The East wind is coming...
"Sherlock?"
The detective opened his eyes as he heard his friend's voice call to him.
Focusing, he found himself still seated by the helicopter's chair with noises of aircrafts in the background and John Watson watching him who stood leaning by.
"You okay?" John asked with furrowed brows, his ever kind eyes full of concern. "We've landed."
Sherlock took one glance outside his window and then shot a look at the chair opposite him where he last saw his brother sitting now empty.
And Sherlock shot up like he was electrified that nearly knocked the doctor as he stood up, eyes glancing around the open door and jumping down. A whirl from his mind palace reminded him of that empty chair back in Baker Street where his brother had sneaked in his memory while playing dead—
He scanned the military base high and low from the high covered ceiling to the different jets and other aircrafts stowed around inside a very large compound—to the different military personnel walking around until his eyes finally fell on the familiar individual with his back on him while talking to ranked officer meters away.
Eyes narrowing, he marched towards Mycroft with John right behind him. He hadn't taken many steps when the detective spun around to face his friend and nearly collided with him again—
"Stop doing that—" John breathed crossly.
"Don't mention anything about the note earlier." Sherlock started quietly.
"Why?" John's eyes narrowed. "That note doesn't seem like a hoax to me."
"Because it isn't." The detective's eyes never left his friend's. "Something big is coming, John. It's something I'm very familiar with but will still be unable to stop it. Don't mention it to Mycroft, not yet. We'll wait and see."
"So he knows about this Sherrinford too?"
"Central figure."
"But who is he?"
Sherlock stared at his friend, seemingly lost for a moment then— tried casually to throw the words out—
"Our eldest brother."
John's face dropped.
"What!?" he cried just as Sherlock headed straight to his brother again. When the message seemed to sink in, he ran after the detective quickly. "Sherlock— when you said 'eldest brother'—"
"It's exactly that—"
"W-where'd he come from?!"
"No idea—"
"What do you mean no idea—he's your brother!"
"What—you think I know where Mycroft is most of the time?"
"Oh, yes, you do—I know you have your networks following him around London every time— just like with me—I ought to know, I read your messages before—because you were using my phone!" He added in defence when Sherlock threw him a dirty look.
"And you'll also know that half of them are caught in half a day."
"Well, that's Mycroft for you. But this other guy—where'd he come from and why's he threatening you when he's supposed to be your brother?"
"Runs in the family."
"Sherlock—"
"He jumped out of nowhere, that's for sure." With eyes glinting forward, the detective quickened his pace, "And if I haven't seen this slip with my own eyes I wouldn't have believed it. Mycroft's been keeping personal things, I see."
"You're making it sound like he came back from the grave." The doctor remarked as he shook his head, "What'd he do this entire time? Hide in the countryside like a squire? Hide from many wives? He can't be an international criminal or something?"
Sherlock's jaw tightened that made John's eyes widen and throw a look forward to Mycroft, his face all contorted—
"Jesus—!" he began again with mouth gaping open. "What the hell's with you and your brothers... as if one isn't enough already!"
When no humour came on the detective's face, the doctor's flabbergasted expression turned sour.
"Go ask Mycroft—"
"No."
"No?! Sherlock this is both your problem!"
"That's what I'd like to think but I don't know about my brother." Sherlock suddenly had that conflicted glint in his eyes and went on, "I'll give Mycroft a chance to spit it out— or I can surprise him, but dealing with our eldest isn't like shooting a fish in a barrel. And Mycroft. You don't know Mycroft—"
"Oh, I think I've had my fair share, thank you."
"—when it comes to our eldest he's always been a beast."
"You're making me nervous."
"Really? I thought you'd be thrilled—Mycroft sent our eldest brother to jail."
Poor John had lost all his expression saved a dumbfounded look.
"Your eldest brother is that bad?" he then hissed in disbelief that only made the detective raise an eyebrow.
"He's pure evil genius that one... his return? Doesn't bode well for the youngsters."
"What—vendetta?"
"Too dramatic." Sherlock muttered, "No, it means he's paying attention to us again by sending that note—what does it mean? It means he's been monitoring our movements since Belfast—and worst case scenario he's got a helping hand on those events. It's not beyond him."
