Chapter 6: If a man obeys the gods, they're quick to hear his prayers

It had been two hours since Sherlock left Pall Mall. The clock struck 11 o'clock at night. Sherlock sprawled out on the sofa, he hadn't bothered to change his clothes, still wearing the same shirt and casual pant as when he came to Mycroft's. He felt that even if he changed into pajamas, he would not be able to sleep either, his mind was still with his brother. Today was a strange day, with unusual events that made him feel uneasy. He never thought that the day would come when Mycroft actually resigned. That workaholic. Mycroft had no personal life, he had no close friends, no hobbies, no lover or even an interest in sex. Sherlock couldn't imagine what Mycroft would do if he didn't work. The more Sherlock thought about it, the more scared he became. There seemed to be no answer to that question, he didn't see how Mycroft would be able to exist without his work.

Sherlock felt waves of anxiety build up in him. Mycroft had always wanted to control every little detail in Sherlock's life, not only John but Lestrade was once summoned to the warehouse for testing – those were his words. Now, the same Mycroft who always wanted to keep everything in the palm of his hand - actually gave Sherlock permission to deal with Sherrinford on his own, this was quite contrary to his brother's character. This was impossible.

Sherlock thought of this afternoon when he first arrived. After a few glasses, Mycroft suddenly asked about Irene. Mycroft had never asked about Irene. Sherlock remembered being startled when he heard Mycroft mention the name.

"How is Ms. Adler? Does she still keep in touch with you, Sherlock?"

"Why do you suddenly ask?"

Mycroft didn't seem to have heard his brother's surprise, possibly due to the alcohol, or he was just too lost in thought. Mycroft did not answer the question.

"I hope she does. I was surprised that you were interested in such a woman... After all, it seems that I was not entirely wrong when pushing you into her path..."

Silent for a moment, Mycroft seemed to recall that night on the plane, the feeling of helplessness, worry, guilt mixed with anger - he was angry at Sherlock, but even more at himself. "Her intelligence is charming, but unreliable. Well, I can't be sure, maybe it depends on the person she's dealing with. Every problem has a variance, I just hope you are vigilant enough to not be taken advantage of, but also brave enough to dare to pursue the person you love."

Sherlock said nothing. He was surprised and amazed. He never thought that one day Mycroft would give him love advice! The Antarctica Mycroft. So, Mycroft thought Sherlock loved The Woman. Sherlock was not very clear about his feelings, to him these feelings were too... different. The woman was surely a special woman that he cherished, he wanted her to be safe and free to be herself, but was it love? Sherlock didn't know. Sherlock poured more into Mycroft's cup.

"Are you giving me love advice, Mycroft? You? What happened to all the "Caring is not an advantage" things?"

Mycroft laughed.

"So, you don't deny that you love her. Oh, I'm so very happy for you. You have not only John but also D.I. Lestrade, Ms. Hooper and Ms. Adler, they're all willing to take great care of my brother. I think you'll be fine."

"Fine? Why should you worry that I must be fine? What's up?"

Mycroft looked into Sherlock's eyes, and he smiled.

"I already told you. Because I care about you, always."

Sherlock sat up resolutely, reaching for his cellphone. The phone showed 23:17, he decided to call Mycroft. Normally Sherlock would text, but today he felt like he didn't want to waste another second, he needed to talk to him. He held his breath as he waited for his brother to pick up, one ring, then two, three rings, still no answer. Mycroft's phone did not have voicemail installed, after 6 rings, the call disconnected itself. Sherlock looked anxiously at his phone screen, Mycroft never failed to answer his phone, whether it's a phone call or a text message, Mycroft usually answered immediately at whatever hour it was. It had been so many times, whether it was just a casual text or a work-related email, personal or family matter, he would get a response from his brother almost instantly. Sherlock was still staring at the glowing phone screen in his hand, he found his hand shaking a little. He kept pressing the redial button, but he didn't want to sit down waiting anymore, he stood up, opened the door and hurried downstairs. Without taking his scarf or jacket, still wearing only a thin shirt, he rushed out into the cold street. He needed to get back to Pall Mall.

