A/N Hi, thanks for reading! This one hardly has any John in it so sorry! We're getting close to the area where my plan runs out so a few of the updates might be a little longer while I plan. Please don't forget to review and DFTBA.
Scott Hooper was a curious sort of man, Mycroft realised as he watched him walk down a street on the CCTV footage. He was the sort of person who could have quite easily become a John Watson type of person; loyal, brave and adventurous. Unfortunately he was simply too weak. When faced when the problem that could turn him into the hero he could become, Mycroft had no doubt that Scott Hooper would just lie down and let it destroy him. A prime example of this was the drugs he was so fond of; he was just too weak to break their grip on him.
This weakness, however, made the man undeniably useful.
Mycroft picked his mobile up with a smirk and pressed the number of one of the phone boxes that were on Scott's street. He watched the screens in front of him as Scott's blonde head turned towards the nearest one, he looked around for a moment but then kept walking.
Mycroft loved this method of getting people's attention because it gave them a rough idea of just how powerful he was. He had used it for nearly all of his closest colleagues and Sherlock's 'friends'. He liked it because it gave him an idea of the sort of person they were; if they answered it immediately it suggested someone was curious, a second time suggested someone who was more observant, any more phone boxes and they began to get less useful, less likely to take a break from their normal lives and answer the phone. Or maybe he was just reading too much into it.
Scott walked passed another one as it rang, not even turning his head, just kept his eyes glued to the chewing gum spotted ground. Mycroft laughed as the third phone rang and Scott stopped totally, his head turned toward the phone box; the chuckle faded as Mycroft realised that this was it; the man was going to pick the phone up. He couldn't help feeling disappointed, it wasn't often he got to play this game and when he did he loved drawing it out, watching the subjects body language as it descended into confusion.
Scott looked around and walked forwards into the phone booth, he hesitated, his hand poised above the handset. He looked around again and picked it up, "Er, Hello?"
"Good evening Scott Hooper," Mycroft greeted, "To your right is a black car. Get in it."
"Or what?" The man asked, his voice quivering. "Who is this?"
Mycroft smirked, maybe the man had a back bone after all, "Come now Scott Hooper, must I resort to threatening you?"
"What do you want with me?" he demanded.
Mycroft rolled his eyes, as amusing as it was watching the man squirm it was becoming rather tedious, he didn't have all night, "Looks like I must. If you don't get in the car you will lose everything; your house, your car, your job and even your phone. Not to mention the fact that we know where you darling older sister is," Mycroft told him in a bored tone.
"Oh god, please, not my sister!" The man stuttered, Mycroft turned to Anthea as she listened with a smirk on her face and rolled his eyes at the cliché response , "I'll, I'll do anything,"
"Well you can start by getting in the car," Mycroft suggested dryly with a smirk, the corner of Anthea's mouth lifted as she stared down into her phone.
"Alright... I'll go now then," Scott said. Mycroft hung up and put his mobile in his pocket.
"Will you be accompanying me to the penthouse?" Mycroft asked his assistant, she looked up and shook her brunette head.
"Sorry Sir, I have a date," Anthea replied, Mycroft smiled.
"Lovely, how is your fiancé?" the Holmes brother asked. Anthea frowned, she wasn't sure if he actually cared or not.
"Michael's fine," She replied her smile broadened, "The wedding is in a month,"
"Yes, I noticed you took some time off," Mycroft mused, "Four weeks, honey moon planned?"
"Yes sir, we're going to America," She replied, "New York,"
"Lovely," Mycroft replied, "It is, however, a bit of a stretch letting you go, you're awfully useful,"
"Thank you Mycroft, I do try my best," She replied with a slight smile.
"Anyway, better be off, can't be late,"
"No you can't,"
"See you tomorrow," Mycroft said as he walked out of the door, swinging the umbrella back and forth in his hand. As he turned down the hall he heard Anthea's voice call out to him.
