This is not beta read and I am not English, so please forgive any Americanism that I was unaware. If you point them out, and tell me how to fix them, I would be happy to do so; the same goes with spelling mistakes and grammatical errors. I do not own any of the versions of any of the characters of Sherlock Holmes, nor is this intended to infringe in any way on anyone's rights. I write for fun.

This is movie-verse (I think) and since we never saw Mycroft, I used writer's privilege.

2.3 seconds exactly, was his most precise estimation.

He had exactly 2.3 seconds from the time he first gained awareness until the time it was stolen from him. In the time before the clarity of the 2.3 seconds, there were some impressions, but they were vague, shadow-like things that were hard to pin down to exactness. A sensation of being dragged to his feet; a shoulder, trembling slightly but solid under his arm; a forward motion, his own feet moving sluggishly, refusing to obey him correctly even as he was tugged ever forward.

Then, the 2.3 seconds of exact clarity.

Mycroft's was the shoulder on which my arm was placed.

We were in a long, narrow hallway, dim and musty, clearly abandoned, one lone window at the end of the hall, 2 doors on the left, 3 doors on the right, abandoned hotel or lower class apartments.

The air was strong with the smell of fish, unwashed bodies, pine wax, wood and salt air. We were near the docks, the boat works on the east side, recently bankrupt, also abandoned.

Brother mine, usually so neat of attire, was wearing only shirtsleeves, pants and shoes, disheveled and dirty but otherwise unhurt. His sharp gaze was calm, his steps hurried. We were being pursued, but had gained enough of a lead to be cautious instead of quick.

My own clothes were in tatters, my shirt ripped, torn and bloodied; several large holes in my trousers and I was *not* wearing shoes. I was used as coercion for my brother to perform some task.

My body was covered with bruises and small cuts, all dismissible and unable to explain why Mycroft was supporting my trembling body. I was unable to theorize as I did not have enough data.

There was a small puncture wound, as such that might be left by a syringe, on my left forearm.

It ripped though his belly like a phoenix reborn in a crescendo of flame, taking with it the clarity his mind had achieved. He vaguely registered a keening noise, filed away to be analyzed later, as the pain consumed him. The wave of agony sent him to his knees, making him retch with the cramping and sickness that flared so brightly within his stomach. Vile fluid, warm and bitter, burst from his mouth. He barely felt the hand that knotted itself in the back of his shirt, the only thing that kept him upright as his body expelled its insides again and again until there was nothing left. Even then, the hell hounds of pain ripped through his stomach, tearing and burning as they went, making him heave dryly, spitting and coughing for breath against the spasms. Another high pitched keening noise sounded, one his mind (the small analytical part still working) was finally realized was coming from him.

The hand knotted in his shirt tugged at him, pulling him up from all fours to a kneeling position and still it wasn't satisfied.

"Up, Sherlock."

Brother mine spoke, he voice tight, seemingly impatient with my weakness. We were boys again, in my mind, and I was young and desperate to keep up with him and him just as desperate to be away from me. I tried to gain my feet, cursing the trembling in my legs, the weakness of my body as the hand that was knotted in my shirt pulled me more vertical. The grip changed, transferred from my shirt to my arm, the grip squeezing over the bruises there.

The pain, which had ebbed back like the tide, flowed again, crashing against me. I tried to return to my knees, gagging against the dry heaves, my own arms wrapped firmly around my middle to prevent the animal that was currently trying to claw its way out of my middle an easy exodus. The hand around my arm tightened, not letting me fall. A soft whimper escaped before I could grit my teeth against it. The hand switched from my arm to wind around my back, his massive arm gripping like a python as I was tugged against his large side.

"Now, walk."

I tried, my legs trembling and managed a few steps to please him, seeking to remove that terrible (and why was it terrible again?) perceived censure from his voice. The pain, if possible, grew worse. I tried to halt, stumbling forward to fall, but he was relentless, keeping me upright and moving. The world grew hotter around me, like a descent into hell itself, until I was only conscious of the pain in my stomach, the oppressing heat (making it so hard to breathe) and his relentless tugging.

I don't recall when I started to beg him.

"Please, Brother Mine, what have I done? I am sorry, I truly am. Please stop. I cannot. It hurts. Please."

Still, he dragged me on. My pleas turned to whimpers as my body betrayed me further. Our stop then, seemed quite sudden. One moment I was marched into hell, and then quite suddenly I was resting as I did as a boy, curled up in his lap, my head pillowed against his massive shoulder, as I lay writhing against his bulk. His body was so *warm* that my body suddenly realized how cold it was, the shivering increasing the pain, which was already unbearable. I gasped for breath, unable and uncaring about the little sounds of pain my voice was betraying me with any longer.

Almost as suddenly as it began, the pain began to fade. The withdrawing of the pain did not return my clarity, however, but brought with it a strange, overwhelming lassitude that the very back of my analytical brain had come to associate with morphine. My body relaxed by degrees, and so did my consciousness fade by degrees.

However, before blackness engulfed me I had the strange impressions of childhood. I was being gently rocked, as if I was a boy of 5, and had hurt myself somehow. A large hand, was stroking through my hair and brother mine, whom I looked up to and thought the world, was humming our favorite piece of music, softly. Blackness took me before I could process these strange remnants of my boyhood any deeper.