Chapter 1 - Esmond
The afternoon was taking its precious time to fade into night and leave this boring endeavor behind them. Mycroft sat opposite the Czech PM and his humble escort and listened with pure interest to whatever the man had to say. On the outside, at least.
If he wasn't the professional that he was, he wouldn't even care to remember the man's name. Not that the political turmoil of the country was helping very much with that, having their Prime Ministers changed as often as the winds turned amongst the political parties.
How annoying.
Not that he would let his inner thoughts show for as much as he would love to berate the PM for his failures this was not his PM to berate. And so he listened, observed and behaved like a proper Government should.
Out of the corner of his eyes he viewed the man sitting to the PM's left. Tomáš Nosek. Now this was his man to berate if the after-lunch small talk continues for any longer. This matter needs to be resolved with haste; Mycroft has countries to run after all, no time to spare for the soon to be ex-PM of the Czech Republic.
As if sensing the silent musings of the British Government the so far quiet man on the left cleared his throat politely and addressed the PM with a few muttered sentences in Czech.
"Excuse me, Mr. Holmes," the PM said with an affable smile and stood up, all the men present following suit. "I have to take an important call. A za hodinu máme další schůzi, je to tak?" he confirmed with the man on his right.
"That is quite alright. It was a pleasure, Prime Minister," Mycroft replied with a slight bow and with a few more words of goodbye and a handshake the PM and his company retreated towards the exit of the lounge.
"Whose call is the good PM receiving, Thomas? I will have to send my regards to them," Mycroft noted with amusement as the man closed the door and walked back to Mycroft instead of leaving with the group.
"His wife…I think," Thomas replied with a hint of sarcasm, but his face soon turned serious. He sat down opposite Mycroft and pulled out a cigar, taking the offered matchbox with thanks. He was a younger fella, Mycroft mused, probably around Sherlock's age and the cigar looked a tad bit out of place as he held it to his mouth, lighting it. "Thank you, for responding and receiving me so quickly," the man said in almost perfect, if only more American-English after a moment of silence in which he took a few drags.
Mycroft subtly observed him, noting the lines of exhaustion carving his face and the genuine spark of gratitude in his eyes as the younger man looked straight at him. "Yes, well. I do recognize urgency when I hear one," he said indifferently.
Thomas frowned. "Interesting, I thought I sent you a written email," he shrugged, faking being deeply in thought over the matter.
Resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the other agent's antiques Mycroft simply sipped his tea with a smirk. "Indeed. It was a very loud email."
Thomas snickered and giving in to his exhaustion he sat further, more comfortably into the sofa. "The request could not arrive at a worse moment though. I understand you have…quite a situation to deal with yourself without other countries…butting in with their own issues."
"True, yet here we are. From what I gathered the transfer of the person of interest is imminent. You do not however trust your own security to provide protection for the person in question."
Thomas' face turned into a scowl. "I'm afraid not. The last attempt at the man's life came directly from within our ranks. This is why I am dealing with the matter personally now," pausing, he put the cigar to the ashtray and pulled a single black folder from the suitcase lying almost forgotten next to the coffee table. "Here are the details of his new identity. Once we resolve our internal issues and the court resumes prosecution we will be back for him. Then, and only then, I will contact you about it again," he added when he saw the prompt in the older man's eyes as they scanned over the folder's contents.
"I see," Mycroft said absently. "Rest assured that by tonight Mister…Koller will be enjoying his middle-class businessman life in an appropriate dwelling in London."
"And his security detail?"
"I have chosen it myself. They have worked such cases before; all with illustrious results. I assure you they will be discreet and professional."
Thomas visibly relaxed into the sofa and resumed smoking his cigar. "Good," he sighed. "Are there any news? On Moriarty, that is."
Mycroft gave him a weary look and slightly shook his head. "None as of right now. We do not even know whether it really is the man himself or not. But I am sure it will all unravel soon."
