*Eyepatch in the Suit*

by: Whitegloves

a/n: Ye shiver me timbers! Thank you for reading again!

Enjoy the story! :)

4. Parley

Months ago, inside a cold office...

"Alive for all these years? How is that even possible?!"

Mycroft was staring on his table with a conflicted expression with one arm setup protectively around his middle while his other by his chin, his fingers on his lips. A number of things have had happened in the span of 24 hours and here he was with his parents and only brother inside his secluded office, fresh from the horror of Sherrinford Island and expected to go under interrogation. It did not take less than an hour to communicate with his parents and call them with the utmost importance, telling them directly that it was about their youngest daughter. Their response was immediate. Naturally, they needed not know, but his younger brother insisted that their family matter was no longer on his hands, that wounds of the past could only be healed fully if all of its bloody side has been disinfected from lies.

Such poetic notion.

Mycroft had wanted to keep it a secret from them for a little while until he fixed the conundrum she left him. His eyes fell on the folder on his desk and dared not touch it. He had been scanning its content when Sherlock and company came and refused to acknowledge its existence for Sherlock was there. He did not hone his brother's keen senses for nothing. Had Sherlock sensed he was not in their full attention, then he would know…

Of a plot designed to finish what their sister had started… something so diabolical Mycroft doesn't even have the leisure to explore the feeling of guilt or shame for his sister's gift to him has surpassed the equation of forgiving.

Oh, but he had to sympathize for now… else his parents wouldn't leave him be. They are in a delicate situation, and just the very sight of him—he could read clearly from his mother's bristling expression and his father's silent disapproval— that they were ready to reject whatever explanation he was to offer. It was fine. The truth will always be hard to swallow, and humans do tend to distort it to their convenience. But Mycroft was always careful not to lay the blame.

So he spoke to them of Uncle Rudy's initiative and added his own initiative to follow said plan. He may be a person of secrets, but he was never a liar no matter what others would say, and certainly man enough to take full responsibility of his actions.

"I'm not asking how you did it, idiot boy, I'm asking how could you?" came the retort.

Mycroft glanced over his father, his ears ringing with the harsh tone, but then had to agree with his mother silently. He could not say he was in anyway proud of his decisions of the past, clearly his actions then were driven by the loss of his sister to madness. The burden on his younger brother too was greater; he feared he would lose Sherlock to the same disease that had plucked his younger sister from their family. That was the moment the brain was left and the heart took the wheel. Idiot, yes, for only an idiot would care that much. But tried as he might, he could not give what he didn't have.

"I was trying to be kind." Mycroft told himself quietly. The response he received was no less than he expected. Rejection. But rejection can only take hold if one expected to be forgiven. He didn't. Nevertheless, his mind whirled at how his mother could not see the logic of trying to spare them the idea that their daughter had turned into a murderer. He told her so and saw her bafflement—because obviously she never saw, or believed her daughter could be so harmful. He was immediately apologetic, not because he saw himself in the wrong, but because she had to find out this way.

Then his father spoke, and being the calm and collected man Mycroft admired, the older brother closed his fists for though his mother may have the little bit of affection he can spare human kind, his father would always have this pedestal to him as the headman of the family whose role Mycroft soon assumed; and his father who was a man of thoughts and who appreciates his children's abilities just like he does with his wife— to speak now was like a bowman ready to shoot an arrow to his non-functioning heart.

His father insisted she was their daughter—a kind notion that suggested acceptance for whatever Eurus was and Mycroft was glad they were not terrified of her. He had underestimated their ability to stand firm with their daughter once, to find that his calculation was correct would set off something inside him— disappointment. To find them this concerned, Mycroft was glad his parents were at least humans.

Yet, the question now remains: what of Eurus and her last will?

Even if his parents were set on taking responsibility of their daughter, the government—he—would never allow them consent. He was her legal guardian. And he was, till this day, her older brother. He didn't know why he had to remind his parents that Eurus was still his sister, but he did. They were just not satisfied with the connection.

"Then you should have done better."

