*Eyepatch in the Suit*

by: Whitegloves

a/n: Cannot end that early! Now that I'm on fire :)

Mycroft's point of view! Warning for violence!

Enjoy the story! :)

6. Black Spot

Infiltration had never been so easy. For one, the enemies were nothing but gold fishes. It was a matter of taking a pearl in the middle of the ocean while netting all that surrounds it… yet Mycroft couldn't help hating the sea. It reminded him of such a song that cut too deep…

'I that am lost, oh who will find me?

Deep, down below, the old beech tree.'

At the beginning Mycroft Holmes only meant to retrieve the data lost in the hands of the unknown. He had worked hard on it, even sent one of his top agents to secure it, meanwhile uncovering its receiver hiding in the land of Middle East. It was so simple and there had been results after three weeks. Then a name came out and Mycroft knew he had to go out.

Andrew Jones. Ex-Blackwater mercenary. Intelligent and cunning. His name precedes him. He knew his agent stood no chance when the very man himself was the receiver and so he discarded his three-piece suit and umbrella and replaced it with keffiyeh and turban. It was what Eurus meant for him to do.

'Sixteen by six, brother, and under we go.'

Mycroft had come off at the airport in Mogadishu, Somalia, wearing simple clothing covered in his striped red scarf around his neck, so dissimilar to his usual attire that made him stand out a little as a foreigner amidst the pale brown Somalis, under the heat of the sun and the dusty road of the region. As per planned, he had arranged everything from the security of himself through a man named Mohammed Saar Abi, a Somali elder who was living in Britain and who, from his MI5 file, had good relationships with the dominant Sa'ad clan in the area. It was common that reporters, documentary writers and peacekeepers alike communicate with dominant clans in the region for safety regulations—these are the clans that have ties with the government which meant a possibility of not being touched by pirates while staying in the country. This was of course, a false belief with a record of 6 out of 10 people get trapped and land in the hands of pirates because they get turned in by the same security personnel who also serves as the guide of the naïve victims.

The amount of conspiracy was all too clear to the British government head as he studied the Somalian administration, yet Mycroft never took chances in his arrangement of security for he knew whom exactly to contact to make sure he finds his way to one of the most influential kingpins—Garlack's camp without suspicion. It was the same method he had tasked his initial spy to accomplish before his infiltration. He would have followed any other instruction from his agent, to tell him exactly where he was but he had lost contact with him the moment he arrived in the country which was never a good sign. And so here he was, presenting himself as outlandish translator wanting nothing but to translate certain pages of Somali history archive that could be found in the National Library at the capital. He stayed in a hotel near the library and there he was untouched for three days.

The fourth day was no lesser than what the older Holmes had anticipated for he knew it was about time they came for him. The first sign that he was under surveillance happened as he was reading a local newspaper early morning at the café near the library. There were plenty of other customers around and he was reading quietly when a thin Somali man wearing a dark shirt and military pants approached his table. The moment Mycroft's eyes fell on him, he knew.

"Is this available? The place is crowded." there was some fluency in the Somali's tone. Judging from it, the older Holmes knew the instant that this man's occupation was to recruit and establish connection to their next victim. The British Government Head nodded quietly and turned his eyes on his paper to appear disinterested. He heard the movement of the chair being pulled and the man sitting down. "Are you Mark Paul?"

Mycroft raised his eyes and met the man's glinting ones. And then from the corner of his eyes he saw dozens of other customers encircling his table turn their head his way casually as if to have a better look of him and then turn away—but he all so their intent—he was surrounded.

"Yes. How did you know?"

"Oh, I saw your name on the internet. You are famous."

"Not quite, why?"

Of course, it was all part of the plan. Long before then, Mycroft had faked an account of himself on one of the Cambridge files as a translator. Obviously, he knew they were going to check him out the moment he contacted Mohammed Saar Abi to see if he was worth the trouble of getting abducted. There was no use if they got someone unknown. They needed someone who would be making it to headlines to capture the attention of other country's government. That was why Mycroft added a little on his file as a translator to the Saudi Arabian King. He supposed that did the trick.

