Mycroft stared at the computer screen in distaste, letting his displeasure show in the crease of his brows. The monitor showed a man in a ridiculously orange Hawaiian shirt with long brown hair and carefully manicured goatee sitting at a desk. The room on the screen looked much like the one Mycroft now sat in at MI5, except the walls were a nauseating shade of pink and there were rainbow lights hanging from the wall in the background. Mycroft watched as the man took a drink from a mug that bore a cartoon of a garishly green almond-eyed alien eating a piece of paper. Next to its face were words that read 'Aliens ate my tax returns.'
"Remind me again why you choose to operate out of a gay bar?" Mycroft asked wearily.
The man laughed heartily as if Mycroft had made a wildly hilarious joke.
"Don't forget, it's also a dance club!" the man said in an American accent. "And I've made it my headquarters, simply because I can."
Mycroft snorted. "You know, I'd really love to help you, Ericson, but I'm afraid I'm dealing with my own set of problems here across the pond."
"You owe me!" the man exclaimed, the smile falling from his face a little as he gave Mycroft a pointed look. "Besides, you're the only English speaking expert on extra-terrestrial teleportation devices."
Mycroft glowered at him. "What are you suggesting? And please, if there's a god, let it not be what I think it is."
"Look, there's a lot of shit in my lap, Mycroft. And I can hardly scratch the surface of an explanation with a three-minute Skype call. Please don't make me beg you for help. Just bring yourself and a small team to Portland as soon as you can. Yesterday would be too soon."
"How many extra people do you require?"
"Two or three, plus you should suffice. Combined with my people here that should give us enough manpower."
"God damn it, Ericson, I don't know if I can get away."
"Your Mycroft Holmes. You can always get away."
"What makes you think I have even the slightest desire to fly off to America and chase aliens with you?"
Ericson flashed him a knowing smile. "Because you can't resist me."
Mycroft didn't immediately respond. His gaze grew thoughtful. "Ericson, if we do find the creatures responsible, will you give me permission to kill at least one of them? Preferably by means of smashing its face in?"
"Mycroft, my darling, you can kill as many of those sonsabitches as you can get your hands on."
"I've always loathed aliens. You're just making me realise I've yet to take my hatred of them to new heights."
Ericson snorted. "See you soon then?"
There was a sharp sensation of not quite but almost pain in Mycroft's stomach. He closed his eyes, wishing he was in the midst of a nightmare, about to wake up at any second.
"I'll see what I can do, but I'm not making any promises. I may wield a fair amount of power and my reach may be long, but at the end of the day, I'm only one man, and even then I'm still just a tired human being."
Ericson snorted. "The sooner you get here, the sooner you can get to your boring chess games with terrorists."
Mycroft rolled his eyes.
"What species of ETs are you dealing with this time?"
The man carefully stared into his cup. "Does it really make a difference?" he asked carefully, avoiding Mycroft's gaze.
"It might. I'm not going to help you if you're tracking something like Nibiran squids." He nearly shuddered in revulsion of the creatures who could fly through the air and control vertebrate brains.
"No, I'd get the army to help if it was as bad as that," Ericson confessed. "We have a couple nests of Space Spiders. But there are a few pocket wormholes with unusual resonance patterns. I want you to take a look at the signature and see if you can't help me pinpoint the origin. Please Mycroft? I really don't want to ask for help from some old Japanese guy who barely speaks a word of English."
"Bloody hell, you won't quit will you?"
"No. Not when I could really use your expertise. Besides, I do enjoy the thought of seeing you."
"Reinhardt . . ." Mycroft warned, using the man's first name. He felt a solid knot form in his stomach as he considered the implications of the man's words. Mycroft was happy he wasn't currently transmitting video. He then fell into a startlingly tempting line of thought.
The very last thing he wanted was for this man to walk back into his life and into his bed. If he saw him face to face for any length of time, and an investigation of this nature would take a good few days, he ran the risk of repeating old mistakes. And Mycroft Holmes was nothing if not a man who learned from every mistake.
He had to do something that would shut the door of temptation if he was to seriously consider personally helping the man. There was only one logical path.
"I have a husband," Mycroft stated simply.
He watched as the other man's brows shot up in surprise.
"Oh . . . Forgive me then. How long have you been married?"
"Two years," Mycroft lied easily.
"Congratulations, Mycroft. Tell your husband he's a lucky man."
"He works with me. If I help you, you can inform him of that yourself."
"If he's agreed to put up with you for the rest of his life, I'll buy him a drink."
"Yes, how droll of you, Reinhardt."
Mycroft watched the man's phone buzz on his desk. The American heaved an unhappy sigh. "It's the damn director of the NSA again. Email me with your flight arrangements Mycroft."
And with that the call disconnected. Mycroft sat back in his chair, hardly believing what had just happened, and nearly blanching at the plan that was quickly forming in his mind. Some days, he really wished he could forget all the world's little secrets.