A black tinted car rolled on the highway of London with ease, its windows reflected the distorted buildings of the capital. It silently glided on the roadway, stopping every now and then for traffic lights and even police officers signalling for a halt to let people cross by. Then it went and continued to move on, pass several other patrolling officers in gears and arms, apparently ready for battle.

This was London in high alert. This was the London he wanted to overpower and doing so only required a particular person bowing down to him. An appealing thought. That person who thought he had no more equal, bless him. Who else?

Sherrinford's deadlock eyes gleamed inside the black car as he watched every street corner. Even gloomy London felt home after several years abroad. Maybe he would visit his parents who seemed to have forgotten his existence.

But that could wait later. For now he was still engaged in dealing with his adorable little brothers who time and again had escaped his most ruthless of plans just because they were together... or better yet because for some reason, Mycroft had sensed his presence and was on the counter. What a fool.

He would have been much more useful if the Russian spies had taken hold of him. That way, he, Sherrinford's rein could go even further to Moscow. What a disappointment Mycroft had become.

His phone rang. The messaged he received from the other end was enough to make him raise his eyes straight.

"Don't be a fool. They will not disappear without a trace. Find them. Take care of everyone else but make sure to keep them where they are now. Don't let them return to London. That would damage the deal. If everything turns south, send my little brother the message."

He hung up without even waiting for the response, his eyes narrowing.

It was just as he had expected from his brothers. A possibility he had seen many times. Truth be told finding them back in central London in the next three hours seemed almost likely.

Well, that can be rearranged.

And his car stopped on the sidewalk, in front of a middle-aged woman who had just come out of a black door carrying a dustpan and broomstick. Sherrinford rolled the car window down and eyed her, thinking how she could clean despite looking less sober.

And the woman looked at him curiously with her large eyes narrowing into slits. Her eyesight was poor.

"Good day." He began with his soothingly languid voice. "May I know if this is 221B Baker Street and where I might find Sherlock Holmes? I am his eldest brother, see."

Mycroft could be such a pain when he means to, John Watson mused, and most of the time he could be just as astonishing as his brother—hands down.

There were few things that impressed John—Sherlock being on the top list— which usually involves the scent of danger. And Mycroft Holmes pulling his phone out to contact his associates to save hostages in brink of death just became one of them.

John was still feeling a little prickle as he drove the car on and would never have left Beechill with the knowledge of innocent people taken hostage by the terrorist group hunting them. Eyes of Northern Ireland, the institution for the blind, was just around the corner from Beechill Street as he remembered Sherlock pointing it out. If in fact Roylott was caught there then it was a terrible mistake. To sacrifice innocent people just because they happen to be there was something the doctor would never have agreed with. He could understand Sherlock's desperation to make his older brother a priority but John's conscience was heavier than any of his emotions—

Sherlock could be single-minded sometimes.

The doctor drove the car north in speed, all the while giving his passengers furtive looks. Sherlock was beside him in the front seat while Mycroft had the backseat all to himself. The Holmes brothers were on their silent reverie, both eyes looking but unseeing: clear signs of people falling on their mind palaces—

And god knows what they could be seeing now. It could be a universe in there.

John suddenly remembered the first time he met Sherlock and could swear it was just as bad as his first meeting with Mycroft. John Watson wasn't a fan of the older Holmes the first time they met—not after all those threatening security cameras and mysterious phone calls.

It was a dark business.

Then came the dark figure into the light—a man whose eyes had that sharpness of expression which was very remarkable and intimidating. An epitome of true mystery and darkness. But it was the way he spoke of Sherlock Holmes that caught John curious. And now that he thought of it, it was really Mycroft who made John's impression of Sherlock much more intriguing— a consulting detective with an arch enemy! Just how many people have arch enemies? And somebody against someone like that?

It was like light versus dark—and John already knew who was on the side of the light.