Days after that, he saw more of the same men hanging around him every time he stayed in the café, or the same faces around him inside or waiting for him outside the library—though one would claim most Somalis looked the same, it was never the case with Mycroft who have supraprosopgnosia—a super-face recognition skills who can remember 80% of the faces they had seen no matter the outer change it had undergone. Britain has been recruiting men with such ability and had created a task force as part of counterterrorism. The recruits were good, but being only at 80%, nobody could still hold a candle to Mycroft at 100%.

Such was his life for another week— waiting patiently for both his agent or the pirates to make a move— until finally while he was on his way to visit Hobyo for more materials as he had indicated the previous night to his security, he found his van surrounded by armed men with a canon even pointing at the windshield of the car and raining the sky with guns. His security men were beaten—even Mycroft was gruffly handled as he was dragged out of the car and thrown into another vehicle and was taken away. But the older Holmes' mind was in tact and his plans in motion as he was taken in the deepest corners of Somalia. He disappeared in his men's radar after three weeks just like his agent whom he wondered if still alive.

Being dead was better… Mycroft thought callously for the information contained by this agent was more than enough to start a fire in a missile. That was why too decided to retrieve the agent himself. He so hated loose ends.

The pirates didn't let him stay much long in one place though, he was brought to different places and had to be transferred locations more than twice. It was because the Americans were becoming aggressive as there were plenty of American hostages, most of which were volunteers from U.N and dozens of reporters. Mycroft had only met some of the hostages but he was never very loquacious in their presence, except when he met a Greek man with poor command of English, and who was nearly beaten down because Somalis recent Jewish folk, if Mycroft had not translated what the poor fellow was trying to say to his captors.

"He's not Jewish," he said simply when the man was getting kicked on the floor, his eyes straying at the crumpled body without any sign of emotion, "He's from Athens, a Greek and a simple tradesman. He can offer you nothing except plastic particles."

The kicking stopped, and all attention was on the lone man seated far away from other captives who was looking very antagonistic at the moment. It was because this was his seventh camp, and still no sign of his agent nor Garlack.

"You also Greek?" asked a gangly limbed pirate with a rifle on his hand.

Mycroft stared at the ignorant pirates and decided it was time to make a scene. He spoke their language as easily as his native tongue having studied it for half a day previously and told them how he knew what they have been saying ever since he came around. The pirates all looked thunder struck for a moment, before they all left the tenth in confusion. Mycroft was left alone with eyes on the fallen victim who was coughing nonstop on the floor while the others around him, presumably U.N volunteers, offered helping hand. Mycroft stayed where he was, and sighed as he put his head quietly on his arm and never budged even when the man was thanking him.

Go away. He repeated this in his mind.

The last thing he needed now was to connect with anyone. That would only complicate things and endanger lives.

The next time Mycroft opened his eyes, he was jogged from his light sleep with snakelike hands circling around his upper arm and he was dragged again into another vehicle. Groggy as he was, Mycroft knew at that moment that he was finally being led to Garlack.

The drive was long and the sun was almost at their heads when the vehicle finally stopped. Mycroft saw another camp but this time most of the sentinels were wearing long black dresses and turbans with high caliber guns. He was unsurprised at the number of men carrying such equipment when most of it, he recognized, were not yet out of the market or banned by international laws. With hands tied behind him, he was manhandled to a shelter, a cemented four cornered room with two windows. Outside it were more pirates guarding their keep. It was at that moment that the British Government Head knew he was to meet one of the kingpins with connection to the person Eurus had sent the files to: Mohammed Garlack.

The inside of the shelter was simple, there were only a couple of carpet on the floor, a bowl of fruit, and then boxes and boxes of weapons. Mycroft couldn't believe the amount of it, nor the price it must've costed but his attention was caught by a large man seated with legs crossed in the middle of the room. This man, Mycroft knew, had his reign of terror without doubt. His very features were screaming of murderous intent, his dark, glinting eyes that have seen much violence now looked back at him like he was a piece of object without any soul, his hands were scarred as was his whole body but the firmness on his darkened lips and hardened skin spoke volume of his maturity in the trade of piracy—and human trafficking. Very violent, very obscene and very deadly human trafficking.

Then Mycroft realized… he was loathed to be in the same room as this person. His skin crawled at the idea…

"You speak our language?" the kingpin asked.

