"If you come any closer to Sherlock again, I'll show you what only I can do." Mycroft had said to him once.
He remembered Mycroft's usually dead eyes glinted like it never had; a dragon awoken on its lair from a deep slumber, threatened and ready to strike with its deadliest fire. Proving for the first time that he was the wrong man to be trifled with, Mycroft Holmes.
Was it his fault young Sherlock got addicted to cocaine at the age of 20 after a little experiment? That the young Sherlock discovered other ways to heighten his senses other than crossword puzzles and chasing off criminals to unsatisfying ends?
He merely provided the match; it was Sherlock who lit the fire and set things ablaze.
But one thing was for certain however—Mycroft was unforgiving.
It wasn't an empty threat, he knew that much. Still, he found it amusing that Mycroft Holmes found grounds to even threaten him. Mycroft who years back was the silent observer—never caring for anything in the world except when he meant to which was rare; Mycroft who liked his own world, rid of stupidity and human err and only to himself. He was the little perfectionist and it was quite easy to lead him when they shared the same talents and faculties.
Mycroft was easy to control back then too because he didn't like the world—full of stupid people and their too-easy-to-read-behaviours— Mycroft who allows himself to be controlled because he was unbothered of any results, really.
And now who was Mycroft Holmes? That silent youth with knowledge more than encyclopaedias put together? Who was that youth who bluntly threatened him despite their difference in power?
Why—working in the government under a whisper— and only the most powerful man behind the British Government—almost contesting 'his' reputation of being the lord of the underground network—the chief of all Black Markets in the world.
He remembered the last time they met—when Mycroft had him surrounded with CIA agents a few years back. They had stood face to face in the same manner when the secret British Government head looked at him with cold, calculating eyes that didn't reflect any recognition except plain, icy intimidation.
"Mycroft." He smiled in congratulatory. "You framed me."
"All is well." was Mycroft's only reply."To exile."
He will never forget that day when the CIA agents finally took hold of him after decades of evading, and that it only took one Mycroft Holmes to take him down. He secretly applauded for who else was capable? He didn't like to admit it but Mycroft got him that time, and really bad. Accounts shut, passports null, identity on the records and surrendered to CIA—American authorities lack finesse with criminals.
To his exile—all because Mycroft didn't want him anywhere near Sherlock.
Years and more years passed and to the later date he didn't care if they die, these Mycroft and Sherlock.
It wasn't anything like antagonism, no. In fact, he barely concerned himself with them at all. It wasn't that he found revenge unappealing— a genius consequently finds a genius– but he finds the two brothers still dull and amateurs—dull with the boundaries they set for themselves of self righteousness, and amateur for being unable to scrape off the last piece of the puzzle that kept them attach to the world— 'sentiment'.
It was an agony to watch them waste their talents on the petty.
Still in recent years even while at America, he couldn't help but notice the imbalance created by such great minds even from across the Atlantic.
He watched them—observed them from his many eyes how they pull strings, miracles and mysteries right under the public eye. Mycroft who was more sensible to keep everything in secrecy— even his name barely a whisper and his shadow thoroughly unseen if he bid it—while Sherlock, dear Sherlock, unable to contain his love for the drama with public attention all for himself and the act one hero with a recently found sidekick.
Nothing could ever be so different yet similar at the same time.
So what has 'he' got against the two Holmes brothers now? Revenge? Dull!
So why was 'he' so dissatisfied?
Fact: They were unthreatened.
Comfortably, they have carved up their seats at the top with no equivalent talent to oppose them; crushing the cesspool of criminals with a single stroke of their beautiful minds with Britain their oyster. They've changed.
The young one who found place in playing detective, Sherlock, oh Sherlock was the bomb in the crate, the snake in the treasure chest. The conundrum inside the conundrum. Uncontrollable and impulsive, a child with whims and see things only a child would see. He was not worth a Mycroft, but he was still something. Oh, yes he was something else.
And he was still curious to see what this little boy could do.
