Three hours ago [Police Federation for Northern Ireland office]

Sherlock sat in one corner in front of a laptop while John stood behind him facing the other way towards three high ranking officials—Agent Carruthers, the MI6 in-charge, Commissioner Gray Bradstreet, in command of the of the Police Service of Northern Ireland and Assistant Commissioner Tom Roylott, his subordinate to field operation strategy. Both of them were wearing their force uniforms with badges while Carruthers wore nothing of identification except his dark suit and tie.

Together the three of them made a scene.

"An important government worker in the hands of dissidents? Here? How?" The Commissioner demanded more than stated as he leaned both hands on his desk with eyes on Carruthers who remained impassive on the spot.

"Co-cooperation of terrorists, or a simple insider's job, we are yet to know." Carruthers nodded slightly. "I don't need to repeat this but this is a highly classified op and it is necessary that we find him alive."

"Don't push your luck, it doesn't happen." The assistant commissioner furrowed his brows as did John who listened closely, "The militants we handle in these parts do not pose cheap tricks. If you want to know our history, go around the barracks and see for yourself. Our murals tell much death in the hands of our own civilians. Finding your guy alive... a chance of one's arm."

"We'll cut many arms if we have to." The dark suited MI6 leader assured him. "It's nothing to the loss this country will suffer if this man is not retrieved."

"And what kind of military force can you give us?" the Commissioner was all raising his voice again, "British Special Forces and Special Unit army have come and go, what makes your squad different this time?"

"They answer to me in this one." Carruthers didn't even blink, "We can take care of the actual attack. I just need affirmation that no report on news whatsoever be done after we finish our business here. It's a standard procedure."

"What are you going to do?" the brisk Commissioner went on with a smirk, "Carry the British Army tanks and raid down Belfast road? You want an open war for one man?"

Carruthers pressed his lips closed that made the two other officers stare at him.

"You really mean—?" Roylott shook his head in disbelief while his superior raised eyebrows.

"You haven't even found him yet—you can't go on bringing any attacks on any civilian site you—"

"We're aware of that. That is why we also need ground support in these parts."

"Then what?"

"Leave it to us."

"Don't give me that." Commissioner Bradstreet slumped on his chair grumpily with heavy eyes on the agent, "The last time I heard that two British soldiers were killed a step away from their base by an improvised explosive and one good guy lost a leg. These Republicans mean harm and if anyone of the civilians gets caught in the crossfire I swear—and mind you—we are still in the midst of talking peace and treaties!"

"Peace and treaties will be done once this man is recovered." John suddenly put in before he could stop himself and a beat next he found all three men staring at him. "I mean... that's what he does... in his own way. Keep the country safe... spy on people?"

"This Holmes...? Mycroft Holmes?" repeated Bradstreet as he shook his heavy head and leaned on his chair. "I don't really recall of such a man."

"Lucky for you."

Sherlock's voice joining the conversation felt like an icebreaker too and for the first time their eyes fell on the dark curly haired detective who had been so absurd in front of the laptop he was using but seemingly able to follow the conversation all the same.

"Who he?" the Commissioner raised an eyebrow. "And why's he using the Federal Office's security laptop—that's password protected—how in the blazes did you turn it on? Who the hell are you?"

Sherlock ignored him.

"Sherlock Holmes." Agent Carruthers offered that received different reactions—

"Who?" Bradstreet was all confused while his assistant's eyes fell on the consulting detective.

"I know him. The consulting detective with the deerstalker hat."

John froze while Sherlock's lips twitched as he turned towards them.

"I'll get you later. On a more pressing matter—I found it."

"What?" John quickly leaned over Sherlock's shoulder who turned back on the laptop. "What 'it'? How?"

All he could see were four black cmd commands with very quick letters appearing per seconds. The detective's hands were in synch with the keyboard—

"Pirated wireless signal. Tapped the one active over the rest of the terrorist site."

