"You'll know it at your finger tips. That it is an end."
Sometime in the past...
"You have to die."
Mycroft didn't even blink as he broke this news casually to his younger brother who was seated across him wearing his thick bundle of a coat and with a very solemn look on his face. A bottle of red wine and glasses were in between them on the elegant table— to settle the nerves—as the older brother explained when he offered it to his junior. They were inside Mycroft's private lodgings at Pall Mall, at the study room where the fireside was lit for it was the middle of the night. It didn't come as a surprise for the older Holmes when his younger brother came seeking him; he had just returned from the Secret Service quarters when he received a call from Sherlock telling him he was waiting inside his older brother's house. This didn't seem as a surprise either for Mycroft had supplied his brother a spare key to save himself the trouble of always changing locks and resetting burglar alarms whenever his younger brother felt like picking on his doors on a whim.
A sigh of relief escaped Mycroft's lips however upon finding his brother inside his house for Sherlock never comes to him when he was in deep waters—no. Not to ask for help, never. But Mycroft had trusted his brother was wise enough to recognize danger and seek assistance from someone he so detest. Logically speaking, it was a justified strategy of people with a common enemy.
And all because Jim Moriarty had reached new heights in his lunacy—the breaking in on the Tower of London, the crown, bank robberies, key codes and now seemingly... a new identity.
Mycroft was only half listening as his brother relayed how Moriarty had visited him at 221B after his release to leave his key code; how the man was involved with the US Ambassador's two children's abduction and how things ended with him—Sherlock—being the prime suspect and that nobody was believing him anymore. Mycroft's expression was anything but sympathetic as he kept silent. Naturally he knew Moriarty's visit to Sherlock after the trial. It took him all ounce of patience not to order his people to swarm the area at moment's notice. Leaving the key code however, now that was something he needed to confirm. So that's why those assassins roamed the perimeter... and 'Get Sherlock'.
Mycroft unconsciously ran his right, index finger to his lips. There was also the matter with the US Ambassador... the CIA had been ringing him since the day started. No doubt the attack was now a national crisis.
Then Sherlock went on about how Lestrade came with a warrant of arrest but the detective of course didn't make things easy and had escaped with John and the two of them were now fugitives. What more after breaking in to the house of a journalist they found some Richard Brook aka Moriarty faking everything including what Sherlock believed to be his brother's connection to the crime—his life story.
Now with the force of London at his back and Moriarty twisting facts to fabrications, there was only one path for Sherlock to take— confront his older brother. It was then that Mycroft found himself saying the exact words to his younger brother without much as a blink.
"Yes, brother, die. Someone has to." He looked up at Sherlock with dead eyes of someone explaining that one plus one takes two. "You wouldn't have come to me if you hadn't realised that obvious ending coming your way. Moriarty is serious in bringing upon your destruction—don't tell me I didn't warn you— and he won't stop until he does so. The only solution is for you to humour him... or everyone else will fill the graveyards."
"How the hell did that even happen under your nose?" Sherlock threw in casually. "The Tower of London's on your jurisdiction."
The sharp question caught Mycroft off guard that made both his eyebrows to fly up.
"It's fairly obvious—it's a conspiracy of silence." The older Holmes snapped with a heavy frown. "Spies in the MOD, Secret Service... I'll give this one to Moriarty. You can't bring a mountain down but you can infest rats inside it."
"Sure. Or you've been busy doing your work 'protecting the royal family'?"
"That too—I personally made sure he was unable to get there." The British Government Head tapped his finger once on the table and threw Sherlock a look. "So left with no choice he placed hands on the US Ambassador's children."
"You mean he is distracting you?"
"Distracting me to get to you without interference—he must be behind those vital inscriptions and codes I have been receiving lately too as a distraction—anyways you're here and that's all that matters. The only thing left for us to do is to kill you without actually making it permanent."
"You sound disappointed."
"Don't start with me." Mycroft glared with a glance at his clock. "Moriarty's been so fixated at you that make me doubt if he's working with others. I think it's really only about the two of you with the nation as the collateral. What a devilish fan you've got brothermine. And no doubt—utterly deadly insane."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow in silent agreement as the older Holmes kept his watch inside his pocket saying—
"We have exactly thirty minutes to plan this timely death, Sherlock, I want you to focus."
"That's more than enough—if I die, I die—"
"Sherlock!"
The brothers caught each other's eyes and for a moment, Mycroft felt a hot steam of anger go up his face and out to his ears. It was rare for him to genuinely feel angry but when he does it was always with a tightening around his chest. The sudden eruption seemed to surprise the younger Holmes who looked at him with curt eyebrows.
And Mycroft sighed and took the glass of wine on the table.
"I should be very glad if all of this is over, brothermine." He drank it all up in one go.
"Why?" Sherlock snapped from nowhere, "Because I'm bothering you?"
"You know that's not—" Mycroft shook his head and rolled his eyes in exasperation— "Do I really have to spell it—?"
"If you mean you suddenly decided to 'care' don't you think you could have done that a little earlier?"
"What?" the older Holmes looked puzzled as ever at the attack as Sherlock went on quick—
"You knew what was happening— you knew Lestrade and his gang were to arrest me— you could have saved me the trouble! Why didn't you interfere like you usually do?"
The British government head paused awhile blankly then, "Because I didn't. I let them. I actually told the inspector it's fine when he called me."
A contemptuous look appeared on the detective's face as his suspicion was confirmed. "Why?"
"To keep you safely locked up inside bars while I take the matter at hand."
"You wish. You had your chance with Moriarty—you missed it—why take it away now?"
"Because I made a grievous mistake."
"Ah." Sherlock's eyes twinkled and a smile nearly spread on his lip at the prospect of his older brother committing one, "A mistake from Mycroft Holmes. How devastating—"
"You have no idea."
"Is it the key codes?"
