Exfiltration operation (n.) - a clandestine rescue operation designed to get a defector, refugee, or operative and his or her family out of harm's way.
Sherlock opened the file and scanned it quickly, sharp green-gray eyes narrowed in concentration. Barely a minute later, he flipped it shut again, looking up at the taller man across the desk from him.
"What obstacles?" he asked.
Mycroft raised a sardonic eyebrow. "Besides the fact that they've already captured a key asset of ours who's been working with the CIA? They have extensive resources, spies in some of the highest positions in our government, and are likely aware that someone will be coming after them."
"Which is why you should have called me first," Sherlock smirked, leaning back in his chair. "You've wasted valuable time and resources these past 12 hours, when I could have been searching for this man."
Mycroft let out a long-suffering sigh. "William, need I remind you this is serious, not a source of amusement for you. A man's life may be at stake. We need our best on this, and your cooperation would be delightful. Furthermore we did not have solid leads until an hour ago, when I brought you in."
"So what do you want me to do?" Sherlock asked, raising his hands to his lips in a thoughtful pose, ignoring the reminder of Mycroft's men tugging him reluctantly from his Division-paid-for flat and into a dark car, and even more pointedly ignoring the use of his false name. "Finding the asset is a matter of little effort. Surely you could have done it from this very desk. So that must mean there's something more, something you as a member of the Division cannot do in any official capacity." He smiled, a glint in his eyes. "You need me to do something illegal, or dangerous. Or perhaps both." When Mycroft made no verbal reply, but grimaced, Sherlock's smile became positively mischievous. "Both. Delicious."
"William..." Mycroft sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose.
Sherlock, however, had already leaped to his feet and was pacing the long, dimly-lit room. "So, what is it then? You need me to infiltrate somewhere, possibly wherever the asset is being held. But since it's illegal, clearly it is somewhere The Division has no jurisdiction, and somewhere the CIA is unwilling to access themselves." His eyes flickered down to the closed file on the desk. "Your group that's taken the asset is of Irish origin according to the file, could that be it?" He watched Mycroft's face, then smirked in triumph. "Ah ha. They must be yet another new offshoot of the IRA, or something similar. Tedious. So the asset's what, been taken somewhere temporarily until he can be moved out of the country and then interrogated with less fear of retribution from your lot? Yet you're clearly certain he hasn't been removed from the country, so why hesitate to move in? You've already intimated to me with that insistent phone call that you know where the asset is being held. So why do you need me to do something illegal? Unless..." he trailed off, eyes widening in delightful realization. "Your asset is in the Embassy of Ireland, isn't he? Locked up somewhere inside where your man can't reach him, after hours so there will be few to no visitors, safe until this Irish group can move them to their home country."
Mycroft made to protest when he sensed what Sherlock was about to say, but the younger brother plowed on. "You want me to break into the Irish Embassy and remove the asset from the grips of this group. Brother mine, you've outdone yourself this time! And it isn't even near Christmastime!"
"William," Mycroft snapped, standing and pressing his fists into the fine wood of the desk. "Stop treating this as recreation! A man's life is at stake, as are the secrets of two organizations and two separate governments!"
Sherlock chuckled, already striding to the coat rack at the end of the room and twirling as he swept his coat onto his shoulders. "Please, this is child's play. I'll have your man out before sunrise."
"He isn't just our man. I've told you, he is primarily CIA."
Sherlock scoffed. "Mycroft, don't try to fool me into believing you don't run both by now. I'm not just another of England's many sheep, following the leader, no matter how much you attempt to mold me into that role. Just give me whatever information you have about the embassy, and I'll be off."
"Wait, brother," Mycroft's hand wrapped around Sherlock's arm, his glare fierce. "I wasn't finished. We've also received intelligence that there may be some sort of incendiary device in the embassy to discourage any of the CIA or The Division entering in a rescue attempt of the sort you are so eager to put into action. No, don't give me that look. Had you stopped talking for a single moment, I would have told you this already."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You think I cannot diffuse an explosive? How long have I been consulting for you? You know perfectly well that if I find myself out of my league, your annoying voice will talk me through it."
"That is not the point, William," Mycroft hissed. "There are two objectives. Primarily you must scope out the building, then locate and safely remove the asset from harm's way and return him to the CIA's London headquarters before you are detected within the embassy. Secondly, whatever device you find must be diffused so as not to bring harm to any innocents who may be present on site. You can hardly do both; I estimate that upon entering you will only have a few minutes, if that long, before you are detected. There is only enough time for you to complete one of your objectives, if you are alone."
"What are you suggesting?" Sherlock frowned, smugness wavering for the first time since he had entered the room ten minutes ago. "Not a partner, surely?"
"Someone needs to diffuse the device while you remove the asset safely."
Sherlock's lips parted as he stared, incredulous. "A partner."
"A companion," Mycroft corrected. "You need never see him again after this is over. He will accompany you into the embassy and deal with the device while you secure a safe escape route for the asset and yourself."
"And what about this... companion?" Sherlock growled, scowling.
"He will have to make his own way out. According to my estimation, one or both of you will be discovered, but he is far more capable of fighting than you are."
Sherlock cocked his head, a glare darkening his features, the shadows making his expression even more intimidating. "Why do you say that? I am perfectly capable of handling myself in a fight. Or have you so easily forgotten what madness you subjected me to in Milan?"
"Of course not," Mycroft snapped, impatience beginning to color his features. "But your companion has extensive military and specialized operations training. He can make his own path out should he need to. But I will guide your escape route."
"I'm not a child, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped back.
"No, though your tone of voice begs to differ. Now can we dispense with your wounded pride for a moment and get going? If you do wish to fulfill your promise before sunrise and before the asset is moved, you need to depart with your companion at once."
Sherlock huffed, still put out he was allowing himself to be shepherded by his older brother and treated as if he didn't know what he was doing. He followed Mycroft out of the room and down the long, even less-well-lit hallway. Couldn't The Division invest in better mood lighting...?
They entered another room, this one with a large window that exposed the Thames below and the moon above. It was as minimally-furnished as Mycroft's office, but already occupied. Sherlock peered around his brother and saw the man stand up and face them.
"Mr. Scott," he nodded to Mycroft and accepted his handshake. "Are we ready to go?"
"Yes," Mycroft said, stepping to the side. "This is my brother, William Scott. He will be accompanying you, as you have no doubt been informed."
Sherlock shook the man's hand, eyes flicking all over. He was dressed in some sort of combat gear, all of it black. His shirtsleeves were cut short so his muscular arms were exposed. He was short but compact, probably barely thirty, but those bare details didn't begin to cover his appearance. Even in the low light, Sherlock could tell he was strong and agile, his grip on Sherlock's hand firm and confident. He had light hair, though perhaps already graying somewhat at the temples, and blue (green? Too dark to tell.) eyes that held Sherlock's without a flinch. This was unusual; Sherlock was used to people grimacing whenever they saw him. The way this man held himself was different as well. Military-straight, with his chin raised, as if he were attempting to appear taller than he was. It was an unnecessary measure, however, for Sherlock had rarely - if ever - encountered someone with a dominating presence like that of this man.
Sherlock found himself caught off guard and blinking. Whatever he had been expecting his companion to be, it was nothing like the unassuming, self-assured, quietly dangerous man before him. He looked harmless at first glance, his soft face incongruous with the military garb. But underneath he belied seriousness not immediately apparent. He seemed full of contradictions, though Sherlock could not quite pin down why.
"Captain John Sacker," the man introduced quietly, dropping Sherlock's hand. "Shall we?"
Sherlock nodded, pulling his focus back to the mission at hand. Assuming they both survived this, he could turn his attention back to this puzzle of a man.
They headed out the door, Sherlock and Mycroft exchanging a tense glance. "Good luck, brother mine," Mycroft murmured.
In the back seat of one of the Division's cars, Captain John Sacker flicked through the file on the asset, forehead furrowed and the tip of his tongue just peeking from between his lips. Next to him, Sherlock, fingers drumming on his knee as he glanced through the blueprint for the embassy, couldn't help but glance up every few seconds at his companion.
