"Jesus..."
Mycroft whispered feeling his grip on his phone loosening as the news blew his remaining strength and for a while he was lost in silence. Sherlock stared hard and long at the bringer of the news who continued—
"I'm sorry about Agent Carruthers. He was gunned down on ground when their chopper crashed. He seemed like a good man. His team was able to hold off a large number of militants but we received reports that there were those who managed to escape. We cannot stay here for long; we have to go to Belfast."
Sherlock's eyes flickered for a moment but then understanding sunk in him in the next beat—
"Where's John?" he breathed with a step towards the Assistant Commissioner who looked back at him with a frown.
"He was supposed to wait here—"
"No—they were called to support Carruthers—"
"Nobody arrived there." Roylott's brows were all too furrowed. "The med team was supposed to remain here while Carruthers handle the attack with the British troupe he assembled—?"
"Obviously someone called them there for support! He isn't here!" Sherlock demanded with a violent wave of his hand while the back of his mind nagged him with another question— what are you doing—?
"Then where is he—?" Roylott began—
"Isn't it obvious?"
Mycroft's grave tone made the men look in his direction.
The British Head was on his feet despite his white ashen face and bruised appearance. The gauze wrapped on his body made matters worse as blood seeped out again with the fresh wounds opening at the sudden movement. He looked too gaunt to be even moving that Sherlock was tempted to snarl impatiently at their situation as he understood his older brother's notion—
A conspiracy.
"Sit down, Mycroft, for god's sake." Sherlock threw him a dirty look before turning towards the PSNI Assistant Commissioner, all the same taking out his phone, "We need to find their med team. Alert your force."
"That's true, I have to contact the Commissioner—" Roylott took out his phone—the same time as a loud explosion from somewhere far made them all stand alert and astonished. The next second, blaring sirens met their ears and the British soldiers ran outside shouting to others, leaving the three men gaping at each other.
"What the hell's that?" Sherlock glanced around with displeasure in his face—to hear bombings now of all time. It was the last thing they needed.
There was a short pause –
"That... was the communication towers..." Roylott muttered as he slipped his phone inside his pocket with an urgent look at the detective who checked his phone and saw the signal go off. "Communication's down. It's an ambush."
The sirens continued blaring on as Sherlock immediately assessed the sudden development from the death of the much essential Agent Carruthers, the disappearance of John Watson and now the attack on the towers...
"Genius!" Sherlock whispered with gritted teeth as he gripped his useless mobile and nearly threw it away, "To pull such a stunt—they clearly want us stuck out here with no means of communication or back up... but how did they know we're here...?" he glared up at the Assistant Commissioner. "We have to find a way to communicate for back up! Find out what's going on! Who's in charge here?"
"The staff commander's with the Commissioner at Saintfield to provide support in catching the Russians— there's only the army doctor and me overseeing this part, this was supposed to be a temporary shelter, not a battle ground—"
"Don't they have those walky-talkies?" again, the nagging question at the back of his mind was persistent.
"The signal will still be disrupted—"
Sherlock stared at the PSNI in charge with disbelief, his mind palace buzzing. How could things go wrong in ten seconds? Without Carruthers their command with the operation was spoiled and contact with his men over Carryduff was impossible with the towers down. Even if the British troupe returned it would be too late if their attackers overtook them now. And there's John missing all the action and the fact they were stuck in the middle of nowhere.
What are you doing here? The voice nagged in his mind.
The detective looked down the floor blankly.
"What are you doing here?" he suddenly whispered as he slowly looked up at the man with unblinking, suspicious eyes.
"I was ordered to provide escort." Roylott went on with another frown, "And we cannot stay here. My orders were to take you to Belfast as soon as I am able. We can let a few soldiers here to escort us too—"
"You're not supposed to be here—"
"What?"
"At Saintfield—you're supposed to be there."
"I told you I was ordered to escort you—what the hell do you mean to say?" the Assistant Commissioner demanded this time as he and the detective exchanged heated looks while Mycroft watched them carefully.
