Nothing.  What did they want him for?  What was this man trying to leverage Greg’s life for?

Whatever it is, Greg wanted to say, fighting against the pain in his body, trying to force out words, I’m not worth it.

“The radar codes,” his captor snapped.  “I know you have them.  You have the power to access everything I need.  Give them to me.  Give them to me, and I’ll stop hurting him.”

“No!” Greg shouted, earning a swat across the face that sent him back to the floor yet again.

Mycroft’s response came almost at the same time, thank Christ.  No.

“That’s it, darlin’,” Greg wheezed to himself as he rolled to his back, staying on the ground in an attempt to catch his burning breath.  “Don’t— Don’t give up information.  Don’t give up safety.  Not for me.  Not for my life.”

“Nobody has to know,” Greg’s captor sneered, approaching a hideous, horrible croon.  “No one will ever know it was you.  Nothing I’ve done to your little fucktoy is permanent, yet.  Let me see the fucking radars.  It’s small, really.  It’s all I ask.”

How did he know?  How did he know about Greg?  How had he found him?  How did he know enough about Mycroft to know about those codes?  There was too much, here.  Even Mycroft’s name was classified upon classified upon classified.  No one should know a thing about him past minor position in the British government.  No one should know a thing about Greg past Detective Inspector Lestrade.

But this man knew.  This man knew too much.  Way, way too fucking much.

His words echoed in Greg’s brain as he forced himself to breathe, struggling all the way to his feet and spitting blood onto the floor.  All his teeth were still in place, miraculously.  For now.

Nothing I’ve done is permanent.  Yet.

Yet.

Mycroft didn’t respond.

Greg’s captor didn’t seem to care, though, just laughing hatefully once more.  “I’ll let you think about it,” he sneered, before backhanding Greg so hard and so unexpectedly that Greg stumbled backward into the wall.  He might have cried out; he didn’t know.  He managed to maintain his footing, this time, though he had no idea how.  

As Greg staggered, desperately fighting to keep his balance, the line went silent.

Don’t give it to him, Myc, Greg thought.  Don’t.  I’m not worth it.  I’m not worth the entire fucking country.  You’ll be alright without me.  You will.  I promise.

I love you.  Always have, always will.

Christ, when’s the last time I told you that?

Greg didn’t have time to think.  The man was stalking toward him now, a stormy frown creasing his face.  

His captor tossed Greg’s mobile aside carelessly.  Greg winced as it crashed onto the floor, cracking in several places.  A soft hiss of static issued from its speakers, crackling and crying into the room.

“It’s later,” the man murmured, roughly grabbing Greg’s chin and yanking his head up.  “Time to deal with you.”

Oh, fuck.  Fuck— Mycroft—

The broken phone’s static swelled into a roar as the man’s fist hurtled toward Greg’s face.

Chapter Text

He could not make a sound.  He did not know what would happen if they found him; he did not want to find out.  He could not move, could not breathe, could not take even a step over the creaky wooden floor.

But Greg lay on the boards, just a whisper away.  Motionless.

Mycroft was not supposed to be here.  He had, in fact, been given very stern orders from Anthea to stay where he was, seated in his office’s war room and surrounded by overbearing staff.

But then an hour had passed.

And another.

His people were searching, desperately trying to find Greg.  They’d narrowed it down to a triangle of buildings out in Brentford, but CCTV was proving oddly difficult to crack.  He’s there! Mycroft’s instincts screamed.  The difficulty of the CCTV could only be a clue, could it not?  Greg had to be there.  Had to.

“We cannot make a move until we are certain, sir,” his people kept saying.  “Certainty above all else.  Precision above all else.”

Greg above all else, he wanted to shout back.  His life is on the line!  Can you people not do something?  Anything?

How long would the man wait?  How long would he leave Greg alive?  Mycroft had tried to call Greg’s mobile twice more, but it had rung out unanswered.  He would call again, Mycroft was certain.

