*The Sepulchre*
by: WhiteGloves
Absolute two parts is only I can spare^^''
A call for Mycroft after seeing plenty of pictures again XD
Thanks for reading :)
PART1
Mycroft Holmes never believed there was such a thing called a fine day, being unfortunately accountable to an impish younger brother, but he planned to make an effort out of it nonetheless. He woke up earlier than usual feeling blithe for some reason which was uncommon when you are the possessor of the marked M of the Secret Service. But here he was, with his shoulders light, his chest untroubled and his mind—certainly brilliant and perfectly capable of charting the entire streets of Europe as he had done to Great Britain in one reading of the map—clear. But what brought such clarity to his already experienced senses was untraceable—although he was already suspecting the fine wine given to him by the French Ambassador nurtured carefully decades ago— but he had a mind to put it to use, especially today.
Putting on his best suit, Mycroft was already fixing his tie when the first hurdle to his fine day came in three rings of his phone. Suspecting some major catastrophe that could have befallen his country whilst he was asleep, Mycroft was unsurprised to see the embedded name of his younger brother on the screen. Checking his watch that read fifteen past six, the older Holmes picked up the phone as he arranged his collar.
"Isn't it too early for you to spoil the day?" he greeted his younger brother and he could just imagine his scowl.
"And too early for you to be an arse."
"Language, brother." Mycroft turned away from his mirror to wear his waist coat. "I should like proper manners be observe even when we are speaking on the mobile phone. I will have none of this modern communication excuses of bobbing headed emoticons. I am your older brother after all."
"We never use emoticon, Mycroft, why are you so against it? Besides, those bobbing head has got 101 better expressions than you'll ever have in seconds."
"I'm still opposed to it. Make a call, be polite."
"Says the man who greets like a pruned cock."
"Who do you think began the tedious call that ruined my morning? I have every right to be a cock and worse."
"Fine—I want to have a list of all the prime suspect in the Avery murder case."
"Didn't you have list from the Scotland Yard?" he was buttoning his waist coat when he saw himself frown in the mirror. Just like his brother to be all god like when it comes to crimes and stuff. Mycroft would not be against his profession at all if only Sherlock would do actual proper sleuthing and be a chief inspector but no—he decides to call himself the world's only consulting detective. Such drama only worthy of a Holmes.
"I said 'all' suspects, brother. That includes the Head of the Police in Avery, which you know you can't hide from me."
"I never hid it, I've never even glanced at the report." Mycroft rounded towards his last coat and stood still, "Whatever your thoughts about it were, it just didn't strike me to be of any importance."
"It's a murder case, Mycroft."
"Yes, and dead as he be, the poor fellow can wait in his grave, can't he? He won't be going anywhere."
"That's a blunt way of putting it—but I can't—"
"Yes, yes you can't rest till you put justice where it is needed. Bless you, boy, the police were merely taking their time, doesn't mean they won't get there sooner. You are just impatient."
"And you are obstructing justice now send me the files!"
He hung up without another word, leaving Mycroft rolling his eyes and putting his phone on the table as he fixed his wrist collar. He knew a perfect day was impossible now with Sherlock already ruining its very first second, let alone a fine one what more when he remembered the three other major hurdles of the day. Soon, he had forgotten to care about Sherlock after sending him the files, there's only so much time to spare for him. Checking with his secretary but nonetheless remembering his schedule, he knew he was appointed to meet the mayor of one of the cities, the bank manager of the central bank and the Parliamentary Private Secretary to the Chancellor of the Exchequer. If he was still aiming to truly have the favor of the day, he could go through everything before tea time.
Tea time he did.
All three meetings proved flawlessly and with less effort. All he had to do was acquire entrance to all their private offices which was never a problem, sit in one of those chairs near the lampshade that evoked mystery and wait for them to come in exactly a minute for Mycroft always knows. He had done these many times that the expression on each of their faces never amuses him any longer even in the shadows. It was impossible for him to be unnoticed for he was such a person to emit an aura when he meant to. Once they notice him, he would always begin with his usual drawling voice of command that required no nonsense from the other party.
"I'm sure it's all surprising but do have a seat," was Mycroft's common dialogue that would usually make them jump out of their wits, "Time is of the essence and I prefer to go through this as direct as possible. And no, no tea please."