But then to find the greatest surprise in the end—that the two were actually blood brothers. How could he not see? But then how could he? It was impossible to see the semblance when one was too audacious and the other discreet.

Talk about brothers making lasting impressions.

But then he did notice it—their eyes. They were one and the same. Only, Mycroft's eyes, which were of a peculiarly light, watery gray, seemed to always retain that faraway, introspective look which John had only observed in Sherlock's when the detective was exerting his full powers.

He never questioned who was better. Even Sherlock would agree albeit grudgingly to the exact truth.

"Modesty's not one of my virtues." Sherlock had said shortly and dropped the subject at that.

Mycroft was his superior.

Meeting the brothers was his defining moment and as Mycroft had been so cunning enough to point out—the war, he misses it. But it didn't stop him thinking how Mycroft was still a jerk. Yet, his loyalty to his country and sometimes to his younger brother was still admirable and at the same time gruelling. Ever lied on someone in the face about how your best mate was actually alive during those two years over fish and chips?

Ice man.

John pressed his lips tight and looked at the rear view mirror towards the man he had been musing on. Mycroft had his eyes closed. The very same man who had just used his last means of safety just to save a great number of people who didn't mean anything to him.

There, right there was respectable.

If only the British Government Head would stop acting like a complete mental machine and stop threatening people with his presence—he would really be appealing to others.

Oh wait... That was exactly the problem with Sherlock.

These Holmes brothers.

Sherlock suddenly bolted backwards to the driver's surprised and nudged his brother's shoulder that made Mycroft open his eyes. The older Holmes found Sherlock leaning at him curiously from the passenger's seat with that glaze of concern that seemed to ever stay on his eyes this year.

"What is it?" Mycroft frowned as he sat straight with John watching over the two. It hadn't been ten minutes since they left Beechill when they became aware of their pursuer's threatening presence. Looking at the rear view mirror, John was pretty sure Mycroft was still feeling a little under the weather—that—or something else in his mind palace was making him look sick.

"You're perspiring." Sherlock told him in a matter of fact and dead tone, "Getting cold feet with the plan?"

Mycroft's eyes narrowed as he reached for a blue handkerchief on his coat and wiped his face.

"It's too late for that." He said with a look towards the road. "And I never get cold feet."

Sherlock smirked. "Good. Because we're nearly there."

True enough, John pulled their car past signages that included Belfast Main among others and recognized the same street color and decorations by the walls. Murals they call it with names of people and faces of political figures local and abroad— republicans and loyalists all vandalized around.

Entering the city suddenly felt like a trap already. John travelled his wary eyes around.

"Right turn, John." Sherlock said quietly and the doctor did so. Sherlock had always been their human gps. Looking ahead they saw the Belfast city hospital. John's first instinct was to stop there as any good doctor would not care who are enemies and allies.

"We avoided the Old Belfast road a couple of times and went around Stranmillis towards the city." The detective was explaining as he checked his phone, all the while his older brother scanned the small number of people walking around the sidewalks. "It shouldn't take us that long if we keep avoiding the main road. We'll reach the border soon."

"We might as well avoid the hospital." Mycroft suggested with a nod at the building. "If they're aware that some of us need medical attention that's the first place they'll be setting people at."

John paused at the logic while Sherlock stared at the hospital and nodded. John turned left without a word.

"This border we're talking about," the doctor then said after a moment as he manoeuvred the wheel with eyes on the side mirrors and then front again, "what exactly is this? Am I supposed to expect something like in Afghanistan...? Like defending the line of camps? Soldiers barricade in arms?"

"Soldiers will be plentiful yes, armed to the teeth but more so." the older Holmes replied quietly with a sigh, "you'll see."

John frowned just as Sherlock turned to him.

"We're aiming for the Central Station. That's the border we're looking for. We're going to have to secure a passage to one of the ferry heading to Cairnryan Station and head back to London—"

"A ferry?" the doctor followed the detective's gesture and turned the car. "Isn't that dangerous?"

