I don't own any characters.

But I absolutely adore brotherly love! Be prepared, then.

Of Concussions and Army Doctors

Part 1. Concussion

"Drop the weapon, or I will kill him."

Being pointed at with a loaded revolver did not belong to the things Mycroft Holmes was used to. Being threatened, however, was quite common for him, although he normally preferred more subtle ways of intimidation.

And, last but not least, apparently, worrying about his brother was something he had spent his entire life with.

But for Mycroft Holmes it was unacceptable that someone threatened his brother in order to make him comply.

"Looks like you've got the wrong bait," his brother said in a low voice, head twisted backwards, a knife held to his throat, already cutting the skin. Increase pressure, move hand in sliding motion, cut, wait – and Mycroft would not have a brother any more.

This, he decided, was unacceptable, too.

Slowly, he lowered his right hand holding his own Browning, but not without shooting his brother a stern look.

"Drop it!"

If it had not been for the knife so close to his brother's carotid artery, Mycroft would have turned around and left. He had indeed more important things to do than wasting time on three imbeciles who obviously tried to abduct him.

Caring is not an advantage.

He had always known that caring could once be his downfall. So be it, he decided when he let go of the weapon. They had not yet met him if they assumed he was to be defeated so easily. And, of course, they did not yet know which price they were going to pay – no-one, Mycroft had established long ago, threatened his brother.

As soon as his Browning hit the ground, he lifted his gaze to the kidnapper's face. His hand, the one holding the knife to Sherlock's throat, was trembling ever so slightly, causing more blood to trickle down his brother's skin.

"So," Mycroft began. "You do have a weapon now, I do not. I daresay we're equal now, don't you think so? What are you intending to do now? Kill us?"

One of the three – once married, but recently divorced, alcoholic, momentarily unemployed, therefore trying to commit a crime, soon to be diagnosed with brain cancer, easily to be seen by the way he held his head, quite out of the perpendicular when judging by his throat and neck – smiled, showing unhealthily yellow teeth. Heavy smoker, but quit five months ago. Sunk into depression, divorce, unemployment… Mycroft barely managed to suppress a sigh.

"No," the man said. "Now we're going to leave, and you're going to come with us."

"Am I," he replied, remaining unimpressed, but noticing Sherlock's rapid blinking nonetheless. As soon as the knife was removed from his brother's throat, they were going to end this pitiful attempt of abduction.

"Oh yes, you will," smiled the man. And then, to be anticipated only because of a small gesture, happened what Mycroft Holmes had never foreseen to happen.

The third man, unarmed except for Mycroft's umbrella he had managed to get hold of in the chaos, used exactly this umbrella to deal a blow to Sherlock's head, his temple, powerful enough to cause his brother to stumble and blood to colour his skin once more – and collapse to the ground without another word.

"No more clever plans," the former smoker announced. "We'll take him with us, and you will follow us and do what we tell you. And get your hands up in the air!"

Slowly raising his hands above his head, Mycroft knew he was beaten. Beaten because he himself had failed to follow one of his most often quoted advices. Because caring was not an advantage, and, nonetheless, he could not help it.

He allowed himself to be handcuffed by one of the men while the other two roughly tied his unconscious brother's hands behind his back and then started dragging his limp form towards a nearby parked truck.

Caring would be his only failure today, Mycroft Holmes determined in this very moment.

Half an hour and three minutes later, after driving around uselessly, probably in order to fool Mycroft – how utterly stupid and utterly futile – the van he and his brother had been loaded into came to a halt, a definite one. The man sitting opposite of Mycroft, still pointing the gun at him, began to grin.

"Now you don't know where we've brought you, do you," he mumbled, triumphantly.

Stupid. For assailants who wanted to abduct him, they apparently did not know in fact with whom they were dealing. Yes, his hands might be tied together, he might not have seen anything whilst they were driving – but he knew exactly where they were.

Abandoned factory, Southwark, no security cameras near. Something he would have to fix once he was back in the office, once he had dealt with these kidnappers.

They were, however, clever enough to not let him out of their sight, and to keep aiming a gun at him. And they had been clever enough to use Sherlock to their advantage – clever for the moment, but of course this cleverness would never get them anywhere.

The thug was waving with the gun, obviously trying to tell Mycroft to get out of the back of the van, to move and walk inside the factory. His eyes flickering to his still motionless brother, he obeyed.

He was led into an empty room, quite clearly predestined for holding prisoners. The gun was pressed into his spine – they were apparently fearing him, but they were not fearing him enough. Not since the very moment they had dared to lay a finger on his brother.