"You know how to hack wireless signals?"

"Nope. Mary does. She hacked their IRCP."

John kept his mouth shut as the detective went on—

"She got frequent usernames TArchy, Hezbollah, Xbox, Gondola acquired on the hacked terrorist sites... Seems like they're all interested in this IRC network... it's a Black Market. They're talking about a clandestine captive... that should be Mycroft and look—this Weaver seems pretty hyped. They're auctioning him already."

"So it's a ransom." The Commissioner muttered severely.

"Not for us." The detective typed more with eyes not leaving the screen. "This is it: A7 GD. Tamhnaigh Naom. Give me a map."

The next moment, Sherlock was pointing at the map provided to them by the Assistant Commissioner.

"This area." He said briskly and without a word he straightened from the table he had been leaning on.

"Saintfield?" said Bradstreet who had been reluctant to jump on the bandwagon with the way he throws look at Agent Carruthers, John and the detective with apparent animosity since they arrived. "How can you be so sure? I don't want to rain missiles down the wrong way—"

"No, but I want your PSNI force to be there waiting in case things go south for us in this place at Carryduff."

"What—?"

Sherlock stared at them dumbfounded—"Aren't you listening? Your terrorist cell is at Carryduff and their planning to send off the luggage at Rowallane Garden, 'Tamhnaigh Naom'—Irish word meaning the field of saints. You know that just think! It's the meeting place for the transaction of the winning bidder two hours from now. You need to be there to intercept it if I fail at Carryduff."

Silence filled the air at the sudden developments when—

"But why Carryduff?" John had decided to ask the burning question on everyone's mind which made his friend look at him as if he was seeing something inhuman.

"The tracer they gave us on Mycroft's phone, John? And it's only a few miles away to Saintfield from a straight old Belfast road, what else gives?"

"Oh."

"It's only a small town." Roylotte crossed his arms with a curious look at Sherlock. "Very remote."

"What else defines 'suspicious'?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the Assistant Commissioner. "And didn't your men report strange activities within Belfast that got you grounding your men at the borders?"

"We were tipped off—but not something unexpected as carrying a man off from London just so he could be traded to other terrorists group."

"It's an ingenious plan." Sherlock acknowledge with dark eyes, "and highly coincidental. But I'll get my hands on that once I get my hand on this. Now give me what you know about Carryduff."

The Commissioner turned to his assistant and gave him a nod, before giving a long pause as he threw another furrowed look at Sherlock who had been watching him with an impatient look.

"Just let me get this straight—these terrorists are interested with your guy because he works in some secret intelligence of the British government? All of them are interested?"

"You obviously have dislike for internet." The detective muttered. "Now is there any place in Carryduff that has strong walls, most probably abandoned and empty and likely to be breeding ground for your dissidents?"

The Commissioner and his Assistant exchange meaningful looks that made Sherlock smile wide.

"I want three parties prepared—if this place is fortified and it is, I want you to lead the medical team and wait there." He eyed the army doctor, "Carruthers will handle the point attack." He turned to the agent, "You wait for my signal. Drop nothing till I get my brother and if he's not in any condition to escape in his own limbs, I want them unable to pursue."

"I'll handle it." Agent Carruthers nodded.

"Give them hell." Sherlock noted when Roylott returned carrying a blue print of the building.

"If you want a rendezvous point we can make use of the unused military camp's medical facility found in Mealough road, that's a few miles out. It's temporary closed but it can be used. If there'd be any casualties it's the best spot we can have. We'll send people to locate you at the back of this building here."

He pointed on the map while Sherlock memorized the places.

"Camouflage it is." He muttered to himself, "the best way to assess the situation is to be there."

"We'll take Saintfield then." Commissioner Bradstreet raised his eyebrows, "If your attempt to intercept doesn't work."

"I'll stay with the medical group there if there'd be any emergency so keep in touch." John nodded as he caught the detective's eyes, "But what would you do?"