"Only if you can't swim." Sherlock smirked at the rear view mirror. "Mycroft sure can't. Nearly drowned at a pool when we were kids."

"That was uncalled for."The older Holmes said with a raised eyebrow. "But my secretary says she is being monitored so she cannot do anything to help. At least, I forbid her so. Right now she's dealing with another business that if left unattended can be very destructive."

"So we don't have helicopters." John translated easily, making Sherlock smirk.

"Anyways, the MI6 helicopters we used to get here are crossed out since they backed up Roylott's situation at the Eyes of Northern Ireland, thanks to my brother— (Mycroft rolled his eyes)— and Commissioner Bradstreet's team should either be on the way towards the terrorists' location or somewhere else they needed to be because they still haven't made contact."

The doctor frowned at the detective. "Where do you think Bradstreet is?"

"No idea."

"You think he's a double agent?"

Mycroft and Sherlock both didn't react until the detective suddenly reached a hand on the doctor's arm. The reason became apparent when on their next turn towards what was supposed to be Belfast main road and station, came the view of a number of people walking forward a single direction.

John glanced at Sherlock who didn't look back but nodded at him to continue.

He drove to the next corner—but wasn't able to make any more progress when there in front of the cars they saw a large group of people gathered on the road and walking forth, adding to the traffic with vehicles blowing their horns aloud, creating disturbance and shouts from the aggravated crowd that had been trying to push towards the station.

"What the..." John said with his jaw dropping open, eyes on the thick barricade of moving people and pollution.

"The queen must've waved her hand." Sherlock muttered that garnered a raise of eyebrow from his older brother.

"Or?" Mycroft pointed at the sign atop the mass of people where the Central's station was supposedly hanging.

It read, 'Northern Ireland Border Control: You are now leaving Belfast, please have all documents ready.'

"Seems like we're not the only one who wants to slip away." The doctor pulled the car over the right side from Sherlock's suggestion and the three watched the people make their way through. It was just like a rally where people come for the same purpose but not for each other's sake. John didn't remember this much people when they came to Belfast around three days ago.

"Is this still a trap?" he asked his best friend.

"Could be part of it." Sherlock suddenly opened the car door without a word and went out—

"Sherlock—" John called out while Mycroft's eyes followed his brother with a frown—only to see the detective jump up to the roof of the vehicle to have a better view. He came down minutes later and shut the door close fast behind him.

"British soldiers in front with a completely controlled line a few distance before the station gate, all armed with shields and helmet gears, vests and sticks—did I mention a helicopter at the parking lot? It's an all out war and against us."

"Sneaking is not an option anymore." Mycroft observed.

"Why these many?" John started—

"Brexit." The older Holmes said briskly as he leaned his back on his seat with a serious look. "The EU with Britain and United States are the main ground of peace for Belfast, the capital of Northern Ireland. With Brexit, peace is now in peril around these parts again. It was never peaceful here until late 1998, with the so called Troubles—just look at the wall graffiti and murals; it will give you the idea."

"I get that part fine." John muttered as he looked at the murals on the walls.

Mycroft continued, "Northern Ireland does not want to be removed from EU when they get benefitted from the union. There's also the factor of its soil brother Republic of Northern Ireland still part of it, the division of the two grows even further. Borders upon borders will be blocked, soldiers upon soldiers will be dispatched and endless search and inspections will happen from now again because Northern Ireland is part of United Kingdom. There are also those refugees and terrorists hiding amongst them."

"Just another fence at your peculiar day." Sherlock said without a glance at his older.

Mycroft heaved a sigh. "This is what happens when you pull me out of office."

John and Sherlock silently agreed to that.

"Although I have heard the Queen already plans to grant release to Northern Ireland—" the British government head caught himself late and closed his mouth, eyes on both John and Sherlock whose eyes were all on him too.

He smiled. "You don't need to know about that yet."

