Twelve hours... eight... pain...

Blood infection... dead body... spare...

Circadian... pain... protocols... Hidden location...

War.

One too many to think about but never quite enough for his mind.

Mycroft Holmes had had his eyes open for some time now and still saw nothing. He was no better than a blind person trying to feel, in heightened effect, his surrounding enveloped in darkness. He was thrown there eight hours ago and kept with no light to guide, curved on a corner with arms about his knees, head bent on his arms and bare foot against the rough, cold stone floor. His wrists were bound together by a rope—something he was unable to notice until the spasm of pain from his recent back injury got him to notice after a length of time.

So they had tied him less he choked himself? What sensible people.

Then again that's what they do: untie, assail, tie again and chuck in a corner. Mycroft wondered sometimes if they were cannibal the way they maltreat other people's body. The thought didn't make him any sicker than he already was.

And funny how that one word kept nudging at the corner of his brain ever since his consciousness returned: pain. But it was one thing to wish he'd feel no pain; it was another to wish he was already a dead man.

If it wasn't for that single text message he wouldn't really be regretting wishing he was dead now.

Weeks ago he would have gladly forfeit that life without much of a thought—but then came the text and here he was with a silver lining and change of plans. Now he really won't be trying to chop his tongue off the second time save they force him. Hope was on the way.

Still it was dark and silent.

Everything had been quiet for awhile since the little fiasco with his storage devices he vowed never to use again but Mycroft didn't dislike it. Silence and isolation had always been his best company; it being said his seclusion allowed him to focus and see the bigger picture of what had transpired so far. Despite having so many injuries he preferred to focus on the most important wanderings of the mind than his trivial condition. Albeit having a high temperature at that.

Nothing ever made him feel better than going to the only place that heals him. In his case his mind palace: his only sanctuary to his current desolated reality. It was his kingdom. Thus, he simply started to think and turned facts and tables from beginning to end to see hows and whats and ends.

What he found offended him. And yes, there shall be war.

He fell asleep on the next hour with mind disgruntled from his findings and woke up with a start when he heard sounds of feet from above. He had suspected he was underground. That would explain the absence of any windows and his difficulty in breathing for the insufficient amount of air.

Did he notice it was dark?

Mycroft was just about to raise his head from his arms when Sherlock's voice rang in his ears—

"There you are!"

Mycroft shot his face up and saw his brother appear out of nowhere with a jack knife at hand. The detective knelt in front of him, took one look at his tied arms and was about to cut it when Mycroft pulled it back with a frown.

"What are you still doing?" the younger Holmes snapped in his usual impatient demeanour, "give me that and let's get this done! Do you know how many I've killed already?"

Mycroft looked down at Sherlock's hands and saw them stained with blood. It made him sigh and look up at his little brother again in exasperation.

"What nonsense." He breathed.

And the image of Sherlock Holmes disappeared from his sight.

Mycroft heaved a deep sigh and shook his head at the petty tricks of his own brain. Obviously there was a serious imbalance in his mind palace. He had been seeing Sherlock's shadow recently after that text message he read.

Was that sentiment?

Or maybe he was sicker than he thought... It had been twelve hours since he last drank water.

He favoured the latter on the dot.

A loud grinding sound of stone alerted him, and then light came washing down from above in a form of a square directed to the floor. The portal to his whereabouts seemed to open as pairs of feet appeared climbing down the iron ladders attached to the wall. That was probably why Mycroft thought he had fallen and actually hit the ground before crumpling on his corner. They really did push him and he really did fall. Painfully. A muscle of his was still aching at the moment.

He waited till the two men who descended from Babylon came down carrying a gigantic flashlight and blinded him with one good point in his direction. With eyebrows furrowed, Mycroft shook his head and felt hands grasped his elbows with a violent tug. The next thing he knew, a chair was also brought down and as per practice, he was plummeted on it once again and facing adversaries he had grown tired of seeing—one bald and one tall and dark— Mycroft barely opened his eyes.

Were they going to say what he expected them to say?

"How's the body? Feelin' like deadweight now, don't it?" said the bald man quiet menacingly in his shoddy voice, his dirty military-like-jacket, striped scarf and dark sharp beard a dead giveaway of his personality, much more the two guns hooked around his belt.