Catching the Captain's eye at one point, Sherlock promptly looked back at the plans and tried to force himself to concentrate. The place would be easy enough to infiltrate, at least from the roof, though it was a tight fit. They would have to sneak through the ventilation system if they wanted to remain undetected for as long as possible. However, once they snuck out into a corridor, they would have to be especially careful. According to the intelligence Mycroft had provided - of which Sherlock did not want to know the origin - the asset was likely being kept on the fifth floor, which was comprised of largely-unused meeting rooms for diplomats during the day. At night, it was likely devoid of both visitors and employees. From there, Mycroft would have to guide Sherlock and the asset out.
Sherlock glanced up at Captain Sacker. Again. Despite his surprisingly small stature for a military man, the way he moved showed to Sherlock his agility. He felt it safe to assume that the man could handle himself in a situation like this, and possibly had many times before.
It only made him even more fascinating.
"What?"
Sherlock, to his humiliation, gave a start. "What?" he said.
Captain Sacker's lip quirked up slightly. "You've been staring."
Sherlock blinked. He hadn't meant to be that obvious. "Just... Afghanistan or Iraq?"
Now it seemed it was Sacker's turn to be startled. "What? How did you-?"
"I didn't know; I noticed." Sherlock smiled in spite of himself. "My brother said you were ex-military, which would have been clear from the way you're holding yourself anyway. But I also saw as we were passing a streetlight on the way to the car that tan on your wrists and neck. Nothing past that, so you've not been sunbathing. Military, suntan: Afghanistan or Iraq. Obvious."
Sacker gaped at him, and Sherlock waited for the inevitable response. It wasn't as if he needed this relationship to last for longer than a night, anyway. Might as well burn his bridges now, he added to himself bitterly.
"That was extraordinary."
Sherlock stiffened. "You think so?"
Sacker was staring at him wonderingly, as if he had never seen anything quite so remarkable. In spite of himself, Sherlock felt his cheeks warming.
"Yes, that was incredible," Sacker was grinning now. "Blimey, I'd heard you were smart, but that was... Amazing."
Sherlock bit his lip. "Which is it anyway?"
"Oh, right, sorry," his companion gave a self-deprecating laugh. "Afghanistan. I got back a few months ago, then got recruited by the Division a few weeks ago."
Sherlock nodded. It made sense; someone with the experience and training that Sacker had was likely to have turned heads in MI6, and probably the CIA as well. But it was always the Division that was the quickest to move in and snap up new assets. And Sacker was a logical choice for this sort of mission. And yet, Sherlock still felt that he was missing something about the man. He was more than just a hardened veteran, he was... something else as well. But what? And why couldn't he deduce it?
It was a puzzle, Sacker was a puzzle he couldn't yet solve. It was too bad they were on their way to a dangerous mission that might get one or both of them killed if they were not fully focused. Otherwise Sherlock might be quite content to remain here and try to riddle Captain Sacker out.
"So," the man said, shutting the folder and leaning back in the seat. "How did you end up here, working for them?"
Sherlock blinked. "What?"
Sacker smiled. "I just prefer to know a bit about the people I'm working with, especially since we're about to break into an embassy together to save someone from being interrogated and possibly killed. It's just a bit intimate."
"Oh," Sherlock shifted in his seat. "Well, I've been in their service for ten years now."
"What? You can't be more than, what, twenty-four?"
"Twenty-five, actually," he admitted. "I've consulted for them since I was fifteen. When I was of age I was officially signed into their ranks and have been investigating, running operations, and doing experiments at their behest ever since."
"Did your brother get you in?"
Sherlock nodded. "He made some sort of deal, though he's always been shtum about the details."
"Do you enjoy it, this work?" Sacker sounded genuinely interested, as if he cared about the work Sherlock did. It was oddly refreshing. Sherlock just wished the work were a bit more his style so that he could talk about it with more passion.
Instead, he sighed. "As much as I can, I suppose. I've never really had the chance to do anything else. I would have gone to university, gotten a degree, maybe gone into something similar, but..." But operatives from the Division had been waiting at his secondary school graduation ceremony, ready with consent forms and non-disclosure agreements brandished nearly the moment Sherlock was off that stage. "Things didn't work out that way."
The Captain gazed at him thoughtfully, his face lit up now and then by the golden streetlights the car passed. It was as if he sensed that there were things Sherlock wasn't saying, that there was more to the story.
And oh, there was so much more.
Sherlock, in as few words as he could manage, explained how he had spent nearly eleven years of his life under the British government's wing, thanks to Mycroft's influence and the organization's interest in Sherlock's intelligence. Never truly allowed to do what he wished, though Mycroft's minions had made an effort to at least appear they were giving him a choice, he had felt trapped for so long. Yes, he had been provided with a flat in London, a handsome salary, and access to the best morgues and labs in the city, but he had no chances to move about as he wished. He could only leave town if the Division allowed it, and was not permitted to investigate things on his own. He couldn't even research without a permit, always commissioned by the Division's various departments to experiment in strange underground bases on certain samples, the origins of which he never learned. He was locked in a life he hadn't wanted, one he had been given into when he was young and naive and idealistic, one Mycroft had convinced him was the right path. Now however, all he wanted was a choice.
"Well, can't you retire? Go do something else?"
Oh, Captain. If only it were that simple. He chuckled ironically. "Sadly the clauses in my agreement with them make that nearly impossible. If there were a hoop to jump through, I would have done so by now."
He cleared his throat, turning and gazing out the window. Judging by the change in architecture, they were nearly there. "I suppose that's more than you wanted to know." He shifted, self-conscious.
"No, it's... I'm glad you told me," Sacker sounded earnest, and when Sherlock looked over at him, his eyes held nothing but sympathy. "Sometimes things that sound glorious and noble aren't all they're built up to be, are they?"
Sherlock could only nod.
They didn't speak much as the car stopped, climbed out, and headed up to a fourth floor office across the street, where they had a clear view of the entirety of the embassy's street-side windows.
Setting up surveillance equipment and computers felt bizarrely familiar with Sacker, Sherlock observed, as if they had done so a dozen times before on a dozen different stake-outs and would do so again a dozen more times. He could only assume it was because of their discussion in the car, which had indeed been more personal than Sherlock was used to in this line of work. Normally these people were all business; they didn't care about whether or not Sherlock really wanted to be here or believed in what he was doing. Sacker, on the other hand, had been interested enough to ask and even to listen.
And he'd called Sherlock's deductions extraordinary.
"You know, Scott," Sacker said after a few minutes of getting settled within the shadows. "I think you should try again. See if you can get out of the Division and go back to school. I'm sure you'd be brilliant at whatever field you chose."
"I... Thank you," Sherlock murmured, startled at the abrupt praise and encouragement. "I don't know, though..."
"Oh, go on. You've got your brother, surely he can do something?"
"Perhaps," Sherlock said, glancing down at the laptop, which was scanning for thermal signatures through the embassy's outermost walls.
"What's wrong?" the Captain asked, a smirk in his voice. "Afraid to go to your big brother for help?"
Before Sherlock could come up with a retort, however, a flicker of movement across the way made him pause and readjust his attention to the embassy windows. "Sacker," he breathed. "There."
Sacker bent down next to him, peering through his own binoculars. "Aha."
There was definitely movement across the street, on the fifth floor of the assembly. "Hang on," Sacker said, pivoting and clicking a few buttons on his computer screen, adjusting the filters from the linked camera so that the thermal scan appeared large on the screen. "At least five bodies on that level. Looks like a couple more on each floor patrolling. Oh. And there's someone on floor five, sitting. Looks like someone's got a weapon on them, judging from the stance. That must be our guy." He frowned slightly, biting his lower lip. "They must have gotten spooked by something in the inner rooms. Must be some employee who doesn't know they're there."
Sherlock crawled over and peered over Sacker's shoulder, ignoring the man's surprised huff at the sudden invasion of his space. "I daresay you're right. At least that's an advantage to us."
"How so?"