"Who are you? Security—!"
Mycroft would usually smile at that point. Even size up his target.
"I'm afraid your security will have to answer to me seeing as I am the ultimate security of this country. I have sent you a letter, I believe, if you'd only be so kind to remember."
At that, they would usually stare at him thunderstruck. And the pattern was complete.
This was how Mycroft does most of his appointments. Most of the time the pattern would be broken when targets jump to their side drawer to pick up their guns, which naturally would not be there. Mycroft was no novice to this.
Now for his three targets, the pattern was applied. For one, he only needed to remind the mayor that his indulgence of the gambling arena at the back of the PM was going to cause him his career in less than two weeks' time if he doesn't surrender all his assets to the authorities. When the mayor asked who would expose him to the PM, Mycroft smiled in the shadow of the Mayor's office and declared himself capable of ruining any career if he deemed it necessary. No words were needed after that and Mycroft knew his job was complete. He complimented the mayor for his quick grasp of things and even praised the expensive paintings available in his office. Those paintings costed fortune in Mycroft's knowledge that is beyond the mayor's means for a year.
"How does that work?" he asked dismissively, already aware of the answer. "It does not come from the tax of the citizens or I would have noticed it, no. It's coming from a different source but not even your prolific gambling could have given you that much…" he gave the man a penetrating gaze that got him squirming in his seat. Mycroft was on the opposite chair with his legs crossed, his face straight. And then saw the charity box sitting by the study table which made all the difference.
"Of course." Mycroft whispered with a sharp gleam in his eyes. "How else?" he stood up after that, taking his requisite umbrella with him. "I suppose you'll be seeing a lot of me, Mr. Mayor. And coming from me, that's never a good thing. Good day."
He left the office feeling satisfied after seeing the Mayor's face paled and a bit more cynical that a man whose table was composed of the bible could be so averse to its teachings, but he was none the wiser when it comes to it.
The second one was much daring for a bank manager was always sure of himself. After applying his pattern, Mycroft was threatened with thick large books of Don Quixote's adventures which the British Government Head met with disapproval. For one thing, he never liked the character's irrationality. Sherlock was goddamn adamant of loving his ideals as a child, even going as far as believing himself a real pirate that made Mycroft discard all Cervantes's books in the house, but Mycroft suspected his younger brother only does it to annoy him. But that was another story entirely. Mycroft never begins with introducing himself, that was a privilege he leaves out of his work. He was, to humbly say it, unknown to those he does not wish to know his existence no matter how high the position of the person is. He let them know however that there is a power beyond the PM that could never be influenced; almost everybody felt it and sure enough by merely announcing his initial M, the bank manager was more than willing to listen and more than defensive that you'd expect a guilty person to be. The British Government head informed him bluntly that counterfeits of pound was considered treason and if he does not give him the name of the other high officials behind the project, he Mycroft, would—
"Send you to Middle East for a vacation leave in the middle of the siege and who knows—you might become famous for joining the rebel army there. I'll see to it that you get a proper video of your declaration of treason." He smiled.
The man fell silent, almost horrified.
"I'll give you three days, Sancho Panza. Good day." He stood up and went away. As he did so he was reminded of his younger brother's activities and made a mental note to call his security once he was inside his car. This he did to find out that Sherlock was safely tucked in the holes of his 221B. Maybe he, Mycroft, was going to have a smooth fine day after all.
The office of the Private Secretary to the Chancellor of the Exchequer was incredibly neat and with a touch of a female hand. Then again, the owner was a she. Still, the lack of books on the shelves could either mean of higher intelligence that do not rely on records or lack of imagination. He was sure of the latter. Applying the method was easy, how he was received was entirely different.
"You know this is against my rights?" she said heatedly with her long red nails tapping on the table impatiently. She was a woman of mid-thirties, obviously one who had worked on her careers for such a long time that gave her pride and ability to question such interrogation. "I maybe an employee of the government but I still wield rights to privacy and justice which means I can bring this trespassing to court."
