*Eyepatch in the Suit*

by: Whitegloves

a/n: I am against violence, so please keep away from it!

Enjoy the story! :)

3. Man-O-War

Sherlock woke up at the distant sounds of firing guns, helicopters and screams of raging pirates in the middle of the night. Then soon the sound grew till it was upon them. Standing up quickly, he saw his fellow captives all shouting at one another, grabbing each other and shaking each other's shoulders; already on their feet they braced themselves at the sounds of bombs raining from the sky while wide searchlights came back and forth to lift away the darkness of dawn. Sherlock immediately headed for the blanketed door to look outside and there he saw helicopters' search lights from above, its proximity deafening his ears and wafting his hair. The smell of gunpowder filled his nose as thundering feet shook the ground—and the next moment Sherlock saw a rope ladder fall from the sky right outside the shack's threshold, followed smoothly by a man in combat uniform with his team jumping down all four corners.

And then a hand was offered to Sherlock who understood clearly that everything was over.

But he had barely just begun!

12 hours ago...

Sherlock hadn't seen a single sign of Marco Polo or whoever it was guised by his older brother in another five days that passed by. There was just him, the three Australian men, and the group of the Somalian pirates guarding them in the middle of the desert from dusk till dawn with their weapons and khat. Rations of food and water came at least thrice a day for the hostages, in a bundle of plastic that contained cold rice or a piece of bread and a can of tuna. Most of the time they were kept inside the shack, but now and then they would be brought outside to sit by the bushes under the watchful eyes of the armed pirates.

But Sherlock hadn't been idle in those five days. He had been observing the men both day and night too, had already gone through the hobbies, preferences and dispositions, as well as each of his inmates without the need to ask them— but what interested him about the three Australians were the absence of any physical injury or torture marks.

Which was of course not applicable to him as he got beaten down on his very first day.

On his first night, an earnest young man, thin as branch of tree in the middle of the desert, wearing loose clothes and barefoot on the sand but with handset of a rifle on his shoulder came to make an informal announcement of his duty. By then Sherlock still hadn't the inclination to let them know he spoke the global language. He still wanted to make sure he will meet this translator.

"German," said the grinning pirate, carelessly setting his gun on one side of the tent as he carried a lamp with him, overcasting the shadow that surrounded the prisoners. "you still no understand English?"

Sherlock stared at the man obviously ten years younger than him and decided to speak in German instead.

"Was?"

The Somalian's expression did not change. He kept staring at him blankly, before widening his smile, taking out a green shrub from his pockets Sherlock recognized as khat, a stuffing it on his teeth and gnawing at it. Not unfamiliar to the undercover agent was the plant's characteristic as a stimulant, a kind of drug of cathinone, popular for most natives in these parts of Yemen or Somalia. Its effect, to Sherlock's full knowledge, is short but instantaneous euphoria that the locals consider it to be more important than money, even any other basic needs. He has seen its effect to their fevered eyes, their colored teeth, and their ecstasy upon getting their share of fresh bundles of it. It was their only hobby apart from daily kidnappings, it was their pastime.

To think that such plant could be cultivated uncontrollably in this land fascinated Sherlock.

All the same, the young Somali was able to present a name.

"Ishaar," he said, pointing to himself and chewing on his leaf, "I talk to you in English. Speak English too." He encouraged the prisoner with a nod of his tiny head. Sherlock shook his head and instead showed his tied wrists to the man. The younger Holmes had noticed the untied hands of his inmates long ago which added to his conclusion that the Somalian pirates weren't terrorizing their captives as they were known to be. Or that the person in charge of terrorism hasn't made any appearance yet. Sherlock was well aware of that.

Ishaar saw his hands, made an acknowledging sound then produced a dagger-like metal from his trouser pockets and cut loose the rope. Sherlock rubbed his wrists and raised curious his eyes to the guard who put the dagger inside his pocket again and grinned at the undercover agent.

"I talk to you now English, German."

Sherlock didn't know if the Somali was sharp, or just plain adamant to believe that all foreigners they capture speak English. And ironic as it was, the man looked both gullible and dangerous at the same time. Lethal combination. It was the atmosphere he could read surrounding him— a warzone led purely out of corporate ideals, a business and nothing more for pirates— money opportunity given to the deprived who had no sense of danger so long as they could gain profit.

It was their profession.

And their trade?

Life.

"I speak little English." He finally said, rendering Ishaar to look at him for a moment, before chortling and speaking in loud intonation of his native language as if calling to his friends. Then Sherlock heard stamps of feet from the outside and the two pirates, one extremely lean and tall and the other as young as Ishaar who first brought him in the area appeared. They listened to Ishaar who seemed to be making fun of his co-guards while pointing at Sherlock who clearly understood that he was on the red zone. The two guards glared at him as they understood, and on the next second a butt of a rifle was knocked on Sherlock's jaw that sent his head sideward and his glasses to fly away; the assault joggled his head as extreme pain hit him. Blinking with eyes looking at the ground, Sherlock pulled his gaze to see Ishaar arguing with the tall pirate with hands pointing at the victim. The tall Somali argued back, only to be shoved in the chest by Ishaar. Soon the two guards left the shack while Ishaar made more cursing remarks, before finally turning to Sherlock.

