Mycroft slowly came around, his eyes flickering open as the memories of the day came rushing back to him. The room was dark, plunged into a strange deep red by coloured bulbs in the ceiling. It was disconcerting. He could see everything around him yet remained in oppressive darkness.

As he sat up, he moved his hand to the back of his neck where he felt a stinging sensation. He could feel a puncture wound and dried blood, clearly the result of a tranquiliser dart.

"Eurus? Is this another one of your games?" he shouted, focusing his gaze on the security camera. The little red light was on, showing that it was recording, but no response was forthcoming.

Minutes passed as though they were hours and Mycroft found himself feeling lost. He was clearly trapped in the cell. He'd examined every inch of it in great length and there was no obvious way out. He had no weapons and no knowledge of where in the secure fortress he was.

Mycroft found his concentration lacking, also. His mind continuously circled back to Sherlock and John, no matter how he tried to distract himself. Were they still alive? Were they imprisoned too? Would they all be left to rot whilst a plane crashed into London and Eurus destroyed everything they'd worked for?

Panic crept up on him over and over again, whilst he sat on the floor of the cell. He tried to control his breathing and to remain calm but it was almost impossible. Would he be shot? Would someone come for him? Would he be tortured? Would he be left to starve? Or would he be kept in this empty, blank room until his sanity had deserted him?

When the door finally opened, it felt like he'd been locked in the cell for days. His suit jacket, waistcoat and tie had all been cast aside hours before in a desperate attempt to keep his breathing steady. The tight, constraining suits were perfect for diplomacy but hell in a prison scenario.

"Have you come to kill me?" Mycroft asked without looking up, his eyes focused on the opposite wall.

"No, Mr Holmes. I'm here to release you." Anthea said, swiping her card on the glass and opening the door.

Mycroft didn't move, unsure whether he could trust his PA. Anthea was his right hand and the closest thing that he had to a friend, but that didn't mean that she couldn't be corrupted and turned against him. His heart rate began to spike and his breathing rapidly escalated as his vulnerability became obvious to him.

"Mr Holmes?" Anthea called as she stepped closer. She rushed over to him when she heard his panicked, gasping breaths, "Mycroft, breathe. You need to breathe, okay?" she urged desperately.

"Sherlock-" Mycroft gasped out, his eyes wide as he struggled for breath.

"Sherlock is fine and so is John. We have them both. The police are with them." Anthea assured, taking his wrist and monitoring his pulse, "Eurus is in custody."

"How?" Mycroft gasped.

"We can talk about all of that later. Right now, I need you to breathe, okay?" Anthea said quietly, "It's just me and you in this room and we're both going to be just fine. As soon as you can breathe again, we can leave."

Mycroft nodded and closed his eyes, focusing on breathing in and out as steadily as he could.

"Okay, come on." Anthea murmured after a couple of minutes. She picked up his discarded clothing and helped him stand, "Can you walk?"

"I believe so." Mycroft replied with a nervous nod, taking his suit jacket from Anthea and putting it back on. He let her carry his waistcoat and tie, not in any rush to put on more layers.

Anthea nodded and linked arms with the elder Holmes brother, leading him out of the cell and into the well-lit corridor. It was clear that the man was badly shaken and Anthea was careful to keep him away from anyone to ensure his pride remained intact.

"Sherlock, he had to choose between me and John. I told him to kill me, Anthea. I was ready to die and he turned the gun on himself." Mycroft said, his words suddenly leaking out like a waterfall once they were sat safely in the helicopter.

"Greg Lestrade is on his way to the scene, do you want me to speak to him on your behalf?" Anthea asked gently, handing him a glass of water.

"I'll speak with him." Mycroft replied, "He will only insist on speaking with me anyway."

"Very well." Anthea said. She dialled Greg's number and handed the phone over to Mycroft when it was answered.

"I'm minutes away from Sherlock and John. Where are you? Sherlock said you might be hurt." Greg said, his voice worried.

"I'm fine." Mycroft tried to assure, but his voice cracked a little, "Eurus locked me in her old cell but I am otherwise unharmed. Please report back to me once you've seen my brother. Goodnight."

"Of course. Speak to you later." Greg replied before he hung up.

Anthea took the phone and put it away. She tried not to stare at her boss, who was so obviously traumatised by what had gone on in the fortress. She'd find out everything once he put his mask back in place and wrote up a report, but for now she got to see the real him. The real Mycroft who was frightened and worried about his beloved little brother.

"I just spoke to your brother." Greg said, walking over to where Sherlock and John stood near to the police cars.

"How is he?" Sherlock asked.

"He's a bit shaken up, that's all. She didn't hurt him, she just locked him in her old cell." Greg explained, moving to walk away.

"Um... Mycroft, make sure he's looked after." Sherlock said quietly, "He's not as strong as he thinks he is."

"Yeah, I'll take care of it." Greg assured with a nod.

"Has Sherlock put you up to this? I really am perfectly fine." Mycroft said as casually as he could, looking up at Greg Lestrade from his desk.

"Being back at work doesn't mean that you're fine. You've thrown yourself into work and it isn't healthy." Greg argued, "You need to give yourself some time. What happened to you was extremely traumatising."

"Detective Inspector, I am a grown man. I am perfectly able to decide for myself what is and isn't healthy." Mycroft snapped.

"Alright, alright." Greg sighed, holding his hands up in surrender, "I'm here if you need me, okay? If you need someone to talk to or to share a drink with or anything really, give me a call."

Mycroft looked down at his paperwork and Greg took that as his cue to leave the British Government's office. As he closed the door, he heard Mycroft speak so quietly that he could have almost sworn to have imagined it, "Thank you."