"I'm all you needed there." Mycroft whispered under his breath believing his luck had run out, so choosing his words correctly but in the same levelled tone and straight face, he went on, "But the fact that mattered is this: The Office of Chancellor of the Exchequer is responsible for the Treasury of this country and the account I had been gathering for the past two months since you became the Private Secretary has been alarmingly inefficient. If proper audit is to be done—"
"May I inquire who you are?" she asked skeptically, though Mycroft noted a change in her pitch. She was cautious now. Mycroft smiled at all the signs and leaned back on his chair.
"I'm afraid that is classified. Though, I don't think you've heard of me either. I go by the initial M."
Her eyes showed no recognition and Mycroft does not blame her. "Look, Ms—"
"Hummel. You know what you're doing is dangerous, right?" she asked, her eyes now gleaming meaningfully. "I hope for both our sake, you leave this office alone. You don't know the people working here. They're more dangerous than you think."
Mycroft stared at her, unimpressed. "I would believe those threats if they can deliver. However, it is not your concern how dangerous they are, but how I can be." He narrowed his eyes at her and made his conclusion, "Millions have been noted missing from our account, the Head of Chancellor of the Exchequer had been cleared of all charges yesterday, I know it, I was there when he was trialed in the Cabinet. Ah—I see you recognize now from which branch I come from? Which is to say the only other connection I have against this fraud is you. All you have to do is give me names before things escalate out of your hands and you get even more involved than you already are, Ms. Hummel. I'm sure it will help your case a lot, maybe even lessen your charges if you come work for us."
Unwittingly, she drew a handgun from her red handbag and pointed it at the British Government Head who did not flinch as he stared at the muzzle. Sometimes things turn out this way too, but still not enough to erase Mycroft's unflustered expression. Types and kinds of guns was not new to him especially with his line of work. This one was a S&W body guard .38 Special, good for self defense as it was small and light. Alicia Smallwood used to carry one until Mycroft suggested there are many ways to personalized their means of protection, like his umbrella for instance. These days, Lady Smallwood can be seen carrying a small foldable umbrella and putting it to good use. Mycroft was already in possession of his own umbrella so what could go wrong?
"So," she began, her tone that of a poison ivy, "you are from the Secret Service?"
Mycroft smiled and checked his pocket watch. "Becoming aware of such intelligence, I'll give you credit for that. However, it would also imply that you have people in the higher positions informing you of such existence so you can no longer feign ignorance to your crime. And theirs. But your own freedom is in your hands." He looked her in the eye, calculating and meaningful. "I do not wish to sound rude but I still have a schedule and your gun simply can't stop me. If we can be about our business, will you give me the names or not? Which ever it would be, I assure you we have means to extract it from you."
The answer was apparent when she pulled the lock of the gun and fired— the same time Mycroft had already pushed his umbrella open—the bullet bouncing off the umbrella's bulletproof canopy—and she did fire many times until she had exhaust all her bullets before Mycroft called his backup and his men came flooding the scene.
"Mr. Holmes?" one of his men rounded on him as he closed his umbrella with ease while Ms. Hummel gave him the most appalled look that turned to grudge before she was pulled out of the room. Mycroft graced her with an eyebrow, his brother's words about how hopeless he was with the opposite sex sounding true. Well, if they always pull a gun on him, he was sure to respond with the same feeling. He turned to his man.
"Yes?"
"Your car is waiting."
"Thank you."
His errand took about half his day but he was glad to report in the Diogenes Club before tea time and it was the time of the day he most looked forward to. And still it was there, that feeling of blithe. He meant to call the French Ambassador for this unforeseen effect when he found his phone ringing as he sat by the heart of the Silence Chamber only to find the name of his brother flashing before his eyes again. Mycroft sighed.
And here he was thinking he was having such a fine day after the ruckus in the morning. Knowing it was about to end, and also aware that phone calls with Sherlock normally end with raised tones, the older Holmes stood up from his comfortable chair and headed to his office.
"Sherlock?"
"Mycroft, I need a favor." His brother's coarse tone was always enough to send his fine day or any day spiraling down. Still, it was enough to hear his voice from time to time. Then he remembered how frequent Sherlock would call him during his most dull days. Nothing like rejuvenating his energy than to annoy his older brother as younger brothers are expected to do. Because Sherlock never does call when it was otherwise.
