*The Day My Brother*

by: WhiteGloves

I'm practically laughing at my own incapability of ending a chapter!

But then I was told by good ol epiffanylee there was no need to apologize :D

But really, I suck at making chapters shorter!

Still thank you for supporting till the almost end! Love you all!

Also WARNING FOR VIOLENCE! WARNING TAGS ON!

Thank you for reading the not so end of...

The Day My Brother...

10: Took a Tumble (Not so End)

Two hours later, Sherlock and John found themselves in isolation at the waiting room in one of the highest floor of the Cabinet office, with its glass walls already dyed in gold as it reflected sundown and shadows on the corners it could not reach; almost an entire day without any leads to the whereabouts of the older Holmes who had been taken in the heart of London and was never found again after a failed operation. There they sat without speaking, both faces in gloom and no shade of light for they were both facing the doorway and waiting for news.

Sherlock was immediately called back after the rescue of the Americans to face Lady Smallwood who, despite the mishap, had remained composed and had assured Sherlock his brother was going to be found. An assurance delivered by a number of additional police around the clock in all corners of London, checkpoints at all the marked areas where terrorists are believed to be sighted, and a number of busts operations on potential hiding spot for the abducted and warrant of arrests to all the high profiled individuals residing in the city, halting any feigned ignorance on the markers and taking custody of all under their watch to find clues of Mycroft Holmes who seemed to have disappeared on the surface of the earth.

"No trace was found of the vehicle that had taken him." Lady Smallwood began solemnly as she faced the two men who sat opposite her across the wooden table and black chairs, giving her dark looks and unsatisfied expressions as she met them in the same room on the early hours of Mycroft's disappearance. "And no trace of the criminal answers on the Network anymore now that they have who they wanted. But we are doing our best, we have eyes everywhere, all corners are being searched. He will be found."

"Not if you're looking on the wrong corner." Sherlock said mysteriously that left the Lady staring at him with an unreadable expression. He had been in deep thoughts the moment they took off from the scene of the crime in the helicopter. John being a full witness to his best friend's knee-jerk reaction after finding out his brother was taken— Sherlock had fallen silent, and the doctor saw sympathy from the pilot and his crewmate, but John knew that look—the look of Sherlock diving deeply into his mind palace—racing through time and space and trying to connect everything to Mycroft's fate. Within seconds it seemed he was successful as Sherlock gasped from his seat and without a word, had fled towards the crime scene where the Americans were held—like his typical self that caused bewilderment not only to the Doctor but the Detective Inspector. But John had learnt that all Sherlock's actions always had a reason, and this may be one of them. Sherlock had searched the house high and allow, inspected the underground room where they were held. Once he found his clues, he had gotten up, whispered something to Lestrade and went with John to the aircraft looking ominous. This ominous look he now held at the government worker, "One thing I've learned from my brother's job, Lady Smallwood, is that you can never trust people in it. You really think Mycroft trusted you fully when you worked together?"

John moved his eyes to his best friend with a discomfited expression that slowly turned into dawning comprehension as he pulled his eyes back to the Cabinet Officer with doubt in his eyes. Lady Smallwood was undaunted by his words.

"Trust is vital in our job, but only if it is well placed. But not when he has a reason to arrest me, no, I don't think he did." She answered quietly, full eyes on the younger Holmes, "But if I have proven myself guiltless, that is between us. And whether or not you think you can trust me depends on my sincerity that I want him found."

"The one out of many."

"And you think he trusts you?" she challenged back, although in John's part, he saw this as some form of retaliation at the former's misgivings. It was then that John recognized if there were two people on earth who could make a proper debate about Mycroft Holmes, it would be these two who knew him the most. And Lady Smallwood would be a formidable opponent. "If your conjecture is base purely on the notion that you are related by blood, then you also fall in the category of pain in the ass." John gulped while Sherlock was undeterred. "You let him down many times. You have proven yourself lethal enough for him to have you on constant surveillance all the while shouldering the whole country to protect it from you, your enemies and the rest of the world. If he had trusted you, would he have done this?"