Sherlock's eyes glinted. "What I do best."


Three hours later after the infiltration...

Sherlock checked on his mobile phone as he stood outside the base of the joint military camp at the outskirts of town, his eyes narrowed at the unresponsive gadget. Pursing his lips, the detective impatiently thrust it inside his dark coat's pocket and travelled his eyes at his surroundings.

Trees. Plenty of trees and military personnel scouting the grounds and weapons. It was a military camp established by British Special Unit to monitor potential threats to the nation.

Sherlock raised eyebrows on both corner of the camp with eyes on everybody, before turning inside the camp's white medical facility tent.

There he found his older brother with half his body covered with bandages that seeped with blood with an IV drop dangling on his right arm seated at the edge of the bed rack and on the phone with—

"No, Prime Minister—" Mycroft already sounded aggravated by the minute, "resigning your post won't give solution to the result of the referendum! No— that's only backfiring the effect of the motion!"

Silence came as the older Holmes' expression varied from a frown, frustration and finally raising thick fingers covered in bandaged to his forehead and massaging it. Sherlock stood by the doorway watching his brother with his weight on one leg and arms crossed. He shook his head meaningfully when he caught his brother's eyes and his meaning was received: it hasn't been an hour since they arrived and the older Holmes was supposed to be in the middle of a patch up instead of that.

Mycroft ignored him.

"But that would demolish the economy and entire exchange—there will be an immense damaged—performance will deteriorate..."he went on, "No, I never exaggerate, you're aware of it that's why you want to resign—your exasperation on the matter is clear... To be frank Prime Minister you are leaving in a bad taste and you know it will come to a bad end..."

Sherlock smirked when his older brother rolled his eyes.

"You cannot blame the First Minister when Scotland voted remain... no, even if you are replaced by anyone from the Conservative of the House of Commons the backfire will still have a full effect on the country. That's why—you know the Parliament has to ratify—it matters that the House of Lords and Commons vote against it— what?"

Mycroft's eyes glinted dark. Sherlock had seen that look before and knew things were getting out of hand.

"Typical... what else is left?" Mycroft gave a sigh and shook his head as he closed his eyes again. Long minutes passed before he spoke again. "That's not a solution, Prime Minister, stop being so sentimental about this. People are reacting now as they should be... The expat communities should worry, indeed, and to think we burned because of our own people... yes, I'll be there. I know."

Hanging up, he dropped his hand down to his leg quite heavily.

"Brexit?" Sherlock asked knowingly that made his brother grimaced. "Did he even ask how you're doing?"

Mycroft raised his furrowed eyes at his brother.

"Why would he when his own existence is about to collapse? He's no better than I."

"Fair point." Sherlock nodded with a smirk and stepped into the room towards his brother, "And just because you left your office for three weeks that the government's crumbling."

"That too, but it's the mass people's decision." The older Holmes watched his brother stop in front of him, "I warned them against not properly informing the people of the true agenda behind the E.U when it was obvious the citizens were infuriated by it. The BSE did a poor job. Letting people think the membership was only black and white was the mistake. Now it made all of us look like xenophobes—"

"You are—"

"It's not personal. I'd still vote in. With proper propaganda this could have been easily solved... and as it turns out—a backlash." He sighed again. "And so it changes."

"It can't be that bad."

"Oh, it will be bad." Mycroft's assurance was always dead on. "They have no idea."

"But you're not planning to solve this in that condition, are you?" the scepticism in the detective's voice was heard as he noted his brother's bruises on the face already purple and dark, blood clotting that looked painful under his eyes and the gash across the bridge of his nose.

"Turns out I'm needed." The British head shrugged offhandedly, "They won't see the real effect without me laying it all out in front of them step by step. With tides changing it's important I give my counsel. I already called my secretary for a jet plane to the European Council with the Prime Minister once in London."

Sherlock's glare was unexpected. "Did you hit your head and forgot what just happened to you?"

