*Eyepatch in the Suit*

by: Whitegloves

a/n: If you are ready for some brotherly moments,

go and get those woods, walk the planks and jump right in :)

Enjoy the story! :)

8. Walk the Plank

In the past…

It was a tragedy, his mum once said, and Mycroft having understood little of what was tragic could careless that Christmas Day as he entered his room one gloomy afternoon with a book on one hand. He was eighteen.

Someone had died again. Two actually.

He had just returned from his boarding school wearing a neat suit.

The old couple living across their house who always invite Sherlock for tea had died in an accident.

There were plenty of books he still wished to read about politics.

Sherlock was crying on the next room for some reason.

Another menial effort on his brother's part. Hadn't he told him many times that life and death was a cycle and that there was no point lingering on loss affection?

His parents had told him to join them in the wake that evening. He politely declined.

There were other meaningful things to do and customs and traditions that dictate otherwise was not one of them. Mycroft was not one to conform to the unreasonable polite social norm.

Thus, tragedy, his mum said.

A tragedy that their eldest son was so devoid of emotion and incapable of caring for other people. Mycroft had just emerged from this rising argument in the living room he deemed pointless. His parents could never understand how relaxing and calming not feeling anything is, especially if it was part of one's nature. In that respect, he had to admire his secret sister.

Incapable of loving, his mother suddenly whispered to his father as Mycroft quietly walked up the stairs. Tragedy.

Why with the tragedy?

Sherlock who would cry at seeing birds die in the garden, for Mycroft, that is tragedy.

He put his book gently inside his drawer and did not bother turning on the lamp. Instead, he took three printed photos from inside the pocket of his bag, headed back to the door and went out to find himself outside his younger brother's door. He could hear the eleven year's old sniffling inside it.

Time for another deduction game.

His younger brother who at that very early stage of their lives had been pouring him all his love and affection since the loss of his memory, needed plenty of mental exercise. Mycroft wasn't sure if he could reciprocate the feelings but Sherlock was the very heart he could never have. The least he could do was to make sure his brother would do as his brain commanded rather than be fooled around with his emotion.

Lots and lots of tragedy will still happen in the future and simple accidental, pointless deaths should not be a reason to get stuck in the room and cry one's eyes out and numb the brain. It was inexcusable.

He knocked three times.

"Sherlock, open the door."

Silence followed his announcement. And then he heard shuffling feet from inside the room. It had been months since he saw his brother, to find him crying again, there's only so much heartache one boy could take.

So much more to teach him.

He really didn't mind it when Sherlock planted his face on his round bottom the moment the door opened, but he will scold his younger brother later about not startling people with his clumsy attack-like movements. Looking down at Sherlock's thin face covered in his unruly dark hair and his glistening eyes, Mycroft often wondered how it was much better to feel than think? Will his younger be crying at the death of everyone around him? What if their parents died? What if he was the one who died? Will Sherlock be alright?

He didn't think his younger brother would survive such a blow. That in itself was inexcusable.

"Dear me. What are you crying for, you idiot?"

Present…

Eyeing Sherlock with unblinking eyes while holding his breath and forcing his body to stay still from falling on his knees, Mycroft stared at his brother with his body numb.

But there was no pain except the exertion when he was previously assaulted for none of the bullets had reached him—for just as Sherlock pointed the gun at him his younger brother apparently had conflicted emotions with the gun swaying unsteadily after seeing who was at the end of the muzzle. The shots were fired on the wall and the floor—missing Mycroft's left foot by inches.

Now that Mycroft could see his brother's face clearly despite the dim light, he could see that Sherlock too was staring at him with sweaty face and unsteady eyes. He was frowning as if catching up with his brain which had previously warned him of what was about to happen if he didn't stop—the same brain now seemed to slow down for him until there was recognition in his younger brother's eyes.

"Mm…croft?" he mumbled slowly, then his eyes falling down the gun on his hands, Sherlock seemed to realized further with his face contorting with confusion. Then he dropped the gun on the ground with a thud, his hands shaking badly. It was then that Mycroft finally had the time to exhale and felt every pore in his skin open with his body cold and damp from his own sweat. He survived.