"With both the Holmses on the case? I've got no doubts about that. But whoever it is, he certainly knows how to get attention. I'm afraid many will take the message as a…call to arms," the agent said thoughtfully.
"Good," Mycroft replied, surprising the other man. "It will be considerably easier that way to identify and apprehend anyone who yet wishes to associate with the criminal."
"Ah, I see," he smirked. "Of course you'd want to take an advantage of a disastrous situation."
"Naturally. And it can hardly be called disastrous. Not yet anyway," Mycroft muttered and watched the other man's smirk widen.
"Let's hope it'll stay this way then."
Something in that statement made Mycroft pause and stare at the bottom of his empty tea cup.
Hope. What a ridiculous notion.
After he parted with the agent and retreated to the sanctuary of his office he resisted the urge to light himself a cigarette. Thomas certainly didn't help quench his old habit with that cigar. And while the events of the past few days could be called all but mundane, they were far from a cigarette level situation. Perhaps a glass of wine later this evening instead.
He spotted Devon entering the room and silently moving towards him. "The Esmond files, as you requested," she said and placed a single dark blue folder in front of him.
"Yes, thank you. Sherlock?" he asked flatly all the while inspecting the presented files.
"Currently dealing with the Homeless network. It seems he suspects someone from Moriarty's web he failed to uncover and dispose of is responsible for the broadcast."
Mycroft hummed in acknowledgment almost as if he wasn't interested in the news at all and continued to focus on the folder.
"Sir?" Devon started, shifting slightly closer to Mycroft. "Perhaps showing him the full length of the tape would help him figure this out faster?"
Mycroft blinked, finally looking up at her. He respected his PA's opinions. In some situations he would even go as far as requesting her views on the matters. But essentially, thinking was not part of her job description and thinking for him certainly wasn't. So he couldn't help but wonder what the motivation behind this sudden advice that crossed certain boundaries was.
Instead of confronting her about it he decided to obscure his inner thoughts with fake surprise and a frown. It is the silent observation that is his forte after all. "Unnecessary. The extended message was not meant for Sherlock," he said firmly and waited for her response.
Devon noticed her mistake, but she seemed determined to go further. "You've shown Lady Smallwood. And the others. Yet the extended part was not meant for them either."
True. Of course she must choose to pry into things now when he really, really didn't want her to. Not that he could blame her. She is far from stupid and cannot help but see the discrepancies in his reasoning. Especially since there usually aren't any.
"I've also looked into the message you've received yesterday," she added before he could muster more lies. "We were unable to locate the source, but I have found files concerning Operation Spencer that was hinted in the email."
"And?" Mycroft asked, still feigning innocence.
"The details seemed to have been erased, but you were the one who filed the report for the operation. Yet yesterday you insisted you didn't understand what the message could imply."
What a subtle way to tell someone you think you are a dirty little liar. Perhaps a pay rise was in order. "Details of our operations are usually erased for a good reason," he stated, his voice icy as the cold wind blowing outside.
She flinched, but her voice was steady as ever. "It'd probably be for the best for those details to never see light of day then. The sender seems to have a different opinion on this."
Definitely a pay rise. "Find him. And make sure he reconsiders that opinion."
She nodded in silent understanding and if she wanted to confront him about the lie she decided now is not the time as she turned around and left, leaving behind a faint trail of perfume.
Mycroft sighed and looked back down at the single paper he received from Thomas today and placed it gently among the other files of the Esmond folder before sealing it again. Devon may not approve of his secretiveness and should Sherlock find out he had in fact withheld evidence from him he will never hear the end of it either.
But they are both better off not knowing. This is not their battlefield to fight at. And he will ensure it never becomes so.
oooOOOooo
There were times Lestrade wished homicide was also not his division. Perhaps he could transfer to the DEA. God knows he has enough experience with drugs busts. Or maybe something even less stressful like…animal control. Hunting stray cats down the street would surely beat the heck out of two murders in one evening.
