*Eyepatch in the Suit*
by: Whitegloves
DISCLAIMER: FACTS are FACTS and Fictions are Fictions
a/n: Yet doesn't mean we can't have both! I love incorporating these stories!
Enjoy the story! :)
2. Marco Polo
Nobody knew how the row started. But their parting wasn't as touching as normal siblings would have.
1,476 hours, 480 minutes and 53 seconds ago…
"No, no one will be raising any parking tickets fee. Not yet and that's final." Mycroft hung up on his phone and turned to the occupants of 221B where John had just sniggered from his chair while Sherlock was on his mobile, unresponsive. The night was young, but here was the British Government gracing the two occupants with his unneeded presence, as Sherlock had casually commented before his brother while the fireside blazed its warmth. John's reaction to his phone conversation however was the one that got Mycroft to raise an eyebrow.
"What seems to be funny, Doctor Watson?"
"You're still in charge of simple parking ticket decisions?" he looked amused.
Mycroft—who was left standing beside the door of Sherlock's flat awkwardly in his dark overcoat, three-piece suit and obligatory umbrella—wasn't as happy and this was seen as how his witty eyes turned cold and the forced smile on his lips appeared when he spoke next— "Oh, I'm sure you understand something so simple— if the administration initiated this proposition then it shall make an outstanding impact on the traffic control. The Parliament will have to modify our Safe Street Act rigorously but more importantly, other trends on street crime will be highlighted by the media that will increase the insecurity citizens are already feeling, causing people and government officials to focus their attention on street crime problem of other scale. Not to mention the dramatic press coverage of street crime stories, the proportion of citizens that will claim which crime the government should prioritize that will end in cabinet decisions and hearings. Plenty of it. And before you know it our federal crime policy will change in a major way."
He paused for the effect, seeing John's face turn blank and not a single drop could be heard in the silence that followed. Nobody had asked him to sit down, and frankly it didn't seem like Mycroft wanted to stay long too. Sherlock had been busy on his mobile and couldn't even lift his eyes up. John was in the same room with the sleeping Rosie on his arms as he sat on his spot in 221B with mouth now hanging open with the older Holmes' every word.
Mycroft then continued with patience paper thin, "I'm sure you are also aware of the punctuated budgetary commitment that shall be a consequence. It is a classic pattern: public attention to crime will soar; press coverage will mainly focus on the drama; and the Parliament will schedule hearings. The issue will leave the normal subsystem home, with incremental adjustments, and will have gone far to the realm of macropolitics. The government will pass another major law, which will leave increase of money spent but I'm sure you understand the politics of equilibrium and monopoly given the way you laugh at my parking ticket issue."
He ended his note crisply, not satisfied with John's stumped expression. It wasn't why he was there.
"You talk too much." Sherlock's exasperated tone came to the rescue of his best friend and turned his surly eyes to the visitor. "What do you want anyway?"
The older Holmes stood rigidly with a waning smile.
"I'm going away. Indefinitely."
Sherlock took his time in responding, John even thought he would not answer at all.
"Will it affect me in anyway?" came the abrupt response from the younger Holmes indifferently.
"The question is how it would affect the country in anyway with you unsupervised." was his smart response, but John had noted the stillness in his voice.
"You're obviously here to pick a fight." Sherlock smirked, eyes staying to his brother.
"Yep." John muttered in agreement.
"Normally it is one-sided." Mycroft pressed on. "And it's not my hobby to pick anything with anyone, I have other engagements."
"Ironic that you're here. You think I can afford to waste time when my hands are full?" Sherlock's voice was languid and knowing his best friend, John just knew sarcasm was lying underneath there somewhere. Then the detective raised his dark eyes up to his brother again and added, "With our sister in need of my attention and everything."
Mycroft stared back at him blankly, except for the casual raise of both his eyebrows. The event in Sherrinford was fresh in their minds but nobody needed to say the exact meaning implied. They were all there. But the older Holmes was on his auto-pilot mode behavior Sherlock most detested as the older Holmes nodded—
"Good. I was hoping that was enough to keep you busy."
"Keep me busy?" Sherlock's tone suddenly erupted as if insulted, his eyes flashing at the older Holmes, the contempt in his voice unconcealable and John doesn't blame him— months passed in Sherrinford with singular result and the responsibility was finally weighing in and sinking deep. Their sister was the same puppet that played the violin in mimicry while Mycroft was of no help whatsoever. "You're supposed to take care of her too, you know. You haven't made an appearance in the past weeks. Put some effort into it, you're slipping."