"Sherlock, since when did I become your personal secretary?"
"Don't be a boor now, brother, a man's life depends on it."
"Weren't you just working with the Avery case?"
"The files you sent me was more than enough for Lestrade. It was downright boring after that."
"I'm glad for your fulfillment. Perfect example of striving hard for what you believe in."
"Shut up."
"I would if you'd stop calling me every time. So, what is it about now?"
"I need a pass to the White's."
Mycroft made a face and raised an eyebrow up to heaven. The Whites is a gentleman's club in London and is the most exclusive of its kind—apart from the Diogenes. It held the most prominent members of the society—from the royal family, to the last politician and seconded members who needed wits, important contacts and with a cent to spare. What else would you do in a place full of gambling sessions and drunks throwing money about? There was no question how the Diogenes was different from it on an atomic level. Sherlock asking for a pass was not what it was meant for his brother, above everything else, hates conformity. It was obvious what it was about.
"What made you think I can give you pass there?" he asked, playing for time knowing Sherlock was on one of his wild goose chase again. A client must've approached him a little while ago that aroused such notion right after the Avery excitement. But the royal gentlemen club indeed! There was a reason why it was called exclusive.
"Because it's you! I told you stop boring me with questions. A client came and claimed his brother, a servant from the club, has gone missing for three days now and the last place he was seen was in the Whites. He was 25, 6 feet tall and with a mole on the right side of his eyes. He was also a card dealer who had begun working there not a week ago. I plan to excavate his house to find more but there are some peculiar aspects in this case, brother, which includes the amount of white sugar they deliver in the Whites—"
"Sugar?" Mycroft scoffed, "What amount of sugar?"
"Five sacks each week."
Mycroft pressed his eyes closed and gave a deep sigh. For a gentleman's club to empty the sugar container that quick would raise eyebrows. The Whites maybe notorious for its gambling, but never for sweet tooth. Even the Diogenes was not inclined to such use of sugar in their strong coffee. Which could only lead to one thing.
"Are you certain?"
"Positive."
"I'll looked over it myself and if you need any more information you might as well drop by the office and we can talk about this."
"Yeah, sure, I'll wait for you here."
"You're the one asking the favor, you come here."
"And you're the one who'll be wanting this case all hush-hush so you come here."
"I'm not in the mood to entertain your landlady's craving for my blood, Sherlock."
"What a pity, she's here beside me listening as I go. Might as well let her go down the café house and spread the good word? Just come here, Mycroft!"
"Sherlock—" Mycroft gritted his teeth but his brother had already hung up the phone. Shaking his head at the ungracious dismissal, the British Government Head immediately grabbed his over coat and umbrella, all the while in contact with his men who had been stationed to keep an eye to the Whites at St. James street. He confirmed the number of delivery trucks arriving every Tuesday of the week at exactly 2 pm. It has been happening for two months and nobody from his planted spies ever reported back such pattern! To be fair, they checked the contents and found sugar indeed. But there are many ways of concealment and with this in mind, Mycroft called for his private sedan. The magnitude that such a club which has been around for 250 years and with exclusive members such as the Royal family was the icing on the cake for the media! He loathed to think of all the trouble it would cause his government and whoever was responsible will be heavily punished! This poor man who had disappeared must've found out the drug transaction and would most likely have been killed by now.
To have the White's name drag in a mess was why, as Mycroft reminded himself, he was there in his position in the first place. There surely will be some hush-hushing about. And people to disappear on the surface of the planet.
Mycroft slid inside his sedan and dialed the Hector Leeway's number, the secretary of the White club. Above all the other candidates for the scheme, his name became preeminent in Mycroft's mind. The man who was always at the club on Tuesdays and Thursdays dutifully and with the position to oversee those deliveries to make sure they come unnoticed. Apart from that, Leeway has had a record.
"Hello? Mr. Holmes?"
"I'll be in the area in a few moments and I believe you have something to confess to me."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes?"
"Let's not dillydally, I know what you're doing. And if you are as smart as I think you are then you should also know who I really am. There is no need for you to try and escape, my men is already surrounding the place. You may also recall a good friend of mine, Sir Harry? He's there and has made sure you are contained. I shall come for you in a moment. Good day."
