*Brother's Opium War*

by: WhiteGloves

Just when I thought I'm done with one... here we go again... ;)

Thanks for reading :)


One: The Den


He was a picture of an inebriated man, walking in the streets of London an hour after midnight. His clothes were uncommon for him for although a banker's suit it was, it was untidy and characteristically unbuttoned in the middle with a touch on his loose tie as part of the deception. He could never pass for a common Londoner walking into his vice if he were to appear otherwise. He felt an impulse to scratch on his made whiskers but decided against it, his mind quite cynic to any act that could give him away. At this late hour, this corner of London hidden from the bright center that was Big Ben, was filled with if not drunken men and women then those whose mind were lost in another world. This very corner was where he was intruding himself to despite its dark atmosphere and certainly quite daunting air. He feigned a stagger and leaned his right shoulder on the available wall, even affected with a loud belch as two men passed by so that they leave him alone. He did not bother commending himself on his effective improvisation for this was no fun whatsoever. His younger brother was the queen of the drama, not he. He does not bother with little things that put short term thrills in the heart, which he also admits to lack. He much rather be found sitting in the comfort of his office than lurk about, in saggy clothes pretending to be nauseous. Hardly any of this was his initiative, if it weren't a very important request from a very important 'friend'.

He remembered this to happen just a night ago, when he was about to retire from his office in the Whitehall, when a knock on the door made him turn from his table, and found his old friend Harry standing by the doorway with a serious expression on his face.

"Mycroft." He called drily as he closed the door behind him quite meaningfully and even locked it.

Mycroft looked down on the papers in his hands, shifted them in alignment, and then locked it away in his drawer. He then put all other folders away, pressed the button under his table to deactivate the voice recorders and CCTV around, before sitting down on his chair once again, clasping both hands together and critically eyeing the Royal Representative, who happened to be a close acquaintance with their job tied closely to the royal family.

That the man came posthaste in his office even though Harry was usually of calm demeanor, was apparent on the flipped collar he must have failed to notice. That it was urgent and needed his immediate advice was obvious with the mobile phone still clutched on the representative's hand as if it was already part of the limb and forgotten. That it needed immediate attention and privacy was then the act of locking the door. And that it was a mishap about a royal family member, well, Mycroft only need to look at the man's credentials and his face to deduce all the background he needed.

"Tell me." He said shortly when Harry was seated perfectly still on the chair opposite his desk.

Thus, the story was related about a young man who had gone missing for two days now from a certain exclusive boarding school in London. Mycroft's eyebrows furrowed at the inefficiency of the security and made a mental note to check the unit with a short phone call. Harry then said there was no ransom that called in, Mycroft agreed, or he would have been notified the second it happened. The close friends of the young man were then questioned and they all gave a certain location in West London that was new to their ears.

"It's a drug den." Mycroft said after Harry mentioned the particular spot. The Royal Representative looked up hopeful.

"Then you know of it? Of course, you do." His tone was just enough for Mycroft to understand of its underlying meaning. He did not mean to, but it was just there—the way he straightened his back, his shoulders squaring, the way his face turned livid with both eyebrows reaching heaven and the way his lips curled, not to mention the daggers in his gray eyes that was meant to cut—his intimidating air that did not escape the sensitive man's notice. "I apologize, Mycroft, I did not mean to offend—"

"I can give you a number of suggestions, but it seems clear you already have one in mind." He said curtly as he leaned back on his chair, the early revolt disappearing as easy as it came, "Pray tell, what it is you have conceived?"

Harry was not one to play with words either.

"Your brother." When Mycroft did not say anything, he pressed on, "This kind of case is not new to him, you can even admit to it, Mycroft. I have confirmed with the Earl himself—of his son's tendency to fall in this abhorrent activity and decided to make arrangements before it goes out of hands. They will be sending him to a rehabilitation center once retrieved."

