Mycroft ran into the wall of warm, humid air as he stepped through the doorway of the plane.
"If we don't find him in prison…" Mycroft heard his brother's voice on the stairs behind him, but he found himself distracted by the two figures moving through the tropical darkness before them.
Anthea had her arm looped through the pathologist's, and the women's heads were bent together conspiratorially as they walked. Though they were only about five paces ahead of him, Mycroft could just barely make out the tinkle of Anthea's laughter. They were keeping their voices purposefully low so as to prevent his or Sherlock's hearing them.
The sight of the two women, right beside one another, threw their differences into stark contrast. Anthea wore all black, sky high heels, a pencil skirt, and a blazer underneath which he knew there was only a thin silk camisole. She walked with a cat-like, overconfidence…it was the same strut he and Sherlock possessed. Molly was dressed comfortably in jeans and paisley printed blue button down with three quarter length sleeves. Her loping stride was open, friendly, unintimidating. It reminded Mycroft once again that, in this matter, his brother had uncharacteristically made the wiser choice.
Sherlock and Molly were opposites in nearly every way. Where he was callous, she was kind. Where he was impulsive, she was cautious. Where he ebbed, she flowed. They balanced each other out perfectly, and, once the initial adjusting phase was over, hardly ever fought. He and Anthea, on the other hand, were constantly at odds. Their personalities were too much alike. Both stubborn and proud. Determined to always have their way. And while his ultimate authority minimized the head butting at work, their personal relationship was another story entirely.
"Mycroft!" Sherlock barked, realizing he was being ignored.
"Look at that," Mycroft murmured, inclining his head towards Anthea and Molly, not taking his eyes off them. "When did they become so…chummy?"
He felt his brother's shrug. "Molly makes friends very easily."
"It's…more than that…" Mycroft edged.
"Does it matter?" Sherlock's irritation was plain in his voice and Mycroft swallowed down a lump of embarrassment. His feelings for Thea were clouding his judgment, distracting him from the matter at hand.
"Of course not," he snapped back.
Molly and Anthea were waiting for them in front of two sleek black SUVs.
"Two cars?" Molly asked "I'm sure we can all fit in one."
Mycroft gave a wan smile. "This isn't the type of place where you want to risk being stranded by car trouble, my dear."
"Oh…well, Anthea and I can take this one then," she said, moving towards one of the cars, "I'm sure you have things to discuss…the case."
"No," both brothers said in unison and Molly jumped.
Anthea laughed softly and rubbed squeezed Molly's hand. "Darling, have you seen the two of them together? Constantly at eachother's throats. If we leave them alone together in that small of a space, only one will come out alive."
She'd handled that brilliantly. Anthea was used to travel in dangerous parts of the world and she knew, of course she knew, the real reason the Holmes' would ride in separate cars. It was a matter of security. Never put your two strongest links in the same car. And while Mycroft may not be as physically intimidating as his baby brother, he was every bit as skilled with a gun. But had Anthea deflected beautifully and it was obvious Molly never suspected the frightening reality. Mycroft felt a warm tingle of appreciation rise in his chest. Ghastly. He tried to squash it down. Almost succeeded. Almost.
Once inside the car, Mycroft briefed his assistant quickly on the situation. Since they'd been unable to get in contact with the MI-6 agent they'd planted to watch the suspect, they were hoping they'd find him in Columbian prison. It was a technique agents often used when the situation became unsafe or unstable: getting oneself hauled into custody by the local police. It was an easy way to bail without arousing the suspicions of the target. These men lost cronies all the time to cops or bullets.
After that explanation, the pair fell silent as they wound their way through Bogota. The air conditioning was up too high and, even in the back seat, it was cold. Anthea wanted to scoot up against Mycroft, for him to wrap an arm around her as he sometimes did. But that was before they'd started arguing over what their relationship should or could be. Somehow it didn't seem like an option right now.
"Do you want kids?" Anthea blurted, before she even realized what she was saying.
"What?"
Anthea considered backtracking, but realized it was too late; he'd heard what she's said.
