*Eyepatch in the Suit*

by: Whitegloves

a/n: We barely reached the peak of the story and its FIVE already!

I hope you're still having fun^^

Enjoy the story! :)

5. Davy Jones

In the cabinet office, 2 hours ago…

Lady Smallwood was running her classy painted finger nails on her lips as she stared at the monitor of her desktop. She was inside her cozy office inside the Cabinet office, behind her wooden desk atop a pile of documents and wearing a prim lavender top underneath her dark blazer with a single diamond necklace and crystal brooch on her heart. Her fireside was raging and bright while London's typical temperature was at bay outside the building with its night frost. Her secretary had left her tea in its saucer which was forgotten beside her arm as she remained occupied with a number of complications since being left in charge. The Lady had been alone for some time as privacy was a necessity in her given task, reminding the secretary, who was an MI6 recruit, to not allow anyone to disturb her. Her eyes moved as she read the information flashed on her screen, about a certain island left on her care while its manager was out of the country and possibly getting murdered as she blinked. Who was he kidding? To merge himself with a group of mercenaries was a death wish— didn't she specifically told him his coffin would be ready the day he returns?

But Mycroft Holmes, as usual, humored her darkly.

"No flowers."

And no body either for how could they hope to return him in this land in pieces after the pirates were done with him? Thinking of her colleague and the circumstances under which he made the decision, Lady Smallwood heaved a deep sigh and reached for the computer mouse, clicked one of the smaller browsers into a full screen that showed her of a footage in black and white of Mycroft inside the Governor's office which they found two weeks ago. The whole video file has been removed from the system and only this thumbnail was left on the storage. It was a small file, over pixilated but with the MI6 experts on technology, they were able to make the image from a footage clearer. Now she was staring at Mycroft's familiar back while he bent over the computer on the desk which showed the screen with indistinct writings in bold. Mycroft never mentioned any of this event in the debriefing after the Sherrinford incident, a fact that raised concern in Lady Smallwood's side for without understanding his motive, Mycroft may have just begun a solo operation he astutely laced with the hostage crisis in Middle East.

But why there? Why with the pirates?

The answer, the Lady was sure, had something to do with the evident writings plastered on the screen Mycroft was gawking: Davy Jones.

Pressing both fingers on her closed eyes, she massaged her cheeks till the tip of her fingers reached the side of her temple. Trying to keep up with Mycroft Holmes was a task she never wanted to partake, yet who among their colleagues would even think of outdoing the Churchill—or even the best version— of their time? Everyone was—to be precise—afraid of him, not because of his position but his ability to stand in par and hand in hand with the devils of the world while resisting them altogether using nothing but his unparalleled intellect. In their time, Lady Smallwood had never witnessed a man destroy an empire with a click of his hand and built it back with a single command. Mycroft's power does not lie simply on his ability to control ordinary people or give orders, it was the that he has aligned himself with the most dangerous sort—thereby making him the most dangerous man.

Charles Magnussen and Jim Moriarty were just some of his tea party members who considered Mycroft a force to be reckoned with. Did all these get into Mycroft's head to consider himself able to jump into the fire of Middle East?

Or was he being another idiot over a clue his sister obviously left?

Lady Smallwood stared at the image again and tried to remember any instance were Mycroft had acted suspicious and found none. She had dismissed his agitation because of the events in Sherrinford and his meeting with his parents, but nothing like this came to mind, though she was surprised at his sudden intent to fly to Somalia. And she thought he only wanted to distract himself or finish the assignment their spy had died for to report.

In any case, she had tried to make amends for overlooking the matter by sending Mycroft's favorite pawn into the game. One of those labelled dangerous in Britain but was still under leash of his sole older brother. Magnussen and Moriarty needed not be mentioned just to fear Mycroft Holmes. The very idea that he has Sherlock Holmes at his disposal should be enough to stop any attempt to the monarchy and the nation.

The black and white knights of her Majesty, they would say. No other description would suffice; Lady Smallwood sent the boy there for one purpose—retrieve his older brother alive or the nation would crumble. Psychopath or not, uncontainable or derange, at least Lady Smallwood knows where Sherlock Holmes' true loyalty lies and it isn't just with Her Majesty at all.