"Don't tell me he's got something to do with Mycroft's abduction?"
Sherlock now paused this time as he glanced back at his friend with a severe expression.
"That barely touched the surface."
John stared at the detective quietly who moved on with hands on his pockets.
"But what does he want?" the doctor blurted next as he followed again—
Sherlock's eyes flickered.
"Blood."
John's expression was reproachful.
"Now act natural. Don't say a word." Sherlock advised last as he glanced down at his scowling friend, "Ah, yes that's natural." They reached Mycroft's back who glanced behind him with all eyebrows up, before looking back at the Commander and nodding his head.
"Report what you find."
"Yes, Mr. Holmes." And the commander exited with a curt nod.
Mycroft turned to the two a little slowly. Sherlock and John looked back at him still frowning.
"Looks like you're back to full power." The detective began casually with a little compression of lips.
"Looks like you've finally decided to talk." Mycroft observantly said as he surveyed his brother, "You were uncharacteristically silent during the travel I thought you must've wanted to say something but was holding back."
He raised questioning eyes at the detective that made John bit his lip and for Sherlock to glower—Mycroft sure knows how to read his brother like the back of his hand.
Sherlock pressed his lips.
"What are your plans now?"
"That's a broad question—naturally I'll need to sort out all the entangled mess left by these colossal events. It won't take awhile." Mycroft sighed as he looked around the vicinity and then back to his brother. There was some seriousness in his eyes as he and Sherlock exchanged looks. "There will be some dark business about but you shouldn't concern yourself about it anymore brothermine. Your duty to the country has already been acknowledged—"
"I didn't do it for the country." Sherlock snapped sharply that made the older Holmes smile—and it could be the trick of the light but this smile was different than his usual sarcastic one.
It was warm and pleased.
"I know." He nodded and cleared his throat quick, the blank slate dead pan emotion returning to his face, eyebrow rose. "So I'll be relieving you of your duties and send you back to Baker Street at once where you can finally rest at peace now that your brother's alright. I'll take it from here—"
"Nope."
Mycroft's eyebrow raised another notch with his chin slowly rising too.
"No?" he tones up testily. "I already prepared a separate transportation to send you both back—"
"Why are you in a hurry to get rid of me?" The younger Holmes looked sullenly at his brother who blinked back.
"I'm not really—"
"We're coming, Mycroft." John cleared his throat and had to bear with the sharp look the older Holmes gave him.
"For goodness sake—"
"I want to see this to the end." Sherlock didn't blink, his glinting eyes directed at his older brother. "There are many questions still unanswered in this play. And you know how I love playing your games."
Mycroft's face darkened. "There isn't a game."
"Then why are you still playing?" The detective's face clouded as he took a step forward.
Mycroft narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.
"Fine..." he said as if uncertain, "there is still this case about the government official I need to fry out anyway."
John flinched at the term.
Sherlock gave a nod. "I know the guy."
"But I hardly need help just to catch a small fish." The older Holmes suddenly pressed his fake smile. "Why don't you just take a rest?"
"Ergo back to the first argument. I don't need rest." he added with gritted teeth.
The British Government head painstakingly gave a long pause almost making the two slowly feel the gravity of his refusal when both parties know it was futile.
"If we're speaking of resting, why don't you try some?" John's faithful doctor side put out.
The older Holmes gave the man his favourite eyebrow, "I can hardly wait. But there are things that should take precedence. Sleeping on it wouldn't be the wiser choice."
"Then can we just go and crack on again?" John meddled again as he nodded his head to a black sedan that just glided its way inside the military base. "I have a wife and child to babysit you know." And he marched towards the car, leaving the two brothers still standing face to face with Mycroft eyeing his brother narrowly.
"You're getting carried away, brothermine. Do you plan to tag along everywhere I go now? Normally you try to be discreet when you send your people to follow me around."
"Because of your oversight." Sherlock's lips thinned as he shoved past his brother with his right hand closed into a fist, crumpling the slip of paper he had been aching to shove under his older brother's face but was also adamant in his own way.