"Okay," John said with a sigh as he looked outside again. "So we're in the middle of a siege because of Brexit and the attack on London. No wonder terrorists here run amok—all chaps and caps are busy trying to make sense to people. Is it a coincidence that they brought you here specifically?" he looked Mycroft in the eye who returned his gaze quite impassively.

"Coincidence is what unimaginative people would call it, John."

John threw his best friend a dark look. "Please tell me he didn't call me 'stupid'?"

Sherlock arched an eyebrow in betrayal. John cursed.

"So now you're siding with your brother?"

"I don't side with anyone but myself."

"Right. He just slipped about the queen's plan and you're not baiting on it."

"His way of saying 'I told you so' in the future. Power complex, my brother."

"I noticed." The doctor murmured.

"Change subject?" Mycroft said sharply that caused a chuckle to both the doctor and the detective.

"So why don't we just tap these soldiers and tell them we're London citizens?" John went on again as he also travelled his eyes outside the car. "I was a soldier—that should be simple. They'll let us in."

"Of course they'll let us in, and like telling them 'come and get us', John." Sherlock's eyes were all on the people around. "And who knows how many people here are terrorist already... with this group of people another attack may just happen."

"You think?" a worried brow crossed over the doctor's face.

"Balance of probability." Mycroft said from behind them.

"So what do we do?" John looked at both the Holmes brothers.

"What we planned to." Sherlock's eyes flickered as he suddenly reached a hand at the car's glove compartment and pulled out three baseball caps and handed them to the other two who blinked at the object. Sherlock then put his hat on the top of his curly hair and grinned looking pleased.

"Stealth mode."

Mycroft groaned.

The next moment found the three already walking on the pavement with their caps securely putting off any recognition and walked with the crowd with eyes alert and vigilant. Mycroft grudgingly moved about with Sherlock right beside him as John lead the way.

"I look ridiculous." The doctor heard the older Holmes whisper as the brothers walked side by side.

"You look fine." Sherlock soothed coolly.

"This is not the meaning of stealth mode. Having to wear something so irregular to my dark attire—"

"Men who wear dark suit look more suspicious, Mycroft." Sherlock said as they now mingled with moving people around and tried not hit his shoulder blades to others, "Now if you would just stop thinking everything works around your Bond spy guy and really try to merge. That's one of the arts of concealment, brother. Blend in."

"A middle aged man wearing a—"

"Nobody cares what you look like now, honestly Mycroft." John waited for a woman to cross his path before walking on.

"I do." Mycroft sounded offended that made John shake his head.

"Quiet." The detective put an end to the discussion and the doctor saw him narrow his eyes to the eight or so men walking around them. "Eyes open, Mycroft. I can see six armed men in civilian clothes already and four of them not police nor any authoritative personnel."

The doctor followed Sherlock's eyes and saw the men. They looked normal to him.

"Rebels?" Mycroft looked around with a placid face and raised his eyes to where Sherlock was while John shot the Holmes brothers a ludicrous look. "I can only perceive three. The other one is an old soldier, Sherlock."

Sherlock raised his eyes and frowned at where his brother was looking. The unknown men would glance over their shoulder or sideward every now and then, giving the brothers time to see their faces.

Sherlock clicked his tongue.

"Fine, three it is. That old soldier's recently just discharge and is still wearing his ammunition boots—"

"That's why you thought him a rebel—?" Mycroft smirked that made Sherlock narrow his eyes at his mistake.

"Yes, and because he's from the artillery with the way he wears his hat—"

"You're slipping— he's a non-commissioned officer—you can see the lighter skin on his brow and his weight is against his being a sapper. He's from India with that sunbaked skin of his with bearings and expression and authority almost the same with John's. No, not a rebel, Sherlock."

By that time, John Watson had given up and had sighed as he walked forward—but not before he heard the detective say. "Let's stay clear from them."

"Better tell John or he won't sidestep them."

John heard him fine but was still surprised when Sherlock caught up with him.