Yet Sherlock Holmes also lost contact after two weeks which now left Lady Smallwood with the restless Doctor Watson on her heels. The recent report they got was of the American Special Forces saving almost three dozen hostages in the Eastern side of Aden. A clue that Mycroft was still in the work, but wouldn't he contact them? Has he met his younger brother? Or better yet—was the boy still alive?

Three knocks on the door immediately had the Lady pressing on to her previous document's screen to appear. Answering in a monotone to let the secretary come in, Lady Smallwood was surprised to see one of her leading agents enter the room donning the common dark uniform of their profession who had looked at her in the eye with the most grievous concern.

"What is it?" she asked with sudden dread, wondering if two bodies will be sent her way from Middle East.

"There's been a security breach in one of our top MI5 archives, my lady."

She pondered over this for a moment, before looking the agent in the eye again.

"Has it been dealt with?"

"Yes. We manage to secure the error after a minute, but we're afraid a crucial information was stolen."

"Did you locate the hacker?"

"Yes, my lady. It's from one of our offices—of whom we are still conducting a thorough research. We suspect it's one of the new recruits who just had a tour in the building."

"And what information was stolen?"

"The profile, my lady, of Mr. Mycroft Holmes."

Lady Smallwood's eyes widened and her lips parted in alarm.

"Jones? Did my ears deceive me? What are you gentlemen talking about?" came the American's engaging dark voice, his eyes twinkling with underhanded mischief, his tall, large frame blocking the only escape so Sherlock felt them trapped under his scrutiny. Behind him, his older brother made no other movement and the languid tone in which he controlled his voice convinced the detective things were still under his control.

"Obviously, we were talking about you, Mr. Jones." Mycroft said politely, his expression deadpan, while Sherlock's eyes glimmered as he recognized the name from inside his mind palace. "He was wondering why an American was working with pirates… I told him you must have some English ancestry for Jones has Welsh origin."

Jones transfixed a look in Sherlock's direction, and then began sauntering his way till they were face to face. From that position, Sherlock travelled his eyes from the man's dark hair to the sole of his shoes, his mind going through all the detail and frowning. He then kept his eyes at the man too who was leering at him curiously.

"Really?" Jones's accent never showed any inclination for the English, "You're asking some dangerous questions there." Sherlock kept his ground but did not say anything. The man was reeking of alcohol and but seemed sober enough to be playing cool. His exterior was enough for Sherlock to confirm he was an ex-captain who never quite left the dealings with weaponry. His hands still looked fresh from combat, the bulges inside his black, leather jacket confirmed guns on both sides, even a grenade and jack knife. His combat shoes were fresh from brisk walk by the ocean before it got covered by sand. A typical soldier with eyes of steel, which said a lot about his blank military dog tag hanging by his neck. Mycroft must have been having a hard time with his man hanging around him all day. It seemed Jones and his brother had established a common animosity tied by professional gain. But Sherlock recognize, as so had his brother, that this man was dangerous.

It made him smile.

"Interesting." He said before he could stop himself. Soldiers of fortune have always fascinated Sherlock for they are always three-dimensional men who lives with their natural instinct to survive.

"I know. I am." Jones replied as his eyes narrowed look at the detective, then stated, "You're no ordinary captive."

Sherlock dare not blink, but he masked his face with absolute nervousness.

"I told him that myself. He's very inquisitive." Mycroft's voice floated from behind Sherlock as if to remind him that he was there. Sherlock slightly looked behind him, before meeting Jones' eyes again and calming himself.

"I'm a reporter." Sherlock said with a slight touch of German tongue, "It is my job."

"It's very common to them, journalists." Mycroft said with the same disinterest in his voice, "They come flocking where a scoop is found, never mind the risk so long as their names get printed. Truly mass media idiotic. Look where that got you?

Sherlock turned and glared at his brother. At that moment, Jones walked closer to his side, put his right elbow on Sherlock's left shoulder with his whole frame facing Mycroft, and then leaned at the detective like he was a pole.

"Can't blame a man when he's doing his job. They either get themselves killed or get others killed to get what they want." Jones' eyes sought Mycroft's, "That's what we both do here so leave the man alone." To Sherlock he whispered, "You better be careful with talking with this guy, he's already got one hostage killed for suspicion of being a spy. He came here to spy on you so just hope you didn't tell him anything that can give you away. I'll stay on his good side if I were you."

