*That's What We Do*

By: WhiteGloves

Recently the Abominable Bride hit TV screens.

It's fun to see all the interaction... and the brotherly love *hearts*

Enjoy Reading~

Clutching newspapers on his hand, John Watson came bounding on the steps of 221B Baker Street in a hurry and up in a flash to his old roommate's flat to find the detective, in his sleeping robes, perfectly situated on the rug in the middle of the room and seemingly engaged towards an object lying on the table in front of him.

"Sherlock," the doctor called sounding urgent as he took a step toward the guy whose back was turned against him, "have you heard the news?"

"I'm busy."

"I know but—" he stopped—caught dead by what he saw on the table that he couldn't help exclaiming- "What the hell are you doing with that?"

For there on the table was an amputated right hand on a plate with fist closed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"A hand, obvious."

"I know it's a hand! Don't you think I wouldn't recognize one having to see hundreds of them every day? I'm asking what you're doing with it?"

"I'm not doing anything... yet."John stared for awhile and then shook his head many times while the detective quietly reached his gloved hand on the object and started trying to feel the fist. The doctor took his time to grunt and then dropped the newspaper he was holding on the table.

"You've heard the attack on the British government yesterday? People gunning official workers in front of the state department! Three people dead!"

"Yes."

John stared at him but the man in the robe didn't seem the least bit interested.

"There was another attack this morning—near Buckingham Palace and this time there was a bomb. Nobody was killed but there was mass panic."

"John, if I wanted to hear news I would have turned on the telly, it tells better update."

The doctor sighed impatiently. "If you've heard the news then why are you not working?"

"What do you think I'm doing?" he snapped.

"With that bloody thing? Aren't you the one complaining it's been boring lately, well, here you are! The government's being targeted! Your own brother could be in danger!"

"Oh, please." Sherlock scoffed with one eye at John before returning with his hand on the severed hand with a scalpel, "Mycroft's the last person to be hit by any bullet; he's the one responsible for the dodging of the royal family. And nobody even knows he exists with his secret service. Plus the fact that he's just here this morning to give me this."

That stopped the doctor as he stared again at the detective and then at the hand.

"Your brother gave you this hand?"

"Apparently it has some clues in it." Sherlock gritted his teeth as John sat on the couch to watch him open the severed hand's finger one by one, "He wouldn't come here if it didn't bother him officially."

"Mycroft got that hand and gave it to you... because he thinks there's a clue in it?"

"He got it from the official who got shot yesterday." Sherlock went on conversationally as he successfully opened the pinky, "He has reason to believe the official was a spy from another country. He went as far as to check the body on the morgue and then curiously found this hand tightly closed. He didn't get farther than that and lazily put the work on me."

"By severing the hand?"

"I didn't want to go in the morgue when he called me." The detective suddenly became aggressive as he tore the other finger open that made the doctor watch him thoughtfully.

"Sounds like you got bossed again." John mused with a smirk that made Sherlock glance in his direction sharply.

"He's an idiot brother." He puckered his lips as he uncovered something from the hand that John couldn't see.

"At least he didn't send you the whole body." He said as Sherlock extracted what appeared to be a rolled strip of small paper. "What do you have there?"

The two huddled heads together as the detective smoothed the paper only to find it torn by half with few words printed on it:

"'crook orders to kill HM—" John stopped and looked at his friend, "HM?"

"Her Majesty's Government." Sherlock muttered with eyes suddenly glinting.

"So somebody wants to really kill the Queen?"

"How very predictable." Sherlock said and with a speed of someone unexpected of his nature except when he was on a scent, Sherlock Holmes got on his feet and ran towards his bedroom— "Get ready, John!"

"What?" Doctor Watson stood up also with eyes at the back of his friend, "Are we going to save the queen?"

"What—no!" Sherlock turned at him with eyes still shining, "Where's the fun in that? We're going to catch the mastermind! The game is on!"

In the next minutes both were already inside a cab with Sherlock explaining to John—

"It's not perfectly clear yet who they want to kill among Her Majesty's family or even if it's the majesty herself. HM has always been addressed to signify that the government of a Commonwealth realm of England. It's like a mother's name for authority—Her Majesty's Secret Service, Her Majesty's Prison, stuff like that—"

"So how do we know we're off to the right track? And where are we going exactly?"

"Excellent question. South Avenue. It's the paper's simplicity itself. It's not a paper you'd ordinary use to scribble a message unless it's the only available one. Don't you recognize this shade? See? The paper is new but has already accumulated dust and the pale color is different from dark edges. It's also just a strip but the cutting is perfect as if it was cut with a bunch of others—not just scissors. Inference: it's a paper stored under conditions of a factory, bulk—loads of papers brought together to be shredded by a machine. The paper's quality is that for quick passing of hands—very thin and smooth. See also the print? It's in block style, written in bold. The font and ink is very common you see it every day, actually we always do glance at it—"

"The newspaper?" John said finally able to grasp the idea while Sherlock's eyes twinkled.

