I wrote this based on the chorus of the song Fall Out Boy – The Mighty Fall. As I listened to it, I realized that it so aptly fit the Holmes boys that I was stunned. They are, probably, the most powerful people in Britain thanks to their minds and completely untouchable until they met certain people. Pre-Mycroft/Lestrade, Sherlock/John. For those that want to see Mycroft and Sherlock working together like the bad-ass team they are, this is definitely for you.

-0-

Sherlock took in the torn up flat with narrowed eyes, seeing the struggle as if it was playing out before him. John's favorite chair was broken, the sofa on its back, and from a glance in the kitchen, he saw glass and porcelain littering the floor. His 'laboratory' had been destroyed, as well as John's teapot and most of their dishes. His skull was on the floor, missing some of its teeth, their blinds were hanging by one side and there was an open laptop on the floor with the screen smashed by the heel of a heavy boot.

John had given it everything he had, but it was bad odds. He couldn't fight three at once, clearly and by the blood on the corner of the coffee table, he'd been kicked and thrown off balance, slamming his forehead against the edge and had been knocked out.

Something about seeing the red around the room sent his own blood boiling and for a moment, he felt a consuming rage that threatened to crash his clear-headed thinking. John was hurt and someone had hurt him. The men that had come had deliberately come to take John and take him alive. They were merely unprepared for his flatmate's viciousness and skill.

Sherlock's fist clenched. He knew who had taken John and why. It had been revenge against him from a terrorist cell he had never even bothered remembering the name or purpose of. He had foiled a bomb attempt, handed over the information to Mycroft, and had watched as his brother had systematically destroyed the group.

"You're slipping, Mycroft," he hissed as he felt his brother's presence behind him.

"Clearly I should not have trusted the men I assigned to the job," was Mycroft's grim reply. "I was assured that they had captured all the people involved."

"They missed some."

"Obviously."

He spun on his heel, but paused before stalking out to go find his flatmate. There was something in the way Mycroft held himself, the dark look in his eyes that promised incalculable pain on the person that had enraged him. His eyes were focused on the spot of John's blood on the edge. He took in details of Mycroft's appearance for clues. His clothes were perfect, as always, but there were stress lines around his mouth that said he was clenching his jaw. His hand was squeezing the top of his umbrella with just a bit more pressure than usual.

Sherlock knew that Mycroft liked John and what he brought to his younger brother, so he wasn't surprised to find him there, but there was something not quite right. If it was just John, Mycroft would be calmer, knowing that he had to be, to keep Sherlock from doing exactly what stupid things he was about to. "Who else did they take?" he demanded, almost vibrating with the need to be out of the flat to dispense justice.

Mycroft's eyes moved back to him and he reached into his pocket to pull out a small wallet. When it was opened to show a badge, Sherlock felt even more inflamed. Not only John, but Lestrade. Both were absolutely instrumental to Sherlock and he felt something squeeze his heart at the thought of two so very important people gone from his life. This was revenge against him and while before Sherlock would have torn them apart for just going against him, this was not about because they had attacked him by proxy. It was because they had attacked John and Lestrade. If they had come at him directly, that was fine. He wouldn't be as angry.

His brother's lips were a thin line and he could see the same rage in his blue eyes. Mycroft wasn't just angry on behalf of Sherlock; no matter what he said about caring not being an advantage, Mycroft had begun to with John and Lestrade because of his forced interactions thanks to their involvement in Sherlock's life. With John for three years and Lestrade for longer, Mycroft had grown attached.

"First time you even noticed you were?" he asked, but there was no snideness in the question. It was just that: a question.

As if divining his thoughts, which Sherlock was not surprised about, Mycroft reluctantly nodded. "I was informed that there was a struggle in the Detective Inspector's flat this morning." He watched as Mycroft, better at controlling his emotions than anyone else, put a leash on his feelings. Suddenly his tight voice was calmer, but no less serious or grim. "They will not have had time to leave the country yet and I have put a temporary hold on all planes leaving."

"I expect they'll attempt to use them in some demand, an exchange. Them for us."