"Would you like to come to the wedding?" She asked in a rushed tone. Mycroft turned on his heel in surprise and swept a deductive glance over her. Her hands here clasped tightly in front of her, her perfectly white teeth biting her lower lip and the way she held her body, was so open and relaxed; all of this pointed to one idea. She considered him a friend: strange, he wasn't sure if he should encourage or stop it. Mycroft debated refusing, after all, he was a busy man and a wedding was an unneeded distraction; however refusing would upset her, judging from the way she bit her lip.
"I would be honoured," Mycroft replied cordially, Anthea smiled and exhaled. "Relief," Mycroft noted in surprise, "Must have been waiting a long time to ask me that. I should have seen it sooner; then again I have been busy, what with Sherlock's current situation."
"I'll give you all the details tomorrow," She promised before walking down to the other end of the corridor and pushing the door to the stairs open.
One of the most valuable skills Mycroft had was knowing how to make people talk, It was all about the environment you put them in and the way you acted towards them. Scott Hooper was the sort of man who could be easily bought; show him a bag of gold and he would be putty in Mycroft's hands. By surrounding him in an expensive penthouse suite, in the most expensive part of London and offering him what he most wanted in the world, Mycroft would get what he wanted. Scott Hooper was not John Watson, he would betray Sherlock without a second thought.
Mycroft sat down in an expensive leather sofa and examined his umbrella handle pensively. The apartment was open plan with a kitchen in the east corner and a glass dining table behind where he was sitting. The living area included a flat screen TV mounted on the wall, a large leather sofa and a smaller leather chair that faced the west, toward a glass wall that showed a view of the river and the city.
The lift into the flat chimed. Mycroft got to his feet and walked towards the window, steeling his posture and adopting his intimidating stance, his back to the door. He smiled at his reflection in the darkened window; this would be fun.
"So glad you could make it Mr Hooper," Mycroft said, turning on his heel gracefully, Scott's eyes widened as he recognised Mycroft, he inhaled sharply and his hands curled into fists.
"You," He said in a angry, shaking tone.
Mycroft smiled, "Me,"
"You... you were at my house, on Monday!" He stuttered, the anger beginning to be replaced by fear.
"I'm well aware of that," Mycroft assured him as he walked forwards a few paces, the muscles in Hooper's legs tensed as he fought the urge to back away. "Please have a seat," He said, gesturing with his hand and smiling in the most non reassuring way. Scott walked forwards a step, hesitated, looked at Mycroft's raised eyebrow and then walked the final steps towards the sofa and sat down. The man sat straight as a board, all muscles tense as he sat on the edge of the seat, ready to run at any moment.
"Where's my sister?" he demanded, Mycroft tilted his head to the side and smirked with his typical knowing look.
"You ask that under the assumption that I actually have her," Mycroft said dryly, "Which, of course, I don't,"
"You lied?" Scott exclaimed.
"Yes, I did," Mycroft said as he sat down in the leather seat, umbrella leaning against the side of the chair. "Discussing the lies I have told, however, is not the reason you are here,"
"What is it then?" The man demanded, Mycroft rolled his eyes; such impatience.
"I want to offer you a job," Mycroft told him with a faked smile. The colour drained out of Scott's face and his right hand tightened into a fist on his right leg. "Anger," Mycroft noted.
"You threatened and kidnapped me so you could offer me a job," Scott spat through gritted teeth. Mycroft restrained himself from grinning; oh, he did love this! "Why didn't you just ask me when you came to my house?"
"Obvious. I don't want Sherlock knowing," Mycroft replied with a raised eyebrow.
"Why?"
"If you could be bothered to pay attention then the answer would be obvious," Mycroft sighed, already tiring of the conversation, "I want you to spy on him,"
Scott sat back against the sofa, his eyes narrowed and a cruel smile spread across his thin lips, "How much will I get? You've seen the man; if he finds out I've been spying on him for you... He might kill me!"