Sherlock remained motionless, eyes set on the Lady while John tapped his fingers on his legs. She arched an eyebrow at him and sighed.

"Therefore, this is not a question of trust, Mr. Holmes, for according to your brother it is but a flimsy word for people who wants to end damaged relationships when they are burned by it. Mycroft Holmes never trusts anyone save himself. He relies on others for support, but not enough to hold them responsible. Your brother would really be giving anyone the highest honor if he trusts them with one page of his concern." At that, she looked at John Watson who blinked back at her.

"Well played." Sherlock looked away after the silence, "So saying we can never blame anyone save Mycroft?"

"I never said that. But you would also admit that your brother is not one to lay blame on anyone. You're a pretty good example of that." The two clashed with their sharp eyes till John finally tapped the table with his hand.

"All right, enough of this chitchat, you're all starting to annoy me. Mycroft's gone—what do we do?" John was feeling miffed now, especially after getting pointed out that he was one of the few that the Mycroft Holmes trusted. He could never understand the grand scale of Mycroft's occupation, only that he has mutual relationship with the older Holmes when it comes to Sherlock. Mycroft may not trust Sherlock, but the man does have a soft spot for his charismatic baby brother.

Lady Smallwood looked on the table, before at Sherlock again. "Look, you have every right to doubt us—"

"I've never done the opposite." Sherlock's eyes shone, the exact time Lady Smallwood took a deep sigh. John had his eyes bounce back and forth, till his eyes too rested on the Lady who had closed her fist on the table as if making up her mind. Till finally, she changed her pace and returned to her distant self.

"Mr. Holmes, be that as it may, I request your full cooperation in waiting for the approval of your request to have an interview with the victims. Also, Sir Geit from the Private Secretary Office of the Royal family is responsible for the welfare of our visitors and having them taken care of after their ordeal was his priority. I am afraid we are going to have to wait until they are ready."

"She's right." John breathed a sigh beside the consulting who remained silent, "It must not be easy for them."

"I have the Secret Service working tirelessly to retrieve your brother." She said next, "And whether we are working on the wrong end as you suggested, I assure you I will take responsibility that he is found."

Sherlock said nothing after that and the Lady decided it was time for her to go after checking the time. She took leave and left them, promising them news and regular updates. She stopped by the doorway long enough to look at the two again, then sensing that Sherlock Holmes was not planning to say anything anymore, she disappeared. John had automatically turned to the consulting detective.

"You suspect her?"

"Who do you think advised Mycroft on removing my gps?"

"So, she is a suspect?"

"All of them." Sherlock said scathingly as he put the tip of his fingers together with expression dark, "Observe the pattern of Mycroft's disappearances—from the hospital and after that—the lack of security is consistent even though every corner of that operation was supposed to be filled with police. The unidentified get away vehicle that seemed to have been swallowed by the earth, much like the first time when the tourists first disappeared." He put both palms together and planted his lips on his fingers, eyes unblinking and flickering, "No, I don't think I can trust the eyes of the police in this one, John. The biggest conspiracy is that something everyone can see, right in their faces, but fail to grasp because it is a fickle shadow of power-struggle only few can play."

John sat up, alert and pale. "You think… the government is behind this? All of this? Is it no longer any terrorists?"

Sherlock finally gave him a daunting look. "There's a hairline difference, John. Mycroft was a terrorist by himself, I told you he's the most dangerous man alive. Equipped with brain, authority and man power… and realizing he is The Network… he's put himself in a position only he could ever achieve. Dangerous is just the beginning… and when other power-hungry people start realizing that… they will make Magnussen look like an icing on the cake."

"But he's got amnesia! What else would they want with him?"

For the first time that night, Sherlock looked uncertain. His brows arched slowly, his face lost its remaining color and the next thing he had slid his face on his palms and a first time in admitting defeat in a whisper, "I don't know… I don't want to think about it."

John gaped with mouth hanging open, then he blurted out, "What do you mean you don't know? Of course you do! Stop being dramatic and do something! Anything! If this isn't terrorist then shouldn't we be doing something else?!"