"German, you lie." He grinned smugly.

"I said I spoke little." Sherlock shortly said with regards to his young guard as he took his unbroken glasses from the soft ground, feeling a cut on his lip and spitting blood on the ground. The sore pain on his jaw was beginning to make him cross. "I'd like to speak to your leader."

Ishaar stared at him again, but this time with a sudden look of panic coming over his eyes, and then he shook his head.

"No leader come here now." He said abruptly and left the tent, leaving Sherlock sighing and turning to the men behind him. They were all listening to what was going on with eyes to the new inmate.

"They're scared of the leader, obviously." Sherlock told them, wiping his lip with the back of his left hand, "If they argue over a simple matter of clobbering their hostages, it only means their leader's given direction not to lay hand to any of you. The packages must be left untouched till delivery to the rightful owner with money. In this case, your government."

"That pretty much sums it up." Said the man who called himself Johnston, the tallest and oldest of the three Australians. He was one of those hostages who seemed to have adapted and accepted his fate being already on his 50s, "And they give you nicknames too."

"Yeah, they call us according to our nationality, but since we're all from Australia we get to have names like Trump," he pointed to himself, "cause of the color of my hair, he's Camera man," he pointed to Clarke, the guy with brown hair, "cause he yanked his camera from them before we got abducted and got hit on the temple. See the bruise?"

"And I get to be called Rocky," grinned Johnston passively, "because apparently they had trouble understanding I wasn't called John with another dangling syllable ston. They wanted to call me Stone but I said no. So Rocky."

Sherlock stared at the three numbly again, before shaking his head.

"And this… Marco Polo?"

"Who the hell cares?" Morris aka Trump glared.

"He doesn't stay with the hostages, does he?" Sherlock ran his left fingers to his lips, thinking.

"No. He stays on a separate room. And I only hear the kingpin call him Marco." Johnston said with a shrug, "Not sure if it's actually Mark."

"Closer." Sherlock said more to himself as he spat again on the ground again.

"But what's your real name?" Clarke suddenly asked as if only realizing out of the blue to which the undercover agent who after thorough deliberation if he should tell them the German's name on his passport, replied with disinterest:

"John Watson."

Five days forward still had Sherlock on the bushes with the three other captives with his now dried bruised lip, and agonizing impatiently at the absence of one so called translator. Nothing was ever happening in the camp, nothing so typical other than the cough attacks of Johnston that no pirate cared about, the missing lunch of the hostages no one seemed to notice and the raised voices of the pirates in their mini disputes over the trifling things like their addiction to khat that once led to a bloody brawl of two Somalians which Sherlock found quite entertaining, and was even hoping guns would go all out. Nothing did because the Somali pirates have an unconditional loyalty for their brother. Sherlock had observed them during their practice of prayer. Solemn as they do it, the undercover agent had little to say about this religion, or any other religion at all. So long as they do not harm helpless people.

Which lead him to think of his absent brother once again.

Mycroft was not helpless, that was pretty much the issue so even if he was harmed, Sherlock would naturally think it was what his brother was asking for when he meddled with state affairs such as piracy. He was powerful. Or someone with influence. From what he gathered from the Australians' description, Mycroft had already connected with one of the kingpins—the chief the Sa'ad pirates—whose name he can still remember from the Jolly Roger folder.

Mohammed Garlack.

Typical Mycroft to play around directly with the big shots. Sherlock could careless of the comments of the other hostages, it was never Mycroft's intention to be in favor of the helpless. It was not Mycroft's job to be shown empathy with his kind of profession. It was not his job to show a singular care to an individual if it would tip the balance of the majority's safety. And yet Mycroft Holmes always deliver. It was obvious Mycroft wanted to save the hostages, a hundred of them scattered across the land, yet there may be some sacrifices.

Sherlock gritted his teeth as he buried his eyes on his forearm, feeling the heat of the sun on his nape and wondered whose hands his keffiyeh had fallen together with the bag of the German he had impersonated.

"Are you okay?"

Sherlock looked over his shoulder and saw Johnston leaning over to have a closer look at him.

"Fine." He answered in boredom. Why was he fine? Why wasn't he running about and destroying this cell?

Mycroft's glaring eyes flashed in his mind which made Sherlock drop his head on his arm rather aggressively.

"You don't look fine." Came the old man again whose frail arms reminded Sherlock of the old butler in Diogenes.

"Have you seen any hostage feeling any better?" Sherlock snapped.