Mycroft grunted and fished something inside his chest pocket. "Who needs his key codes when I have this?" he raised his red notebook offhandedly and rested it on the table. "No, brothermine, something I missed from Moriarty is the same thing you are missing in all of this right now."
"And what's that?"
"Faith, dear brother." Mycroft flexed a fake smile at his junior that made the detective stare. "Do you really believe I would sell you out to a well known enemy?"
Sherlock's whole expression changed as he stared at his brother again with wide eyes and parted lips. Mycroft's had become darker and sombre as he eyed the red notebook.
"I would never do that." He paused for awhile with eyes blank as apparent memory came flashing in his mind's eye. Then he continued, "Which begs the question who else could possibly know your past aside from me...neither our parents of course...so... who else?"
The pieces of puzzle being put together was not difficult for the detective to follow as he shut his eyes close and things began stirring in his mind palace that could only point to one person. The next thing Sherlock had snapped his eyes open and sucked in some air as he threw his older brother a perplexed look.
"You mean he's back?"
By 'he' there was only one they meant.
"Not entirely." Mycroft met his brother's eyes to confirm the statement. "My sources tell me he has not left the States since his escape from Washington. Thus, my grievous error in thinking he could do no harm in the distance of the Atlantic. I am proven wrong. He is behind Moriarty, if not a part of it. He will be coming back though... trust it."
The look the British Government Head gave his younger brother was enough to freeze any of his associates, but Sherlock having been accustomed to such a look only straightened his hold at the idea that his lost brother had some hand with his business with Moriarty. But the revelation seemed to ease something on the detective's mind who went on more gently with his older brother this time.
"Why—?"
"I don't want you to worry about him just now." The older Holmes then cleared his throat as he straightened on his chair. "He's mine. What I want you to focus on is how to survive your own death. It warrants that you be the one to set the stage and not Moriarty. Only through that can we be confident that things won't go south. You have to bait Moriarty in a place you will decide."
"I know how to lure him to me." Sherlock's eyes glinted sharply. "He's left a message I still need to decode. If I figure that out then the curtain rises for our meeting— he wouldn't suspect—"
"Oh, he will." Mycroft said sceptically. "He's not just deranged—he's a genius. He'll have a gun he can just kill you—how do you stir away from that?"
"That's my business, isn't it?" Sherlock told his brother with a flat stare, "But I decide the stage."
"What would it be?"
Sherlock paused for awhile, mind palace all too swift, eyes obviously in deep thoughts. Then with widening eyes, he breathed out his plan.
"Falling."
Mycroft stared at his brother quietly as he gave him a narrowed look. He seemed unconvinced for awhile as he reached out for the wine bottle, filled his glass again and took a sip from it with undivided attention to his brother till he leaned back on his chair, eyes full on his brother.
"A grand exit for the world's greatest detective... pray tell how you propose to...fall?"
"I have a general idea. Moriarty would be looking forward to something flashy so it should be someplace where plenty of eyes will see to make it believable... I'll really have to jump."
"So you do." The older Holmes narrowed his eyes.
"I need experts, Mycroft, I need cooperation..." his younger brother went on as he quietly placed his puzzles in his mind palace, before finally looking up to his older brother again. "I need your..." he stopped in midair.
Mycroft caught his brother's eyes.
"Will you help me?" Sherlock finished softly.
The older Holmes smiled easily. "What else am I here for? What are you up to?"
Sherlock gave him a quick sketch of his plan starting from the location to the last man he required. Minutes passed as Mycroft listened to his brother and raised eyebrows at some ridiculous part but he remained silent all the same—suggesting that it was plausible just as Mycroft got distracted and slipped his hand to his vibrating phone and raised an eyebrow at the caller.
"John's calling. My agents tell me he's on his way to Diogenes. Probably to confront me regarding your background leakage and this Richard Brook exposé." He pressed his lips and put the phone on his table with eyes shifting to his brother. "He will be very disagreeable, Sherlock. You know how intense he gets when it's about you."
"At least he's showing something." Sherlock muttered with a glint in his eye, "Unlike you who seem to enjoy seeing me crawl under barb wires and all."
"You're the one who likes to crawl under barb wires and all." Mycroft corrected as he leaned back on his chair to have a full look on his brother in the face. "You are really doing this, aren't you?"
"All it takes to end this once and for all."
A moment of silence as the two half glared, half watched each other. Then Mycroft stood up and walked past the table while the younger Holmes put both hands together in a similar fashion when he was thinking deeply and for a moment he was lost to the world—immersing himself to his mind palace with such focus that only got diverted when the phone on the table began vibrating again. It made Mycroft, who had been standing by the fireside to walk back the table.
"John's at the Diogenes. He can be very persistent at times. It's actually trying." The British Government Head snatched the phone to his inside pocket and looked his brother in the eye again. "All the resources we will need will be sent forth immediately—men, cars, work force—I will be at the other end of this to make sure nothing goes wrong. So I suggest your first destination is with Molly Hooper—you know your way to dead bodies anyways what with that fake beheaded Irene Adler—what—you think I wouldn't notice?"
Sherlock flashed him a grin just as Mycroft narrowed his eyes and took his wine glass—to settle his nerves—and drank it all in one straight up again. He then rounded on his favourite chair where his overcoat was hanging to put it on, then he grabbed his suitcase and secured his umbrella. Finally he surveyed his younger brother again.
"Don't mess your jump, Sherlock or that's the first and last one you'll ever do. I have to meet John and misdirect him—"
"Are we not telling him?"
"You already know the answer to that the moment you entered that door alone. It's times like this that you benefit on being alone. Being alone can protect more people. No, Sherlock, you know faking death would only be much believable if people closer to you believe it. Of course, no one can observe me, mum and dad has to know this or they'll create such a ruckus in the family about me not taking care of you—"
"Why is it about you—?"
