*Eyepatch in the Suit*
by: Whitegloves
DISCLAIMER: On facts and characters. Its all my spirit Sir Conan Doyle~ and Moftiss!
a/n: Why is it when I see a picture of Mycroft I just hopelessly... *smacks face*
"You're an addict." Sherlock whispers.
Enjoy the story! :)
1. Jolly Roger
It was intoxicating, the smell of the filthy lot.
Overcast smokes in the air filled any clear lungs inhaling clouds of gray and black that tasted crudely of gas, perspiration, drugs, waste and other deadly elements congesting the nostrils.
Sea of heads bobbed and dipped up ahead, an overflowing stream of people, all hidden under cloths of anonymity, too thick and bundled as they rubbed elbows and swirled around obstacles of thousand shadows all milling together in a place where anyone could be anyone save themselves.
Shouts and cries make common with echoes of voices buzzed in that almighty swell of humanity gathered in one corner of the earth where merchants and more merchants meet and traders and more traders trade surrounded by dirty white buildings of nothing but paralleled empty windows and rusty upper tiers…
A place in contrast of that in London, yet extremely familiar as how black markets are…except that this one was in Middle East.
He slipped into the crowd donning his long thawb, mishlah and head keffiyeh to protect his dark curls with a dark mask around his face. He felt the warmth of those bodies pressing hard against him under the height of the sun. There was no space yet he moved like the rest, in waves and pattern as if dragged by another, eyes casting and pulling away from objects they saw and void of choice to halt and fight the motion. In an environment where everyone has every reason to act suspicious, not one stood out.
Everyone was like him: gaunt and serious. Everyone moved with rigor and purpose.
1, 476 hours, 480 minutes and 53 seconds since the last time he had made direct contact with his target. 738 hours, 108 minutes and 57 seconds since it was declared said target was found. 336 hours, 18 minutes and 43 seconds since he set foot in the small town of Aden in Middle East where he now stood surfing through the throng of bodies trying to locate the missing target he was told of much importance to the Government. A spy caught amidst a mission called Jolly Roger now in need of retrieval. He was told it was equal to receiving all honors but he was not one to accept decoration for an elaborate act. It was all about the thrill of the mission.
The preparation, the countless number of endings and possibilities, the action… above all, a payback.
He stepped into the final part of his design feeling the excitement under his very skin. He moved hurriedly away from the throng and ended in a narrow alley surrounded with red walls. Then his wrist watch vibrated and he knew he was closing in. Locked on, as the satellite review buzzed on his GPS and a familiar voice spoke under the covers of his head dress where his miniscule communicator was attached on his ears said:
On your left, Sherlock.
Sherlock casually halted and looked behind him. No one seemed to mind another suspicious folk out of the rope of people. Clearly, he was not the only one as others walked pass him with glares and grim nature that spoke volume of their current occupation as notorious thieves and killers but no conflict rose. He then turned and pressed his back on the nearest wall like it was the most mundane thing, then peered out on the corner to his left.
He first saw them clustered outside a tavern with its entrance covered with thick ragged, heavily sewed linen in front of a sand colored building. Five of them. Geared with high caliber weapons hidden under the covers of their own robes, their thick hands obviously on constant hold of each machinery, he observed their appearance, their quirks, their body language, their interactions. How their eyes flitted in the surrounding like hawks trying to catch their preys. He hid a little away, but enough to still do his surveillance. They too moved with purpose. They too moved with vigilance and caution. They spoke in their own language and waited like what they were supposed to do. It added more minutes to his already accumulating hour track.
But Sherlock was sure it was them this time. Somalian Pirates.
Then the tavern blanket was pushed from the inside—and another man came out wearing the same fashion of that his comrades. He spoke to them in the same language and seemed to give direction as his companions nodded to his every word. The man seemed unaware that he was being watched. Unaware even that his watcher was slowly closing in as he spoke to his men with severity etched on his features hidden under the thick bundle of his turban.
"Day after tomorrow, we move to the West." he said in fluent Somali language, with an edge on his tone. Sherlock had stopped just behind the men surrounding the speaker and pretended to be reading the poster papers of undesirable criminals hanging on the tavern wall. He could barely hear the rest of his words but was alert enough to keep an eye on their movements. Especially when they moved. He saw all of them nod again and began walking away, their faces contorted into seriousness with all intention of mingling in the crowd.
But Sherlock had turned and tried to have eye contact with the speaker by cursing aloud as he pretended to tear a poster away from the message board. He felt them all stop and knew five guns hidden under their clothing were all pointed at him but he continued his act—and proceeded to throw the torn poster on the ground and performed disgust on it by stepping on its face. Then he glared at the men behind him, expecting to see his target to be looking his way—just to make him know he was there—but it was all disrupted when shrill shouts followed by screams erupted from the crowd on their far left. Sherlock just had time to see what was happening before he turned back—saw his target's attention shift on the chaos—saw his men move away to check out as well, which opened access to his much-awaited final act.
Sherlock dared reach his hand to his target—ready to grab him and take the opportunity to finish the mission once and for all.
But almost inevitably, his target was pulled away by the armed men as if it was a protocol when it became clear the panic-stricken crowd was heading their way. The target in turban was then shielded and lead away by the five men as Sherlock tried to catch up to them but was overran by the mass of bodies that trampled the same ground. The next thing he knew as he tried not to be swept by the wave—he pushed himself to stand steadily on the nearest wall where he clutched on a wooden pole holding a tent roof so as not be involved in the stampede— Sherlock saw his target's group was gone.
Pulling the thin linen away from his face, he grinded his teeth and pressed the communicator on his ear.
"I lost them."
There was a cracking sound of the service radio.
"Don't worry, they're still under track if you just follow your radar." Came a brisk response.
"Interesting." Sherlock muttered more to himself as the crowed persisted on the disorder and he remained attached to the wall. The crowd was starting to disperse but violence was still visible to some.
"What is?"
"Our man… he's only been with them two months and he's acting like the ring leader."
"What? Seriously?"
"You think I won't know when I saw them with my own eyes, John?"
Silence followed his statement but Sherlock's eyes continued to glint at what he just witnessed. His target was waited upon, his target was listened to and above all, his target's safety seemed to be a priority as well. No one who saw it would doubt the man's rank among his fellows.
Then John Watson spoke again from the other end of the line.
"How else d'you expect your brother to operate?"
The consulting detective, now undercover agent nodded with sharp look in his eyes as indeed—resulting with unbelievable turn of events— his brother, Mycroft Holmes who owns a minor position in the British Government, and who was indeed The Government now turned as captive to the Somalian pirates. Only that, he doesn't seem to be one to act as the damsel in distress in this one.
On the contrary it seemed he was the villain.
Sherlock could just remember his older brother's image coming out of the tavern wearing his tacky linens but possessing the same brilliance as the mastermind behind Britain all the same turned a kingpin to a rouge of pirates. What are the odds…
How else was Mycroft expected to operate he asked?
"Yeah. Surprisingly like that."
"So, what's your plan?"
"Get in the ship. Declare war to the pirates and take the boss back home before he has too much fun. How else am I to do it? I'm gonna be a pirate!"
-To be Continued-
A/n: Oooh... Dream come true haha.
Bit bloody in the middle but that's what pirating is all about o.O
Will run a couple of chapters 6 at most ;)
Thank you for reading again my whimsical stories~