But Johnston only smiled, his blue eyes twinkling at the spiteful tone. "At least you still got spirit. Situations like this tend to scare anyone and break them quickly."

Sherlock surveyed him. "You don't look broken."

"Ah." The grey-haired man shrugged and scratched his nose. Sherlock wondered if his honest answer was too complimenting. "With a man my age, little things can break me."

"I suppose… for someone who has no one waiting for him at home." Sherlock said straightforwardly, then continued before he could even stop himself, "No ring, not even a mark left if taken off—inference unmarried. Too calm within crisis, no apparent comment for family affair, sick but not terminally ill so no reason to hasten ending of life but the fact that you're with two stooges taking risks here in Middle East tells about indifference to any concerned party left behind. There you go, life story."

Johnston blinked in astonishment and Sherlock was not even apologetic, just to get the man off his back.

"I suppose… it's easy to read an old man with nothing to lose?"

Sherlock made no response though he was thinking of something biting but decided against it.

"And what about you? You don't look like someone who regrets being here." Johnston told him quietly, his eyes travelling to the empty plains at the back of the bushes. "In fact, you look like someone whose family's not waiting for you back home—but there ahead of you. Like a man with a mission."

It was Sherlock's turn to stare at the old man but did not respond.

In the end, he only received a pat on the shoulder and Johnston finally left him alone. Sherlock was left staring at him for a moment with a frown. What was the point of thinking of his family when he planned to unite them all in merry old London soon?

Hours passed again as Sherlock's patience continued to thin at the absence of action.

Boredom was an understatement. He didn't even bother eating his ration, knowing there was no point as minimal energy was only required for captives such as he. Actually, life here was a bliss.

Just then, a sound of vehicle roared from somewhere.

Sherlock and the rest of the hostages all looked up from where they sat and saw a Land Rover drive towards the camp with five heavily armed men all wearing turbans who all came out of the vehicle. They met with Cashim, one of the lower lieutenants Sherlock recalled from his file and who always roamed the camp. There was a brief discussion in tones of commands but what caught Sherlock's attention was a mention of his brother's supposed pseudonym.

He looked up expectantly, more so when he saw the group march towards them. Sherlock felt the other three hostages beside him tensed up too especially when they stopped in front of them. Cashim casually pointed out to Johnston who was then hauled on his feet roughly and dragged towards the rover.

Clarke and Morris were beside themselves, shouting and demanding where the old man was going to be taken.

"He get killed." Cashim said with a glee at the two, while Sherlock watched Johnston's feet disappear inside the vehicle, which then sprang loudly to life and drove away. "He not pay 10 million."

The two Australians both paled at the answer and their voices withered away. Sherlock observed them, before looking back at Cashim who was then joined by the other Somali pirates, one of them was Ishaar who gave a toothy grin.

"German, next."

Sherlock ignored him but sat straight when he noticed two Somalis coming his way. They grabbed him under the arm, pulled him to his feet and then lead him away, not to one of the rovers, but to another side of the camp where a solid stone house stood surrounded by many tents of the other pirates lit by campfires to lessen the coldness of the night. There Sherlock was lead inside, ducking at the blanketed door, the undercover agent was greeted by a lone man sitting cross-legged on the floor wearing a set of expensive linen of black and white with a turban on his head and keffiyeh masking half his face that only his eyes were visible.

Sherlock was forced to sit down but the kingpin's detail was already embedded on his mind. Obviously, the financer at the top of the food chain, one of the ring leaders. Mohammed Garlack was in the house.

"Martin," said Garlack in an apathetic voice behind his scarf, calling the German's name and confirming Sherlock's claim that the German was well researched. Why they could not remember his face, Sherlock pushed his glasses back at the bridge of his nose. Garlack's sleezy eyes strayed at Sherlock, darker and duller than anyone the younger Holmes had seen. "Your head is 20 million."

Sherlock was expressionless. Garlack nodded. "We call Germany tomorrow. 20 million to return home. Or you die."

The younger Holmes waited for the moment, before nodding. Undercover agents need not worry of any ransom. But he had thought Mycroft was going to be around this man, he thought he would find his brother sulking nearby while the kingpin made demands. Sherlock had scanned the whole vicinity along the way, trying to spot anyone taller than most and wearing that grim expression of someone who's already bored with the fishes on his net. But he was nowhere to be found.

A slight alarm stirred at the pit of his stomach. Where was Mycroft?

When Sherlock was returned to where the other hostages were, he laid awake in the darkened shack for hours, unmindful of the curious eyes thrown his way. The two Australians obviously knew where he had been, but his lack of response to their inquisitive eyes made them mutter in agitation while pointing out angrily that the amount subjected to their family and the government was too much.

"We're gonna die here." Morris sighed helplessly, putting both hands on his face.