"Well, I'm not a doctor, am I?" Mycroft made a face, "and I don't play the violin so I don't see the point—"
"It's the thought that counts." John pointed with a sigh, still unable to believe he had to spell everything for the idiot. Mycroft glanced at him as if sensing his unsaid words and said rather sternly—
"If it's thoughts, Doctor Watson I'm afraid I've beaten both of your head put together."
"Mycroft!" Sherlock harshly bellowed—
"Eurus is not the only one that needs attention, Sherlock." Mycroft came severely and John had to stand up with the sleeping Rosie as he knew voices would be raised in the next instant and he wasn't wrong. He retreated to the bedroom to keep his child from the banter—but not before he heard Sherlock's livid voice—
"For f-ck sake, Mycroft, straighten your priorities, she's your sister!" He did say a lot of things before the doctor came back to hear the older Holmes head smacking reply—
"You're being a child." Mycroft wasn't backing down but the unaffected coolness of his voice was the one that got both Sherlock and John to feel even more aggravated. "She's in a safe zone, unable to harm anyone while the business I need to conclude is critical. She won't even notice me even if I did—"
"Whose fault do you think that is?"
The cold atmosphere persevered and John was left forgotten as he stood by the kitchen table with eyes darting from one Holmes to another. He had never seen the brothers argue like this—not even when a gun was in between them. Sherlock looked so fierce and John supports him fully because Mycroft as usual was being a dick. Mycroft on the contrary looked unpretentiously unconcerned that he merely inclined his head in that annoying manner of his, raised his chin and stared from Sherlock to the doctor.
"I never expected you to understand anyway. You've been spiraling down with emotions because you are… forgive my word." He sighed calmly. "Limited. And I don't blame you. Its your limitation as I have mine so don't you think we need to both practice what we're good at instead of trying to fix the 'mistake' neither of us can do anything about?"
Sherlock laughed, his dark eyes boring on his older brother mockingly. "You're really some piece of work, you know that?"
Mycroft fell silent, then turned to his watch as he shifted on where he stood.
"I don't have time for your 'guilt game', brothermine, this is all in the past, I don't need it."
"And I don't need you at all. Get out."
Mycroft and Sherlock seemed to emit electrical discharge as they exchanged looks.
"All right," John shook his head, scratching the back of his neck, "You've said your piece, good night, Mycroft."
Mycroft looked at the pair, before his eyes fell down the floor with some consideration. The next second, however, he was gone. Sherlock rushed at the doorway too and remembered feeling his hands shaking as he grabbed the door and slammed it shut.
That was almost two months ago before disappearing to his mission and Sherlock let him because he had things on his hands apart from building back 221B and taking care of important things for family. The consulting detective, now agent remembered the snippet of conversation as he sat quietly in his dusty bed, inside a tattered room in one of the old buildings near the Aden port. He recalled grimly that it was the hotel bombed on 2015 that nearly killed officials of the government who all escaped unharmed with the attack claimed by the ISIS. It was that kind of vacation he had subjected himself in right after being called by the concerned Secret Service of the possible glitches that might compromise his brother's return.
The details of Jolly Roger were quite complex and it was Lady Smallwood who gave him the summary: a spy was able to find the connection of a terrorist cell among the ring leaders of Somalian Pirates and of the coming 'Summit' meeting of said ringleaders with terrorist that will transpire soon. The CIA, MI5 and other agencies were aware of such concession going on, but because of the presence of a hundred or more hostages in Somalia, all agencies were threading in deep waters. Soon Mycroft deemed it necessary to do infiltration for something so delicate needed intelligence only he possesses and had been there for two months with results. However, Lady Smallwood could not help but fear the agent's involvement because Mycroft started acting secretive.
"How'd you know?"
"You haven't been working long under a spy agency, Mr. Holmes." Lady Smallwood said strongly and quite convincingly, "This intuition doesn't come merely from guesswork, I've been working with your brother for a long time. What I feel is… he has been giving us progress reports and following his instructions but there are times he puts us in the dark. For instance, he hasn't been in contact for three weeks."
"You don't trust him?" Sherlock's eyes lingered at the agent.
"Our work is of mutual benefit than trust. I'm afraid what he's working on is far from his reach if his infiltration has gone deep. For what reason—I cannot know. But my point is—if he has indeed gone too deep he will need someone to lift him up in the surface. Otherwise we will lose him."