Mycroft nodded, keeping his eyes down and noticing the underneath of Garlack's nails had some trace of blood.

"Your name?"

"Mark Paul."

"Marco Polo?"

Mycroft decided to look up and observe the man's facial expression. There was none. Hearing impairment, Mycroft decided as the man must be exposed to much explosions. He nodded.

"You speak many languages?"

Mycroft nodded again.

"You speak hungry?"

Mycroft blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"Hungryian."

The older Holmes' eyes widened a little. Then replied a very small, "Yes."

"Good." Garlack scratched his nose, before giving Mycroft another grim look. "You work for me, I will not hurt you. Understand?"

Mycroft couldn't help it—he was becoming impatient, so using the Somali's language he uttered, "I can speak your language, much more English. What could I not understand?"

He was a little surprised at his outburst, but the idea that he had to translate Hungarian soon was gnawing on him for after all, he only knew one person who could be the Hungarian Garlack was talking about. The Kingpin looked at him blankly at first, Mycroft even thought he was going to be beaten down for answering back but his sharp eyes proved much equal to Garlack's dead ones. Like it was a battle of primary instinct of animal on territory that he was not willing to lose— even when he was about to be beaten because of it.

A second next, and Garlack gave a bark-like laugh and called for his men. One guard came.

"Where is Jones?" the leader asked in his own tongue.

"Still with the captive."

"Tell him we'll be there, we have who we need."

At that, he gave Mycroft a meaningful look without a twinkle on his eyes. But Mycroft was in his own prison world, inside his mind that was racing with thoughts because he had finally heard the name he had been searching for. Jones. He was here. But above all that, the older Holmes also had another shocking conclusion that could be the only answer to his earlier query. It was because he finally realized that what he feared the moment his agent lost contact with him— the agent was of Hungarian descent serving the British Secret Service. They needed a translator for a Hungarian… what else could it possibly mean?

Closing his eyes, Mycroft exhaled as the next thing, he was told to get up and was led outside to one of the corners where another group of men were huddled and guarding. There were two cabins behind these men and from the left came out an American in his bulky frame and firm bearing who Mycroft instantly recognized as his target: Andrew Jones.

"Who's this?" Jones asked as he stopped outside the door with dirty hands, his sleeveless shirt with smears of blood in it. He eyed the British Government Head with a frown while Mycroft only looked behind him to the place where he knew his agent was being tortured. He had no doubt about it now, he was here to confirm what his agent was trying to say. The fact that his agent spoke in a language unfamiliar to these men only meant he has not broken down. Mycroft gritted his teeth and glared coldly at the American who caught his eyes and grinned. "Hey, what's a porcelain-skin man doing here? Are you British? You next in my line?"

Before Mycroft could speak, Garlack who was standing behind him replied, "He speak Hungryian. Let him in."

"Really?" Jones gave Mycroft a narrowed look and with tongue on his cheek, he moved aside and opened the door. "You're half Hungarian?" he asked as Mycroft was pushed from the back to proceed.

"I translate and decipher codes. It's my business."

"Then you better do some good translations or I'll have to bury this man alive for being useless."

Mycroft bit his lips as the next thing, he saw a man crumpled on the floor with face down the floor, unmoving with bruise and blood all over him. His legs were bent, an obvious sign of dislocation and torture of another kind. The older Holmes glared at the American beside him who had decided to lit his smoke and looked at his piece of art.

"Go ahead, translate what he's saying."

"He's mumbling…" Mycroft stood still, as Garlack stood on another side of him looking bemused.

"He not speak? You cut his tongue?" he threw at Jones.

"Not yet. I was hoping he'd be speaking soon."

"What did you give him?" Mycroft asked with a frown as his eyes saw a number of black spots of injection on the man's right arm. This alerted him very much.

"You can tell?" Jones said sounding fascinated and a little suspicious.

"The injections are on the table." Mycroft said without meeting his eyes. That seemed to quell Jones' questioning eyes and continued—

"I gave him a high amount of khat extract. Those leaves have amphetamine-like compounds with cathine the highest concentration that gives the feeling of ecstasy. He's in bliss right now, I think, since its somewhere between the effects of caffeine and amphetamine. If he's a user then it'll hold him pretty well. He'll be talking in a matter of minutes now since it's been 24 hours since I last drugged him. Addiction is very handy. He'll be craving for more and before we know it, he'll be confessing of why he's playing around my stuff and who sent him."

