Chapter Thirteen

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It was a sultry, cloudless day. Somewhere overhead, a plane was droning like a sun-dazed fly. Sherlock wriggled backwards, insinuating himself more deeply into the shelter of a scraggly thorn bush. Lying on his belly, he raised his arms and inspected the sleeves of his coat. Damp earth adhered clingingly to the elbows. He brushed at it gloomily.

The drone of the aeroplane faded into a whine. It balanced for a moment on the edge of hearing before fading out completely. Abandoning his ineffectual efforts against the mud, he raised the field glasses back to his eyes and resumed his surveillance.

About a mile and a half south west and perhaps a mile below him, the camp sprawled. Beyond it the bay glittered, postcard-perfect, turquoise waves glinting in the sun.

Sherlock focused the binoculars more tightly, tight enough to identify the birds perching on the razor wire. Half a dozen sparrows and another small finch of some kind; nothing he cared about. On a tower nearby, a trio of herring gulls were squabbling with a juvenile black-backed.

A male sparrow ducked its head, pecking at a speck of something beneath its curled toes. Its plumage was dishevelled, the black band above its eye ruffled out of alignment. It looked curiously piratical.

The sparrow pecked again, hopping awkwardly to maintain its balance. The plumage really was rather striking, Sherlock mused. This close, he could make out the individual feathers, noticing the multitudinous shades of brown that made up such a seemingly drab little bird.

Sherlock was sprawled halfway up an exposed hill on the Cuban side of the border. They hadn't made it easy for him. Directly in front of him lay a high fence, a sprawling chaos of Opuntia cactus and, he knew (though thankfully not through personal experience), a broad swathe of fifty-year-old landmines.

Friendly.

To Sherlock's immense irritation, he could see no plausible way through the barricade. Whilst aware that he lacked a certain something when it came to self-preservation, he still wasn't overly keen on tangling with a minefield. If John had been here, he might perhaps have been able to shed some light ('I wasn't in bomb disposal', his inner-John grumbled. 'I'm a bloody doctor'), but John wasn't there. John was at home in Kensington with a wife and a baby and probably, by now, some sort of tedious domestic pet. Sherlock scowled. All according to plan, of course, but god the upshot was dull.

Dropping the field glasses, he contemplated the camp again. God, it was an eyesore. All concrete, tin, scuffed earth and barbed wire, with clusters of tents sprouting here and there like fungi. The colour scheme was unrelentingly beige, relieved only by the obnoxious totems to those American gods, Starbucks and McDonalds. Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

Aerial, marine, or road? he wondered, surveying the possible entry points. Theoretically, the roads in and out were strictly controlled – foot traffic only, multiple checkpoints – but they clearly weren't impassable, for all that. He'd seen American soldiers in both Caimanera and Boqueron (ostensibly incognito, but so obvious), hanging around the bars and brothels like so much refuse. Aerial, marine or road? He filed the options away in his mind palace for later perusal.

Sherlock watched as a pair of uniformed guards crossed one of the compounds and vanished, in tandem, into a steel shack inside Camp Delta. That was another problem, of course. None of his contacts had been able to give him any information as to which of the several camps Knight was actually being held in. Really, the only way to know for sure was to get inside and find out. Sherlock fought another pang of gloom, thinking of John. John loved break-ins.

Sherlock shook off his self-pity. John not being here was, after all, rather the point. Not without some difficulty, he extricated himself from the barbed embrace of the thorn bush and slung the strap of his field glasses over his shoulder. Turning away from the border and the gleaming sea beyond, he began the steady trudge back uphill towards the road. There was nothing more for him to learn here.

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John was caught off-guard by just how much Mycroft looked like Sherlock. There had been a certain brotherly likeness before, of course, but it was a likeness composed mostly of long limbs, a few shared mannerisms, and a certain something in their profiles. John was unprepared for a Mycroft with loose curls, an amethyst-coloured shirt, and a long dark coat with a turned-up collar. The image so disarmed him that, for the moment, he had failed to register Irene at all.

The Woman, oddly enough, didn't take well to being ignored. She rose from her chair and stepped towards him, all poise and creamy complexion and elaborately coiled hair.

"Hello, John." She took his hand and inclined her head to kiss his cheek.

John hated that Irene was taller than him. A lot of women were, of course, but he'd never resented it so viscerally with anyone before her. She had scarcely anything on him – a couple of centimetres at most – but those few centimetres were currently bolstered by a pair of elegant and expensive-looking heels. John hated them.

"It's been a long time," Irene said, a low, playful timbre in her voice. John laughed shortly.

"Not long enough if you ask me." His own voice came out tight and angry.

Irene smiled disarmingly, not in the least offended. "Don't be cross with me, Doctor Watson. I didn't lose him."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

John was irritated with himself. He'd let her get under his skin again, the way he'd known she would, the way he couldn't stop her from doing.

"Only that you moved on very quickly." Irene said, with an utterly unveiled glance at Mary. "How long did it take exactly after you buried him? Was it the whole two years, or only the one?"

"We were never a couple!"

"That's not what I saw."

"If I might cut across the adolescent posturing," Mycroft interjected, with a long-suffering sigh. "We do in fact have work to do this evening."

Greg and Molly looked relieved. John saw them exchanging glances out of the corner of his eye; the sort that said 'Woops! John's a little off the deep end tonight, isn't he?'. The sight did not improve his temper.

"No," Mary said, interjecting very sweetly and unexpectedly. "I think your friend has something she wants to say, so we might as well do this now."