"You haven't been listening—I didn't say they were unconnected to terrorists!" Sherlock snapped, his hands agitatedly waving in the air, his expression cross, "Stop putting a division between both! Mycroft had spent billions on purging out officials with connection to terrorism! Without support, terrorists wouldn't have funding— why do you think Mycroft's become an instant target for terrorists and wanted to eliminate him badly? Because they saw him as a threat not only in counter terrorism but from getting their supply! Terrorism wouldn't have happened without powerful insiders to begin with!"

Sherlock could not remember when he stood up, but he found himself on his feet while the doctor stared up at him with eyes wide full of disbelief. The sun was preparing to sink, creating a hue of gold that turned a red glow, rendering their shadows tall on the opposite wall, the scattered clouds unmoving and colorless.

"Are you sure?" John found his voice next, his lips drying as he flexed his fists open and close. "But why would our government initiate our country's own attack?"

Sherlock gave a derisive laugh, "I forget how naïve you are sometimes, John. You really are too gullible for this world, might as well put a tag on your head with a label, I trust humanity forever. Better yet, put a hashtag on it. What about power struggle don't you understand!? Creating an enemy, making people believe there is an enemy— why do you think it's called TERRORism?"

"Don't lecture me about terrorism, I was a soldier!" John replied with asperity—

"Doctor—" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I've seen things in war, Sherlock—don't you even think about forgetting that."

"I haven't forgotten, but you are making light of the roots of war and why we need soldiers to begin with. Death for a cause is not only the motto of soldiers, but also terrorist. And guess who's behind all of it?"

"Lives are at stake—why would anyone start something like that on their own!?"

"I do pity you sometimes," Sherlock mustered and exerted patience as he rumpled his hair, his voice raising, "your brain—as I keep telling you—so simple and no imaginations—but I don't blame you—"

"Oh, stop." John snapped this time, frowning at the obviously upset detective. "Ranting at me won't help you find your brother! But this isn't like you—normally you'd have turned every house down looking for clues—"

"Why do you think we're here?" Sherlock's eyes glinted, "We're going to topple the highest building there is!"

If getting your head covered up with black sack, getting gagged in the process while your already injured arm was tied behind you was the life of the old Mycroft Holmes, Mycroft right now would have at least prepared himself psychologically and braced himself. But then, he wouldn't have known how to prepare, any knowledge of the old him had gone down the drain when he was first attacked, and any defense for this kind of warfare was unknown to him, all of these was new to him. So, he was quite scared to be honest, and the throbbing pain on his shoulder was not helping at all. Old Mycroft Holmes would have plenty of assurance to himself, but the old him was plain blank and he was already nauseated with the sickening pain—all he could think of was the pain. What defense was there left for him? What was he to do?

The moment he was taken, he knew he was drugged immediately upon capture and was shut off on the trunk of a car. That was how he found himself the moment he woke up with a spinning head with cloth all over his face, a gag on his mouth, stuck in the darkness in a small compartment that made his heart skip a beat anxiously. He didn't try knocking on the compartment for his wounded shoulder was stuck under him and he could not move properly without extraneous effect on his painful side. The car drove for hours before he felt the wheels slowed down, then on a full stop it shuddered and was then lifeless. In the darkness, Mycroft laid still, listening attentively to any movements from the outside. There was not even a talk, and everything was still that he thought they may have forgotten him. Then after a few more minutes the sound of the trunk getting opened alerted his ears and he tried to see if there would be any light but there was none.

Without warning he was grabbed roughly on his good shoulder and was pulled up, half dragging him out of the car onto the outside, where his feet nervously tried to find grounds to step on that he tripped plenty of times, his knees weak and buckling under him. There was no exchange of words, but he was pulled, and another man took his other shoulder that sent an electrifying agony all over his body. Nobody cared that his bad shoulder was still in its cask—and Mycroft didn't think of reminding them at all for he knew his position well enough.

A captive.