"Uhm…I asked if you wanted kids," she repeated. She kept her eyes carefully averted, staring out the window or down into her lap.
"Yes. I mean I heard what you said. But why are you asking me this?" Anthea could hear the tension in Mycroft's voice that was usually reserved for matters where hundreds of lives were at stake.
"Just making conversation." Did that sound defensive? She winced internally.
"People who are making conversation ask about the weather or the news or the latest football match. They do not ask about reproductive preferences."
Anthea blushed, but then shrugged, trying to look casual. "Reproductive preferences," she mimicked. "Do you always have to be so…prudish?" Yes, that was the world.
"Are you pregnant?" Mycroft replied suddenly.
"What? No! Oh…god no!"
"Then I don't see why this is a relevant topic of conversation."
"Why don't you just answer the question? It's simple enough, yes or no." She bit her lip and clicked her nails on the armrest. She still wouldn't look at him.
"Well…I've…never really thought about it…" Mycroft finally said.
Anthea rolled her eyes. "Please. At your age? Of course you have."
"Well…I guess if it had happened…perhaps…I would have been happy. Of course. But it's irrelevant now as it's too late."
Anthea observed from the corner of her eyes as Mycroft brushed invisible lint off his trousers and looked out the window into the Columbian night beyond.
"It doesn't have to be."
Mycroft half sighed, half groaned. "Jesus, Anthea, I thought we agreed not to discuss that on this trip."
"No…I didn't mean…you could have that with anyone. This wasn't about me. I just…wondered how you felt." The words came out so quickly.
"You'll make beautiful children, love."
Anthea looked over at him hopefully.
"Just not with me," he finished. Anthea snorted and rolled her eyes.
"Like I didn't see that coming," she responded coolly. But her legs were crossed and she was jiggling the top one anxiously. A nervous tick they were both well aware of, and chose to ignore.
Such a huge distraction. She was going to get someone killed.
That's what Mycroft thought when he found himself focused once again on attractive assistant as opposed to the task at him.
She and Molly were walking ahead of them yet again, this time down a concrete pathway lined with iron bars. And groping hands.
The prisoners called out to the women, and, even though no one voice stood out over the general din, and he doubted either Molly or Anthea were well versed enough in Spanish slang to understand, it was obvious that the comments were lewd, disgusting.
He yearned to reach through the iron and break their necks.
But they had a part to play and job to do. And Mycroft always got the job done. Those responsible for millions of lives could not afford to feel.
"We can't just leave! It's six months of my life in this shithole and thousands of pounds tossed in the bin! Without the evidence in that building, our case against Diego is shot and our chances of finding Ramon are no better than before I came," the young man argued passionately.
Sherlock, Molly, Mycroft, and Anthea were holed up in a dingy motel on the outskirts of Columbia with Alex Rosales, the MI6 agent they'd just gotten out of prison. As the women were just learning, he'd been here in Bogota for about 6 months, planted by the British government to infiltrate the cartel of a local drug lord, Diego Salcedo. Prosecuting Diego for the numerous crimes he'd committed in the name of cocaine would be icing on the cake, but they were really after information as to the whereabouts of his brother, Ramon. Intelligence, partially acquired by Sherlock, suggested that Ramon was at the head of a South American terrorist organization. But he was like a ghost, never staying in one country long enough to pin down. And as they suspected Diego was funding his brother's efforts, he'd become the easier target.
But things went south and, despite his Moreno features, Hispanic name, and perfect Columbian accented Spanish, Salcedo's crew was beginning to suspect that Alex's presence in their group was less than kosher. Luckily, the MI6 agent anticipated they were going to turn on him and managed to get himself arrested before he could be killed. But he'd had to leave behind all the evidence he'd collected back in Salcedo's hideout, an old warehouse building, just across the street from this particular hotel.
"They know you're a plant, Rosales. If you're caught in there, you know they won't hesitate to execute you. Not worth the risk," Mycroft argued. Ah, to be so young and feel so invincible again, he privately thought.
