A Lot In Common
DISCLAIMER: I hold no rights whatsoever to Sherlock, The Vampire Diaries or Casablanca. This was written for the purpose of entertainment only.
*A/N* I've had this idea in my head for eternities – I mean, come on, these two would totally LOVE each other. They are immensely similar.
This basically doesn't make much sense and is just a bit of fun for someone who likes both shows, really ^^. Though I kind of feel like Elijah sounds more like Mycroft and vice versa… whatever. Have fun!
Mycroft sighed and stared into the depths of his Earl Grey. His visitor's name meant nothing to him, but whoever the hell he was, he had to be influential. That much was obvious – because people who weren't influential didn't know that somebody like Mycroft even existed.
But the man about to visit his office clearly knew of Mycroft's existence. His letter, so impeccably written that even Mycroft Holmes couldn't help but be impressed, had been forwarded straight to "the government" himself – the topic it regarded had been too sensitive for ordinary peoples' eyes.
London was shaken by a series of vicious murders – "animal attacks" as the police had been instructed to say, but they weren't. His little brother's researches had brought a lot of bizarre hints and downright absurd evidence to light, but not even Mycroft could make any sense of the case. It was frustrating to no end – whoever or whatever it was that had killed these people hadn't even tried to erase their traces.
Sherlock had come to a conclusion – "if you have ruled out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth" – but it was absolutely ludicrous, and Mycroft was starting to think his little brother's definition of "impossible" was a little too wide-spread.
"A human tore out their throat, Mycroft – well, some kind of human. The bite marks don't look like a human set of teeth, but they resemble it more closely than anything else. It wasn't an animal, Mycroft, and it wasn't a machine. Whatever did it, it got carried away, the bites grew more vicious when the blood started flowing."
Dear Lord, his brother believed that some kind of vampire was going on a killing spree through the capital and he even had evidence – if it hadn't been so serious, it would have been quite the laughing matter.
Not that Mycroft cared about the people, about the goldfish – Mycroft was, above all, a highly ambitious chess player, and this was something of a pawn sacrifice to him. No, what he cared about was stability, economical and, most of all, political stability. And that was put in serious jeopardy now.
The press had named the murderer "Jack the Ripper", claimed he was some kind of re-incarnation of the infamous London killer, even though that made absolutely no sense. This one wasn't focused on prostitutes – he wasn't focused on anything at all. There were plenty of young women amongst the victims, a lawyer, a doctor, three or four college students; a middle-aged dentist, an eighteen year-old boy and his girlfriend who'd just returned from a club.
Mycroft sighed again and stared out of the window where he noticed a brand-new black cab stopping outside the Diogenes Club. The first thing he glimpsed of the man that got out were the black shoes – leather, polished, very expensive.
That glimpse was all he needed to know his visitor had arrived.
When he stepped through the door at the far end of the room, Mycroft had about twenty seconds time to take in his appearance before he had reached his desk – more time than he needed.
Again, the shoes – Italian, hand-made, approximately 500 £, perhaps more. They weren't old, not in the least, but the soles were curiously worn down, like they had been subdued to a friction they weren't designed to endure. Mycroft suppressed a frown; he'd never seen this phenomenon before. How odd.
The suit was just as high-class, just as new and just as expensive; classical cut, tailor-made, of a dark anthracite colour that was remarkably well-chosen.
White shirt, navy-blue tie, expensive watch of Swiss or German making. His dark hair was perfectly groomed, his face clean shaven and as expressionless as politeness allowed. Mycroft again fought the wish to frown; he could barely read anything from the man's expression and that was something he was definitely not used to.
Only one thing sat quite plainly in the other man's light brown eyes, something that he evidently wasn't even trying to hide – remorse, the kind of remorse a regent might feel if he'd let one of his tributaries do wrong.
And there was something else written somewhere in this man's face, again something Mycroft rarely got to see, except perhaps in his brother's eyes or once or twice, as unbelievable as it was, in the face of Doctor John Watson.
This man considered himself on eye level with Mycroft Holmes, understood exactly what was going on. And, in addition, he seemed to know what Mycroft was capable of, understood it so well that he was able to hide everything of relevance from him.
Mycroft straightened his own tie, wondering whether he should be nervous now he was apparently about to deal with a kindred spirit.
.