Mycroft said nothing but kept his eyes on his agent whose sandy hair was all over his wounded and scarred face. Signs of inflicted pain was obvious, it made Mycroft clench his fist.

"Who is he?" he asked softly without any attachment.

"Haven't you realized? He's a spy among the hostages." Grinned Jones, turning to Mycroft with his blow of smoke going directly at the British Government's face. "I caught him contacting someone on my own phone, can you believe that?"

"It's possible he's only asking for help." The British government head offered.

"That's not what he told me a while ago after a few weeks of persuasions. He was browsing through some top-secret fan mails of mine."

Mycroft stopped dead, his eyes transfixed at his agent.

"But he speaks Hungarian, you say?"

"That was the effect of the drug. His brain must be in terrible frenzy to be reverting to his mother tongue. He's a mess, I probably gave him an overdose." Chortled Jones as he crossed his bulky arms, "And aren't you a little opinionated?"

"It shows intelligence." Mycroft looked sideways at Garlack and spoke in Somalian tongue, "You said you wanted me to translate…" Whatever it was his agent was about to say, Mycroft was ready to misdirect them no matter what. No one should know about the Davy Jones file! Not his connection to Britain! Not their objective!

Jones whistled. "And he speaks."

Mycroft never doubted Jones had understood him and waited for Garlack to respond. That was when the kingpin decided to walk over the unmoving body of the agent, and without mercy, kicked him on the right ribs so his whole body spun sideways, his back now on the floor and revealing his face—

Mycroft caught his lips and avoided gasping, his eyes widening.

The agent's face had been mutilated with lines of scars all over. And his left eye… his left eye had been gouged out—where there was supposed to be a blue eye was now a black spot. A tattered brown eyepatch was hanging on his ear. The wound was not yet quite dry so Mycroft was sure it had only been a week since it was done. The British Government Head held back gulping and clenched his jaws.

Then he realized it was a wrong thing to do for Jones was watching him.

"You sure have appetite for these kinds of things." He said meaningfully.

"I am not as sheltered as you think… Saudi Arabi officials let you watch beheadings of criminals…"

"Oi, he's saying something." Garlack called from where he stood beside the man. Jones walked over and bent his knees as he grabbed the man's hair to make him face Mycroft who stood his ground, till he was gestured to come closer. He did.

"Open your eye. Why do you think I left it there, huh?" Jones shook the head slightly drips of blood slid from the agent's lips. Mycroft stared at him as he slowly knelt on the ground and hoping he could end the man's pain with his own hands. He had to.

The agent's eye flickered open and his once blue eye were filled with red around it. Mycroft mustered his strength and firmly held his place, his eyes not leaving the man's till it found him. It rounded in recognition and the next thing, the limp hand next to him grabbed hold onto Mycroft's free wrist and pulled on him.

"Antacart! Antacart ad nekem khatot!"- 'Antarctica! Antarctica give me khat!'

Mycroft was still for a moment as he was recognized, then only said, "He wants more Khat."

"You're not having any." Jones forced the man to look at him and his whole face changed. Mycroft saw the real Andrew Jones, a mercenary, and come to terms of how dangerous his current situation was. "Unless you tell me who sent you." The ex-Blackwater mercenary nodded at Mycroft to translate who instead, as he confirmed no one could understand—

"You know they would not give you khat. There's no more."

The panic in the man's eye became evident and his limbs came to life as his body shook but he was held firmly by Jones.

'Antacart!' the man cried as his sandy hair was pulled.

"What he says?" growled Garlack at Mycroft who licked his lips.

"Antarctica."

"From Antarctica?"

"No." Jones suddenly said ominously and the British Government Head saw his eyes danced gleefully, "It's a code name of one very powerful individual. I've heard of him before. He's name's been thrown around by assassins and the like intervening in Middle East. Old friend Moriarty knew him well. Said he's as cold and calculating with powers extending beyond axis… that Antarctica."