"I have hopes for him." The British Government Head transfixed his eyes at the man knowing full well that the 'retrieval' was of import, "But I am afraid my brother is going to be a better accomplice than a redeemer if I send him in. I assure you he will not take the case if it was a mere boy missing, but add the magic word and he'll be one step ahead. The next thing you know we'll need to send more people to carry two disabled bodies. And there goes one profession. No, I am sorry, Harry, I don't believe it is to my brother's advantage to be sent in a house full of catnips."

Harry looked down the floor in despair, sighing heavily, and the British Government Head could just see the images flashing in his mind and he did not envy his position. Them people of the government have their own plates to mind into—except in every case, Mycroft knew he was not allowed to have any plates full. He must be the one to finish first and attend to another. This was being the British Government Head and therefore like this one, knew what must be done even before Harry met his eyes again.

"Then what do we do? This is a sensitive topic, even for a common family. We cannot leave this to any agent, Mycroft. We cannot put our faith in the hands of people we can hardly trust."

"I know."

"The scandal it would make. All the paper works!"

"Oh, I know."

"We cannot let this happen, Mycroft! We need to send someone in!"

Mycroft closed his eyes and pressed his hand on his forehead before letting out an inaudible sigh.

It was a good thing that he was not averse to the idea of legwork as much as he claimed to be except he was not any younger. It was many years ago when he perfected his supreme acting, his art of disguise and his art of blending in that only his brother would be able to identify him. Set to the task after a long workout, he mingled in the society for good many hours appearing as a bank manager with dark bushy hair and eyebrows. Harry said his absence in the government would not be noticed to which Mycroft replied that only a terrorist attack could tell. He stayed in many and different local bars as the night progressed, taking a few swigs and letting the dank air of alcohol and cigarette color his attire. He then stayed outside when midnight struck its cue, smoking quietly in a corner before moving in the street he was described to locate.

That was where he found himself staggering towards an alley with steep steps leading down to a black gap leading to another flight of steps. Then when he was deep within the cover of the shadows with only dim lamp lighting his eyes, he saw what appeared to be an entrance to a hidden valley squeezed between two buildings. Mycroft brushed shoulders with shorter men who came out of the wooden door, till he was stopped just before the entrance of a man as tall as he, wearing a thick bundle of scarf around his neck, his eyes dark and threatening.

"Mountain skiing?" he asked hoarsely.

"Picking poppy on the way." Mycroft said dismissively for code words were nothing to him and stepped into the low ceiling room with an odor of opium smoke, lit by single lamp on each corner, and a mass of bodies lying on the floor, breathing yes, alive? Debatable. It was a long way, going further back, with openings on the sides every step of the way where smaller rooms were divided by mere blankets and where more bodies were most likely to be hidden with all consent. Mycroft stopped inhaling the fumes and moved about quietly, not meeting eyes. In the gloom, he could see outlines with different positions— heads bobbing left and right or thrown back, shoulders askew, knees bent, legs everywhere with eyes deep, glassy and hard set within the influence. Mycroft knew for he had seen it up close. It was never a pleasant memory.

He refrained from covering his nose, afraid he might have caught attention, as strong body odor mixed with the smell of the already poisoned atmosphere. He coughed twice and held it in, his eyes watering at the effort but he had not seen yet the worst of it. At the end of the path hung a thick dirty blanket that was half raised. Mycroft ventured towards it, passing by frames of people immovable from the floor. With a quick eye behind him, he reached into the asylum's curtain and half dragged himself in effort for what he saw— bunks of bed everywhere and several—dozens—of twitching forms lying on each of it. Another strong smell hit his nostrils—of urine and other apocalyptic stench—that nearly made him double back to the doorway if not for the sudden arms that flung itself on his shoulders—

A man half naked was upon him, his long, greasy hair covering his eyes, his dirty face too close for Mycroft's liking—

"Get off!" he muttered with much discipline he could muster as he threw the man away from his body, his already much tried attire absorbing the man's pong. Mycroft was not callous, however, as he made sure the man dropped on an occupied bed. He waited, but the long-haired man didn't seem to notice he was ejected as he laid limply on the bed. Mycroft stared down the body with curt eyebrows, then raised his eyes and wondered if he caught any attention. When none came, Mycroft decided to continue inside the room anyways.