"Of course. They know they couldn't take us by force," Mycroft replied and turned. Sherlock fell in perfect step with his brother as they stalked down the stairs. He was actually grateful that his kindly landlady had taken a vacation to her sister's for the week or they might have taken her too.

Mycroft's sleek black car was waiting, the engine running, for them outside. Sherlock studied the street briefly before climbing in the car. "They were taken in an old van with an oil leak," he found himself saying even though he knew he didn't need to. Mycroft would have noticed just as much as he that it had to have been a van and likely had some insignia on the side so it would pass notice as not something suspicious. If they were taking John, they likely posed as a mover's van so if they carried sacks out, they wouldn't be giving more than a passing glance. He was just used to saying deductions out loud now thanks to John.

Mycroft didn't say anything, not a comment about how he didn't need to. He was on his phone, staring grimly ahead as his foot rested near a long case in front of them. He clicked off the call without saying anything to the other person. "They're in a warehouse near an airport." He snapped the directions to his driver.

Sherlock grabbed a smaller case next to the larger one and opened it, not surprised to see a gun there. He yanked it out and grabbed the second clip, sticking it in his pocket. He knew that in the confines over the other case that Mycroft seemed to unconsciously toe with his shoe. Inside would be Mycroft's custom sniper rifle, L11583. It had been tweaked over the years by his brother during his field days and after, leaving it probably one of the most powerful weapons in the world.

He hadn't seen it leave Mycroft's home in fifteen years.

"Lestrade is going to be so very disappointed in you," he said, a small smile tugging at his lips despite the seriousness of the situation.

Mycroft's eyebrow rose in a silent question.

"He abhors people that go in by themselves. You have no one following us."

There was a snort. "They would only get in the way."

"Naturally, but normal people don't see it that way. He'll lecture you."

"I believe I can handle a lecture from the Detective Inspector."

"Did you know his name is Greg?"

Mycroft blinked and finally looked at him. "…I was aware, yes."

"You saw it in his file."

"Of course. Why do you mention it?"

He fiddled with the gun in his hand, flicking the safety off, then on, then off again repeatedly. "It just occurred to me that I've never actually said his name. I didn't even know it until we went to Baskerville."

Silence descended, but it felt as if he was having all manner of conversations with Mycroft without saying anything. They were both aware now just how much of an impact the two men had made in their lives and it was not something that sat all that pleasantly with Sherlock. He couldn't pull himself away, but now he was aware of just how much a weakness his attachment was. He understood why, for so long, Mycroft had held himself back from others. Long ago, thanks to his attachment to Sherlock, he had known just how much caring was not an advantage. Given his job, he couldn't afford any and yet he had been unable to tear himself away from his brother. Now he had increased his weaknesses with non-blood relations that were even more vulnerable in some ways than Sherlock was.

The warehouse that was their destination came into view and Mycroft said, "Leave and return in an hour." His tone of voice said he brooked no contradiction to his orders.

The car stopped and Mycroft reached forward, clicking the locks of the case on the floor and pulling out his weapon, leaving his umbrella behind. They shared a glance before rushing out of the car. Mycroft turned and headed around the back by silent agreement while Sherlock headed right through the front. The sleek black car pulled away from the curve and Sherlock released the safety for the final time before taking a deep breath to center himself. John was close. John was in there, injured.

There was no time to pick the lock so he shot through it and shoved the door open, running in and ducking behind a huge crate just as a few shots rang out and then stopped. "Sherlock?!"

John's voice. It sounded hoarse and he pulled a mirror from his pocket, shifting it around the corner just a little to get a look. The two men were tied back to back and both looked awful. Blood had stained the side of John's head from his encounter with the coffee table and he admired his partner that he was even conscious then. Lestrade's head had snapped up at the sound of his name, peering in the darkness. He had a black eye and the way he favored his shoulder said he'd been shot in the arm and the bindings on them were aggravating that.

"All right, Holmes! Give it up!"

