AN: ...in which Sherlock makes an appearance. I don't own him either.
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Mycroft's phone rang just as he was unbuttoning his shirt. His personal phone rang even less often than he got texts on it and it was always urgent, so he shot Mae Ollivier a short look as he fished it out of his pocket and looked at caller ID.
John Watson.
As was usual in these situations, he felt like someone poured a bucket of ice-cold water over his head, and his insides quenched in fear. He ignored it, again as usual, and picked up.
"Hello?"
"Mycroft, Sherlock has been kidnapped," the quiet voice of Dr. Watson sounded from his phone. In reality it was probably quite loud, by Mycroft had turned the volume as low as possible. Miss Ollivier didn't need to know everything. "I have no idea where he is. He managed to leave me a short message, but nothing about where they'd be taking him."
"I'll be there immediately."
There was really nothing else to be done, was there?
He put the phone back in his pocket and started to button up his shirt again, looking at Mae Ollivier as he did so. "I apologize," he said. "We will have to postpone our meeting."
"Of course," she replied. "And anyway, if it is a work related emergency, then I'm likely going to be needed at work too." She frowned a little. "Although it's strange they haven't contacted me yet, so maybe not..."
Mycroft cursed, internally, but very colourfully. There was no way he could not reveal his hand at least a little. She would find out that there was no real emergency very easily. Well, at least he might try to get something out of it too.
"No, no, this is a family matter. You know how it is."
She could have just been an extremely good actress, but he could swear she really did know. For one, there was absolutely no surprise on her face, and most people would be surprised to learn he cared about any of his family enough to treat it as such an emergency. And there did seem to be just a shade of...understanding. So that family member theory of his just might have some merit. He'd have to look into it after he rescued Sherlock.
"In a week's time?" She asked.
"Yes. I will be awaiting you."
And he left, heading to the awaiting black limousine.
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The matter with Sherlock turned out to be rather...fascinating. Mrs. Hudson, when applied to, explained that a client had come at this rather late hour, and Sherlock had left with her shortly afterwards. Then Dr. Watson got the text from Sherlock, stating only that he'd been kidnapped. Dr. Watson had rushed to 221B to discover that, indeed, there was no Sherlock in sight, at which point he'd called Mycroft. "I'm not sure," he said, "whether I should call Lestrade or not. I mean with all the secret stuff Sherlock's been involved in recently..."
"You did right to call me," Mycroft interrupted him. It could have been anyone, and so better keep it secret for now. It was probably no chance that this happened just when Mary was recovering from her childbirth, really, and that indicated someone very well informed, which was disconcerting.
The first step, obviously, was to try and track Sherlock's phone. It was bound to be off, or destroyed, or thrown away somewhere, but it was still worth a try.
Apparently, it was in an old warehouse – ironically, the same one Mycroft sometimes used for his little kidnappings. Coincidence? Hardly.
He headed there immediately, Dr. Watson at his side.
What he found there astonished him.
There was Sherlock, shackled to a column, his legs tied together, gagged. Otherwise unharmed, and looking distinctly irritated. There was no trace of warning in his eyes when he spotted them, so apparently he was really alone.
This was either the most botched-up attempt at kidnapping in history, or...
The moment they took the gag out of his mouth, Sherlock asked: "What did they demand?"
"Nothing," his brother answered.
"What do you mean, nothing?"
"Just what I said. We received no demands. John just got your text-"
"My text?" Sherlock interrupted.
"Ah. I suppose you don't have your mobile phone with you, do you?"
"Mycroft, this was a kidnapping. No, surprisingly enough, they did not allow me my one call."
"Perhaps you should change your assumptions about kidnappers, then. John received a text from your phone stating that you were kidnapped, and in fact, you phone is somewhere..." Mycroft trailed off and dialled his number instead. It started to ring quite close by (of course Sherlock would have Tremble, indigne frère set as the melody for him), and the phone was discovered just behind another column.
"They were really quite bad at this, weren't they?" Dr. Watson remarked.
"No," Sherlock barked, irritated. "If they were, they wouldn't have got me in the first place. They were highly professional."
"What happened exactly?"
"A client came in with a mildly interesting case that required me to go with her. I halted a taxi. We got in, she gave the cabbie the address, he drove for a while, then she put a cloth with diethyl ether over my face and when I tried to get out, I found the cab doors were locked. When I tried to get to the driver to unlock them, the client proved to be a rather skilled wrestler and managed to hold me off long enough for me to succumb to the effects completely. I woke up here, bound and gagged."
"Simple, yet elegant," Mycroft remarked.
"But what was the point, if they didn't ask for anything and just let us find you that easily?" John wondered.
Mycroft was starting to have his suspicions about that. "What exactly was the – presumably fictional – case about?" He asked.
"This woman introduced herself as April Brittany, but that will obviously be a fake, so that won't tell you anything," Sherlock started. Mycroft smiled a little, internally. On the contrary, it told him everything he needed to know. He listened on nevertheless.
"The case was about a woman who left her high-profile job for mysterious, undisclosed reasons, only to settle for something markedly less important and well-paid within the same company, without experiencing any problems beforehand. She was to be single and unattached. The boss of my supposed client, actually. And now a lot of very curious people started to be interested in this woman, the boss. But they were just sniffing around, never contacting her directly. And she wasn't hiding or anything of the sort, so there could be no crime involved. Never mentioned anything about wanting to spend time with her family or something along those lines. She reportedly loved her job, and quit it very unexpectedly. So, this April just wanted to know what was going on, she was worried there were some threats involved...and she offered to take me to her boss' old office. Not the most thrilling case in my career, but I didn't see any obvious solution, so I went with her, having nothing better to do. But since this is certainly fully fictional, I do not see how it can tell you anything. Or are you going to insist that a fake story, like a disguise, is only ever a self-portrait?"