It was a poor sight, what he saw. Not only adults but young men were scattered on each bed, arms and other limbs about with a great number of metal paraphernalia, syringes and waxes beside them; clearly in each fantasy, their eyes could hardly be identified as living. He had no inclination for pity on their behalf, he never pitied Sherlock before, it was closer to being incensed and spiteful of what he had become. Still, he could never leave him alone. It had always been mechanical of him to look after his brother for the sole reason the he was the older brother. If there was any other force within him that drives him to always look after Sherlock, he'd really like to have a word with it. One could only tolerate so much at a time.

Something caught Mycroft's attention when at last he was at the last bunk of empty beds. The vapor of opium was still thick, and he still gagged when a slink of air entered in his handkerchief he had now pressed on his nose. He saw a small door at the corner of the last bed and from there he knew he saw a man standing watching him then was gone. Making up his mind if he should follow for he knew an invitation when he saw one with only his safety at a question, the British Government Head reminded himself of his true purpose in the den.

But what if the young man was there?

Mycroft was about to take his first step when a strong arm wrapped itself tightly on his shoulder, holding him close. Mycroft instinctively tried to pull away as he recognized the stench of the half-naked man who assaulted him when he first came in—only the man pulled him with such strength for a thin man, then its mouth almost by Mycroft's ear who gritted his teeth as he heard that familiar voice—

"Fancy meeting you here, brother dear."

Mycroft struggled and pulled off from his younger brother's clutches, eyeing him in a devilish way as he took in his new appearance. It was distasteful, and Mycroft spent the next seconds lacing his acid thoughts into words on his brother who grinned more and more as he swept his long hair out of his eyes.

"You recognized me?" he asked in a low voice which only made Mycroft look at him sternly.

"I could recognize you from ten feet away whatever monstrosity you appear to be. Do I have to make arrangements for you with my tailor?" He made a face at his brother's nakedness and wrinkled his nose. "I knew you've been following me since I came. There's always a chance of meeting you in a place like this, how could I not keep an eye on such possibility?"

"Why didn't you signal when you noticed?"

"Why should I? You don't see me waving when you pass by the Whitehall."

"You're such a bore, Mycroft." Sherlock sighed with a look around.

"And you predictable." There was every sharp edge on his voice, "You promised not to come to places like this anymore"!

"I'm undercover." He pointed out.

"And I'm a ballerina."

Sherlock raised both eyebrows, bemused.

The smoke thickened in Mycroft's opinion which made his throat itch, his eyes to water even more. He looked at his younger brother and saw that he was smirking. Clearing his throat, he shook his head and began paving his way towards the exit, Sherlock he knew, bringing up the rear.

When they came out of the curtained blanket, Mycroft heard Sherlock's low voice who was still following his every step directed to another path in the endless dark maze.

"I take it you're not here to tow me back to civilization?"

"No." was his curt reply.

"Then who're you here for?"

Mycroft let out an exasperated sigh that only hurt his nose and lungs. He thought he noted a different tone in his brother's voice but dismissed it—for one, he was in a hurry to even be trifled with a Sherlock at the moment.

"If you can't answer that on your own, you best leave me alone and continue your… endeavors." He glanced slightly at his younger brother with an eyebrow up, then went on his way to another direction he had not taken without another word.

Sherlock persisted behind him as Mycroft knew he would.

"Ahh, being too mysterious, are we?"

"No, you're just not using your head." Mycroft scoffed, sarcasm at its highest, "I didn't think you could still surprise me, brothermine. Poor brain, you ought to donate it, it could still make a difference in the world."

Sherlock uttered such an offending curse that made Mycroft stumble down the floor. He glared back at the man who feigned the attention and went on:

"This is no place for someone like you," Sherlock deduced away, while Mycroft continued searching high and low, "but you're here anyway and the only occasion you would be is because of me; now since you're not looking for me which is a first, it means the only other reason you'd be on your feet, showing prowess in using your feet and mingling with this kind of crowd is when the ever-vulnerable crown is at stake."