"—plus working in the 'shadows' can benefit you."
"Again—that's all you. Why don't you add 'be like me'?"
Mycroft glowered. "Such humour when you are in a dire situation. Be serious. You know Moriarty's not alone."
There was another short pause as the detective glanced at his brother.
"Neither am I, not really." For the first time there was a brief but meaningful eye contact between the brothers before the British Government Head dismissed the air with raising of eyebrows and cleared his throat.
"As long as you know it—I'm always here, brothermine. Now the extent of Moriarty's downfall—that is what we need to settle."
"We'll talk about that after I die."
An arch of eyebrow—"Good luck with that."
"But you will be taking care of their safety? My friends?"
"Naturally. It's my day job. Just focus on what you do best—to play while I control—" Mycroft took the notebook from his table and pressed a sarcastic smile in front of his brother that later on turned serious again as they stood face to face. "I know your methods, Sherlock. Perfection is a must in this one. Not a single mistake, brothermine or it would be costly."
"Oh, it would." Sherlock smiled in spite of himself, "I wouldn't give you the satisfaction of mocking my grave just yet."
"Glad to hear." Mycroft pressed a small smile as he walked past his brother onto the doorway. "Now, I have to go. I have to meet your pal, and make it dramatic. A few icing on this Moriarty ought to do it. Give my regards to Ms. Hooper."
"Give mine to John." Sherlock called as he, too, jammed both his hands in his coat pockets as he watched his brother go. "Prepare your ears, he will be wordy. He's not very pleased with you."
"The very fact that he believed I would blab about your life story takes the cake."
"Because you never played nice."
Mycroft paused half way to the doorway suddenly and added, "Oh, I suppose I have to 'apologise'?" that was when he glared back at his younger brother, "The things you put me through, brothermine."
Sherlock smirked again and watched as his brother disappeared with his umbrella resting on his right shoulder and he was gone without another word.
The next events were as clear as daylight to Mycroft Holmes' eyes as he watched his younger brother jump on the building. He couldn't afford being emotional right then though he was never one; he has orders to give, people to stir and lives to save all the while staying hidden in the shadows.
Such was the job in the dark of one Mycroft Holmes.
PART I
"Just when I thought you people's inanity must have some limits, you go and top yourself." Sherrinford Holmes addressed the statement to the two men seated at the top chair of the long table with a drop of his eyebrows to his cold eyes. "To bring out Mycroft Holmes here and show your faces into the light... that is simply...the dumbest thing you could ever do."
A cold look passed at the butler's expression as he stood in his full height with nose in the air.
"Why? Instead of wasting our time waiting for you we've decided to make a move on our own. We hope we didn't inconvenience you, Mr. Holmes?"
"On the contrary," Sherrinford stepped into the red carpet casually as if it was his everyday strolling place and glanced back at his brother who has his eyes transfixed at him. "Things nearly backfired but I was prepared...all is well, I got what I want. What does it matter? But hadn't I told you lot that Mycroft Holmes is mine?"
He flashed a look towards the Earls' butler, no doubt a glance that held meaning of authority.
"We do not need any consent from you, Mr. Holmes." The butler put in defence with his whole expression contorting, "From the beginning, you were acting on your own and where did that get all of us? Most of the Earl's men rounded up by the secret service— half of those people behind bars with knowledge of our plan taken into custody by this man's men—and now this empty house! And all because you couldn't stop your brother when you said you would take care of him while we do our job." he glared across Mycroft who stood his ground proudly. "That is to say— the Earl does not take kindly to failure— especially not the drag of his name which this man so inopportunely uncovered. So in turn—there lies one thing to be done and maybe next time with better resources we can succeed in the future—a future where Mr. Mycroft Holmes is no longer part of."
He nodded at his men behind Mycroft who felt another tug on his arms as the two men behind him grapple his shoulders and arms roughly that made him grit his teeth.
"Take your hands off of him."
It was Sherrinford who was looking very sullen that moment as he gave the men behind Mycroft a look from where he was standing. He didn't stop glaring till they followed and set Mycroft free and the British Government Head raised his eyes to his brother, wondering what sinister plot was to come.
"Mycroft," it was the first time his eldest addressed him, and being done so didn't add to Mycroft's mood as Sherrinford went on— "Do sit down."
Mycroft glowered at his brother but there was nothing to be done when the men behind him suddenly put pressure on his recently injured shoulder and forced him to sit on the chair.
And he found Sherrinford looking at him in satisfaction on the chair opposite.
"Now, dear brother, let's talk."
Mycroft gave him a deadly stare. The eldest Holmes blinked once.
"You're not going to refuse me calling you 'brother' anymore? I thought it was a pattern."
"Facts can't be distorted." Mycroft replied without moving an inch, eyes only on that lone eldest. "It must have been a delight to you to make your brothers run around in circles with sharks and snakes while you cooed with that word. Such a satisfaction it must have been."
"You still think I'm a madman." Sherrinford smiled.
"You're no 'man'." Mycroft hardly blinked and the atmosphere around him was less than kind. "You're a toxic. A poison. Around you people die and suffer while you think it was just part of nature. No, Sherrinford, you are beyond any man could be and if I survived this episode mark my words—I will have you contained. That is by far the greatest gift I can give human kind."
The room was suddenly filled with a spasm of chuckle as the eldest Holmes shook his head and travelled his eyes to the Earl's men and then back to his brother who didn't look particularly intimidated. Sherrinford leaned forward the table with still a nasty grin that seemed to be part of his face.
"I'd like to see you try." He whispered sincerely to Mycroft. "Survive."
He stood up without another word, leaving Mycroft with a clenched jaw and dark expression while Sherrinford round at the butler with a confident smile.
"Now, gentlemen, anyone care to suggest how we over turn this situation before the Secret Service decides to claw their way in?"
A blank expression passed between the Earl's men as they exchange looks that Sherrinford chose to ignore.