Mycroft wondered who told Sherlock that, though in this case it was certainly true. Or more precisely, it was a caricature. Really, it was a bit too obvious for his taste. Did she think he was stupid?
"On the contrary, brother dear, it tells me everything. Do not concern yourself with it, it was intended for me."
Sherlock was disgusted. "Could you tell your friends to leave me alone? I'm not interested in your games."
"I assure you I'll endeavour to make the message entirely clear."
He needed to start on his own offensive, immediately. He refused to be beaten by the French – whatever she may call herself.
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A family member indeed. It wasn't really difficult to find, once he knew what to look for. Miss Ollivier's older sister had recently married Earl of Arundel, heir apparent to the Duke of Norfolk, the premier duke of the kingdom. She was, according to all records and pictures, an exceedingly charming woman – as testified by the fact that not only has she managed to charm the most coveted bachelor of the country with the exception of Prince Henry, she did it while being a foreigner and some years older than him. It had been quite a scandal when they announced their marriage a few years ago, Mycroft remembered.
Of course that would make someone like Mae Ollivier want to move to Britain.
Her sister, by all accounts, seemed to consider herself exceedingly clever in snatching such a husband and had no intention of letting him go. And, more importantly, seemed completely oblivious to the dangers this entailed. Hoards of agents have been on her for ages, British ones trying to find out if she was spying or not, and foreign ones trying to get her to spy. The new Countess of Arundel just cheerfully ignored them all in a very blasé way.
That meant one of two things. Either she was relatively stupid, or very clever. And on that depended her sister's intentions in the country, too.
If Countess of Arundel was clever, then her sister was here to receive the secret info, such as may be. If she was stupid, her sister was here to protect her.
Mycroft was deeply irritated every time he remembered that apparently no one had noticed the connection before. It hadn't been something he'd worked on, even the premier duke was too insignificant for him to concern himself with, let alone the heir apparent. They didn't have that much of an influence, so it really didn't matter. And he hadn't though Miss Ollivier was that important either, so he hadn't worked on it from that end. He couldn't do everything personally! And France was an ally, as unnatural as that was, so keeping tabs on their people in Britain wasn't a primary concern. However, incompetence grated Mycroft, and the idea that someone looked at the Countess and her background, saw that she had a sister at the French embassy in London, a sister who gained the position only just around the time that relationship started, and didn't consider the fact noteworthy...well. He honestly feared for this country sometimes.
Well, now that Mae Ollivier was involved with him, he was determined to discover which was true. Especially because, while Count of Arundell didn't have that much power or information now, every door was open to him and he could potentially do a lot.
His personal guess was the clever Countess, simply because Mae Ollivier was the younger sister, and so such protective instincts were markedly less likely than had it been the other way round. Balance of probability suggested it. However, he wasn't one to rest his case without final proof.
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Meeting Miss Ollivier again, he wondered whether she'd be careful and stick to making as little conversation as possible in fear of betraying something. It would make these meetings pretty much useless, of course, but at the same time he understood that strategy. Safety was...safe.
At any rate, her last success had apparently emboldened her, because instead, as soon as she came in, she smiled at him and asked: "How is your brother?"
He'd been prepared for some feelers along these lines, of course, so he didn't show any emotion as he answered: "He is well, thank you. And how is the Countess?"
She raised her eyebrow, just a little bit. "Well, markedly better, I'd say, since she hasn't been kidnapped recently."
He blinked. He hadn't expected such an open admission. When he looked at her, however, she smiled innocently and said: "Dr. Watson's blog is quite fascinating, isn't it?"
He tilted his head to the side. "I believe that having my brother's colleague post everything he does on that blog gives me a distinct disadvantage in this game. Not to mention my brother's profession in itself. It makes him much more...accessible."
She only smiled pleasantly in reaction to his last remark, and then said: "I'm not sure about the first part. I mean, Rozzen is rather hunted by journalists..."
"Not quite the same thing."
"Perhaps not. But then again, information about our siblings isn't really why we are here, is it?"
"I don't know. You tell me."
She laughed. "Point taken, Mr. Holmes. Yes, maybe it is. But if it was, I wouldn't admit to it anyway, so what's the point, really?"
Evidently, this was going to be another of those meetings when he'd learn nothing. Some decisive action was required on his part. Meanwhile, at least the sex was good.
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Arranging a kidnapping of a countess would have been a rather complicated matter, but fortunately, Mycroft had other means at his disposal. Exactly as he expected, Mae Ollivier's phone rang at the very end of their next meeting.
The results, however, exceeded all his expectations.
Because after Miss Ollivier hung up, she turned to Mycroft and said, deadly serious: "I need your help."
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AN: Tremble, indigne frère is an aria from an opera called La mort d'Abel. It's a piece sang by Cain, in which he vents his hatred for Abel. The whole thing is generally not considered a very good opera piece, and the aria, in spite of its dramatic-sounding name, is really rather bland and boring. In other words, from Sherlock's point of view, the perfect metaphor for Mycroft...