Mycroft's eyes flickered and in his mind's eye—he saw a flash of memory of the governor's office after being liberated from his prison cell. It was after Sherlock and John had been found in Musgrave and Mycroft was attended to by the Secret Service. He was shaken at the absence of his younger brother— realizing that Eurus had taken Sherlock somewhere was a nightmare for him, a headache of a new kind. It was Redbeard all over again!

So it was such a relief to find out he and John were both alive. Eurus too who was already under the secure hands of his men. What he didn't expect was what his men found inside the governor's office Eurus had been using. On a monitor screen of a computer, an email was sent on a particular name—and once Mycroft's attention was called he realized how catastrophic the leaked data was.

A kind of data that made Mycroft order the arrest of everyone in Sherrinford for an indefinite length of time. A kind of data that made him set aside the family of the fallen victims in the hands of his sister with details of their death unexplained and under the government's name. A kind of data he would have to review even when he was scheduled to have an interrogation by his parents that very afternoon.

Because Eurus had jeopardized the safety of each and every British citizen with a single email. Everyone Mycroft had tried to protect all his life. It was her kind of last minute revenge after failing to get killed by their brother's hand.

Clearly, Mycroft should have done better.

"He did his best." Sherlock's voice floated amidst the admonishment and Mycroft had to look at his younger brother in wonder. On his features, Mycroft saw Sherlock's impassive face, yet he could read the line on his eyebrows—the very same line Mycroft saw on his own forehead when he found Sherlock and John were missing. Was it possible Sherlock too was worried for him during the time they were held in Musgrave and find his older brother not there?

Sherlock was giving him a very funny look. A tender look.

Oh yes, he was.

"Then he's very limited." Finished their mother.

Mycroft was not afraid of her for nothing.

And perhaps there was some truth there. His limitation had always been his inability to calculate events that involves human functioning of the heart. Uncle Rudy had pointed it out, but the old man had told him it was also one of his strengths for he would need it to continue with what they started. To be able to stand on his own was a gift not all can withstand without breaking. Was he breaking now?

No time.

His parents began questioning Eurus' whereabouts and he told them straight she was in the custody of the Secret Service. And having been reminded of the problem at hand he was still in the dark how to solve, he put emphasis on his next words:

"Without a doubt, she will kill again if she has the opportunity. There's no possibility she will be able to leave."

Not even after his current conundrum was solved… and even if it was solved it would not save her.

"When can we see her?"

"There's no point." Mycroft's eyes glinted as he looked around and saw heated expressions looking down at him. Like it was his fault she was the way she was.

"How dare you say that?"

"She won't talk." Mycroft squared his jaw—he had tried many times—he told her again and again if she didn't communicate back she will be in danger! "She has passed beyond our view. There are no words that can reach her now."

And everyone's attention turned to Sherlock who was said to be the grown up.

Mycroft concurred. A grown-up by description was someone mature. Glad to know his younger brother has been acknowledged as one—it means he was liable to act. Sherlock has to take the attention now for all of their sakes. Time ticked and Eurus' ungodly threat will be upon them if Mycroft didn't do anything. But what was he to do? How was he supposed to solve it if it involved international affairs without it getting traced to Sherrinford?

Right up at that moment, he had been doing his best indeed, to stop the casualties Eurus invoked.

And here, Sherlock was in deep thoughts about how to help their sister. Different paths, same concern.

That's right, Sherlock. That's your job. Mycroft settled back on his chair, feeling much confident to rely on Sherlock's power as he saw the younger Holmes step up to be the brother that he is. Mycroft could not possibly take care of Eurus while handling the matter of the state war that would soon befall them. It would only be a matter of time. His eyes fell on the folder on the table with its title crossed out with a black pen. He looked up to find Sherlock with eyes on him, pale as ghost, and had to press his lips closed, before sighing.

Do what you do best for the people close to home, brothermine and I shall do mine.