"That's the problem with you people; you always see what's only under your nose." He spoke drily pointed to his brother. "You don't seem particularly aware of this man's... art. You're not even aware that you are already inside his trap."
Confusion clouded the butler's eyes. "What do you mean?"
"It means you're already at his mercy." He pointed at his brother. "You didn't even notice— the moment you informed me the house was empty I knew my dear brother had already set up a counter measure. You and your men stepping in here should have been the last thing to ever do."
His expression was calm; in fact, Sherrinford almost looked delighted while the butler looked as if he swallowed a large stone.
"I don't understand why I should be alarmed—with the Earl's resources I have men surrounding this palace from all the door and window, all armed and apt to engage. If there is anyone who should be saying his prayers right now, it's Mycroft Holmes."
"I don't pray." Mycroft suddenly replied coolly with an arch of his favourite brow, "I act." He glanced at Sherrinford with typical cold eyes. "If you had this place surrounded from door to door then I have it by perimeter. Military perimeter. It is right to say that the moment you all entered the palace your lives had been forfeited. I might have disappeared in my men's eyes but they always follow orders down to the last letter. So when I told them to let people come in, they have to make sure nobody escapes out. Regardless of whomever they may be."
A clap, then more clap and Mycroft's eyes fell on his eldest brother again.
"Very good, Mycroft, just as I had expected of you—oh, how I wished you didn't turn out just as despicable." He turned his eyes to the Earl's men and began walking towards the butler again. "You see? You stood no chance from the beginning because you underestimated him and why— just because he was—what— unconscious?"
A pointed silence fell in the room as their shadows loomed on the velvet floor. Nobody dared speak nor move except Sherrinford who looked carefree while he traced the wooden table with his fingers, eyes with Mycroft who was also watching him.
The brothers' silence spoke volume. Like a mental battle was within the distance of a table.
"Kill him." Carmichael Fischer, the butler went on with eyes on the British Government Head, "we can use him as a shield and then kill him after to erase any evidence against the Earl. The Earl wants a clean job—he will not tolerate this."
The British government head found himself raising an eyebrow.
"The connection had been established even before you confirmed the Earl's connection." Mycroft broke the news to him with a slight turn of his eyes. "The Earl had been visiting Belfast despite the hazardous atmosphere... That place itself had created the suspicion in my mind. Or I am being less impartial but then again—I cannot help but notice how you would always point back to the Earl like he's here. How ironic is it to keep on mentioning that one person you had been playing to hide and continue to overemphasized?"
The look of surprise on the butler's face was enough to confirm Mycroft's suspicions. Especially when he tried to catch Sherrinford's eyes who was smiling as wide as ever under the bright light of the chandelier.
"Oh." Mary suddenly breathed from behind him as she too understood, making Mycroft look pointedly at the men who seemed to be waiting for his next words. That was when eyes glinted.
"I see. This, here is an old story about butlers. No wonder I never kept one." He watched Sherrinford slink towards one of the stone pillars of the ceiling and leaned his shoulder there quietly. "They are always the first to tend in their masters needs... so always the first to know what they will need. They keep their eyes on everything with ears on the wall... hearing and seeing things outsiders do not have the same privilege. But the scariest thing about them is that their master trusts them with every single thing that sometimes they can even replicate their master's thinking."
"Hell, they can know everything by just pouring tea." Mrs. Watson muttered under her breath while Mycroft inclined his head on one side and gave the finishing blow.
"It is just possible that you are framing him or using the power of his name." The British Government Head sighed. "Circumstantial coincidence makes me believe that. Now that I think of it clearly, surely you trusted me to recognize you? How I have to apologize to our poor Earl once I clear his name...but ah well, he's the young son."
To which Fischer could not give any counter except stunned eyes.
"Oh, don't blame yourself." Sherrinford suddenly cut off as he paced into the awkward scene again with crossed arms. "You just went head on with a genius, Fischer. You stand no chance. Speaking of young— just how exactly did our youngest get his hands on this?" he raised the red notebook in the air again that caught Mycroft's full attention. "Did he really drug you to sleep just to save you from me?"
Upon seeing it, Mycroft's lips parted. He stared at the object for a second with fists closing tight before slowly raising his sharp eyes on his brother again.
"Where's Sherlock?" it was barely a whisper.
"Back at the graveyard where else—now, I asked you first—"
"What did you do?"
"Easy, brother dear. You better believe it when I tell you he's dead."
Mycroft lost all words as he stared blankly at that man with all his strength leaving him. Confusion filled his eyes, then all together his face went pale as he lost grip and breathed out in intervals.
"It's your fault for sending him in unarmed." The eldest replied as he took the opportunity to walk around the table with eyes following him, "Don't worry about the dead now, brother, how many times I have to tell you?"
He placed the red notebook down the table as he stood once again in front of his brother. Mycroft was pale and there was a distracted look in his eyes as he slowly found the object in front of him.
"Stop being pathetic now, Mycroft." Sherrinford leaned forward the table again, "There's nothing we can do for the dead. But you have to admit, I got the better of him—it's his fault for always interfering when the matter's only between us. Now before your men come around we can probably spark up another conversation."
"I don't..." Mary said with a sharp look in her eyes. "What happened? Where are Sherlock and John?"
"Dead." Sherrinford repeated with the same smile that had been playing upon his lips.
The message itself seemed to make no sense until Fischer once again caught their attention with a very angry voice— he was on his phone which he was waving furiously in the air as he came from the window after looking outside.