"If they've moved themselves specifically to avoid detection of those in the building, then that means they are working to keep this a stealth operation for now." Sherlock explained, eyes now on the cars parked below, with tags that he had on his list of embassy employees. "They haven't taken the employees hostage, so clearly they're only trying to move the asset out of the country quietly. They're probably forging documents for him to get him to Ireland with them. But they don't want to hurt the employees unless they have to. That tells me the device Mycroft learned of may only be of an in-case-things-are-cocked-up capacity, rather than a necessity. Their main priority is to get the asset out of the country at the first opportunity, and they need the embassy's access to records and papers to do so."
"Brilliant," Sacker breathed.
Sherlock pressed his lips together in an effort to hide his smile. He doubted he was very successful. "Thank you."
"So what do you think we should do? He's being held on the sixth floor, we can't just waltz in the front door."
"Oh, we won't be using the doors to enter at all, Captain." Sherlock reached into a black duffel bag at his feet, a bit of giddy excitement leaking onto his visage against his will. He rather delighted in these sorts of things. "We use these," he bent down, opened the bag, and pulled out long winding cords and hooks.
"Rappelling gear?" Sacker smirked. "And you just happened to have that on you?"
"No, of course not," Sherlock chuckled. "Mycroft provided it. Seems he had an inkling of what my plan was before I did. He's irritating that way."
He explained about the ventilation access point on the roof, about sneaking down the corridors to find the asset, and then about Mycroft guiding Sherlock's exit. "As for your own escape, that you'll have to find on your own," Sherlock finished. "I know it's not ideal for you, but my brother seems to have faith in your abilities. Once you get out, he should send men to find you. It's standard operating procedure for him. It's up to you to get yourself out of the firing zone, but once you do he will have your back."
Sacker's smirk turned into something like a genuine smile. "Good to know someone's got our backs we can trust. What about weapons? I know your objective is slightly less dangerous, but I still think you'll need-"
"Oh, now those I brought with me." Sherlock plunged his hand into the depths of the bag again, this time extracting a black semi-automatic and a pistol. "My brother doesn't approve of my having weapons. Something about laws and such, but I wasn't really listening. I daresay these will serve our purposes for tonight. Do you have a gun?"
Sacker looked a bit sheepish now, and he reached behind him to extract a handgun from his waistband. "Souvenir from Afghanistan," he admitted. "Don't mention it to your brother. I feel like he would likely disappear me if he knew."
"Don't worry about that. If we get the asset out, he'll overlook almost anything. I've rarely seen him so anxious."
Sacker glanced at him, rather shrewd. "You seem pretty close to him."
"What? Heavens no," Sherlock grimaced. "Not by choice at least. He's a bloody pain in the arse."
"Sure," Sacker chuckled.
Instead of replying with another retort, however, Sherlock stood, ensuring his weapons were loaded with the safety clicked on both, then watched Sacker do the same.
"Ready then, Scott?" he asked, rolling his shoulders.
"Sherlock, please," Sherlock said before he could think better of it. He hated the name William Scott. Moments later, as a confused smile creased Sacker's face, he cursed himself. This was a dangerous situation, where they were dreadfully outnumbered, and here Sherlock was, letting himself get attached, opening himself up like some moronic fool.
"I thought your first name was William?"
"It is," Sherlock frowned. "Long story."
"In that case, stuff it with the Captain tripe and just call me John," Sacker replied, shrugging. "Come on, Sherlock."
They seized a few other essentials, items Sherlock had either smuggled in or had received from MI6 - a pair of tear gas grenades, extra ammunition, and night vision goggles in case their foes decided to cut the power. Both men slipped into bulletproof vests as well, a further precaution Mycroft had insisted upon on since Sherlock's first mission years ago and one which he enforced with manic, religious stubbornness.
"Ready?" Sacker asked, a glint in his eyes.
Sherlock nodded and couldn't help but feel a thrill shudder through him as Sacker grinned back. It was a feeling he didn't think he'd ever felt before.
Minutes later, Sherlock almost wanted to laugh as he launched himself across the next small gap between two buildings, finally nearing the embassy roof. The air was cool as it rushed past him, ruffling his curls and tossing his coat out behind him. He heard John's breathless laughter behind him, and he grinned. They'd taken the scenic route, as John had called it when they'd stolen up an old fire escape at the end of the block and proceeded to make their way across the tops of the buildings, sometimes scrambling up or down a ladder to the next one, other times simply leaping across the gap, the ground far below them. Sherlock couldn't remember having such fun at this job... well, ever.
He skidded to a stop as his feet landed on the hard roof of the embassy, hopping a couple steps to regain his balance. John staggered next to him, catching himself before he fell. He looked up at Sherlock, eyes bright in the moonlight.
"That was completely ridiculous," he giggled. "We couldn't have started a few buildings nearer?"
Sherlock chuckled, unsure if he was more amused by John's words or his surprisingly high-pitched giggle. For a military man, he possessed rather endearing habits. "Of course we could have. I just always take advantage of any chance to nudge my brother a bit closer to a heart attack. He's watching us on surveillance right now. Always likes to observe and meddle."
John shook his head, still smiling. He bent down and unzipped the bag he'd carried slung over his shoulder. Sherlock mirrored him and they both pulled out their gear and made their way to the ventilation hatch. Sherlock, somewhat unceremoniously, bypassed the screws entirely in favor of taking a crowbar to the thing and prying it upward. No one would notice for days, or longer. He looked up, biting his lip, to find John beaming at him.
"Ready?" Sherlock asked, fingers unerringly disentangling the ropes.
John smiled, but his stance straightened. Soldier mode. "Oh, God yes."
In the tunnels, it was slower going than Sherlock had originally wanted, but it couldn't be helped. The vents were narrow, so it was a tight fit for both of them.
"Sherlock, where are you?" Mycroft's voice, all the more annoying for the tinny quality the earpiece lent it, sounded in Sherlock's ear for the fifth time in as many minutes.
He sighed, then replied in a low voice. "Still in the vents, now would you shut up? Or better, tell me what you've decided would be my best egress once I find the asset."
"I'm working on it. I can only give you an estimate until you provide with me more information about the locations of the men inside, including the asset."
"Well, give me a moment to actually get my head into a place I can see," he hissed.
John chuckled above him, and Sherlock glanced up, unable to resist grinning back. They continued to climb in silence, though Sherlock was intensely conscious of John above him. The Captain was seemingly perfectly at ease with the situation, despite the fact that he was in the company of an impulsive MI6 consultant in a narrow air shaft, breaking into an embassy in the dead of night to save a man neither of them knew from more men they didn't know who would likely not hesitate to kill them. John's calm expression, barely visible in the dim light cast by Sherlock's miniature torch, was fascinating. He looked to be in his element.
Sherlock rather hated knowing that he would be forced to abandon the man in barely ten minutes.
They finally slowed, John dropping so that his knee was near Sherlock's shoulder, when they reached a hatch marked with a bold 6. Obviously a note from the installers, or for maintenance workers. Sherlock wasn't too bothered with figuring out who had put this here; it was useful to them and that was all that mattered. He reached into his pocket and extracted a small tool that looked rather like a Swiss army knife, though with more buttons and lights.
"What's that?" John breathed, the tightness in his voice betraying his switch to action mode, to warrior settings. Had Sherlock allowed himself, he would have lost his focus in analyzing the subtleties in John's vocal timbre. Now, however, he concentrated on selecting the correct tool while keeping a grip on his torch.
"It's an omni-tool. Mycroft's men are developing it, and this is the prototype. When the design is finished, it will be the most efficient lock-picking tool, invisible to body scans and metal detectors, and also equipped with a taser, laser, and knife. Right now, it only has the lock-pick and knife, but it will serve our purposes for now." He dug the blade of the knife into the minuscule gap between the wall and the hatch and slowly pried it away. "From my studies of the layout of the building, we will be coming out of this into a corridor. The asset is in a room several doors down. Have your gun ready."
"Right. So, why do you have the prototype of that thing?" John's smirk was audible.