Mycroft pressed his eyes close patiently with eyebrows still high and up and chose to be silent.

And their next question would be...?

"Do you feel like talking now? Or do we have to make it another rough day?" the other dark skinned man, taller than the other with a thick bundle of black scarf around his neck and shabby turban demanded. "We outta kill you after what you did, we really should."

Mycroft opened his eyes to the two blundering idiots—his expression reflecting his thoughts— he was accustomed to these men who were like his alarm every time interrogation hour was to start. Still, he opted not to talk. Talking his way out of idiots never did work for him.

Of course, the next thing they would say would be—

"You're sum' tough nut o' crack so let's start the cracking—" the bald man was never commended for his choice of words and intelligibility. Mycroft sighed in defeat.

"If I am to be given a penny for every correct guess I make..." he began in a whisper, his voice cracking huskily at the lack of liquid, his eyes glinting as he finally looked up, "I'd be richer than both your vocabularies put together."

Heavy frowns came down on the men's already very heavy expression.

"What he say?" the taller person inquired in confusion.

"He's at it with his weird speeches again." His partner grunted as they both stood in front of Mycroft side by side, "He's supposed to be all tha' smart an' intelligent."

"Touché." Mycroft smiled with a raised eyebrow.

A blow on his cheek with the back of a hand was another anticipation Mycroft had seen. He coughed painfully and felt his eyes swim yet it was nothing to the vexation of being manhandled that got the older Holmes glaring back at his assailant.

"Righ', we don'need to make it all painful, do we?" said the bald man as he smirked at Mycroft's freshly bleeding lip while the other man pointed the flash light over their captive's face. "If you don't gimme what I need, you'll start losin' fingernails an' teeth an' eyeballs here. Even head. So gimme what we ask an' we get this over with?"

"I've heard that before."

"You never listen."

A fist on another cheek made Mycroft nearly curse his own stubbornness as the headache he had been complaining to himself alarm him that he had had enough damage for the day.

Still...

"You never were specific, you mongrels..." he gritted his teeth as he eyed the bald man warily, "whatever it is you ask—you wanted key codes for several high facility prisons... even British air force coordinates... that's really a tall to give... yet you fail to make me understand one specific detail..."

"Yeah? And what's that?" the darker man frowned sceptically.

Mycroft's eyes flashed daggers. "Why would I help you?"

His neck was grabbed by the bald man—chocked till the British head nearly felt his consciousness fading with whisper of sound coming out of his dried lips—

"Let's just kill em?"

"Bradkom wants his answers now." The taller man muttered with a tap on his comrade, "we best keep him awake and hang him around something?"

The grasp loosened and Mycroft choked on his breast painfully.

"Yeah, we do that. So go get the bloody boilin water first. This guy need som refreshenin'!" The bald man ordered sharply to his ally after snatching the flash light and bringing it around the walls towards Mycroft's already beaten face. The darker guy automatically jumped to the iron ladder while Mycroft held his chin up to let air enter his lungs after such a violent attempt of murder.

Even his eyes were burning. The pain was too numbing. And what of next...?

"You still won't talk?" the bald man was eyeing him with quite a challenging look that never bode well, "If bit of skin stabbing can't make you talk then let's try skin peeling."

"In fairness to your sickening mind," The British Head raised his shoulders to try and straightened himself but failed as his head swam in pain, "... you can get nothing... you might as well pour acid on me..."

"Acid sounds good?" Bald man smirked again, "We got plenty. I saw some around the corner in the artillery."

"Yes, ex military camp... near the river side and isolated... plenty of murals outside I imagine?"

"Lot's of."

"Are you a loyalist? Or republican? Or do you just bomb anyone on the way?"

"I'm the one askin' questions here. Oy, wait—how did you know that?"

A beat next and Mycroft opened his eyes to look at his captor who was glaring at him suspiciously. His mind had cleared in those hours in the dark and with the confirmed data on, his mind palace came to life—

"Two weeks ago with a three hour drive... there was even a boat for another three hours or my imaginings must have been bad, I was half conscious... Glasgow was my last location, see?" The bald man frowned as the British Head continued, "There are few places you can get with a truck from Glasgow to a nearby port... and the only place that rings a bell with rebels roaming freely and in such number... it's quite obvious." Mycroft stopped as his eyes twinkled finally. "The murals are just one of its attractions. I know exactly where I am."