"Hey boss, long time no see," Donovan greeted him sarcastically. "Bit of a deja-vu, isn't it?"
"Hm?"
She nodded ahead and walked him over to the alley behind the building. "We've got three blokes again. Single bullet to the heart. No connection between them at all. Sensing a pattern there?"
Lestrade frowned as he walked closer to the crime scene and inspected the three bodies lying there as discarded bags of groceries, sprawled behind the dustbins just out of sight. Just like…
"Two triple homicides? In one night? No, scratch that. One hour?!"
Definitely not his division. Sherlock's on the other hand…
"You gonna call him on this?" Sally asked and quirked her eyebrow at him.
Lestrade put on his best offended face and turned to his partner. "I don't need to call Sherlock on every-"
"Oh please, you were thinking about it just now," she smirked at him when he dropped his façade in surprise.
He sighed and looked back at the dead men. Something about this was off. Three…no, six random fellas, two different locations, six bullets. Serial killers rarely use fire-arms and even more rarely with such precision. This was more like an execution. But why. Those last three were all from different parts of London. An office worker, bank manager and a gardener. No criminal record. Nothing. For all they knew those men never even met each other.
Lestrade snapped out of his thought process with a flinch. This pattern felt familiar. But for the love of beer he could not recall why. When had he seen this before? When had he -
"We've got another one!" Sally interrupted his musings already half way heading towards their car.
"What?!" he yelled and turned around to follow her all the while barking orders back at the METs on the scene.
And then he remembered.
Stopping abruptly just few meters away from the car he gasped, staring ahead at nothing in particular.
"Boss?" Donovan called from the car, but he paid her no attention while he all but sprinted back to the crime scene.
Please let me be wrong. Please let me be wrong. Please let me be wrong. He continued the silent mantra in his mind as he kneeled by the dead men and checked their fingers for rings.
"Here goes nothing," he muttered, collecting three simple golden rings and taking one to inspect it closer.
'Fire,' said the first engraving on the inside of it.
"Fire could mean…passion. Passion and love. Right? Right?" he muttered and moved to another one.
'Give me food and I shall live.'
"Oh no…," he sighed and taking the third he could almost hear the pillars of hope he constructed on the way from the car to here just crumbling down like a failed jenga tower.
'Give me water and I shall die.'
"What am I?" he added in a whisper.
A riddle. Of course it was a bloody riddle! He squeezed the three rings into a deathly grip inside his fist and slumped down on the concrete.
"What's wrong?" Sally breathed out as she ran up to him.
Lestrade almost wanted to laugh because the sheer level of wrong in this situation was so high it was ridiculous. All he managed in the end was a manic chuckle.
"Call it off," he whispered.
"Call it…what?! We've just got called in to another-"
"Sally!" he snapped at her making her cringe. "Call it off. Our guys, the METs, all of them. Just do it. I'm saving us a lot of time, trust me," he added when she still wasn't moving.
"Okay, fine! Fine," she grumbled. "Alright everybody, listen up!" she started but Lestrade simply zoned her voice out.
This was not happening. This just wasn't happening. He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and pressed 1 for a speed-dial.
"Yes?" came a weary voice from the other side.
He opened his mouth to talk, but nothing came out. As if something was just blocking the words from forming on his lips. And in that moment he recognized that something as sheer fear. Absolute fear.
"…Detective Inspector?" the voice prompted him again. He could almost see the other man's face twist in confusion. "…Gregory?"
And finally, his name snapped him out of the frightful reverie.
"Esmond is going down," he whispered, his voice breaking somewhere along the way so he cleared his throat. "Esmond is going down," he said once more, but more steadily this time.
And if the meaning of those words didn't terrify Lestrade already the sharp intake of breath and a sound of shattering glass he heard from the other side of the line definitely did the trick.
A/N: Hope you're enjoying this so far! ^^ More's on the way :3
Lantia