*Storm in a Teacup*
by: WhiteGloves
The end has come again.
But then, we never really get tired of endings.
Parts I & II!
Thanks for reading :)
Chapter 8
Part I
"Dammit." John muttered under his breath as he finished speaking to Mrs. Hudson seconds ago while he stood by the sidewalk in the middle of the night with a torn palm that had been bleeding profusely after he broke the window at the back of the house to escape with the Holmeses.
He had found at least seven installed explosives in the house, from the kitchen to the living room's fireside, one at the threshold leading to the study room and the rest were all concealed to the different exit doors. The wires were all linked that made John cautious to its set up that he opted the back window as a means to safety, taking along with him the apprehensive parents of his best friend. His palm got torn in the process and with his medical expertise, did the best thing he could and wrapped a handkerchief around it before calling Sherlock, Molly for Rosamund and finally the landlady. Her news did not surprise him and his mind raced, the way he thought Sherlock would connect everything. The result made him curse.
"What's the meaning of this?" Mrs. Holmes finally asked as they stood a few steps from him while waiting for the police to arrive. "How is the house covered with bombs?"
John gave them a look and shook his head, "I really don't know… it's complicated." He had a notion though. A very bad notion regarding Mycroft's involvement.
Mrs. Holmes gave him the most piercing look. "Oh, yes, you do. It is all very simple and obvious. It's Mycroft's job all over again, isn't it? His enemies? They found us?"
The doctor licked his lips and weighed his answers as he remembered this was his genius best friend's mother. Of course, she has suspicions. He stayed quiet for a while before nodding. She let out a loud exclamation while Mr. Holmes stared at John with a frown on his face.
"Are we safe out here?" he asked.
"No," John looked around, his eyes narrowed. "not yet."
"And the boys?"
"I don't think we have time to worry about them just yet, but knowing Sherlock he's a living magnet for it." John turned on his phone. "I'm calling Greg to check on them, since he's not here. He's got a tracking device on my phone, I told him it would be useful… eventually."
Mrs. Holmes wrapped her arms around herself looking very concerned.
"If something happens to him…"
"He's gonna be fine. He's Sherlock. It's Mycroft I'm worried about."
"Mycroft can take care of himself."
"Trust me, he'll get himself killed out there if Sherlock's not with him."
She looked at him in disbelief and shook her head.
"It isn't like Mycroft to be careless. He's always looking after himself. I just can't bring myself to worry about a son who's got the whole Britain's police body on his disposal." Mrs. Holmes looked to her husband, "It's Sherlock who's got nothing around him." The doctor turned his back on Mrs. Holmes, with the phone on his ears. He decided to call Greg, all the while listening to her monologue. "…what Mycroft would do to preserve himself, that should be obvious. He's survived till this day while working for them. He's in no danger as the Prime Minister in his quarters."
"That isn't exactly true." John glanced back to her, unable to get hold of the Detective Inspector and finally whirling to the old Mrs. whom he could not blame for anything—for in the beginning Mycroft had been on their wrong side. But Mrs. Holmes was not seeing something he himself had failed to see before. Mycroft Holmes was never a self-preserving bastard!
"What isn't true?" she asked skeptically while John stood there, "Well? Tell me. With Mycroft's power—"
John waved his hand. "Mrs. Holmes, I'm so sorry but you've got to stop. You can't blame Mycroft for everything right now—well, he's got some twisted idea of how to handle things that should earn him a smack in the face but that doesn't make him accountable for everything going on; if you'd put it, he's as innocent as Eurus—no matter how goddamn stubborn he is to admit to every single thing. You know that's the problem with genius—they always think it's all about them. Selfish pricks who think they must solve everything. And Mycroft's not immune to that. It's possible he's more prone to it."
John paused, sensing he wasn't making any sense as the Holmeses were both gaping at him in furrowed brows. He couldn't exactly encapsulate everything going on in a single word for these are the Holmes brothers! To shorten everything was no good in giving justice to the explanation.
"It's like this—" he went on more carefully, "He may not express it because he's a prick but—Mycroft will gladly disappear in the surface of the earth for any of you, got it?