Present

The atmosphere changed drastically out of their favor and it was Sherlock who felt the tension at the sudden scrutiny and suspicion his older brother was receiving. Silence fell in the air that even the distant sound of bombs and guns were mere tinkle that couldn't break in the hush; fear and anger were high among the pirates that needed to be vented—they needed someone to received their wrath and it was a crucial moment when the American spoke— and thus putting into the center the suspected man behind their fall. Glares and suspicion befell the sole translator.

"What does he mean?" barked the angered Garlack darkly, his eyes glinting red and menacing.

Sherlock had kept his eyes to his brother and saw—without surprise—no apparent change in Mycroft's expression. You could not have seen a reaction even when you told him the British Empire had collapsed much less be center of the rage a dozen or so Somalian Pirates. He stood there, solid as a rock, in his brown desert cloak Sherlock recognize to be common among the residence of Aden, and travelled his eyes to the pirates surrounding him.

And everybody hung for his next words because everyone could sense what was to happen next.

Sherlock gritted his teeth, his body arching, ready for any action in case things go awry with the situation, his heart thumping against his chest, his mind alert. He had been in many dire situations that had driven his senses to the edges and this very moment was one of them. In the middle of nowhere with war around the corner, surrounded with mercenaries—he had to think of their escape plan. Wasn't that why Mycroft called him there? To save him?

Sweat sliding down the side of his head, his eyes on the number of enemies and the distraction he had to provide— when Mycroft's voice floated in the air.

"What possible connection do I have with the American soldiers?" his eyebrows contorted into an act of confusion and Sherlock was reminded this was his brother who effectively played Lady Bracknell and one who could contain himself no matter what the situation. He easily turned to the three kingpins now with a slight shaking in his tone— an effect to garner sympathy, "I merely am a certified translator from Cambridge Academy of Translation— a small community outside London— what possible importance would I have to influence the Americans?"

"Americans!" shouted one of the Somali pirates in the crowd and spat on the ground. There were murmurs of indignation for Somalians were know to harbor anger against the Westerners.

"If anyone should be the reason, it should be you, Captain." Continued Mycroft and Sherlock saw his eyes glinted as he addressed the tall, dark haired foreigner beside Garlack.

The American took the challenge with a smirk Sherlock knew could only be made by villains. "Why is that?"

"Are you not an international criminal capable of bringing down half the hemisphere?" Mycroft offered as eyes fell on the foreigner, "Aren't the Americans much concerned about finding you than they are of the hostages? You bragged so yourself."

Heads turned from one side to the other, especially for those who could not understand the language. Only the kingpins seemed to weigh Mycroft's words and for the first time there was an abrupt change in their expressions. They now looked at the American with frowns and to their translator with considerations and Sherlock relaxed a bit with eyes to everyone but lingered longer on his brother.

"Well?" Garlack prompted to the American who shrugged with a smirk, his eyes falling on Mycroft.

"He's got a point. I am important."

"I lost 20 men because of you! And two leaders!"

"But you killed hundreds of Americans because of my AK47 weapons!" the American retorted coolly. "And are we really going to have this argument here? We're still under their radar—and face it—you know they'd be hunting you because of me so could we move on? We still got one hostage there so negotiations can run smoothly because they know you're angry." He pointed at the lone man who, unbeknown to them, jumped into the fire on his own.

All eyes fell on Sherlock this time but the younger Holmes was only waiting for Mycroft's eyes to meet his. When it did, he saw the faintest recognition from the older Holmes' eyes that instantly disappeared. His expression remained impassive but the slight narrowing of his eyes confirmed recognition. The undercover agent instantly looked away, not wanting for anyone to see their connection and his eyes then fell to kingpins surveying him with dissatisfaction.

"Australian?" asked Mohammad Abdu, one of the kingpins in the list of four who was still one of the living like Garlack who escaped from where Sherlock came from. Were the Special Operations Unit successful in killing the other two?

"German." Garlack snarled and then with all vigor, he crossed the distance between him and the only hostage. In the next second Sherlock found himself with a gun on his temple and everything around them fell into another hush. The lock of the gun was pulled and the detective was seconds away from dying—he saw the intention from the leader's eyes.

Eyes of a murderer.