Sherlock saw her earnest eyes and narrowed his own. "Why not send your powerful force, you're capable aren't you?"
"Not without raising a war."
Sherlock raised eyebrows and made a face.
"So, my part is to retrieve him? That's all?"
"For the benefit of the country, Mr. Holmes, equivalent of honors and decorations. More importantly, he is your brother after all. Don't you feel the need to respond to his emergency call?"
"But he hasn't called. At all."
Lady Smallwood was a woman of strong command and intellect, that was for sure as she said, "So this is me working my intuition that something is going to go horribly wrong if we don't send a subtle reinforcement. We need to retrieve him no matter what the cost."
Sherlock stood up from the chair as he heard movements from outside the dilapidating lobby. He quietly steered towards the back of the closed door and listened more. Yes, there were clumsy movements from the outside. He slowly reached for the door knob, all the while thinking of the involvedness his older brother had found himself in. It was unlike Mycroft to take on risks that he was not one hundred and one percent sure that would work. Yet it was true that out of any agents, if it was an on-field intellect needed, Mycroft Holmes would win the spot on. It proved how delicate the situation was—still it was unlike Mycroft to drag things this long.
"I'm going away. Indefinitely."
Mycroft who was the god of estimation couldn't give an exact deadline for his disappearance. The consulting detective had noted it before but it didn't seem a big deal then. He was furious with Mycroft. Two months later, his mind couldn't reel off the reason why his older brother would say something so vague. Did Mycroft know his involvement will be unpredictable? Going against pirates and possible terrorist cells, it was plausible.
Did he continue with the mission despite knowing the possible notion of not returning?
Sherlock was there to find out. After all, John had mentioned before Sherlock took off from the soil of England: He's so like you, sometimes. Jumping in the arms of danger when you feel like running away from your emotions.
What was John talking about of all things?
Sherlock turned the handle of the door and opened it wide to be met face to face with a German who was surprised to see him as well. He was carrying a large bag, wearing a casual maroon shirt with Arabic writings on it, and short brown pants. A thick square spectacle on the bridge of his nose and around his neck, at the top of his dark green keffiyeh hang a red Praktica dslr. The German blinked at Sherlock who shook his head once, grabbed the person by the collar and dragged him inside the room. The German protested loudly—cursing in his native tongue till Sherlock responded in the same language and told him to shut up.
When he finally got the attention he needed, he looked the man in the eye and continued in the same tongue—
"For an aspiring photographer, you sure are full of guts. I know your plan. It stops here."
"What do you mean? Who are you and what are you doing?"
"Don't play dumb. You plan to be abducted by pirates for fame: you even wore something that would capture their attention. Glad to tell you it's working. You're now under their radar and will most likely be taken right after you come out of the hotel. I should know, I've been following their trails."
The German looked stunned and gulped at the detective's revelation.
"Really?"
Sherlock smirked. "Now get undressed and wait here for my backup. You'll be sent home and if your lucky your own government may let your act of treason slip by. If you're lucky. Now hand me everything you own."
"W-what—hey!"
A foreigner with curly black hair, wearing a pair of thick square spectacle, maroon shirt, keffiyeh and brown pants came out of the hotel door moments later. He was also carrying his newly owned dslr. The sun was hot up the sky but he shrugged it away as he saw a native wave at him from the corner of the street with a cab waiting for him. Sherlock unhesitatingly followed them and slipped inside the cab, seeing the fellow exchange meaningful looks with the driver before the cab drove away. Now Sherlock was supposed to instruct the man to go to the airport but they both knew that was never going to happen.
Because this was house most foreigners get abducted for ransom in Middle East.
Locals working together to entrap them and deliver them in the hands of pirates, it was purely that easy. It was all about the transaction. Sherlock wondered if that was how his older brother had infiltrated the group of pirates Sherlock soon found to be under one of the strongest war clan in Somalia—the Sa'ad. It had been a week since he last saw his brother with the men surrounding him, took him some time to track the whereabouts of the group's local members in Aden and found they were closing in the German reporter whom he found had every intention to be captured.
A week long after and realizing merely grabbing his brother was not enough, so here he was, acting surprised at the ambush awaiting him. Of course, he knew there was an ambush! A pickup mounted with armed men who all jumped off and swarmed the vehicle greeted him, and at that moment, Sherlock braced himself for the inevitable as this was what infiltration means. To be immersed with the situation by being in the situation, so here he was the acting civilian to be captured without a fight. Nothing more effective than letting them think it was all their plan.
