Author's Note:

I think I must be obsessed right now with Mycroft Holmes, canon or modern-day. Especially protective/dangerous!Mycroft.

Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Oh, come on, it's so obvious that I'm not Mark Gatiss or Steve Moffat. If I was, why would I be fanfic-ing my own series? Okay, fine—Anthea, Sarah, "Mummy," and this particular incarnation of the Canon belong to those guys; Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes, John Watson, Lestrade, James Moriarty, and Sebastian Moran were (allegedly) created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and now reside in the public domain (where they belong). The name and characterization of a certain character who shall remain nameless for now belongs to me.


==Avenging Angels==

An explosion. An ambulance ride. A detective in critical condition. An operation to take down the world's most dangerous criminal. And a brother in the thick of things. A Mycroft-centric AU ending to TGG. Warning: character death.


==1. My Brother's Keeper==

The sun never sets on the British Empire.

The same could be said of the British Secret Service, was Mycroft Holmes's thought as he partook of his third cup of coffee for the evening. Ever since he'd started working graveyard shifts in the service of his country, he'd been subsisting on caffeine.

He spared a brief glance at his right-hand, Anthea, busy as ever on her Blackberry. Janet was her real name, but she hated it and took up the name Anthea when she joined MI5. Absolutely practical, actually, considering her line of work.

A sudden, soft noise of surprise from said right-hand made Mycroft look at her again. Her pretty face was creased with mild concern. "Sir? You'd better look at this." She passed him the Blackberry.

It was Sherlock's website, the part where he exchanged messages with people. There was a message from just half an hour ago, left by Sherlock. Mycroft's eyes narrowed as he read it. "The pool…" he mused aloud, then froze. The pool. THE pool. Carl Powers… James Moriarty. "Oh my god," he breathed.

Anthea's expression went from mild concern to red alert—her boss never swore. "Sir?"

"Get the team assembled, get a bomb squad, and get an ambulance," Mycroft said hurriedly, pulling open his desk drawer and taking out his pistol. He gave her the location as he loaded the magazine into the gun, and pulled another magazine out, stuffing it into his pocket. "Take your pistol, too."

"Yes, sir." Her thumbs were flying over the keypad at a speed few people could match. The thought briefly flashed through his head that she'd have carpal tunnel in under a year, but that was the least of his concerns right now, and the thought was quickly brushed aside.

He was all but running down the hall, and she was just behind him, still texting away.

"And get Lestrade, and only him!" Mycroft called over his shoulder.


Author's Note:

Forgive me for the slow beginning! Chapter 2 will be up Saturday, though—possibly even tomorrow. Although, it's only fair to warn you that Chapter 3 will be when things really get going. This is not a shoot-'em-up fic, so apologies to those who were looking for it. It is a drama, certainly, with quite a bit of introspection and memories.

And, above all, family. Mummy included. (My readers from the SH fandom proper can now gasp "Cecile!" ^_^)

Please review!