Mycroft stared at Hooper for a long moment, he began chuckling at the terrible attempt at manipulation, "Maybe you aren't the best person for this job after all," He replied in between chuckles. "You don't seem to know Sherlock Holmes at all,"
"What? He could!" Scott protested.
"Doubtful, Mr Hooper, very doubtful," Mycroft told him with a smirk.
Scott crossed his arms like a stubborn child, "How much are you going to pay me though?"
Mycroft sighed and handed over a cheque, "If you agree to this, that's yours. If you give me anything useful, well, that will depend on how useful it is,"
Hooper was silent for a while as he stared down at the cheque, "That's a lot of zeros,"
"Quite,"
Hooper exhaled, "I'll work for you,"
Mycroft smiled, "Good, pass me the cheque and I'll sign it,"
After the cheque was signed and phone numbers were exchanged Scott Hooper sat there expectantly, Mycroft raised an eyebrow.
"Do I just leave now?" Scott asked hesitantly, his hands tapping nervously on his leg.
"Yes, I look forward to working with you Mr Hooper," Mycroft told him with a slight nod, "Good bye,"
"Bye," Scott said hesitantly before getting up and leaving quickly.
The lift doors slid open and Scott got into it, as he looked back over his shoulder at the man with the umbrella he a look of realisation crossed his features.
"I don't even know your name!" he called with his hand between the lift doors so they wouldn't close. "And I'm guessing the one you told me at the house was a lie,"
"Best we keep it that way," Mycroft replied without looking at Hooper. Scott waited for the other man to say anything else before stepping back into the lift.
When the doors finally closed Mycroft exhaled and walked towards the window, he cast his eyes over the city he basically owned and smiled.
John drummed his figures against the wooden desk, it had been six months since he last posted a blog post and he had completely forgotten how to write them. There had been a few reasons why John had stopped writing them; mostly because he life had been reduced back to the pre Sherlock normality that he loathed so much, and secondly because Sherlock wasn't there anymore. He was Sherlock's blogger and now there was no Sherlock, so what was the point in writing?
But Sherlock was still alive, maybe not with him, but he was still out there. It was time the public realised their mistake, they had been so stupid, they were so wrapped up in their jealousy of the genius that they had believed anything that would make him seem more human. They totally ignored all of the evidence; Mrs Hudson's husband, all of the criminals that had pleaded guilty after the police had captured them, all of the families that had children returned to them by the detective. They couldn't all be actors and liars.
John rested his head against his palm and tried desperately to think of a title for the post, nothing seemed to work! If he could get this bloody title then maybe the words would flow smoothly, all his thought and ideas would fall onto the page without a moment's hesitation.
A memory grabbed him and filled his mind with the image of those yellow letters drying in the weak morning light, paint still dripping down the red brick, showing London the truth that only a few people had noticed.
It was as if those words had burned through a barrier in his mind, a barrier built up from months of trying to keep his thoughts to himself, the thoughts flowed quickly now, turning into words on the screen. The words flowed like a flood that never ended, John's face remained blank while he wrote; a mask hiding the anger that he really felt. When he had finished he sat back and read it over, fixed any spelling and grammar errors and moved his mouse to hover over the 'post' button. For a moment he hesitated, Harry still hadn't texted him about that meeting with Ella, if he posted this now it would just be fuel for whatever Ella's diagnosis was.
John found he couldn't care less.
He clicked post.
The blogger sat back in his chair and a smile graced his face, that small piece of what had become his normality returning filled his heart with warmth he hadn't felt in ages. Forgetting himself John turned round to say something to Sherlock. The words halted on his tongue when he saw the empty flat and the warmth left him. However It was replaced by anticipation, soon he wouldn't be alone anymore, he would find Sherlock, John didn't care how many cabbies he would have to shoot or maniacs he had to avoid; he would find him.