Sherlock's eyes looked to the catwalk above, catching sight of Mycroft silently moving across it. He came up behind a man that had his gun ready, looking down below and trying to find him amid the junk in the warehouse. The man didn't even know Mycroft was there and he surged up, snapping his neck and catching him before he fell and made any noise.

Their eyes met and Mycroft nodded silently as he crept forward, picking up his sniper rifle again and training it on one of the men holding a gun to John's head. There was a second man focused on Lestrade and Sherlock waited. He had a gun for emergencies, but they both knew that he wouldn't be using it as much. Both of them were relying on Mycroft's incredible eyes and skill to take them out as he rushed to get to John and Lestrade. It had been fifteen years after all since the last time his brother had used his gun.

"Don't move!" he shouted, knowing that Lestrade and John would obey his order without question right then.

The first shot sounded incredibly loud to Sherlock's ears as he strained to hear it and he burst from his hiding spot, running forward. In merely a second, before the other could shoot Lestrade, a second headshot had taken him out. Someone was aiming his gun at him, but he was killed before he could pull the trigger and Sherlock didn't slow. Mycroft took out another and he lifted his own gun to shoot another that was going straight for John.

One man had forgone using his gun and attempted to tackle Sherlock, but he slithered out of the way and spun, slamming his gun right into face. It snapped the man's head to the side and a shot from above finished him. There was a pause in the raining bullets as Mycroft literally ran forward to a new position, the new battlefield positioning making it impossible for him to get a clear shot where he'd been.

Sherlock dove between someone and Lestrade, kicking at a kneecap. He struggled with him as the man's hand gripped his gun. Abruptly he let go and slammed his elbow in the terrorist's stomach. He grabbed the gun from suddenly lax fingers and shot him in the chest.

It took very few seconds, and Sherlock paused, panting, as he looked around. No one else was around and he immediately turned and dropped to his knees to remove the bindings. He could hear Mycroft's shoes above him on the metal catwalk as he quickly made his way down some stairs and into the warehouse proper. He wasted no time in hurrying to the hostages, just as Sherlock got them apart.

"Sherlock! What are doing here?!"

"I should think that would be obvious, John," he said as he removed the individual bindings around their wrists and ankles.

"Didn't you bring any backup?!" Lestrade demanded, groaning and gripping his shoulder.

"They'd only get in the way," he groused.

All four men heard the sound of something shift. Sherlock stiffened and turned around quickly, but Mycroft beat him to it, slamming the butt of his sniper into the man's gut that had come up behind him, followed by a punch to the jaw, and finally another neck snapping. His movements were economized, perfect, and John and Lestrade gaped. Apparently they hadn't been aware that his brother had had physical combat training.

"Wow," Lestrade muttered.

"Show off," Sherlock muttered, but he would never admit that he was proud of Mycroft. The man hadn't lost his touch.

As John wavered to his feet and Sherlock hurriedly reached out to support him before he fell, Mycroft pulled out his phone and pressed a few buttons. "Now." It was as short a conversation as Mycroft was capable of having and he hung up after. The phone went right back into his pocket and he reached out with the hand not holding his sniper to help Lestrade up, wrapping his arm around his waist to steady him.

"Who'd you call?" the detective asked, squeezing his now sluggishly bleeding shoulder.

"My PA. The ambulance will be here momentarily, as well as Scotland Yard and my people. That reminds me, I will have to have certain people fired for their critical mistakes."

"What mistakes?" John asked, leaning heavily against Sherlock. He honestly didn't mind supporting his flatmate, for reasons he was deliberately not thinking about right then.

"Our last case, with that terrorist cell. I gave all the information to Mycroft." He glared at his brother. "Who apparently was incompetent at dealing with them."

The return glare was blistering in its heat and anger. "Sherlock, did you expect me to hunt every one of them down myself? I gave it to people that I trusted would do the job; apparently they were inadequate to the task."

He blinked. That was the closest to an admission of mistake and apology that Mycroft would ever give. That tight leash on his brother's emotions was slipping a bit as he watched, but it was tightened again fiercely so he didn't lose control.

