[Somehow it was just as alarming to see Sherlock go limp. Mycroft's eyes are wide, staring at his brother, struggling to breathe. He's mostly on autopilot now, obeying the operator perfectly, and he scarcely realizes how little time has passed when the paramedics come bursting through the room.

He doesn't let go of--or at least tries not to let go of--Sherlock's shoulder as they do so, even though he realized on some level he was in the way.

All he could see was his little brother suffering, possibly dying, and he couldn't do a thing about it. For all his grand plans, his career aspirations, all of it so that he could gain some measure of control over the chaos that was life, the chaos that was Sherlock himself, it was all for naught in the end when things like this could happen.

How did this happen?]

W...what?

[Was someone talking to him? It takes him a second to register what they said. He swallows and nods.]

I'm coming. Uh...parents. [He rubs his face, trying to steady himself.] Our parents, I need to call them...