Sherlock was dragged to the same room, only being illuminated by a bit of sunlight falling through a tiny window, much too small to escape, and probably without an opening mechanism.

"Move," the thug told him, and Mycroft took a few more steps forward, feeling the thug retreating through the door to the room. Metal. Inches thick. Impossible to break or to escape when being locked inside.

The other two kidnappers simply let Sherlock fall to the floor, not softly, and Mycroft almost flinched at the sight of his brother's head making harsh contact with the concrete – again.

The three men laughed. "We'll let you sit here for a while, and then we will take care of you. Or of your brother, depends on how… openly you answer our questions."

Hm. Clearly. How unimaginative. Torturing him or torturing Sherlock, in order to extract certain information. Information they would not get from Mycroft, not by threatening his life. Threatening Sherlock's was something he decided not to think about yet.

It was not too easy to lower himself to his knees with his hands cuffed, at least not behind his back. It was even more difficult to carefully turn Sherlock around, blood dried on his temple and in his dark hair. Blow to the head, loss of consciousness. Most likely concussion. Unconsciousness lasting more than an hour. Severe concussion. Possibility of internal bleeding, brain swelling, serious brain damage. Might result in coma, and, untreated, death. Conclusion: Treat immediately. Hospital. Problem: option not available. Focus on checking vital signs. Keep victim breathing, ABC medicine. Hindrance: handcuffs.

"Sherlock." Worth a try. Futile, however.

A short moment of placing his fingers beneath Sherlock's nose assured him his brother was still breathing. Not dead, then. Pressing two fingers against his neck did the same.

Reassuring, in fact. At least, it should be. Nonetheless, Mycroft found himself worrying about his brother. As always.

"Sherlock," he tried again, tapping his brother's face lightly. Gently, almost.

No reaction. Of course – only his little brother could manage to be knocked unconscious with an umbrella, Mycroft's umbrella, and then remain out of it for more than an hour. And all of that only because some thugs wanted to abduct Mycroft, in order to make him talk.

Sherlock's absolute motionlessness bothered him more than he would ever have admitted. Blows to the head were never beneficial, even less in the situation they were in right now.

Mycroft got up again, determinedly walking to the door – and knocking, loudly.

"In fact you are not aware," he shouted, "one of your hostages is injured. And if anything else happens to him, I will never answer a single one of your questions, but you will wish that you had once made a different decision. So?"

Not that he expected them to send a doctor – not even those thugs could be so simple-minded. But his angry and yet calm words had left an impression – the door was being unlocked again, one of the thugs peered inside – the smoker -, glancing at Sherlock, and then starting to uncuff Mycroft's hands, shutting the door as fast as possible again.

Mycroft quickly removed the handcuffs and then crouched down again next to his still unconscious brother. When he slapped Sherlock's face this time, maybe a little bit more urgent than before, his brother's eyelids started to flutter ever so slightly.

Mycroft firmly held on to his brother's face. "Sherlock?" he asked, hoping for an answer.

"Hm," was all he got, but it was definitely more than a few minutes ago. Deliberately, Mycroft tried to ignore both the lump in his throat and the weight that had been taken off his chest at this tiny remark. His brother was alive, and not comatose. Not yet, at least. Depending on the next few hours and the severity of the head injury.

"Open your eyes, Sherlock," he ordered, knowing that brotherly orders had made Sherlock comply when he was a little boy – and had made him utter a snarky reply during his adulthood.

His brother's eyelids kept fluttering, but his eyes would not open. Mycroft got none of the above.

The worry came back as strongly as it had been before. "Sherlock, now," he repeated, and this time, almost miraculously, it worked. Distant eyes, completely out of focus, stared – not at him, not really, rather at something behind him. Concussion.

The paleness of his brother's face made Mycroft feel uneasy, so very uneasy. Deathly pale, as the metaphor went.

"Talk to me," he commanded while not letting go of his brother's face. "Say something. Sherlock."

"The molecular… weight… of… ah…," the reply ended in a moan when Mycroft accidentally touched the head wound.

"Good," he encouraged his brother. "Do you remember where we are? Who you are?" Stupid questions, really. But necessary if he wanted to have any data on how serious his brother's head injury was.

"John…," came the muffled reply, and Sherlock's eyes slipped close again.

Not good.

Search mind palace. Keep concussion victims awake? Not necessarily, but doing so made it easier to check their mental state.