"This takes precedence." Mycroft blinked and narrowed his hazy eyes. "I have to go."

"Nope."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Absurd as you are, brother—don't be a complete masochist." Sherlock's face was blank but his words came out like blades, "I won't bore you to stay in bed—I'm not our mother— but for godsake look in the mirror and judge for yourself if you're even fit to show yourself in public much less to any leader's council."

The older Holmes smiled. "They won't care how I look, as long as my mind is fit for tackling decisions."

"And that's where you really have to over think who your friends are—"

"Friends?" the British head nearly chuckled, "that's barely a description—"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Right—you don't like friends—"

"It's a preference."

"—no, you don't like people in general—"

"We're talking about this because?" The British government head raised an eyebrow that received a glare back from the detective again—

"You work for a government that doesn't give a damn whether you live or die—"

Mycroft's jaw slowly dropped in confusion. "I'm sorry—where is this coming from?"

Sherlock stopped in midstream as he pressed his lips closed in annoyance, the blaze in his eyes ever ignited.

"You reject other people, Mycroft. You don't have friends. Someone from your own government even said it was better you died and your own Prime Minister seemed ignorant that you just came back to life after escaping a terrorist crisis situation—exactly what kind of people do you surround yourself with?"

The British Government head looked truly surprised at the outburst of the younger Holmes that he stared at him for long seconds as if seeing him for the first time.

"Well..." he began when Sherlock refused to say another word, "those kinds of people who won't bother, I think? Because it's all politics and power on where I am, Sherlock. You never complained before. I thought you knew?"

"Oh, I knew it but it's different when I really see it."

"See what? For goodness sake you think our government can last if everyone who's ever been in charge of it is all so tender hearted and concerned over little trifles of losing people? We deal with hostage crisis every single month and not pay ransoms, we deal with terrorist cells and prevent each attempt—you think we have time to worry about our losses?"

Sherlock Holmes returned the icy gaze his older brother was giving him.

"That's the kind of mentality that will get you killed—"

"No, that's the kind of mentality that saves billions of people, little brother. No—don't argue, you know you never win." The narrowed eyes the older Holmes gave him made Sherlock itch to retort back—only Mycroft beat him to it as he continued in his usual self demeanour— "Besides, you know how much trouble having so called 'power' can be— and in contrast to what you think I do—I'm merely the middle man as only I can be—I give power where power is due."

"Yeah, and that got you where exactly? People hungry for power snatching you up for leverage? I haven't forgotten what Magnussen was prepared to do to get that power—"

"Oh, real power-seekers make Magnussen seem like a child's play." The British head's eyes glinted dark as he placed the phone on the white linen and looked up at the detective again. "The real enemies are those in position to govern. Without me on the loop corruption entails. Or Britain falling out, like it just did. That's why I need to go."

"Carruthers will be your escort. He's itching to send you home."

"Our' escort. You not planning to stay here are you?"

Sherlock raised one eyebrow at that, making his brother narrow his eyes.

"Sherlock—"

"This might be repeated again." His tone was cold and firm with a determined look in his eyes, "The only way to stop them is to bury them too deep they won't be able to comeback."

"You really do have a death wish, don't you? This involves international terrorist—"

"Who actually found it necessary to take you!" Sherlock voice had gotten stronger the same as Mycroft's face paled; Sherlock could already see John's reproachful look towards him if the doctor was there—really haranguing the patient

The older Holmes' only reply was to press his lips close to calm himself and said out, "It won't happen again."

"We have to make sure it won't." the detective gave his brother a long look, "I didn't waste time stopping Moriarty's gang. What makes you think I'll stop on this one?"

"What's gotten into you?" Mycroft was frowning so hard that made his bruises looked worse.

Sherlock looked away in discomfort. "I don't know. Probably has something to do with finding my supposed dead brother miles away in hands of suicidal people."