"Shit, I'll probably have to go to the hospital for this," Lestrade muttered, letting Mycroft have most of his weight. Mycroft shifted his legs to compensate, but remained silent about it. "I expect to see you three there with presents, balloons, and flowers."

Sherlock blinked. "What?"

Lestrade grinned wearily. "It's custom, Sherlock. Someone's in the hospital, you bring 'em presents, get well balloons, and flowers."

He shared a bewildered look with Mycroft before shrugging, the sound of the ambulance getting closer. People.

-0-

"You know…I didn't mean to buy the whole store," Lestrade said with a much brighter grin from his hospital bed. John was snickering from the bed next to him. The paramedics had insisted that John go as well to check out his injuries and it turned out he had a few cracked ribs to go with a concussion.

"They always go overboard," John agreed, but he seemed in good spirits.

The entire room had been filled to the brim with flowers and balloons, ninety-percent of them from the Holmes brothers. Sherlock found himself meeting Mycroft's eyes as they stood there in the hospital room and he shrugged. "It was Mycroft. He bought them."

Mycroft raised his eyebrow. "I distinctly remember that you were there with me and chose half of them."

"Clearly your memory is going in your old age."

Before it could dissolve into an argument, Lestrade intervened. "Hey, I'm honored." He reached out and grabbed one of the balloon strings tied to a drawer's handle, tugging it down and up, making it bop in the air. His smile faded just a bit. "But seriously, thanks, for coming for us. I mean, I'm not going to thank you two for going rogue and coming in alone, that was just stupid, but—"

"As was stated before, others would merely get in the way," Mycroft interrupted, flicking some imaginary dirt off his jacket. His umbrella was firmly in his hand and he seemed as at ease as he had been before, but Sherlock knew that that wasn't entirely correct. The importance of Gregory Lestrade and John Watson had been made clear to both Holmes men and it was unsettling.

"Don't start that—"

"Greg, just leave it for now," John said, even though Sherlock knew from virtue of a ton of arguments with his flatmate that the doctor completely agreed with the detective.

Sherlock finally dropped down to sit in a chair placed between the two beds and lifted his long legs, bracing his heels on top of the small table sitting there, ignoring the disapproving look from his friend. "I told you, Mycroft. Lestrade has a twenty minute lecture ready."

Mycroft rolled his eyes and turned. "Well I have work. I will take care of the arrangements with the hospital and the police."

As his brother's hand reached the doorknob, John's voice lanced out. "Mycroft, stay and visit."

"Yeah, you don't have to leave yet," Lestrade seconded.

Sherlock watched the emotions flash through Mycroft's eyes. He had a job to do, he was always busy, and there was a lot of business he had to deal with over the whole situation. Furthermore, it wouldn't be wise to stay. Their attachment to the two men in the hospital was already too much; to stay would mean to deepen that. Sherlock himself knew that, but he already knew that he'd not be able to tear himself away from John now. He didn't bother fighting it.

Mycroft had more resistance and control than his younger brother and arguably had the most to lose. He watched closely because he had never seen Mycroft give in on anything; the man had kept himself from relationships of any kind, friendship and romantic, for almost twenty years and had only allowed himself to do anything motivated by emotions for his little brother. He had kept himself superior over Sherlock, said to never get involved and was proud of that. Sherlock was by far the more honest of the two of them because at least he admitted, to himself at least, that he couldn't leave his friends.

Finally the hand left the doorknob and he smirked as Mycroft sighed. "Very well. I suppose I can spend a few minutes here."

"Great!" Lestrade ignored his shoulder and reached out for a nearby chair, awkwardly tugging it closer to the bed. Mycroft took the hint and finished moving it himself, sitting down as if the metal chair was the wingback chair in his favorite club.

"What are you smiling at, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked with a suspicious glance and a frown.

Sherlock smirked even wider and said, "How the mighty fall." The irony that that included himself was not lost on either of the Holmes brothers.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, but said, "True."

-End-

(for now, perhaps? Yes, I name dropped the title, but I had to. Sherlock's just that dramatic type :P

I really consider doing a second part to this, I really like it.)