Sherlock fell on the ground as if all energy had been exhausted but Mycroft ignored him. The older Holmes quietly treaded towards his direction, bent down to pick the gun and quietly headed outside to surrender the weapon to the pirates all armed and waiting outside in number. Mycroft assured them it was just the effect of drugs which had been forcibly given to the prisoner. He then told them there was no danger and asked someone to bring him a bucket of water. The Somali pirates, in Mycroft's opinion, were all pretty earnest folks who deems their job of kidnapping people was mere part of a professional career. Outside that, they were all just civilians fighting to survive.

Everyone was just fighting to survive and in this era of war the cunning ones often do while the ignorant doesn't.

He looked at them as they dispersed along and thought why he still does not feel a shred of sympathy for these folks. Then he shook his head for this was not a war between victims and suspects. This was about his family.

When he returned inside the room, he found Sherlock still lying on the ground and fast asleep. Stopping just near his brother's breathing body, Mycroft could not help seeing him as the boy who had often laid fast asleep on his bedroom carpet. Sherlock often did. In Mycroft's eyes, this was the only person who had genuinely showed him affection when they were young, the only boy capable of being him and at the same time be better than him. No matter how Sherlock may have said he had changed over the years, the both of them knew he would always be that boy who would always run to the door when he heard his brother knock outside.

Even if these days the proud consulting detective would run the other way.

Shame Sherlock had leaned the meaning of embarrassment.

But why must he be sentimental now, Mycroft wondered. Then the answer came fast in his active brain and knew the ending was about to come. His natural instinct was kicking in and he had to make sure of his sole objective:

Sherlock must not die here.

Amongst all the tragedies he thinks he can live with, that one simple thought does cause him heartache.

Wasn't he in such a disadvantage?

Sherlock first became aware of his surrounding because of the pain in his stomach. The pain in his head was agonizing too and as if a light was switch on, he felt his whole body in flames of pain. He groaned and felt his rapid breathing add to his aching middle. His eyelids were so heavy as he tried to pry them to open to find his visions blurred. He tried to blink as many times, and many times he had to shut his eyes down because of the pain in his head. He buried his cheeks on the cold ground and agonized over. Then he coughed.

It was a fit of cough that nearly threw his body around.

But he had to stop coughing almost as quickly as his numb brain suddenly started functioning and showed him a vision he doesn't remember. Of his brother standing in front of him while a gun hovered between them. What was happening? Where were they? Why was his idiotic older brother just standing around waiting to be killed? Why was he pointing it at him? Were they back in Sherrinford? What's happening?!

And then Sherlock remembered pulling the trigger so many times.

The memory froze Sherlock and almost automatically, his eyes frantically began searching for his older brother. It maddened him to realize he was alone and though something in his brain was knocking hard at him and telling him to see reason—there was no stopping his racing heart and his heightening emotion. Where was Mycroft?

With all the energy he could muster, he grinded his teeth as he knelt, raised his head and shook it to wave away the dizziness that almost struck him but that did not stop him from crawling towards the doorway clumsily.

What happened to Mycroft? His brain wasn't helping.

But before he could even start the journey, someone came in with dusty boots and stopped just in front of him.

"Finally looking for your brain?"

Sherlock slowly raised his head and found himself looking at Mycroft who was watching him with raised eyebrows.

"About time for you to come to your senses, I thought I had to leave you with a caretaker before I concluded our business here. You're about to return home." His brother walked around him and placed a metal pitcher loaded with water on the table. Sherlock pushed himself in a sitting position and had to put a hand on his eyes.

"What happened?" he mumbled as he wiped his face and had to stare at his older brother for a full minute before believing he was alive. Mycroft didn't turn to him immediately but stayed to fill a glass of water.

"You were dosed with drugs."

Sherlock felt the dryness of his throat and a bitter taste on his tongue. He knew it must've been the middle of afternoon for the light that came in with his brother was more than what the candle in the room could provide.

"How long?" he asked as he tried to pause for his brain to let him catch up. Everything wasn't exactly there yet.

"You've slept for an entire 16 hours. Unquietly."