When the hours since the phone call ticked over to three, Mycroft could not take it anymore.  He excused himself to the restroom, waving off the concerned aides that wanted to follow him.  Was he on suicide watch?  Merely fainting watch?  He didn’t know.

Frankly, he didn’t care.

Once out of the room, Mycroft knew he only had a few minutes before they came looking for him.  They would not let him go if they caught him.  They would tie him down, perhaps, lock him up in his own offices to prevent him from finding the love of his life.  What dystopia was this where a man with all the world’s power could not rescue his own lover?

He could reach that highlighted triangle, determined by tracking pings from the short-lived call with Greg’s cellphone, within thirty minutes.  Twenty, if he broke a few traffic laws.  The area had been growing smaller and smaller as his people worked.  They had it down to only a few streets.  He could find it.  Mycroft had once been renowned for his skills in the field.  He could do that once again.

He could do anything if it meant saving Greg’s life.

Mycroft moved quickly, glancing back over his shoulder as he hurried down the hall.  He turned the corner as if he were heading to the men’s room, but darted back a moment later to scurry down the stairs.  His drivers had no doubt been informed of the situation, but they could not refuse a direct order.  If he told them to stand down and leave the vehicle, he knew they would do so.

Time was ticking, the seconds moving by all-too-quickly in Mycroft’s head as he burst into the car park behind his building.  It had been two minutes already— how long would they wait before they sent someone to look for him?  Would they suspect?  He had acted perfectly calm as he left, making casual, natural eye contact, but had Anthea been able to read his intentions?  She had gotten frighteningly good at that, of late.

He approached the car nervously, having worked himself up into a suitable panic.  He was escaping from his own work, tiptoeing out the back door because his own operatives valued precision over his lover’s life.  Mycroft hated himself for that.  He knew they were only reciting his own words back to him.  He knew he had behaved much the same in countless situations, drilling it in that they must value precision above all else, must be accurate, must never guess.  Except now.  Now, it was personal.

 Greg may be dying, he knew.  Or worse.  Those sounds in the background on the phone…

Mycroft rapped sharply on the window of one of his office’s sleek black Audis.  The driver opened the door immediately, looking questioningly up at him.

Mycroft made a split-second decision.  “Out of the car, please,” he said sharply.  “They will know where I have gone.”

His driver didn’t argue.

It took only seconds before Mycroft was peeling out into the street, yanking his seatbelt over his lap.  He knew where to go; he knew where to look.  Old habits died hard.  He would know the signs, he was certain.  Even years out of fieldwork, he knew he would not have forgotten it.  He would find Greg.  He would.  He could feel it, a deep certainty settling in his bones as he calmly swerved through the evening traffic.  But how would he find him?  Injured?  In pain?

Dead?

Fate was on his side in the beginning; Mycroft made the drive in fifteen minutes.  His mobile began to ring at minute seven.  He ignored it as soon as he saw Anthea’s name flash on the screen.  She knew where he had gone.  They all knew it.  They would follow him.  He would have reinforcements, if that mattered.  He wasn’t sure it did.  All he could focus on was Greg.  Greg.  He had to find his Greg.

He parked illegally at one edge of the triangle.  They had managed to track a few pings from Greg’s mobile to towers in this area.  A few spaces could be immediately eliminated; busy, well-established shops, bars that clearly had no basement or hidden-enough backroom, and tiny 24-hour corner shops were immediately struck from his list.  There were only so many places you could keep a captive.  Mycroft knew a few things already.  Greg was indoors, likely on a lower floor or basement level, judging by the amount of static over the line.  The room he was in must be small, as there had been little reverberation of voice.  No carpet, but not concrete, either.  The sounds of— of Greg hitting the floor had been too noticeable for that.  Perhaps not a basement, then.

Mycroft walked quickly, hurrying down the sidewalk in the dimming evening light.  Anthea was calling again; again, he ignored her.

