*HOSTAGE*
by: WhiteGloves
A/N: A direct title! It can't get any obvious than that ;D
Off with this another fic! Because we all miss Mycroft Umbrella Holmes!
Let's enjoy Mycroft's day! ;D
1: Bad Day
On a good day Mycroft Holmes would find himself undisturbed in the comfort of his house, in front of a favorite classic movie, drinking a deluxe vintage wine with his sleeves unbuttoned and his feet resting on a Victorian footstool with the drapes of the room down; reciting lines that had been marked by the elegance of its generation which had been music to his ears it became a guilty pleasure—not that it required any effort at all, mind you— and satisfaction of finally being alone after meeting with the undesirables—which here would mean people.
Nobody understands the privilege of being alone except one Mycroft Holmes.
And then on a bad day Mycroft would find himself in his brother's flat surrounded by the last two people on earth he wanted to put up with—one a terrorist so to speak who was waving a grenade on his left hand and a gun on the other while the other was none other than the unfortunate Mrs. Hudson who was fidgeting on the corner looking confused and faint but all the same steady as she stared at the unknown man and then to Mycroft who just came in without any invitation.
Mycroft, who only meant to wait for his younger brother in his flat after learning of his recent escapades and had instructed his chauffeur to bring him to 221B instead only to find himself in the scenario, wished strongly at that moment that he opted to stay home.
"I should have stayed." He murmured as he brought himself full in his feet and looked from Mrs. Hudson to the terrorist. "This is going to be a long day."
"Who are you!" barked the unknown man Mycroft had no problem identifying to be in his mid-30s and a previous service man of a navy brigade judging by his thick calloused hands tattooed with an anchor, burnt skin on his palm scaling up to his arms and that remarkable burnt scar on his right cheek but had been jobless for months with his unshaven face and uncut hair and with drinking problem.
"Mycroft…" whimpered the equivocal Mrs. Hudson whose eyes were worried but again, noted for her steadiness.
Mycroft didn't keep his eyes away from the man who looked at him offensively. Then as expected, the gun was turned in his direction which made the British leader grit his teeth. He was never afraid of being at the end point of a gun—but to be the one pulling it. This made him grip his umbrella close. All was well.
"It is quite alright, Mrs. Hudson," Mycroft turned to her slightly, only to see the man take a step forward aggressively—
"Who are you!?" the man repeated loudly, the flash in his eyes alarming. "Answer or I'll kill both of you!"
The scarred man waved the gun to and fro the odd couple, his eyes bulging.
"You would've taken her off had she spoke." Mycroft said in all seriousness with Mrs. Hudson throwing him frantic looks. "Look—whatever it is that Sherlock Holmes has done to you—it has nothing to do with that poor old landlady, so best let her be." He slowly raised a hand towards her direction, but kept his eyes at the man.
"Yeah? You come here barging in telling me she got nothing to do with this but she knows him! I kill her and Sherlock Holmes will come! That isn't enough?"
"Keeping her would be insubstantial; she has no relation to him whatsoever."
"Yeah? And you do?"
Mycroft wished he had stayed home all day as he took a deep sigh.
"I'm his brother." He said simply.
The man looked surprised for a second and then as Mycroft expected, received the full attention of the man whose gun steadied in his direction and eyes transfixed at him. Whatever has his brother done to the man? But then knowing Sherlock—it must be something self-avenging.
"A brother? Yeah, yeah that will work… I kill you and he comes to me."
"If only it was that easy."
"You!" the man barked at the landlady, "Get out!"
Mrs. Hudson took quick steps towards Mycroft and touched his arm. "Mycroft, what about you?"
"Worry about yourself, dear lady." Mycroft firmly said with a glance in her direction, "Empty the building, would you? And um…" he had to look around the flat again and sighed, "you might need new upholstery."
"Quit talking!" there were two loud gunshots in the air that got Mrs. Hudson shaking as she hid behind Mycroft who gave the man a very hard look as he stood straight. Gunshots in 221B was as common as breathing yet still… this man, he's not at all very smart is he?
To be firings guns when the British Head was in the area was suicidal.
That—or he was plain desperate.
Desperate people take desperate actions. Mycroft gripped his umbrella tight—one quick blast on the man's shoulder ought to do it but then what about the grenade? He can't risk it falling out of the window so best it remain while the pin was holding. Then would he tackle the man? Mycroft pressed his lips closed at the number of ways things could end when the man suddenly pointed the gun in their direction one last time and growled, "Take his umbrella! I don't want any funny movements or ideas."
Mycroft stopped breathing as his mind saw a number of ways things could end without his own weapon but the sturdy gun pointed in their direction made him surrender his umbrella to the landlady without further ado.
Now things have really turned bad.
He's had worst.
"Go." He whispered to Mrs. Hudson who gave a small whimper and left him standing there as he listened to the sound of her feet till she was no longer in danger. Mycroft took a deep breath, stood still with his chest out and broke into a fake smile.
"Good riddance."
~TBC~
A/N: Just a little pinch, dear Mycroft!
Runs to three chapters if I'm lucky!
Also, I am deeply devastated for London -.- you are in my prayers!
Once again-
-Thank you for reading!-