They were both silence and he assumed they did—but then noticed that their eyes weren't on him but looking behind him. Turning around, John saw three men in neat dark suit complete with dark tie walk up to them from a black car. The ex-military doctor stood rigid as they came near.
"Shit."
The whole building collapsed to its oblivion, filling the cold night with such fiery brightness it threatened to reach the sky. The cloud of black smoke was massive and the heat was scorching even to the few spectators on the side. Floor after floor collapsed and thunderous sound of the wreckage was heard at the top of all the shouts and sirens in the air.
It was a scene of total destruction and no one doubted anyone surviving.
Until a door was kicked open from the back of the flaming building, concealed by the blazing flames and thick smoke—and the well-known silhouette of Sherlock emerged from the devastation, half carrying and half dragging his older brother in a one-arm pull with Mycroft coughing so violently. They were both worse for wear with Sherlock's black suit full of scorch marks, his white collar blackened and his thick coat already left behind and eaten by the flames. Mycroft's own three-piece suit somehow survived with only singes and dark patches but his face was pale as he continued coughing aggressively. Sherlock did not stop dragging him and pulled him to the nearest alley where it was cool and where no prying eyes could see them. He did not stop till they came out of the said alley and turned on the next curve, ending in an empty, dark backstreet covered in shadows of buildings around. He looked around and felt his brother slip away from his arms to lean on the nearest wall and continued the exertions of his lungs that filled the silent lane.
Sherlock watched him quietly with a sudden sigh escaping his lips. He watched him breath in some air, only to end up coughing once more, his whole back shuddering at each convulsion, his arms shaking uncontrollably at each turn.
"We should not stop here." Sherlock advised as he swept his eyes to their surrounding once more. "If anyone's watching that building they'd be watching the backdoor intentionally. If we're dealing with people of your level, I don't think escaping's as easy as kicking doors."
Mycroft's whole form shook one last time, and then his spasms stopped as Sherlock spoke. He then slowly straightened his crooked back, breathing heavily. He put a palm on his sweaty face and wiped it as he stood his ground and when he turned, Sherlock saw his eyes was watery from the seizure. Mycroft blinked a few times and the glisten disappeared but his face remained white as ash. Their eyes met.
"This wasn't part of the plan." He breathed but if he was worried, he didn't show it.
"Time to make another." Sherlock replied shortly, "And this time you tell me everything. Casting me out like that was a stupid move."
"It wasn't till you meddled in." Mycroft clutched his middle and breath in some air again. "Why don't you ever listen?"
"We can do the banter later, Mycroft—now, for the escape route? Is it still your car or do you have another gate away with my network?"
"As far as they're concerned, their job is done. As for me—and you—we have to go separate ways—" when Sherlock's eyebrow rose up, the older Holmes insisted, "This time you listen too—and no more throwing yourself in the fire feat—you're not a child to tantrum. This is serious."
"I suppose my intention wasn't clear enough." Sherlock sighed, and when Mycroft frowned at him he continued, "Look, I didn't stay behind because I want to meddle with your business or get in the way of everything." He closed his eyes and sighed again, before looking up at his brother impatiently. "Can't you really tell why I'm still here? Standing with you?"
Mycroft stared at him briefly before looking away and clearing his throat. Sherlock had to look away too and didn't care. His stupid brother had to understand and if it needed pushing in his face, he'll throw it flat. It was the older Holmes who conceded first as he shook his head and stared at him again, his features changing to something Sherlock could never read.
"You really are my stupid little brother."
Sherlock stared back at him and felt a slight grin caught up his lips.
"Not as stupid as you. Now since we're both clear on that—tell me everything I don't already know."
Mycroft glared at him but Sherlock did not budge. He never put up with the idea in the beginning and was certain that somehow, at the bottom of it, something far deeper and deadly was lurking. Otherwise Mycroft would never turn his back on him. If Sherlock was confident of one thing about everything in this ever-changing world, it was that his older brother, Mycroft, was the most responsible and reliable person in the world.
Exaggeratedly so.