She rose from the sofa, chin up, and stepped forward until she was looking Irene in the face. Mary, John noticed with satisfaction, was not shorter than her.

"Now," Mary said, in that same tone of honey layered over steel. "Let's get a few things straightened out, shall we? John is my husband. Sherlock, hard as it may be for you to believe it, is my friend. Sherlock has never been inside John's pants; and who knows? If he wanted to, I might let him." She smiled pleasantly, eyes hard. "But either way, it is none of your damn business."

"Whew." Greg huffed out a breath. "Easy-on, Mrs Watson." His mouth twisted in an exaggerated expression somewhere between respect and mock-terror. This time, John did find it amusing. He supressed a grin at the sight of his wife, baby on her hip, threatening Moriarty's favourite dominatrix. One to tell Sherlock about, when they got him back.

Irene hadn't backed down. Her mouth was still curved, dimpled ironically at the corners, her lower lip pressed outward in a pout that he might have called beguiling if he didn't know her better.

"Mm. That would be pretty," she said. "I could sell tickets."

"Enough." Mycroft called the meeting to order. Mary and Irene were still eyeing one another with mutual dislike, but Mary subsided grudgingly back onto the sofa.

"So what's the grand plan, boss?" Greg asked, trying to keep things light.

Mycroft's mouth twitched with irritation, whether at being called 'boss' or at Greg's tone, John didn't know.

"Manifold," he said. "I do not know where my brother is or what he intends, save only that he aims to get inside the facility at Guantanamo Bay and rescue my agent. Ideally, we will intercept him before he gets there, but that may be being optimistic. It is likely that he is seeking a way in as we speak, if he hasn't found one already." Mycroft raised a long-suffering eyebrow. "And I doubt very much that he has a plan to get out again."

"Any word on Knight?" John asked. "Do we know if he's even there to rescue, or is this a trap?"

Mycroft frowned. "Irene and I encountered two sources who were convinced that he still lives; unless they are better actors than I have ever given them credit for then they, at least, are convinced of the truth of it."

"Could still be a set-up though, couldn't it?"

"Indeed. In fact, I think it likely." Mycroft hesitated – a momentary, uncharacteristic pause, before continuing. "In any case, Knight's life is not worth Sherlock's." If John hadn't known better, he might have thought that the choice gave Mycroft pain.

"So, strategy?" Greg asked briskly. "Do we try to bust in there and hope he shows up, or what?"

"I hope it won't come to that," Mycroft said. "There are several avenues to pursue. I have obtained the name of a contact who knows of Sherlock; I will attempt to locate him. It is for this reason that I am endeavouring to, ah, heighten my similarity to Sherlock."

He glanced sideways. "John, you will accompany me. The names of Holmes-and-Watson have a certain notoriety, it would seem. Your presence will enhance my credentials with our contact."

John just nodded.

"Gregory, I would like you to find out what you can about the local police force. As a general rule, they are not fond of the American facility – which may make them our allies. No contact, but observe what you can; which officers are reliable and which are not, which divisions function well, the timing of shifts, the duty roster… Do you think you can do this?"

"Sure. Piece of piss." He looked momentarily abashed, and his cheeks pinkened somewhat. "Sorry."

John grinned internally. He'd never seen anyone but Mrs Hudson who could make Greg apologise for his language before. Another one to share with Sherlock.

Mycroft sent Greg a sideways glance, but didn't comment. "I would also like you, if you would, to take up John's work with the local children. It's as much of a modus operandi as Sherlock has, so it's worth investigating."

John couldn't repress the grin this time. Mycroft had as much as admitted John was right.

"I want you to work alongside Irene as much as possible; keep in contact, use each other for back up. Miss Addler, I don't believe that you need any instructions from me – just do what you do best."

"And what might that be?"

Mycroft smiled thinly. "Misbehave. Repeatedly, if you would be so kind. With as many members of the Agency or their support staff as you can, ah, lay hands on. Though discreetly, please."

"Naturally."

"Good. Miss Hooper."

Molly looked startled at being addressed, as though she hadn't expected Mycroft to notice her.

"What can I do?"

"You are our new officer of misinformation. Congratulations."

"I don't understand."

Mycroft waved an airy hand.

"Emails, social media, Doctor Watson's blog." He sniffed. "Maintaining for as long as possible the pretence that you are all still on your lovely little European holiday. I have a laptop you can use for the purpose – one that can't be traced."

"Oh."

Molly looked a little disappointed, but also a little relieved.

"Also, of course, babysitting."

"Right," said Molly, looking a little perturbed. Mycroft's personality, John reflected, could do that to a person.

"And where will Mary be?" Molly asked, still uncertain.

"Ah yes." Mycroft's smile, this time, was cold. "Be so good as to remind me, Ms. Agnew; I have lost track. Precisely where, at the present moment, do your loyalties lie?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" John demanded.

"Only that your wife's double-game did not end with shooting Sherlock. Or triple-game, perhaps I should say – credit where credit's due."

"Triple-game? What…"

"A simple enough formula, I'm afraid: bluff you and Sherlock into believing her tale of repentance; bluff the Americans into believing that she is still their faithful agent; and sell anything that the Americans won't use to Charles Magnusson or the next highest bidder. Is that about all, Mary dear?"

His eyes flashed with steel as he turned at last, fixing the full force of his gaze on Mary.

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A/N: So... guessing no one saw this coming, right? *Cough*. Um, yeah...

Thanks so much to the four lovely people who responded to my begging for reviews last chapter. It is immensely appreciated. Next up: Mycroft is really, really not a nice guy sometimes.