Mycroft ran up the grand staircase, his heart racing more than was completely necessary. Chiquito? They might not have meant Sherlock. Sherlock might simply be out exploring this sprawling mansion, but in his heart, Mycroft knew that if there was a dark pit of danger in this place, Sherlock was sure to have found it.
He rushed down the hallway past striped wallpaper and white doors with gilded-edged panels until he got to the area where the General's rooms were said to be. There was a row of doors. He put his ear to one door and then the next listening. A low grumble came from behind the third door, so he moved his head closer to the keyhole waiting to hear… to find if Sherlock was there.
The deep voice said, "Muy guapo."
Then a lighter voice said, "Guapo am I? I bet you say that to all the boys."
Mycroft rose to his feet then, his face flushing with anger as he tried the door. It was locked. He raised his foot and kicked it, but it held firm. Then he bent down and looked through the gap. There was no deadbolt, just a simple lock. He stepped back a few paces, then he rushed forward lifting his foot exactly between the lock and the edge of the door. It broke open and he entered the room to freeze at the display he saw before him.
The room was elegant. White walls, gilded ceiling except over the bed which was draped with folds of red velvet. The headboard was a fish tank that took up almost one entire wall. River fish swam through green reeds behind the glass which was a bit murky and cast an odd glow on the room. There was an open door on the other wall that led to a bathroom. He could glimpse the glass door of a shower, and a black marble counter on which there was a light dusting of white powder.
The bedspread was puffed white silk stitched in a diamond pattern interspersed with hearts. Mycroft had never guessed that something so monochrome could be so tasteless and gaudy. But of the three (the velvet roof, the fish tank bed, and the bedspread) it was the least offensive as it clearly matched the white trousers of the man lying across it.
El General, an older man with hair dyed black to mimic the youthful beauty he must once have had, was sitting on the bed. Beside him, splayed on his back, was a young man in white trousers and a shirt of turquoise blue that was untucked and open. The older man's tanned hand was clutching the fair skin of the boy's abdomen possessively. The dark-haired boy lay back relaxed, head on a white pillow looking over at the door with dark dilated eyes. His pale pink lips slightly ajar, a trace of white powder beneath his nose. It was Sherlock.
He lifted himself up on his shoulders and turned to the door to say, "Oh Mycroft, hello. The General, here, was just showing me his fish tank. It has piranha in it!"
Mycroft sucked in a breath. He could always trust his brother to totally underestimate the magnitude of a situation. He tried to reply, but no words came to him. Nothing in his repertoire of stock comebacks or phrases seemed to fit this situation, and his anger at the man who thought that he had a right to touch his brother in that familiar way, was threatening to cause him to descend into acts that were certainly not advisable if they were ever to leave this country intact.
Tongue-tied, he simply held out his hand. The same gesture that he used before a lift or a spin, and Sherlock came to him, scooting out from under the older man and slipping on his shoes and jacket before reaching out to Mycroft who picked him up and tossed him over his shoulder.
"Hey!" Sherlock yelled kicking his feet as Mycroft turned and walked out of the room without a word. "Let me down!" he cried as Mycroft carried him through the hall and down the stairs in a rapid march. "Mycroft, answer me!"
But Mycroft simply spread his hand holding Sherlock's thighs firmly against his chest as his other hand traced lightly down the banister. He was unable to respond to his brother, because it was taking all of his energy to avoid going back up there, picking up one of the decorative metal vases of dried roses from the hallway, and beating that man to death with it.
He stopped at the base of the stairs, looking back toward the party before turning to the entrance and walking out, past the startled woman in blue, onto the patio, and out onto the long boardwalk.
The sound of the sea grew loud, and a light breeze cooled his brow. Sherlock stopped kicking then. Perhaps being suspended above a deep chasm did that to him. Mycroft filed it away as another way to quiet his little brother as he walked silently across the bridge.
It was high tide, and the tumultuous sea was below them, waves curling in the wind and crashing against the rocks. Mycroft's mind was also turbulent, rolling with worries and what ifs. The half-open side table that might have housed a gun. It certainly must have housed other things of a more intimate nature. Of what would have happened if he had stayed to drink with Sr. Carillo, watching dance tapes while his brother was pressed down into the sheets, crying out, crying for his brother to come and save him. The look on his mother's face when they returned. The stern lift in her eyelid. That disapproving almost dangerous look they got when Mycroft had failed, again, to stop Sherlock from doing something stupid, as if he had the ability to control his little brother who was a fire-rocket flying wild from the moment he was old enough to crawl.
He sighed deeply as he approached the end of the bridge, the guards a few feet ahead of him, when he felt a tap at his waist, and Sherlock said in a quiet, calm voice, "Let me down, please. I can walk on my own."
Mycroft stopped, just before the edge of the bridge and lowered Sherlock to the ground. They stood, staring at each other for a second, without a word. Then Sherlock sneezed, and Mycroft rolled his eyes.
"Wipe your nose, for God's sake," he said and pushed ahead, watching out of the corner of his eye to make sure that Sherlock was following. Sherlock took his handkerchief out of his jacket and wiped his nose with the blue silk square before stuffing it back in his pocket.
They strode past the guards toward a group of drivers playing cards. Mycroft walked up to them and demanded, "Llévennos a la ciudad!"
They stared for a moment, before one of them threw down his cards and walked toward a car. He opened the back door for them, and Mycroft let Sherlock enter first before climbing in after. He leaned forward giving the man the name of the hotel, and they pulled away, down the rough road which hugged the edge of the cliff. Sherlock looked out at the ocean. The dark sea churning below them.
"I left my good shoes back there," Sherlock said.
"Bullocks to your shoes!" Mycroft said, and Sherlock turned to stare at him. Mycroft rarely cursed.
The rest of the ride, they spent in silence, then Mycroft paid the driver, tipping him a large amount before striding through the door, across the lobby, and up the stairs to their room.