Written for a prompt on the kinkmeme: Mycroft takes revenge on his brother's behalf.

Plenty of violence below.

Mycroft's brother makes himself enemies, terrible ones, the sort that any sane man would run screaming from.

Sherlock doesn't run, of course. He engages. He taunts until they have no option but to turn on them, else risk loosing their pride.

Stupid man.

He reads the text again. It's nothing but a location, the address of a flat in central London. Sent to Mycroft and coming to Sherlock, it's a clear cry to battle.

He picks up his umbrella and calls to his assistant, in the other room. "Anthea? We're going out."

When they were children, Mycroft made certain that no one laid a hand on Sherlock. Not the bullies at school, not the teachers who hated his sharp tongue, not their father.

Now that they're out in the big bad world, it's harder to keep tabs. He does his best, of course. Courtesy of London's CCTV system, he has eyes everywhere. Even so, things slip through the cracks.

His fingers tighten on the wheel of the car.

At the very least, he always makes up for the moments he misses.

They find the man in the kitchen. How convenient.

He's making himself toast in a pan, dressed in an oversized T-shirt and plaid pajama pants. As they enter, he spins, his eyes wide. They're very green.

"What are - who - how did you get in here?"

Mycroft shrugs towards Anthea, who has finally put away her cell phone. "The locks that come with the building aren't very secure. I'd change them, if I were you."

"I'll call the police!"

He just smiles. It isn't worth answering that.

"Anthea," he says.

Anthea steps forwards. The man steps back. She grabs his wrist, then twists. He cries out. She does a complicated little maneuver with her arms, and he's suddenly on the ground with her pinning him down, her face a perfect mask of boredom.

Mycroft's always liked that about her. She doesn't bother with dramatics.

He kneels beside the man.

"You've hurt Sherlock," he says, slowly, coldly.

The man looks up. Stupid bastard, his eyes flash and he bares his teeth. "He deserved it, the little freak, getting his sticky little fingers -"

He cuts off, suddenly, because Mycroft has shoved the tip of his umbrella deep into his throat.

"Now," he says. "That won't do."

The kitchen is painted in whites and blues; messy, it'll get awfully messy. The floor is tiled with porcelain, though, so that's alright. He hates leaving a mess for forensics. Poor Lestrade has enough on his plate.

They tie him with rope that Mycroft brought himself, since people rarely have that sort of thing these days. It's a shame; you used to be able to count its presence.

The man keeps staring at them, as if it would help. Mycroft can see the whites of his eyes. He'd started screaming, so his mouth is gagged.

Mycroft has all the kitchen knifes laid out in front of him.

"The wonderful thing about cooking utensils," he tells the man, "is that people rarely remember to sharpen them. Say what you want about a sharp edge, but there's something uniquely satisfying about hacking away until the point digs deep enough. And I've always preferred irregular cuts, myself." He picks up a serrated blade and looks at it, twisting it so that the light will flash off of it. "It makes it harder to suture.

"I think my assistant will be wanting something precise, though." He flits his eyes to Anthea, beside him, who's taking implements out of her purse. They glitter.

Anthea used to be a dentist. It's terribly useful.

He leans forward, and presses the blade against the man's pulsating jugular. The man whimpers. "I plan to let you live, but you'll need to be quiet for that to happen."

"He won't be," Anthea says, her voice perfectly dull. "No anesthetic."

"True, true. If you'd be so kind as to find a radio ... ?"

She sighs, and stands. He can hear her footsteps and then, a moment later, music blasting so loud he can barely hear himself. It's horrible and full of screams. It isn't perfect but it'll drown things out well enough.

Humans rarely respond to the distress of others; if there's the slightest chance they can pretend nothing is happening in the flat beside them, they'll take it.

"Now," he says. "Hold still."

The man whimpers again, the horrible whine of someone who knows he's about to feel the sort of pain human beings aren't built to bear.

Mycroft is safe. When unimaginable happens, they bring in Sherlock to investigate.

Mycroft doesn't remove the gag. Instead, he hooks his blade under the man's cheek and pulls - twice, once for each side. The man screams, a ghastly bloody sound, and the gag falls out, sodden with spit and blood.

Anthea returns to his side.

He's gasping, screaming, a pink mixture of blood and saliva pouring down his chin. It pools between his clavicles then keeps going, wetting the front of his shirt.

Mycroft surveys him, coldly.

Anthea pulls out a silver blade. She straddles the man's lap and pulls back one of his cheek flaps, frowning.

"He's had his wisdoms out," she tells Mycroft.

Mycroft shrugs. "Then take the rest."

People make noises one couldn't imagine. This one's voice is a high shriek, like the scream of a missile.

Anthea's forearms are soaked in red.

By the fortieth minute, the man simply stops screaming. Mycroft can see his chest rising and falling, so he isn't dead. His eyes have gone curiously blank.

"That's enough," he says.

Anthea steps off of him.

She turns to Mycroft, holds out her bloody hand, then tips it. Twenty-eight white pellets drop from her palm. When they hit the floor, they clink.

"Well," he says. "I did say I'd let him live."

Anthea arches an eyebrow. She touches the back of his elbow and leads him into the bathroom, where they can clean up.

In the car, she texts the hospital. Someone will be on their way.

If they fail to save him once he's brought to emergency, that's hardly his fault.

It's John who answers the door of 221B Baker Street. He looks haggard, his shoulders stooping. "Sherlock's not well -" he starts.

Sherlock's voice booms out from the innards of the flat. "Let him in."

John starts. He looks behind him, blinking, clearly shocked at this turn of events. After a moment, he turns back to Mycroft and shrugs. "You'd better come in, then. I should warn you -"

"I know."

John leads him into the flat, all coloured in browns and greens. Sherlock is curled up on the couch, facing the opposite direction. As Mycroft enters, he sits up.

Mycroft stops. He takes a breath.

His poor, stupid brother.

His skin is unbroken, and his eyes are unblackened. Mycroft's stomach twists, sickly, as he runs through all the ugly things people can do to one another without leaving marks.

"John," Sherlock says, in a voice slightly slurred. "Bring Mycroft some tea."

John looks at him again, eyebrows furrowed with surprise, then nods and heads into the kitchen.

Sherlock looks up. His eyes are wrenchingly hollow. "Did you -"

"I have a case for you," Mycroft says, by way of answer.

For a ghost of a second, Sherlock meets Mycroft's eye. The corner of his mouth turns upwards, just slightly - cold, shaken, satisfied.

Mycroft can't always stop the horrible things that Sherlock brings upon himself, but he can put them right.

He's Sherlock's big brother. He'll always be there.