Disclaimer: I own nothing, but Christmas is coming up and I'd love Marvel Studios and the BBC, so...get shopping
Sherlock stormed through the heavy double doors, inwardly cursing every patented doily, every furnished oak chair, every high society bureaucrat to Hell. Mycroft's secret lair was hidden in the most pretentious, most idiotic 'Gentleman's Club' that Sherlock had come across, and his cases had taken him to some cringe-worthy places; he was not in the mood for any of it today. John had been kidnapped from right under his nose, and if anyone would have witnessed it happening, of course it would be his odious older brother.
The grand oak door to Mycroft's office was, to Sherlock's surprise, locked; he jiggled it four times just to make sure. Some kind of client then, he decided, Never mind. Just as he lifted his fist to pound upon the wood, his brother's tedious assistant scurried around the corner.
A very important client, Sherlock deduced, She's looking far more harried than usual.
"You…You...Get in there and tell my brother I want a word!" he demanded, earning himself a steady-faced glare that could have put Mummy Holmes to shame. No wonder Mycroft's so fond of her.
"Mr Holmes is currently occupied; you can wait for him to finish his meeting." She scolded him, turning away to begin sifting through a pile of papers on what would ordinarily be the secretary's desk. For once the Blackberry was absent. A very, VERY, important client.
"I don't care if he's got the reigning monarch of a yet-to-be discovered continent in there! Dr Watson has been abducted and I WANT TO SPEAK TO MY BROTHER!" Sherlock yelled, going deathly still. A young man that had been passing by actually dropped the coffees he had been transporting, before tripping from sight. To her credit, the assistant didn't waver.
"I'm afraid Mr Holmes-"
At that moment there was a muted clunk, and the door swung open, revealing an irritable Mycroft Holmes, looking as put-together as always, his discontent given away only by the crinkles behind his knees and the improperly fastened waistcoat.
"Sherlock Holmes, the entire nation now knows that you want to speak to me, but I-"
"Mycroft, I'm coming in whether your client is there or not!" Sherlock hissed, his patience already wearing thin. He knew that Mycroft could see how upset he was (no one else would be able to), and the hypocrite dared to put him on hold after proclaiming his 'concern'. Mycroft held his gaze, and after a moment, rolled his eyes and stepped back into the room. Sherlock followed him before he could shut the door, and was met by the sight of a tall, dark-haired man in a coat clearly passed down from a relative, (no charity shop sells genuine Second World War Trench Coats), and a ridiculous smirk plastered across his face. The man's eyes swept down Sherlock's form in a way that made him uncomfortable, a sentiment added to by the tangible cloud of confident swagger that clung to the stranger.
"Well hello…" the man let the words roll over his tongue, the syllables carried on a low American accent, as he strode forward with his hand extended, "Mycroft didn't tell me about you."
It had been too deeply ingrained into his psyche for Sherlock not to shake his hand, but he was glad of the barrier that the leather gloves provided, and he snatched it away after a fraction of a second.
"And you are?" he requested, scanning the man in the hopes of deducing a reason for him to be in his brother's office. It didn't fit; this man wasn't government, or any related branch, and every deduction Sherlock made was cancelled out by a contradictory one. Clothes old, very old, older than him, but perfectly fitted to him, so not his father's, that's too much of a coincidence; shoes worn in, lots and lots of running, fast running looking at the angle, with at least eight different regions dirt ground into the soles, all fresh enough to be from the past few days, but how? Modern man, technology on every limb, and is that a weapons holster? But not a soldier or law enforcement, but important enough to be speaking to Mycroft…
"Mr Harkness can wait outside." Mycroft cut through the mental ramblings, gesturing for the man, Harkness, to leave, and it appeared, putting himself between him and his brother. Small mercies.
"That's Captain Harkness," Harkness corrected as he strode from the room, locking eyes with Sherlock, "Captain Jack Harkness!"
The door shut with a thud, leaving the brothers alone. Sherlock quickly disregarded the man, Captain, and turned back to Mycroft, who had taken a seat on the opposite side of his desk.
"Mycroft, John's been taken-"
"I know Sherlock, half of England knows, you shouted quite loudly." Mycroft interrupted, his tone one of boredom, but he did at least begin typing on his computer, bringing up lists of results, "Believe it or not, I don't have the flat under surveillance, I do possess a modicum of respect for your privacy."
Sherlock threw himself back in his chair, clasping his hands under his chin.
"I know that. I need you to tell me which secret organisation is responsible; it'll probably have emerged at some point in the last four months." He explained swiftly, eyeing his brother, who to his chagrin mirrored his pose, thereby abandoning the computer.
"And you are certain from the way that the crime was carried out that this was not merely the actions of a single man?" Mycroft asked slowly, although he didn't look as if he were expecting a reply to the affirmative.
"Not the actions no, the thoughts maybe…but John is an adept soldier and the abduction was timed for the moment I left the room, obviously an organisation with some power." Sherlock muttered loud enough to be heard, staring at a patch of wall beside the window.
"Maybe an unusually proficient gang-"
"NO! It was an organisation, which is why I've come to you and not gone after them myself!" Sherlock snapped, meeting his brother's gaze. Mycroft held it for a moment; his eyes bored into Sherlock's as if trying to pry open his skull and pluck out answers.
