a.n. My happy(er) ending to what will probably make me cry ;( my only consolation is that Moffat is the M Night Shyamalan of TV series, so hopefully he's not gonna end it here.

Disclaimer: I am clean! I don't even download! :D

Mycroft Holmes stood by the banks of the lake, the pounding of the waterfall in his ears and the spray of water on his jacket, watching the action going on atop the cliff. He usually kept an eye on his little brother, but he did not usually keep this close an eye. This was a special occasion. Moriarty.

The elder Holmes looked out of place, standing beside a waterfall dressed immaculately in his suit, leaning against his cane, looking as interested in the proceedings above as he would if he were reading a very good book.

Mycroft was afraid for his brother. He always was; Sherlock's line of work was a dangerous one and he wasn't always as careful as he should be. He never told Sherlock this of course. He would only scoff and accuse him of being mother. Moriarty was different though. Mycroft had seen him, and he inspired fear. He was only a man, but he didn't seem like it. Mycroft didn't feel like a bullet could stop that man, though intellectually he knew it had to.

They were fighting now, throwing punches, kicks, anything that would hurt their enemy. Mycroft's breath caught in his throat as he saw his little brother take some strong hits. Any words that the two of them may have spoken were lost over the roar of the waterfall. John was nowhere to be seen. He needs you John, Mycroft thought, Where are you?

Wherever the doctor was, he was probably incapacitated, due to one of the men on the clifftop. Moriarty or Sherlock, though Sherlock would have left him alive to keep him safe.

Then several things happened at once. Mycroft heard a desperate voice scream 'SHERLOCK!' over the roar of the waterfall. John was running towards Mycroft's brother and his adversary. He saw Sherlock look at his friend once and then leap off the waterfall, dragging Jim Moriarty with him.

Mycroft's heart leapt as he saw them plunge to the water, choking back his own cry. There wasn't time for that now.

Sherlock had never been a very strong swimmer. He was wearing that blasted coat that he was so fond of, as well as full clothes and shoes. All would be waterlogged, making the odds that his brother could stay afloat even less. Less than improbable.

They hit the water.

Before he had even realised he was doing it Mycroft had flung off his suit jacket and shoes, diving into the water after his brother. Mycroft Holmes was many things. According to Sherlock he wasthe British government. He was multilingual. He had been called callous. He was intelligent. But he was also an older brother, and within every older sibling lay a protective nature to rival their mothers.

It had been years since Mycroft had swum in anything that was not a pool, but he had practised as part of his diets. The water was freezing and churning all around him, but he kept his eyes fixed on the mop of dark hair that he knew belonged to his brother. His coat had actually helped for now, because the pockets of air trapped inside were acting as an impromptu life jacket, but only for another thirty seconds, tops.

John was frantic. He couldn't see anything over the mist from the waterfall but he didn't really need to. There weren't many results that came from jumping off a waterfall in full clothes with nothing to stop you hitting the water. "No no no," He mumbled to himself, "He can't be dead, he can't be- SHERLOCK!" He called as loudly as he could over the waterfall.

Mycroft was approaching his brother when he heard the voice, faint over the crash of water. "I'm sorry John," He muttered, remembering too late that his mobile was in his pocket. He seized his brother by the arm, endeavouring to drag him to shore. Sherlock was unconscious and starting to sink and for a heart-stopping moment Mycroft felt sure they were both going under. He heaved a deep breath and sank just below water level, forcing his brother up.

The water stung his eyes and the added weight on his shoulders did not help. Beneath him he could see Moriarty floating in the ether, as unconscious as his brother. Probably dead. If not... Mycroft thought and gave the other man a swift kick in the chest, making him sink faster. Don't mess with the Holmes', he thought. He knew he should feel some regret but all he could feel for that man was hatred for the things he had done. In the corner of his eye he saw something flash out of sight below the criminal but ignored it.

His lungs were burning for air but Mycroft ignored them. He, at least, could hold his breath, while Sherlock would inhale water; not a good thing. Slowly but surely he pushed, pulled and shoved his brother to shore.

When they were both back on solid, fairly dry, land, Mycroft immediately checked the detective's pulse. It was weak, but still there. "Now you listen here," He said to his brother, checking to see if he was breathing, "I have just ruined a perfectly good shirt for you and if you die on me I shall be very cross."

Sherlock didn't move. He looked like death, which was not a metaphor Mycroft wanted to keep in his mind. His brothers face was even paler than usual, he was clammy, and he was covered with scratches and barely formed bruises. The lack of a smart response made Mycroft want to weep. Come hell or high water, his brother always had the last word. He wasn't saying anything. He kept himself under control though. There was a time and a place.

"Sherlock!" A voice yelled a way away and Mycroft looked up.

John. When he caught sight of the brothers he cried out in relief. "Mycroft! What are you- is he..."

"He's alive John, but he needs help." The politician said as calmly as he could. "I need your phone."

"Like brother like brother," John chuckled, but his eyes were full of fear. "Here-" He handed the elder Holmes his phone.

"Thank you," Mycroft dialled. "This is Mycroft Holmes. I need a helicopter immediately, medical emergency. At the base of the waterfall." He glanced at John, "Password..." He mumbled something incomprehensible to the doctor.

It wouldn't have mattered if he were listening, as John was fearfully examining his friend. "Okay, heartbeat there, faint but that's okay... Breathing, breathing's good, uuh," He swallowed, wiping his face of tears he hadn't even noticed, "Leg and ribs, broken, um, three- no, four. Gotta be careful, can't puncture a lung... Possible fractured skull..." He continued rambling to himself as if it would change anything. He could do almost nothing with no equipment.

