Title: Conspiracy Unmasked

Rating: T

Declaimer: If you're searching for another cheesy Johnlock romance, be assured that this piece would disappoint you. I advise you to leave this page at once. If you're searching for political thriller (not many readers do these days) this story would hopefully suit your likings. And of course, I am not your hated Moffat, I didn't create the show, neither I am Doyle, magically writing through time portal.

Synopsis: This case is like Pandora Box. It should have never been opened. When Mitchell Hansom mysteriously dies, Sherlock forces himself in to solve the incident. That, much to his misfortune, proves to be greatest mistake he had ever made: with threat on global stakes, political scandal and dangerous conspiracy, he must accept the improbable and team up with most unlikely foe, before it is too late.

What should you expect: EPISODE-LONG STORY•BROTHERLY RIVALRY•JOHNLOCK FRIENDSHIP•MORAN AND MORIARTY

The Bloody M
May 2, London City Airport, 22:00
Mitchell Hansom tried his best to tame shaking hands and flush some colour on his unnaturally pale face. Every single part of his body spoke of fear and anticipation, which unfortunately caught attention of more than many. It is not in nature of well-dressed man to be set in state of panic.
Relax yourself Mitchell, he thought to himself, you're just dragging unwanted attention.
Yet it was hard to relax when knowing that there were two unstable countries at stakes, devastating weapons ready to strike, and a pact that could spark another war on his shoulders.
Again set of curious eyes moved over Mitchell's trembling body. He cleaned his throat and briefly closed eyes.
It was hard to imagine that just half an hour ago Mitchell received simple text from his trusty colleague and co-worker, Davis Ruthann, stating plainly: I am waiting. London City Airport. Got tiding about you-know-what.
And Mitchell knew that you-know-what meant the secret pact only few knew about, but why Davis picked such a public place to transfer such a secret message? And what type of message was that.
He opened his eyes and scanned the airports plaza, no sign of Davis.
Mitchell passed set of early tourists that just returned from Mexico or Spain, as their skin was scorched and souvenirs or strew-knotted hats rested under their arms. Looking upwards his vision was welcomed by well-too known map of Great Britain, normal people might see cities like London, Bristol, ragged hills of Northern Scotland, motorways back-boning centre, seas and ocean; but Mitchell's eyes see unprepared government, dormant military bases, lines and networks of convoy tracks in Cornwall or RAF bases dotted in less habited places.
Goddamit Davis.
"You're fine sir?" Soft voice of stewardess nearly made him jump. "Lost?"
Mitchell maintained steady voice: "I am looking for someone."
He shouldn't interference with commons, but women was too amiable to be ignored.
"From where he is coming?" She questioned.
"God, I have no idea..." He replied truthfully, his eyes were still scanning the crowd. Then he jolted as his phone had awoken with another message. He quickly whisked device out, realising how badly his arms had been shaking. Stewardess flashed him a smile and trotted to lost foreigners that had troubles reading the signs, Mitchell didn't pay attention to any of these, his heart has been thudding with hope when he clicked open: YOU HAVE ONE NEW MESSAGE FROM DAVIS.
The message was straight yet enigmatic, it said the following: It's on the windowsill. BA003. US.
His eyes quickly flashed at the arrival/departures board, yet his mind couldn't process names of cities and flight numbers, for he walked back to stewardess and asked for directions.
"I am sorry, but which entrance serves departs from America?"

Mitchell now surely paced downstairs. His fists were clenched around the phone, turning his chuckles bone white and eyes were lined with dark eyebrows of determination.
He ascended said place and automatically moved towards said windowsill, much to his surprise there was actually something. Mitchell eagerly lured to inspect the object that looked like normal, metal case. Before touching it he scanned the horizon for recognisable soul and potential spies, when seeing nothing that might rise concern his fingers coiled around the package.
The surface of it was cold and object was big enough to store a laptop notebook. He cautiously clicked it open.
The interior was empty, save for thin, white paper with pitch black print.
He read the short message... His heart halted.
You Are Going To Die. Mr. Hansom.
It stated. Below the threat there was enormous, handsome, blood-red letter that seemed to serve by just looking.

M.

It is not the M you're thinking about. By the way.