"Why are they not answering? The Secret Service is here— we have to pull out the men and kill them!" he pulled out his gun with his men following him and things began to stir dangerously as gun filled the air—only—Sherrinford shook his head and no bullet left its barrel yet—
"You never use your head do you?" he raised an eyebrow at the butler. "Do you know the only thing keeping the Secret Service away from penetrating this place? It's this sound—"
And somehow, Mycroft saw it happen before it actually did—as his older brother took a gun from his own coat and pointed it past him with a gunshot suddenly ringing in the air— Mycroft's senses were alerted at once to Mrs. Watson who had been standing behind him—
"No..." he turned in time to see her clutch on her shoulder with a very alert look on her face as she stood almost sideways. Looking closely, Mycroft saw no trickle of blood and knew she was one lucky woman to have escaped death so narrowly.
"Did she just dodge that?" Sherrinford said in awe as Mary glowered on him.
"You're just a bad shooter." She said that made him smirk and raise his gun again, looking very determined to have a body on the floor this time.
"No!" Mycroft Holmes stood up this time as he bellowed in a harsh voice that didn't seem to belong to him. Sherrinford eyed his brother daringly but the British Government Head only stepped in front of Mrs. Watson, looking very sturdy with a firm grip of his hands. "You will not kill her... and certainly you have not killed Sherlock either... I don't believe it."
He fixated an icy look towards on his eldest.
"There's that look... the same expression you gave me on our last meeting... cold. Yet you turn fiery when we speak of Sherlock. But it's true—I imploded him with John Watson and the London force—all those people you sent to stop me now in bits. You might be right and Sherlock could have survived—just hope then that he is still in one piece."
Mycroft's lips thinned and for a second his eyes flickered in what appeared to be despair. It was then clouded by a dark look as he took a deep sigh and shook his head.
"My men will be here any minute."
"Oh, will they?"
Mycroft's clearly got the message and the reason became apparent as the next thing a loud explosion rang on their ears that shook the palace—and bright flames from the right side of the window told them of what had occurred. The location appeared to be the front doors.
"A little extra locks on the double doors for precaution in case other people try to come in uninvited." Sherrinford chuckled as he and Mycroft caught each other's eyes. "How many times do I have to prove it? Don't underestimate me, brothermine. Not even when you think you're winning."
"Oh, god!" it was all John could shout before their car could even park at what they saw ahead of them. A part of the Kensington Palace was in flames after a brutal explosion they heard moments ago that seemed to have taken out most of the front of the building with debris all over the place. Around the fire were dozens of men in dark armoured shouting and giving orders to one another as they pull out bodies from the raging fire. Sherlock and John stopped their car and stepped out with wild look in their eyes.
Alarmed shouts continued filling the air. John didn't know where to begin helping when he saw injured authorities got carried away into stretchers.
"Sherlock—"
"No doubt this is the place." The detective responded when they heard the loud sirens of the police who had been after them while John looked behind them then to the number of people outside and scanning for his wife—
"She's not there—I've been trying to call her but the signals are off." The doctor was saying as he looked down his phone— the next thing John knew Sherlock Holmes was tearing away into the bushes—
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Just follow me!"
The explosion outside didn't seem to shake the Holmes brothers as Mycroft remained rooted on the spot between Mrs. Watson and his brother holding the gun while the Earl's men and Fischer went outside the door to receive reports from the others, leaving the three inside the Red Saloon.
"Look at you." Sherrinford said after awhile, gloating as he put his gun down. "Protecting innocent people. Since when have you expanded your dedication to others other than Sherlock?"
Mycroft didn't answer but just stared at him with Mary glancing at Mycroft. When it became clear he was not in the mood for word play, the eldest brother raised an eyebrow and brought their attention to the red notebook in his hand again.
"Such an intricate material you have created, brothermine... the entire world's crux, puzzles—all manifested in a small object. At first glance of course people would think the contents are mere habitual scribbles of a bored middle aged man... unaware of its real power."
The British Government Head straightened himself with eyes lingering on the red notebook and for awhile there was a vexed expression on his face that Sherrinford was satisfied to see.
"What are you looking for, Sherrinford? Why did you return?"
"Like you didn't know already?"
The British Government Head shook his head. "Apart from the fact that you seem genuinely interested in having me killed, destroy the monarch's family with treason and scandals, and the nation as collateral. And now... annihilate the world with that notebook in your possession— I don't know what else you want."
"Three out of four—you certainly are getting rusty, brother, you missed one idea. And still very frugal with information."
"If you know the contents of that notebook then you should know..." Mycroft's eyes hardened, "it's not for use."
"Try and stop me."
"Sherrinford, you—"
"What's wrong with it—you wrote it. I know your bad habits, Mycroft." The eldest inclined his head triumphantly on one side with a smirk on his face, "You get bored easily than others but unlike Sherlock you're too perfectly in control of yourself. You set your own restriction when it comes to power. To be more accurate—you are Napoleon Bonaparte that never wanted to monopolize. Or you would have setup world domination a long time ago."
Sherrinford securely placed the notebook at his pocket and then traced the gun in his hand, all attention to his two companions while harsh talk was being exchanged outside by the butler and his men.
"That should give us some time for one more revelation." He went on quietly. "Tell me, Mycroft, when was the last time you were satisfied by a puzzle from others? I doubt if you were ever— you create them. But with a brilliant mind, how come you spend your time just sitting in your favoured Diogenes Club? No—you're more than just a man who sits with a pen on his hand—when people see you scribbling away that itself should be a signal for catastrophe. As I understand it— you began taking interest to other countries' codes to past time. From the ADIV SGRS of Belgium, the CIB of Hong Kong, the Sluzba Ohrany Prezidenta of Kazakhstan to the DRM, the military intelligence of France—you know and you've solved them. Even the secret codes of the CIA are no secret to you. I believe the CIA has also become suspicious of you, Mycroft and if it weren't for the fact that you are under the British Government, they would have taken custody of you as well. This notebook here— the only evidence of your boredom—if it fell on any of those participants in your secret decoding game—would have you arrested on the spot."
"It's my business to know." Mycroft replied easily but there was a frown on his face. Mary, who understood everything, was now eyeing the British Government Head with wide, thoughtful eyes.