"Mr Holmes. My apologies, I meant to be on time." He had a voice that went perfectly with his appearance, gentle and pleasant; nothing but the faintest trace of a Northern American accent in his voice. Mycroft glanced at the clock on his desk – the man was less than a minute late.
Oh yes, Mycroft was starting to like him.
"Mr Mikaelson, thank you for coming." He got to his feet and motioned towards the tea tray. "A tea for you, or perhaps something stronger?"
Such behaviour would have brought a bemused frown to the faces of most Americans that Mycroft dealt with – they seemed to consider tea too trivial a matter, but Mycroft knew better. The reaction to the offer and the choice of drink could tell him a lot about a person.
"I'll have a tea, please," he replied without blinking, his voice smooth and calm.
Well, and that was the sort of reaction that got Mycroft nothing at all. He suppressed a smile; even the British Government liked a challenge now and then.
He poured the tea.
"Milk?"
"No, thank you." Elijah Mikaelson took the cup and leaned back in the visitor's chair – casually ignoring the fact that the chair was highly uncomfortable. Mycroft had specifically chosen it for that reason and it got a comment out of most people – save for John Watson, and the man he was currently talking to.
Mycroft sat down and took a sip of his tea. "I take it you understand how delicate the situation is, Mr Mikaelson. The equilibria of London's society is immensely fragile and when they don't feel safe here anymore, the higher classes will leave London or even the country and I would not like to consider the effect that might have on British economy."
The dark-haired man smiled pleasantly. "I would not be here if I didn't, Mr Holmes."
"Well… I believe you know something about the current, ah, predicament this city is finding itself in."
"I do, yes," he answered, a more serious look on his face.
Suddenly Mycroft realised something peculiar about the man in front of him. Judging by his looks, Elijah Mikaelson was in his thirties, however everything from the way he spoke over the expression in his eyes to his social skills suggested that he was far older – in fact an immense lot older.
"However, before I begin-" Elijah fixed him with an intense gaze. Mycroft wondered fleetingly whether his pupils had really dilated despite the unaltered lighting conditions. "I must ask you to remain seated there until we have finished and to never bring what I am about to tell you to anyone's attention, no matter who is asking for answers. You will remain calm and you will not argue on what I have to say. As much as I would like to discuss matters with someone remotely reasonable…" He shook his head and took a sip of his tea, finally breaking the eye contact.
Mycroft frowned. He disliked being given orders, though much unlike his brother, he still did what he was told, if it came from an authority. Whether this man was an authority, he had yet to determine, however he surely acted like he was.
"I believe you have a theory on what it is that is causing those people's demises, Mr Holmes?"
"There is a talk of an animal, though someone else told me he believed it was a human."
"Who?" Elijah inquired sharply, again fixing him with those brown eyes.
"I'd rather not say," Mycroft gave back smoothly. God knew he was used to shielding his brother…
The other man frowned at him. "You surprise me, Mr Holmes."
"Do I, now?" he asked with a chuckle and finished his tea. "Going by your reaction, you must believe it is indeed a human that did this."
The dark-haired man sighed. "Well, at least he used to be human. However, I am afraid he is a little less so with every day that passes."
"He?" Mycroft repeated, deciding not to voice the obvious question – if "he" was becoming less human, than what was "he" now?
"His name is Klaus," Elijah replied slowly.
"You know him?"
"Oh yes, I do indeed," he sighed.
"He needs to be stopped," Mycroft said softly.
"Well, I've been trying that for a very long time, and rest assured it's impossible. There is no way to stop him, not even for you and the Secret Service's finest. He is highly dangerous and even if you should somehow catch him, believe me, there is no prison that would hold him."
"There are other ways to put a stop to such criminals if need be."
Elijah Mikaelson smiled mildly. "Mr Holmes, you have not been paying attention. I just told you there was no way you could get a hold on this man and you tell me you want to kill him."
"I have no wish to kill anyone, Mr Mikaelson, but desperate times call for desperate measures."
"If you make the slightest attempt to threaten him, he will lash out at you. Klaus is a dreadfully vengeful person, he would kill everyone you ever cared about just to send a warning."
Mycroft lifted a brow. "Between you and me, I am not the kind of person that cares much about others. I am not that easily blackmailed."
"What about Sherlock Holmes?" the other asked calmly, looking right at him with those bizarrely old eyes.
Mycroft looked back just as directly, a little intrigued. This man was using his methods. Unspoken threats with information that he ought not to have in the first place.