Mycroft hung up the phone. "They're on their way."

John nodded several more times than was necessary. "Good, good, how long will they be?" He asked, one hand still on Sherlock's chest to measure his heartbeat.

The roar of a helicopter engine was the only response. John looked up at the elder Holmes in amazement, "Mycroft, how did you..."

"I keep an eye on you two from time to time." He downplayed.

The helicopter landed, the wind from the blades stirring up dust, water and leaves. "Anyone else here?" Asked the paramedic in the cabin, loudly over the rotor.

"No." Said Mycroft, in a voice that posed no argument. "My brother, please."

The paramedic nodded quickly, jumping from the cabin. "I'm going to need a hand!" He cried.

"Here," John said, helping the other man with the stretcher, trying to tear his eyes from Sherlock's battered face.

It wasn't until they were in the helicopter cabin that the magnitude of Sherlock's injuries hit the two men. John had noticed, of course, but he had disregarded it, forced himself not to remember. The paramedic took one look at Sherlock, bit his lip, and yelled at the driver to go as quickly as he could.


It was hours later. The two men were seated outside the surgery, waiting for news on Sherlock Holmes. John was on the edge of his seat, desperate for any news, anything at all, to tell him that his friend was okay. Mycroft was similarly on edge, but he was trained not to show it.

"Mycroft, what were you doing there?" The question echoed in the white linoleum room.

"I told you," He said, "I keep an eye on the two of you from time to time. It was mere coincidence that I chose the foot of the waterfall."

"Why didn't you do anything earlier?" It sounded like an accusation. Good, thought John. That was what it was after all. "You could have stopped this."

Mycroft inclined his head. "You're right. I could have. But by doing so I could have also had a hand in mass murder. You knew James Moriarty, you know how much pull he had. If he knew that I, part of the government, had fought him directly, he could have done any number of terrible things." It gave Mycroft immense satisfaction to refer to the man in past tense.

"So you sacrificed your brother." John couldn't keep the anger out of his voice, though he wasn't really angry at Mycroft. He just needed to be angry at someone.

The politician's face hardened. "I had no choice John, don't imagine for one second that I wanted to."

The anger, the coldness in Mycroft's voice stopped John. However badly they showed it Mycroft and Sherlock were brothers. "Sorry." He muttered. Mycroft nodded his understanding and they sat in silence for longer, still waiting. "You saved him though." John said out of the blue, looking up.

Mycroft was unsurprised to see a tiny hint of tears in the doctor's eyes. "Mother always said it was my job to look after him. And you should know that he grows on you." He smiled indulgently, "Rather like an abscess."

John chuckled at the metaphor. "Mycroft... I know he won't say it, so thank you."

The smile turned tired and faded. "You can thank me by not telling him about it. He would never let me live it down."

John rolled his eyes. "Oh yes, because God forbid that the Holmes' should ever admit they care about anyone."

"We agreed long ago that caring was not an advantage."

The soldier chuckled. "It's not optional either."

"Apparently not," Mycroft agreed, "Though if anybody were to make a go of it it would be Sherlock Holmes."

At the mention of the name the doors opened, a single doctor emerging. She was tall with a mane of dark blonde curly hair, tied back as best it could be. John stood up, Mycroft remained seated, but both of them gave her their full attention.

"He'll live." She said, getting an inaudible sigh of relief from Mycroft. "He's badly injured, asleep now, but he should be fine given enough time to recover."

"How much time is that exactly?" John asked.

The doctor thought. "There's nothing confirmed yet, but I don't think he'll be able to leave for another two weeks at least, and it will be another six before he can walk on his leg."

Mycroft nodded. "Thank you Doctor Song."

She nodded. "No problem at all Mister Holmes."

"Would we be allowed to see him?" He inquired as politely as he could.

Doctor Song bit her lip. "He's still under, we're only allowing family members to see him at the moment..."


"This is his partner, John Watson." Mycroft interrupted, "He's been very worried, as have I."

The look in Doctor Song's eyes said that she knew they were lying, but now she had an excuse. "That should be fine then, just don't expect him to talk much."

John nodded, getting over the surprise of Mycroft's lie. "Could you tell us the room?"

"Uh," She checked her chart, "221b."

John almost smiled at the coincidence. "Thank you."

"Yes, thank you." Agreed Mycroft, "I'm sure we shall be seeing you soon."

She nodded, "I'm sure you will."

John and Mycroft walked swiftly down the cold corridors of the hospital. Even this late at night the place was a hive of activity, doctors and nurses buzzing about with patients, charts and drugs. John gave Mycroft a look. "Oh don't start, you know she wouldn't have let you in otherwise." He said, slightly annoyed.

John only smiled. "Thank you Mycroft. Again."

The elder Holmes was almost as bad at accepting thanks as his brother. "I didn't really lie," He huffed, "You are his partner, perhaps not in the sense that is immediately assumed though."

John chuckled but stopped almost instantly. They had found the room.

Doctor Song was right, Sherlock was still unconscious. That wasn't all though. He was hooked up to three different machines, a steady 'beep beep beep' coming from the heart monitor. And he said he didn't have a heart, John thought fondly.

The detective was not in good shape. His face had hardly been cleared up beyond a rudimentary wipe, and he had lost his intimidation somewhere along the line between falling unconscious and being changed into a hospital robe and put in several casts.

The two men looked at each other and immediately sat in the chairs beside Sherlock's bed. It could be a long night.

a.n. Pretty please review? I'm probably going to do another chapter, maybe, maybe not, depending on how I feel after tomorrow (which is what it is for me, here down under)

Thanks for reading, and EXTRA thanks for reviewing (hint hint)