Mycroft's rise to the top was not unexpected—he was always meant to be at the summit. He was the dragon—the real power with his cold, domineering persona; silent and mysterious with equal perfection and elegance to his ever soundless movement and always had something under his sleeves. The prodigy of manipulation with innate craft and mastery of a spider's natural way of weaving its web and spin around its prey. Deadly and very thorough. Yet also naturally aloof and indifferent.
The British Government Head had far cultivated his potential and the silence on his name was his symbol of power. He was the secret order. The brilliant pacifist of Great Britain's overwhelming power.
Power. Weakness.
There was one weakness with all of this— without the proper exercise to the right opponents though, even the sharpest blade gets dull.
So HE stopped turning a blind eye and started carving for the brothers on his own.
Was it up to him to send the hurdle— to provide the shard on the floor, the crack on the ever perfect smooth glass?
Like a spectre overlooking his kinsmen who wants them refined— wants them at the height of their game; and at the same time a shadow obsessed to see them finally keel over and beg—
He didn't care for them before, but once he did, it turned into an obsession.
If this wasn't obsession, then what was it?
And what was he to do but send them gifts?
He cannot let them play on forever with all the trumps hidden under their sleeves. All was fair in war.
So he sent them the deranged genius; the Napoleon of crime—the criminal consultant— whose work he sampled on every inch of Europe under his organization. Oh, he was much more than deadly, he was suicidal and he applauded the man for being so. A specialist, or so he admitted, that Jim Moriarty.
Even a meeting with him was quite entertaining under the moonlight with a dead body between them. Fascinating enough was Moriarty's awareness of Sherlock's presence. The little boy had been playing out of his league it seems and Moriarty always replying. It was Mycroft he never knew and it was just like the British head to remain as elusive as ever.
Mycroft Holmes, he saw Jim repeat the name in awe, like an inexplicable hold of supremacy was contained in the name itself. It was not difficult to convince him to find Mycroft just as interesting however. Still, Moriarty was set on to the younger Holmes and who could blame him? He could feel the same kind of aura of Moriarty to Sherlock—they were almost two side of the coin. He had one last advice to offer however before letting the atomic bomb loose that piqued the criminal consultant's attention.
"Sherlock's an addict... if he gets addicted to you, you may get the heat of the fire. While Mycroft may not find you as interesting though; he is passionate with his superiority and complete smoothness of suit. He doesn't waste a glimpse to even the most well known threat. That is Mycroft Holmes' signature."
"That right? Then I'll send him my profile." smiled the wicked consulting criminal.
Years later, Jim Moriarty killed himself.
Normal, yes, but to bring along the news that Sherlock Holmes was the fraud upon his suicide—that in itself was the game. It was Sherlock's limitation at fault, one he had foreseen with the boy's unrefined skills.
Death was but the only choice to those without the power to win.
Mycroft lived and like the apathetic man that he was, not even a glimpse of sadness on his skin. His true colour?
He would have laughed at Mycroft; he would have shaken his hand if only he was in the privacy to do so and without the knowledge that this very same man might be his undoing again. Then again, he doubted that was the end.
Sherlock's gift was opened and it exploded to millions of pieces with him. That had always been the plan.
It was time for Mycroft to receive his due.
Thus, he sought somebody with the same great intellect, somebody deadly enough to inevitably get on Mycroft's level. A person with an almost equal influence and vicious soul; somebody so power hungry who would climb any walls and barricades just to reach the climax—like a parasite ready to take over the host— a potential leader for one of the world's greatest clandestine coup—
Charles Augustus Magnussen.
All he needed to do was say the right words.
"I know of a man whom you would give all your secrets just to have."
He remembered Magnussen's cold eyes lit up in delight when he said this. He was just like one of those geniuses— he craved to meet people that would arouse him— people par with his intellect, seemingly unprecedented and ever made to be defeated. He was the perfect gift.
A question reflected on his eyes, interest at its height and never was doubt ever passed on his face. He had never heard of the actual name, Magnussen admitted with bitter truth but he did feel it. He knew someone had to be there, hidden in the spirals of the British Government, securely seated at the top and consuming other great powers with flawless ease. This intelligence behind Britain's power that seemed to be ever out of his reach; a cold, elusive intelligence that always hung in the air, untouched by any but solid as the ground and potent as any weapon.