"Shut up," Sherlock replied, smiling.
"What was that about the omni-tool?" Mycroft cut in.
"None of your business, brother," Sherlock said as he pocketed the tool and torch. "Now quiet unless John and I are about to be gunned down."
He glanced up at John as the hatch came free. John nodded. Wordlessly, Sherlock pulled the hatch to the side and then slipped it through the gap into the hallway. It slid down the wall and landed with a soft thud. Without looking to see if anyone had been alerted by the quiet noise, Sherlock slid out into the larger space, gun at the ready.
The corridor was deserted. As John joined him, Sherlock cocked his head, listening. There was a murmur of voices ahead, so they walked forward with caution. In the third door on the left, the voices drifted through the crack. One Irish, one English accent. The latter sounded as if it were muffled behind a gag. Sherlock caught John's gaze. They exchanged a nod. There was no need to explain; both inherently understood what the other was planning. And they knew that from now on, they were pursuing two separate objectives.
Sherlock slipped through the door, barely moving it to do so. He immediately surveyed the room, taking in the layout and ducking behind a desk before anyone noticed his entrance. John, on the other hand, didn't bother with tactics like that, beyond a quick glance around the room. He barreled headlong into the Irishman, who was standing over the Englishman, gagged and tied to a chair. The Irishman cried out in shock, but before he could make much more than a gasp, John had knocked him unconscious. It took less than a second, during which Sherlock regrettably blinked.
John straightened, as if he had not just thrown a man at least a foot taller and four stone heavier than him on his arse, and brushed off his dark jacket. He winked at Sherlock, who rose and crossed toward the asset.
"Wait!" the asset's voice, though muffled, still conveyed his meaning clearly. Sherlock froze, and John was instantly at his side, a protective arm in front of him.
"You're pretty impulsive, aren't you?" John asked, with an almost fond eye roll. He bent down, evidently following the asset's gaze, and reached up a hand. "Hand me that omni-tool, will you?"
Sherlock did so, body half turned so he could watch the door, his other hand keeping his gun trained toward the thin stream of light from the corridor. If anyone emerged in that beam of fluorescent, he wouldn't hesitate to defend himself and John. Somewhere below him, he heard the soft snick of a knife cutting through something thin and wiry, and he realized that there had been a booby trap in place, to prevent impulsive MI6 operatives like himself from getting to the asset. As the wire was cut, Sherlock distinctly heard a click on the other side of the room, behind a closet door. A gun had been cocked, rigged to go off and rip through whoever was foolish enough to alter the wire's tension.
"Any others like that?" John asked the asset quietly. Sherlock watched peripherally as the man shook his head and John approached cautiously. Sherlock edged over as well, nudging John gently. They switched roles immediately, John raising his gun toward the door and Sherlock crouching next to the asset with the omni-tool in hand.
First, he freed the man's mouth. "I know you," the man breathed. "You're Mycroft's brother."
"William!" Mycroft's irritating voice burst against his eardrum again. "Ask for his code."
Sherlock tilted his head. "Code." He looked like the man in the file, graying brown hair and square jaw, clearly born in Somerset, approximately 40 years old. However, considering how concerned Mycroft had been about this mission, he wouldn't put it past their adversaries to pull some sort of trick.
"Goldfish," the asset murmured, looking straight into Sherlock's eyes unwaveringly.
"That's correct," Mycroft whispered in Sherlock's earpiece. "Now get him out of there. Tell Captain Sacker to find the bomb and to get to work."
"No need, Mycroft," Sherlock sighed, eyes dropping to the chair in which the asset was strapped. "It's on this chair."
John inhaled sharply, and he looked down. Sherlock locked onto his gaze, and a tacit understanding passed through them. This was a much more time-sensitive operation than they had been informed. Mycroft's intelligence had said that the bomb was somewhere in the building, apparently separate from the asset. Once they had located the asset, all Sherlock had to do was get him out, while John diffused the bomb in the second location. Nothing his brother had intimated had provided them a plan if they encountered both objectives, literally tied together.
"Okay," John breathed, dropping to his knees next to Sherlock. "I'll diffuse it and we'll get him out together. You can't exactly take him along ahead of me when he's attached to this."
"Can you diffuse it in time?" Sherlock asked, catching sight of a small counter, showing they had just under ten minutes before the explosion. Of course. Why did they always feel the need to make it a countdown? Would it not be more effective to have the thing rigged like that booby trap earlier, so that the entire thing exploded when a single wire was moved too much? Having a countdown only allowed anyone who found the bomb time to diffuse it...
"I think so," John bit his lip. "I work best under pressure, anyway."
"Yes, I'm beginning to see that."
"Scott?" The asset whispered. "Is your brother on the line with you?"
"Yes." He reached out and handed the man his phone, which was keeping the connection open.
"Mycroft," the asset murmured, smiling.
"Gregory, are you alright?" Sherlock was surprised to hear such palpable relief in his brother's voice, still running through his ear.
"Well, aside from having been beaten and interrogated for the past twelve hours, and having a bomb strapped to me, I'm fabulous."
John tapped Sherlock's arm, and Sherlock bent down and obligingly held the torch John pressed to his palm. In his ear, Mycroft was still delivering reassurances to the asset, Gregory. Sherlock watched as John unerringly threaded his fingers through the tangle of wires, eyes narrowed in concentration.
"Damn!" he hissed, jumping back. The countdown was moving at double time, beeping shrilly. "They put in a trick wire." He grabbed Sherlock's arm. "We've got to get out of here."
"Are you mad?" Sherlock gaped at him, as Gregory and Mycroft fell blessedly silent. "I'm not leaving without completing this mission!"
John began to argue, but then voices, yelling and angry and alerted at last, rushed toward them.
Sherlock tensed and caught Gregory's concerned gaze. He glanced up automatically when he heard John's voice. "Sherlock, get him out of here! I'll buy you time!"
"No!" Sherlock yelled back, breath catching in his chest. "I'm not leaving you! That's not the plan now!"
"Go!" he yelled back, blue eyes blazing with determination and danger. "Just go! I'll be fine!"
Sherlock held his gaze for a moment, saw the resolve in the Captain's expression, and felt his own shoulders slump. There was clearly no arguing with John Sacker on the battlefield.
"I'll come back for you," Sherlock said as John turned away from him again.
"Don't bother, just get out. Get to safety. It was great to meet you."
Unable to find a reply to that, Sherlock growled, seized the back of Gregory's chair and dragged him promptly toward a small door on the south side of the room he had noticed upon entry, one that appeared to lead to a back way out. Obviously it was used by diplomats who wanted to remove certain visitors discretely from the premises, as it was painted to match the wall and had a potted plant unsubtly situated in front of the doorknob. It wasn't even on the blueprints, Sherlock realized, so it just might get them out to the street if they were lucky.
"What are you-?" Gregory demanded as a half-dozen men burst into the room, and gunfire drowned out the rest of his sentence.
"Would you rather be shot now, or blown up in five minutes? I'm getting out of the most immediate danger!"
This was the worst investigated mission Sherlock had ever been on. He had received bad intelligence from his brother of all people, poor planning because of the infinitesimal time frame they'd been given, and had no backup that Sherlock knew of. He would certainly be having words with his dear brother if he got out of this. And maybe even if he didn't. He'd bloody come back from the dead to torment Mycroft if that was what it took. Haunting him for eternity sounded pleasant...
In the small passage, clearly shoved in as an afterthought long after the building's original construction, Sherlock slammed the door and continued dragging his bomb-laden burden down the space and away from the gunfire. Gregory was attempting to help by using his feet, but the narrow gap made rapid maneuvering difficult. Sherlock, meanwhile, was also straining his ears for John's voice through the door they'd left through, hoping the Captain could escape this.
Sherlock managed to drag Greg to a notch in the passage, which would provide them with momentary cover should their assailants manage to get past John and follow them. He dropped down, scrambling at the bomb's mechanisms, but completely drawing a blank. He had received bomb disposal training, but he was by no means an expert and it had been half a decade since he himself had had to use his knowledge. And now was hardly the time to go to his mind palace to retrieve the necessary information. They had barely three minutes left.