To the point of even severing ties. Sherlock couldn't forgive him for that—couldn't forgive the circumstance behind it so he needs to understand, and do what he could do best.
Mycroft was silent for a moment, till he slowly stepped back and leaned on the wall for support. Sherlock regarded him, looking very worn out for the first time yet his gray eyes were as sharp as ever. Then he began:
"I told you almost all of it—the hacking from Sherrinford, Eurus in the background, the MI6 out of their wits not knowing what to do after finding out their best government asset appears to be traitor… the government was in pandemonium. There were plenty of private hearings in those five days, not once, twice till I opened their eyes that if not me, then surely, some else was behind the treason? Because what merit—what possible value will it give me to surrender the names of people we promised to protect? I wasn't as bored as they think I was. Of course, there's no way they could trace Eurus any longer so I had to make do of another enemy that didn't necessarily have to be me. It took forty-eight hours to come to a decision. I remained a guilty party—perhaps they feared me so. I was ordered to a house arrest but I had to move on my own before the official issuance of my arrest appears—I believe they are after me now too. Hopefully, to be caught alive."
"So, you are on the run." Sherlock smirked. "England should be thankful you're really not the enemy."
"As to you." Mycroft let out another sigh, his eyes dimming all of a sudden, "Then comes the fact that by this time my own house has already exploded as well."
"It means you had a plan of no return." Sherlock muttered darkly, "But since we're all not cleared—not us at least, you had to find someone to put all the blame into?"
Mycroft nodded, "Yes, the next part was to find who was the instigator of all the hacking? I couldn't let them find Eurus so what was I to do?" he raised his eyes to Sherlock questioningly as if the answer lay with his brother even if he knew the answer very well.
And Sherlock—with his own mind palace—immediately saw his brother's next step and that was to find a culprit that would fall in the category. So, he opened the door to all the possible hackers, all the names of the most prominent, most well-known computer genius of the century—limiting it to thirty years ago of Vladimir Levin and Kevin Mitnick's time—to Mathew Bevan and Richard Pryce—then ten years ago to ASTRA and Albert Gonzales—but no this was someone more recent, someone who had tried with the government around this time. Someone who would be easy for Mycroft to pin down because that was what his brother was doing to cover their sister and capture at the same time one of the most active hackers of the year—someone that caught the attention of the government already—
Sherlock's eyes widen in their sockets as he breathed the answer—
"Fancy Bear."
Mycroft raised both eyebrows with a short nod. "They've been operating since the mid2000s, a group of hackers associated with the GRU, the counterpart of our MI6 in Russia. Their sole purpose is to target government, military and security organizations to serve the political interest of their country thereby helping foreign candidates—as what you already know with the recent elections across the globe—to win by spreading false information, "weaponize information", as what our PM had said as part of the cyberespionage and disruption. In short—all I had to do was to flush out the Russian hacker present in the country that plays a vital role for the Fancy Bear. And I did. In five hours I managed to flush him out of his hiding place, all that was there is for the arrest. Nobody had to know that Eurus was ever part of this."
Sherlock's features slowly contorted into a frown.
"You 'managed' to flush him out, you said… at what cost? Why do you have to go to all the trouble of severing ties and all those rubbish?" Something was missing in the piece. And the look his older brother gave him—a blank, impassive stare that was always use to hide his real emotion if there was any— was the only clue Sherlock needed to know that something grave was about to be said.
"The people, this coalition who took the matter of my arrest in their hands couldn't find in themselves to trust me at once. So, escaping the arrest, I had to do something extreme to calibrate their reservations when I return and prove them wrong. I could not involve any important names in the government. In this situation I could not involve anyone at all so I suggested myself to myself since my profile on the MI6 was already marked as a mole. It was the only way to get my target. My title which can attract the eyes of our outlaws, I who carry the consonant letter 'C' walking and talking? All military intelligence of the world knows our supposed Secret Service Chief is just for front; my existence is known yet is inexistent to the world. Until now."
"You spread your own information as a double agent…" Sherlock whispered slowly with heavy, understanding eyes to his brother, "to catch a common cyberthief? On the internet? And the government just let you?"