Mycroft fixed his eyes at his agent.

"Where from?"

Jones chuckled. "Who knows… but the fact that he sent this man here… He's after us, old fellow." He looked at Garlack but there was no sign of alarm or distress on his face. In fact, it was quite the opposite. "Finally got his attention."

Mycroft cleared his throat, "He's saying something else."

"What?"

This time, Mycroft has already made up his mind. From the way things were moving, it was inevitable that the agent would break and finally reveal everything he knew. The power of khat was such that it affects the mind to great lengths, even psychosis and depression. A possibility that the man would say things he didn't intend to… of the secrets of Britain, Antarctica's real identity, his connection to Eurus and the codes hidden on the files. It was all at risk. The balance of the world was at risk especially with his dependency on the drug heightening…. He has been compromised.

The agent looked Mycroft in the eye, his grip on the older Holmes' wrist not loosening.

"Couldn't we let him rest for a while?" he asked, hesitating on the task.

"No." Garlack replied curtly.

"I'm sorry." Mycroft told the agent who blinked at him with tears swelling on his eyes, as if he understood.

"Give me khat, I'll give you anything! Antarctica—we must have khat! The code is khat!"

"What's he saying?"

"He still insists on khat but…" Mycroft held his breath, his whole body numbing at the choice he was about to make, "He said about a code… something he spied on a phone." He turned his eyes to Jones who gazed back at him, then quietly added his gamble. "Recent transactions of weapons on Al-Shabaab."

Mycroft saw Jones paled for a second. It was known that the Sa'ad clan—the Somalis abhor Al-Shabaab, another militant group, much more than their hatred for Americans that any reports of attack and raid on their region would make the Somalis cheer. Jones obviously knew that too and his file said plenty of how he provides weapons on both sides. Mohammed Garlack wouldn't be happy.

"What's that?" the kingpin asked as he didn't quite heard Mycroft who turned to him—but the next second—someone roared so loud, grabbed him by the neck and pushed him on the ground— someone brandishing a jack knife that came out of nowhere—the agent's eyes were red in anger as he raised the knife and threatened it on Mycroft's neck.

"KHAT! HOLMES!"

Mycroft's eyes widened but in the next beat a gun was fired—causing commotion outside and several feet came thundering inside. Somalian pirates surrounded their leader shouting frantically, but all fell silent as they all pointed at the dead body with its head shot while underneath it was another body of a person who was also bleeding.

Mycroft lay flat on the ground, his heart thumping against his chest quickly. He knew the agent was dead with the gun flying past inches away from his own. It was Jones who had fired the gun.

"People under the influence of khat sure get quick with their hands." The American said as he leaned down to get his jack knife, wiped it with his shirt and return it on the case behind his boots where the dead man had snatched it.

"You alright? You're bleeding."

The older Holmes pushed the body away from his own and slowly sat up. He felt extreme pain on his left shoulder and saw a long deep cut in there with his blood oozing out. He wanted to touch it but was too numb at what had occurred with a dead body before him. He knew his face had splatters of the agent's blood, knew his clothes too was a pool of red but he could barely flex a muscle.

It was his fault, that was certain. He meant for it to happen. He knew Andrew Jones was going to be threatened. It had to end that way or else…

Mycroft closed his eyes tight and breathed as he closed his fists, only to realize they were soaked in blood. He wanted to run away from there, wanted to scream and tell anyone who would listen how sorry he was, but all of it was left and buried inside his mind palace the next second for he knew he didn't have the time to break. His plan was in motion and he too had to move on.

So, containing himself, Mycroft said nothing and simply put a hand on his wounded shoulder. He made to stand up, but then saw the eyepatch of the man had fallen on his chest. Quietly, he took the eyepatch and stuffed it inside his trouser pocket and stood up, his whole body covered in blood.

Like he didn't see that coming… but it saddened him a little that he did.

Present…

Mycroft had his right hand pressed on his temple as the land rover raged through the ground back towards their camp. They had been gone for hours after practically combing the entire Balhaf region to secure it from any unwanted eyes and spies. Jones too had some dark business in the city while Mycroft tended to the information of the ship that would be use in the upcoming meeting with the other elders and the Sa'ad. That was what Garlack had tasked him to translate in a code so no one would understand except his people.