Sherlock stuck the four pieces of blue tac in the corner of the paper and pressed it against the wall. He had purposefully left this wall blank just in case, he really didn't want to fill it, he wanted it to remain blank, but he had no choice. Sherlock stepped back and reviewed his work; in the centre of the wall there was a white bit of paper with the word 'Wednesday' written in black sharpie, coming off it were the faces of some of the people he had seen in the warehouse. He would need to contact Mycroft if he wanted the rest of them, which he would, but right now he could do without his meddlesome brother. Hell, like that was going to happen.
There was a knock at the door and The Flatmate walked in, "Tea?" He offered.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he looked at the man closely, that was the first time he had ever offered to make the detective tea. "Mud on the bottom of his jeans, redder, from the other side of the river. Shirt creased, he's been sat down for a while. Didn't go to get drugs, date? No... unless he picked up the sort of woman that doesn't kiss on the first date and given the conversations he's had with that friend of his I doubt it." Strange... "What were you doing on the other side of the river?"
The Flat mate's eyes widened then flicked to the left a tiny, tiny bit, "He's going to lie," Sherlock noted, "Date,"
The detective smirked, "Come now, we both know that's not true,"
"Fine, I was seeing a... a friend," The Flat Mate replied, still lying. Then it made sense.
"Ah, how much did he offer you?" Sherlock asked, relaxed now that he didn't have to worry about the man spying on him for Moran.
"Wha... what?"
"My brother, Mycroft, how much did he offer you?" Sherlock repeated, irritated now, this man was stopping him from figuring out how to save John and being an idiot about it.
"That was your brother?" he asked in shock, Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"The first thing you can tell him is that a man named Moran is planning to attack John," Sherlock replied turning back to the wall. The man was still stood there, "Well go on then!"
"Right..." The Flat Mate said before leaving the room.
Sherlock turned back to the wall and looked at the only woman on the wall. She called herself Peace, no one knew why; she was an assassin whose signature was to leave an olive branch in the hands of her victims. She worried Sherlock, what she had said at the meeting made him think she wasn't loyal to Moran, which made her volatile and unpredictable.
Mycroft got his first update from Scott Hooper a little before midnight the same day. With a glass of whiskey in his hand he opened the text and read the text quickly, dread gathered in his stomach, if they killed John... he had no idea what Sherlock would do. His little brother had one friend, one person who understood him without being asked or expected to, one person who would kill to protect him, if he lost that, Mycroft shuddered as memories of Sherlock five years ago assaulted him. His little brother drunk and despairing at his loneliness, high as a kite and trying to give Mycroft a hug and his face as Mycroft left him in rehab. Mycroft shut his eyes tight and forced the memories.
Mycroft opened his eye and quickly sent a text, he hated texting but it was far too late to rouse his driver.
Tell me everything Sherlock, as Dr Watson's current protector I have the right to know- MH
Sherlock replied automatically, obviously Scott had been discovered and his little brother had been waiting for this.
Protector? He's not precious cargo!-SH
Maybe not, but you care about him, that makes him precious and rare. Tell me or I'll pull his protection from level five to level one- MH
Moran's planning an attempt on his life so let's keep the protection on level 5... Not that it helps, your lackeys are useless. Also stop the metaphorical 'precious and rare' crap. Besides, Lestrade likes me!-SH
Mycroft rolled his eyes at the insults.
His protection will be doubled; I'll send a spy into Moran's ranks to make sure we're updated-MH
Acceptable. Make sure that spy is better than my flat mate, he was terrible, I knew he had seen you the moment he asked me if I wanted tea- SH
Took you that long? I'll put my best person on the job-MH
Bugger off, and She won't be happy-SH
Mycroft sighed, Sherlock was right, she wouldn't be happy but she was the best; not any random person gets to be assistant to Mycroft Holmes. He sent a text to Anthea, or whatever she was calling herself today.
Sorry to interrupt but I need you to come in early tomorrow, even if it's inconvenient, it's vitally important, could save lives- MH.