"The slightest change in plans sets me off." The detective muttered with a twitch of his mouth. "Especially the most unusual and coincidental ones." He flashed another look at the man.
"Are you saying what I think you're saying?"
"What do you think I'm saying?"
A short pause came with the siren enveloping their ears as Roylott glared at the detective. "Look, changes happen. If you have problems with that then you can stay here all night doubting and wait for your pursuers to come or you trust me. Now what do you want to do?"
Sherlock raised his eyebrows slightly and then glanced at his brother who didn't move a muscle. His eyes were narrowed; he actually seemed sleepy despite the siren. The detective studied him for a moment before turning back to the Assistant Commissioner.
"I need to get my brother out of here but I also need a place with signal to contact my friend—"
"Then we'll do that or you can work with the PSNI or the soldiers to fix the communication lines. I'll take your brother back—" Roylott glanced behind Sherlock with a nod.
"No."
With a sharp glance at the PSNI Assistant Commissioner, Sherlock straightened himself with a sudden rising alarm. "I stay with my brother."
Roylott's frown was impressive. "Fine. I'll set the perimeters while the remaining soldiers barricade this place and we'll make a convoy to the nearest town. If we have pursuers... we'll meet them." He started for the threshold.
"And one more thing..." Sherlock called out as the man turned back with a look. "Tell them to turn off the alarm, everybody knows we're under attack with the little number we have."
The Assistant Commissioner grunted and he was out of the tent to the blaring sirens.
The detective waited till the man was out of ear shot and checked his phone again for any signal and found none. Grumpily, he turned to his brother just as he was trying to put on his new clean buttoned shirt but with difficulty and plenty of wincing that made Sherlock raise an eyebrow.
"What are you doing?"
"You won't want me going out of there with nothing on me, right?" Mycroft asked pointedly as he raised his right arm still attached to his IV drop in the air and sighed. "I wish they stop that blasted sound."
"They will." Sherlock looked down at the transparent string attached to his brother's wrist with blood already on the rise, "and quit moving. We want liquids in, not out."
"Don't tell me there's no need to hurry when things are blowing around, Sherlock." The older Holmes reprimanded him in that state that made the detective want to smile but shook his head.
"About Carruthers..."
Mycroft smiled blankly that didn't reach his eyes. "I was supposed to tell him... well... you know, things you were unable to tell people before their demise..."
"I know exactly what that means." Sherlock pressed his lips closed, remembering those dark nights of thinking his brother's dead. Mycroft watched him for a moment and that was when the two noticed the absence of the siren. The vicinity had gone silent. Until the British head cleared his throat.
"Well, going back to topic... what or who are we up against?"
"I'd like to ask you the same." Sherlock narrowed his eyes knowing full well his older brother had listened to everything Roylott had said. He also knew by far that his brother already has the same logical assumptions and more accurate and sound decision. "What do you make of him?"
"Him we cannot trust because he doesn't trust us." Mycroft said forthrightly as he met Sherlock's dark eyes, "He doesn't even know who I am. Or pretend to. Anyway even if we put faith in him what will happen will happen with the pattern already on the move. I see it. You do too. We need to be cautious, and we are still in the dark about John's whereabouts... god knows where he is."
"Balance of probability, Mycroft..."
"I didn't want to alarm you, but it would seem so." The British head nodded gravely at his younger brother. "Caught in the crossfire... and taken. You know exactly how this type of drama could end, brother."
The two exchange meaningful looks.
The Holmes brothers walked out of the tent after a couple of minutes with Sherlock holding his brother's shoulder firmly while Mycroft took hold of his younger brother's arm. The way his legs were adamant not to stop shaking and unable to take his own weight told Sherlock his brother was still in no shape—no shape for anything at all save a good old bed and a box of dextrose. His skinny arms and wobbly fingers caused consternation from the detective who was careful not to add weight on the body hiding ugly injuries beneath the thick bundle of bandage and clothing.