From the corner of his eyes, Sherlock saw his brother move instinctively forward and had to flash him a warning look. Mycroft had lost the remaining color on his face; his lips had parted and an unusual panic that was not common there was dancing on his eyes. Sherlock panicked too—at having seen such a change to what seconds ago was the embodiment of calm.

"Stop." The older Holmes had said before anyone else could speak. Sherlock froze and found his eyes again transfixed to his older brother. What are you doing!? He was screaming deep in him. Mycroft pressed his lips in answer to the detective's question and raised his eyes to Garlack whose eyes of daggers were back to him again.

"Why stop me?" growled the leader testily who has had enough of lost for a day, "I kill him and we tell the network he was kill by Americans bombing. Then they blame America. And nobody attacks us again."

Mycroft frowned at the logic and shook his head. "What you are going to do would simply be counterproductive. If the world found out a hostage was killed in the middle of a rescue operation then the blame would only be turned to you. All world government— Germany and other European countries nonetheless— will do everything they can to finally put a stop to this terror crisis. They will send all their military power here and overcome this whole Southern region—you are giving them the chance to justify the attack— and nobody in the world will care because a hostage was killed already. Human empathy lies on the basis that humans don't want the same bad circumstances to happen to them. You are what they don't want to happen to them. Kill this hostage now and you are sealing your nation's fate in the hands of the world."

Sherlock sensed Mycroft's declaration had much impact than the ongoing raid somewhere to their North. The older Holmes stood his ground and only the American had a complex expression on his ever-stoical face. The Somalis all believed everything the translator said. Even Garlack who had set his gun away with a glare at Mycroft and then at the orange sky where the American had launched their attack.

So parley does work?

Then to Sherlock, he grunted.

"Tie him," Garlack said commanded before turning to the American, "We will talk. And you." He glared at Mycroft, "You ride with us." He then made a compelling command in his native language that sounded truly vindictive and threatening. The roars of agreement of the Somalians resounded in the chaos and like swarm of bees, their feet rumbled on the ground to their hives.

Amidst the cries, was the Holmes brothers wryly watching each other. Sherlock could see Mycroft now back in composure. He then wondered if the panic he saw in his brother's eyes was purely just an act— he wouldn't put it pass past him because Mycroft was many things other people could never fathom.

The British Government was one of them.

Yet this was much more than the government…

Someone suddenly grabbed Sherlock's shoulder and dragged him to another vehicle. The undercover agent lost sight of his brother as he was thrown inside a pickup and sat between five or more pirates who all were silent all throughout the journey. Sherlock grimaced to himself as the next thing—a sack was pulled down his head.

The rest of the journey were all obscure to him but it didn't matter.

His mind palace was at work.

The ride was long and nonstop that it felt almost possible they were crossing the entire region. All those while, Sherlock's mind worked furiously as he understood the bigger picture upon seeing the Special Operation Unit come in directly above their shack's location—as if their intelligence where the hostages were kept was spot on—like someone was in there feeding them information.

How many camps were attacked simultaneously?

Three.

And how many hostages do each camp have? More than thirty, two of which were British Citizens if Sherlock's memory from the Jolly Roger file served right. He's right.

And who among them was capable of such meticulous plan? Who else?

It took another two days before Sherlock saw Mycroft again.

Their final camp was hidden beyond the thick bushes and undernourished trees far from civilization after moving for consecutive days in fear of having been found by the American soldiers again. In those two days, Sherlock remained to be the only hostage. Once or twice, Sherlock caught his guards speaking to one another in their native tongue of how other groups were on the run. He didn't have to decipher it from his little knowledge of Somali. He could see it in their behavior. They were afraid.

So afraid they were with what Mycroft said that they left the German alone. Even one of his toughest guards who had survived unlike the unfortunate Ishaar, and who had the tendency to beat his hostages never got around Sherlock's small room with its door always locked. The problem was Mycroft never showed himself either.

Which begs the question—what else could he possibly be plotting?