"What?" the doctor asked with eyes on the men.

"Planning to leap at them like some sort of hero?" the detective was smirking.

"You think I'd jump them?"

"I know you, John." Sherlock turned behind him, "While Mycroft's playing deduction—"

He paused and it was clear why— his brother not there. The crowd had thickened on the side of the street and there was no Mycroft Holmes to be seen around. The detective took a few steps back with eyes scanning the area quickly—

"Mycroft?" he called out and rounded on the spot—John realising what was happening also immediately looked around for any sign of the older Holmes. There was none. The flow of people coming around them multiplied—and they also began pushing the detective and the doctor back who were only one of those few people trying to fight the current—and still there was no sign of Mycroft to be seen.

Sherlock's eyes widened as he stopped dead on the spot with his head turning from left to right. John stood beside him and when it was clear that the detective was planning to run back, he placed a firm grip on the detective's shoulder—afraid that he might lose his friend in the wave of people too.

When it was clear that they won't be finding the older brother any time soon, Sherlock's body tensed.

"No..." John suddenly heard Sherlock say and the doctor was sure the younger Holmes would have lounged forward in the middle of the rushing crowd if he momentarily lost his grip—but he kept the detective at bay with a forceful hold on his clothes—

"Sherlock—wait—"

"We need to find him!"

"I know but—"

"Damn it."

John and Sherlock whirled behind them and saw Mycroft emerge from the moving crowd with a curt frown and displeased look on his face. "Don't these people know where to walk? Are we in some sort of a parade? I nearly got knocked out by their sheer push—didn't they see me stand there like a log—what are they, a herd of sheep?"

John loosened his grip on Sherlock's shoulder and gave the older Holmes a look. He then turned and saw Sherlock watch his brother who made his way towards them with knitted eyebrows as he fixed the cuff of his sleeves. Mycroft looked somewhat impatient as he looked up with raised eyebrows to his brother.

"That's why I don't like crowded places." The older Holmes declared with some certainty. "Or people in general."

Sherlock didn't respond except to nod ahead and let his brother walk in front of him.

But then John saw that. Sherlock's hand around his brother's shoulder. It made him smile thoughtfully.

If Mycroft had only been as observant as he prides himself to be, he would have noticed how Sherlock's slip of emotions he rarely showed people. John used to think Sherlock loathes his brother. Well, it's been a long time and looking at them now...

No. There was no hate there. There was no trace of that in Sherlock at all.

If only Mycroft would look.

"John—" there was sudden crisp of cold tone in the detective's voice—

The doctor looked up to see the detective looking far behind them with eyes wide. Looking back, John saw what he saw—a gang of men pushing their way through the thick crowd with their eyes searching—and right in the middle of them was the same Turkish man whose dark clothes, hair and still pale complexion still familiar to the doctor's eyes.

"It's them!" John hadn't finished saying it when he felt his best friend shove him forward with his brother.

Mycroft didn't need any more push as Sherlock got ahead of him and before long was half dragging his brother along the dense crowd with John right behind them. They neared towards the barricade of the British army but another line of people were still trying to push their way through. None of them could find a space to past through—there was only one line directly accommodated by the British troupe and that queue was a mile to go—

Only, Sherlock cut past them that caused angry retorts and demands from the confused crowd— making the detective pause for awhile as he looked from left to right as if making a decision. Mycroft seemingly following his train of thoughts immediately shook his head—

"Sherlock—"

"We need to get these people out here or they'll be in the middle of crossfire. We're desperate brother—"

"What is it?" the doctor looked from one brother to another—the next thing he knew Sherlock inhaled—

"Get out of the way!" he bellowed long and loud, "BOMB!"

Not a second passed—and mass panic ensued. The crowd dispersed almost like water in a drain—running in different directions, bumping to each other blindly, almost hurting each other. The detective paved the way with brute strength, followed by Mycroft whose jaw was clenched while John brought up the rear.