And he told himself again that Mycroft was all facades when in reality it shouldn't have been possible to endure such pain. Why was Mycroft so resolute to conceal it from him?
Then again, this was Mycroft.
His idiot brother.
Assistant Commissioner Roylott met them a few meters away from the tent and led them at the passengers' seat of an armed black van with two military vehicles in front and at the back. The base had been silent for a minute and no sign of enemies were sited. Thus the company began its way.
Mycroft had his eyes close for the first thirty minute ride and could careless of the bumps on the road and the noisy wheels of two military jeeps escorting them. His body was too heavy and warm that it was all he could do not to succumb to his injuries. He couldn't afford to show his weak side, not now when his younger brother needed him to be the firm and reliable brother in the middle of another crisis.
And so Mycroft remained silent and gripped both his hands to stop the shaking.
Not PTSD on the go now, that would be absurd for him. It was mere fatigue.
He took a deep breath and felt his heavy body sear in pain. The additional stress on his heavy heart at the news of a good right hand man's demise and the possibility of losing another was not helping his short rest.
Because he had a pretty clear idea of what happened to John Watson.
He just wished yet again that he was wrong.
But alas... he took a deep sigh. John was vital and one he must not lose, whatever it takes. Because he'll miss the man's grumpy and sincerely honest nature. A valuable asset, really. Not to mention, Sherlock's caretaker in times of need. And Sherlock would tear Northern Ireland down before he loses his best friend.
Obviously, he would. Just like how he did Belfast...
The ride was long and too still. For some reason, Mycroft opened his eyes in the dark, only in time to see the man called 'Roylott' who was sitting with them at the backseat pull his gun and Sherlock sitting rigidly on his chair. Mycroft quickly snapped in attention.
"What are you—?" he began in alarm, his voice back to its croakiness but Sherlock's firm grip on his right arm rendered him silent. Looking at his brother, he saw Sherlock shook his head and pressed a finger on his lips. With eyes directed at Roylott, the Holmes brothers watched as the Assistant Commissioner pointed the gun—not at them—but at the back of the driver.
"Stop the van now or I'll shoot and you'll never have to clean it, I swear."
Mycroft blinked his blurred eyes and turned towards the rear view mirror. There he saw the same PSNI man he thought suspicious from the beginning glaring at the mirror—he did not stop the vehicle.
"I said stop the damn thing!" Roylott wrestled the neck of the constable and the car swayed a little, making Mycroft grip his arm on the vacant seat while Sherlock held his arm tightly on the other till the car made a full stop in the middle of nowhere.
The next thing the PSNI in charge had bolted out of the van, pulled the driver out and had him pressed on the car's window with arms pulled back. Roylott confiscated his gun and angrily condemned the supposed PSNI constable.
Mycroft looked at Sherlock with knowing eyes.
"He's the guy?"
"He's the guy." Sherlock nodded with a narrowed look outside. "He deliberately let the convoy get ahead first or with an accomplice and manoeuvred the car before we realised it... the car's heading back to Carryduff without our notice... Roylott saw it. He's going to eat him alive." The detective smirked.
Mycroft sat straight and pursed his lips at a sudden pain with broken beads of sweat on his forehead.
"Instead of showing schadenfreude there, Sherlock... just hand me some water?"
Sherlock reached out and gave him bottled water while he leaned his back gently on the car seat. Pain suddenly struck him that a sharp gasp escape his lips, making his younger brother turn to him.
"Mycroft."
"It's fine." The older Holmes muttered with hands on the bottle but struggle as he might, he couldn't turn the bottle cap lose. Impatiently, he tried again only to be drained out and had to eventually give it back to his brother. Sherlock opened it for him and watched his older brother drink in small amounts.
That washed the itchiness of his throat.
"That's better..." he muttered as he shut his eyes close.
"You look worse."
"Take away my water supply and I'm nothing save a dry egg plant."
"Still humorous. You'll get better."
"How's the situation...?"
"Could still get worse."