"Oversight?" Mycroft repeated the words hotly as he followed his brother with his eyes looking offended. "What are you—?"
Sherlock whirled around in blatant agitation.
"Spit it out—someone else is here—something is going on!"
Mycroft was frowning now.
"Well..." he began with some mystery, "What do you think it is?"
And Sherlock knew his brother was not planning to let him know whatsoever.
Big mistake. It's not like Sherrinford will play the rules like Mycroft anyways.
If he was not willing to share, then it was up to Sherlock to wreck the stone cold wall again. He was not meant to abide any rules not when they were in danger.
The detective walked away after one final look.
"Absolutely no idea."
A man hurried along the corridor of the large Parliament Office in quick strides with face in a split grin of victory.
He just heard the most exciting news of his career.
That one— the Ministry of Defence Secretary, Right Honourable—was under question by the new Prime Minister after the subsequent events of terrorism in the country: the terror attack in London and Mycroft Holmes' publicly announced abduction and betrayal. Word has it the man had given Britain away to the terrorist that had sent plenty of countries and different organizations to raise alarms and view Britain as a treacherous entity. There was even one rumour that included a closed door meeting with different embassies claiming that this Mycroft Holmes was part of the terrorist cells from the beginning and was really a spy.
Mycroft Holmes, the mole in the Britain government.
It spread like wildfire.
But that wasn't why he was excited and triumphant. Yes, he had always wanted to destroy Mycroft Holmes' reputation. Nobody should be able to control the government like he did. At least, not him. He was just one of those clever blokes who see the government as a medium of power while the likes of him crumble under their loyal scrutiny.
But what else is there to worry? Mr. Holmes' name had no more value to the current government and wherever he was in his ill-fated trials in Northern Ireland, dead or alive, it was already impossible for him to undo the damaged that had been done.
Oh, how he wanted to shriek and laugh and celebrate more.
Then there was this other news that was his haven—that a prospect new Secretary of Defence was to be named if the Right Honourable's not able to defend his futility. Didn't he just receive summon from the office of the Prime Minister? Why else would they call him?
A snicker had escaped his lips but first he needed to make a short detour to his office.
Might as well highlight his proficiency to the Minister.
He quickly opened the door and shut it with a snap without bothering to turn on the lights. It was the middle of the afternoon and the parliament was quite hot with only the curtain drapes blocking the light. He didn't bother pulling them off either and navigated his way to his very familiar quarters and went straight to his desk where his laptop was and opened his drawer.
He pulled a few papers and continued searching till finally he found one document he was looking for. Taking it up, he closed the drawer of his desk and straightened, eyes transfixed on the file and was about to leave when something on his desk caught his eye.
A tiny blue box on top of his shut laptop.
The man paused at length that turned into a confused scowl as he slowly reached for the box. Then like it was a natural thing to do he opened it even though he knew it would be empty.
It wasn't.
A piece of paper greeted his eyes and the content made him gasp and drop the box on the floor as if he was electrocuted. He stared at the paper on the floor in horror for there written on it was his computer password.
Looking up quickly to his laptop, the man threw himself on his chair and turned it on—half expecting it to show his regular sky blue main frame with his unlogged account on it—
Again, it wasn't.
Instead it opened up dialogue window after window that contained videos of what he recognized to be CCT recordings of his recent encounters with people he thought he had erased to all CCTV main hold. He saw photos of himself too and his house, the photo of his own office and his meetings with the cabinet members, secretaries and other individuals he shouldn't be caught meeting. On another folder there were recordings and playing one he realised... it was his tapped phone calls.
Unnerved, the man let go of his keyboards and sat straight with perspiration on his face, his eyes looking wild and his breathing irregular. Then with a flicker of his eyes, he grabbed his laptop and clicked on till he erased all the data—
"You don't really think erasing data would make it irretrievable, do you?"
A deep voice said from one corner of his quarter that made him quickly look up, alert to the sudden presence of an intruder. And the man's eyes fell on a shadow whose eyes glinted in the dark like blades hidden in the shadows, sharp and daunting with his voice lucid and grave.