It was quite hard to manage to think with an extreme pain on the shoulder that was making his eyes watery, especially when they dragged him on a number of stairs. He had went up and down some staircases, wondering if the earth has a hole deep enough to have so much of it. Everything was cold when the floor got even, and that was when someone spoke harshly about why he was not tied. It was there and then that his cask was stripped unkindly, yanked back forcefully that he let out a groan, and was bound tightly with big ropes. Mycroft's whole body shook at the sensation that nearly had him pass out, but he was pushed forward, sending his already throbbing body against the cold stone as he took a tumble, his head aching terribly, his chest heaving in short warm breathes caused by the unremoved sack on his head. His whole body was already soaking wet; and the dense and murky feeling around was not making his heart feel any better. Then he heard chains and felt a cold metallic one clamp on his right ankle. Mycroft didn't move, so absorbed he was to contain the cry of pain already at the tip of his lips. He at least wouldn't give them the satisfaction of his suffering. There he crumpled, his knees about his stomach, stifling and shaking.

As he heard hinges closed and the shutting of the door, Mycroft dreadfully knew it was just the beginning.

Sherlock slumped back on his chair and buried his face on his palm once more and didn't speak, feeling somewhat restless for some reason as the hours ticked by, darkness all around them as it had been many hours since the sun was gone. Lady Smallwood returned one last time to report about the identified car lost at the edge of England and how it had been empty. John actually expected Sherlock to stand up and demand to see the car, only to find his best friend close his eyes in a fashion that was so unlike him. When he didn't say anything, the Lady offered them some place to stay the night and when the offer was ignored, she gracefully made an exit and promised to see them again first thing in the morning.

That was hours ago and still here was John and Sherlock, waiting with the consulting detective refusing to interact with anyone who came in in between the wait—from the different personnel who delivered them news and food, which remained untouched on the younger Holmes' side. John remained with him, only leaving the room to check on Mrs. Hudson and Rosie. He fell asleep too on one of the couches on the corner and woke up to find Sherlock still on the same position with eyes glinting in the dark. Once he tried to rouse the consultant detective into another conversation in the middle of the night, after taking coffee from the secretary that came in.

"You need to sleep."

"I'm thinking." Sherlock retorted softly. John grinned as he remembered something else.

"Still can't get over the fact that Mycroft was the Phonetic who controlled your Homeless Network for a while?"

"Only because he wanted to lead me to the Americans when he realized he was the one manipulating my Homeless Network in the past." The consulting detective closed his eyes. "I wouldn't put it pass him, he did infiltrate The Network. Compare to it, my Homeless Network is but a speck in the eye. He's become more like himself when he stepped on his old shoes with Smallwood, manipulating people at will."

"You gave him no choice since you shut him in the flat with surveillance all over him. Of course, he's bound to run amok."

For the first time, Sherlock chuckled. "Just when I'm the one acting sane for the two of us."

"Yeah? I wouldn't call it sane." John kept his eyes at his friend who slowly opened his eyes and met his gaze which made the doctor shrug. "If Mycroft had been in your position, he would've used any means to act rationally and that means to work together like Lady Smallwood said."

"You're saying I'm wrong?"

"I'm saying is… you acted human. Don't blame yourself for choosing what you think is right, that's the Sherlock I know who's never failed me. It's not wrong to shield Mycroft from his responsibilities once in a while. It's a good change."

Sherlock looked away the moment he understood his friend's meaning and John had to half smile and let silence consume them for a while. In John's eyes, it was unfair to say that only Mycroft went on drastic changes after losing his memory. Somehow his pacing has affected Sherlock the most, on almost a parallel level. It made Sherlock more mature but that's what happens to people who find themselves with something they wish to protect.

John shook his head and rubbed his tired eyes after half an hour, clocking in that it was half past one in the morning.

"Did you take a tumble? What's taking your thinking so long? Can't make up your mind if it's the government or the terrorists to destroy first?"