"What do you mean 'could still get worse'; it's already worst as..." Mycroft's voice trailed off as his eyes was met with a blinding light from the wind shield and the next thing the Holmes brothers saw another car glided down in front of them. It was then followed by three more vans and exited a good dozen of men wearing scarves around their necks and shoulders and loaded with high calibre guns.
The Holmes brothers sat in silence as they saw all guns pointed in their direction.
"Good lord..." Mycroft whispered as all his senses were awoken again, especially when out of the many new enemies emerged John Watson. Sherlock's eyes sparked and he immediately went out of the van.
Silence was in the cold air with only the headlights of the cars illuminating everything and the shadows of the men in silhouettes towering all other figures.
Sherlock Holmes eyed John Watson who got no worse than a bleeding lip, bounded wrists and black eye. Assistant Commissioner Roylott pointed his gun to the many enemies, but then couldn't decide who to point at so decided to press it to the PSNI constable beside him right as Sherlock rounded on the car's front with eyes transfixed on his friend.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock." John started with a shake of his head as then he was prodded forward by one of the militants with one good shove using a gun.
Sherlock travelled his eyes to the group with mental notes working furiously—the number of men, what they were wearing, how many were armed to the last boot and John's limp that suggests a broken rib.
A car door opened from the band and out came the villain.
Sherlock always knew who it was; they were always the ones to reveal themselves last. But at least he'll finally have a glimpse of one of the many men who seemed interested in one thing.
The man walked in the shadow, he was a tall figure and like everyone else with a neat military cut. His clothes were dark and there was an air of prominence in him as he stood in front of the glaring head lights with his big head, his face was long and hard with a pointed nose and narrowed eyes. The headlight from the van stressed his gaunt features with hollowed cheeks and a cut lip on the corner. His left hand was over the other, playing with his ring on his right middle finger.
Sherlock read words uncanny, merciless and determined with that simple gesture.
An enemy who actually thinks.
That was not a plus side for the detective at these warring times.
"Sherlock Holmes." The man said with a dark glint on his eyes, showing his white teeth.
"I should say," the detective stood in his full height and held his ground, "you have the advantage of me."
"No need to be modest, you are well known to these sides of... unlawful. I've been warned you'd be here snooping." His heavy English accent told Sherlock English wasn't his native tongue and that he had been abroad more than enough to acquire fluency. International terrorists.
"If you know me then..." He said after awhile, noticing John's unblinking eyes and agitation, "You also know that dealing with me can be quite troublesome."
The unknown man smiled again. "We heard what you did in Siberia and Germany and Slovakia... it shows promise for someone so... single minded. I can tell they've underestimated you."
"They didn't. They knew exactly what was coming but too late to notice it's already happening."
"Just like now?"
Sherlock clenched his jaw.
"It would seem so... with you taking one of mine."
The man glanced slightly at John's direction.
"You Londoners are pretty violent for people who are domesticated." He raised his thumb to his cut lip that made Sherlock and John exchange looks of satisfaction. "I could have killed him if I didn't think he was useful."
"So what's stopping you now?" Sherlock's eyes flickered in mock wonder, while John's eyes widened a little, "I mean you could kill us with this number with you." He looked around the dozen men.
"I could," the man nodded briefly, "but I also know your British convoy is en route. They should notice your absence by now and must be gearing to search. Not to mention, knowing the suicidal tendencies of the man hidden in that car if anything happens to his younger brother. I really need him alive, see."
Sherlock gritted his teeth as he saw the man looked pass him into the tinted car window where Mycroft was observing everything. So it comes down to the obvious meaning of such an ambush. The unsurprising trade.
"Sherlock—" John started with an attempt to move forward only to be grabbed back.
The detective looked at his friend and then glared back at the unknown man with his options already on the table. But then behind him, Roylott suddenly grabbed the PSNI spy by the collar and pushed him forward.