The abandoned-looking factory building seemed obvious, but Mycroft felt, somehow, that it was wrong.  It didn’t look right, didn’t feel right.  It wouldn’t have small enough spaces, would it?  It would be all concrete floors, right?  And he should have heard some kind of insects or rustling plants or dead leaves over the phone, should he not?

Mycroft kept walking, eyeing the place.  It was a formidable structure, looming over the sidewalk and the surrounding buildings.  It had to be a small place, not something like the factory.  His operatives had been trying to crack CCTV on the factory, but it couldn’t be right.  He couldn’t be there.  They were wasting their time searching for Greg in places they could never find him.  Mycroft would find him.  If it killed him, he would find his Greg.

And— There.  A broken shop window, halfway boarded up.  A door hanging just slightly open, darkness inviting him inside.  It was a small, two-storey building.  Once a pawn shop, judging by the faded lettering on the remnants of glass.  There were a few scuff marks on the doorframe that looked perhaps recent.

Mycroft feigned adjusting his shoe, kneeling down to inspect the sidewalk.

Tiny flecks of red surrounded his foot, spattered over the pavement.

Blood.

Mycroft took only a moment to glance over his shoulder before he slipped into the closed-down shop.  It was eerily silent inside, though the space itself was a mess.  Broken glass and wood abounded, though the shelves and display cases were completely empty.  Likely a victim of some sort of looting, either before or after the shop had closed.  A path had been cleared through the centre of the mess, though; something had been dragged through here, recently.  There was a faint pull in the carpet, a very slight pattern of sliding just the right size for a man.

Had Greg been dragged in?  Was that blood his?

Nothing I’ve done to your little fucktoy is permanent, yet, the man’s voice murmured in the back of his mind.

Yet.

Mycroft didn’t want to think about it.

As quietly and swiftly as he could, he made his way across the debris, taking care not to shift anything out of place.  The sinking feeling in his stomach only grew as he moved.  This was right, he knew.  He was in the right place.  Greg had to be here.  He had to be.

A narrow doorway in the back; a small hallway.  Mycroft crept along, hardly breathing.  Should he have called in reinforcements?

It was too late for that, now.  Taking the time to do that might have made it too late for Greg, too.

The first open doorway, the door long since torn off its hinges, revealed nothing.  An empty room, perhaps once a storeroom.

The next, though, revealed all.  A figure lay in the centre of the tiny space, curled on its side.  There was hardly any furniture aside from a broken shelf beneath the curtained window.

“Greg.  Greg!” Mycroft hissed, kneeling down.  He reached out to touch Greg’s shoulder, shaking him slightly, but Greg did not respond.  He just rolled back where Mycroft pushed, head lolling back.  He was breathing, Mycroft realised, entire body flooding with relief.  He’s breathing.

Breathing, but unconscious.  Getting him out would be an ordeal, if not impossible.  Yet for Greg, anything could be possible.  Mycroft could get him out.  He was sure he could.  Gently, but firmly, Mycroft shook Greg by the shoulders again, trying to wake him.

Nothing.

“Greg!” he hissed again, leaning close to murmur in his ear.  “Wake, please, Greg.  It’s me.  It’s Mycroft.”

A door slammed down the hall.

Every hair on Mycroft’s body stood on end, his skin prickling.  Would they come this way?  Enter the tiny, barely-furnished stockroom?  Would they find him here?  Beat him into submission, too?  Mycroft would die before he gave up the radar codes.

And so he would die.

And likely Greg, too.

Footsteps.  Heavy.  Boots.  Coming this way.

Mycroft had only seconds.  He leapt to his feet, knees protesting the sudden change as he darted across the room.  Tattered curtains hung across the windows, long enough to brush the floor.  Mycroft could only pray they were thick enough.

The curtains swung into place just as the man entered the room.  He was huge, thickly built and obviously strong.  Fuck, Mycroft thought.  This complicates things.