"Of course." Sherrinford nodded in agreement, "It's not something huge for you, you never intend to give it to your government knowing it would interest those greedy politicians under your watch and might take advantage. That's your call. But intelligence from those other countries would only come as a treat for me."
Eyes twinkling, the eldest was cut short when out of nowhere, the door banged open again and Fischer came barging in, looking terribly agitated as he gripped his mobile phone on his hand with his men right behind him.
"I can't contact the others. We have to go—they're coming."
He suddenly rounded on Mycroft but Mary was there and in a flash—had knocked down the butler head first—making him collapse on the floor—a second man tried to help him but he was also gutted in the middle and crouched down— and guns were raised but the blonde lady was already in possession of one of the guns and had stood in front of Mycroft, eyes flashing and determined.
"That's where we stop, boys." She said, backing to Mycroft, "I'm pretty sure you know the meaning of a pissed wife."
"Mary—" came the British Government Head's voice from behind her and that was when she felt a cold metal gun pressed on her back too. And Mycroft saying, "Drop the gun."
Confused, she raised her hands with the gun falling with a thud on the floor.
"What are you doing?" she said when she rounded on him with a stiff expression on her face to really see Mycroft Holmes pointing a gun in her direction. His expression was cold and resolute and his aim firm.
"Getting even." He said next— then a gunshot and a cry of pain were heard in the vicinity.
Mary came crashing on the floor supporting a bleeding leg as Mycroft rendered her incapable of standing. The butler scrambled from the floor with a broken nose as he eyed the woman while Mycroft looked back up at his brother coldly.
Sherrinford had his gun out again and was pointing a little while ago at Mrs. Watson's head. The moment the brothers' eyes meet, the eldest shook his head and lowered his gun.
"Oh, you spoilsport."
"Come on, take him." The butler ordered with a glare at the woman on the floor while two of his men confiscated the guns from the two, then with rough prelude took hold of Mycroft Holmes and began shoving him towards the door.
"What about her?" one of the men asked, pointing at the wounded woman.
"Leave her." Sherrinford said as he walked out of the room in trail of his brother.
"Did you hear that?" the doctor hissed to his friend as they sprinted on the grounds with heads down. "Gunshot!"
"Surprising." Sherlock answered as he suddenly crouched next to a garden wall and the next thing he was crossing over it with John blinking after. "Come on, John!"
"I don't know what you expect me to do with short legs!" the doctor responded as he, with all his might, jumped over the garden wall too, "And exactly how do you know where to go?"
"The most obvious sign." Sherlock said as he raised his head above again and sprinted on the next empty road. "You don't expect Kensington Palace to be without security and empty, John. It just means my brother has really done his job."
"So how do we know if he's here?"
"Didn't you see the black car when we came? That's Sherrinford's car. And obviously—the explosion."
The doctor blinked to himself and followed the detective suit. A few minutes later, he found Sherlock halting in front of him with eyes ahead on the building just beyond their reach. Looking up to where the detective was looking, he found a bright lit room—the only bright lit room among all other dark windows.
"You think—" he began but Sherlock was already on his way towards the window—causing him to curse and follow suit.
They had sneaked inside the palace in no time with Sherlock walking with head up and hands inside his pocket as if it was part of a daily routine while the doctor would glance behind him cautiously. The room they were looking for was just a little ahead but there was no doubt which it was amidst the other empty room—but then they found its doors wide open the caused them to run in.
And John's heart did a summersault as he found his wife crouched on the floor, next to the wall with an injured leg. Both Sherlock and John were beside her in the next beat—
"Oh, Jesus..." John's voice was hollow as he dropped beside her.
"I'm fine, it's just a scratch." She whispered with a sigh as John put an arm around her.
"Oh god..."
"Mary..." Sherlock was looking at her too but there was a different tone in his voice that filled the empty silence with his meaning.
"They took him on the left wing—it hasn't been that long." She answered while her husband inspected her wound. "Three men, armed and then your psychotic brothers—sorry—but Mycroft did shoot me."
"Mycroft did what?" John hollered with every word rising to his angry voice as the detective nodded. Then with a final look at her that seemed both grateful and apologetic, Sherlock scrambled to his feet with a tap on his friend's shoulder and not another word.
"Be careful!" John called after him as he left the room.
Sherlock was on all speed as he crossed the empty hallway, all the while hearing exchange of gunshots somewhere. Kensington palace was such a huge and extremely puzzling place and if one does not know his way they can easily get lost. Good thing Sherlock knew the map from his mind or it would be like searching for a needle in a haystack.
More gunshots filled the air that made Sherlock pause a little, then he sprinted ahead again. With the Secret Service and the national police all outside, plus every single back up they can get their hands on especially after the explosion—the media would have a field day. It was just possible that things will have a turn tonight too, if they were not careful what with all the hooligans desperate to escape and the police desperate to catch their prey.
And still his older brother joining the crossfire. It was apparent why Mycroft shot Mary. Sherlock will probably have to explain the logic of it to John later. For now—he could hear running footsteps not far away from his direction—
The next thing he saw a shadow—and guns were fired in his direction. He retaliated with the firing of his own gun but he wasn't stupid to waste his bullet when he hasn't even reached the peak—thus he used the dark. He slipped down the floor to the next corner, saw a mirror on the wall that hid two men in the shadow holding their weapons and waiting for him to reappear.
That was when he saw a big Victorian vase on the table next to him.
With a shrug to its value, the detective took the vase and threw it in the air. Like dogs in for a freebie treat, the two shadows came out of their hiding place to aim—and Sherlock fired at them twice without missing –and the vase cracked on the floor with all its history into pieces, and was trampled on by the hurrying detective.