"I know that." Sherlock injected suddenly with annoyance lacing his words, "I'm asking…" he looked up again and this time, found Mycroft turning around to face him. His brother was now wearing a different clothing, a loose faded blue long sleeved polo and faded trousers. Where his brother gets his clothing— Sherlock was sure it was from the baggage of captured foreigners before— one thing was for sure, Mycroft had lost quite a few pounds even for Sherlock's liking. He continued with eyes blinking several times, his throat catching, "I'm asking if I tried to kill you?"

"You mean 'again'?" Mycroft's sardonic smile only made Sherlock stare, "This isn't exactly the time to feel repentant now, is it? Though I am sure to remind you of it later. We're still in the middle of a battle zone and I need you to put your head together." There was a short pause. "Are you feeling any better?"

Sherlock raised his eyes to focus on his brother's face now that he could see him better. He knew by instinct his brother was lying to him again and knew what happened between them was more than what he was showing but that they were still in the middle of a professional job and thus needed to act accordingly—but he could not say anything on it.

He caused it.

Sherlock dropped his head on his hand and tried to retract more from his still swimming head.

"My head's a mess… spent the entire subconscious running around a graveyard calling Redbeard and John… me playing the violin in Sherrinford… but Eurus wasn't there…it's empty." he stopped as the memory came fresh on his mind once more and had to throw a glowering look at his patronizing brother who seemed resolute not to tell him anything, "And you standing in a corner with a bullet on your head."

His older brother gave no apparent reaction except to smile shortly.

"An appropriate ending for wild chase dream."

"Mycroft," Sherlock whispered as he pushed both his palms on his cold face, knowing his brother was not going to listen—but he was on the edge, having just finished a withdrawal so why was Mycroft so calm after he pulled the trigger—so many times! "You're not listening— I tried to kill you! What are you not getting from that?!" His voice rose at each word, till his eyes were glinting in anger. "You know it's dangerous to stay in one room with me when I'm high—why do you insist on getting on my nerves? Why are you not angry with me?!"

Mycroft was being Mycroft. He just stood there, cool as a rock, with hands on his sides and not an emotional etch on his ever placid, pale face. When he did speak, Sherlock was already breathing heavily and had his face buried on his palms again.

"Well, for starters, you should calm down. I did not come here to watch another one of your tantrums."

Mycroft was so cold and reasonable it just made Sherlock put both hands on his legs and look his brother square in the eyes. It was a special ability of Mycroft he rarely used—the kind of tone that would make Sherlock listen when it was dire. Once the older Holmes was sure that the younger was listening he nodded.

"Good. Now, first, you've just had an overdose so I'm giving you some slack when you tried to kill me, that wasn't really on your control. Second, I was trying to make sure you would not spill anything important to our enemies or reveal our true purpose, so I really couldn't leave even if I wanted to. The third one being, do you really think I can bear to face our mother if I tell her you died under some pretext of saving Britain? A fitting end, yes, but I don't think our mother is quite ready for it yet. You know I'm not either."

Sherlock looked him in the eye and knew Mycroft was still giving him facts.

"You're a terrible reasoner." He whispered as he looked away and shook the last remnants of dizziness away. His older brother took the glass of water and walked in his direction to hand it to him.

"So, you better not let it happen again. You know full well what it means if you fall here." A long silence, then, "My heart may not be in the right place but it's still there, Sherlock."

Sherlock felt stricken at the sudden throw, and with gritted teeth, took the water quietly.

"What happened to your right arm?" his quick eyes were seeing it now that Mycroft was standing so closely to him. He thought his brother was concealing the pain on his left shoulder which was obvious given by the way he carried himself, but now that he had time to observe him since he came, he found Mycroft using his left hand to give him the water when he was right handed, and that the sleeves on it had previously been pulled back to his elbow.

Conclusion: another thing to hide.

Mycroft straightened and hastened to casually hide his right arm but Sherlock was quick—and had snatched his brother's right wrist in a flick of his hand. The tug he did made Mycroft clench his teeth at the pain which was written all over his ashen face.

The two glared at each other.

"Let go." Mycroft commanded reservedly, "We cannot play 'care' for the whole night, brothermine, it's far off excruciating for me."

"Then better learn how to deal with embarrassment, you're the older one." Sherlock retorted with furrowed eyebrows and with a warning glare, he yanked the older Holmes down the floor to sit, and with friction in each other's eyes, Sherlock began to slowly fold the sleeve up. What he found there made him meet Mycroft in the eyes again but his older brother was not looking at him.