"I'm killing two birds at once." But his tone was dark and the doctor knew his mind was far from the terrorist and government, he has long made a decision about it. All that was left now was his one clue—that one clue to get Mycroft back. But amidst the wait, there was one thing that was ever on his best friend's mind. John fell silent again and only watched his friend with only the lamps on the side illuminating their faces.

"They won't hurt Mycroft, right?"

"I don't know."

"You think the Americans would be able to help?"

A glance from Sherlock told John he had been wrong all along.

"Who gave you the idea I wanted to talk to the Americans?"

The hinges creaked and his door was thrown open.

Icy cold water was splashed on Mycroft's whole body on the wee hours of the night. He let out a groan that was drowned by another splashed, coupled with a few kicks on his stomach with the last one sending him back viciously that set his back hitting the opposite wall, his breath almost getting knocked out of him. He crumpled in pain and coughed incessantly, his body burning anew with taste of blood on his lips. Then out of nowhere, he heard steps come close to him that all he could do was bite on his gag as he felt hands clawed on his injured shoulder and grabbed him—unchained his ankle and then dragged him outside, up on to the stones steps with the worst head ache and pain all over his surprised body.

Just when he thought the stones wouldn't stop knocking on his beaten feet, he felt the ground go steady and he was lead into the light. Something outside his veiled sight seared with light and the next thing he knew he was walking on a carpeted floor. Directed towards left and right, it was moments before he was pushed on a wooden chair where the air-conditioning was better on his skin. Trying his best to sat straight as he felt company was around him, he took a deep breathe, exactly as someone grabbed the tip of the sack on his head and pulled it up swiftly, showering his eyes with blinding light and letting cool breeze touch his otherwise burning cheeks. They took his gag too, making him lick his lips and taste fresh blood.

It took a moment for Mycroft to adjust, as the pain kept nagging on his flesh, his heart pounding in its position, then finally seeing that he was surrounded with five men at most, all wearing black suits and ties. The older Holmes looked left to right and saw a large room with tall windows hidden behind long red curtains. He was in the middle of it all, with a small table in front of him. At the end of the room, a large table was positioned with books, monitor, tall shelves on the wall with hundreds of hardbound books, a gorgeous chandelier at the top of their heads and old paintings from the renaissance age. A tall man was sitting comfortably on the couch with grey thinning hair on his head was easily recognized as tonight's villain. He was the leader; his body posture had said so. He was much older than Mycroft, but the older Holmes knew who he was. He had studied everything about the terrorist case at hand and had seen this man's hand in all of them. Whether they knew each other personally or not remained to be seen, but Mycroft found something deep within him that was different from his earlier fear. It was anger.

This was a government official. This man was supposedly working with him for the benefit of the greater many. A man positioned by the Commonwealth to abide the rules of their land. Now nothing but a traitor!

"Mr. Holmes," said the older man with his blue eyes twinkling triumphantly, and though he may sound delighted, there was something about a hidden flicker in his eyes that set Mycroft on the edge. "We've met again. Who would have thought it would be under these dangerous circumstances?"

Mycroft remained still, eyes boring on his captor who smiled at his reaction, the edge of his white moustache tipping up in his amusement, his smile not reaching his eyes. He was simply having fun and Mycroft, still not sure of this man's goal, ogled at the old man with some apprehension. There was something sadistic in those blue eyes, something was off with the man from the beginning.

"Oh, where are my manners." he said articulately, standing up and heading towards Mycroft's table and stopping just close enough opposite him, the delight in his cold eyes unconcealable, "I heard you have had an amnesia? It must be so disorienting to find yourself in such a position when you remember nothing at all? Not even me? Isn't that convenient? Your newly found disability might just be able to save you. You can thank me later for that attack." Mycroft said nothing, his eyes seeing everything from the golden clip on the man's tie and the golden signet ring on his finger as he pulled a chair near him and sat opposite the older Holmes, "There is no reason to hide facts, isn't it, Mr. Holmes? I let you see me, I let you in my house not because I'm confident of my security, but because I don't plan of letting you out at all."