"Printing press. Exactly. Now which newspaper do you think uses this kind of font for their small articles?"

The doctor stared at his friend and then down at the strip of paper—

"So why are we not telling Mycroft?" he blurted all of a sudden, "He's the Secret Service—"

"And he's the one taking credit for my work." Sherlock suddenly said coldly as he averted his eyes towards the windows, "That's what he gets for dumping his work on me, and it's a detective's privilege, John."

Doctor Watson closed his eyes and then shook his head as he also looked outside.

"When are the two of you going to stop acting like children? Jesus—the Queen and her family's lives are at stake!"

"Technically, it's Mycroft's job which will be at stake—"

"Sherlock—!"

"Drop it, John, he's got nothing to lose." The detective looked at the doctor with a frown, "He wouldn't leave this to me if he hasn't guarded the real target with all the bullet proof walls he can get his hands on."

"You think Mycroft knows who's the real target?"

"He always knows." Sherlock sounded somewhat bitter but there was a strange note in his voice that John couldn't help noticing... a part of him sounding proud. It made the doctor give a long sigh.

"Then what if he also knows about the printing press? The paper was torn in half what if he has the other part and also figured out? You know he's sharp. What we're doing could be a fool's errand on his cctv cameras, Sherlock."

He knew if there was something that would bait Sherlock against anything it would always be his brother's superiority. John nearly smiled at himself as he gave Sherlock an innocent look while the detective glanced his way looking a bit hesitant.

In the next beat the two were already on the steps towards the Diogenes Club. There was no need for any assistance after they asked and confirmed Mr. Holmes location since John knew his way around which Sherlock pointed out, a bit rudely to the doctor.

"Don't get your temper on me now." he told the resentful sleuth, "you know it doesn't always end well."

Sherlock grunted as Doctor Watson lead the way to Stranger's Room, the only room tolerating any conversation between guests and members. Consequently it is always here where Mycroft was said to be staying at the moment so without prelude, they entered the room, catching Mycroft Holmes unsurprised as he sat at one of the comfortable chairs with both hands on his umbrella.

"John." The man in the suit said as he welcomed them with a smirk, his eyes on his brother, "Sherlock. I expect good news?"

"He's successful with the hand." John started while the detective dumped himself on the opposite chair to his brother, "He uh... managed to extract a note on the hand you gave."

"A helping hand, eh?" Mycroft mused as the doctor handed him the strip of paper. "Ah... I didn't think..." he started after reading the content that made his younger brother shot him a look.

"You didn't think?" he challenged while Mycroft gave him a pause.

"I meant," he said with a sardonic smile as he waved the paper on his hand, "You'd come showing this to me without the criminal? Seeing as this paper doesn't actually tell anything except being a paper."

He passed the paper back to Sherlock who snatched it with narrowed eyes at his brother.

"You don't know about this paper?"

"First time seeing it," Mycroft shrugged, "although, I think it will lead you The Sun's printing press—the one in North Avenue and not the South. Don't you think so, Sherlock?" he smiled again, meaningfully that made the detective narrow his eyes even more.

John looked from one to another and then cleared his throat.

"So Her Majesty is really targeted then? It says so on the paper."

The older Holmes was quiet for awhile as he put his hands together, his eyes on Sherlock.

"To some extent." Mycroft offered as he looked at his watch, "I was hoping to catch the perpetrator before lunch time but seeing as we're spending time here then I guess I just have to...postpone it?"

Sherlock didn't bother looking at his smiling face again as he stood up.

"I'm doing this because of the fun of the chase, not saving anyone, okay?"

"I didn't say anything." The smile on Mycroft's place was irremovable, "But if you do manage to save the target then I'll owe you. A lifetime, Sherlock."

It was Sherlock's turn to smirk.

"I'd rather not." He turned and walked away, stopped to glance back and added, "Or rather, I don't really care."

Mycroft pressed his lips closed as Sherlock walked out of the door while John sighed and stared at the older brother.

"He uh... thought it was in the South so he's a bit edgy. Forgive him."

"I always do." Mycroft leaned his back on the chair looking thoughtfully at the door, "Look after him, John. I... may not always be there for him after all." He sighed.

John hesitated as he looked at Mycroft curiously who has fallen silent.

"You do realize that's the third time you said that to me?"

Mycroft eyed him and pressed another smile that didn't reach his ear. "Perhaps... to emphasize?"