"I am the government." Mycroft said calmly and with a small smile, "I helped myself, it was only the front of my profile. Just so they know how important I am." He smirked.
"Was it a secure line directly to your target?" Sherlock demanded at once.
Mycroft did not answer and the consulting detective swore as he paced around the backstreet. "So, you sent your profile—all around for the KGB and other groups to see—great!"
"I think you're acting like John." His older brother commented coolly.
"I am thinking like John and right now I want to punch you in the face." Sherlock said through gritted teeth as he threw a look over his brother, "You just compromised yourself in the world of terrorists just to catch a single individual to cover our sister's tracks! You think whoever you'll caught will admit to that?"
"It can be arranged. I will pursue his extradition."
"Then what? Your profile with the tagline British C will just quietly circulate the globe? How many agents do you think would want to get their hands on the Secret Service Head? Terrorist who suddenly found a real target?"
The British Government head smiled grimly.
"Now you understand why I insisted on severing ties? I know the danger of putting myself in the web of our target and it means planning out. I didn't think you'd object so passionately about this but do think—brothermine—for it is essential— the only biggest attraction aside from the PM and the Queen herself would be the existence of 'C'. If they come after me and this government captures them then all that had to happen to me is disappear, isn't it? But then it so happens that I had one of the biggest misfortune any criminal could ever have—I have you as a brother."
Sherlock looked outraged at that but Mycroft merely raised a hand. "Don't tell me I could have asked you easily, Sherlock, you know yourself you'd never listen. The very idea of telling you, 'Don't look for me', would only mark your resolve to do the entire opposite. And even if I explain things to you strand by strand I know for a fact, brothermine, that you'd put everything in the line to hunt down my predators because even if you deny it, you are a very doting little brother."
"And you're as bad." Sherlock muttered with eyes flickering as he looked at that brother with determined eyes, "You know telling me this would only make me stick to you like a wart?"
"You stuck with me even after I blew everything up and threaten our family." Mycroft shrugged. "How else am I to discourage you now?"
"It's not a question." Sherlock straightened again as he looked at his watch. The sound of siren from afar was still loud but the fire brightening the sky awhile ago was almost put out, he looked up at his brother. "So, you're on the run, on your own and you still didn't want my help—you've got plenty of confidence, don't you? How do you propose to catch your target if you're alone?"
"I didn't choose Bishopsgate for nothing." Mycroft frowned at his younger brother, as he straightened up too. "If this member of Fancy Bear is as good as he boasted himself to be then he ought to have gotten my message that I would be just around the corner from his hideout. And if he is any quicker and cunning than your average agent then at this moment he should be preparing to meet me or murder me—"
It was at that exact moment that something solid and sharp hit the stone wall behind Mycroft—at the exact place where his head had been seconds ago. The older Holmes was a second late to react but Sherlock was already pulling him in the next beat—
"Run!"
Take a break ;) Part II
Sherlock did not need to say twice as Mycroft kept up the rear with their heads down, hearing one after another the stone wall cracking in their midst as a silencer gun took aim after aim— it missed their heads once—twice—and one nearly taking a chunk of Sherlock's ears if not for Mycroft pulling him down the ground and the two scrambled to the opposite lane hidden from sight.
"Murder you, that is." Sherlock muttered with accusing eyes at his brother, then looking at the place they were in, he added, "Now it's a maze of streets, and your killer on the lose."
"It would seem they identified me useless after all." Mycroft whispered quietly, head turning to the sides.
"Or too dangerous that immediate execution is a must."
"Where is he?" Mycroft hissed as he looked from left to right, shoulder to shoulder with his younger brother who was looking up the sky.
"Rooftop." He glanced behind him, then to his brother, "Clearly on a murder spree."
"This is not how I planned it to be." Mycroft whispered through gritted teeth and Sherlock caught his sharp eyes pointedly looking at him. The consulting detective smiled briefly before looking about the surrounding again.
"Yeah, well, quickly try to incorporate your plan with what we have right now or I'm inclined to think you plan to be shot in the head once you meet your man."