An aggressive clutch on his collar made the older Holmes grit his teeth as he saw the bald man's eyes clouded with defiance and unease.

"Who you been talkin' to? How did you know that?"

Mycroft stared blankly at the man for a second and had to remind himself this was one dull creature.

"I'm afraid one with your calibre won't understand even if you try— to be polite. Simpletons like you." He smiled before he could stop himself and received another blow on the cheek exactly as somebody opened the closed lids of their cell and the tall man with the scarf returned climbing down the iron ladder—

"Where's the bloody boiling water! I want to see this man scream like a nutter!" the bald man nearly chomped his ally in anger who stood frozen for a moment at the sudden change of mood and then shook his head vigorously.

"Lukewarm." He said gruffly while his companion turned his heels towards the British head who had sat immobile on his chair with head bowed. A lot of his hair was pulled up violently—causing Mycroft to grit his teeth in pain—

"If you think bein' so smart can save you for long, you're wrong! Gettin' all the time like you're a walking clock— I'll kill you right now if you don't gimme the damn codes and coordinates, you smart-alecky!"

"Circadian rhythm... if term be applied..." Mycroft tried to pry his pained eyes open to stare at his aggressor who blinked at him in confusion. "That's a term for knowing time with accumulated experience of body, you imbecile."

An angry snarl came out of the bald man's mouth and things happened so quickly after that as Mycroft was struck with a foot around his middle that sent him crashing down the ground with the chair breaking into pieces— he was kicked by the rebel belligerently—but things didn't quite stop at that.

As Mycroft crumpled on the floor with his fingers clawing down the stone ground in pain, his chest screaming for air he thought feet came bustling around him and thought chairs and tables would come crashing on his back next. He hadn't the time to recover from the recent attack when he felt the man above him grab his shoulders to make him sit up— a groan escaped his lips.

But then a single arm suddenly supported his shoulders gently. The next thing Mycroft Holmes knew were his blurry, red eyesight focusing and the taller man in the black scarf peering at him closely at the minute.

"Mycroft?" the man's voice whispered and the earnestness of his concern shook the older Holmes who raised his eyes in disbelief at the man holding him with such firmness. There was that voice again— why can't his brother just—?

"Mycroft!" snappish, impatient and absolutely from the owner of the voice got Mycroft to believe.

And he stared in disbelief as his eyes discerned that familiar figure hidden behind the guise—there was no mistaking it as Mycroft reached a hand and grab a handful of the man's arm and gripped it— found it solid on his touch—

"Oh god..." he whispered as reality sank in him with eyes not leaving his younger brother's who was looking at him closely. "Sherlock?"

The detective gave a blank stare as he helped his brother to stand.

"As we live and breathe, brother." He started too casually with their eyes were locked at each other. "My, how the tables have turned with you pretending to be dead and now I'm the one 'wading in.' I still don't get how you could watch me get beaten to pieces in Siberia. It's not as fun as it looks."

"Jesus, it is you." Mycroft sighed as Sherlock supported his weight, "you talk too much."

"Now, now let's get you out. People are waiting for us. You don't want to destroy such an intricate plan, now do you?"

"'People'?"

"Concerned citizens looking out for the Troubles. John's particularly interested on how to get us out." He travelled his eyes on the floor and there Mycroft saw the bald man lying unconscious on his stomach with a bleeding head. The flashlight was left on the floor too that gave them enough light to see each other.

The older Holmes breathed painfully as Sherlock kept a steady hold and gaze about the square doorway above with a frown on his face.

"John's here?" Mycroft noted as they started moving towards the exit.

"Pretty enthusiastic." Sherlock answered as he took hold of the iron bar and let Mycroft reach it. "Really liked pulling his rank over the others. He does like bossing people around. Can you climb?"

"Arms are working fine." He lied—his arms were like lead that wanted nothing to do with moving, same with his legs. Sherlock saw through it and guided him halfway till the older Holmes was able to reach the above floor and struggled to carry his weight up—

"You lost weight." Sherlock pointed out grimly as he slid pass his brother and pulled him up on his feet.

"Finally." The British head breathed out again as he closed his eyes tight to adjust to the brightness of the room. He stood lost for a moment, before noticing Sherlock offering him a clean cloth to wipe his bleeding face.

