Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or the Firefly-verse.
Year 2519
Special Agent Morstan dropped down another step, her hold on the Alliance-grade gun firm and unyielding.
Greg felt his heartbeat stutter, old images from the War getting caught in mental cobwebs even though now was not the time, but then his vision shifted as the tall, posh criminal edged a half step in front of him, forcing him to look over the man's shoulder so he could still see Mary. She smirked, as sharp as freshly cut diamonds, and Greg wished he could see the Core man's face just this once, mask and all.
"You've been a hard mark to follow, my dear, so careful," she said, honey on her tongue and darkness in her eyes, "but your cargo can only be so small."
Mycroft tensed, and Greg wondered if maybe a small part of his mind shouldn't be wishing this was all some sort of misunderstanding.
"What'd he do?" he asked in the pause, slowly moving an inch towards his discarded pistol, hoping against hope that the Fed didn't know anything about Masir's reputation. Keep her talking, he told himself, and if he was also curious, so be it. "Kill his parents for the family fortune?" he sneered, part for the effect and part because he was genuinely angry at how easily he had dismissed the man as an arrogant twat instead of a cold-hearted criminal.
She was all smiles and saccharine sweetness when she reminded him, "I told you not to move," and without any hesitation jabbed her pistol in his direction with the confidence of someone who acutely knew what she was doing and how to do it.
He stepped back, raising his hands in the air, his skin prickling as each second ticked by in watchful silence. Mycroft was as still as an ice sculpture by his side, but Greg couldn't trust the fugitive even if he hadn't seemed like the criminal type. Core worlders were never to be trusted, and he couldn't believe he had almost given this one a chance.
Mary leisurely took another step, moving with a predatorial grace that had been intentionally muted during all the other times Greg had spoken with her.
What the hell was taking John so long?
He searched frantically for a way out, feeling the burden of leadership on his shoulders more than ever. "How about we keep Holmes in the passenger dorm until your Alliance cruiser comes to pick you up. Then we part ways, what's done is done." Greg knew it was a long shot, but it was still a reasonable offer. It would make everyone happy, even though it also had all the smoothness of a first draft.
Her upper lip curled as she scanned his face with the air of a lazy analysis. "I think not. You're carrying a known fugitive across interplanetary borders. This entire ship is culpable."
There was small, soft grunt and then a blur of movement.
Greg moved on instinct when the fugitive made a swift move for the first mate's discarded gun. He snatched the man's arm in a steel grip and pulled him back to his side with as much force as he could, dragging the man back a few steps and was met with surprisingly little resistance. Mycroft faltered, pale and wide-eyed, and he wasn't struggling, just staring defiantly up the stairs. Morstan laughed, relaxing now that the battle lines were drawn clearly in her favor, and her face had smoothed out a bit.
"Chill, Mycroft," Morstan ordered, voice tinted with the condescending self-righteousness he recognized from stills of government officials on Londinium. She grinned at the word, like it was a joke, and Mycroft growled low in his throat, his arms hanging loosely by his side.
"I don't want to kill you," she continued, softly, sounding more like the Mary Morstan who had giggled with Janine and smiled at Molly. It felt like whiplash, and the difference was so stark Greg's hold on the man loosened. Mycroft didn't seem to notice, staring intently at the Alliance operative. "I just want the cargo you stole. The Alliance is willing to forgive your insubordination, Antarctica, if you come peacefully."
Mycroft opened his mouth, but she wasn't done, speaking in a kind, soothing voice, like they were all friends here, "We wouldn't want a repeat of Anthea, hm?"
The world tilted on its axis. As if in slow motion, Greg felt himself be shoved backwards, and he landed on the cargo bay floor the second time tonight. His hands grappled for a hold as he went down, and he felt the smooth, cold edge of Holmes' container, the cause of all their current troubles. Blinking away the spots in his vision, Greg realized three seconds too late that someone had screamed, high-pitched and surprised, and it cut through the static in his head like a gunshot.
Except… no gun had been fired. He peered over the edge of the box and stared.