"We've known that." Clarke told him quietly, "These morons won't get a scrap from our government. Johnston always said this was going to be his graveyard."

"Johnston's old… he's already lived his life." Morris replied lamely.

Sherlock tried to shut other sounds around which he was very good at. Already thinking of his brother's whereabouts something else bothered him after recalling Johnston's arrest. Why he didn't master Somali language was not because of his incapability but lack of time. Still, he would have wanted to know more… because the only words he caught and understood from the shouts and orders of them men in turban who took Johnston was the disturbing message: Marco Polo. Order. Take Man.

Where would they take Johnston with the rover? To Mycroft, naturally. Which explains his absence… yet why would Mycroft sacrifice another life? Something like this obviously happened before—does that mean his brother was once again deciding to save his undercover mission? A life for lives? Or something else was coming…?

Present.

His sleep was light. Thus, he was easily awakened by the uproar from the outside.

The next thing, Sherlock was faced with a soldier in combat uniform bearing no identification from which organization he was from. All Sherlock saw was the hovering rope ladder in front of him, the screaming Somalis who had been caught, and the continued battle at the other side of the camp where—the younger Holmes knew—Garlack was staying.

When he didn't respond to the agent, he was easily grabbed by the shoulder and was nearly shoved to climb the rope when something else occurred to the detective.

No.

Something was wrong.

So without ado, Sherlock went out of the way to have the Australians, who were forced to wear protective vest and helmet, climbed first. The younger Holmes then took the soldier by the vest and pulled him aside.

"I'm in UA!" he cried over the loud wafting of the helicopter. "Is the mission over?"

The soldier stared at him from behind his dark goggles, then shook his head. "A little underway. We assaulted three simultaneously. Are you getting off?"

"No!" Sherlock shouted and without a glance to the disappearing bodies above the ladder, he ran—ran towards the battlefield where the other soldiers were still trying to take over. He knew he would be there, he knew there would be people to find, there must be a way to stay—

Running as if to save his life, he dodged soldiers and bullets alike, his eyes scanning the footprints of the Somali pirates—which then lead him to the back part of the numerous tents where he stopped dead.

That was because he just saw a land rover rushing towards the camp, calling its remaining members. Sherlock saw at least ten pirates snuck in hurriedly. They spoke in hiss to one another, calling more to come out—but it was Sherlock who jumped out of the bushes, pretending he was suddenly surprised to find them. The pirates all shouted frantically and pointed in his direction before someone jumped to snag him.

He was shoved inside the rover, between four more Somali who were all in nervous panic. The vehicle moved—and drove nonstop. They drove for several hours, away from the camp till dawn broke and the sun met their pallid faces. From the conversation afterwards, Sherlock understood that the raid was from the Americans, or at least that's what the pirates wanted to believe. They were all very angry, as half of them seemed to have perished in the attack.

The land rover drove across the land till darkness fell again. By then angrier Somali quarreled with each other, while Sherlock remained immobile and silent, but his mind which had been patching the events together could only conclude one thing.

The Jolly Roger contained four main kingpins. The soldiers only got three. Which means this was not over.

Mycroft was not one to leave loose ends.

The land rover stopped at the outskirts of a city near a port. The pirates all poured out and Sherlock was pulled roughly by the arms. He was made to sit in one corner alone without a guard. There seemed to be further things happening that got everyone's attention and sure enough, two pickups drove at the heart of the pirates. From there, men with turbans carrying AK-47 and even grenade launchers poured out, with two kingpins—those who survived the raid and one of them was Garlack— came out angrily, thumping their vehicle's metal door and apparently cursing. The two heads met in the middle while the others surrounded them, in heated remarks that got the low-ranking pawns squirming uncertainly.

Yet, amidst the chaos, Sherlock's eyes shone as he finally found him.

He knew it was not over.

Unknown to all of the Somalis was the presence of the man behind their very crisis. He who stood tall above all their weapons and their ranks while standing in the background with guiltless face; yet his cunning eyes betrayed him. He who had mastered blending in so no one ever thought him remotely responsible for the happenings. The man in the shadows that literally became another kind of East Wind.

Sherlock suddenly realized once again how insanely dangerous Mycroft Holmes could be. Particularly when he designs the warzone. A man of war.

"Why not ask your Marco Polo?"

Sherlock was pulled away from his thoughts when another voice spoke. Looking around, he saw a fiendish looking man who was neither a Somali nor from Middle East who was still sitting inside the passenger pickup. He slipped his boots on the ground and stood broad and tall among everyone with tanned skin, clear cut dark hair and heavy set of eyes.

An American.

Sherlock ogled at him. He had never seen the man before.

But Sherlock felt it, as so did his brother. How all eyes turned to the sole translator.

-To be Continued-

A/n: I am really aiming for a 6 part ONLY xD

Hope to make it more?

Thank you for reading!