"What about John?" Mycroft urged while slapping his brother again. "Tell me about your army doctor."

Another moan escaped Sherlock before a shudder went through his entire body. Mycroft barely managed to turn him on his side before his brother started retching, violently so.

Nausea. Another symptom of concussion.

While holding his brother in a somewhat weird position, Mycroft quickly went through the possibilities they had left.

Wait. Dangerous for Sherlock. Might take too long.

Act. Not in the physical condition to overpower four or more thugs, not without his umbrella. Dangerous for Sherlock.

Not too many, apparently.

Sherlock was panting heavily, his eyes closed again, his face ashen as Mycroft placed him on his right side, in order to avoid the sick on the floor.

"Try to tell me before you vomit again," Mycroft demanded, not taking his eyes from his brother.

Whose hands were still tied behind his back.

Undo that.

It took Mycroft a few moments, but then he had the rope untangled and took hold of Sherlock's left hand.

"Are you still awake?" he asked, looking directly at his brother. "Sherlock!"

No reaction.

Mycroft cursed under his breath and carefully lifted his brother's upper body so that his head rested against Mycroft's chest. "Sherlock!" he demanded again. "Open your eyes, now."

Slapping then, again. Difficult in his position, but in the very moment, Mycroft felt not in the least inclined to let go off his brother.

He managed it. "Sherlock," he urged once more. "Wake up, brother mine. Do what I say, just one time in your life."

Oh. Emotional distress, apparently. Rambling. Remain calm. Calm.

Another slap, more powerful. Due to increase Sherlock's headache.

His brother's head was still lolling limply, but for the second time, his eyelids were fluttering slightly, another moan escaping his lips.

Severe concussion. Disorientation.

"Yes, open your eyes. Good. Very good. Now tell me: why are we here? Do you remember anything?"

His shielding mechanism was failing, Sherlock was breaking it, once more.

"John…," his brother stammered again, but this time, his eyes remained open.

Mycroft carefully turned his brother's head a tiny bit so that he could study his eyes. Though difficult to tell in the dim light of the room, dilated. Not entirely equally so, it seemed to Mycroft.

"John… where's John…," Sherlock slurred, quite obviously not coherent. And of course thinking of his flatmate first.

What to do now?

"You tell me," he settled on a reply. "Where do you and John live?"

"22…" A cough interrupted Sherlock which quickly turned into another episode of vomiting. Once again, Mycroft found himself holding his brother, his shaking brother, to the side, supporting his limp neck and trying not to be hit by some of the sick.

Sherlock's breathing sounded shallow and laboured once he had finished, and Mycroft heaved his upper body up again, his brother's head still kept sideways in order for him not to choke.

"Mycr…," Sherlock panted, "why… what…"

Searching for his brother's pulsepoint on his throat with one hand, Mycroft heard himself answering: "It's alright, Sherlock. Stay calm. Do you remember what happened?"

Ah, there. Too fast, at about 120 beats per minute. Blood pressure most likely down. Shivering.

"Mmh," Sherlock muttered barely audibly.

Not remembering, then. Common in concussions, as Mycroft's mind was able to recall.

"Talk to me," he encouraged his brother while gently laying him down again.

"Mrs Hudson's… made… biscuits…," Sherlock mumbled, his eyes dangerously close to falling shut again.

Quickly, Mycroft removed his suit jacket, commanding his body not to notice the cold.

Carefully avoiding the sick on the floor, he grabbed his brother's left arm, limp in his grip. "Can you get up?" Probably not, Mycroft was able to answer his own question in the same second as he watched his brother coughing again.

Coughing and then vomiting.

Mycroft just managed it in time to shove his brother to his side, heaving up nothing but bile.

His jacket hanging from his arm, he hoisted his brother's body up a bit and dragged him a few steps sideways. A movement which caused Sherlock to moan and press his eyes shut.

"Mycr…," he mumbled, but didn't complete the name.

Quickly, Mycroft kneeled down again, almost gently placing his jacket around his brother's shoulders and then lifted his body up again, resting Sherlock's head against his right shoulder. Avoid pressure on the head injury on Sherlock's left temple.

"Biscuits…," Sherlock slurred. "Case… John… it was the… mother… Bubble… bath…"

Bubble bath? Suddenly, Mycroft felt something akin to relief about the fact that his brother had detected the camera he had had installed at 221B Baker Street. Only God knew what he would have seen.

"Clothes… changing… the sister… John…" Sherlock kept muttering, his head lolling.

Oh. Obviously necessary to hurry. Well then.