"Mycroft," he said, gritting his teeth. "You got me into this bloody mess, now tell me how to get the asset free and get out of here."
"William, I don't even know where you are. Your signal says you're in a wall." Mycroft's voice was strained.
"Mycroft, I don't care right now! I know where I am, now tell me how to stop this bomb exploding!" As he spoke he continued his scan of the wires and brick of putty, as well as freeing Greg's wrists from their zip-ties with the omni-tool knife.
"What wire did Sacker cut?"
Sherlock leaned closer, breath coming in stutters as he heard more gunshots and shouts. Whatever was happening out in the room, John was almost certainly under extreme duress.
"A black one?"
"What does it lead to, for God's sake?"
"I don't know!" Sherlock growled. "This is why you always sent me in with someone more practiced in bomb disposal!"
"Yes, as it's the only thing you're utter rubbish at!"
"Boys," Greg snapped. "Not now. We've only got a few seconds until that thing hits zero and I hit the walls in bits."
Sherlock looked up at him. "Hits zero..." His eyes widened, sparking with energy. "That's it!" He grinned.
"What's it?" Greg asked, at the same moment Mycroft said "What are you doing?"
But Sherlock was busy turning the chair around so he could get better access to the counter. It read one minute, forty-five seconds. "I just have to reset the clock! If I trick it into thinking the bomb has gone off..."
"Will that even work?"
"It will if I change it to negative one second. One second after the explosion. It should automatically turn off."
"Do you know what you're talking about?" Greg said.
"No, but I have to try something. You might die either way, sorry."
"William." Mycroft's voice was reproachful, but Sherlock ignored him, flicking the omni-tool to the lock-picks. A few twists of certain dials on the counter, and...
Click.
Beep.
The counter, as he flipped it around, had frozen, flashing at zero. Gingerly, ignoring Greg's halting gasps and Mycroft's half-aborted curses, he removed the wires that connected the rest of the bomb to the brick.
"Ha," Sherlock murmured smugly as Greg ripped off the wires and staggered from the chair. "Now, let's go."
"Give him a moment," Mycroft snapped, but the gunfire, which had faded from Sherlock's focus, roared back to the forefront of his attention with a fierce vengeance.
"No time," he grabbed Greg's arm and tugged him down the passage, pressing his gun into the other's hands. "If I'm right, we can get out this way. Reaching into his pocket, he removed the second, smaller pistol and squeezed it reassuringly. One objective complete.
Not that it reassured him.
Especially once the door at the end of the passage, through which they had fled, flew open and pounding footsteps pursued them. Sherlock and Greg glanced at each other then broke into a run. The passage was the length of the entire building, and Greg was still unsteady on his feet from the beatings and shock. Gripping the man's arm and hearing the footsteps gaining on them, it was an unspeakable relief when Sherlock saw daylight: a staircase, old and narrow, winding downwards and out of sight. Just as he had suspected.
"Go," Sherlock shoved Greg ahead of him, firing backwards at their foe, who shot back without hesitation. The bullets whizzed past them both narrowly and lodged themselves in a wall. Too close.
Greg and Sherlock thundered down the old stairs, until they reached a door. Sherlock didn't hesitate, throwing his weight onto it. An alarm sounded distantly as he and Greg staggered out.
Almost instantly, a pair of black cars squealed up to them, other operatives emerging and escorting a shaken and pale Greg away. Sherlock, however, ignored them, staring up at the building. There were still gunshots on the fifth floor, or were those faint flashes of light simply his imagination? Someone had gotten past John in pursuit, that was clear, but what did that mean for the Captain-turned-reluctant-government-operative? Sherlock chewed on his lip, waiting. He barely noticed when two of Mycroft's operatives dragged the man who'd chased them out of the building to the ground and handcuffed him, quickly tugging him away as well.
John.
Where was John?
"Dammit," he muttered, striding over to the nearest operative and seizing his weapon. "I'll return this," he said shortly in reply to the man's protestations. It never hurt to have two weapons.
"William?" Mycroft's voice sounded louder than ever in his ear, and Sherlock winced. "What do you think you're doing?"
"I'm getting John. The so-called backup you sent isn't even bothering to enter the building!"
"William, I've told you, we can't officially enter the premises. That was the entire reason we sent you in. You aren't officially affiliated with MI6 or with the CIA. Those men are only there to extract you and Gregory. The mess you left behind can be cleaned up later, once MI6 is undoubtedly called in the morning to investigate."
"So you're here to help me, your troublesome brother. But not John, who's done nothing wrong," he snapped, reaching the door he was seeking and yanking it open. "You don't care what happens to him. You only hired him for temporary grunt work, an expendable and interchangeable tool."
He ripped out the earpiece and threw it as hard as he could, then threw himself back into the building. He found himself in a small room, with nothing but a few random janitorial supplies and a small door, which led to what appeared to be a service elevator.
He punched a finger harshly into the elevator button, gratified when the doors opened immediately. Jumping into the small space, he practically vibrated in anxiety as the lift took him up to the fifth floor again, fingers twitching around his gun.
Please be alright, please, please.
Please, John.
The doors opened, and Sherlock edged out, gun held in front of him. The corridor that led to the room where he'd abandoned John was on the other end of the building, so he set off, ears straining to pick up anything that hinted at a struggle, or a living being somewhere.
Moments later, as he pushed through a pair of thick, expensive-looking doors, he heard it. Gunfire, obviously equipped with silencers but audible at the end of the hall before him. It was dimly-lit, unused at the moment, but shadows playing across the wall showed him the way. Several figures, all moving quickly, all firing guns. The fight was still underway.
Which meant that John was still alive.
No thanks to Mycroft, of course.
Sherlock crept down the corridor, tense. What if John was injured, fighting for his life? How could Sherlock have just left him? Why did he take so long diffusing that bomb, getting the asset out, returning? Every moment was another moment John had no help. He may not know much about the ex-army man, but he did know that he wanted to change that. For now, however, he had to save the Captain's life.
This desire burned even more brightly as the gunshots abruptly ended, clatters on the floor and grunts of pain tellingly beginning instead. Something about the fight had changed, and foreboding spurred Sherlock forward, alarm bells ringing throughout his mind palace.
He turned the corner, gun trained on a spot in front of him, ready to fire. The sight before him made him catch his breath in spite of himself and all the training he'd gone through.
Both John's and his assailant's guns were abandoned on the floor. Nearby, there were several men, prone on the ground and clearly either incapacitated from bullet wounds or knocked unconscious by fists or the butt of a weapon.
John had taken them all on, alone, and won.
Mostly.
The last remaining man, at least a foot taller than the Captain, had him in a headlock. He had blood running down his arm and face, but neither wound seemed to bother him in the slightest. Meanwhile, John was fruitlessly attempting to throw the man off him, his own face turning progressively redder. He seemed to have an injured arm, his left one being the only one he was using in his attempts to pry the offending chokehold away from his neck.
"Excuse me," Sherlock called, watching as the man whirled, dragging John - whose toes were trailing across the floor - with him. "I believe you have stolen my companion."
He adjusted his aim and grip on his gun as John made a strangled attempt to call Sherlock's name.
It was as if time slowed then.
The bang sounded shockingly loud in comparison to the previous shots and current quiet. The taller man's face contorted in pain, a harsh cry slipping through his lips as he released John and collapsed on the ground, gasping and moaning and clutching at his now-ruined kneecap.
"John," Sherlock rushed forward, barely catching the man as he fell forward, gasping frantically. "It's alright."
John's breaths were unsteady and harsh for several long moments, his head bowed and shoulders shaking. Sherlock helped him onto his knees, concern rippling through him in waves. As John regained his breath, Sherlock scanned his body for injuries. His right arm appeared to be broken in at least one place, and judging from the way he couldn't seem to balance on the balls of his feet he had sustained a minor to moderate blow to the head.
But no gunshot wounds. No gushing blood and gore.
It was only when this realization washed over him that Sherlock could breathe again.