The next thing was a blur as Sherlock felt something heavy was slammed at the back of his head upon turning on the next corner. Before he knew it, someone with gloves was strangling him as he tried to get up—and stars came twinkling in his eyes as his breath shortened and the pain—
Sherlock snapped after that. With rigorous energy that came out of adrenaline, he took hold of the unknown man's collar and smacked his forehead on the person's face—cracking his nose in the process. There was a groan of pain as the man turned limp after and was conscious no more. Sherlock shoved him away, proud of his hard head and realise upon a glimpse that the man must have been someone's butler. Gritting his teeth, he located his gun and shook his head. With a frown at where he was standing, he turned left of the corridor and was hot in pursuit again.
Mycroft and Sherrinford will not be going anywhere without him.
In his haste, he saw a door closing—he ran toward it and kicked it open— he was met with a pointed gun but his adrenaline wasn't finished yet as he aimed a shoot at the exact moment the man did. His duelling partner fell down the floor, dead. Sherlock blinked and sighed as he felt no bullet enter his body.
A second of silence then—
"Sherlock."
The detective looked up at the sound of the familiar voice and found Mycroft's eyes fixed upon him with a sudden relieved expression washing his already worn face. Sherlock stared at his brother too, and then shifted his gaze to that other person who was coolly standing a few feet apart and watching him with narrowed eyes.
"And he really lives." Sherrinford said sarcastically. "You son of the devil."
Sherlock didn't take away his eyes from his eldest brother and kept the gun securely in his hands. With a glance at Mycroft again, the detective could just see that he interrupted them in the middle of a conversation.
"This is just typical of the two of you," he whispered as he stepped closer, "to do all the talk while I hog all the action."
"Well, I didn't expect you to still be capable of any actions at all." Sherrinford admitted with an exasperated sigh. "Can't the two of you just die for me, please?"
Mycroft scoffed now able to get a hold of himself after seeing his younger brother in flesh while the detective took side steps, gun at hand and well pointed to that lone person.
"That's your mistake—when you dig up a hole and put people in it, you have to make sure they stay under." he quietly started to walk towards Mycroft with eyes alert to any movement. He found his brothers standing opposite each other in a room full of portraits of Kings and Queens and though there was no gun between them except a phone in Sherrinford's hand, it seemed to have the same effect to Mycroft.
"You're the only one who wouldn't stay put." The eldest commented as finally, Sherlock was beside Mycroft and there was some sort of different atmosphere as the two brothers stood side by side. "And look at us three, all finally in one room. Mum and dad would be proud—I didn't think reunions could be so...intense."
He nodded at Sherlock's handgun with glinting eyes.
"I imagined it to be something like this otherwise I wouldn't be attending." Sherlock said with a press of shoulder to the man beside him. "And I thought you'd be sleeping this over, brother. You never liked gatherings."
"We still need to have a lengthy conversation about that tranquilizer." Mycroft noted severely that made the younger Holmes to give him the most ridiculous look but was cut off speaking.
"I was just explaining to Mycroft how his world would change upon a single email." Sherrinford told Sherlock conversationally despite all the ringing gunshots outside. "I'm pretty sure the British Secret Service has penetrated a quarter of the palace and that the men standing on my side are all gone... so it all goes down to the use of his own device..." he raised the phone up. "Thanks to Sherlock's help of course."
Sherlock frowned while Mycroft pressed a sigh. The detective blinked as he remembered he was the one who supplied the red notebook and now the effects are staggering. It was another whole game, one that included Mycroft to comply or the world is over, apparently. Another checkmate.
"I'm sure it was unwittingly." Mycroft replied drily, sensing his younger brother's hesitation. "He's just a boy."
"So you think. Say, Sherlock what did you say was the content of the notebook from your readings again?"
"Passwords of government offices lines and security across Asia." The detective found himself saying in fast utterance as his mind palace zipped information after another, "Secret plans in codes of anagrams, letters, and messages sent from one intelligence to another cracked. Intercepted numbers from terrorists...91294 in the same line with 6913 suggestive dates September 12,1994 and June 9, 2013—the common denominator of both dates containing attacks on the White House by crashing vehicles on the fence... so another one should be coming and this time much bigger. Also 112615... Thanksgiving attack, again with White House... a list more. My brother has been working on these codes on his own leisure time."
"It takes your brothers to know it, of course." Sherrinford told Mycroft who had gone silent and was only eyeing him. "The thing is—there's no secret between us. And I will always be one step ahead of both of you." He smiled meaningfully with his thumb playing at the button of the phone just when they heard thundering footsteps somewhere close.
"You will send it anyway." Sherlock threw at him, aware that any moment, the police would join them and everything will be over. "What's the point of letting you escape?"
"Who says I want to escape?"
"Then what do you want?"
"Me." It was Mycroft who replied quietly with a solemn expression while Sherrinford smiled. "It's obvious now, your term."
"Isn't it?"
Sherlock frowned at the two. "What—?" he shot Mycroft a look.
"He's going to send those codes all over the world, make copies and with credits all going to me. Naturally with all the evidences that I cracked codes, violate international secrecy and even treason... the world will crumble. I shall be incarcerated with my name being one of the most undesirable criminals in the world."
"It's time the world recognizes how dangerous you are—we both are." Sherrinford suddenly took his gun and pointed it at Sherlock who had done the same thing. "Your publicity on the internet at the beginning of our game was just the tip—what follows next will be a complete twist that will change you. And there, brother, I taught you another lesson— for choosing the side of the people who eventually will discard you. You think your own government doesn't see you as a threat?"
Sherrinford laughed as he waved the gun on his side; he laughed mockingly at Mycroft who remained standing still, straight as pillar with no trace of emotion on his face. Sherlock glared at his eldest before glancing sideways to his other brother beside him. It all rang true—Sherlock knew it from the start—how cleverly dangerous Mycroft was. The contents of the notebook were ingenious—and the contents were merely leaks from his great mind.