He won't be able to ungraciously hang up even if he tried, as Sherlock had done for it was not like him to be so impolite even to known suspects. Which reminded him to tell Sherlock he had already solved the case. He contacted him just as his car drove on the streets late that afternoon. Was he still feeling the fine day? With him now calling his brother—the day was about to turn into a disaster for sure. Unless he does something about it, and he did.
"Hello, brother? I don't think I shall go there after all. Cancel our meeting and be a good lad." It was the best lines of the day, so maybe it wasn't hopeless just yet.
"What happened?"
"I found the culprit the moment you hung up your phone, one Hector Leeway, the club's secretary in charge of the servant and other matters in the club. I would have told you of course, but as ever you were impatient. Sorry, but the case is on me."
He heard nothing from the other side, but just know exactly what Sherlock was thinking and annoyed about.
"And the body?"
"The truck comes from Kensington which means dumping a body on the Thames is every bit possible. Check on with Inspector Lestrade or Molly Hooper—I'm surprised you have not?"
"Seeing as I was waiting to bully my brother for a case that was right under his nose—"
"Was under my nose—"
"Have you initiated a search for the body?"
"I thought I could leave that to you."
"I'm a consulting detective, you know."
"And I'm a simple man with a minor position in the British Government—not an errand runner, brothermine. So, no house calls for today, I hope I did not disappoint you."
"Funny, Mrs. Hudson was all ready to meet you. Aren't you?"
There was a giggle on the other end, making Mycroft close his eyes again just imagining and had to shake the thought off. How his brother could live such a life was still a mystery to him, but as long as he knows where Sherlock is then that was all that mattered. If only his brother would find a decent job than his frolic with the criminal kind in a dressing gown. The idea was too much so if he asked himself again if he was having a fine day—with three calls from Sherlock in a day and a near house call?
"You can still come around and explain that club's activities to me." Sherlock must definitely be bored to come invite him? Mycroft made a mental note to hire a search party for John Watson instead.
"On a good time, maybe. Or not. Sorry, I'm busy. Usually I would have left trifle cases like this in your hands but seeing as the Royal Family was nearly involved—in any case it has been solved. Run along now and go be a pirate somewhere—"
The black car smoothly drove on to Westminster street and would have been minutes away from St. James when the car stopped violently, throwing Mycroft about as he heard tires screech, his phone falling on his car floor with such a force that it broke into two. Looking up alert, Mycroft saw two black cars had stopped to block their way and then four men came out heavily armed. Mycroft looked around the streets and saw no eye witnesses— which was good considering they might get involved with stray bullets and all that—but to have no one around in the middle of the day?
Too obvious.
"Ambush, sir." Said his driver who, for the life of him, was accustomed to such episodes, was about to reverse the car when he halted the idea, seeing something from behind them. Mycroft turned too with his umbrella already at hand when the car door on his side opened and a gun was pointed on his head—
Things happened quickly as three gunshots was heard and his driver was killed. Mycroft was dragged away from his car, leaving all possessions behind. He was shoved inside another car—then felt something heavy thump at the back of his head and then there was nothing.
When Mycroft came to everything was dark—but it wasn't the darkness that alarmed his inner senses the most—it was the feeling of containment that flooded him—for twist and turn he did, he felt a solid material just above his face—and to his left, to his right, his back firmly planted on a wooden material—there was no space to move—his arms were immovable, his legs were rattling under him.
But there was nothing there except darkness and his short breathes. Where was he?
Then in his foggy mind's vision, Mycroft remembered half seeing dirt, half seeing men moving about. Then shovels were passed around… and then a wooden box the length of a man's body. Then gravestones.
This was enough to alarm him beyond anything as he realized with dread what might have become of him.
Buried alive.
"Help…" his voice was hoarse, his chest heaving. He tried to raise his numb hand and clawed on the solid above him and knew how helpless as his air was limited, but he needed to let it out all the same— "Help!"
-ToBeContinued-
A/N: Not light, less Mycroft makes it so but one word? Horrible -.-
Just one of those dosage I needed to last a year!
Part B coming to an end!
Thanks for reading! ^_^
~W.G~