The man slowly stood up with horror etched on his face, followed by a fierce look—
"Who are you? How did you get in?"
"Let's not bore ourselves with the obvious. I think you know who I am." He revealed himself and once he did, the man by the desk uttered a curse for it was none other than Sherlock Holmes. "I've been following you for half an hour now—"
"I—I didn't see anyone—"
"That's what you should expect when I follow you." Sherlock said easily, his dark eyes unblinking, making the man swallow hard in confusion.
"And why are you following me? I could have you arrested for trespass and harassment!" barked the angry man agitatedly with fist closed, his eyes flaring but the detective merely shrugged.
"Sure do that. Save me the trouble of showing them half the incriminating evidence against you—which oh—by the way, isn't the only copy."
"Why you—"
"Not so smart, are you?" Sherlock a pressed a devious smile that made the man watch him apprehensively.
"W-what do you want? If you want money..." the man went on as he shut his laptop close like doing so would lessen his exposure only—Sherlock merely glanced at the laptop without any reaction.
"I don't want anything from you, Mr. Undersecretary." Sherlock then said and the man straightened up, his old face shown, his suit wrinkled as he crouched by his chair, his watery pale blue eyes looking weak as ever. The man whom Sherlock had met a week ago inside Anthea's office who had come barging in and demanding for the situation of Mycroft Holmes be stamped at once—all part of his ploy.
The Undersecretary of the Ministry of Defence was muted unlike their previous encounter. Sherlock smirked as he stepped forward.
"Although there is that curious case of your ring which I'd really like to explore."
The Undersecretary unconsciously reached a hand on his ring, his eyes widening that only made Sherlock smile even more as he stepped forward again, his eyes not leaving his prey and the glinting gem on the man's ring hand as he remembered it all too well.
"Such an exceptional gem you have—and not just any rare gem—but the world's rarest and most beautiful gemstone."
He took another step forward that made the old man slunk at the back of his table, eyes wavering at the detective whose eyes glinted.
"When we first met I said it was given to you by a man during a celebration. What sort of celebration could it be when another man gives a ring to another?My first impression was infidelity but no— you bore the mark of a doting father and you fear your wife. So it was not out of sentiment that it was given to you—it was a trade. Now what could possibly compel another person to trade such an item—the symbol of power and desirability, a Zultanite?"
Sherlock paused long, a smile of triumph almost touching his lips.
"And to a person who holds such a title as you... what could they possibly want from you? The answer was simple. You as the Undersecretary of Defence— they want your power to manipulate soldiers in the shadow—to control from this side of battle while their target goes in circles, isolated and left to his fate. That was your bargain. But you were actually killing two birds with one stone once Mycroft Holmes was taken out of the picture."
A long pause that seemed to be filled with intensity.
"It was you." Sherlock finished with a deep sigh, all to control himself as he surveyed his object of resentment.
"I—I don't know what the blazes you're talking about." the Undersecretary's voice faltered as he saw the look on the detective's face.
"Then would it be a coincidence," Sherlock's face glowered further and his eyes flashed dangerously, "that this stone you wear is only mined in one particular country... the world's only source and depositor... Turkey?"
The Undersecretary shook his head, eyes wide.
"That so happens to be worn by the same man chasing my brother to death's end." The detective's mind's eye remembered Serςe as he gazed at the gemstone. An unexplainable dislike came to his face as Sherlock looked up at the old man again. "But it hardly matters now. He's already safe and having a word with the Prime Minister about your mischief. You didn't think they would really summon you to replace the Secretary of Defence, did you?"
"W-what...?"
The room door opened and John came in, followed by a number of the Secret Service in dark suits.
Sherlock watched the Undersecretary's hands fall down on his sides helplessly with that magnificent jewel on his possession still not losing its beauty despite being in the wrong hands. Not even when the same hands wore handcuff bracelets.
Sherlock and John stood side by side as he was taken away with his laptop confiscated and the Secret Service made a thorough clean up on his things.
"Not one ready to bite anymore, is he?" the doctor muttered as he crossed his arms and looked at the Undersecretary being taken away.
"All bark no bite." Sherlock replied and looked at the doctor. "Where's Mycroft?"