Everything was set, all that was left now was to make sure not a single message was found on Garlack's phone.

Sherlock can do that. He believes his younger brother could. Sherlock always delivers in the most crucial moment. Still, Mycroft had spent the entire drive back wondering if his brother was successful.

As long as Sherlock doesn't act like an idiot, he should be safe.

The land rover stopped abruptly and the older Holmes was reminded of his reality as he opened his tired eyes. It was already the middle of the night when they returned and there were already lamps about each shelter. Mycroft was just about to leave the vehicle when Jones called him back.

"That German is lying, isn't he?"

Mycroft quietly looked back at the driver and blinked tiredly.

"Everybody here lies, even you."

"Yeah, well I don't make it a habit to screw up and have these camps filled with Special Operations. It will lower my profit if I lose more of these folks. Even you. Why isn't your country sending anyone over to get you?"

"My country doesn't do negotiation with pirates no matter who unless you're member of the queen's family." The older Holmes sighed, "And in case you forgot, Garlack refused to have me return to my country."

"You made your position quite indispensable, haven't you?"

"Likewise, to you." He slid out of the land rover, not wanting to have any more dealings with the American.

"If you can't sniff anything of that man, let me at him." Jones called loudly while Mycroft walked away with a mild headache. He knew he didn't have to remind Sherlock this, but his younger brother ought to be careful. Jones may have shown that he was putting his guard down but in reality, he wasn't. The American was always in constant alert of Mycroft—that was why he preferred having the translator around him. It might have been his instinct, but Jones could probably sense how a threat Mycroft could be too, even when his profile was low. Aware of this, Mycroft was also in constant vigilance as well. It was a battle of enemies on the same side as they quietly try do outsmart the other.

But then again, as Mycroft walked towards Sherlock's shelter, it was impossible for anyone because no one could ever outsmart him in this region. Not even at gunpoint.

Sighing to himself, the British Government Head was already thinking of Sherlock's report when he stopped on his tracks as he saw that Sherlock's room had no guards outside. No guard could only mean one thing—no one was to be guarded. He quickened his phase till he was at the door, his mind quickly trying to explain different reasons behind this, but the moment Mycroft entered the room he could tell it had been untouched for many hours.

Fear gripped him.

Before he knew it, his feet were already taking him to Garlack's quarters—the last destination he sent his brother to be. Dread filled his mind at the idea of his brother causing trouble over a trifle because that was how Sherlock works. He had hoped his brother would be a little discreet of his behavior—yet at the back of his mind he wished this was the case. If Sherlock was caught then it was a game over for them.

He hadn't even turned the corner towards the Kingpin's room when he saw one of the vacant houses that morning had guards outside, chewing on their khat and chortling among themselves. Mycroft made his way towards the group with eyes focused on the house.

"What's happening?" he asked in the Somali tongue.

"Marco Polo." Cheered the earnest Somalis who had gotten used to Mycroft bossing them around. "Punishing prisoner." They pointed inside with big smiles on their faces.

Mycroft paused a second, and then strode towards the house. No guard tried to stop him, they just watched him go and enter, he didn't care. Inside he saw a group of five Somalis, all with bloody hands and sweaty faces encircling one limp body in the middle of the room. The older Holmes hastened to get to him, getting the attention of the pirates who watched the translator pause in the middle of them all with eyes on the captive. Sherlock's shirt had been torn in many places and his bruises looked painful on his light skin. Reddening and purple they were, with blood all over his body.

Mycroft would have asked what happened. He would have wanted to piece things together and convince them to let the captive off for whatever reason he could come up with without compromising his position.

But all of those disappeared the moment he saw five black spots on Sherlock's neck. Five injection spots. Looking around, Mycroft saw the paraphernalia on the floor. It had only been used recently, that was why his younger brother was unmoving. It had sedated him for it was obvious he fought back.

"Is that khat?" he asked with his forehead creasing, though he already knew the answer.

The Somalis nodded and Mycroft had to shut his eyes close in distress.

No…!

-To be Continued-

A/N: Black Spot translates as 'Death Threat' in pirate language!

This has been so much fun to write! Much angst to see next :o

Thank you for reading!