It took him five minutes to catch a taxi, and another fourteen minutes for it to reach his brother's house - at the fastest speed allowed and excellent traffic conditions in the middle of the night: almost no cars on the street. Normally Sherlock would ask the driver to stop a few blocks away, then he would walk to Mycroft's house after confirming that there were no unusual glances directed at him. But tonight, he got too impatient. All this time he kept calling Mycroft, but there was still no answer. He texted Anthea. I'm on my way to Mycroft's. It might be nothing, but I called him 37 times and he still doesn't pick up. Will update to you. -SH

Sherlock once again opened the large wooden door that led to his brother's house. Second time in the day. He had never ever been to Mycroft's twice a day. Sherlock kept calling, but he didn't hear the ringing. Of course, Mycroft never let the bell ring, he always set all notifications to vibration, and kept the phone close to him. The habit made it even more difficult for Sherlock to locate Mycroft now. He believed his brother hadn't left the house, but he didn't know which room Mycroft was in. He searched all rooms with the lights on, but couldn't find Mycroft.

Not in the bedroom. Neither the master bedroom nor the extra bedrooms had him. Not in any bathrooms. Damn it, Mycroft where are you? Furiously, his footsteps quickened, he ran upstairs and called out loudly. "Mycroft!" Still no answer. But here he was. He saw his brother lying on the ground of the small courtyard on the top floor. A small courtyard with a gray stone floor, interspersed with small weeds, a rattan chair and a small round table. Mycroft didn't like to plant anything, but he always enjoyed being outdoors, he liked to look at the stars and read outside in his own piece of sky. Mycroft never brought Sherlock up here, but Sherlock had always known this was his brother's favorite hiding space. Mycroft didn't install any electrical equipment here, he would often sit there watching the sky at sunset, and sometimes he would sit until there was no light around. Just him and his thoughts alone in the dark.

In the glimmer of moonlight, Sherlock luckily spotted his brother laying on the ground thank to his light-colored shirt. Sherlock ran over, he touched Mycroft and felt his skin burning up even though he was lying outside on the cold ground. His body temperature was getting too high, it was alarming. Sherlock dropped his phone and knelt down, he supported his brother against his lap and gently shook Mycroft in the dark.

"Hey Mycroft! Brother, hey, wake up!"

There was no reply. He softly called out his name again, Mycroft still not moving. Sherlock accidently ran his hand over Mycroft's cheek, his heart skipped a beat when his fingers suddenly felt blood – that sticky liquid he could never mistake. Terrified, he reached down to the stone ground, he touched a pool of blood that has gradually glued to the floor. Damn it! Mycroft vomited blood, his shirt was still dry so he didn't have any abdominal wounds, so it was most likely... poisoned. Sherlock was dumbfounded. His eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness. There were no pills or bottles, or any water cup around, it must be slow poison, Mycroft must have been drinking it hours before... Hours before... so when Sherlock first arrived in the afternoon, had everything already been arranged, without Sherlock knowing? A flash of Mycroft's look came to his mind as he led him out the door, the sad smile and the way he said goodbye, Sherlock saw every clues leading to a same conclusion. Like an explosion in his head, what he never expected could come true now came true. There was no one breaking in to force him, Mycroft drank the poison himself. Sherlock tried to get up, he felt his knees buckled with fear, trembling he held Mycroft in his arms, it was too cold in here, he had to get him inside.