"I won't get caught. I know their routine. They'll leave in about half an hour to make the rounds with the dealers and won't be back til morning," Alex argued.
Sherlock glanced at his mobile. "That's nearly three hours to break into a dilapidated building and swipe some data."
Mycroft sighed. He could see the excited gleam in his little brother's eyes. There'd be no stopping him now. Sherlock Holmes could not resist a challenge. It was his greatest weakness and a constant cause of concern for Mycroft. But still he had to try.
"And these laptops where the information is stored…they're not password protected? Encoded? I find it difficult to believe that even a Columbian drug lord would be so stupid," Mycroft argued drolly.
Alex winced. "No…they are. Of course. Naturally. But I figured the great Sherlock Holmes would be able to break through that easily."
"I probably-"
Mycroft cut Sherlock off. "Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock. We both know you're no hacker. You don't even realize that you can simply open a new browser tab instead of fetching another computer."
"As I explained to John, that was merely a schematic technique used to organize the information in a visual way. Of course, it made it onto that infernal blog, depicting me as a total moron," the detective spat through clenched teeth.
Molly giggled and then half choked on the cough she'd faked to cover it up when all eyes in the room came to her. Nevertheless she quickly regained her composure and straightened her back. "Actually, I…might be able to break through. Their security can't be very advanced and I took a class…at Uni. My…my boyfriend…this guy I was seeing at the time, he was really into all of that and I learned a few things from him. I'd be willing to…take a hack at it, pun intended," she finished with a smirk.
The room fell silent as everyone stared at her. Even Anthea, who'd been busily typing away on her blackberry from her perch on the edge of an orange armchair, looked up.
"I…if you want…" Molly backpedaled quickly.
"Brilliant! That's brilliant! See! Molly can do it!" Sherlock rushed over to the balcony and threw open the doors. "Now…for getting in…it's an old building, one story, no fire escape, probably a loading dock round the back…" he started mumbling to himself as he stared across the road. He leaned far out over the balcony to look at something on the roof of the hotel.
Mycroft yanked his brother back inside.
"There's two security cameras on this building, probably a few on some of the others nearby. Should be no problem for you to get access to the feed with a little help from our friends at the British embassy," Sherlock was saying.
"Which will not be necessary, as we're not following through with this ridiculous, ramshackle plan. First it was his life," Mycroft gestured to Alex, "Now you've decided to risk yours and Dr. Hooper's as well. Why don't we just all go over and knock on the door. They can have a combined funeral for the five of us back home."
Anthea snorted with all the attitude of a rebellious teenager and recrossed her legs. "If you think I'm climbing into windows in these shoes or sitting here alone in this room with only that rusty chain to keep out the drunks and criminals looking for a shag, then you've got another thing coming."
Mycroft gave an exasperated sigh. "I suppose I can stay with you, my dear."
But of course it was all for show.
One could easily assume that Mycroft's distaste for legwork or general physical activity was due to laziness. Sherlock did everything he could to propagate that story.
But the truth was that he'd taken a bullet to the leg while working as a young agent for the SIS. The leg had never been the same. It was the reason he recognized instantly that John Watson's limp was psychosomatic, he knew what the hobble of a truly lame man looked like. He saw it in the mirror every morning when he got out of bed.
It took a while, but Anthea slowly realized that her employer didn't carry a brolly around constantly because he feared getting caught in the rain. It gave him something to lean on.
And Mycroft knew that this was why, as time went on her, her heels had gotten higher and higher, her clothing more expensive and impractical to walk in. It gave them an excuse. To always take the government car, even short distances. To take the lift instead of the stairs. Anthea always said she couldn't, "Not in these shoes!" And he sighed and grumbled, but Mycroft knew exactly what she was doing and he was grateful for it. One of the many reasons he cared so much for her.
Sherlock clapped his hands. "Great. That's settled. Mycroft, do your call-y thing and pull up the feed on those cameras. You two can play look out from here. Rosales, I have some questions…" he went on, moving out onto the balcony once more.