He felt the American chuckle after that, before he moved and patted Sherlock across the back twice and moving towards the older Holmes. Sherlock slowly turned towards their direction, his mind palace going back to the three Australians who told him of this murdered hostage because of his brother. He knew there was more to it, more so now at the way his brother had stiffened and his lips thinned. Then it dawned to Sherlock, for he knew his brother better than anyone—that despite his perfect façade, he could always tell— be it from the slight quiver of his lips or the concerned arc on his eyebrows—that he was involved deeply and that it was true. Sherlock's mind bounced with questions after questions but he kept his lips sealed as Jones stopped in front of his brother and said—

"You're done with him?"

"We were just getting started."

"Did you tell him who I was?"

"I don't even know you well, Mr. Jones, except your surname."

"I did tell you, but better not tell anyone else if you want to keep them alive. Unlike the last one. Get up anyway, we're going."

"You don't have to be so agitated." Mycroft rose from his chair slowly, "They will pay you your money and then you can go hiding in the middle of the Sahara for all they care."

"You've no idea where I have to go next after this region." Smiled Jones meaningfully.

"Of course. How could I bother?" Mycroft turned to the supposed German captive, "Stay put. Garlack will come get you soon for your video ransom. The Americans need to know we still got a German hostage."

"We?" Sherlock muttered with a glance at Jones, "So you really work with them too? An English man?"

"You sure you want to be racist?" Grinned the American as he shook his head, "You think Europeans don't have what it takes to be criminal master minds? Its all the money. You call yourself a reporter?"

"You don't have to get offended on my behalf." Mycroft pointed out. "It's a compliment for Americans."

"I know." Jones dropped a heavy hand on Mycroft's shoulder who visibly squared his jaw at being gripped so tight, then with an evil smile to Sherlock's direction, the American headed outside without another word, leaving the brothers staring at the doorway where he disappeared.

"He's very dangerous." Sherlock commented as he and Mycroft exchange looks again and the detective's eyes fell on his brother's brown desert cloth, "Combat wise, I've no match for him. What more of you."

"I never intended to engage him in any hand to hand combat, I haven't turned barbaric." Mycroft crossed the room towards the door and stayed there with an eye out, before turning to his brother. "He's about to turn the engine of the rover. Did you observe him properly? It will save me time to explain of what will come later."

"Andrew Jones." Sherlock went on without prelude, "An ex- Blackwater mercenary. I've never seen a photo, but his credentials of being a private soldier and a mercenary reminded me of Blackwater."

"Good." Mycroft's face darkened, "Blackwater as you know is a US Private military company that hires retired and active soldiers alike. The US has had history of contracting mercenaries and privateers of the sea invested in billions by world governments because they could not recruit enough Americans to sustain war in Middle East. Half the people fighting as US soldiers aren't even Americans, more contractors are killed than soldiers—"

"I know that, Mr. Wikipedia, cut to the chase." Sherlock breathed angrily, knowing the famous mercenary was outside, waiting, "I know no world government can ever regulate mercenaries, there are no international law about them—you tried, but you never liked loose ends so there."

"Do you also know that Andrew Jones is part of the incident in Mansour, Baghdad in 2007?"

"Of course." Sherlock's eyes narrowed, "20 civilians died in a bloodshed attack as Blackwater contractors opened fire in the middle of crowded square, claiming that gunmen started shooting them while guarding State Department employees."

Mycroft nodded. "US and Iraq had separate investigations that never nearly met in the middle but one thing was clear to Blackwater estate, they had to fire those that caused such a huge ruckus that began the extermination of some of the contractors in Afghanistan and Iraq where they get billions of dollars because more war means more mercenaries and vice versa."

"He was the captain, he was fired." Sherlock frowned. "So, after being let go, he found himself here, working with pirates, smuggling weapons and sponsoring kidnappings. I tried following his trail while I was on an international hunt. But what has he got to do with Eurus?"

"This is everything about Eurus. Though, why she did it, I can only lay blame to resentment towards me." Mycroft paused, eyes darkening every second, then said in a tone so much like a person narrating cold facts, "She knew about him, I believe from Jim Moriarty. She sent him a file she called Davy Jones. In your favorite pirate translation that would mean—"

"Death." Sherlock observed his brother, saw his impassive face nod. "What's in the file?"

