He gathered Sherlock into his arms and curled his fingers around Sherlock’s limp cock. Sherlock made a noise of protest as Mycroft started to move his hand. The muffled whimpers filled Mycroft with guilt. He wished he had been smarter, wiser, more connected. Then this wouldn’t have happened. This shouldn’t have happened.
Mycroft tears dripped onto Sherlock’s crown.
“Don’t cry.” Sherlock whispered. His voice was hoarse. His lips quirked up into a smile as he gathered his strength, leaned forward and kissed Mycroft’s cheek.
Then promptly latched onto Mycroft’s ear and bit down. Mycroft jerked in pain. He felt Sherlock ejaculate over his hand. Sherlock’s teeth left his ear almost immediately and the detective sagged bonelessly in Mycroft’s arms. Mycroft could feel blood oozing down the side of his head.
“My, my, what a show.”
Mycroft wished all manners of pain, torture and death that never came on Moriarty.
The crazed man laughed and raised his hand, twirling the remote device in his hand.
“But, it failed to meet my expectations.” He sneered. Mycroft watched in horror as Moriarty moved his thumb over the little button.
The sharp crack of a gunshot made Mycroft flinch.
Moriarty let out a howl of pain. The remote device clattered to the floor as the man clutched as his hand. Mycroft noted with some sick satisfaction that the hand seemed to be missing a few fingers. He lunged for the remote device and kicked it hard, sending it skittering into the darkness of the warehouse. He looked up just in time to see John come striding out of the shadows as Moriarty pulled out his own gun. John lifted his shot gun and fired again.
Mycroft didn’t know where the man had managed to procure a shotgun in such a short time but he definitely approved. John didn’t even break stride as he walked over to Moriarty and kicked him onto his back. He swung the shotgun around and slammed the butt of it into Moriarty’s knee. The scream of pain was extremely satisfying.
Mycroft scrambled over to his little brother. He undid the catches on the belt and then flung it far away. Sherlock groaned as he was moved but made no other protest.
Behind them, Moriarty screamed again as John did goodness knows what to the man. Mycroft heard John shouting abuse at the man as he eased the blindfold off his brother’s eyes. Sherlock blinked owlishly twice up at Mycroft, obviously taking in the bleeding ear, the tears and the foul language John was using.
“He won’t be bothering us again.” John remarked in disgust as he limped over. He tossed the shot gun on the floor. There were disturbing little bits on the butt of the gun.
“I trust you can fudge my prints from the system.” He said as he pulled off his jacket and used it to cover Sherlock. Mycroft nodded, unable to process how easily it had been over.
Sherlock let himself be bundled up into the car that was waiting a block away. He nodded at Anthea, cuddled up to John, then promptly fell asleep. Mycroft felt severely displaced. The whole ordeal from the start of the kidnapping until now had taken about seven hours but he felt as if he hadn’t slept in a month.
“How did you find me?” He asked John.
The doctor jerked his head at Anthea. The woman was texting but her fingers were trembling slightly.
“Your shoes.” She said quietly. “We replaced all of them the week before last, remember?”
Mycroft did remember. She had cleared out all his shoes and returned them two days later.
“Tracking devices. Prototype. That’s why it took so long to find you.”
Mycroft didn’t know what to think.
“What about Moran?” He asked John. A dark look came over John’s face.
“I had two shot guns.” He said evenly. “I might as well have used both of them.” He raised his eyes to meet Mycroft’s stare in an unspoken challenge. Mycroft let his eyes close in relief. He took a deep breath then forced a smile.
“What shot guns?” He asked innocently. Anthea made a muffled noise that sounded somewhat like a amused snort. Opposite him, John smiled.
The Choices we made 3
Mycroft tears dripped onto Sherlock’s crown.
“Don’t cry.” Sherlock whispered. His voice was hoarse. His lips quirked up into a smile as he gathered his strength, leaned forward and kissed Mycroft’s cheek.
Then promptly latched onto Mycroft’s ear and bit down. Mycroft jerked in pain. He felt Sherlock ejaculate over his hand. Sherlock’s teeth left his ear almost immediately and the detective sagged bonelessly in Mycroft’s arms. Mycroft could feel blood oozing down the side of his head.
“My, my, what a show.”
Mycroft wished all manners of pain, torture and death that never came on Moriarty.
The crazed man laughed and raised his hand, twirling the remote device in his hand.
“But, it failed to meet my expectations.” He sneered. Mycroft watched in horror as Moriarty moved his thumb over the little button.
The sharp crack of a gunshot made Mycroft flinch.
Moriarty let out a howl of pain. The remote device clattered to the floor as the man clutched as his hand. Mycroft noted with some sick satisfaction that the hand seemed to be missing a few fingers. He lunged for the remote device and kicked it hard, sending it skittering into the darkness of the warehouse. He looked up just in time to see John come striding out of the shadows as Moriarty pulled out his own gun. John lifted his shot gun and fired again.
Mycroft didn’t know where the man had managed to procure a shotgun in such a short time but he definitely approved. John didn’t even break stride as he walked over to Moriarty and kicked him onto his back. He swung the shotgun around and slammed the butt of it into Moriarty’s knee. The scream of pain was extremely satisfying.
Mycroft scrambled over to his little brother. He undid the catches on the belt and then flung it far away. Sherlock groaned as he was moved but made no other protest.
Behind them, Moriarty screamed again as John did goodness knows what to the man. Mycroft heard John shouting abuse at the man as he eased the blindfold off his brother’s eyes. Sherlock blinked owlishly twice up at Mycroft, obviously taking in the bleeding ear, the tears and the foul language John was using.
“He won’t be bothering us again.” John remarked in disgust as he limped over. He tossed the shot gun on the floor. There were disturbing little bits on the butt of the gun.
“I trust you can fudge my prints from the system.” He said as he pulled off his jacket and used it to cover Sherlock. Mycroft nodded, unable to process how easily it had been over.
Sherlock let himself be bundled up into the car that was waiting a block away. He nodded at Anthea, cuddled up to John, then promptly fell asleep. Mycroft felt severely displaced. The whole ordeal from the start of the kidnapping until now had taken about seven hours but he felt as if he hadn’t slept in a month.
“How did you find me?” He asked John.
The doctor jerked his head at Anthea. The woman was texting but her fingers were trembling slightly.
“Your shoes.” She said quietly. “We replaced all of them the week before last, remember?”
Mycroft did remember. She had cleared out all his shoes and returned them two days later.
“Tracking devices. Prototype. That’s why it took so long to find you.”
Mycroft didn’t know what to think.
“What about Moran?” He asked John. A dark look came over John’s face.
“I had two shot guns.” He said evenly. “I might as well have used both of them.” He raised his eyes to meet Mycroft’s stare in an unspoken challenge. Mycroft let his eyes close in relief. He took a deep breath then forced a smile.
“What shot guns?” He asked innocently. Anthea made a muffled noise that sounded somewhat like a amused snort. Opposite him, John smiled.