"With the Prime Minister... an hour ago." John added thoughtfully.
"Hello, little brother." Mycroft's voice said coolly on his phone while inside his dark sedan now wearing his favourite dark three-piece-suit, blue neck tie with a tight clip in the middle, a purple handkerchief and of course, his pocket watch—he was geared for battle. "I'm assuming you have wrapped up the business with the small fry? Such minor character doesn't need us both worked up on his case. An hour should have sufficed, I should think."
"Where are you?" came his younger brother's edgy voice that made Mycroft press a smile.
"Stop it, brothermine. Am I under your protective custody now?"
"Consider it free of charge." There was sarcasm there.
"I'm surprised you didn't realise about the zultanite when you first met him." Mycroft's casual, mocking tone was typical when a change of topic was necessary. "And I thought it would even ring a bell."
"What are you talking about?"
"Didn't you know? Turkish gem distributors advise against purchasing Zultanite in Turkey because locals tend to counterfeit it so most of the gemstone found there is cut and sold around North and South America. Also, if you look long enough to trace it, you'll find Zultanite is one of the feature stones of one shop in United States... one particularly interesting one is called Moriarty's Gem Art. Such a chance, isn't it?"
Silence followed and the older Holmes could just imagine his younger brother's expression.
"I'll trace that back. Now where are you?"
Mycroft licked his lips. Such persistence.
"I had a detour and am now heading to the palace... there are some things I needed to handle personally. You should return now to your flat. I've already arranged the transportation. You didn't really expect me to let you tag along, did you?"
"And you didn't really expect me to agree."
Mycroft smiled briefly. "Off my call then—"
"Mycroft," Came Sherlock's voice again and it was just discernible how bothered he was. "You're too transparent. What are you not telling me?"
The British government head looked outside his window with a short pause, eyes darkening suddenly.
"What aren't you?" he threw back.
"Mycroft!"
"Be careful, brothermine." The older Holmes finally heaved a sigh and looked down his hand to a note he was holding. "Please."
And he hung up.
Sherlock gritted his teeth as his brother cut the line and agitatedly texted several of his networks as he and John once again stood outside the Parliament with a dark limo car waiting for them.
Mycroft saying what he just said never promise well.
"You idiot." He muttered in vexation.
"Why does he always like to disappear?" the doctor muttered as he played with his phone he had just finished using to call Mary. "Your brother's death will be by disappearing."
The detective raised a knowing eyebrow as he glanced at John who was oscillating on the spot before shifting his eyes back to his phone.
"Unlike him to die otherwise."
"You talking about him dying..." the doctor smirked. "You must be pretty annoyed. Why? Cause he didn't let you join tag?"
"You should go home, John."
"What? And leave you with this mess—?"
"I'm going back to Baker Street." The detective suddenly turned to his heels and started walking on the pavement with John running after him.
"Why so sudden? I thought your brothers—?"
"There's nothing I can do if Mycroft's keeping me in the dark." Sherlock said rather heatedly as he turned to his friend. "I've got to do something else—something both my idiotic brothers won't expect—"
"And that's..." John raised an eyebrow, "to behave yourself in your flat?"
Sherlock pointed at the dark car waiting for them.
"Take the car and go meet Mary. I'll contact you when I need help."
"Ah, no—"
"There' nothing we can do here John, not when Mycroft's blocking all information." He said in annoyance that made the doctor blink.
"You're really going back to Baker Street?"
"Sure." Sherlock was already walking away with a wave of his hand.
"Sherlock!"
But the dark haired man has already shut himself inside a cab and off towards the street of his flat, leaving John staring after the vehicle and sighing.
When the detective came to 221B Baker Street around, he knew at once that something was not right.
Upon his first step on the hall, his frown was ever so deep as he noticed the floor... too clean. And it wasn't anything like the cleaning of his land lady. Shaking his head and following the bits of traces, he looked over to Mrs. Hudson's kitchen then took the steps ascending to his room.
The traces of infiltration did not stop at the hallway. It began on his very room.
