Sorry for the long hiatus everyone! (then again being a part of the Sherlock fandom I guess you're used to that...)
Shiary said: May i request a ''Sherlock saving Mycroft'' possibly after Mycroft is captured/kidnapped? Thank you.
I know these are primarily johnlock stories, but I can never resist a good Holmes brother story. I promise to add enough John and Sherlock time to have it fit main idea but I'm super excited to write about Mycroft and Sherlock interacting.
Anyway, enjoy!
Mycroft Holmes had never been a fan of fieldwork.
Though it was true that his deductive powers and knowledge far surpassed that of his younger brother, Sherlock, he had none of the excited energy that came to the detective when presented with a problem.
So whenever Mycroft had stumbled across a problem he felt the usual government officials were just not competent enough to solve on their own, he made the rather irritating trip to 221B Baker Street.
"Hold the car here, Anthea." Mycroft instructed his assistant, who acknowledged the command with a nod without looking up from her phone. Heaven knows what was so important that it kept her glued to that screen four hours a day. Mycroft exited the car, umbrella in hand even though the sun persisted in shining bright overhead. Mycroft always carried an umbrella anyways, it was his policy to prepare for the worst.
As he ascended the stairs he was greeted by the sound of what appeared to be a domestic quarrel. Even if his brother and his doctor roommate had discovered romantic feelings for one another that would never conquer their incredible power to argue.
"...just clean up the more hazardous chemicals at least once!"
"John, I'm using these!"
"Using them? Oh I see and that's why they've been left to burn through the kitchen table."
Mycroft announced his entrance by knocking on the doorway with the handle of his umbrella and emitting a loud cough. The two quarreling lovers, currently engaging in a debate whilst facing each other from opposite ends of the living room, turned at the same time to see the elder Holmes standing on their doorstep.
Sherlock's face instantly turned into one of disgust and annoyance. "Go away, Mycroft." He sneered.
"Unfortunately, trouble in paradise will have to wait." Mycroft raised an eyebrow at his brother's immaturity. "I have a job for you."
"What makes you think I'll take it?" Sherlock folded his arms over his chest and rolled his eyes, a reaction that Mycroft was quite used to after growing up alongside it.
"Because you always do?" John suggested crossly, clearly not considering this brief interlude a truce.
"I'm not my brother's agent." Sherlock argued, but he turned back to his brother with a curious glance nonetheless. "What is it this time? Stolen weapons plans? Scandalous pictures? The crown jewels?"
"Nothing glamorous enough to further inflate your swollen ego, brother dear." Mycroft sighed and eyed Sherlock's armchair disdainfully before taking a seat in it. John snorted and sat down in his own seat, happy to let the brothers have it out while he ignored them.
"Well? What is it?" Sherlock paced in front of his brother, barely hiding his curiosity.
"We have ourselves a stolen spy. Richard Johnson." Mycroft informed Sherlock.
"That's kidnapped." John corrected, no longer amazed by the Holmes brothers's ability to ignore that other people were human beings too and not just pawns or witnesses.
"Why should that require my services? Go send in your men and get him back." Sherlock shrugged.
"It's not that simple, this is not a case of a spy being discovered while in the field. He was returning home with his information and was in London at the time of his disappearance." Mycroft explained, pulling a small scrap of paper with a street address written on it out of his pocket and passing it to his brother. "He called in from this location and then vanished."
"Still only slightly more interesting." Sherlock scoffed, taking the paper.
"What might you deduce from what I've given you?" Mycroft continued, only slightly annoyed at his brother's casual air.
"Simply enough some traitor to our nation wants to sell the information to the opposing country...which would be...?"
"None of your business." Mycroft snapped. "However you are correct, sometimes you can grasp the obvious, brother."
"I'll do it." Sherlock sighed with boredom. "Only because it's been a slow week."
"Maybe you'll be more tolerable after a case." John smirked.
"Fine. Go search the streets of London or whatever it is you do, and if you need more information you know where to find me." Mycroft lifted himself from the chair. "And do try to keep your personal issues from interfering, brother dear." He added with a pointed look at John. Then he made his way back to the stairs, smirking as the sounds of bickering resumed quietly behind him.
His car was still waiting for him as he left the building, straightening the knocker on the way out. He ducked into the cool interior of the car, preparing a witty comment about his brother's love life with which to amuse Anthea. However once he was in the car he was aware that something was wrong.
"...You are not Anthea." He observed coolly.
"'Fraid not, mate." A coarse sounding voice replied gleefully before shoving the chloroform soaked rag over Mycroft's face.
"Find anything yet?" John said, with only a little anger in his voice. He was standing over Sherlock as the detective examined the sidewalk with his small magnifying glass.
"Oh everything." Sherlock assured his partner, unaware of the annoyance John was conveying. The fight had already left his mind but John was still slightly irritated. He was sure Sherlock accepted the case just to escape the fight, why else would he? He and his brother were infamous for not getting along, and he usually ignored all of Mycroft's cases. Even if he accepted them he never did so to his face.
"Signs of a struggle." Sherlock explained, pointing out signs that John could not see. "Scuff marks from shoes, bit of a bloodstain still against this wall here where our spy pushed his attacker against it." Sherlock pointed out the dried brownish red stain.
"So where did they go after that?" John asked.
"That way." Sherlock pointed off to the left. "Or...that way..." He pointed again this time in the opposite direction. Then he ruffled his hair and avoided John's gaze.