"Not exactly," Mycroft sighed mysteriously but Sherlock tugged on his wrist and they scrambled to the end of the lane, their backs hunched. They stopped moving with their backs pressed on the wall, side by side and breathing still. "We're heading further into West—Sherlock we should be by the Liverpool Street at the clock tower."
"What's waiting for us there?" he felt his brother prodding him from behind but he didn't budge.
"Something! Now for crying out loud—move!"
Sherlock was pushed, still miffed at the fact that his brother was either too stupid or too clever at the same time.
"Well, d'you have a gun?" the detective inquired, looking across the road to another dark path he knew to be leading exactly to Liverpool Street. The street was clear so gesturing his head, he began to move in the open—
"What d'you think?"
"Empty handed, which again begs the deduction you planned to be shot on the head upon meeting your man."
"At White Hart, it's best we get there immediately—"
Three shots hitting the pavement and the next thing, Sherlock's hand had grabbed Mycroft's coat and was on the move again— till Sherlock felt the coat tearing on his force—Mycroft was beside himself—
"Quit pulling!"
"Then quit dillydallying!"
"If you ceased to remember—" Mycroft puffed some air, and still his younger brother pulled him, "I am not accustomed to too much physical activities!"
"I'd rather have you worn out than permanently dead." Sherlock muttered to himself as he dragged his big brother to another adjoining alley where a large square trash bin was standing below metal railings. He pushed his brother at its side— "We can't run forever, stay here—"
"I'm not letting you—"
"You're the bait! Do bait!" Sherlock snapped, as he looked around and saw the metal ladder above the trash bin. Climbing easily on top of it, he grabbed the ladder and looked back at Mycroft who was gaping at him, apparently realizing his plan, "Don't come out till you I signal you to—I'll find him and when I do, you go distract—but don't get shot for godsake. I'll tackle him."
"Jesus…" Mycroft whispered as Sherlock began to climb, his face full of perspiration. "Don't break your neck!"
Sherlock didn't look down for the next several minutes as he ascend on the ladder towards the rooftop. The metal was cold to his touch but he continued without any delay, knowing whose life was on the line. He reached the top, the cool wind hitting his face. A thick black smog still hung in the air but the fire from his six o'clock was already extinguished. Sherlock scanned the dark rooftop to where he identified the position of the gunman as he aimed. Turning, he traced a trail and found the spot empty. He looked below and saw no movements from Mycroft's position. Sherlock frowned and looked around again.
There was no sign of anyone.
Sherlock felt apprehensive and wondered if the man had decided to hunt on the ground below where his brother was alone and weaponless—he quickly looked at Mycroft's position again and saw him standing in the open street—
What was he doing?
Then a shot came—and another—missing Mycroft's heels by a second as the older Holmes turned to run. Sherlock leaned heavily on the corner of the roof top and saw a window below him—was a man pulling on a long L96a1— with aimed shots at the running figure below the ground. Sherlock didn't even hesitate to jump from where he was and with arms flailing, he caught the L96a1 tightly with one hand while his other clutched on the window pane for dear life. The man holding it was too shock to react but was on Sherlock in the next beat—
A crash happened in the floor as Sherlock pushed the assassin inside the room where they struggled mightily on the floor. The Russian spy was no easy feat for he was much taller, especially too as he produced a dagger next, whipping it in the air dangerously. Sherlock was beside himself as his own fighter and the expected clash happened.
It was during this struggle that the door of the room was banged open with Mycroft appearing on the scene, his whole face white from the running, breathless and tired. Sherlock saw the recognition in the spy's eyes and professional as he was, he put his left hand behind him and pulled out a hand gun and pointed it at the older Holmes' head— both Mycroft and Sherlock's eyes widen in alarm and a shot filled the air—
But Sherlock had twisted his own body to cover that of Mycroft's—twisting the man's arms at the same time that caused him to shriek in pain and drop the weapon. Sherlock then smashed his head on the nearest table with a loud crash it was meant to hurt. And the assassin was moving no more.