Sherlock opened his door unto the silent flat he had left for a week cautiously. He proceeded inside with glance at every direction and even his rooms. He knew he could not rely on dusts much to his chagrin because Mrs. Hudson was a tidy keeper with cleaning techniques like chopping off hieroglyphs of Egyptian stones, leaving nothing for Egyptologists to read. He had told the landlady to touch nothing absolutely nothing of his possession but still—with his absence the landlady must've felt the impulse to do so. Plus his skull was missing again—he always knew she had something against his old pal.
Still feeling that something was off, the detective looked around the room with eyes monitoring the parts he knew to be touched without his permission— from the pillows, magazines, books, his tidy kitchenette, to the rug on the floor.
And finally his eyes fell on his jack-knife stuck on his fireside's mantelpiece. That did it. Mrs. Hudson never touches his jack-knife.
There was no question now that someone else came in the room as he pulled it and scanned the contents of the small articles and papers he kept but found nothing uncharacteristic. Almost throwing the papers to the unlit fireside, Sherlock's eyes fell on the stone ledge and saw carved on it using his jack-knife was the word skulls.
Sherlock quickly looked up to the side of the table where he was keeping his skull which was no longer there—the exact moment that he heard the mounting steps of Mrs. Hudson—
"Sherlock, I knew you were—" she began with a Speedy's cup of coffee—
"Where's the skull?" he interrupted with a turn to her.
"Why's everybody looking for that skull?" Mrs. Hudson looked at him blankly and shook her head.
"Who's 'everybody'? Who's been here?" Sherlock pressed on.
"Why—your brothers. I was really surprised you know—they just came here today." She went chatty as she placed her cup on the kitchen table. "If you had told me there'd be a reunion—"
Sherlock's ears rang as he slowly looked down at her.
"What did you say?"
The land lady blinked up. "Reunion, dear— haven't you done it before?"
"No—you said 'brothers'." The detective turned to the mantelpiece with eyes unseeing, his mind palace at its fastest. With a step forward, he looked around and quickly faced the land lady again—almost knocking her with his sudden vigour—
"What happened here? Did Mycroft—?"
"Happened—?" she looked at him in alarm, "I don't know— Mycroft came here an hour ago with lots of other men and they just began cleaning everything like they were looking for something. But I couldn't complain—I mean he's your brother after all—and they were tidying everything up—"
"Did he say anything?"
"Well... I asked if he wanted tea but he didn't listen."
"Mrs. Hudson!"
"Oh! Now that you mention it, it's really weird how he's asking about your eldest brother. Did they make an appointment here and missed each other? Your eldest came here early morning."
Sherlock shut his ears and jumped to his mind palace—and everything fell to its place— that Mycroft knew their eldest had been to 221B and intentionally kept his younger brother away from the flat while acting as if he didn't want the detective around so he distracted him with the case of the government official—then went detour and cleaned everything after—but it didn't change the fact that their eldest—Sherrinford tried to make a direct contact with him and even went as far as visiting his flat when he knew full well Mycroft has eyes in 221b—which would make the visit deliberate— which would make the message on the skull too obvious—but Sherrinford was smart—he would meticulously leave one to Mycroft if it was to send him to another scent- and another-
The detective suddenly opened his eyes and stared at the empty spot where his singular skull used to be in.
"The skull..." he muttered, eyes wide.
"Mycroft said that too and took a note on that mantelpiece." Mrs. Hudson shrugged that confirmed the detective's suspicion— but Mycroft missed something. Another oversight!
The next thing—he had thrown himself to his wall where he was keeping his map of London with photos and threads of his rats and location of his networks. Shoving them all away—he found the photo he had been looking for.
"Skulls." he breathed meaningfully to the blue portrait of a skull hanging by the wall that was also an ambiguous trick of a young woman in front of a mirror. And still, another skull.
That was when Sherlock saw it—another paper— one of his coloured postings in fact and on it written not by his hands was one of the clues of the game the detective knew was far from ending.
Come collect your skull. Jubilee's eye of the millennium.
-Sherrinford
Detour
~To be continued~
"There's a lot of me this year."- Mark Gatiss about his character ;)
Thanks for reading!