John lifted his head, still gulping down slow gasps. "You bloody nutter!" he growled, voice husky. "I told you to get out of here."
Sherlock smiled; he could sense John was teasing him. "You're welcome."
John barked out a hoarse laugh. "I had it handled."
"Clearly," Sherlock commented wryly, glancing at the man he'd just kneecapped, who was still in a sobbing puddle on the floor and glaring daggers at him. "Come on."
He helped John to his feet, slinging an arm around his middle. Wordlessly, they navigated their way through the eight prone bodies, most feebly stirring by now, and headed toward the maintenance lift and freedom.
As the doors closed on them and the lift shuddered into motion, John looked at him in the light of the flickering bulb above them. "The asset?"
Sherlock nodded. "Safe."
"You diffused the bomb?" A surprised smile tugged at John's lips.
He nodded again, smiling back. "Turns out I didn't need you after all."
"Git," John shot back fondly. "You wouldn't have lasted five minutes without me."
Sherlock didn't retort. "We'll have to make our own way back to headquarters. I've no doubt the men sent to retrieve Gregory will have vacated the scene as soon as possible so as to not draw attention to their presence. Mycroft will be scrambling to compose a plausible explanation when embassy employees begin questioning things and calling authorities." He glanced at John. "How many of them did you have to kill?"
John grimaced. "Two, maybe three. I didn't see where one of the bullets landed. It wasn't by choice, though, they were trying to kill me."
Sherlock nodded. "Of course. You aren't a killer."
"How would you know?" John immediately challenged. "I invaded Afghanistan."
"Yes, but not single-handedly. And from the protective streak you displayed with Gregory and me, it's clear you didn't go to war out of a lust for violence, but rather out of a desire to protect your country and your loved ones here. Any killing you may have had to do was out of self-preservation or the desire to protect those you are loyal to."
John's blue eyes were soft and fond as the lift doors opened and they stepped out of the building. "Right in one. Brilliant."
"Hardly a difficult leap," Sherlock murmured dismissively, trying to ignore the way his insides twisted pleasantly at the praise.
They walked, Sherlock again supporting John, down the alley. He knew the streets of London better than probably anyone, and he took them the shortest but most discreet path toward Headquarters. They couldn't risk hailing a cab in the state they were in, injured and shaken and - in Sherlock's case - toting an illegal weapon and a stolen Division pistol.
"Sherlock," John breathed after several minutes of silence, still leaning on Sherlock. "Why did you come back for me?"
Sherlock hesitated before replying, weighing the ways he could explain. John's intense gaze trained on him, along with the arm he had wrapped around Sherlock's waist, made him feel oddly vulnerable.
Why had he gone back for John? The obvious answer was that the man had saved his life and he was returning the favor, but it went deeper than that. After all, it could easily be justified that John had been fulfilling a mission rather than saving Sherlock because he cared. Another answer was that Sherlock had felt responsible for getting John out, since the entire mission had been on his brother's behest but had promptly fallen apart minutes after they'd infiltrated the embassy.
But the real answer was that, in spite of all Sherlock's expectations, John had endeared himself to Sherlock. He'd piqued his interest right away, fascinated him with his background, and surprised him with his admiration of Sherlock's abilities, which everyone else always dubbed freakish. Most fundamentally, most tellingly, most shockingly, he'd inadvertently made Sherlock care.
"Sherlock?"
He blinked. John was frowning at him; evidently he'd been lost in thought a bit too long. As he met John's gaze again, he found he still had no answer, or at least not one he felt comfortable giving.
Instead, he glanced down at his feet and began to fumble. "I just... What you did in there, buying time for us... It was... That is, I know it was for the mission, but what you did... It was good. And you're... You're surprisingly amicable with me. I... Tolerate you, which I didn't expect before meeting you. And... It felt wrong to leave... You." He looked up. "It felt wrong to leave you," he repeated.
John blinked, then he smiled, expression softening. Neither of them spoke for a moment, then John tightening his arm in a sort-of one-armed hug. "Thank you."
They continued on in companionable silence for several minutes. It seemed that John's balance was improving, for he let go of Sherlock at last; on the other hand, not all was well, for he was holding his arm gingerly against his chest. Sherlock had to admire the stoicism he was showing, even with a severe break like that. Luckily, Sherlock had experience setting broken bones in the field. Hopefully, John would trust him enough to allow him to try.
At a street corner, John hesitated, eyes flicking up to a street sign and then adjusting their route towards Headquarters. However, Sherlock grasped his elbow and steered him in the opposite direction wordlessly.
"I thought we were heading back to Headquarters?" John asked in confusion, though his feet fell into step with Sherlock's.
"Change of plans," Sherlock smiled. "I don't work there anymore."
"You-"
"John," he looked askance, an eyebrow creeping upward. "My brother nearly got me killed in the shoddiest operation he's ever put into motion. It's clear he has some sort of emotional attachment to it far succeeding the usual. The usual being nothing. I refuse to risk myself anymore at his behest. Besides..." he stumbled over his words suddenly, that sensation of being exposed welling up again. "I don't want to do this job anymore."
"Can't really blame you after tonight," John murmured after a pause. "I can't believe your brother was willing to risk you on a mission with so little intel, though."
"Don't underestimate the supreme detachment of my brother," Sherlock smirked humorlessly. "Our family ties were a mere convenience for his pulling me onto his team. He always has told me that emotion is a weakness."
"He seemed pretty adamant we save the asset tonight, though."
Sherlock frowned. "He did."
"You think there's something to that, then?"
"What?" Sherlock nearly squawked. "My brother and the asset, you mean? Greg?"
John looked amused at the revulsion on Sherlock's face. "Maybe? Why else would he have been so desperate and impulsive with this mission?"
"Let's... let's not push too hard against that, shall we?" Sherlock whispered, the words coming out strangled.
John laughed and playfully nudged him. "Sure. So where to then, Sherlock? I seem to have quit working for them as well, so I hope you have some sort of new job in mind."
Sherlock looked over at him, surprised he would still want to follow Sherlock around. But looking into his eyes, Sherlock saw nothing but sincerity there. His lips quirked upwards.
"I think I have an idea..."
But before they could move anywhere, a black car pulled up, effectively closing off their way out of the alley. A noise behind him told Sherlock that there was no use turning around, as a second car had pulled the same move at the other end.
"Sherlock?" John asked guardedly, glancing at him.
Sherlock sighed, despair coursing through him. Was he ever going to get out of this life?
John seemed to understand his pain, for he reached out and grasped Sherlock's arm gently. "I'm here," he murmured. Sherlock nodded, the touch giving him more comfort than he wanted to admit, and together, they climbed into the car before them.
Sherlock was surprised to see Mycroft sitting there. "What do you want?" he snapped.
"Quiet," Mycroft snapped, sounding startlingly on edge. "Give me your phones."
They handed them over, exchanging confused looks, which were only intensified when Mycroft promptly dropped the devices into a small bucket of water.
"What's going on, Mr. Scott?" John asked. From his posture, Sherlock could tell he was ready for a fight.
Mycroft sighed, his eyes strangely haunted. Something about it made Sherlock's breath catch. He'd had enough of this life, and whatever Mycroft was about to say could not possibly be anything good for him. "I won't go back," he blurted suddenly. "I will not do it."
John's hand was back on his arm in an instant, but Sherlock ignored it, chest heaving. "You've used me for too long, brother," he spat the last word with as much venom as he could manage. "It's been ten years since I felt that I had any choice in what my life was, in what I did with even an individual day. Your people pulled me into their operations hours after I had finished my secondary school education, and you have no idea what that was even like. But I am telling you now, I am finished. Now let me and John out of this car. I will not go back to Headquarters."
"I know that, Sherlock."
Sherlock blinked. He had not heard Mycroft use his middle name since he had been ten. In school he had always officially been recognized as William, but at home, when his parents had been alive, he had been Sherlock.
"You..." John stammered, clearly having noticed the same discrepancy.
