Chapter 9

Nimhigh

"You really are serious, aren't you?" Mycroft said as he approached Sherlock and John. The sun had set, and Trafalgar Square was empty, save the three of them.

"What else were we supposed to do?" Sherlock spat.

"I thought you didn't trust Doyle after that little episode-"

"If you're not going to help then you might as well leave."

Mycroft was silent for a moment. "Come. We shouldn't say for long," he turned slowly and began walking away.

In seconds, a black car silently pulled up in front of Mycroft, who stepped inside. Sherlock and John reluctantly followed him, sitting opposite of him as the car drove away.

"I had a talk with Doyle this evening. He gives his regards," he nodded to Sherlock. "Did he speak to either of you about Atlantis?"

"We visited him, yes," John said when Sherlock remained irritably silent. "We brought up the subject, but he didn't tell us much."

"Nothing? …Nothing at all?"

Both of them thought for a moment, remembering anything that could have-

"Why can't we just go back to Trafalgar Square?" Sherlock whined.

"I'm not going to let you put a bullet in th-" Mycroft suddenly cried out in pain. He clenched his arm in his hand, his face twisting in agony.

The man in black lounged back in his chair after he set his empty tea cup on the table and waited for his dinner to be served. He had discovered that he could accomplish everything he could before, but in a much more comfortable environment.

As he expected, Doyle survived the rudely interrupted attack. Hospitalized, he was vulnerable; this was the man in black's final opportunity.

His plan was going well until Doyle's hospital room was found empty. The last place the man in white had expected him to be, he reported, was the cafeteria. The assassin found him, but it was near the end of an interesting conversation with the eldest Holmes brother. Doyle never had the chance to enjoy his Hemlock salad.

Mycroft Holmes, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy his cake.

Having changed their route to the hospital, Mycroft was now having some sort of epileptic episode in the back seat of his car. John was trying his best to keep him calm while Sherlock spoke to him, but to no avail.

Mycroft seemed to be listening, but he was unable to respond. His limbs were growing weak, but the pain only increased. Soon, he was looking beyond them, frantically and blankly. Sherlock worried that he was losing his vision.

"Hemlock," John said to Sherlock.

"My thoughts exactly."

"He has a few hours, but…"

"We're here," Sherlock said, perhaps to Mycroft, as he allowed the emergency response to take his limp body into their care.

Doyle entered his room again, intending to get some well-deserved rest. As he removed his jacket, he noticed a tray on his bed with a plastic bowl and a glass of water.

"Thank God…"

He was starving. Mycroft told him that he couldn't order food from the cafeteria, but the cake he was eating looked-

Doyle's reverie was interrupted by the disappointment of a crispy, green salad in his bowl. Disgusted, he knocked the bowl on its side, spilling its contents on the tray and on his bed. He groaned, and continued to clean up his mess.

He first gathered the fallen leaves of lettuce on the tray into a pile and threw them back into the bowl. When he went to do the same to the pile on the bed, he noticed that what he was gathering was not, in fact, lettuce.

One particular leaf looked unusual. He took it between his fingers and smelt it-musty, mildewy scent, and nothing like lettuce.

"Hemlock," he murmured to himself. He shook his head. "These doctors are bloody mental."

The man in grey cautiously approached the man in black as he enjoyed his dinner salad.

"S-Sir?"

The man in black looked up from his dinner, "Yes?"

"Er...My-Mycroft Holmes. He...uh..."

The man in black set his fork down, "What is it?"

"He survived," the man in grey said quickly, prepared for the man in black's imminent outrage. But he only sat there, staring at the man in grey, his expression unwavering at this news.

The man in black took a sip of his wine and looked down at his half-eaten salad. "I did something wrong, Noble."

"Sovereign-"

"I want you to the the one to take my place."

The man in grey was obviously taken aback. These were words that he only dreamed of hearing. "Wh-Really?"

"I've trusted you so far," the man in black chuckled. "And given the circumstances, I don't have very many options.

"But, of course, you know of the tradition."

"...Yes, sir," the man in grey answered nervously.

"Make sure all the doors are locked."

The man in grey nodded and proceeded to do so. He had to be sure that no one would interrupt.

"The room is secure, sir."

The man in black took his last sip of wine. "It should start soon. Do you have a gun?"

"Yes, sir."

"Oh, you should know...before I die, I'm supposed to tell you that my name is David."

"...Is that your real name?"

The man in black shrugged. "I don't know. It's just tradition." He took another bite of his salad.

"What's in your salad?"

"Romaine lettuce, cherry tomatoes, something purple, and a sprinkle of Hemlock. Delicious."

The man in grey flinched as the man in black cried out and fell out of his chair. As he writhed in pain, the man in grey was not allowed to do anything but listen to the last words of the dying Sovereign. This would continue until he died, or until he ordered the Noble to shoot him.

So the man in grey listened to everything he had to say, all through strained attempts at speaking clearly. The man in grey attempted to retain as much as he could as he absorbed every secret that he never knew. The answers that he knew existed, but was never allowed to learn were now spilling out of a dying man's mouth.

The man in grey realized that this would be one of the only times in which two people knew the secrets of Atlantis.

But this did not last.

The man in black could not stand the suffering any longer. The gunshot echoed through the chamber, and the man in grey stepped around the pool of blood to reach the band the dead Sovereign wore around his wrist. He removed the grey band around his own wrist and tossed it aside, replacing it with the bloodstained symbol of his rightful supremacy.

He was now their Sovereign.

Nimhigh ~ Poison