Mycroft Holmes was gripping the Liberty Hammer with none of the comfortable familiarity he had expected a fugitive of his reputation to have. The aim was true, though, pointed unerringly up the stairs as Morstan hissed like an angry street cat, her own gun held, shaking and wobbly in her left hand, back at the man. A thin, sleek dagger protruded below the right side of her collarbone, and the red spreading outward like a blooming flower didn't look superficial to Greg's experienced eye.
"You shouldn't have done that," she spat, her right hand clenching the hilt of the blade, the whiteness of her fingers bright against the dark red of her blood as she pulled the weapon out of her chest with no more than an angry grunt. The squelching sound of tearing flesh echoed in Greg's ears, and he had to swallow down the bile.
Holmes' lips thinned, but he didn't answer her. He just watched, cold and calculating.
Before Morstan could move, the man seemed to come to a conclusion. Greg recognized the desperation in his eyes moments before he did something he couldn't walk back from, and the first officer shouted, scrambling upright with his hands raised in surrender, "Now wait just a second here! There's no need for killing." Especially on his ship.
"Glad to hear that, sweetie," Morstan said, and this time her voice was ruthless, without even a hint of anything except murderous intent. The hand she was using to staunch the blood flow shined maroon in the light. She followed his eyes and tried for a self-deprecating smile, but it was as false as all her other personas, so when it failed to elicit the response she wanted, she scowled and hefted her gun a bit higher. "If you don't restrain the fugitive right now, Gregory Lestrade, your captain, crew, and passenger will be killed on my command."
"Hawkins," Mycroft explained aloofly before Greg's brain could even start to understand the new threat. "Janine Hawkins is Agent Morstan's partner. She's holding your crew hostage as leverage."
"Did you actually buy her story about saving the Outer Rim?" she laughed piercingly, "Oh my dear, you are too good."
Greg face was ashen, something heavy and frozen rolling around in his stomach. Mycroft spared him a half-second glance, and there was no mockery on his face. If Greg wasn't feeling like the gravity had just suddenly been switched off and he was freefalling, he might even say that the man looked concerned.
John, Molly, Sally, Anderson, Mrs Hudson. He couldn't not trade one life for theirs – the man was a criminal, no less – but that didn't make the ugly feeling of wrongness disappear as Greg slowly approached the fugitive. Mycroft watched him out of the corner of his eye.
"What did you steal?" Greg asked quietly, just for the other man's ears, before his brain could catch up with his mouth. It was too late to take it back, but some small, angry part of him didn't want to remain in the dark about this anymore.
In a span of a single breath, but which felt like a million years to him, Mycroft Holmes turned the gun to the ground and loosened his grip in surrender. He faced Greg with his entire body, giving him his full attention, and held the weapon forward, handle out. When Greg took a step closer, near enough to see uncertainty shining through the cracks in his mask, making Mycroft look lost and young, he got his answer:
"My brother."
…o0o…
The group of crew members and their one elderly passenger were holed up in an empty shuttle, sitting on the floor across from each other and tied up with apparently the best rope the Alliance could find. Agent Janine Hawkins coolly surveyed them, her lilting Border moon accent noticeably absent as she occasionally barked orders for them to stop fidgeting or making small talk. They would grudgingly subside before starting back up again whenever her back was turned.
"She's Alliance?" Donovan asked for the fifth time, mostly to herself as she fought with all her will power to combat the unnatural feeling of cotton enmeshed in her brain. She closed her eyes when it started to feel like a knife was stabbing her head over and over. "How did we miss this? I thought it was Stamford."
John shifted, twisting his wrists with casual interest. "That's probably not his name."
"He seemed kind," Molly added quietly, her hair obscuring her face as she huddled as close to her captain as she could. "…I liked him."
John looked over at her, his eyes softening, and he wanted more than anything to assure her that everything would be alright.
Janine snorted, and the sound made Masir's sweet mechanic flinch. John fists tightened uselessly behind his back.
The Alliance mole had taken Molly Hooper hostage first, held a gun up to her head without a care in the worlds, and ordered him and Anderson to the empty shuttle before John could help his first officer. While they were being restrained, Molly didn't stop apologizing, and Anderson jabbered nervously about Donovan's whereabouts, white with the fear that Sally had been killed in her sleep. It had been a relief when the officer brought the mercenary into the shuttle, groggy but alive.