The doctor blinked and frowned, but then finding he has no words to say, he forced a smile and turned to the doorway and after his friend. In his haste he nearly collided to someone—

"Oh, sorry—" he went pass the man as he saw Sherlock's back already by the door and caught up on him outside. "Do you get high when you argue with your brother?"

"My emotions towards him are passive, John." Sherlock said as he let the doctor fall in the steps beside him, "It's easy to deal with him that way... otherwise he'll occupy all the space in my mind palace."

John blinked, and then shot his friend a look.

"Seriously, you call that 'passive'?"

The detective grunted with a side look at him but then to John's surprise, Sherlock suddenly rounded on him with a frown saying, "What's that on your shoulder?"

John glanced down on his right where Sherlock was pointing and felt his friend grab him. Sherlock rubbed his fingers on John's clothes and looked at it with a frown. Surprised, John saw red stain on the detective's fingers.

"Is that—?"

"Blood." Sherlock said sharply as he inspected it, "Fresh blood... but you're not injured..."

"I—I don't know where I got that," John said in his own confusion as he looked back at the building while Sherlock's eyes whizzed at his clothes—then the detective was suddenly asking questions—

"Where did you last go? Who did you meet? Did you bump to anyone?"

"No I-, yeah, t-there was this man I ran into outside the Stranger's Room just now after we spoke to Mycroft—"

A shadow suddenly veiled the detective's face— and then he was gone and John was after him and both of them were running towards the Diogenes club once more as if they were being chased. John didn't know when or how but he suddenly found his gun on his hand. It was probably instinct; an ominous feeling enveloped his heart as they ran towards their destination, determined to find someone, anyone at the end of their chase. He didn't know what was making Sherlock more agitated than usual, it was different than the him chasing after a criminal- he was more... hasty? But one thing was certain—someone was dead. And the fact that government officials are targeted doesn't bright things up. Exactly how many British Government officials are inside the Diogenes club?

Except, the Diogenes Club's atmosphere remained peaceful as they re-entered; even the host was there bowing on them again. Sherlock took one look at scene, grabbed the surprised host's records notebook (who protested), before dashing to the corridor—

"Sherlock—!"

"No important official is listed today, John!" he said in urgency as he crossed corridors towards the Stranger's Room with the doctor at his heels. Fear grew slightly in John's heart as he remembered Mycroft's last words.

The door of the Stranger Room was banged open by the two but they didn't see anyone. At least, no one standing for there on the floor beside the black umbrella, unmoving and lifeless, was Mycroft Holmes' body.

John felt every nerve in his body, which had been running in excitement just awhile ago, all go freeze and numb but this didn't stop his instincts as a doctor to run towards the body shouting—"Call the ambulance!"to Sherlock but his combat instinct got the better as John saw someone moved from under the table violently with a gun at hand—and John took aim and fired his gun that rang in the silent dwelling place. The doctor didn't know how it happened but Sherlock was quick to tackle the criminal who dropped the gun after the doctor shot him in the arm. John's body was screaming of danger as he looked around to secure the area like what he was trained for. Then when he saw that all were clear, he attended to Mycroft's body.

"Jesus," he whispered as he started taking off the older Holme's thick suit, "Sherlock, call an ambulance!" he shouted again as he glanced around, only to see the detective manhandling the wounded criminal with his fists— "SHERLOCK!"

Sherlock was not listening as his strong knuckles knocked the life out of the man and John was shouting and people were running outside and when Sherlock was still at it, John had no choice but to jump up and grab him by the shoulder to hold him off.

"Sherlock— Sherlock!"

Sherlock was fighting him away like a mad man on the loose with no aim saved to get his hands on the unconscious assassin's neck—

"I'll kill him— he killed my brother! I'll kill him!"

"Stop—Stop it!" John commanded as he grabbed the detective by the collar, "Listen to me— HE'S NOT DEAD!"

The door opened wide and security came swarming around to check on the people inside—to the assassin, to its victim, but John and Sherlock remained standing, rooted on their spot with eyes locked.

"He's not dead," John repeated, knowing full well how important it was for Sherlock to understand.

Something in Sherlock's dazed eyes seem to awaken, especially when out of nowhere, a rough cough was heard—

Security was around Mycroft while John managed to kneel down to help him up. With gritted teeth, the doctor unbuttoned the older Holmes' suit to reveal not bare skin but a black, bullet proof vest. Mycroft for his share was coughing nonstop while John shouts for the security to call an ambulance for the last time—

"Easy does it." he was whispering to the Secret Service head who had managed to sat up and sigh while people around them walked in hurried strides. "Mycroft?"

The older Holmes raised a hand to assure the doctor he was fine.

"Well, that was amusing." Mycroft caught John's eyes who stared at him exasperatedly. "I kind of thought it was lucky my head didn't hit any chair."