Magnussen had been on this scent ever since, for years now but not one could provide what he needed. All his informants were nothing in comparison with the real supremacy. He left Britain with distaste after receiving a deadly threat from an unknown source but with the vow to dismantle this secret intelligence once and savour the day he could finally do so.
His unquenchable thirst for information—one he had not experience for many years— was exposed.
All because of a mysterious, nameless man.
"The name?" Magnussen longed for it, desired it.
And it truly was thrilling, to have to dangle bait to a person such as Magnussen, the power hunger. The man whose given talents were used to the last strings—a kind of man he wanted Mycroft to be. Sickeningly deadly and romantic to the point of obsession. A fixation to control—to manipulate. Just like how Jim Moriarty was with Sherlock, Magnussen was the perfect gift for the British Government head like opposite poles meeting the other and destroying upon collision.
He spoke the name.
The power within it was felt ten times with Magnussen's reaction. The sophisticated old man savoured it, tasted its words as he repeated it, seemingly enthralled and overwhelmed and almost lost for seconds in celebration of his success. Mycroft's effect had always been disastrous to those he influences, be it with his name or mere glimpse of his back. Magnussen seemed to think it adorable.
Yet, it was about time for another stir in running water. Magnussen was preparing for a complete whirl.
"What is it to you?" came his curiosity when the informant had stood up from the chair inside his office. America had too early night falls. "You will not ask of anything?"
"It is a favour." He said with a bit of a charm. "You take him. If he keeps being untouchable he gets corroded."
"But with your connection..." Magnussen seemed to want to bait more. Such a greedy person. "How about I expose you to him? Tell him I know of you...use you against him..."
"You're making a deal out of a trifle, I am not a weakness." He remarked with a slight humour, "On the contrary, he might just go ahead and jail you despite your reputation, no questions asked. For treason. It ticks him, see, when I go near him and his brother. What do you think I'm doing here to dry America?"
"But surely there has some point to this... to bother to come to my recluse quarters. Is this revenge?"
He smiled and walked around the room like a looming figure shrouded in mystery and mischief.
"It is personal."
Magnussen was silent, but he later shook his head.
"Most amusing. If I am to capture Mycroft Holmes, how sure am I that you won't interfere and get all the glory?"
"Do I seem like a threat to you?"
"You knowing Mycroft Holmes is a threat to me already. Or to be precise—I don't do well with 'debt'."
"And I know more things about him that will never reach your sacred Appledore, Mr. Magnussen. Believe me. If you want to climb at the top it's the only window only I can provide. As long as you can show Mycroft the true meaning of warfare with real intelligence of his parity, that will do. If you can provide him that entertainment and over take him, then I will consider this debt paid."
He had started walking away but turn just in time to see the old man stand towards his window.
"One last thing, he always tends to be very indifferent of his social acquaintances. He might not accept your challenge whole heartedly. He might even just let it be. He lacks motivation, except in straightening his tie, you see my dilemma? The laziest of men yet one of the most gifted. How do you pull a guy from such boredom?"
"I have my methods."
"And Mycroft has his. If you don't play your piece together, you might just be another wrinkle in his tie he could easily smoothen. Good luck."
He was sure Magnussen had received far more sound threats, but nothing ever so real. That could liven up Mycroft for an entire year. Magnussen seemed interested—he was ready for the hunt.
A year and a half later even Magnussen proved ineffective.
Killed, gunned without much as a noise to the public.
Behold what Mycroft could do. Still true to his means, the British Government's controller of hidden power.
And still ever at his disposal was the surprising return of Sherlock Holmes.
He had forgotten how a doting brother Mycroft Holmes had been. He always thought Mycroft incapable.
But here was Sherlock Holmes, once again, the mystery of Mycroft's sentiments.
Over the control of supreme power, the heightened intellect, a name with only those who are given the authority to utter and no nonsense—why Mycroft concerns himself of self destructing Sherlock was a great mystery.
That could only fall under one category of illogicality— familial love.