And Mycroft believed him as he gave the man a hard look, his perspiration already mounting on his wet face, his whole body cold and shivering but nothing could make his soul quiver than this man's words. Yes, this was a man who's known the works of politics from the outset. An old man that had grown so much with such power he believed everything was under his control. Someone who delights at the thought of eliminating opponents on daily basis… a real politician.

Mycroft pressed his lips and merely stared at him, sensing that this was not going to end very nicely for him. What was it that he saw under the profile of the old man when he was browsing through them? Necessary evil? Looking at the man now he could see evil, but necessary?

When the old man recognized the uncertainty that clouded Mycroft's countenance, he explained in such a manner as if entertaining a guest to one of his most enthralling stories, "Don't give me that look, I do not plan on killing you… no, as a matter of fact, you just became my biggest advantage. I know all of your endeavors. You've been a prominent figure in the government ever since you came. You think I didn't notice your rise to power, did you? But you've become troublesome for some time now and I decided, if I could not have you to side with me, might as well get rid of you all together. It seems unfair that you only get to have such latent power over everything. The power I ever wanted."

The older Holmes sat in his full height, his unfriendly eyes set upon the visage of the old man who had been so wrapped up by his hunger for power that he resorted on lowly crimes. If the government was to be lead by people like this who could not control their thirst for power, what then of its people?

"I am simply doing my best to serve the country as I see fit." he said simply, reverting to his calm self and surprising even him as he did his best to act himself, "The power on my hands are not meant for the kinds of you."

Richard's blue eyes flickered. "I see. So even with your… amnesia… you still refuse my offer? I thought this would be easier… Well, look at you, all wet and cold… hurt even. It doesn't need to stay like that. We don't need to make our relationship like this, Mr. Holmes—Mycroft? Can I call you Mycroft? Call me Richard if you will." When Mycroft didn't reply to this engagement, the old man shrugged his shoulders and leaned back on his chair casually, but his eyes were unhappy. "Look, no one in this room likes to hurt you… and I expect your smart enough recognize the position you are in?"

"I'm in a terrorist's house, obviously." Mycroft couldn't help himself that caused the old man to stop and nod.

"True." In a blink of an eye, Richard had leaned forwards the table, making Mycroft move back an inch to keep his flushed face from knocking his own. And the old man said with some vigor, with some jubilance that he was so sure of himself, "But I also know something about you… You are The Network."

Mycroft didn't make any motion to confirm this nor deny it at all which only brought grin on the old man's face.

"You control the motion of terrorism in half the sphere of the world. You are the supreme terrorist, as I have been told by many of my connections. With your talent, Mycroft Holmes, I could govern the entire world without them knowing, only in the shadows. All the world governments will be under my mercy—and you, my boy is the only one capable of that. Work for me. I will give you anything you need. I've known about your existence behind the government even before that Jim Moriarty fiasco. The shadow man hiding behind the image of M. To think that the fearsome foe governing all government was a simple man from the Cabinet office whom I've shared meetings from time to time. I had planned to get rid of you when I realized what you truly are. You weren't meant to survive, you know. But here we are."

Mycroft knew it was coming out of him, and he was right because he was loathed not to say it out loud just to spite the old man— "And if I say no?"

All the color in the old man's face was drained by his simple words, and Mycroft could just imagine how his hopes and aspirations came tumbling off the cliff which was to his satisfaction. The next thing a loud snap was heard as the government official slapped Mycroft's face so hard it nearly broke his neck. A jolt forward, and he found himself nearly strangled as Richard closed his long, bony fingers on his collar and pulled him up to his face, his blue eyes no more shiny but wild and thundering.

"It is not for you to decide." He hissed with malice, his expression twisted and vile, "No one will ever find you here. No one expects you to be under my very house, you are a prisoner. No one knows who you are anyway, you've been working in the shadows and has completely removed your presence from the cycle of those who will be missed. No one's going to be looking for you. Work for me and I shall give you a fair trade."

Despite the new scorching sensation on his beaten cheek and the fresh blood sliding on his chin, Mycroft smiled.

