There was a knock at the door. John trekked sleepily downstairs, undid the latch and pulled it open.

Sherlock's older brother Mycroft, who was clutching his umbrella in one hand and an important looking file into the other, stood infront of him on the doorstep.
"John." Mycroft greeted with a nod, stepping inside.
John was slightly puzzled by the fact that Mycroft wasn't being trailed by his assistant 'Not' Anthea, and the fact that Mycroft seemed a little flustered, but his suspicions were distracted by Sherlock's shout
"Go away, Mycroft!" Sherlock echoed from upstairs
"And good morning to you to, brother -mine." Mycroft drawled, ascending the stairs.
"Whatever it is, Mycroft I refuse to do it." Sherlock replied
"Won't you even wait for me to tell you what it is." Mycroft said, entering the flat.
"Something of 'extreme importance to the British government' I bet." Sherlock snapped, mimicking Mycroft's voice
"Oh very juvenile, Sherlock."
"I had a busy day yesterday, I've still got a case to solve so if you would kindly shove off." Sherlock snapped
"Sherlock." John said in a warning voice.
Mycroft rolled his eyes and dropped the file he was holding onto the table.
"The case is-"
"I don't care. Didn't you hear me? Shove off!"
"But-" Mycroft spoke up
"No, Mycroft. I'm not doing your dirty work, you have minions to do that for you."
"You don't understand-" Mycroft tried again. John picked up on a hint of desperation in his voice, but it was surprisingly lost on Sherlock.
"No I don't suppose I do. 'Don't try to be smart Sherlock, I'm the smart one.'"
"Sherlock!" Mycroft snapped sharply
"Mycroft!" Sherlock retorted
"I'm losing my patience, Sherlock."
"Oh please do." Sherlock snarled "It'll make you go so much faster."
"You really want me to go?" Mycroft asked, a hint of sadness in his voice
"Yes. After all, it's not as if I need you."
Mycroft drew himself up to his full height, clasping his umbrella handle so tightly that his knuckles went white.
"No. I suppose you don't." He turned and walked out the door. He paused.
"Goodbye, Sherlock."
Sherlock didn't reply.
A few seconds later they heard the front door close.
"Good riddance." Sherlock muttered.
"Sherlock..." John began, walking into the room "Did you notice... Mycroft. He wasn't really himself..."
"It's just the diet. It always put him in a bad mood."
"Sherlock, I'm serious. He seemed..." He couldn't believe he was about to say this "Scared."
Sherlock looked at him with an amused look.
"Don't be ridiculous." He snorted "Mycroft has never been scared of anything."
"Sounds like you have a Little Brother complex."
"What?"
"I have it to, with Harry. You see your older brother as invincible, unable to be hurt."
"I think you're mistaking our brotherly relationship for one that has sentiment."
John rolled his eyes, picking up the file Mycroft left on the table.
"Let's see what all the fuss is about anyway."

"Be my guest." Sherlock shrugged "It's hardly going to be anything important."
He opened the file and read the piece of paper it contained. It was a report, a few photographs paperclipped to it.
"Sherlock..." John said, his eyes wide
"What?" Sherlock looked up
"Look."
John held out the file and Sherlock took it. He read the first line.
'Subject: Mycroft Holmes. Possible assassin target.'
"What the hell?" Sherlock muttered.
Before he could react to what he just read, three loud gunshots reverberated from outside.

Instinctively, John grabbed his gun and charged outside, Sherlock in tow.
There was a hooded figure standing across the street, holding a rather large revolver in one hand. Across the street on their side, a figure lag crumble on the street propped up slightly by the wall, the flagstones slowly being stained red by the blood.
The figure spotted them running towards him, and evidently spotted John's gun. He fired off a shot which blasted into the stonework by John's head. John opened fired and the man fell to the ground.

Sherlock was already by the casualties side before John had even fired the gun. He froze, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. A few meters away lay a familiar bamboo handle umbrella, laying where it's owner had dropped it.
"Sherlock." John said, kneeling down next to his friend, recodnising the familiar far-away look in his eyes "Don't go into your mind palace. Please. Your brother needs you."

Brother.

Now Sherlock saw. It was Mycroft. Mycroft was lying infront of him, unconscious, two bullet holes in his abdomen, one more in his arm. Blood pouring out onto the ground.

Mycroft had been shot.

He needed to process this. This was new... Well not entirely new... There was something else...
"Sherlock!" John shouted
Sherlock snapped out of it. With a heavy feeling in his stomach and a cold feeling in his blood, he helped John lift his brother along the street. He saw the large puddle of blood on the flagstones and nearly froze again, but he forced himself to continue. For his brother.

Once Mycroft was safely inside the flat hallway, John was instantly on the phone to the ambulance.
"Mycroft." Sherlock tried to wake him up. He was vaguely aware that people could here you when unconscious. Or was that a coma? His mind palace was a mess, the walls crumbling. This couldn't happen. Never. When Mycroft had turned up he'd never...
"Mycroft can you here me? You've got to wake up. Mycroft. Please."
He felt like a little child again, calling out to his brother with wide eyes. He could never seem to remember why though...
"S-Sherlock." Mycroft muttered in his sleep.
The sound of sirens began to fill the air; then all of a sudden Sherlock felt himself be pulled away, a swarm of strangers in bright jackets swarming his brother. He felt lost. He wanted his brother. He wanted Mycroft.
"MYCROFT!"