Greg, barely visible through a tiny hole in the fabric, did not move.

“Bastard,” the man spat.  He reared back his foot and kicked, the blow making a horrible sound as it connected with Greg’s abdomen.

Greg did not respond, his body folding on its own as the man kicked again.  And again.  And again.  Mycroft’s heart tore into a thousand pieces as he watched, unable to pull his eyes away.

The man was too big.  He was too tall, too built, too heavily armed.  Mycroft could not best him.  He knew that.  But oh— oh, god.  What to do?  How could he just stand here, hidden behind thin curtains, watching the man he loved beaten?

Unbreathing, Mycroft stayed hidden, silent tears slipping down his face.

Finally, the man stopped.  His breathing was loud and harsh at first, but soon faded.  He simply stood over Greg, staring down at his motionless form.  He moved away, then, Mycroft losing sight of him.  Would he leave?  Mycroft desperately hoped he was, but there were not enough footsteps.  The man was still here.  Would he find Mycroft?  Would he attack Greg once more?  What was he doing?  Why was he still here?

In his pocket, the sound horrifyingly loud in the utterly silent space, Mycroft’s phone began to vibrate.

Chapter Text

Mycroft had barely two seconds.  The noise from his mobile was loud. Horrifyingly, terrifyingly loud, buzzing against his leg.  

The man turned, almost dog-like as he tilted his head, listening to the noise.

“Hello there,” he snarled.  He was coming closer.  Mycroft could hear his footsteps, hear his breathing growing heavier and louder.

Mycroft gritted his teeth, bracing himself.

As the man whipped the curtain aside, shouting, Mycroft swung.  He ducked, throwing an elbow as high as he could, bracing his arm in his other hand.  It connected, the man crying out as his head snapped to the side.

He recovered quickly, though.  Too quickly.

Mycroft was not ready for the fist in his abdomen, his lungs emptying with a whoosh as he doubled over.  The man was big, much bigger than him, and proportionally much stronger.

Shit.

Greg.

Mycroft had to get him away from Greg.  No matter what happened to him, he needed to get Greg free from this man.  If the attacker knocked Mycroft out, would he take his frustrations out on Greg?  Would he simply kill him?  There was no more need for his hostage if he had Mycroft in his hands.  There was no reason to keep him alive, was there?

He had to get the man out of here.  He had to.

Mycroft yanked his knee up, driving it hard into the man’s groin.  The man spat and swore, buying Mycroft just enough time to suck in a few desperate breaths before he started to run.

Every muscle in Mycroft’s body screamed for the man to follow me, follow me, please.  He had to leave Greg.  He needed the man to be angry enough to follow him, to let Greg alone on the floor and turn his violence on Mycroft.  Mycroft stumbled slightly as he launched himself into the hallway, gripping the sagging doorframe to swing himself around the corner.

Thankfully, the man followed.

His heavy boots pounded on the creaking wood floors as Mycroft fled, dodging debris and broken furniture.  The hall was short; too short.  Mycroft didn’t know his way around the dark pawn shop.  He could trip at any moment, could stumble and fall and quite possibly lose his life at the hands of this horrible man.

But he was away from Greg.  He just had to keep him away, just had to—

The doorway was blocked.  Some large, broken piece of furniture had tumbled into it, blocking Mycroft’s escape route at the end of the hall.  Shit.

He had only a second to decide.  

Mycroft scooped a large piece of wood off of the floor, whirling around and swinging it desperately.

Somehow, miraculously, it connected.  The man staggered back with a loud grunt, head whipping to the side where Mycroft’s wood chunk struck him.  That only bought him a moment, though as the man recovered quickly and swung at him.

Mycroft ducked with a yelp, darting forward beneath the man’s angry haymaker.  The attacker’s body struck him but fist missed, saving Mycroft from a sure knockout.