Before he knew it, he was dragged off the cab and beaten, his driver unharmed for obvious reasons, his bag and camera were taken and he was squeezed into the backseat next to three churlish colored men with firearms. Unable to talk and see anything else after getting blindfolded, Sherlock pushed the glasses back at the bridge of his nose and silently waited as the car sped off—hoping against all hope that it would soon lead him to his cunning older brother, who for some reason, happened to be working with this people.
Near sundown, the pickup arrived at an outdoor camp at the edge of the town and Sherlock was dragged again by his tied arms and thrown inside one of the low-ceiling shacks that nearly scrapped his head. He knew he was out of nowhere in the middle of the desert and knew there were other captives around him, he felt their presence. He also knew there were other gunmen as sounds of their machinery alerted his sensitive ears and the noise of other pirates talking in their tongue. He could understand a little of it but soon, most of them would speak in rough English with native accent not knew to Sherlock's ears. He felt he was surrounded on the ground, the next thing he felt a foot prodding on his arm.
"This man speak English?" came one of the pirates' hard accentuated voice.
"Not American." Responded another voice. "Where is Marco Polo?"
Sherlock vaguely understood their words as they reverted to their mother tongue and said something about a clan leader's name. The next thing, his blindfold was pulled away and his eyes greeted the fading light of the sun that showed him three men standing around him while on his left three foreigners sat, huddled together in silence.
"You speak English?" one of the thin, brown man asked him whose front teeth was red and decaying.
"Call Marco Polo!" one of the three shouted around his shoulder while Sherlock diverted his eyes at the hostages. Three men with shirts bigger than their frail bodies all looked back at him with precaution, as if warning him of what was to come. The undercover agent easily recognized the Australian hostages as they were on the full report on the Jolly Roger folder, but he sensed their fear and resentment to whomever was called.
"No Marco Polo," another Somalian pirate said with conflicting expression and the three spoke among themselves again, arguing even, before someone took Sherlock by the collar and aligned him with the other hostages before leaving with dissatisfaction.
Sherlock breathed quietly and raised the back of his hand to the bleeding side of his head. The wound was superficial.
"Hey, I doubt you can't speak English." Says one of the Australian men, the taller and much older of the three with graying hair and beard that caught Sherlock's attention. "You better tell them that and not let Marco Polo realized it for you. He is pretty sharp. They'll beat you."
Sherlock sat straight and scanned the man, all the while his mind palace reeling at the name for he had memorized the list of suspected pirates under the Sa'ad clan and the name fell under no category. "Who's Marco Polo?"
An uncomfortable silence fell in the three, till the middle-aged man with sandy hair spoke quite with dislike.
"A very nasty man you don't want to meet. The pirates always talk about it— he's a spy—he gets all the records of the foreigners entering this side of the country and have the militants get funding and even provide the plan of their capture."
"If we didn't know better, he's the guy behind our kidnappings. He's done so for others." The third man with brown hair said grudgingly. "We're reporters and we know these pirates are incapable of thinking… well, you know how they are usually just stupid men with arms… but with Marco Polo working they are just plain scary."
"The man behind all the kidnappings." Sherlock paused, his lips tasting what he had just said, "Interesting… and you're afraid of him because he can get you beaten up?"
The old Australian shook his head, "No, that's not it. Them pirates tell an old story if you get in their good side… of how Marco Polo got one of the hostages killed."
Sherlock stopped. "This Marco Polo…" he said slowly, "Is he a pirate?"
"I'd like to think he is." The third man looked around his companions, "But he's just another foreigner like us. British I think. But he speaks many languages that's why he's their right-hand man. He's their translator."
Sherlock lowered his eyes to the ground as he understood finally.
"He's pretty nasty." The sandy haired man sighed, "He's got this personality I can't explain about him. He's typically just quiet when he's left alone. He isn't guarded as they consider him one of their own. That guy with grey cold eyes."
Sherlock's grey eyes flickered, his lips curving at the unexpected information, though he knew it was never beyond his brother with brains like his. Yet to harm people…
Sherlock never felt more desperate to meet Marco Polo in person— because obviously it's much more than meets the eye. Yet the compulsion to go and knock the wind out of him was tempting.
You'll be answering to a lot of things, brothermine.
-To be Continued-
A/n: Thank you for the warm notes :)
Not that I find terrorism or piracy amusing :(
This is just me... finding another reason to be involved with Sherlock and Mycroft!
Thank you for reading!