"Slow, aren't we?" Mycroft ducked down to another passage leading to a room with nothing but fumes. He came out of the room coughing aloud and clutching his throat. When the spasm passed, he looked his brother straight in the eye, "Now that you've identified the obvious, would you mind moving away? My purpose here is to be incognito and I can't do it with you tailing me around. Go home, will you?" he interjected, remembering Sherlock shouldn't be here after all.

"Fine." Sherlock said with a shrug as he turned his heels and marched away, "I suppose I'll get ahead of you to where the Grosvenor is."

Mycroft's eyes widened as he straightened his back and called after his younger brother. It would seem Sherlock had deduced accurately after all, although he did admit he knew every present character in the den, especially those that hold titles. Mycroft didn't need to inquire for what purpose since the answer was obvious—it was his brother's job to know other people's business. Within five minutes the Holmes brothers located the young man who had passed out on an isolated room divided in blankets. Mycroft checked his pulse which was low and his eyes which couldn't be seen properly because it was dark and tried to rouse the man.

"Obviously not responding." The older Holmes clenched his teeth, recognizing the symptoms.

"That's bad." Sherlock echoed behind him. "He's not sensible enough to make a list."

"He does not have anyone to remind him. Now, get him out of here." Mycroft instructed as he wrapped the young man in his coat that was left on the floor. He picked up the man's boots and put it on his feet, tied his collar and buttoned his uniform.

"Why me?"

"Because you're stronger and faster. I'll go distract." He pointed at a silhouette drawing near the blanket and it was obvious he was not overdosed with his straight steps. Mycroft wondered if it was about time to buy a sample he was never meant to use. He pulled on some covers for the limp man.

"The only distracting you can ever do is step on someone or get stepped on." Sherlock earned a glowering look and remembered he had done so already.

"I'll take my chances not to be stampede." Mycroft half carried the unconscious fellow and push him on Sherlock's arms who cursed and caught the man by the waist. The older Holmes went on, "Two black cars are waiting by the exit, get him inside one and get on the other. I'll be there."

"Don't take anything here." Sherlock warned as Mycroft moved towards the entrance to speak to the shadow now just outside the blanket. "Evidence or not, these people are very particular with their items."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Who do you think rescued you from different drug dens for many years?"

"Doesn't make you an expert about it."

"You really think I'll let you stay here for another second?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "You said I wasn't your target."

"You happened to be added now move it. I know my way about situations like this, Sherlock. Now if you could please look after him, I'll be very grateful."

"Why do you bother with other people's trouble?" Sherlock heaved the man and stood straight, "You're worse than John."

Mycroft halted by the entrance and looked back. "Why, thank you."


Sherlock pushed his load into the black car he saw and was helped by another man in black suit. After securing the door closed, the first car drove away in all haste, leaving Sherlock, in his naked form, standing by the street when another black car glided in front of him. Snorting at the idea of driving back with his brother, Sherlock looked back at the exit way where he expected Mycroft to emerge from. He didn't exactly know the detail of his older brother's adventure, but it was amusing to see him there, a picture of a great actor in appropriate character. Except Mycroft's eyes that remained sharp and cutting like knife. Nobody would ever believe he belonged there. Mycroft could never get his eyes to look the way other people did—lost and unseeing.

Smoking briefly, Sherlock was spared the idea to return in the den when he saw his older brother come out of the exit, coughing. Throwing down the cigarette stub, the consulting detective took his favourite coat he kept by on a corner and put it on, then without waiting for his brother to approach, he crossed the dark street and blended into the night.

Mycroft saw his brother disappear and sighed. He was just forming new words to describe how filthy, irresponsible and unhygienic he was this time when a hand shot out of nowhere, covered half his face with a very dirty cloth soaked in what he realized as chloroform—and Mycroft reluctantly slipped into the arms of Morpheus.


*ToBeContinued*

I told myself to take it easy... and enjoy some brotherly feels!

Not so complicated as the others, I hope! But full throttle still!

Thanks for reading! ^_^

~W.G~