"Is calling you atrophied an insult?" the detective went on—

"Shut up, now, Sherlock—look at the cameras—"

"Already disabled it. Same as I disabled him." He nodded his head at the sleeping man by the floor whose clothes were taken by the detective. The dark scarf perfectly fitted Sherlock. "It's quite tricky finding this trap door if I didn't notice how strangely empty it was and he came in looking with a purpose—"

"Not really a good time, Sherlock—" Mycroft narrowed his eyes at his surrounding and turned to his brother who was looking at him quite expectantly. "What?"

"At least commend me I found you in less than three hours since my touched down here."

"We can talk about that at length later."

Sherlock paused. "You were expecting me?"

"I made the expectation, I texted you." Mycroft gritted his teeth at the kicking pain of his body. Sherlock smiled a little and gazed at him for awhile, before turning back towards the doorway with face turning severe. Peering outside, the detective frowned as he saw his brother standing there, lost in agony.

"This wouldn't have happened if you had stuck with me in that forest."

"This would have happened eventually."

Sherlock shot his brother a look who wasn't even paying attention anymore. The excitement of finding his younger brother got a hold of adrenaline inside him but it was slowly fading what with such a beaten body. Mycroft turned to Sherlock and found his brother staring at him quietly.

Things were turning too quickly. But then again, Sherlock was involved.

"So then, what's the plan?"

"You are the plan. Get you out of here since you're not the combat type. Not with that scrawny body."

There was another glare from the detective's eyes that Mycroft chose to ignore.

"So they sent you—the vanguard?"

"Not vanguard—Cavalier, brother. Ireland soil—do you know where you are—?"

"Of course I know." The older Holmes tried to stand in his full height with his eyebrows contracting as he clutched his stomach and felt a searing pain again. Looking up, he found the detective intently watching him. "What's waiting for us out there?"

"Twenty two men armed, thirteen cameras and ten more people outside the nearest exit I evaded using stealth mode. It's headed towards the factory where our ride's waiting."

"Stealth mode?" he looked at the tall dark man's body on the floor—

"Infiltration—this is an infiltration of course it means stealth mode. We are in a fortified camp with bombs and guns again ready to be set off so we have to be thorough."

"You explaining being thorough with me..." Mycroft shook his head as his voice faded away "So how do you go on carrying an attraction like me?"

Sherlock smirked, "Well, if you wear these clothes you'll be invisible."

He raised the green military jacket of the bald man lying unconscious beneath them.

Mycroft's lips thinned but he didn't say anything.

Stealth mode it is.


For the men scouting around, they could only see two men in almost similar fashioned clothes of green and scarves and carrying heavy weapons at that while walking towards the pile of drums nearby the exit gates. The sun had gone hours ago and the bleak greyish sky was casting shadows here and there.

"I thought stealth mode..." the older Holmes whispered as they walked side by side in the open.

"Wading out, big brother." Sherlock muttered back with a glance behind him.

Mycroft had difficulty in carrying his body without leaning on his younger brother for support. Still, he refused Sherlock's help the moment he noticed eyes were on them.

"Just... act it out... naturally..." the older Holmes muttered with a deep sigh, his eyebrows furrowed at how focused he was on what he was doing but Sherlock could actually see perspiration sliding down from his forehead.

"Medical help should be on standby en route." The detective said as he kept an eye on both his older brother and the men carrying on with their duties. The cat was still in the bag, it seemed. Sherlock did secure the trap door without any traces of mishap. "You're doing good. You'll be fine."

"Encouragement from you, Sherlock... am I to die?"

"You had a full three weeks playing it."

"To be accurate—you people assumed it."

"Your secretary was incessant about it! Giving those clues—"

"Ah, now." A glint of amusement finally appeared on the older Holmes' face. "Wasn't it fun?"

Sherlock glowered at his brother before pacing up his speed and picking up a stone on the ground, and then another, making the older Holmes stopped walking and stared at the suddenly turning-half lunatic brother.

"Don't just stand there," Sherlock told him from the corner of his lips, "Try pointing in that direction! The men watching us should see we have a purpose here."

"Ridiculous." But Mycroft pointed on the direction all the same till they were inches from the gates. "Don't you think it odd we're escaping easily like this? Haven't they found those bodies by now with the number of guards they usually have for me?"