When he finally was able to fold it till his elbow and feasted his eyes on the scald of red and white already forming on its side, the absence of his brother's properly toned skin replaced by blisters and swellings made Sherlock stay quiet for a moment. Mycroft was not saying anything.

"It's a second-degree burn, damage on two layers of skin and you have not treated it properly." Sherlock commented as he looked around for anything that may be use for its treatment and found none.

"Where in this area do you think can we find proper equipment, really?"

"Those pirates, you're their boss, why can't you order them around like you do to me?" Sherlock pursed his lips as he looked down the injury again, then as if suddenly realizing his own pain, he raised a hand on his shoulder and felt a stinging on his skin. He met Mycroft in the eyes who was finally looking at him too. "And why do I have the burns— what happened?"

"Yours is superficial—"

"Why did we both have these—did anyone throw boiling water—?"

"None of it matters—Sherlock, we just nearly lost our lives and if you don't stop jabbering on the nonsense I will really leave you here to rot till its time to pick you up and declare I finished everything on my own, no thanks to you."

Sherlock blinked several times again and let his hand slid down on his side. The look of pure determination on his older brother's face was enough to convince him there were still other trials to worry about and a single burn on the arm was no reason to be overly concerned. They were still alive and could still die. That's what Mycroft clearly said.

What he was clearly not saying was whoever brought upon the scald injury on his arm, the cut on his lips, the marks of fingers surrounding his neck, even that of his already burn arm or even that… old injury on his left shoulder.

"Are you listening? Sherlock, I need you to focus—" Mycroft was still being noisy but Sherlock had slowly reached on Mycroft's left shoulder, took a handful of his left collar and opened it side wards—which obviously caught his brother by surprise as it exposed his bare shoulder—to that reddening and fresh stitches that was once cut by another addicted attacker.

Sherlock felt his energy get exhausted for some reason. "You've been walking around, half patched, and you're telling me to listen and focus?"

Mycroft slapped his brother's hands away and buttoned his shirt with levelled eyes.

"Manners, Sherlock. That's not something a gentleman would do."

"I'm a pirate, Mycroft. I can just drag you away here and send you home tied in ropes if I had to. I can do everything else you need. This is not a place where you're supposed to be."

"And where do you suggest is my place?"

"Behind your office desk with that big, condescending expression." His face turned with reproach. "What even are you doing here?"

Mycroft plastered a fake, challenging smile. "If you're quite done with your sentimental break down, I really want to know what caused Garlack to have you tortured here in the first place. If you must know, he and Jones have disappeared in the last seventeen hours and that's more than what I calculate as alarming. If you would only turn your brain back, tell me what happened when I only ordered you to see his files."

Hearing the name of Garlack suddenly had an effect on Sherlock who had to blink several times as something in his memory seemed to still be not in place. Whatever drug was given to him, it surely did mess with his memory, especially on the first few hours. What had happened?

"Was it there?" Mycroft prompted him seriously, "Davy Jones' file?"

It took a while for Sherlock to shake his head.

"No… It wasn't on any of his files or email…" he blinked painfully at trying to remember the exact events and only saw a glimpse of the fruits flying around.

"So why did you destroy it?"

"What?"

"You destroyed his phone, thus enabled him to torture you. I want to know what it is you saw that provoked such emotion? And how much does this affect our current position at hand?"

Sherlock had a hard time trying to understand what his brother was saying. The last thin he remembered purely was getting inside Garlack's quarters and being given the phone. Then as he was browsing through, an email came.

Sherlock's eyes found its focus on the ground.

So maybe it isn't also safe to send his big brother back to London after all.

"An email came… I had to dispose of it." He whispered huskily, his eyes glinting darkly at the memory.

"What email? Not the Davy Jones?"

"No." Sherlock heaved a deep sigh and looked Mycroft in the eye, "Something much more dangerous… and something I'd protect with my life."

Mycroft inclined his head on one side with eyebrows contorted, "Obviously. But what is it? And why was it sent to Garlack if it was connected to you? You know that's hardly a coincidence, such thing is never our context."