"Captain," Mycroft looked at him, as if he wanted to avoid Sherlock's gaze. "You won't know this, but when my parents passed away, my brother and I were forced to fend for ourselves. We had considerable intelligence but not much else. Money was limited, and most was in trusts not set to be available to us until we were twenty-one. So I began working for the government, when they made me an offer. If I joined the Division, my brother and I would be provided for. Our funds would go to the Division and they would use them to provide our housing, education in espionage, and anything else we needed. In return, we were to provide certain services. In essence," he glanced over at Sherlock. "We were indentured servants."
"Why would you give in to that?" John asked, frowning. "Did you even ask Sherlock what he had wanted then?"
Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock was only ten when this happened. I wanted to keep him out of it as much as possible. I myself was not even of age yet, feeling admittedly rather overwhelmed and afraid that my brother might be taken from me if I could not find a way to provide for him. So I traded my freedom in order to ensure he would be cared for."
"It that what you call this? Care? I am not even permitted to leave my home without permission or an express order," Sherlock crossed his arms. "And I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself now, without the interference of the Division."
"Getting out of their employ is not simple, Sherlock," Mycroft growled, rolling his eyes. "You remember all the paperwork they made you sign when you joined?"
"You mean, when they insisted I begin investigating some of their cold cases when I was fifteen? Yes, I seem to recall that."
"Wait," John cut them both off before it could turn into a real fight. "Mr. Scott, why are you bringing this up now? What does it have to do with tonight, and with me?"
Mycroft looked relieved that the Captain had cut in. "Because, Captain, tonight was quite convenient for something I have been planning for a long while, with the help of your new friend Gregory."
"What are you talking about?" Sherlock asked impatiently.
"Gregory works with the CIA and MI6, and he has been lately working undercover with the Division in order to stop this indentured servant business. We are not the only ones in this situation. MI6 is growing concerned that if these operatives have no genuine loyalty to the program, they will not be motivated to complete their missions. Once I learned of Gregory's true allegiance, I have been assisting him, in return for a service from him and his agencies.
"You see, Gregory's kidnapping was planned, a useful tool for me and him both. He was taken by undercover CIA who were instructed to simply incapacitate you, and I was to send you in with limited information so that you would be convincingly caught off guard and trapped in a staged shootout. However, instead of those men merely knocking you out within minutes, you two surprised them by fulfilling your objectives anyway."
"So..." John shook his head as if trying to make the pile of new information straighten itself out. "What is the service the CIA and MI6 are giving you in return for information on the Division?"
Mycroft's reply was instant. "A new identity for my brother."
Sherlock blinked, heart hammering. "You're... working to get me out of the Division?"
Mycroft nodded. "And myself, though that will take some more time and finesse. With you, it was simple. We are in the process of faking your death as we speak."
"What?" John cried. Sherlock was glad he had voiced this; his own throat was tight and his mind whirling with confusion.
"In less than an hour, the operatives loyal to the Division will hear a report from MI6 that my brother has been killed in a shootout in an embassy. Due to the multinational nature of the crimes and the fact that it was Gregory taken, MI6 and the CIA will be brought in to investigate, rather than the Division, and they will declare William Scott officially dead. The Division will surely make excuses about why you were there, but those are irrelevant to my plans for you. All that matters is that Gregory Lestrade will make certain you are declared dead. From there, he can arrange for a new identity for you."
There was silence as Sherlock and John attempted to process all they had been told. Sherlock's mind felt as if it were ricocheting around his skull, and he gritted his teeth. Mycroft was trying to get Sherlock free, the kidnapping had all been set up to stage a deadly shootout to fake Sherlock's death, and Gregory was not just any asset, he was an asset in no less than three underground organizations, one of which he was spying on for the other two.
"Oh shit," John breathed. "I... I killed people in that embassy tonight. And now you're telling me nothing about that kidnapping was real...?" He looked horrified.
"No, Captain," Mycroft soothed quickly. "All those men had vests. They were under instructions to make the fight as realistic as possible, should any unexpected witnesses be present or cameras be recording without our knowledge. No subterfuge whatsoever is to get back to the Division. You have killed no one tonight. However, you are a crack shot, as they say."
"So that bomb...?"
"Fake, but as I said, we had to make things realistic. As I will be writing the excuses for why you were in the building, Sherlock, I had to record the operation as usual, so it had to sound genuine. The bomb was in truth no danger. It was, in fact, made of grey fondant and a trick timer." He grimaced, then added as if it were an afterthought, "I apologize for the deception."
Sherlock felt that he might be shaking, a suspicion which was only supported by the way John was gently rubbing his arm. He met Mycroft's eyes and saw the sorrow there, for the first time. And as never before, Sherlock realized that perhaps he couldn't entirely blame his brother for the situation they were both in. Mycroft had been only seventeen when asked to deal with the loss of both parents and the upbringing of his young, stubborn sibling. It was no wonder that when a seemingly-good avenue had opened to him he had taken it without considering all the options. Had Sherlock been in the same situation, he might too have fallen for the Division's allure, mystique, and promise of care.
And now Mycroft was trying to make amends, albeit in an irritatingly complex and progressive-disclosure sort of way. Realizing this, Sherlock nodded slowly, gratified to see the relief that blossomed in his brother's eyes.
"What about John?" Sherlock finally asked, voice hoarse and gruff.
"What about him?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows, as John stared at Sherlock in bewilderment.
"What is going to happen to him? He was recruited from the military and effectively absorbed into the Division's ranks. He will be under a contract that threatens imprisonment for treason should he violate it or try to walk away. Surely you aren't going to leave him behind to his fate with them? The fate I've been living with for the past decade?"
Mycroft looked startled, but no more than John. When Sherlock looked over, the Captain was gazing at Sherlock as if he were marvelous, as if Sherlock were the most amazing thing he'd ever seen.
"We could... it is possible for us to make the same provisions for Captain Sacker as we have for you," Mycroft said slowly, nodding. "If that is what you want, Captain?"
Sherlock didn't dare even breathe, looking over at John. He didn't want him to have to deal with this life with the Division; he wanted him to be free. John had proved himself to be... amazing. And Sherlock found, with only some surprise, that he didn't want to let him go.
John looked at him, eyes bright. "I could use a fresh start, I suppose," he said lightly, a grin playing across his lips.
Mycroft smirked, and even Sherlock allowed a small smile. Maybe this could really work after all.
Sherlock was nearly falling asleep in a stiff wooden chair when there was a soft knock on the door that jolted him awake. John leaped up, grabbed Sherlock's gun off the table and stalked to the door, opening it carefully. He relaxed then, and stepped back to allow Gregory Lestrade to step into the room.
"All clear here?" he asked, glancing around the place.
After their discussion with Mycroft, Sherlock and John had been taken to a safe house on the east edge of London, an area not even Sherlock was familiar with. They'd been escorted inside by a pair of massive guards who still hadn't managed to intimidate John, not that Sherlock had expected them to. It was there, in the table-and-chairs-and-walls room, where they had been waiting for nearly three hours. They'd barely spoken, John obviously sensing that Sherlock had needed time to think, to process. Which he had, for the first hour or so, before he'd been nearly overwhelmed by exhaustion and slumped down in the chair. John had chuckled fondly and let him sleep, clearly keeping a close watch on the door and out the tall window beside him, hardly moving until the knock on the door moments ago.
Following Lestrade back in, John nodded and motioned for him to sit down. "Haven't seen any movement. It's nearly dawn, yeah?"
"Yes, just nearing five. Here," he dropped a pair of files on the table. Sherlock and John exchanged a glance, then reached forward simultaneously, each picking up a file.
Sherlock flipped his open and was confronted with his own face. He scanned the new documents, speed-reading the details. His eyes settled on the line which held his new name.
Sherlock Holmes.
He smiled. His full name was William Sherlock Scott Holmes, but when he and Mycroft had been absorbed into the Division's ranks, Mycroft had buried their real last name, instead getting them both officially named Scott. Their original last name had long been expunged from any official records, until now.
He liked this. A new beginning, an old name. Excellent.