"I hid them. The bald guy actually took a bashing for kicking you." Sherlock gazed behind them too, "The only odds we should be concerned about is getting you out of here at the moment." He snatched his older brother's arms to support him and with sudden vigour the Holmes brothers dragged their feet far along the number of warehouses. The location was filled with it, like it was some sort of factory business with only the number of same sized, same coloured empty building.

Sherlock suddenly pulled Mycroft on a halt behind a red wall and slumped down the floor—

"Sherlock—? Don't tell me you plan for us to camp out here when they roam around in that number—"

"That should begin it." Sherlock muttered as he took his phone and clicked the enter button.

Mycroft was just about to open his lips when he heard loud roars of three military helicopters—the UK Apache to be precise— came to life and the next thing—somebody was on the megaphone— Agent Carruthers' voice was loud and clear.

"The perimeter of this place is surrounded. We got three 30mm cannon that can wipe out your entire facility and dozens of snipers carrying L115A3 ready to engage. You are all under arrest for—"

Shouts and machine guns greeted his words next—an all out war broke out as the UK air force retaliated—

Sherlock half dragged Mycroft by the arm again as they both ducked towards a clear area away from all the violence and undaunted rebels. They had moved a few more paces before they heard a whooping missile crash the entire vicinity—making Sherlock look back and watch the effect, impressed.

"So much for stealth mode...?" Mycroft stared at the destruction in matter of seconds. "Good lord... you're breaking out a war." More gun firing and dozens of men came out of their hiding places ready with arms—

"They asked for it." Sherlock said without much a thought, his eyes glinting. "And Carruthers does know how to make a scene, your right hand man."

"He's grown on me." Mycroft clutched on his chest as he watched the raging fire. "I see you're all desperate... these are... the 'people' you speak of?"

"Not entirely." Sherlock turned to his brother and glanced at him from head to toe, "just a bit further—" they had to move again as sound of guns came roaring once more, "John's there with the medical team—we had to bring the doctor in."

"Yes... I think he's the man for the job." Mycroft coughed as they half run with the gun exchange getting louder and louder, "There are really few people I'd trust with this right now, Sherlock, believe me."

"I know." Sherlock suddenly turned and helped his brother and the two crossed the remaining part of the road till they reached a white van waiting for them around the corner. Once Mycroft's eyes fell on the people standing by he stopped in alert.

"What's the matter? They're with us?" Sherlock told him as he pulled his brother towards the vehicle where two unknown men wearing the usual stab vests of officers stood. One of them opened the sliding door but Mycroft refused to step in.

The detective stared at his brother.

"Mycroft—"

"Where are your badges?" the older Holmes suddenly demanded to the men while Sherlock frowned.

The two police glanced at one another and produced their badges as told.

"It's alright," Sherlock said as his eyes travelled from the men to his brother, "they've been with us ever since the planning. They're PSNI."

Mycroft Holmes blinked his blurry eyes and sighed.

"Yes... of course. Where's John?"

They entered the vehicle and closed the door just as the van's engine roared to life.

"At the facility. I think that's him calling." The detective then shot a hand up his brother's forehead before taking his phone out with eyes on his brother. "No wonder you're so edgy. You're burning up. We need to get you some shots." He smirked as he put the phone on his ear. "I know how you hate those... Hello, John? I've got brother Mycroft but he's got the flue."

"I had tetanus toxoid jabbed on me after that incident with the warehouse, you remember?" The older Holmes whispered as he turned his eyes towards the front to the man driving the vehicle. "Blood infection shouldn't be a problem..."

The PSNI member turned a look at him on the rear view mirror.

And Mycroft didn't like what he saw behind those dark eyes. Or maybe he was truly sick even clouding his judgment. But then it was too late to doubt his mind now. The older Holmes blinked his hazy eyes.

"Sherlock..." he licked his lips and glanced at his younger brother who was exchanging words with John, apparently. He could actually hear the doctor's standard angry voice on the other end. "...you said John's at the facility... is he with the PSNI too?"

"Yeah, why?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him and paused, waiting for a reply.

Mycroft turned his eyes back at the PSNI agent.

He was no longer looking back.

"Nothing."


Infiltrate


~To be continued~

Thanks for reading! :)