"You have no idea." John chuckled.
"The marks from the fight make it hard to tell. Besides the attacker clearly had an accomplice who helped carry the unconscious body away preventing more scuff marks from the shoes. They probably had an escape vehicle nearby, why kidnap someone if you have to walk them back?"
"So how do we find them?" John questioned the detective who thought silently for a moment.
"The question is...where would they keep someone they needed to interrogate?" Sherlock thought aloud. "Somewhere deserted and quiet, close by..." Sherlock closed his eyes and focused, John knew that somewhere in the detective's mind palace he was sorting through maps and picking out addresses. Finally Sherlock opened his eyes again.
"There's five possibilities." He concluded, swirling around with his black coat flaring out behind him as he walked off towards the first location.
"Five. Right. Well there goes my afternoon." John sighed, following his boyfriend reluctantly.
Mycroft awoke in a damp dark room. There was plant life growing up from the floorboards and boxes piled about in varying stacks. He attempted to move his hands but found them bound behind him. He was sitting in a chair, darkness all around him. He could hear two other people breathing in the room and if turned his head to the point of pain he could just make out two more people strapped to chairs behind him.
Voices came floating in from another room, one of them fitted that of Mycroft's attacker and kidnapper.
"Is anyone conscious over there?" Mycroft hissed.
"I am." Came a weak male voice. It was clearly the missing agent: Richard Johnson.
"Who else is here?" Mycroft asked. It was important he gather as much information as he could as quickly as possible. It could be that his life depended on it.
"There's a girl. Came in with you." Richard replied, he was keeping cool given the circumstances but then again he was a spy so that was normal.
Anthea. Safe then. The driver is most likely dead though. Probably spared her out of sentiment, how normal people hate to kill something with a pretty face.
"I hear talkin'. Does that mean yer ready to talk to me, Richie?" The voice of Mycroft's kidnapper appeared along with the man himself. A wiry bearded man holding a knife. Next to him was a much taller broader man with many tattoos, and on the other side was the clear professional of the group wearing a suit and tie.
"The political man is awake as well." The suit noticed. "He's our backup, he's likely to know what the spy knows. Keep him safe. If he doesn't talk, hurt the girl." He instructed before leaving, no doubt wanting to ignore the thugs as they conducted their dirty work.
"Alright, Ink, go and bring me Mr. Bond." The man with the knife and the thick accent directed his tattooed friend. Ink moved forward without a word and lifted the spy chair and all effortlessly and placed him before his skinny partner.
"I'm not telling you anything." Johnson spat angrily.
"That's what they all say, trust me, mate. I'm the best there is at makin' people talk." The man assured him, flashing the cold steel of the knife in what little light there was. The man then proceeded to torture the spy to the point of screaming. Mycroft, having witnessed and participated in more than enough tortures in his day, didn't flinch.
It went on for a few minutes until finally the torturer grew tired with the spy and turned to Mycroft instead.
"He ain't talkin' to me, fatty." He shrugged casually. Mycroft, having heard the taunt towards his weight, gave the man his most withering glare.
"Oh, is you the strong silent type too?" The torturer exclaimed. "You, Ink, and Mr. Bond over here, you're all such lovely conversationalists!" He used his fingers to wipe blood off his blade and then positioned the knife against Mycroft's throat. "How's about you start talkin', pudge?"
Mycroft, dedicated to silence, was saved all of a sudden when two whirlwinds by the name of John and Sherlock burst into the building.
Ink turned around, brandishing his fists, which given his earlier display of lifting a man certainly served as deadly weapons. However John was quicker, pegging him with a bullet to the leg. Sherlock advanced on the man with the knife, hitting him with a quick right hook. Mycroft remembered, almost fondly, Sherlock's interest with fist fighting at a young age (in order to fend off the numerous bullies he attracted).
Both of his rescuers, however, had neglected to assume there was another kidnapper in the room. Mycroft didn't have time to warn them as the man in the suit turned the corner with a pistol and began firing at the doctor and detective. A bullet whizzed past Sherlock and the detective cried out in pain before taking cover behind a stack of boxes. John leaned out from behind his own cover and distracted the man with return fire until Sherlock was able to sneak up behind him and lay him out.
"Are you alright?" John asked, near breathless. Sherlock shook his head, clutching at his arm while blood seeped through.
"It's just a scratch. Let's go collect my brother." He assured John. The doctor sighed and then grabbed Sherlock by his shirtfront, pulling him into a passionate we-could-have-died kiss.
"When you two are done exchanging germs, I hope you could take a break from your display of affection to untie me?" Mycroft rolled his eyes. Sherlock and John chuckled and split up to untie the hostages. John began tending to the spy's injuries while Sherlock untied his brother.
"So you really did need my assistance for this one." Sherlock gloated.
"Don't." Mycroft snapped, silencing his brother. Once he was untied he found Anthea and untied her. She was still recovering from being drugged, and swayed as he pulled her to her feet. Mycroft let her lean against him, frowning once he noticed Sherlock smirking at the pair of them.
"Don't." He repeated.
"Try to keep your personal issues from interfering...was it?" Sherlock mimicked his brother from earlier. A little ways away John was calling an ambulance for Richard.
"If you continue to harass me I will retract my gratitude." Mycroft growled.
"So you're grateful then?" Sherlock asked, his smirk growing. "Because without me you would have been dead, you realize."
"Don't push it." Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Let's leave the emotional displays to John, shall we?"