Mycroft still didn't wake up. Sherlock gently placed Mycroft on the floor of the reading room, though under the golden light he could still see Mycroft's face too pale. Blood trickled down his nose, the left side of his face was covered in blood. It was true that there were no wounds, just some blood splatter on the front of his shirt and the sleeve part. Sherlock found himself shaking violently, he never knew he could feel so scared, he looked at Mycroft, still showing no signs of waking, he wondered what he could do. His hands were covered in the crimson color. He didn't know what the poison was, he tried to smell, but apart from the coppery scent of blood he didn't find anything special. He didn't know if he should induce vomiting or not, because he could not be sure when the time of poisoning was. Moreover, when Mycroft was unconscious like this, it was extremely dangerous to induce vomiting, it was very likely that vomit would enter the airways. Cursing himself, he wished he had paid more attention, he should not have gone home but to stay with Mycroft through the night.

"Anthea, call an ambulance and please come here urgently. He poisoned himself. Maybe hours ago, I'm not sure. I haven't known which kind it is yet... He was fine, just 2 hours ago I was here and he was still fine... but he is unconscious now, Anthea... please hurry up. He vomited so much blood, and is burning up."

"What? Are you sure Sherlock, no trespassing? I'm already on my way, ETA in five minutes. Please be calm, he only got you now... It will be okay Sherlock; sir is strong and he will not let us down."

Sherlock didn't reply right away. He felt that if he opened his mouth to answer, he wouldn't be able to hide his sobbing. After a few seconds, a trembling Sherlock voiced. "I know. Just hurry up. We're in third floor." Anthea took the initiative to turn off the phone, apparently, she needed to focus on coordination. Sherlock still didn't take his eyes off his brother. His arm was still around Mycroft, he was still gently shaking Mycroft. Then, as if he couldn't hold it back anymore, all his emotions spilled out, his voice broke into a cry.

"Mycroft... Mycroft wake up! You must wake up, don't stay silent like this, this is not like you. Mycroft... Wake up and look at me, I beg you!"

Mycroft showed no signs that he heard his brother. His eyes were still closed, and his breathing was slow and light, so light that Sherlock was afraid that soon he might forget to breathe. Cradle him in his arms, Sherlock gently put his fingers around Mycroft's wrist, he counted each pulse. He tried to distract himself, he tried to redirect his thoughts to whatever he had ever read about poison, but all his thoughts got interrupted. Sherlock could not concentrate, he found himself breathless, his heart pounding in his chest. His hands were shaking so much that he couldn't even feel Mycroft's pulse. Trying to calm himself, he forced himself to grip Mycroft's wrist tightly. Mycroft's pulse was too fast. His skin was covered in sweat, it seemed he was getting hotter every minute. Sherlock fearfully clutched Mycroft in his arms, he unbuttoned Mycroft's shirt and gently wiped the sweat from his forehead. Sherlock rested his head on his brother's hair, feeling the weight and heat of Mycroft against his chest. Sherlock whispered in a low sob.

"Don't leave, Mycroft. Don't you dare. I will tell mum. You never like to deal with her, right, Mycroft? So don't make me... Mycroft, wake up."

Anthea arrived first, but she stood at the door waiting for the ambulance to arrive to guide them. When they reached the third floor, Sherlock was still holding Mycroft, tears welling up in his eyes, he was still whispering to his brother, and his hand still didn't leave Mycroft's wrist. Seeing Anthea and the emergency team, Sherlock gently laid Mycroft down on the wooden floor, he stepped back to let the nurse start giving Mycroft first aid.

Pulse 135, blood pressure 70, temperature 106°F, risk of convulsions. Patient is unresponsive. Suspected gastrointestinal bleeding due to poisoning. Urgently prepare intravenous blood transfusion, blood type A+.

1.5 liters of 0.9% Sodium Chloride, hurry up, patient is in high risk of hypovolemic shock.

Mildly dilated pupils, retinal hemorrhage, SpO2 85, weak breathing, prepare oxygen balloons and defibrillators

Sherlock stepped further back. He was still shaking, the sight before his eyes made him not know what to do, he pressed the call button.

"John... it's Mycroft. He drank poison, I think... He's unconscious. John, I don't know what to do, please come."