That fateful night was like a war zone with guns and bombs and lasers and triggers.
Nobody was safe—not the one with triggers and not the one with guns. Everybody was ready for any outcome be it dead or alive with tension mounting to a critical point till at last—a sacrifice.
Then a warehouse exploded, a helicopter crashed and ignited a sea of fire that illuminated the dead of the night. But it wasn't the most dangerous part—it was the hunt of the men that came back from the blazes; then a rain of bullets amidst the chaotic flames and the final gunshot.
An irretrievable lost.
Mycroft didn't like it.
Well, 'didn't like' it was an understatement.
He loathed it.
Being pulled by the arms, being shoved around by the shoulder—being manhandled so gruffly or being touched by anyone for that matter with different grisly large calloused hands that indicated too much orientation for violence— and that—that abominable sack plastered on his head like he was some sort of common prisoner.
But sadly there was nothing to be done. He was after all— a spoil of the war. A captive.
So he put up with it, albeit his own grudging with these people he easily recognized as insurgents. They had kept him securely in a truck van that night after gunning Moran down and had been at their mercy ever since his capture. There was never a day without eyes boring on him during the transport. Even cameras became his constant sentinel once they exposed him back to the ground and locked him up somewhere. The place was cold and dim, not to mention in an isolated area. Yet he could not blame them. If he also had himself as a captive he would put maximum security to guarantee a zero- escape. Who would take chances on letting such an important person slip your clutches?
Mycroft knew that they knew. He heard them when they spoke about him—they weren't trying to be discreet. He had been suspicious of these people's sudden appearance at the fire site. It was as if they were expecting him— turned out they knew exactly who he was by some twisted revelation, knew exactly what he does and for the love of god aware of what it means to have him as a worker from the British Government.
Thus the continuous interrogation. And body infliction.
What alarmed him, however, was the Russian exchange on the telephone one day. He understood every word of it having owned so many languages in his lifetime. He didn't need to hear the other side to realise that a deal was on process and that sooner or later he might be shipped towards Russia like a baggage ready for delivery.
It didn't bode well. Not for himself and certainly not for his country.
Not with everything in his brain. No countryman of his was safe.
It was on desperate occasion when he actually tried to bite his tongue off during another recurrent interview—but when they realised what he was doing they rendered him unconscious. So he woke up with a gag on his mouth, a bloody head and shoulders tied tightly on a chair.
And they left him there with only a splash of water on the face every now and then.
It was another week when he saw light. With the same conditioning of being roughly towed amidst his sleep in the middle of dawn and being subjected to blinding flash of light—Mycroft Holmes woke up and found his captors in front of him with the usual air of arrogance and tyranny.
He blinked to adjust to the lights and saw their shadow, but his head had been aching for a while now and truly in a weak disposition so he couldn't be sure how many were around. He felt someone untie his ropes and immediately massaged his swollen hands. With all the lights, he saw his pale and bloody hands.
He proceeded on removing his gag and lashed a look at his subjugators.
One of them spoke Turkish as they watched him. Mycroft made a mental note to send people there. If he survives.
Suddenly they were on the same tongue when the man whom Mycroft had been acquainted with for the last 326 hours of his stay god knows where placed tiny objects on the table.
"These are yours." His accent was from the Southern region. His dark black beard, sunken eyes and pointed nose had always reminded Mycroft of those German terrorists. "It is ours now."
The British head frowned as he looked down the table and found his microchips and sim cards there. Once upon a time he knew it was forcefully taken by one derange man who was also the sole reason he was here. He lost it amidst the fire and chaos—and wished it were so but seemed like the odds were still not on his favour.
Clenching his teeth, Mycroft sat up right and looked back at his captors with a fake blank stare.
"I don't know what you mean." Even his voice had changed—hoarse and in need of water. He felt dry.
This man in front of him—Mycroft had heard his name but refused to acknowledge it— smiled a little that turned into a devilish look as he raised his hand and waited for one of his men to hand him a mobile phone.
"We cannot open it. It has password." He said as he also placed the mobile beside the cards and stared Mycroft down. "Give it to me or—it will be painful."
Mycroft watched them placed a can of burning fire an arm's length away from him with a metal rod sticking out of it. A drop of sweat slid down the side of his head as he looked down the mobile phone and sighed.
Such desperation.
He then quietly took the mobile and selected a sim card to use. With eyes boring on him and with his own eyes looking dangerously back, he placed one of the sim on the empty mobile and turned it on. Be it confidence or complete stupidity that they allow him such communication grounds, Mycroft waited.
The LCD lit up and he waited.
Messages sprang up. One particular message captured his attention.
Sherlock?
Inconceivable. But then—he remembered this was the same number he used to reply to his brother who did not have inkling that Big Ben was actually his big brother. Mycroft used to scoff every time Sherlock sent a message thinking he was one of those horrid 'networks' of his without even the slightest idea that his brother had already compromised his team.
I need you to find my brother.
Came the first message that made him raise an eyebrow. It was the same till the third one. Clearly Sherlock was... still in search?
Then Mycroft felt his hand gripped the mobile tight after reading the last message that he couldn't resist giving the shortest reply. Sherlock needed it. And Mycroft owe it to him.
He knew by now they thought him dead and planned to let it still until he can find a way of escape.
But Sherlock's message, it seemed, needed a quick reassurance. He could tell the man was under the influence of his little hobby—otherwise he wouldn't be so emotionally bold. Little brother, really.
His mind had started to drift to the last time he saw his brother and was resolute to scold him upon return—only—he was pulled back to reality of his situation. Mycroft looked up at the men who were watching him expectantly—assuming he had just encoded what they ask and had to sigh.
It will surely take a while, this return trip of his.
The British head licked his dried bleeding lip as he stared at the chips and then in the next second— he had taken the microchips and cards from the table with one swift of his hand and together with the mobile threw it all directly to the can of fire that was next to him.
Angry holler and outburst followed and plenty of rough hands— pain after pain.
Mycroft knew what he was getting at but he knew at least he wouldn't get killed.
They needed him.
Then he was dragged again and he couldn't quite keep up with them, not with that burning pain of a metal rod searing on his back's very skin. It was more than pain. He was losing consciousness and couldn't keep even to his feet—
He even felt his feet lose the ground it was standing on—like the ground suddenly disappeared and he was falling. Literally, he was falling— into the pit of darkness.
And he was gone.
THE HIDDEN HOLMES
~To be continued~
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