The next thing, British troupes were flowing out of the gate, calming the civilians down with the wave of their arms and guns while the detective and the other two try to reach them—

"I thought this is stealth mode?" the doctor pointed out as he looked from left to right. "They could have hurt themselves!" he threw a reproachful look towards the detective.

"Half of them are not going to pass thru the gate anyways," Sherlock said in a matter of fact tone as he scanned the crowd for specific friends that were after them. "They don't have proper papers or passage identities."

"And we're one to talk?" they crisscrossed a few more civilians.

"We have a plan." Sherlock dodged a large man who bumped to him—

"You mean another change of plan?" Mycroft raised his observant eyes on the bulky man who walked pass them, "This is what happens when everything lies on odds and chance. Nickname of my brother, by the way."

"Humour at the wrong end." Sherlock muttered distracted as he looked down his hand before raising his eyes on the nearing gate where the British soldiers were stationed. "That's more like it... come and join the fray."

The fray he so called suddenly began without their notice as the next thing John knew—somebody had knocked him over the middle and threw him on the ground, his shoulder hitting the ground painfully but like any of his automatic response— he got up and gutted the man, whom he recognized to be one of the rebels they were eyeing awhile ago— around the stomach—making his fist sting and try to find more landing skins.

There were other violent movements around that made the doctor compress his lips and knocked another attacker who was reaching Mycroft— but then saw his best friend's attackers too with guns—

"Sherlock!" he called before seeing two more men assail the detective from behind. Sherlock was quick to respond with his fist and efficient quick dodges, his legs were in synch in battle too. Mycroft on the other hand stood rigid on his spot and it was clear why—he was held on a gun point by one of the British officers who came to see what the commotion was about.

Sherlock managed to knock down his enemies and was already watching the officers who now went around them in number. Mycroft stood his ground without a hint of fear in his glinting eyes and tight jaw. John stared at the gun with all intent other than surrender.

"You're making a mistake." The older Holmes said as he then removed his cap to reveal himself, "I think you know who I am."

The impression he made was full of mystery as the British soldiers all began lowering their guns.

John gave Mycroft an awed look while Sherlock warily eyed the soldiers.

"It's alright." The British government head said to the two with some assurance. "They are from the Royal Air Force. 'He' must've sent them."

"Sir." One of the high ranking officers suddenly stood in front of Mycroft with a salute and sure enough, John noticed his rank badge and the recognition of Royal Air Force on it, "The Chief wants you in contact after rescue. It would be better to do so when you clear this area. He has been expecting you."

He handed him a phone. Mycroft took it and glanced up with a short nod. He then turned to Sherlock and John and with one quick look over their conditions, motioned them to follow him. The three entered the gates with the British soldiers their escorts. It was the funniest feeling John had in the past days.

Them now welcomed rather than chased and pursued. How people's mind change sometimes.

And Mycroft was on the phone at once.

"Harry." He breathed a sigh of relief as they settled inside the helicopter Sherlock saw earlier with the two exactly opposite him. "Thank you."

John looked outside the helicopter and saw the British unit all assembling in front of the gates with the men they caught in the middle of the violence in cuffs. The doctor reached a hand to his stomach and felt a slight pain there. Frowning to himself, he looked back at Mycroft who was quietly listening on the phone with his eyes closed and furrowed brows.

Seeing it as the moment of their victory, the doctor sighed in relief too.

That was when he looked over Sherlock but what he saw surprised him. Sherlock was pale for some reason and it wasn't because he had suffered any injury—John had made sure of that before they boarded the air craft—

No, it was because of the slip of paper in his hand that he got from who knows where.

Looking over the detective's shoulder with a frown, John silently read on—

Stay or Die.

-Sherrinford.

"East wind..." Sherlock suddenly muttered with eyes widening as the helicopter came to life.

Slip

~To be continued~

It's coming to get you ;)

Thanks for reading!