He does not remember feeling that—nor having it. And even then when he was already at London where he took the chance of returning upon the great absence of Mycroft Holmes' ever sharp eyes, he still questions why—
Why Sherlock Holmes came to Mycroft's rescue?
Another familial love? He thought the detective incapable also—Mycroft said so himself before.
So why was he there, attacking the base of the terrorists according to a report he received; why was he there on a getaway vehicle with wounded Mycroft on board even after dozens of guns on their heads? And now—why was he hiding Mycroft? Not that it would last—he had other plans as he made his way back to merry old London.
There was still another way to get Mycroft out of hiding. Sherlock could meddle as long as he could.
Because plotting the abduction of Mycroft from the outskirts of James Moriarty's suicidal tactic didn't involve Sherlock going after his older brother—nor have him interfere at all. It did not involve Sherlock thwarting plans that were meant solely to corner Mycroft Holmes—a man too dangerous to still set lose— a man whose intellect he thought would also benefit him. Isn't that why he distributed Mycroft's profile to all the terrorist organization he was affiliated with for delivery? How did he acquire such intelligence on the dark horse?
The secret could no longer be hidden. It was time to reveal himself.
He was supposed to be waiting there in that place where Mycroft was to be taken. He had arranged it all—to show himself finally to the unsuspecting British Government Head. Unsuspecting? Maybe he was underestimating Mycroft Holmes... but well he had stayed in America for far too long—there was little it did to cloud his judgment. When Mycroft sees him, he was expecting a full rage. He wanted to see that.
But when the first time he heard Sherlock was out and about to save Mycroft he had thought it amusing that both brothers will be present upon his presentation of himself on the limelight. He had hidden himself in the shadows for long. Sherlock may have developed this familial love, so maybe he would also rejoice upon finding his return?
Because who else was he who knows the Holmes brothers better than anyone?
Who else was he with the same prowess of intellect and go head to head with Mycroft?
Who else was he with the capability of endearing well known powerhouses like Moriarty and Magnussen to go battle with the Holmes brothers? He, who was the catalyst—
The Hidden one?
Who else?
Dear brothers.
Sherrinford Holmes.
Two buildings collapsed at central London with ominous dark smokes at the background, too thick and huge that nearly covered the television screen blank for seconds. Ambulance were coming back and forth with a lot of people running away injured, covered in dust—it almost reminded them of the 9/11 attack.
Mycroft hang on the sheet of his bed with round and disbelieving eyes while Sherlock stood his ground with tight jaw and dark eyes move around at everything he sees on the video. John had a helpless look on his gentle eyes.
"They destroyed it..." he whispered with the remote falling off his hands on to the floor.
"For the latest update, 11 people had been confirmed dead and 50 more counted injured while 3 are still at critical condition at this attack in Central London half an hour ago—" came a male reporter factually, "It is still a question of which terrorist group will claim responsibility of this attack and a lot of people are already asking if this one Mycroft Holmes, who was believed to be taken hostage by militant force, responsible for leaking information that lead to this heinous attack—"
"Balderdash." Sherlock grunted as he turned his back from the screen while John lowered down the volume, "I knew your men at the office weren't doing any good with your public posters."
He glanced at his brother and found Mycroft white in the face.
"Mycroft—are you okay?" John went to his side slowly but just as his weakness was revealed, Mycroft easily pulled back and frowned at the two friends. Sherlock observed him with heavy eyebrows.
"Take me back to London." The older Holmes ordered.
"What—?" the doctor blurted out just as Mycroft pull off the sheet from his feet and started sliding his feet on the floor, "—wait—! Are you insane? I just stitched your wounds!"
John placed a firm hand on Mycroft's shoulder who passed a look at the doctor before looking at his younger brother with a look of complete calm but perspiration on his head.
"Sherlock..." he said quietly while John glared at the detective who was watching the both of them with attention full on his brother. "I can't stay here. You know I can't."
"They are still out there hunting us, brother. I meant to keep you here."
"We don't have to engage them." He insisted with fire slowly igniting in his eyes. "Bring me back to London!"
And in Mycroft's mind's eye, he remembered one of the worst memories he ever had—back in that dark alley of numerous warehouse where dark exchange always happens.
