A/N - oh god I've become one of those writers who updates once a year apparently. I decided to write another chapter, and while this one is significantly less-decent than the not-quite-decent first chapter, I figured I'd post it anyways. Hopefully I'll get the next chapters up soon? Finding inspiration is hard, I'm really impressed with everyone who manages to update regularly! As always, reviews or suggestions are much appreciated. (This chapter is super weak, I know, but I'm already working on the next, which I can promise is much better.)
The British Government stood staring straight ahead, the only stagnant thing within a 100 meter distance of the blazing building in front of him. He could do nothing but watch as the firefighters advanced on the inferno the abandoned flats had become, trying in vain to extinguish as much as they could to commence their rescue mission.
A rescue mission Mycroft knew was already too late.
He closed his eyes to try and still the deluge of deductions he could not stop - how the fire started (gas explosion), the chances of survival for the two still trapped inside (10%), the time they had before the second floor collapsed (less than two more minutes) -
If only Sherlock had waited like he'd instructed him to do. Not that Sherlock listened to anything he ever said. He had come barging into his office earlier that afternoon, going on about some conspiracy and how, since it had to do slightly with the government, Mycroft should give Sherlock all the information he could find on the laundering scheme. Mycroft had told Sherlock that kind of clearance would take time, but he would have the information to him by the evening if possible, and a very irritated Sherlock had stormed out of the office, a slightly apologetic army doctor in tow.
Not two hours later Anthea was showing Mycroft surveillance of the detective and his blogger rushing into the headquarters of the supposed conspiracy group and not exiting. An quarter hour later and Mycroft had confirmed that the two had been taken hostage for trespassing, and Mycroft couldn't help but think that if Sherlock hadn't been so frustratingly impatient he would have had his blasted information and managed to not put himself and John into unnecessary danger.
Mycroft mobilised his extraction team, making sure to note that Sherlock would owe him massively for the strings he had to pull, and made his way to the flats. He was less than a mile away, however, when his phone rang. And then the evening had taken a drastic turn for the worse.
There had been an explosion in the buildings where John and Sherlock were held. The fire brigade had been mobilised and was en-route, but the chance of anyone in the building surviving was slim to none. His car had pulled up to the building just after and he had sprung out of the car, examining the building closely for any kind of plausible escape route or way to break in and find the two. Finding nothing, he was left with nothing to do but stand there and watch as the brigade did their job.
A scuffle from behind him caught his attention and drew him out of his momentary freeze. Turning around, he saw his unit struggling to keep their hold on two men, both of whom Mycroft recognised from his files as high-ranking members of the laundering group. He straightened his tie as he walked over to the two of them, who stopped struggling as they noticed the steel in his eyes.
"What became of the two men you had detained this evening."
"Not a clue, and I don't give a damn either," One spat, straightening himself up as much as he could an an attempt to appear as intimidating as Mycroft. He gave up as Mycroft took another step closer to him, lowering his voice to nearly a whisper.
"Wrong answer. The two men you captured tonight were not only very important men to this country, but had high personal connections to men who could make your life a living hell. Their murder will not go unpunished, and you will ultimately realise the drastic mistake you have made by ever involving them in the first place."
The second man faltered, looking at his partner and then back to Mycroft. "Murder? Wait, wait. We didn't murder no-one, we did nothing but that scheme, right?"
His partner, looking significantly less argumentative by now, nodded vigorously. "He's right, we were siphoning money from the royal mail but we didn't murder anyone, honest."
"Told you it would work."
Mycroft spun around at the sound, and it took every bit of his self-control to not react to what he saw. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson stood behind him, covered in a fine dusting of soot and grime but looking pretty smug and definitively not-dead.
"I knew if we led them to believe we were dead, they would confess to their lesser crimes in order to get out of the double murder charge. Granted, I didn't think they'd be dim-witted enough to confess to the whole thing straight out, but that's criminals for you."
Mycroft stared at him, looking for some kind of clue as to how he had made it out of the inferno behind them, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Honestly, Mycroft, surely you can figure this one out? When the explosion occurred, we were thrown backwards, breaking the wooden chairs they were stupid enough to tie us to and allowing us to escape out the back fire escape."
It was Mycroft's turn to roll his eyes, turning back to the criminals behind him. "Consider yourselves lucky." He turned away, walking just past Sherlock and John towards his car, determined to not let Sherlock see the relief in his eyes at the sight of his not-dead brother.
"Next time, brother, do wait for my go."
He heard Sherlock snort as he climbed into his car, shutting the door and driving away.
John looked at Sherlock, grinning slightly. "I'd say he looked a bit concerned. Some might think the British government really has a heart."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, starting off down the street to hail a cab. "Yes, and some people are idiots."