He glanced up to see John was smiling too, examining his file carefully. "John?" Sherlock asked, curious. "What do I call you now?"
John chuckled. Wordlessly, he handed over the file, and Sherlock flipped it around.
John Hamish Watson.
He looked up, perplexed. John just grinned at him. "Watson is the name from a favorite fictional character of mine. Not even going to ask how your brother knew that, I doubt I want to know. The Hamish bit..." he grimaced, but still looked amused. "No clue where they came up with that."
He looked at Greg. "And these will be enough to keep the Division off our backs?"
"Well, they don't have quite the resources that the CIA or MI6 do, so as long as those two are protecting you, you'll be fine. And besides, I don't know that the Division will even be around much longer. Confidentially, they have some suspicious funds and reports."
"I'm not surprised," John said, glancing at Sherlock, who was stifling a yawn. With a soft look in his eyes, John turned back to Greg. "Any chance we can get out of here, maybe go somewhere with a bed?"
The triple-agent nodded. "That's the other reason I'm here. We've got a car down the street and we'll be moving you somewhere you can lie low until things settle down. Then we can make arrangements in a few days for some more permanent lodgings."
John smiled over at Sherlock as all three stood to leave. "Hear that?" he asked. "We're going to get out of this."
Sherlock nodded, but a tightening in his chest made smiling back impossible. This would be the end of this then, the cessation of this strange bond he had with the Captain. In the span of a single night, this tough but gentle man had captured his mind, which was the last thing he had expected. And it was surely ending now; John would be moved to a new location and very likely be instructed not to contact Sherlock again, for safety's sake. It was standard operating procedure. When two operatives worked together temporarily, the Division always instructed them to avoid one another's company after the work was complete.
In other words, Sherlock would never see John again.
It hurt him far more keenly and intensely than he wanted to admit.
"Hey."
Sherlock was startled out of his reverie by the quiet word and a touch on his shoulder. Blinking, John's figure came into focus, hand feather-light on Sherlock and a concerned look on his face. They had made their way out onto the street when Sherlock wasn't paying attention, apparently, for the car was up ahead, Greg quickly approaching it.
"John." It was the only word he could manage. He supposed his need to sleep was partially to blame for his lack of coherence, but also the twisting sensation in his chest from the impending loss of John.
"Are you okay?"
Sherlock nodded, unable to meet his gaze. "I'm fine." He inhaled deeply. "I'm glad to have met you, John."
John frowned. "What, is this goodbye? Sherlock, this isn't a usual clandestine op. I don't know exactly what you're used to in the Division, but you don't save a friend's life and then dump him. Besides, I have a feeling someone who knows how to really operate in the real world should help you figure it out."
Sherlock blinked. "You... but I thought... Friend?"
"Yes, Sherlock, friend," John nodded, eminently patient. "Unless..." Uncertainty flickered across his features.
"No!" he said without hesitation. "No, I... Yes, we're friends, of course. I just... haven't really had one."
John smiled. "Well, now you do. Come on, then."
He tugged on Sherlock's arm to guide him to the car, but Sherlock dug in his heels. "Wait, John."
As the shorter man turned back and raised his eyebrows, Sherlock steeled himself. "As for permanent lodgings... would you be amenable to a shared situation? It would be cheaper, and since we... since we're friends..."
"Yes."
Sherlock's heart leaped. "Oh. Okay."
"That was easier than you expected, it seems," John chuckled, then tugged him more firmly toward the car. "Come on then, flatmate."
Six months later...
"Sherlock, what are you doing to the door?" John came tumbling down the stairs from the bedroom in their new flat, 221B Baker Street. He stumbled to a halt as he spotted the newest edition to their home, eyes widening. "Oh, it came."
Sherlock bit down on a grin. He'd hoped to evoke this kind of reaction from his partner. It was the whole reason he'd deliberately been slamming the door every minute for the past half hour so John would eventually venture down to see what was going on.
The freshly-installed door before which John was standing was composed of rich, dark mahogany and an oval-shaped pane of shimmery, frosted glass in the center. A copper pane below the latter held words in bold letters:
The Watson-Holmes Detective Agency
Idiots Need Not Enquire Within
John blinked at it in shock for several moments, then turned with a broad grin to face Sherlock, who was poised over his microscope diligently, but with a sly smirk decorating his face.
"Okay first of all, I cannot believe you actually had that second bit put on! Second... You put my name first. You said you weren't going to do that," the fond smile was palpable, even with Sherlock's gaze studiously pointed down.
"Yes, I did. Your point?"
"You said our names would look better alphabetically to throw me off, didn't you, you sentimental git?" John squeezed his arm as he stepped around Sherlock to get to the kettle.
"Well, yes, but..." Sherlock tried to pretend his cheeks weren't warm. "I wanted to save the best for last!"
John nodded, rolling his eyes. "Sure you did."
Sherlock ignored John's chuckling in favor of switching a slide. Life had settled down only marginally since they had both abandoned the Division that fateful night. Several days passed with nothing happening, then their old names appeared in the paper as having died in the service of their country. Clearly MI6 and the CIA had done their jobs. And so for the first time, Sherlock was free.
Now, after years of longing and searching for loopholes and hitting walls at every turn, he was out. He felt loose, like he had been locked in a box and only just now able to stretch. No debriefs, no rules, no regulations, no paperwork, no red tape. Just the thrill of the chase, the ability to choose, and the promise of a new mystery each morning. He could investigate what he wanted, do whatever experiment struck his fancy, and just... be.
And just being was turning out to be wonderful. Sherlock was at last his own person, and it turned out that involved things like hobbies, paying bills, shopping for food, and cleaning up after himself. Thank goodness he had John for most of that, though the first Sherlock himself was taking to with relish. The violin was proving delightful, as was his newest interest, apiology.
Their flat was scattered with evidence of quickly-forming obsessions with both of these hobbies, in the form of sheet music and rosin, textbooks on queen bees and fragments of dried honeycomb. Sherlock had also gotten his microscope and other supplies brought over thanks to Greg, so the kitchen was serving as a temporary lab until he and John could decide where to permanently put it. And perhaps, if he could get John to agree, the roof of the building could house beehives...
The sitting room also had a space for the relics of Sherlock's past life. A single shelf on the already-overflowing bookshelf housed rappelling equipment, high-tech listening equipment, and a few small boxes of various scanners and gadgets he hoped he would not have to use as much as he'd used to. Admittedly they were sometimes useful, but his own observational skills were thus far proving to be more than enough. Only one object from his past existence carried any good memories.
The omni-tool.
He glanced up at John, standing among their possessions and in front of the door that represented a new beginning. Their gazes met and smiles flashed across both their faces. Before Sherlock could open his mouth to say he didn't know what, however, his phone rang.
"Hello?"
A few moments passed, in which John waited patiently, at parade rest and an eager glint in his eyes. Whatever Sherlock was hearing was clearly good, judging from the way he leaped to his feet and started pacing, replies to the caller fired off like bullets.
"Who was that?" John asked when Sherlock hung up.
"Greg Lestrade."
"What? What does he want?"
"He's got a case for us," Sherlock said wonderingly. "Apparently even the CIA are at a loss."
"What is it?" John stepped closer, grinning.
"He said we'd get more details when we arrive. They're sending a car. All I know," he paused and smirked. "Is that it's a murder."
There was a pause, then a clatter of footsteps as both men dashed out the door, slamming their new door behind them in their eagerness to start another adventure.
So Greg works for the Division... except that he really doesn't, so it's sort of like it's not his Division... ;)
Also my headcanon is that the Division is the corrupt, jerkface cousin of Torchwood.
I'm finally getting this out! I hit a wall with Dracones, so I ended up working on other upcoming stories in this series (seriously, I jumped around like a maniac. I think I worked on E, F, G, I, L, and X...). But I really enjoyed this one, even though it got rather away from me and ended up way longer than I thought initially it would. Oh well.
Hope you enjoyed. Don't feel shy; come say hi in the reviews!
Next: Freestyle (swimming AU). Title: We Never Go Out of (Free)Style.