Though, naturally, Sherlock had already cracked Mycroft's case who couldn't help but feel respect at the calculations his brother obviously had a hand in this counterterrorism he had put himself in. Morris, Clarke and Johnston who all thought Marco Polo was working with the enemy—without their knowledge—was the main reason they were saved. And they will forever be none the wiser.

And of Johnston? Knowing Mycroft, Sherlock doubted Johnston was in any danger. It was Mycroft who had him extracted first—looking at Johnston's disposition, the old man may not have any health conditions, but he was old all the same. Mycroft would not risk any death with any other country's citizen when his unit was in charge of the rescue.

All of this, Sherlock understood the moment he saw agents slid down in front of him from their rope ladders, acting as beacon of hope for hopeless captives. Sherlock saw them as distraction. Mycroft was in for a diversion—it was apparent he was after something else of which Sherlock knew to be severe.

Then there was that American who caught the attention of the undercover agent. The American's insinuation that Marco Polo was in anyway involved was already enough for Sherlock to believe he was more than an average foreign accessory. It was obvious the man was smart for how could he incriminate Mycroft without batting an eye?

And if he was as cunning as how Sherlock saw him to be, then he had to tread carefully. The man, in the detective's observation, was a former military captain—his clean cut, his stance, his nonchalant attitude, his extensive knowledge of weaponry, but much obvious was his aura. It was the same with John's.

But Mycroft regarded him to be a threat, which means he's one of the persons of interest in his brother's lists.

Still, the idea that Mycroft himself would put himself in danger when he had so many men ready to deploy at the click of his fingers was still a puzzle for the younger Holmes. There was a reason why Mycroft always restrict himself in the corners of Great Britain—that was because his fall would mean the downfall of the country. His life preservation was not his own—it was for the greater good of the country he was serving. That was the value Mycroft had put himself in.

The risks of him always getting found out was never in Britain's advantage so stay in the country he did. So why?

The door of his small shed suddenly opened. Finally, a discussion.

Sherlock expectantly raised his head and saw his brother as a bag of answers. Mycroft's frame appeared on the doorway furtively and closed the door upon entering. He was wearing his brown hood atop his head that he allowed to fall behind him when the Holmes brothers' eyes finally met each other.

"You're just really bad when you 'care too much', don't you think?" Sherlock threw at him reprovingly as he stood up and dusted the side of his clothes with an annoyed look on his face. He watched his brother's face become solemn as he paused, and then one of his eyebrows shot up to his hairline.

"Why do you think I told you it's not an advantage?"

"You should have satisfied yourself with solving the parking ticket issue instead."

"Parking tickets can wait. Let the media slaughter the topic till I return."

"So, you plan to return?" Sherlock smirked, then his smile turned into a grimace as he saw no reaction from his older brother. "What are we doing here, Mycroft?"

The older Holmes just stared at him, and Sherlock always knew that silence which was more than anyone can ever imagine. He gritted his teeth.

Mycroft suddenly narrowed his eyes at him. "Have you been hurt?"

"What?"

Mycroft made a face. "Or did you have a concussion? I thought you would have figured that out by now with the capacity of your brain, a sleuth such as you?"

Sherlock stiffened. "Do you think it's safe to say those things just now?"

"You called me by my name, might as well reveal everything." The older Holmes shrugged while Sherlock frowned.

"Do you enjoy making a fool out of me?" he watched his older brother turn towards the nearest chair and sat there casually. The shed was windowless, yet the undercover agent could not believe he would be so nonchalant now.

"On the contrary, I've never been happier to see you, brothermine." Mycroft saw Sherlock stagger at the revelation of their relationship which somewhat amused him. "Stop jumping around too much, Sherlock, the coast is quite clear. Our favorite colored men are huddled in the station of their boss, listening to the local radio announcement of the recent raid in Zinjibar. You know we're around Abayan region, don't you? Preparing port to go to Somalia."

"As much as I know you're the man behind all the raid," Sherlock decided to stand near the doorway, in case his brother was incorrect. Impossible. He turned back to the older brother with eyes suddenly twinkling. "Marco Polo?"

