A Brother in Need

"Things are not quite going to plan," Sherlock thought as he slid down a wall into a sitting position. It had nearly been a year since he had faked his death, and now he found himself in a very dark room in an abandoned building. He needed help, and he knew it. Sherlock called his brother's secure line with one hand as he pressed the other to his stomach. He hoped he wouldn't have too much explaining to do.

"What is it, brother?" Mycroft said in the businesslike manner in which he always spoke.

"Help." Was all that Sherlock could manage in a strained, quiet voice. His breathing was rapid, a sign of shock. He tried to force it to slow, only partly succeeding. 

Mycroft sighed. "What's happened now? You've spent almost 12 months doing... whatever it is you're doing. What could I possibly do to assist you now?"

"Secure place for medical treatment. As soon as possible." It was demanding, but he needed to be.

Mycroft reached for a mobile phone from a collection of them on the table next to him. This one was for a medical centre wherein people could get quick treatment without having to fill out any of those tedious forms. "What have you gotten yourself into?"

"Stabbed." Sherlock coughed. That wasn't good. His confidence dropped slightly.

Mycroft's fingers moved swiftly as he began typing out a text message. "And what is your location?"

"I've sent co-ordinates." Sherlock didn't expect to be conscious much longer. His hands were cold and shaking, and he couldn't focus. Everywhere else was cold too. 

Mycroft finished the text and put the phone back in it's place on the table. He leaned forward in his armchair and furrowed his eyebrows. "Do you know who did this to you?"

There was a pause. It took Sherlock annoyingly long to register what was being said. "Moran."

Mycroft's eyes widened. He faltered for a moment, but quickly composed himself. "I thought he was taken care of, how did he find you?" Mycroft sent another text to the medical centre, Moran was a professional, Sherlock was likely to die soon if his wound wasn't taken care of.

"We found each other. Unintentionally. Then things happened." Sherlock blinked and yelled in frustration. The yell was more like a groan.

Mycroft frowned angrily. This shouldn't happen. This can't happen. He looked at the wall clock. Fuck, he thought to himself. John's supposed to be coming here in 5 minutes to discuss Sherlock's will with me. But I can't Leave this bloody call.

Sherlock's breathing was acting up again, and he needed to control it. He needed to do something. Oh god. Stop being weak and control your damn breathing. It didn't work. "Mycroft..." No. Shut up.

As luck had it, there was a knock at the door. Fuck, fuck, fuck, Mycroft thought.

"It's going to be okay, Sherlock. Keep your breathing. The medics will be there soon." Mycroft was distracted, one of his workers answered the the door and John Watson walked slowly in, his expression empty. He nodded in greeting. "Mycroft."

"You-you shound so sure." I'm not. Shut up. Control your emotions. They're useless. He coughed again. "This is nice," he said.

Mycroft put on a soft smile for John, desperately trying to make sure he didn't suspect that his supposedly dead friend is in dire need of medical attention and could possibly die soon, and this time for real. "John." He said with a smile. "Do sit down, I just need to take this call."

"What? Oh, God." Sherlock said over the phone. His mind was racing. "John? This is NOT good, shit."

John took a seat and gazed around the room wanting above everything not to be there. Mycroft panicked inside his head I can't let him suspect a thing. He stood up and walked into the hallway, letting his facial expression grow into a look of panic as he walked further away from John.