Mycroft slowly descended the steps to the cellar the next morning, for what he believed would be the penultimate interrogation. Thankfully Sherlock did not look up at him as he walked past. Mycroft took his place at the back of the underground room and sat down.

He watched as the interrogator picked up a length of lead piping. The interrogator adjusted his stance a little and swung the pipe back and then forward hard, aiming at Sherlock's shin. At the impact and at Sherlock's reaction Mycroft's stomach immediately felt tight and heavy and he drew a quick breath in and then swallowed.

The interrogator repeated this action a further three times, after which Sherlock's legs were no longer supporting the weight of his body. With an act of will Mycroft focussed his mind on what this would mean for them in practical terms. In order to get away, Mycroft needed to deliver Sherlock to one of the military vehicles parked outside. The steps ascending from the cell were steep and Sherlock, although slim, and not altogether as tall as people imagined, was muscular and Mycroft knew he would not be able to carry him. Mycroft cursed his own lack of physical fitness.

Sherlock was breaking.

Sherlock, who had learnt, eventually, to take beatings without reacting; who could go for days without food, and nights without sleep. Even Sherlock was only flesh and blood. Somehow Mycroft hadn't factored for this, and now he was worried; worried that Sherlock would give something away; and worried that if he didn't then it would be too late, and Mycroft would only be saving a corpse.

In truth Mycroft believed that Sherlock's injuries so far, although undoubtedly brutal and painful, were not life-threatening, and probably not permanent. If they were to leave with Sherlock in his current condition then he would be gallivanting about London again in due course. But dehydration could and did kill, and a few hours' difference could be critical; and furthermore Mycroft had no way of knowing at what rate the Serbian's violence would escalate.

Mycroft knew that in almost every interrogation there was a crisis point; a point where something would happen one way or another. Mycroft's experience told him that they were reaching this point now, and that he needed to make a decision.

In his head Mycroft placed the options side by side for comparison. If they left now he risked his brother being shot. If they stayed he risked his brother dying from injury or dehydration. As for the risks pertaining to himself, Mycroft had already weighed those up at the outset of the enterprise.

Mycroft examined his first option. The guard at the door was biddable and Mycroft could easily send him on an errand to remove him from the equation. The interrogator, although he clearly enjoyed his job, was not keen on following orders and could prove more difficult.

Mycroft's thoughts were coming adrift. He realised with cold clarity that he did not know what to do. He assessed the risks in his mind, but with no conclusion. Then he assessed them again. The problem being that he could not be sure that the decision he was leaning towards was not biased by sentiment. He had been careless about the direction in which he had let his thoughts travel on the previous evening. He had been indulgent. And now his brother's life was at stake because emotion had a stranglehold on him and he could not be sure of his own mind.

The interrogator shouted as his fist crashed into Sherlock's ribs. The blow sent Sherlock reeling backwards, muscles tight against the chains that were also rubbing raw on his wrists. Mycroft watched his brother's legs come up instinctively against the impact to his body, in some pretence of protecting himself.

Sherlock was breaking.

Mycroft was breaking.

Mycroft's attention snapped back to the present as he realised Sherlock was whispering something to the interrogator. Mycroft felt his blood run cold as he realised that Sherlock had cracked and that they were both going to die there. Mycroft had delayed for too long and had failed in his mission. He had failed his little brother. It was over.

"He said that I used to work in the navy, where I had an unhappy love affair!" exclaimed the Serbian with incredulity.

Mycroft tried to take in what was happening as he watched the interrogator sprint up the steps and out of the cellar. He looked over at his brother, at the dirt and blood and bruising on his body, the curtain of matted hair and the eyes closed against pain and exhaustion. Apparently of the three men in the room, Sherlock had been the one in control. Sherlock had made the call and Mycroft was in no position to argue.

Mycroft picked up the key to Sherlock's shackles from where the Serbian had left it. Then he took a moment to compose himself. It was important for Sherlock's sake that Mycroft acted in a business-like manner now. They were not out of the woods yet and he needed Sherlock to focus. If he showed too much familiarity, Sherlock's adrenaline would dissipate and his pain would worsen, hampering their progress. Given what he had just witnessed, Mycroft had every faith in his brother's abilities to enable the project's completion.

Mycroft lifted Sherlock's head and spoke directly and urgently into his ear.

"Now listen to me. There's an underground terrorist network active in London."

Mycroft continued to speak, an edge of warmth entering his voice now. "Back to Baker Street, Mr Sherlock Holmes".

Beneath the mop of curly black hair Mycroft saw his little brother smile.

...

A/N: Thanks for reading. Please let me know if you enjoyed it.