"I'd rather die than work for leeching mongrels like you."

Darkness veiled the blue eyes, and Mycroft was thrown back into the arms of his guards.

"We'll see about that." Richard was no more his exuberant self, but there was still his twisted smile, "Throw him in the dungeons and make sure he changes his mind by morning."

They began dragging Mycroft who had lost his strength at how his injured shoulder was being handled. When he looked back as they exited by the door, he found Richard talking to one of the guards as he wiped his hands with a white cloth, eyes of daggers to the henchman who was obviously the man who had tortured Mycroft because of his soaked pants and sleeves, and told him eerily:

"Break him."

"Sherlock… Sherlock!"

John tried to grab his best friend back by the shoulder but the consulting detective merely brushed him away as they strode in the corridor the first thing in the morning as agents filled the corridor carrying folders and briefcases. Sherlock paid them no heed as some of them clearly recognized him and his small companion, wading through uniformed people of black suits and making their way to the room pointed by their latest sender of message. The person they have been waiting for has arrived.

"Sherlock, wait. You mean to say the victim you're after is the guy who had switched with Mycroft on his operation? The guy who had sons taken from him?"

"Yes. That's why I said Mycroft wasn't ready for this job." Sherlock said as he dodged people blocking his way, "Awakening from amnesia, he's like a walking instinct of human care in his system like it's been let loose."

"In short, he's become a real human?"

"No, my brother became an idiot." Sherlock snapped. "You can't work in the government if you're easily manipulated by your canine emotions, John." The room they were looking for was just around the corner and the consulting detective made haste, leaving the doctor on his wake.

"Hey—wait!" John called again but too late, as the consulting detective found the door the were aiming for and shot towards it, even the guards standing outside failed to stop him—

"I've waited long enough." Sherlock announced brusquely as the door opened to a white walled room with one side of glass window at the far corner. A long table was set up on the table and on it were five people, one being Lady Smallwood, one her secretary, and three were a tall, darkened man with two children on either side of him. They all looked up the moment the consulting detective came in with alert eyes, and when John had followed behind, he could already hear Lady Smallwood making an introduction.

"Mr. Finn, I believe you know Sherlock Holmes, a consulting detective. Also, the younger brother of Mycroft Holmes."

Mr. Finn looked up full of anticipation at Sherlock who remained standing near the edge of the table, eyes transfixed at the man whom he heard was the reason Mycroft abandoned all protocols for his safety for the safety of this man's children. His eyes then fell on the young boys gawking up at him like they've never seen anyone so tall and so intriguing. Sherlock blinked and turned his eyes back on the father who quickly drew his attention.

"You are Sherlock Holmes?"

"He doesn't know you." John muttered in spite of himself but Sherlock had turned and sat on the chair opposite him.

"Yes."

"He has given a complete account of the abduction of his children from the moment they were taken in their school to the van that held him hostage till Mycroft arrived," Lady Smallwood made clear as she nodded at the boys, "If you want to read the whole thing, here are the documents—"

But nobody paid her heed as Sherlock saw Mr. Finn's eyes were intent on him.

"I have something for you." And he proceeded on rummaging something inside his pockets. Sherlock exchanged looks with John while Lady Smallwood was looking mildly curious too, "Your brother requested that I give it to you before we made the trade for my sons. He hastily made it from the paper I gave him where the address of the Americans was found. I hope it helps in finding him."

He placed something on the table, it was a small, crumpled paper with one word in it. Sherlock barely showed any emotion but John observed the sparkle on his eyes when he reached for the tiny paper and read its content.

"Pinochet."

"I don't know what that means." Mr. Finn admitted with a sigh but his own opinion had no effect on the other people within the vicinity. For one thing, Lady Smallwood had found Sherlock Holmes looking at her as he saw that she too recognized its meaning and the hard features that etched her face only confirmed Sherlock's suspicion.