"What do you suggest I did about him, then?" Mycroft asked, changing the topic not all that elegantly.
"Do nothing."
"As I just told you, the political situation is rather critical. I can't just do nothing."
"Let me deal with it. I have… experience when it comes to Klaus."
Again, Mycroft frowned. "So according to you, Mr Mikaelson, the entire British government can't do anything against him, but you can. On your own."
The other man smiled again. "Mr Holmes, I believe it is time we determined who exactly you are dealing with. Klaus is the most power-hungry person that I've ever known, and something of a psychopath. He knows very little of remorse or pity and, though I know the state of his victims does not necessarily suggest as much, he is an impeccable strategist, a military genius I daresay. He knows no mercy for those who stand in his way, and has a very cruel streak when it comes to dealing with his enemies."
"None of this explains why you should be more efficient than my best forces. More tea for you, sir?"
"One more cup, perhaps, thank you." Elijah Mikaelson took a snow white handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and placed it on the desk. "What would you say, Mr Holmes, if I told you that your little brother's suggestion was surprisingly accurate?"
Mycroft couldn't help to notice that the American stranger had made the connection to Sherlock alarmingly quickly.
"If I told you that vampires were real?"
"I would either laugh at you or call for the security."
Elijah laughed and reached for a pencil that lay next to the telephone. "I hope this has no sentimental value to you?" he asked with a faint smile.
Mycroft scoffed. "Of course not. I don't set my heart on fifty pence office supplies."
"This won't scare you," he said, fixing him firmly once more – the next moment he drove the pencil through his palm without so much as blinking. Blood splattered on the handkerchief, scarlet stains blossoming on the white linen.
Mycroft watched with a frown as the man opposite him pulled the pencil out, his face still expressionless, wiped it dry on the handkerchief and held out his palm to Mycroft.
He watched with slight confusion as the ragged edge of the wound started to close, like in a fast-forward film sequence. Within less than a minute, his hand looked perfectly alright again.
"Impressive. How is that supposed to prove the existence of vampires?"
"Well, I have more obvious proof, but I consider it rude to bare my teeth amongst respectable people."
"So you mean to tell me that you are a vampire?"
"More importantly, so is Klaus. He is a thousand times faster and stronger than you or any of your agents. He is old, immensely clever and he can go without sleep or food for over a week. And more than that, he cannot die. Not through bullets, not through poison and not through high voltage."
"Then what?" Mycroft scoffed. "A stake through the heart? Decapitation?"
"Normally yes, but those rules don't apply to Klaus; or to me, for that matter. We are the oldest vampires in the world. Even our own kind doesn't stand a chance."
"If he can't be killed, then what do you intend to do about him?"
"Oh, you can leave that to me, rest assured that I am far more efficient than I look."
Mycroft chuckled. "One more week, then the killings stop or I shall set my hounds on him."
The man opposite nodded, that pleasant smile back on his lips, and casually flicked the bloody pencil into the paper bin. "Take all the actions necessary, Mr Holmes," he went on, again looking him firmly in the eyes, "but do not speak to anyone about this. In your own interest, really – I doubt you would find anyone who believed you. But be warned – keep your brother in check, I cannot guarantee for his safety if he picks a fight with the wrong people."
Mycroft smiled coldly at the man opposite him, quite enjoying their little power-play. "Whatever you are trying to do with me, I believe it doesn't work. I will keep quiet as long as you keep your word. As to my brother, I have more than once tried to restrain him and failed everytime." He finished his cup.
"Just one more question, Mr Mikaelson – why do you care about all this? What is in it for you?"
He smiled again, and for the first time, Mycroft believed it. "I am an incorrigible fool in that regard, I'm afraid… in the end, I will love Klaus no matter what he does."
Mycroft raised a brow.
"Why, you and I are very much alike, Mr Holmes. Forever doomed to chase after our misbehaved little brothers. After a thousand years, believe me I am truly glad to find there are others like me."
Well, Mycroft couldn't really say he was surprised. They really were two of a kind.
"Family is all we have in the end," he replied smoothly, quoting an old friend of the family with a sardonic little smile.
"It is indeed," Mikaelson gave back with a chuckle. "Mr Holmes, it's been a pleasure."
Mycroft inclined his head and opened his mouth to reply, but when he looked up, the chair facing him was empty.
He shook his head, smiling to himself. "Vampires."
"I think this is the beginning of a wonderful friendship." - from Casablanca
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