That moment where he, and the rest of the CIA operatives, found and proved his eldest brother, Sherrinford Holmes, to be the mastermind behind half the world's Black Market organizations.
Sherrinford who was the clever tactician suddenly overturned by his next sibling.
And Mycroft never regretted that and it reflected on his face—it was just a few years when Sherlock fell into addiction no thanks to this elder brother who provided the means—information.
"To exile." Mycroft had said with eyes dead and unfeeling as it surveyed Sherrinford who looked anything but pleased.
"You don't think exile will keep me away forever, don't you, Mycroft?" CIA agents have rounded around him and had secured chains on his wrist from behind.
"Oh, you will." Mycroft said slowly with a step forward, "Because if you don't, I'll make sure to use any means necessary to make you regret you ever came back."
"Oooh." Sherrinford's eyes glinted in amusement. "You hurt me. Weren't we always thick as thieves, brothermine?"
The British government's lips thinned.
"It was... until you decided to pick on someone I truly care about."
"Ahh... there it is... the favourite little brother?"
Mycroft's eyes glinted dark. "We are meant to protect him, brother. He is only a child."
"Grow up, Mycroft." Sherrinford was full of glee, "You know he is a ticking bomb. Why not let him explode?"
Mycroft would have slapped him—he was meaning to—truly!
But his phone suddenly vibrated on his chest that got the British Government head to inhale, especially when upon closer inspection he saw that it was his younger brother. With a glare at Sherrinford, Mycroft turned away.
"What is it?"
"Oh, still aggressive in the middle of the night, I see?" came Sherlock's lazy voice, "Having a night out? Or let me guess, out on another tinkering of your brain?"
"What do you want?"
"Tell me the real reason why I received a glorious amount of garlic on my laboratory table from an 'unknown' source? Can't you be discreet?"
"It's for your rack of lamb."
"Excuse me?"
"Your latest case—the garlic sauce? You were looking for poison weren't you? Garlic sauce is a good means to conceal the odour of opium—too elementary, really—"
"Can you stop doing that?"
Mycroft was about to reply when one of the CIA operatives stood beside him and gave him a report.
"The Red Menace has been successfully caught and we've cleared the area. We'll be heading straight to the state, sir. Washington wants news."
Mycroft eyed the operative with one raised eyebrow before nodding. Sherrinford was pulled but not before the brothers had one last eye contact. Till Sherlock's voice interrupted loudly from the phone—
"Ah! You're working with the CIA now, I see! What's that, a part time job or on daily basis?"
"Buzz off, Sherlock. Hang up now." Without another word, Mycroft ended the call and looked up at his eldest again.
"What's with that?" Sherrinford raised eyebrows, "You didn't want to tell our little brother our dramatic turn here?"
"He doesn't need to know and frankly he wouldn't be bothered. Don't compliment yourself, our little brother doesn't care about you—neither of us, his eldest. And he hasn't forgotten what you did to Red Beard so don't push your luck."
"Still angry over putting down a dog? Both of you?" he smirked.
Mycroft took a step forward again, this time with his nose almost centimetres away from his eldest. His eyes glazed in ice and blades that threatened to pierce.
"Don't ever compare Sherlock's life to a dog... You and I both know what really happened."
Sherrinford had held up his breath as Mycroft whispered this and was only able to breathe once he stepped away with that icy look on his face. But this didn't seem to faze the eldest who smiled again.
"Are you saying... you're going to exist just to oppose me?"
"Why do you think I decided to remain in power when I don't need it?" Mycroft looked at his brother from down and up. "We both know I'm the only one capable of opposing you."
"Why?"
"Because I can."
Sherrinford smiled. "Interesting, brother. I'll give this time to you." He nodded at all the CIA and British Agents around and at his handcuffs, before looking at the British head, "But remember that when I come back it will be during your weakest and I will not hesitate to strike. Leave your throne once and you'll find me at the top. I'll make London your very own Ground Zero, brother dear!"
Catalyst
~To be continued~
*SHER* with Love!
Happy Birthday, AwesomeGizmo ;D ;D
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