"Something that can kill either half the world or our sister, Sherlock. That's why I had to come."

The consulting detective's eyes widened. "What?"

"Exactly that." Mycroft turned to his shoulder, before lowering his voice, "She hacked into our military base intelligence and copied important tracking codes which she then encrypted in a zip file. Then sent it over this man. I believe it is in the hands of Mr. Jones now. I must retrieve it else we're all going to die."

"But what is it? Which codes?"

"Aren't you listening?" Mycroft's temper flared, especially when the land rover outside honked for his attention, "Davy Jones. What else do you think does that pertain?"

In Sherlock's mind palace, the word Davy Jones shook his integral memory of its origin as its meaning flash one after another— from the drunken sailors imprisoned of one bar man named Jones, from the bible's history, to the evil spirit of the sea, which then lead him to bottom of the sea, because Davy Jones' locker is said to be the resting place of drowned mariners; but this was about a code so what code could be found under the sea that could prove lethal? What was resting under the sea that needed military codes?

Sherlock's eyes, if possible, widened even more as he met Mycroft's eyes, his face full of understanding.

"You don't mean…navy submarines?"

Mycroft nodded, his face grim. "Yes. She did. And what do you think will happen to the world if these codes get around the wrong hands? Military codes— keycodes to activate ballistic missiles that once locked to a location, could never be stopped. Death toll, Sherlock. And war. A great war against our country because it will be traced to us. And who do you think will benefit from it? That's why we must stop it."

"What do you think I'm here for?" Sherlock said with outmost confidence to which Mycroft smiled at.

"I thought you were here to annoy me."

"That's part of the plan, but you have to tell me what I need to do to help you."

A long honk was given from the outside that made Mycroft look behind him calmly. Then he took one step closer to his younger brother, grabbed his collar and pulled him, so that their nose was almost touching and their eyes alive as he whispered—

"Garlack will call you soon. In ten minutes to be exact as his usual routine after an attack to his base and meeting with his associates takes about 30 minutes, its almost done. It would be time for him to put pressure on his only captive—which means you will be alone with him in his quarters. He will be using a mobile phone to call an American negotiator. Don't worry, the American works for me. The American will update you of the situation, you tell him you're thirsty. He knows it means the pirates are planning to aboard their ship and avoid conflict in Yemen. They will go to Somalia in exactly 16 hours. Tell the negotiator you will be needing 4 by 4 glasses of it. He will know. Now all you have to do is to follow Garlack's demand."

Sherlock's flickering eyes had caught his brother's dark ones.

"Is that it?"

Mycroft paused this time, unmindful of another blast of horn from outside the room. Sherlock saw him hesitate, but his eyes were unwavering at the same time. Getting the meaning of his brother, Sherlock grinned at him challengingly.

"Spit it out, Mycroft, don't you trust me?"

"It's not a matter of trust," Mycroft muttered with transfixed eyes at his younger brother, "but the last person I asked to do this died before my eyes, Sherlock…"

Sherlock straightened, his eye not leaving his older brother, his lips pursing as he remembered well the Australians and their remarks about Marco Polo's bloody hands.

"Was he an agent?" he asked quietly to which Mycroft nodded quietly.

"The man I was supposed to…" he sighed, and deep within his eyes was a sorrow Sherlock never expected to see. "In any case, this will prove dangerous even for you."

"What is it?"

"I want you to check if Garlack's email also received the Davy Jones file. I want you to erase it. They may be unable to open it due to the encryption, but I don't want him having a copy all the same. Can you do that?"

"You're asking me to take a candy from a toddler?" he retorted with another smile.

"Garlack is very particular with his mobile, Sherlock," the older Holmes warned, "he only ever takes it out when a negotiation is to happen that's why you have to return it immediately. Observe him. Observe why. I have not time. I plan to cause a diversion for you to be alone with the mobile."

"How?" Sherlock immediately asked.

Mycroft shrugged. "Same as I always do. Guns and bombs."

"That's not your natural milieu." The consulting detective reminded him with a tinge of annoyance.

"It is now." The British Government Head chuckled and then had to look up as another horn blast alerted him. Releasing Sherlock from his grasp, he headed for the door. "I must go."