"That's what I'd like to find out. And you better be careful of the people you have around you. I don't think I need to say it, but dragons can eat other dragons."

"I'm no ordinary dragon." Mycroft said after suddenly realizing what his younger brother was saying, "In any case, if it was something so alarming, I have to take that into consideration of why Jones and Garlack left together. Something else is about to happen, Sherlock, and I need you to remain here for the rescue. My men have to rescue the last hostage, don't they?"

"What?"

Mycroft produced a paper from his trouser pocket and handed it to Sherlock's thin fingers. The consulting detective glanced at the content and automatically recognize it as coordinates. He looked up at his brother.

"What is it?"

"It's the place where we are all about to meet and which I consider as the final showdown. You are to give this to the Special Operation Unit headed this way. They know what to do with it, it's part of my instruction plus the precise time."

Sherlock looked at the coordinates again before shredding the paper into pieces and throwing it around. Both he and his older brother knew they only need to glance at it once to remember.

"And what happens to you?"

"I have to make sure that all members of the party will be present." Mycroft shrugged as he put his hands together and placed his chin there. "I am after all, the shadow host. To be precise it's an entrapment operation wherein all kingpins involved in all major parts of the ocean will be in, together with all the terrorist leaders from Middle East. And then if I'm so fortunate, even some unlucky black kings and dragons. I know you won't want to miss it, but you've done quite enough. This is a message that cannot be transferred via mails or calls, it's too dangerous. That's purely the reason why I needed your help in the first place. You have to go make sure this gets on their hands, you understand?"

"Why don't you come along if it's almost over?"

"I can fool Garlack and the rest of them," Mycroft said meaningfully, "But you know Andrew Jones will find it suspicious if I disappear. That's why I have to stick around."

"Staying with him is far more dangerous."

"And yet, having him out of sight frightens me more." Mycroft narrowed his eyes, "He's the one who received Eurus' message. I have to make sure it and him disappears. Without witnessing it with my own eyes, I can never rest in peace, brothermine, as I have explained in detail how it can be traced back to Britain, and then to Eurus. Treason is a lighter accusation if that ever happens, and even I won't be able to do anything anymore. I don't want it to come to that."

Sherlock watched his older brother and saw all the dangers he has went through, and to be told he had to go away now and do as he was told at a critical point—made Sherlock want to disagree—because then if Mycroft found it frightening that the holder of Davy Jones was not around, then its sure hell scared Sherlock to leave his only brother alone now of all times.

"What if it does come to that?" he asked brazenly, his heavy eyes on his big brother, "What if we can't stop it?"

"We will." Mycroft was so self-assured, even Sherlock had to believe him. "All I want you to do is give this message to them and everything will be solved. Do not fail me on this—you have to be rescued no matter what. Without those coordinates, everything I did will be for nothing, brothermine."

"No," Sherlock glared. "I won't leave you."

Mycroft eyed him, then shook his head and sat straighter. "Then you leave me no choice. Since you're not working on reason then allow me to work on your guilt—you have been compromised with your addiction to the point that you attacked me—"

"That's hardly anything new—"

"You pointed gun in my direction and nearly had me killed—"

"You just said it was out of my control—"

"So, to trouble your overacting conscience, I don't need people who weighs me down on an assignment and could not even follow a simple instruction without getting beaten in the process. You nearly endangered the success of this operation with your carelessness and I won't have it anymore. If you have any self-respect left in you as a professional, you will deliver my message to my men at the risk of your life. Do you understand?"

The consulting detective could not think of anything to say—because for one, Mycroft was never one to point out scenarios of which Sherlock was at fault and rub it on his face without a reason. Just like when he stood in Sherrinford and lied through his teeth about why Sherlock had to shoot John, an underlying meaning was once again set so that Sherlock realizes the direness of the situation. He did. He looked back at Mycroft's arched eyebrows and tried to figure out why he was getting rid at. When no response came after a full minute, the older brother nodded again.

"Good. If you don't do this, I might as well die."

"Fine." Sherlock responded dejectedly.

