Of all the utilities which were paramount for the survival of the British people, light was perhaps the most overlooked and yet undeniably the single most important. Without light, the complete darkness of their underground abode would hamper all other action. If any other system malfunctioned, it was possible to fix it so long as you could see the problem. Darkness was a threat to survival and a fear instilled in man from their primitive ancestors. So when the lights went out, it was understandable why the hallways echoed with screams and the phones rang in a panic from those living and working in the outer rings. A simple power outage, Mycroft explained, leaving the story to filter through the channels as means to pacify. Meanwhile he looked to his network, eyes wide in the view of his screens, as unnatural actions filled his vision in the guise of his brother playing master to the Ark.
It did not take long to trace the origin. Mycroft rewound the footage to the first flutter of power to see a sight that caused him a pause of regret. John was being dragged away. A very limp John that did not seem to mind the twist of his arm or the scrape of his face against the floor. That was a pity. He'd always been rather fond of John, though it was hard to find any reason to say this was even remotely a surprise. He'd all but expected it. And then, of course, there was Sherlock with armed escort being pulled along by another route, one that would ultimately lead to the check-in station and the ramp that lead outside. Mycroft didn't need to know much more than that to deduce what was happening. They weren't taking him outside to be shot this time-they'd already proven the effectiveness of their current means of execution. And he most certainly wasn't being set free. So he was being taken to someone, offered up alive for a reason that did not ensure John's life the way it did Sherlock's own. Someone wanted the cover-boy of survivors, the infamous zero-five-seven. Someone who worked with Chapman exclusively. He'd warned him to chose his allies wisely. And as Mycroft watched his brother laugh and smile through the sight of his cameras, he felt rather sure that Chapman would indeed learn just how foolish his choices had been.
The cameras never went black but the lights surged and shattered on Sherlock's command. The microphones remained active and indeed both seemed to be intentional as the man stalked through the darkness.
"We need to discuss your bad habit of following me," he muttered as he walked, the night-vision casting him in green with cameras further on showing only the hint of something coming in the rolling darkness. Sherlock gestured and the lights preceding him exploded in a blinding shield of light. "While I am flattered by your interest, I think even you can understand that certain boundaries exist."
Mycroft stared with confusion far outmatched by even the apparently supernatural display. Who on earth was he talking to? At first it had seemed to be Mycroft himself, after all he had the most reason to be believed to be observing him through the visual network. But it wasn't. He was speaking to the person who controlled the blackouts, then. Mycroft ran a quick scan to find the active terminals that would point to this mystery helper while in his peripheral he watched Sherlock continue along his destructive path.
He could find nothing. Every now and then the sound of a gunshot sent Mycroft's eyes flickering back towards the video footage as he continued to dig deeper through the information channels. Sherlock was shooting at the ceiling and at the floor, the blasts echoing down the hallways like rapid fire as the chorus of ricochets made Mycroft flinch on instinct. Darkness, gunshots, shattering glass; he was creating an atmosphere of terror which seemed to do well in keeping the hallway clear. He needn't bother but there wasn't much Mycroft could do to tell him so. He'd told the army to keep out and had sent orders to stay indoors while they worked on the power issues. No one was coming to stop him-no one loyal to Mycroft at any rate. And the cold-cocked and unconscious bodies that had once forced his steps in the other direction were in no shape to follow as they now laid in complete darkness.
The phone flashed as a call came through, Sarah's voice hardly disguising her own fear as she spoke on the other end. "Mr. Holmes, I have Mr. Chapman on the line. He says it's urgent."
He was quite sure that it was. Sherlock wasn't far from his private offices, the darkness looming just outside those cameras as it lept forward with his advancement. It probably sounded as though an army were knocking at his gates. Mycroft leaned back in his seat and accepted the call, watching Sherlock closing in with mounting interest. "I presume this is about the power outage?" Mycroft asked, implying ignorance above the wealth of insight he possessed.
Chapman was shouting. "I know this is you! I demand you stop at once!"
"I no more control the power grid than I do you. I have my best men on the job."
"Sod the power! Call off your army!"
"I'm sorry?"
"Don't play stupid, Mycroft! I can hear them coming!" He could be heard beating his fist against his desk, a rustle of paper and other kick-nacks clattering as his panic seemed to grow. "You think you can take me down? That you can win this with a coup?"
"Mr. Chapman, the only orders I have given are the explicint instructions not to venture into the corridors until the power has been restored. I'm sure your own contacts can confirm this. I've lost visual and audio of your area so you'll have to excuse any lack of insight." It was a lie but not one anyone would be able to confirm once he was done. Time was of the essence though. Chapman screamed like a child as the bulbs outside his office exploded. Sherlock stood still in the darkness, wavering slightly as he stared at the door, not moving closer just yet as his hands clenched at his sides, one wrapped around the handle of a pistol.
"Mycroft, stop this NOW!"
Sherlock turned to stare up at the camera, looking lost for only a moment before his face turned stone-like with resolve. He was waiting for something, and with a slowness that made him feel uncharacteristically dumb, Mycroft realized it was for him this time. He could hear Chapman in the background, hear him shout at Mycroft with every evidence that right now his attention was not on Sherlock anymore. And it needed to be. His brother was waiting. Of all the things in Mycroft's life that mattered, speaking to Chapman at the hour of his comeuppance was among the least important, though perhaps selfishly fulfilling. "I'm sorry, Mr. Chapman," he lied. "There is nothing I can do. Perhaps you should ask your allies for help instead." He didn't even try to disguise the mocking tone in his voice as he set the receiver down and ended the call. Chapman's obscenities were nearly audible in the recording's background.
Sherlock had that benefit at least to know he had his attention now. He took a deeper breath, his eyes pinched with pain as he stared into the camera with only expectation to believe his brother could see. "Mycroft, I'm not coming back," he said, with multi-chambered death at his fingertips. "What you're looking for is part of the Ark. Find him and you'll never have to worry about strange occurrences in your systems ever again. But give me an hour before you do."
There was no way to respond. There was no use in arguing either. He was going to murder the head of the British government, a crime which would warrant death in a community that could not afford to waste rations on the condemned. Nothing that had happened could possibly be kept on file as it seemed to point to the survivors posing a greater threat than ever imagined. There would be a coverup but nothing close to the truth. None of this was happening so far as history books would go to show. In a way, Mycroft was pleased-almost proud. But in the end, he'd rather a brother than an another sacrifice to the almighty god of politics and irrational fear.
Sherlock stroked his hand down the wall in a gentle gesture, petting the cold panel with a quiet smile. "Thank you, John. You know what to do."
With a final bright burst of white even the cameras went out, eight of them all colored in darkness and now a crash of white-noise and static. Sherlock was indeed on his own, now. And heaven help any man who tried to stand in his way.