"You calculated your drop." John suggested in jest but the way how Mycroft's eyes twinkled, he hit a bull's eye. "And you're lucky he didn't shoot you in the head."

He helped the man up who took in a deep sigh before looking around the number of people around the room.

"Even taking aim has its change of course once the target moves." He said quietly as if merely stating the obvious and forgotten about the fact that he has just been shot. He looked at the criminal who was already in cuffs and was taken by the security force. Then Mycroft's eyes fell to the person who was watching him with great intensity.

Sherlock Holmes.

Minutes later the room was left clear and only three people remain. A body of one security personnel was found at an empty room no sooner and the case was left hanging with the victim deciding to keep all out of records.

Except—

"HM." came Sherlock's cold voice that made John turn as the younger brother confronted his senior, "Holmes Mycroft! They were after you from the start."

Mycroft was seated on the same spot they found him with a bullet proof vest free body.

"I have been receiving full death threats for over a year now and so far none of them has been successful."

John blinked at Mycroft in disbelief but it wasn't until Sherlock took a step toward his brother that John saw that gaze in his friend's eyes—full of spite. He has never been given that kind of look before.

"Why are you playing me around with that clue? You purposely set on the wrong track so you could laugh in my face and tell me I didn't get your clues right! No wait—you weren't expecting that note in the hand? You just wanted me to pay attention to that limb so you could do your little catching the thief—"

"I didn't know he'll attack here." Mycroft offered, "But I was prepared."

"He could have shot you in the head!"

"When you know the kind of the gun—"

"Oh, stop your rubbish, Mycroft! You still sent me that hand to lead me astray—"

"Sherlock—" John started but Mycroft waved a hand at him with eyes full on his younger brother.

"Yes. I did." He said simply.

Sherlock's jaw tightened and John could see veins pounding on his head.

"What's the meaning of this, Mycroft?" the doctor shook his head, feeling the sudden intensity building between the Holmes brothers. "Why are you setting him up somewhere? Why didn't you just tell us you're the real target? If you didn't want us to know anything you could have easily left Baker Street alone so why give him the hand?"

"You got it wrong, John." The older brother said patiently with eyes not averting from Sherlock, "It's not that I can easily leave it alone... it's my brother who can't."

John shot Sherlock a questioning look. The detective looked calm, but there was that trace of sourness on his face.

And Mycroft went on, "You were monitoring the attacks on the government on your own, weren't you, Sherlock? Even the ones unpublished for a very long time. And then, you've deduced at some point I was in danger. I knew you'd get there somehow. I had to stop you."

"Why?" Sherlock shot at him, "I was curious what you were up to and how you'll manage your secret service. It's just a tad curiosity, nothing more."

"And curiosity killed the cat." Mycroft gave Sherlock his stare, and added, "You know my business is not a child's play, Sherlock. Don't get involve. As heartless as you think I am, I don't want my younger brother dead—"

"I could tell you the same." Sherlock finished as he stood up and headed for the door, rendering Mycroft Holmes speechless for a matter of a second. Sherlock was gone.

John had watched his friend's exit with a little smile at the corner of his lips. Then straightening up, he went to Mycroft who still seemed a bit surprised by what just occurred. The doctor cleared his throat. The older Holmes looked at him.

"You better give him credits for that, Mycroft. He doesn't get too soft with you often."

Mycroft cleared his throat too, still looking uncertain.

"Yes... well... we're brothers... we do that."

"No, no... you didn't see him when you were down. He was going to kill your assassin; he was lost when he thought you're gone. He really cares for you, you know? You are his real brother after all and no matter how many disagreements you have, you'll always be his idiotic brother."

Mycroft smiled slightly at that. John turned to him again.

"Now, I've been thinking... you keep telling me to look after him for you...and I'm pretty much sure you're looking after me since I look after your brother... so maybe you should start thinking who's looking after you. Much more than your Secret Service... much more than the government. And it's not me."

And he left Mycroft with that thought playing in that man's great mind feeling both relieved and tired at the same time. Seeing Mycroft dead for a second there blew his mind away—clearly he couldn't see a government without one Mycroft Holmes. But what about Sherlock? He who grew up looking up at his brother, that which turned into somewhat rivalry but still, his brother. John remember Sherlock's reaction and had to keep a firm resolve to look after his friend further.

And then maybe, just maybe, even look after Mycroft Holmes.

Because that's what they do in their own way... protect each other.

-THE END-

Everybody's wishing for moaaaar with the Sherlock series!

Who isn't? Hail Holmes brothers and one other! ;)

I got a nasty feeling something bad's gonna happen to Mycroft tho.

His words triggered this story after all!

Thanks for reading!