Mycroft could not remember the last time he was left alone, but he would give anything for it. The moment he was returned to his cell, he was immediately beaten by six brutal feet, all directed on his body and he couldn't protect himself for his arms were tightly bound behind him—

Each kick was tearing his insides that had gone numb with pain, his head pounding on all sides. He wanted to get away from their reach, to shy away at the farthest corner but his back was plastered on the wall, his feet chained to the ground. He coughed blood plenty of times and it was returned by another splash of cold water on his face till he was soaking with perspiration, blood and dirty water. They were relentless, stopping only to check if he was still breathing which he wished he wasn't. He wished everything about him was numb, wished that the spikes of pain that would come searing from everywhere would just go, but they never stopped coming.

It came to a point where Mycroft was only praying that everything was over. His head was aching terribly still and the assault on his body was too much that rendered his unconscious. The next time he woke up, another bolt of pain had shot through his shoulder as someone had carelessly grabbed his injured shoulder, dragged him into the light where he saw, behind his bruised eyes, that his captor in his expensive blue suit was standing at the bottom of the stairs with a wide smile on his lips. Mycroft was made to kneel in front of him, his breathings uneven as dizziness hit him.

"Have I come now to hear a positive answer?" came the man's jolly voice. "Have we come now to realize who holds absolute power, Mycroft?"

Mycroft had no strength to look him in the eye, let alone have any tiring exchange. But he did see that the man was wearing such shiny black shoes that sparkled under the lone lamp above his head. Feeling much distaste that Richard thought he would break easily after mere hours, he mustered his energy and spat blood on the man's shoes.

Rage met his action and he was drove to the ground, the old man's feet digging on his injured shoulder that he let out a cry of pain, his eyes blurring and before he knew it everything had turned dark.

"Pinochet is a code word for the capture of government officials." Lady Smallwood explained when her secretary had taken the Finns outside and she was left with John and Sherlock in the room, "It has been used by Mycroft many times as a final cue to anyone in the government who has affiliation with terrorist. An official who would received this code knows automatically that he had been caught in the net and will be subjected to answer in the Cabinet hearing. It is an official's worst nightmare, but then no one knows of this word except Mycroft, Sir Edwin and myself. Only those connected in the Network knows it means attack but once uttered outside, or upon a single message, its meaning is for Mycroft alone. If your brother makes use of this code and gave it to you as a final clue, then it only means he is certain that someone in the government is behind the atrocities in the past. What more, someone working closely with terrorists' activities, which would mean the Cabinet, Department of Defense and Home Secretary." She lowered her eyes, "I must speak with Sir Edwin regarding this progress."

"But how come Mycroft knows that?" John was itching to know.

"He's read his files." Lady Smallwood remarked with eyebrows raising, "How long do you think it took him to master The Network and finish all volumes of our cases for the past five years?"

"So, three Departments?" Sherlock said, almost at once as he eyed her, "How vulnerable is the Cabinet?"

"After the fiasco with my… secretary," she cleared her throat but John merely glanced away, "We have been very vigilant with the people we let in our meetings. No one in the Cabinet is bound to be a traitor now. Sir Edwin has been gone for a while now, he's been with the Royal family in the absence of Mycroft and been dealing with other officials."

"Department of Defense and the Home Secretary then." John piped to clear the atmosphere, exactly as Lady Smallwood nodded and they heard the door's knob was opened.

"Just in time then, for he's arrived with the Americans. I told you he wouldn't let them see anyone until they are perfectly capable of calming down."

John and Sherlock both turned as the door swung open, and there came another man, leading three Americans behind him. He was an old man of sixties with thinning white hair and dull blue eyes, matched on his blue three-piece suit and shiny black shoes. He came in with a huge smile on his lips, the golden clip on his tie flashing at the lamp light from the ceiling. Sherlock saw him come and watched as his eyes fell to all of them as if a champion of the generation. He was one of those senior politicians that demands authority, yet behind all of that, Sherlock couldn't be mistaken.

A wolf beneath a sheep's clothing.

-LAST TO BE CONTINUED-

~I PROMISE~

A/N: AHhhh AHHHHhhh ahhhh!

Let this be the last one!

Thank you for Reading!