"If you want a trade, take this one." He said gruffly, "we don't need rats screwing my force—"
The militant leader didn't even bat an eye as he grabbed one of his men's weapons and pulled the trigger—straight to the man's head with the sound ringing in everyone's ear. Roylott was quick to point his gun upward and received a dozen so back while Sherlock stared at the dead spy and up to the perpetrator. There was not a trace of any emotion on his masked face.
"I have no use for rats. I want him."
A door shut closed sharply and Sherlock looked back to see his brother outside and on his feet, clinging on the van's door for support. There was a grave look on his expression as he slowly stepped into the light too; concealing all his pain all to himself while Sherlock watched him with hard eyes.
"Mycroft..."
"We talked about this." The older Holmes stood his ground a foot away from his younger brother and looked at his adversary. John shot Sherlock an incredulous look but no reaction whatsoever came from the detective except keep his thin lips shut but with blaring eyes at his brother's enemy—now also his personal enemy— in front of him.
And in his mind's eye, Sherlock remembered his conversation with his brother before they left the tent.
"What do you mean it's obvious, you always think it's obvious—what do you mean you're going to give yourself up? You don't make sense—"the detective demanded to his brother inside the medical tent half an hour ago.
"I always make sense! You're the one not thinking straight." Mycroft followed Sherlock with his eyes. "Just follow the plan and if we're lucky we'll wrapped this up before the Prime Minister gets jittery because I don't phone him."
"You think I'd let you go back to these terrorists just like that?"
"You have to." Mycroft noted quietly. "John's life is on the line. You don't do that—we don't do this then we don't find him. We need to play on the enemy's trap. All of this is a trap if it isn't so obvious already."
Sherlock gritted his teeth as he looked away agitatedly.
"There must be another way to find John." He began furiously—
"Enlighten me." Mycroft stared at him with his cold calculating look. "Trapped here, no signal, no British troupe commander, John gone when he's supposed to stay here and my best MI6 agent dead—we are in a tight corner and somebody's pulling the strings. I need to lure him out. In these times where even the PSNI force seem unaware that they have spies in their number... that we do not know who to trust and that we are on our own...it's obvious we are up against someone quite a handful."
"And you want to lure him out?"
"To cut to the chase, yes. You said it yourself—you want to end things here that it doesn't happen again. When would be the better way to do it than now when things are in motion and they think it's in their favour?"
"It's a whole load in their favour!"
"Not quite. They're against us." He flashed a smile at his younger brother. "It's only a matter of time before we can reverse it against them so don't get cold feet now, brother. That's really unlike you."
"That's not my point—we want lure them, I get that, but you really think you can managed with that body of yours? You're not even fit for walking!"
"That's something I need to work on." The older Holmes agreed with a bitter look at his body. "Alas, I need get my act together."
"I hate it when you do this, Mycroft." Sherlock gave his brother a long look which received a glare back.
"Enough of that, you already know I'm telling the truth. Now, remind me, Sherlock what's the last advantage we have against the enemies?"
Sherlock hesitated angrily as his brother smiled wryly.
"Me." He finished briskly, "If we want to find him and I'm sure we will, we just have to ride along this tactic of 'finding signals'. They know that would be our next step since they are the one who trapped us here. The fact that they have not come barging in here in all conceit could only mean they are still wary of the British army. But we do not have time to sort out who to trust and not, you know the more we waste time the more John's life is in danger. With this development all we need to do is to wait until something turns the tide... then we'll act accordingly. And do remember, our main goal is to find John Watson."
"And then what will happen to you?"
"I'll take care of it—"
"The last time you 'took care of it' you died!" Sherlock was bristling; it made Mycroft stare at him.
"Well... I'm rather resilient if you have not yet noticed."
"Mycroft—"
"Sherlock, have some confidence, will you? I wouldn't be putting myself through this entire ordeal again if I don't trust you'd find me persistently, brother."
That caught Sherlock surprised.
Mycroft smirked in wonder with eyebrows contorted testily. "You had always been my plan B. That's one thing constant in these deceitful times."
Trade
~To be continued~
A/N: Bombings here and there in the real world ;( I pray!
Thanks for reading! :)
