AN: I promised a sober Sherlock story, here it is! The rating's K+ for now but I'm going to warn you: there will be blood. Lots of them. There will be dark themes and explicit stuff. Not in this chapter, though. Sorry.
This is Adlock with a dash of Mycroft vs a big, bad villain. The title is inspired by Macbeth's most famous soliloquy (I have a lot of Shakespeare feels recently) which I may or may not explain later.
Beta-ed by my dear friend alpha mike foxtrot (without spaces)
Note: all my knowledge about British Intelligence Services are from tv shows.
This chapter took place after The Reichenbach Fall
Empty stares that Mycroft Holmes received from his hosts were not unlike the features of his superiors twenty hours ago when he was presenting his proposal for this highly confidential project of great importance. In the end, the Americans were more skeptical, whereas Whitehall merely shrugged and admitted themselves into unwilling agreement. This most likely was the result of Mycroft's differing deliverance of information to both sides.
"We're not the Americans. We don't do indelicate, violent measures. We acquire an asset and we invest in it. We let it go. It will lead us down the rabbit hole eventually." He said as he stapled both his hands under his chin. "This operation is necessary to take over the control of a valuable asset that was once ours. This asset is more likely to be damaged in their incompetent hands."
"Admit it, Mycroft. This is just you trying to make amends for losing the said asset." The head of MI5 calmly stirred the milk in his tea with his intense stare, the spoon abandoned on the side of the cup.
"If you put it that way, Harry, I will not object nor acknowledge it." He was prepared to make this negotiation as harmless as possible.
"Pakistan was a disaster." His tone was cold. No love for failures.
"Pakistan was a test." Mycroft retorted in suppressed impatience.
"For God's sake, Holmes, we're still trying to pick up the pieces you left by blowing all our Middle East contacts for—"
"Don't overstep your jurisdiction, Tramley." The Home Secretary snapped at the MI6.
"Overstep my jurisdiction?" A scowl was directed at the man at the head of the table. "Am I supposed to believe that nonsense?!"
"That's enough." A pointed look from the head of the table sent them all into a quiet reverie. "So we recover this asset from the star-spangled bastards," a sigh. "And then what?"
"You will not succeed in developing this asset. Its motivations are too vague for your side to handle. We can control it, you can't. It was ours in the first place. I suggest you return it to us to avoid risking any unwanted future dispute that it might trigger, considering its capability of such things." His chair was highly uncomfortable and it didn't allow him to move an inch without being seen as restless. But it brought out an elevated air of superiority inside him. This was a Holmes in his element, and the game was just starting. He saw the sweat breaking on the Director of the CIA's forehead, his first small victory.
"So we give you what you want, and then what's in it for us? Mycroft, I'm afraid I don't see what kind of deal you are trying to strike here."
Finally, the right question. Mycroft savoured the tension of withholding a name that will direct their attention to where he wanted. It was the longest and trickiest string that he took from the cold hands of the very much dead Jim Moriarty. The question remained; who was the puppet, Moriarty or the other person at the end of the string? This operation would produce the answer and hopefully erase the existence of Jim Moriarty from his guilty conscience forever.
"Gentlemen, allow me to reacquire the asset and I will use it to bring you the head of Sebastian Moran."
Catherine Walker probably shouldn't have opened her door to a stranger at midnight. Let alone gave him a sight of her purposely seductive nightgown. But she was convinced that the M9 pistol she held behind her back would make this encounter bearable, and she was supposed to have a hoard of undercover agents roaming around her house, watching her every move.
After all, in this side of LA, safety was the first thing their property retailers prided on when they were escorting their potential buyers with considerable wealth and strong desire to live peacefully. Or people like her with dangerous secrets seeking for an ideal hiding place, fully funded by the taxpayers' dollars.
She only opened it halfway through, regretted not having a chain to hold her door and made a mental note to add one. Unfortunately, it was too late.
The stranger blinked once at the light coming from inside and strengthened his jaw. He dipped his head lower to stare straight at her suspicious eyes, being two feet taller than her. There was an unimpressive display of his white and rather healthy teeth as he sneered before he rumbled in a low, threatening voice. "Irene Adler."
He took a quick one step ahead past the door, pushing her inside.
She managed to balance herself and avoided his grip. At the same time, he slammed the door closed.
He pulled out a knife with his right hand and lurched forward to grip her right arm and restrain her from drawing the M9, but the trigger was already pulled and a bullet was wasted. One shot ought to be enough to tickle the ears of her unreliable watchers.
She twisted his right hand, pressing the significant joint of nerves she instinctively recognised with her thumb and made him drop the knife due to his immobilised fingers. With a slight kick she sent the knife sliding away out of reach.
When she attempted to twist his hand, he overpowered her. Pulling his hand free and slapped her hard on the face, forcing her to move backwards one more step into her living room.
She lifted the gun again but this time he didn't give her any chance to shoot, grabbing her wrist so hard she could almost feel her bones breaking. The gun was gone. Any sound it made when it hit the tile floor was drowned by her loud exclamation of pain. She didn't scream, she would never admit it.
His knee jerked upward and hit her stomach. A gust of breath left her mouth as she fell onto a glass table in the middle of the room, broke it into pieces, and sent the shards flying.
AN: I hope it delivers. Send me a review, critique, or point out something that doesn't make sense. Should I continue? Should I stop because it's too awful?