Mycroft Holmes finished a call with the leader of the fractured Syrian Government quickly as he noticed Anthea place a hand on her right leg, a signal he had come to recognise as a sign that she wanted his attention but knew not to disturb him. By the state of her index finger nail it was urgent. As Mycroft slipped the phone back into his pocket, he addressed the Chauffeur, "Markson, we need to get back to the office as soon as possible. Feel free to consider the rules of the road as merely guidelines until we get back."
Markson nodded his head in understanding before putting his professional skills work and handling the car like a part of his body as it weaved smoothly and terrifyingly fast through the lanes of traffic. Mycroft suppressed a smile, after all he only hired the best for a reason. He turned to his personal assistant who had been waiting patiently whilst typing out further text messages at inhuman speeds.
"Who was his most recent victim, Anthea?"
"The Countess of Wessex, Sir."
Mycroft couldn't prevent the clench in his jaw. Dear God, the Royal Family. It would take all his resources to cover this up and that could only be for a few days at the most. This was an act of war, and one he needed to win soon before panic erupted.
"Anthea, contact the Minister of Defence, tell him to cancel his plans for 14:00. Markson, there's been a change of plan. Baker Street, immediately, if you please."
As Mycroft pulled out his phone and hit the speed dial for the Prime Minister he thought fractionally about what his brother was up to and hoped desperately that it would be of some use.
[Lance Corporal Sebastian Moran]
D.O.B. – 31.10.1974
Position- 16th Air Assault Brigade – Sniper Unit
Hair- Blonde
Eyes- Blue
Height- 6'2
Marital Status- Single
Dependants- None
Blood Type- B, RL positive
[10.4.2001 - Dismissed from Armed Forces on Brutality charges amongst comrades] *LEVEL 5 THREAT* *KNOWN ASSOCIATE TO JAMES MORIARTY, BLACK LOTUS, DIVINE EARTH ORGANISATION*
*ORDER FOR NEUTRALISATION- 23.6.2004*
Yes, yes unimportant. We know this already, where do we find him? There was something, not a document, not an article, something HE had said.
Got you.
Sherlock snapped his hands together suddenly, opening his eyes with a gasp that startled John, dragging him out of his own half-sleep and causing a few seconds of confused pointing the gun around the room. Again. By the state of his eyes and stiff movements it seemed that he had only managed to snatch a few hours sleep uncomfortably in the arm chair, but better that than nothing, now they had a lead. From the cluttered coffee table, Sherlock's phone buzzed.
Countess o W. Don't make me order you. –M
Sherlock threw the phone to John so he could read the message instead of just giving him quizzical looks.
"Countess oh-double-you? What does that mean? Is it some-"
"It means the Countess of Wessex."
"What about her, wha-oh no."
"Moran's second victim." Sherlock began pulling off his sloppy clothes, knowing Mycroft would only be two minutes away at the most. Snatching up a shirt from the back of a chair he shrugged it on and fiddled with the buttons as John stared gob smacked.
"Royalty?!"
Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Yes. Royalty. They aren't untouchable, and this one can't be covered up, at least not for long. We have 72 hours at the most before panic erupts."
John's face set in a grim determined expression. His grasp around the gun which had been clasped in his right hand for the past day tightened and he swallowed thickly.
"Sherlock, we need to get to him tonight. You need to hand me over, you have a plan I know it. You know where he is, I can see it in your eyes. "
He stood from the chair and stepped toward Sherlock, his posture stiff and upright, his mouth a hard straight line. The soldier had emerged again and Sherlock knew he was right.
"Sherlock, we can to stop this. But only if we work together."
You can't go jumping off any fucking buildings without me.
Sherlock nodded again, not meeting John's insistent stare. John was right, for once, it had to be tonight. That didn't mean he had to like it though. The thought of losing John again clawed at his innards and a muscle in his jaw twitched involuntarily as he finished with his buttons and checked his refection once in the mirror. The mirror showed a man that was more ghost than human with gaunt shadows across his pale face. Then again, being referred to as either Vulcan or a machine was common, undead was bound to come soon. John was unaware he was being watched by the detective who followed his movements in the glass, oblivious that his silent sigh and crease of eyebrows was observed along with the subconscious touch to the back of his neck as he stretched, his fingers running exactly over where the rope burn scarred his flesh. The scar that would never have been there if Sherlock had been here to look after him. The scar that could have been fatal. Sherlock turned his attention back to his own reflection sharply and it seemed he had aged ten years in five seconds. His lower lip snagged between his teeth as he bit back the choking feeling in his throat. No. This was just one tiny, over excited assassin. John would be fine. They would both be fine. As long as everything went to plan, it would be over in a matter of days. They'd be national heroes even, suppressing an internal terrorist threat. Sherlock tutted at the idea. Don't make people into heroes.
John looked up when he heard the small noise of disapproval from the taller man, lips parted about to ask what it was for when there was the sounds of smart footsteps on the wooden stairs followed by the click-clack of heels closely behind. The eldest Holmes brother, pushed the door open with his umbrella, his aura of power dominating the living space and immediately the room felt darker. Anthea closed the door without looking up from her phone and walked over to the desk, picking up Sherlock's laptop without permission and began working from it instantly as Mycroft sat down and indicated that the other two men should follow his lead with the smallest twitch of his eyebrows. They both complied without question and watched expectantly as Mycroft placed a briefcase on the table, flicked it open and sat back in the armchair, finally breaking the silence with his cold, clipped tones.
"You know what is at stake. I will provide you with everything you need. The only question that remains is whether you'll do what needs to be done, Sherlock?"
Sherlock ran his eyes over the contents of the briefcase, a small smirk flickered at the edges of his chiselled lips briefly, before he returned the cool, unwavering gaze of The British Government.
"For Queen and Country? 221b, Reporting for duty, Brother Dear."
John snorted from the sofa.