And then he was running again, fleeing down the hall, the man’s heavy footsteps pounding behind him.  Mycroft’s heart pounded.  What was he going to do?  He had to get out of here, had to get out into the street.  If he got out, someone could help him.  Someone would see him, would stop this man, would let him get back inside to Greg.  His Greg.  His motionless, unconscious, battered and bruised Greg.

Mycroft swung himself around another doorframe, tearing into the larger room.  He stumbled over broken glass and wood, racing toward the sliver of red-gold sunlight that marked his escape.  Boots pounded relentlessly behind him, the man snarling threats and swearing as he panted after Mycroft.

He burst into the sunlight, tripping onto the sidewalk and nearly falling forward onto his hands and knees.

Dark figures swam in the front of his vision, coming into focus as he skidded and stumbled to a desperate stop.

“Sir, get down!” someone shouted.

Mycroft, acting purely on instinct, could do nothing but obey.  He threw himself to the pavement, the pain of his knees striking asphalt overshadowed by his screaming, racing heart.

From the ground, he heard the telltale burst of a silenced gunshot.

A soft thump followed that.

And then—

Silence.

No footsteps were following him; no heavy boots or snarling panting.  Cautiously, Mycroft raised his head.  Anthea appeared at his side instantly, reaching down to help him up.

“The threat has been neutralised,” she said as she pulled him to his feet.  “Please do not do that again, sir.”

“I had to,” Mycroft said, trying to control his breathing.  “Greg is— Greg is inside.  Unconscious.  His condition is— is likely nearing critical.”  His voice cracked a little as he spoke, but he forced himself to keep going.  “Have emergency services been notified?”

She nodded, her face clouding.  “They are on their way.”

Mycroft glanced back at the open door to the shop, the darkness within tearing at his heart.  Greg.

As he picked his way back through the broken-down shop, he felt rather than heard Anthea fall into step behind him.  He moved quickly, though with less all-encompassing terror than before, a cold horror slowly making its way through him instead.  What would he find, back in that cold storeroom?  Would Greg still be there?  Would Greg still— still be breathing?

Mycroft’s knees hit the floor hard, giving out beneath him at the sight of Greg, still motionless on the floor.  He might have been saying Greg’s name aloud; he didn’t know.  He couldn’t tell.  Desperately, he reached out, cupping his lover’s cheek in one hand as the other scrabbled for his pulse.  Greg.  Greg.

His heart fluttered softly beneath Mycroft’s fingertips.  Greg was alive.  He was battered and bruised, but alive, breathing slow and heartbeat faint.

Mycroft thought he might cry from sheer relief.

He had to have internal injuries, Mycroft knew.  There was no way Greg had withstood such trauma, especially to the abdomen, without some kind of internal bruising or bleeding.  The thought filled Mycroft with cold horror.  How much time did he have?  How much time did Greg have?  How was he going to get Greg out of here without harming him further?

“We must get him outside,” Anthea said.  “He can get help faster, that way.”

Mycroft could do nothing but nod and agree.  

Mycroft hooked his arms through Greg’s, lifting him at the chest while Anthea lifted his legs.  His muscles protested, already exhausted, but he forced himself to push through it.  For Greg.  Anything for Greg.

Together, they gently moved Greg’s limp body out of the room, Mycroft’s muscles and heart screaming as one.  Another operative appeared soon, helping to shoulder Greg’s weight as they carried him into the evening sunlight.  He did not move; he made no sound.  He only breathed, slow and shallow.  Mycroft’s hands shook.  Greg will wake up, he told himself.  He will.  He will awaken and all will be well.

“This is not your fault, sir,” Anthea murmured as they gently laid him down on the sidewalk.  “You have saved his life.”

“Not yet,” Mycroft said through gritted teeth, dropping once more to his knees at Greg’s side.  “Not yet, I haven’t.”

Sirens screamed down the street, tires screeching as police and EMTs appeared, flooding the area.  Mycroft did not let them pull him away from his Greg, clutching Greg’s limp hand as paramedics descended on him.  He followed as they loaded him onto a stretcher and into the ambulance, trailing behind them like a lost child.