But Mycroft was held back strongly with a hand on his left upper arm. Looking back, he found Sherlock upon him, with severe features of concern as he realized the gravity of the matter etched well on his face.

"Is Eurus going to be safe?" he wanted to know for by and by he knew the only motivation of Mycroft was to keep their sister safe. She who had endangered their nation and who possibly had just started another world war with Britain at the core. Someone had to answer to that. Mycroft was right, they needed to stop it no matter what the cost.

Sherlock was sure this man here was willing to do just that. Mycroft stared at him for a moment, before nodding slowly.

"That was the initial plan."

"Then with everything you are doing, do you plan to survive?"

"If I don't, don't expect the world to last also." was the confident response and then Mycroft was gone.

Sherlock watched him go, before the door of his room was shut close as his guards returned just in time. Seconds next, the land rover's engine roared to life and Sherlock knew his brother's plan was in action despite his absence. The consulting detective was silent for a moment, especially when he looked down the hand he used to hold his older brother's arm for a moment. He stood without moving, not even when he heard his guards talking loudly outside his door as if conveying the message that the last hostage was finally being called by their leader. At that moment, Sherlock didn't care.

That was because on his palm was a smudge of blood that came from Mycroft's arm.

Who was Mycroft kidding around? Did he think Sherlock wouldn't notice the damage under that thick desert cloak?

Closing his fist, Sherlock gritted his teeth and look heatedly at the Somali pirates who came to take him to Garlack.

No, Mycroft wouldn't survive here another day.

Sherlock quietly went with his captors as they lead him to another separate quarters, far from the captive room, hidden behind thick woods. Few Somalians were around, but the number of their weapons had increased. The secret agent noticed most of them were armed with bombs as well, not to mention around ten boxes of firearms in plain sight just outside Garlack's door. Sherlock observed the weapons, but he couldn't miss the assembled bosses out there too, a dozen of them, all in black clothes and keffiyeh around their faces with long rifles on their arms. The detective tried to see as much as he can before getting shoved inside the warm circular room of Garlack where he found the kingpin seated cross-legged on the dusty floor with a bowl of fruit in their middle.

"Why no money, German?" barked the animal leader as he waved for Sherlock to sit in front of him.

Sherlock did as he was expected to do and shrugged, knowing they were talking about the ransom they put on his head. "They don't negotiate." Especially when the CIA and British Special Operation is involved.

Garlack looked unimpressed as his gigantic fists closed in front of him that Sherlock thought he would reach for the bowl and throw it to his face. "We call German country." He announced all of a sudden, and to the detective's hidden anticipation, he watched as the kingpin produced a dark mobile from his chest and dialed a number.

Sherlock gritted his teeth, wondering what riot his older brother would cause when the next minute, the mobile was pushed on his face. He saw a number was ringing and slowly reached for the mobile his older brother had told him to secure. Once it was on his hand did the racket outside happened.

Sherlock was the first to react, followed by Garlack who growled at the noise his men were making—they were all jeering and shouting just outside the house—and the kingpin, being who he is, stood up and headed for the doorway to shout at his wild people.

Within the first seconds, Sherlock had cancelled the call, drove his fingers to the application of the mobile—it was one of those first modeled smart phone so Sherlock knew how to get around it—till he reached Garlack's mail account and directed himself onto the inbox—

Sherlock browsed through it but found none. He searched for Davy Jones in the search tab and found no result. With his heart thumping hard, he was just about to let go of the mobile when it vibrated to his touch and an email came that very second. Garlack was still shouting so Sherlock decided to see—

What he found shook him as an unopened profile entitled Mr. Holmes met him in the face.

Quickly, he opened it and saw to his disbelief and horror, his older brother's MI6 profile with photos and affiliations. The detective's mind whirled to answer why his brother's profile was sent to one of the kingpins when he was there as an undercover agent and found the odds of betrayal and espionage the reason. Someone at the top…!

Grinding his teeth, he deleted the message and dropped the mobile on the floor.

Then without ado, Sherlock grabbed the bowl, emptied it and smashed it to the mobile that cracked till it was in pieces.

-To be Continued-

A/N: In a conundrum here... xD cause the end chapter is next already! :o

Thank you for reading!