"What aren't you telling me Sherlock?" he formed the words slowly, putting enough emphasis on them that he sounded authoritative. Sherlock scrunched his face, looking away before drooping into the guest seat.
"It's Moriarty," he whispered, running his hands over his face, then snarling, "But it can't be, so a copycat, or one of his employees that I missed!"
Sherlock heard Mycroft exhale sharply, and that momentary loss of composure made him look up from behind his hands.
"What?"
Mycroft actually twiddled his pen; twiddled it.
"I believe your first assumption was the correct one." He admitted, glaring at the pen in his hand as if it had spouted something distasteful.
"Moriarty's dead Mycroft! I saw him blow his own brains out on top of Bart's." Sherlock stated plainly; that day was not one that he enjoyed remembering.
"And I saw his corpse get carted away, I accompanied right up to the body-bag," Mycroft retorted furiously, and Sherlock knew in an instant that something was very wrong, "And yet you are the third person today asking me about secret criminal organisations involved in kidnapping, and the second to claim that Moriarty is the one responsible. Hell, the man outside has actual video footage."
Sherlock leapt to his feet, charging towards the door and swinging it open. Captain Harkness stumbled backwards in such a way that it was obvious he had been listening at the door; he hastily slipped some kind of gadget into his pocket, that had been held at his ear moments before, but Sherlock didn't care to inquire about it.
"You miss me?" the Captain asked with a smile, his arms swinging outwards as if to welcome Sherlock into a hug. Sherlock stepped back into the room, allowing the captain to follow.
"You saw Moriarty?" he demanded, turning on the American and moving far too close into his personal space. Unusually, he didn't step back, forcing Sherlock to retreat to where Mycroft was now standing stiffly.
"The small Irish guy with the Westwood suit and the crazy eyes?" Harkness replied, taking an awkward breath when neither Holmes brother made a sound, instead glaring similarly at him as if he were something unsavoury from the bottom of their shoes, "Yeah I saw him; he and his armed goons snatched someone I'm rather fond of. I thought it was a way to get to me."
"Why would he want to get to you?" Sherlock sneered, giving Harkness another sweeping glance, "Me he has reason to target, but you?"
"I'm quite high on the secret organisation pecking order!" Harkness maintained, and Sherlock was pleased to see that any intentions the man may have had towards him had been replaced by indignation, "And men coming back from the dead is right up my alleyway, I guessed that it fit."
Sherlock's interest perked up about hallway through Harkness' defence. Of course, he thought eagerly, the fascination getting the better of him, Mycroft, what have you been up to?
"So you're one of the many secret projects that the British government's got hidden in the rafters then?" Sherlock asked, cutting off whatever the man had been rambling on about to Mycroft.
"I'm what you'd call a rogue element." Harkness smirked as he said it, "I notice you're not mentioning the resurrection thing?"
"There's got to be a perfectly reasonable explanation," Sherlock said dismissively, waving his hand as if to bat away the sentiment, "The more pertinent question is what these people want with the two of us; I can't think of how we're related, so it must be part of a bigger picture."
Mycroft had migrated back behind his desk, and was once again searching government databases as the two men talked.
"You're so certain that it's you they want." He commented, earning a withering glare from his brother.
"Well of course, take the weakest link and lure us in, what's important is why?" Sherlock reeled off, his own smirk growing with the familiar joy that a case brought; he was about to address Harkness, who was watching the proceedings thoughtfully (Sherlock hoped that was what his expression revealed), before turning abruptly to Mycroft, his mind catching up with his mouth, "You said third. You said I'm the third person to ask about secret organisations, who else have you talked to?"
Mycroft sighed, as if resigning himself to something he had never wanted to do.
"I was awoken this morning by a call from a charming American organisation called SHIELD." He explained wearily, looking between Harkness and Sherlock, who had both closed in upon hearing this new information, "They have found themselves victim to similar crimes as the two of you. You're right Sherlock, this is bigger; far bigger than anything you've encountered before, although I imagine Captain Harkness here will feel right at home."
"So we go to this SHIELD, and we work out how to get John back!" Sherlock stated, as if it were the obvious next step. It was the most obvious plan of action. If it would get John back, he was even willing to put up with these Americans for as long as need be.
"Sherlock these aren't just politicians!" Mycroft snapped, "These are the people that dealt with the problem in New York last year!"
Sherlock froze and let out a little 'oh'. Bigger then; far bigger. Mycroft had turned his attention back to the Captain.
"So you agree to accompany my brother to SHIELD headquarters and find out what is going on?"
"Of course, finding out what's wrong's my job." Harkness replied with a smile and a laugh that didn't quite meet his eyes, "You up for that Sherlock?"
Sherlock felt an elbow nudge into his side, and shook his head in an attempt to clear it. He stepped back from the desk, meeting Harkness' eyes.
"Yes…of course." He agreed, sparing Mycroft only a fleeting glance as he continued, "On a similar note: what is your alleyway?"
Captain Harkness chuckled and stuck his hands in his pockets, running his eyes down Sherlock again. Damn, he thought, I'd hoped he'd stopped that.
"Have you ever heard of Torchwood?" Harkness asked, not discouraged when Sherlock didn't reply, "Don't worry about it; I'll explain everything on the way to the States."
I'm sorry, the ones with Sherlock in always end up so long (You can tell who I love and who I don't mind getting kidnapped). Nevermind, got some Sherlock, got some Torchwood, what will it be next time?