"You're being ridiculous." His voice had gotten softer, "No, Sherlock your involvement with terrorist started and ended just now. You won't be pursuing anyone anymore. Leave it to me."

"I don't mind the trouble."

"Sherlock!"

"And why are you stopping me? Usually you're the one hell bent to give me cases like this."

"Not this. You're taking it personally."

"I take it personally."

Another beat of exchanging stares left the Holmes brothers in silence with Mycroft studying his brother's unexpected behaviour while Sherlock stared adamantly back. One glance and the detective knew exactly what was playing on his brother's mind and didn't include textbook emotions—

"You know you can be thick sometimes, you know, Mycroft?" he breathed finally.

That took a whole new turn as the older Holmes straightened on his bed with eyes taking the challenge with vigour unexpected from a man whose body was dressed in bandaged.

"Did you just call me stupid?" his icy monotonous voice was music to Sherlock's ear who gritted his teeth.

"I think I did."

He turned away from Mycroft who stared at him, appalled while the detective oscillated on the spot with glaring eyes. He needed to calm down, he knew that but the feeling of losing something very important has just sunk in him so deeply that he was seeing things in a different way.

And that the people responsible still out there and with his brother's profile exposed—probably increasing.

"Completely missed the point." He muttered to himself as he decided to stand on one corner with eyes still glowering.

"Stop it, you're making my head hurt." Mycroft reached a hand on his injured shoulder and glared at his brother too and the two spent a few minutes in silence. Sherlock was adamant and Mycroft knew that so in the end it was the older Holmes who had to sigh it out and gave in eventually. "You couldn't imagine the pain—"

Sherlock raised his eyes to his brother attentively—

"— of staying with those people who were too raucous, and demanding, and dirty and absolutely... beastly."

"Mm, we got rid of them nicely—they're all pulverized—"

"That too. Do you know how many calls I had to make to cover up that attack?"

"Isn't that what you do anyway?" the detective raised another eyebrow as he looked at his brother's injuries, "Clean things up even when your patches are half way done? Where's your nurse, your bandages need redressing—"

"It's fine." Mycroft looked disgruntled down at his body and started peeling off the one around his abdomen, "Enough fussing as it is."

"Oh, you've no idea of the fuss the world made about you brother." The younger Holmes smiled to himself this time as he was yet tell Mycroft of the public revelation of his identity. "I suggest you clean it up before you go flying anywhere with the media's nose in the air—"

"If you meant my profile on the internet," Mycroft cut him with a glare that caught the detective disappointed, "then I just said it. Enough fussing as it is. I had enough phone calls to make and enough people telling me about them. Damn."

"Mm. You're taking it better than I imagined?"

"Well, I just had to remind myself that people these days have a memory span of a goldfish so what's the harm? Let it pass."

"Your facebook account's been hacked—" started the detective with a smirk.

"I don't do facebook."

"Twitter?"

"Under a different name."

"Ahh... your tumblr?"

"I despise that." Another sharp glare from the British head—

"Then we both agree on instagram?"

"Bless you." Mycroft gritted his teeth as the last strand of his bandaged got stuck with his fresh injury. Sherlock crossed the distance between them and in seconds was helping his brother clean the bleeding part. "It's alright, I got it—"

The younger Holmes made a clicking sound with his tongue and helped all the same as he took the dirty bandages away. It was an ugly sight that greeted Sherlock what with half open wounds and bruises that looked painful to touch. He glared at Mycroft again who blinked back at him.

"Very convincing, isn't it? Perhaps I'll apply for a sick leave." the older Holmes offered but Sherlock was determined to keep his jaw tight as he placed the bloody bandages on the nearby table. He then rounded back and took the clean ones while the older Holmes applied the cleansing agent. The wrapping came up nicely with the detective's ever scrupulous hands—he had never been so gentle.

Mycroft nodded at him. "Hand me those clean clothes too, won't you?"

