Mycroft walked with an air of authority as he passed through the cryptic halls of his domain. His beloved umbrella dragged behind him, his master in no mood to entertain. Not even a spark of the infamous Holmes charm leaked out of the anxious man.
He was simply seething mad.
'Execution.
Execution.
Execution.'
He clicked his tongue.
Something weighed down the usually proficient man's heart. Something that made his thoughts jumble up in erroneousness and his chest clench up in an odd way, and then it struck him.
What he was feeling was the dark burden of grief nesting in his conscience.
He hated it, and it was all because of his protective inclination to watch over his troublesome brother.
Upon reaching his destination, he slammed his office doors open in a pit of rage in which the empty room rattled in response.
Mycroft sighed as he sunk deeper into his chair.
"Out of all the shenanigans he had brought upon himself..." he accused. "How do I explain this to mother now, Sherlock?"
He sat there for hours, evading sleep and waiting for more declarations from his superiors. Even though he brought the blame onto himself, he praised his clever mind for giving a slick but rational reason to delay the procession.
"Family!" Mycroft blurted out as the council began to rise from their seats. Inquisitive eyes began to stare him down.
"I beg your pardon Mr. Holmes?"
He smirked. This was his opportunity to play the sentiment card. Resuming his properness, Mycroft began to speak.
"These people have families, don't they? According to my investigations, these 'Augments' were once belonging to a large division of Scotland Yard. Surely people will talk if we discard of them without thinking first of the population's suspicions." Amongst the veil of stoicness, he was trembling.
"There were no records of their original identities, am I correct, Mr. Holmes? Even to your extent, Starfleet surely had a way in disclosing their personal information."
"But that does not mean they don't have anyone waiting for them."
The whole council looked down in thought. He could feel it. Sentimental guilt eating away at their hearts.
Within moments, his superiors had decided to plan another mean of dealing with the threats in a more careful way. It was still an execution - he couldn't change their minds about that - but he took it. It was enough to buy him more time to think of his own plans.
"Mycroft," The leading councilman spoke as he began to leave the now empty meeting room. The two of them faced each other with much uneasiness. "Do you, perhaps have someone in that project you call family? Is that the cause of this unexpected outburst from you?"
The eldest Holmes boy stiffened involuntarily, but not visibly. His mind raced with images of his days as a young brother to a small Sherlock Holmes. The unexpected calls from the detective inspector tricking him to a drink and the long chats with John Watson about the man they both had cared for dearly. Somewhere in Mycroft's icy fortress of a heart, he knew he had established his own tight-knit bonds.
He looked sternly into the councilman's skeptical eyes. It was then he began to feel that strange heavy weighed bearing into his chest as he spoke.
"No. No one at all."
The inescapable blare of a ringing phone woke Mycroft up from his floating thoughts. He let the noise fill his head before picking it up and placing the device near his ears.
"Sir, we've just got word from the council,"
"And?" he began to rub his face anxiously.
"They've made their decision. It's already set to due course soon."
They waited for what seemed like an eternity detained in a large unknown room deep within the Academy. There were no clocks present, no windows to reveal the pace of the sun nor anything to indicate how many days have passed or hours that slugged by.
The wait was maddening.
But nothing compared to John Watson.
He paced around the room tirelessly, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes, squeezing them shut as if reality would vanish if he tried hard enough to push it away, but the frighteningly prominent images of the incident still revered back to him at the worst of times.
"Damnit..." he kept whispering.
Lestrade saw the doctor battle himself. Hell, he had nothing but the doctor to see. The room they were put into were filled to the brim with frightened and confused Augments not knowing of what would happen when those steel metal doors would once again slide open.
"You okay?"Lestrade watched John with carefulness.
"I'm fine."
"You sure?"
"Yes! Christ..."
"You did get shot in the bloody shoulder, mate!"
"Jesus Greg! That was already a while ago-it's nothing! Look! Not even a fucking scratch...I just panicked, okay? I don't know-I-I really don't-ugh!"
His frustrations began to worsen - John would never act this way, but the strange occurrences of their altered minds became very much pronounced.
And Lestrade knew the feeling, so he didn't blame him for his overreactions. He remembered feeling that heat of anger during that time. The inescapable surge of aggression.
The inspector gave a dim chuckle.
"Greg...I haven't heard that name for a long while now. Wow, what surprises me the most is that I'm surprised for hearing my own name! My real name I mean. Ah, the things mother would do to me if she ever found out..." He caught John's eyes turn sympathetic.
Giving a grunt another sigh, he stopped his concernings and turned to the inspector.
"Look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to react that way it's just-"
Lestrade raised a hand to pause him and smiled. "No, it's alright, I understand - we're all feeling it."
"It's just Sherlock..." The crease in the inspector's brow deepened, and he gave a long and tired breath.
"I don't know. Honestly, I wish I could give you an answer but-I just don't know, John." With strong but steady fingers, he massaged circles onto his temples, hoping to relieve himself of the traced his collar bone. The gruesome ache on his neck was still there - haunting him of those corrupt eyes that bore into his with the intent to kill.
Lestrade knew that wasn't Sherlock anymore. Sherlock Holmes was dead.
But he didn't have it in him to tell John Watson.
He remembered the look of alarm in his eyes when he watched the unconscious body of the detective being dragged out of the room in such a crude manner. He felt panic in his veins as they themselves were led away.
"It's worth an ask but, suppose you know where they took him?" Lestrade couldn't help but chuckle at such a pointless question.
"I don't even know where we are, mate."
John grimaced. He was worried. Beyond that. So was Lestrade - so was everyone else. Not just for themselves, but for him. For Sherlock.
For Khan.
Someone was always there to restrain the sociopath, and God knows what will happen when he was to be left alone; his mind free to wander out of sanity.
With a sigh, the two sat amongst the crowd, watching the unmoving doors that held their outcome, having nothing to do but wait.
But an awful, screeching bang soon rang out, reaching even the boggled Augments through thick, steel walls.
They stared with wide eyes, and within moments, the heavy, metal doors slowly slid open.
Eugene woke to a small beeping right by his bedside. Groggy with medications flowing about his bloodstream, he turned his head slowly, taking in the sight of Starfleet's hospital ward. It was always frighteningly white.
His milky eyes drooped sleepily and he gave an exhausted breath. He wanted to ignore that confounded beeping, whatever it was, but the annoying sound just rang louder and more extrusive. Giving up, he gathered whatever's left of his strength in his good arm to reach across and find the cause of his disturbance. He grunted painfully as one little twist affected his torn shoulder.
Long fingers found a slick, cold and hard device vibrating underneath his hands, and the admiral professor suddenly jutted awake. He lifted himself up to much challenge, his confused gaze lingered on the tiny phone still ringing in his hands.
He looked around but so no one other than the single rhododendron flower blooming peacefully in a small vase.
Eugene doesn't own a phone.
Without hesitance, he immediately opened the message out of pure curiosity. The content given however, did nothing but to create more complication for the unfortunate old admiral professor.
We need to discuss important matters. I'm here to help.
-M
A/N Short and simple is what I could describe this chapter, reason being - well, I'll leave you to your own deductions at that ;3 Oh! and I've posted some "promotional posters" of the story on tumblr under the tag 'Ode to Harrison' so you should go check those out! Reviews are helpful and welcomed! (And they make me smile like an idiot) :3