Mrs Hudson raised a brow, the only one here who didn't seem all that bothered with being a hostage for an Alliance agent. "So who is he? This criminal you've caught?" She said criminal like the word couldn't be further from the truth, and Janine predictably scowled at the insinuation.
"Mycroft Holmes," she answered, raising her chin and looking down her nose.
John wracked his brain for any mention of the name – be it from casually browsing the cortex or from the more recent wanted posters he reviewed on a weekly basis – and came up short. It was an odd name, and he knew with certainty he had never come across it before.
"A bit young, isn't he?" Mrs Hudson wondered unconcernedly. "How could the lad have possibly made a name for himself so quickly?"
Janine narrowed her eyes, wondering if she was being played. John could relate, seeing as how Mrs Hudson hadn't bat an eyelash at the weird name. He glanced over to Donovan, and her dark face was raised upright, fixed in a pained grimace as she studied their passenger with too much intent for her to not be following a similar line of thought.
"He stole precious Alliance cargo," Janine finally said, crossing her arms over her chest. She continued slowly, like she was generously giving them a warning, "You don't know what he's capable of."
As if on cue, a shrill yelp reverberated down the hallway and into the shuttle. Janine raised her pistol, giving them a dark side eye as she slowly stepped out of the shuttle and carefully made her way out of the hostages' sight for an update on her partner.
Anderson didn't waste a second before saying under his breath, "Last I checked, Cap'n, we were in the Red Sun system. I think we might be a couple hours past Greenleaf if she didn't mess with the nav system."
John shook his head before Anderson could finish. Greenleaf was too populated a planet to try and escape from the Alliance, especially considering the strict landing procedures put in place a few months ago to regulate the increased drug-smuggling problem. Due to the planet's strong tropical landscape, the large drug companies that had set up shop in the area had an increasingly problematic relationship with the black market.
"Dyton," Donovan offered with a tight look at her husband. "It's one of Greenleaf's moons, the old homestead," she explained further with dislike thick in her voice.
"Our old home," Anderson clarified delicately for Mrs Hudson and Molly.
John nodded. It wasn't exactly new information for him, and he didn't care what their beef was with the moon settlement. As long as they wouldn't be chased off the planet, it was their best chance for a momentary refuge.
"Don't get ahead of yourself, dears," Mrs Hudson interjected kindly. "You still have two Alliance agents on your boat. Do you really think it's a good idea to kill a Fed?"
Donovan didn't seem too troubled by that, her face shadowed with a history of bloodshed and a familiarity with fighting for her own survival. But no, Mrs Hudson was right. Killing an agent would make everything worse. They needed to keep their wits about them.
"No murdering," Captain Watson directed. "We do this the right way."
Donovan exchanged a glare with Anderson, who grimaced into his lap and avoided her eyes. John stared the mercenary down until she angrily nodded in agreement, Mrs Hudson smiled in encouragement, and Molly breathed out a relieved sigh as she rolled her shoulders and dangled the broken rope in front of her.
At their startled and proud looks, Molly grinned, a quick, bright little thing. "She didn't check my back pockets, and I had just been in the engine room." As she set about speedily untying the knots on her captain, she added lowly, "And I think I also have a plan for Janine and Mary."
The group hastily set about untying those that they could while Molly explained what they needed to do: split up.
As Anderson headed towards the bridge with slow caution, Mrs Hudson accompanied their mechanic to the engine room. John and Donovan nodded to each other. They didn't have much time before Janine returned, potentially with her partner in tow, and they had the hardest job to do here.
.
tbc
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Author's Note: To clarify, Mycroft had the dagger wrapped around his ankle. He used the fake-lunge distraction to free his dagger. As for Janine – Mycroft wasn't sure of her involvement with Mary until it started to take Captain Watson too long to arrive on the scene. By that point, he knew Janine was Alliance, so it was somewhere near the beginning of this chapter it was confirmed, though he did have his suspicions in the previous chapter.
This chapter is also shorter than usual; I was having a rough time making this – I had 3,000 words done two weeks ago but I deleted over half of it because it was a convoluted mess, and I thought I could do better. Next chapter will probably take a while since I need to figure some things out, but I love this thing, it's really fun to explore, so please bear with me.
Thanks for reading!