Mycroft then stood up slowly as they heard people come outside. Sherlock heard them too and stopped whatever he was about to say when the next thing the brothers knew, three Somali pirates wearing dark garments and turbans carrying heavy weapons came in and stood side by side at the door. Sherlock slowly rose to his feet too and joined his brother and holding that bit of dizziness that hit him suddenly.

"Mr. Jones would like to speak to you." The man at the center of the three spoke in Somali language behind the black mantel covering his face.

Mycroft met his eyes and then slightly turned to his younger brother, gave him a short nod before stepping forward.

Only to be held back by Sherlock once again. The younger Holmes was careful on his brother's left arm this time.

"I don't like this." Sherlock said after a second, his eyes on the black turban men whom he only always saw beside Garlack. The memory of Garlack shook something in his mind again that was still veiled in the shadows. It made him grit his teeth. "I want to come, tell them I want to come…"

Mycroft frowned at him, before turning to the men and speaking in Somali, he conveyed his brother's message.

The reaction was instantaneous as the next thing, the two other pirates on either side of the speaker bolt forward and then one took Mycroft forcibly forward while the other hit Sherlock with the butt of his rifle in the stomach. He fell on the ground, coughing and crumpling on the floor.

"Him only!" said the pirate angrily while Mycroft watched in silence till he was pulled away from the room, leaving Sherlock coughing hard as he slowly tried to kneel— and coughing again.

His mind whirled at a memory he could not quite get his hands on—his brain won't let him catch on—but why was it so important to remember? What was it that happened before?

Mycroft did not allow himself to be pulled as he had told the men once he was in the light of the sunset. He walked on his own with them three following his foot. He didn't realize how late he had been speaking to his brother but it was alright since he was able to give him the most important instructions. He headed to Jones quarters without qualms that whatever happens after this, will all be part of his bigger plan.

Whatever Andrew Jones had to offer, there's nothing Mycroft won't do to make sure he gets on that boat headed to the coordinates he just gave his brother. This was him walking the plank and jumping in and not out of the ship because at this very moment, it was not the sharks at the water that are most treacherous but these humans who will gather in one place.

This has been his plan from the very beginning.

When he came in the small room of the hut, he found Andrew Jones sitting comfortably on a folding chair with his feet leaning on a giant box of weaponry that had come as a sight with him. He was after all, a weapons' dealer.

"You're back." Mycroft said as he entered and remained standing in the middle of the room.

"Apparently, I had to get the goods I left behind." Jones threw his legs on the floor but remained seated with a wide smile at the translator. "You know that feeling, when you don't want anything to slip by? Something important that was hanging in front of you just have to grab on and take?"

"Of course." Mycroft replied dryly, seeing the excitement that could barely be contained in Jones' eyes. "I wonder if you were able to get your hands on it?"

"Oh, I will. My merchandise is everything." Jones straightened and then tapped the box of weapon three times before standing up walking in front of the translator who by then, was already watching his every move with precaution.

"Where's Garlack?"

"You need not worry about him, he's gone to Somalia to prepare for the pirate summit… I'm sure you're also waiting for that. Speaking of Garlack, he told me something very interesting last night. Something your little German told him while they were torturing him it seemed."

Mycroft stiffened. Jones saw it and smiled. "The German told him a name and it so coincides with the email I received a while back… a long while back when I was in Istanbul minding my own business. A name that came with an attachment. I can't open the attachment though but there was this message that told me this man could, and would you believe that, it contained the same name Garlack just told me. And would you believe that also—if I was not mistaken because I thought I was- I heard the German calling you that the first time I came to pay him a visit… eh? Remember Mycroft? Mycroft Holmes?"

Mycroft lowered his eyes but sure enough, he knew Jones had him exactly where he wanted him.

Walking the plank, straight to Davy Jones.

Back in his own quarters, Sherlock was already agonizing at the memory that just came to him as he was finally able to catch up with his brain—of Garlack beating him and injecting him of khat twice in an hour—and the effect of the drugs—and how he wanted more—and how he was given another three dosage after two hours—and how in his agony had called names over and over not of anyone else—asking for help over and over when he was high in drugs—the only man who had stayed beside him through all the worst—

Mycroft Holmes.

-To be Continued-

A/N: I'm sorry for loving these TBC's so much :D :D :D

It means another chapter! Hurray!

Almost there!

Thank you for reading!