Sherlock rounded on the bed and grabbed the provided clothes by the hanger; upon taking it, he turned back to hand it to the owner when Mycroft's exposed back made him stop dead on his tracks. It was a horrible sight— what with that long gash of dark wound that crossed from his left waist up to the man's right shoulder, like a mark of a metal rod that burned the skin and flesh—

Sherlock stared at the wound blankly and hardly heard his brother call his name.

"Sherlock?"

The detective's eyes snapped and in came the revolting emotion—which he kept well as he went near his brother again and handed him his clothes. He reviewed the bombing of the UK choppers at the rebels and knew it felt right. Justified.

"Don't wear it." He said in a voice so low he barely heard himself as he stood an inch beside his brother with his back leaning on the bed and arms crossed. "Too tight."

"What? And go naked?" Mycroft turned a look at him as if he had lost his mind. "Really, Sherlock, what's gotten in to you?"

"You need rest, brother. They all can wait."

The British Head threw a side look at his younger brother who didn't look back. With eyebrows rising up to heaven, he straightened on his seat again despite the obvious pain and took one good look at his brother.

"I see." He said after a moment with eyebrows up. "So it all comes down to this: you're concerned about me."

"Just." Sherlock gritted his teeth uncomfortably and replaced it with a heavy frown as he glanced at his brother too, "I thought it should be fairly obvious by now."

"Oh?" Mycroft's words tumbled out uncertainly, then he frowned as he injected on, "well, it's because you had a funny way of saying it."

"Yeah, same way you had a funny way of showing it with your spies and sedans and even Big Ben."

It was Mycroft's turn to smirk.

"I got you that time."

Sherlock compressed his lips in annoyance but didn't say anything as he remembered his brother's recovery stage. It all ended up with silence falling between them.

"Thank you for that." Mycroft barely whispered without meeting his brother's eyes. "For coming."

"That's what we do." Sherlock answered quietly and another round of silence fell between the two.

Until the older Holmes cleared his throat, being unable to bear such uncomfortable silence. "So... John still not in contact?"

"No." The detective took out his phone again and saw nothing. "It's been an hour since we missed him when they were called to support Carruthers' group. I heard it was bad."

"Never really off duty, is he?" Mycroft took his phone from the bed and stared at it too. "Carruthers hasn't been in contact too."

"Told him to give them hell." Sherlock shrugged.

Mycroft looked thoughtful for awhile. "John can handle himself."

"Course he can."

"And... these people who knows this extraction op...?" Mycroft went on with a sudden change of note in his voice as he travelled his eyes towards the doorway, "You sure you can trust them?"

"They're fine. I checked them." Sherlock looked towards where his brother was looking.

Mycroft nodded, his usual expression returning. "We don't want this 'Out of the frying-pan-into-the-fire' thing happening when I am needed elsewhere, Sherlock."

"Let's not always assume the worst in people, brother." The detective smirked.

"You're awfully supportive of them, why?"

"Oh, I don't know... probably because they helped me save my brother."

Mycroft smiled dryly. "Don't make it a habit, Sherlock. Sentiments. It clouds judgment."

"Right back at you." Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother just as they heard an upcoming vehicle enter the vicinity from the outside. "Habit of close call on your life. Very unlike you."

"It's a conspiracy—"

"You always think there's conspiracy—"

"Well, let's both hope I'm wrong because..." they heard heavy footsteps outside and upon looking up, saw five military personnel all looking at the two of them with hostility. Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "I don't normally hate it when I'm correct."

Sherlock frowned as he stood in his full height beside his older brother.

But then amongst the five military personnel emerged Assistant Commissionaire Roylott whose clothes were dirty with blood looking pale yet firm and in control. Both the Holmes brothers greeted him with astonished expression as he said in a plain, heavy voice—

"Agent Carruthers' dead."


Intercept


~To be continued~

Disclaimer: Any names, characters, businesses, places, events are used in a fictitious manner ;)

Thanks for reading! :)