Sherlock watched the immobile body till he was alerted once again when someone grabbed him from the back. He sensed it was Mycroft and stopped his arms from attacking him too—to realize his brother was in panic state as he looked at him all over, touching his shoulder and arms, his eyes full of shadow of concern—
"Were you shot?" he whispered huskily in a stricken voice Sherlock had never seen him used. He shook his head and saw his older brother sigh in relief. Then his panic-stricken face turned back to its ever-reprimanding contortion—
"That was stupid, Sherlock!"
But Sherlock was only grinning.
"What is this?" Sherlock complained aloud as he found himself seated, not for the first time, inside a police ambulance with a blanket wrapped around his shoulder. "Who did this? Who called you?" he threw the question at Lestrade's face who was smirking at him from where he was standing. Before him, the Scotland Yard police had filled the empty street of Bishopsgate with their yellow tapes and intimidating officers.
Greg grinned wider. "John did. Said you were out playin' again and he's right. Here I find you torching up a building, catching international spies and all that. Just a common day, isn't it?"
"I didn't torch anything." Sherlock muttered as narrowed his eyes at the D.I, "where's John?"
"They should be coming in a minute, I was just talking to him on the phone. Apparently, they were picked up by a special force and sent them to the nearest station."
Sherlock turned his eyes and spied his brother standing some meters away from them to another ambulance where an unconscious Russian was tied on a stretcher. His arms were crossed, his expression set and Sherlock could just guess the numerous things playing on his brother's ever brilliant mind.
"Sherlock!"
The consulting detective turned and his best friend stride along the paved street, crossing the yellow tapes towards him in all purpose of a medical man, "Are you okay?"
"Fine." Sherlock replied shortly as he saw his parents coming along after the doctor. He handed John the two phones that got nearly lost in the fire. "How are things on your side."
"We didn't get blown up, that's a plus side." John replied with dark eyes setting, "Was it Mycroft's doing?"
Sherlock nodded and pressed his lips when he saw his mother come near and reach a hand on him. He gave John an intense look, warning him to speak about the revelation which was clearly understood by the latter.
"Sherlock, are you okay?" she whispered, reaching hands all over his face.
"I'm fine—absolutely." He answered, not in the mood to be smothered, "and you, apparently."
He looked up at his father who nodded at him gravely and said, "The doctor has been most helpful."
"Where's Mycroft?" Mrs. Holmes said all of a sudden that got Sherlock eyeing her in surprise. Then John saved him the explanation.
"We were kind of told he was killed in a fire…"
"Where's your brother?" she insisted, looking very grave and about to faint, "Sherlock—"
"It's alright," Sherlock turned to the spot he saw Mycroft last, "He's just—"
It was empty.
Sherlock jerked his head around and nearly slid out of the ambulance's chair, left and right he saw no trace of his brother. Alarmed, he threw the blanket away and moved in haste—
"Sherlock!" his mother called but he was out of their midst in a few strides except for John who was at his heels. The consulting detective made his way through all the Scotland Yard officers, eyes around till it rested on Liverpool street—to the clock tower near White Hart where a black car was parked. Before it, as if walking in a parade in the middle of the road were two service men in their dark suits, escorting ahead of them was none other than Mycroft's familiar back.
Sherlock ran as fast as he could to reach them but John knew it was futile. It was then that he felt one of the mobile phone vibrating on his pocket. Pulling it out, he saw a text message on Sherlock's phone recently sent that read:
Don't look for me. I'll find you. Someday.
-M
The car door was shut and the car disappeared.
And it was the last time Sherlock Holmes saw his brother for a long time.
-The End-
a/n: Thank you for being with me in this ride! I never couldn't get enough of Mycroft and Sherlock!
Be it action, drama or suspense, even just a simple hint of brotherly affection and I'm melting.
It's probably because I believe, like in the canon books, Sherlock does care a lot for his older brother!
It stems from there, and roots that far tend to reach even the new version!
And it did as we saw the fourth installment of Sherlock!
I love Sherlock! Mycroft most!
They will forever be the characters that never lived but will never die!
Thanks for reading! ^_^
*epilogue?*
Mycroft did say 'someday' -.- i do hate when they separate.