"Oh." Mycroft heaved a deep sigh, "I was supposed to be called Mark Paul upon my captured-infiltration but I suppose we can't help losing context here. They labelled me such name after a long roundabout story of this traveler who speaks of all his journey and learned many languages. Which is inaccurate. I had to bear with it to stop all the nagging."

"Of course, you did." Sherlock crossed his arms, sharp eyes now falling on his brother who was seated opposite him. "You've been enjoying this too much, I saw you lead armies outside the camp."

"Then you also know they are guarding me to make sure I pass on their information in codes?" Mycroft's snarky smile of overbearing confidence somewhat lightened Sherlock's mood. At least he wasn't claiming to be a pirate.

"Didn't look like it. Is that how you rounded up all the raids?"

"I have agents from side to side in the city where the information we needed is circulating. It was like taking a candy from a toddler."

"Didn't our mother tell you to find somebody your own brain size?"

The older Holmes eyes widened. "Where on earth and who?"

"Mycroft, if you have been as energetic as you are now, you could've ended terrorism a long time ago."

"Good god, no… but be careful what you wish for."

"So, are you ever going to the part where you tell me what's going on?"

"Tell you? Honestly, use your head, Sherlock." Mycroft ogled at him sardonically, "It's up there with your eyes for a reason."

"I only saw you nearly discovered with guns on your head." Sherlock grinded his teeth and when he saw his brother stare at him, he sighed and decided to say the three powerful letters as a summary. "Fine. CIA." Mycroft made no affirmation but the glint in his eyes was enough for Sherlock to continue, "Your Jolly Roger file has been reeking with all affiliation with the American Secret Service—you've been on freelance again?"

"It's more of a compromise."

"So, the simple fact: you sent a man here on a mission—about three months ago for surveillance. Said spy reported the connection of all terrorist's cell which concerned a global scale. Terrorists linking arms to arms with pirates' cells which could result in a possible dominance of the southern sea and its neighboring waters. Plus, the fact that there are British citizens held as hostages, you just had to act. All Chief Commanders must be reeling in their seats for the next action to take. The CIA which had been following these pirates' movements had to collaborate with Britain because well, you're there. That wasn't so hard to elaborate." Mycroft did not say anything but kept his eyes at his younger brother. Sherlock held his gaze, and then shook his head. "But that was never enough to have the Mycroft Holmes flying all the way here from London."

"No, it isn't." Mycroft agreed.

"You're here on an entirely different errand."

"It was easy to work with CIA knowing we have a common goal, but yes, I have my own reason to be here."

"Lady Smallwood did feel you've been keeping a little secret."

"Is that why she sent you?"

"Didn't you?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow testily.

"I estimated you'd be here in two months." He smiled.

"Quit bragging. So, spill. What are you doing here?"

Long silence fell suddenly, and Sherlock realized how hesitant his older brother was to share the information. This made him consider for a moment, and then frown at the older Holmes.

"Don't tell me this is something personal?"

Mycroft's eyes lowered a little, when he raised his eyes, he looked quite sincere. "How's Eurus?"

Sherlock looked startled. "Mycroft?"

The young detective had stepped closer to his brother when he realized it had something to do with their family again. What connection can Eurus possibly have this terrorist cell this far from their country? The answer scared him and now he had to look at his brother as he repeated warningly— for the older brother to have to come here on his own just to solve it was a dire warning— "Mycroft?"

"So is that your real name?" came a voice from the doorway and Sherlock whirled around to find the American he had seen in the circle of the Somalis standing at the threshold with left arm raised and blocking the doorway with a full smirk on his face. "Myco?"

Sherlock had stepped backwards in surprise, unaware of the presence of the man which he blamed on the man's military skills. He moved back till he was about an inch away from his brother sitting behind him, while warily watching the American whose full attention was on them.

"Who's he?" he whispered to Mycroft with his fist closing.

"Eurus' gift." Mycroft said quietly more to himself. "Davy Jones."

-To be Continued-

A/N: Ah well. Pirates ;)

Parley's a discussion between opposing sides,

or simply just Jack Sparrows where they stop suddenly killing each other xD

Thank you for reading!