Greg, Greg, Greg.

His Greg would be fine, wouldn’t he?  He would live, wouldn’t he?

His death would not be Mycroft’s fault, would it?

He was hardly aware of himself as Anthea herded him into a car, sliding into the driver’s seat herself.  They drove in silence, following the ambulance’s flashing lights and shrieking siren.  

Mycroft turned his face to the window, trying to hide his tears.

He wasn’t quite successful; Anthea discreetly handed him a tissue at a stoplight.  

When they parked outside the hospital, Anthea paused a moment before climbing out.  “He will be alright, sir,” she said, gentle but firm.  “I am certain of it.  He is made of sterner stuff than you think.”

Mycroft, his lips trembling, could not muster an answer.  He could only pray that she was right.

Hours of waiting followed.  Anthea stayed by his side for most of it, periodically stepping out to take phone calls.  He let her answer any calls to his mobile, knowing he would not be useful at work just now.  Any other occasion, he would have returned to work.  Any time Sherlock had ended up somewhere like this, Mycroft had found solace in nothing but his work.  He had sat in countless hospital rooms, computer on his lap, emails flying as he worked at his brother’s side.

But today, he had nothing.  He could not focus.  He could barely read the trashy tabloids Anthea placed in his hands, could barely comprehend the passage of time as they sat in the hospital hallway.

Mycroft could think of nothing but Greg.

What woul d he do if that was the last time he’d seen Greg alive?  What would he do?  How could he reconcile that crooked smile, that roguish, devilish manner, those gentle, sweet kisses with the grey-white pallor of unconsciousness?  How could he remember all the sunny parts of his lover when the way he’d last seen him had been so… so…

And it had been his fault.  It was all his fault.  Greg never would have been there, never would have been hurt, if not for Mycroft.  If not for his position, if not for his power, if not for his failures.

I should have protected him.

Mycroft had retrieved him, yes, but he should not have had to.  That should never have happened.  Nothing like that should ever have happened.

Nearly four hours passed before they let him see Greg.  They had done a dozen or so scans to assess the damage.  He had gone under for emergency surgery twice.

Mycroft had sat for four hours in that hall, unmoving and silent, tearing himself to pieces in his mind.

“He is awake, but likely not for very long,” the nurse warned him when he let Mycroft into Greg’s room.  “Try not to upset or excite him too much.”

Anthea spoke to the nurse for a few minutes but Mycroft heard none of it, his entire attention focused on Greg.  Greg.

Greg blinked blearily at him from the bed, a faint, crooked smile curving his lips.

“Hey, beautiful,” he whispered, voice hoarse.  Bandages wrapped his torso and head, shredding Mycroft’s heart yet further.

Mycroft could not speak, frozen still at Greg’s side.

“They’ve got me on so many bloody drugs,” Greg murmured, words slurring slightly.  “Can’t— Will you hold my hand?  Can’t feel anythin’, but…”

Mycroft couldn’t force out words, couldn’t make himself speak.  He was crying again, tears blurring his vision.

Greg blinked at him.  “Don’t cry, darlin’,” he whispered, smiling again.  “Jus’— Just hold my hand ‘nd everything will be okay.”

Mycroft, shaking, managed to reach out, slipping his hand into Greg’s.

Greg’s grip was weak, but he curled his fingers around Mycroft’s, sighing happily.

“See,” he murmured, blinking slower and slower as he talked.  “That’s… Everything’s… ev’rythin’…”

He was fading, morphine-induced sleep overtaking him.  Mycroft’s heart wrenched.  He sniffled a bit, trying to stop himself from crying.

“Everything will be alright,” Mycroft whispered hoarsely, squeezing Greg’s hand as his eyes closed, breathing deep and rhythmic.  “Everything— Everything will be alright.”