Mycroft put his phone down and stared into the fire, sipping at his drink as he tried to calm his mind. He wasn't like Sherlock, he didn't thrive off adventure and adrenalin; order and calm was what made Mycroft Holmes feel content. Things were starting to spin out of control and that made his restless. With a sigh Mycroft finished his drink and put it on the table next to his chair, he had a busy day tomorrow, even though he wasn't looking forward to, it he needed sleep. He wasn't like his brother; if Mycroft Holmes went without sleep England could fall.
At seven the next morning there was a knock on the door to Mycroft's office and Anthea stepped into the room. Her facial expression was masked but her clothing choices told Mycroft that she was worried; her normally spotless clothes were creased in some places and the outfit didn't seem quite so effortlessly elegant.
"Ah, Anthea, please have a seat," Mycroft smiled, gesturing to the seat in front of his desk.
"I'm Annie today," Anthea told him, her voice as emotionless as her face. Annie; the name was sweet and innocent. Almost a plea to Mycroft, take pity on me! It almost pained him, knowing what he was about to ask her to do.
"Annie, have a seat," He corrected, the name felt bizarre on his tongue; she had been Anthea for so long now. "I asked you here to offer you a job, well, more of a... personal favour for me," Mycroft began, watching her face carefully, her mask didn't betray her and neither did her body language, "Sebastian Moran is planning an attack on the life of Dr. Watson, I can't let that happen, but to be able to stop it I need someone on the inside."
"Please don't ask me to do this Mycroft, please," Annie interrupted in a voice that shook with barely suppressed emotion as he paused for breath. He knew what she was thinking, it was what he told every new employee on their first day; you always have a choice, it's just the wrong one is heavily discouraged. "I'm getting married in four weeks, If I spy on him for you I'll have to leave him!"
Mycroft donned his mask and stared at her with cold eyes, totally disregarding what she had said. He needed her to do this, "Annie, I would like you to be this spy,"
"Mycroft!" She pleaded, her mask and voice finally breaking. Tears were welling in her eyes and her face was one of absolute misery, her face stayed liked that for five seconds as she tried to get her breathing back under control. After those five seconds had pasted her face relaxed and she reached up to wipe the unshed tears from her eyes, "Is there no one else who can do this?" she asked, her voice back to its emotionless, dead pan, tone.
"You are one of the few people I trust," He told her honestly, "You are the only person I believe can do this, the only person I trust to do this,"
Annie nodded, then she said in a quiet, barely audible tone as she stared at him with her fierce brown eyes, "You would have me leave my fiancé, four weeks before our wedding for an indefinite period, to enter the work place of one of the most dangerous people in the world and spy on him,"
"I know it's a lot to ask, but yes," Mycroft replied. Annie sighed and looked up at him, her eyes hard.
"Who will I be?" she asked finally, her voice quiet. Mycroft smiled and gave her a file.
"Elizabeth Harrington," Mycroft told her, "Everything you need to remember about her is in there,"
"When do I start?" She asked. Annie wasn't stupid enough to ask about what happened to the real Elizabeth Harrington.
"Tomorrow," Mycroft replied, "You can have the rest of the day off with you Fiancé if you wish,"
"He's at work," Anthea told her boss, "Where am I going to be staying while I'm working for Moran?"
"A house near Regents Park, far enough away from Baker Street so it doesn't rouse suspicion but still in a nice area," Mycroft almost kicked himself for saying that; as if the girl cared whether or not the house she would be staying in while she spied on a criminal mastermind was in a nice area or not! "You have an interview with Moran himself tomorrow in Hyde park,"
"What time?" she asked. Mycroft had at least expected a frown, she was going to meet Moran tomorrow; surely that inspired some form of fear?
"In the file,"
Annie nodded, then smiled weakly, "I better get paid double for this," She joked.
"Don't worry, you will," Mycroft promised, "Now what were the times for that wedding?"