Now how do they escape the inevitable when the game was over and the checkmate established?
Sherlock's finger itched on the trigger of the gun. There was no other solution.
"How about you, Sherlock?" came Sherrinford that caught the detective's attention. "Always playing around with death, I'm surprised he still hasn't scythed you. You must be a favourite in heaven."
"It's purely skills." The detective replied with a concerned glance at his elder brother again with the gun calling his attention. "The authorities will be here in a second, Sherrinford. Why don't I just kill you?"
"If you can afford to be faster than my finger. The results will be the same."
Sherlock felt his fingers connect with his weapon and the answer came right. Like he was meant to pull it after all and once again in his life there was that feeling of finding satisfaction in ending another person—it was necessary. And though it may be too late—he can't let his brother take the fall. That notebook—that notebook will be his to take care of.
Mycroft never liked publicity from the beginning anyway.
"I will take care of the notebook, brother. You won't have to worry about anything." Sherlock whispered to Mycroft as he raised his arm straight, eyes determined and dark as he surveyed Sherrinford who took one good look at him to know the detective's answer. He raised his gun too.
A second wait seem too long.
And they knew they were ready to
Only that, Mycroft suddenly placed a hand on Sherlock's raised arm. It was such a gentle grip too that made the youngest brother turn his head and see his brother Mycroft's calm expression.
"Wait." The older Holmes instructed and lowered Sherlock's arm, just in time as the men in dark gears and high calibre guns came swiftly inside the room and surrounded the vicinity—most of them isolating Sherrinford with their pointed guns as they saw him armed—
Sherlock suddenly became aware of his eldest's smile for he, Sherrinford, had just clicked the phone's send button, leaving the detective staring while the authorities assaulted him. The phone was dropped on the floor and things seemed to go slowly after that.
"I win." Sherrinford mouthed towards Mycroft while he was cuffed. There was no struggle from the man himself and his less condescending nature made Sherlock realise how dire the situation was. He didn't breathe as he walked towards the phone and slowly reach it from the floor with Mycroft behind him.
He clicked the phone.
"Come on, Sherrinford," Mycroft found his voice again as he faced his eldest who was just being taken outside. Sherlock had walked back beside Mycroft and had given the phone to his brother. "I thought it was an agreement between us. To never underestimate each other, not even when we think we're winning."
Sherrinford glanced back at them in time to see Mycroft flash the screen of the phone with the twenty plus unsent email. His dark eyes wide and struck.
And Sherlock looked away, still beside his brother and whispered on his ear while still in a moment of disbelief—
"You turned off the signal station."
"As only I can do." Mycroft nodded with a brief smile and a dark look to his eldest. "During any heist or any criminal activity, communication has always been of importance. I especially took note of that during my time on Belfast when terrorists seemingly got the better hand when they deprived us of communication to my men. And I thought in any events, to sacrifice communication and replace it with time decision and agreement, any scheme could still work. The disadvantage of it of course was that the Secret Service had to play in the dark and understandably might be a little late. But signals like gunshot would do— all to make sure that nobody will come out of this place and that nobody from the outside could interfere in case we still have spies in our number."
He looked back at Sherrinford whose face had become grim at the prospect of being thwarted. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him. Sherlock glowered at his eldest as well and marched towards the man—then plunging his hand inside Sherrinford's coat pocket, the youngest Holmes took the red notebook.
"What I didn't see coming was you... using the same means to threaten me. You could have sent the message even before you came here, but no. You want to have the satisfaction of watching me despair while you wave your trophy. Always the same as ever, big brother. You never change."
And all Sherrinford did was once again, smile.
Part II
Sherlock and Mycroft came out of the partially broken down front of the Kensington Palace with bright lights of sirens and ambulance greeting their eyes. Men after men came to report to Mycroft in the next second while Sherlock stayed right behind him with a glowering look at the surrounding and the police who were also glaring at him.
"He crashed the Buckingham Palace gate, sir." The police reported with a nod at the younger Holmes.
Mycroft didn't speak but the parting of his lips followed by a glare towards his younger brother was enough to make Sherlock look pointedly away.
"That's part of the classified Secret Service report." The British Government head muttered as he raised an eyebrow at the police. "I don't want any lines on Scotland Yard; let it disappear."
"Yes, sir." And the man was off. Sherlock looked at his brother who had followed the police with his eyes before meeting his younger brother's gaze again. The two exchanged silent looks for awhile till Mycroft's eyes glinted darkly. And that was when their previous encounter suddenly flashed before the detective's eyes—inside the hospital room—the tranquilizer—
Sherlock blinked.
"What?" he ejaculated defensively, as Mycroft rolled his eyes and began moving again, "I saved your life!"
Mycroft sighed deeply with the detective frowning after him, then after a second, followed his brother grudgingly and muttering words under his breath.
"Kensington Palace and now Buckingham..." the older Holmes suddenly said heavily, "If I hadn't been in this position we three brothers would be the most notorious villain of the century."
That made Sherlock snort.
"Send my regards to Mrs. Watson, Sherlock. I gather they were sent to the nearest hospital like many of the wounded and fallen agents."
"How many...?"
"Four."
There was a grim silence between the brothers for a second until Mycroft sighed.
"We'll take you there."
"Why not come down too? Because John will murder you?"
"Yes."
"Can't blame him."
"Can't believe he wouldn't understand the logic of that either."
"Oh, you know John. He's a very simple man. You hurt her, he'll take you."
"Yes. Quite justifiable. Really remarkable what one would do to protect their precious persons." Mycroft stopped and glance at the younger brother behind him. "You weren't really thinking of taking the fall for me, were you, Sherlock?"
"I'll leave that to your deduction." The detective answered as he walked past his brother who watched him go. When a second later he didn't feel his older brother follow him, Sherlock jerked his head back and saw Mycroft talking to a secret service personnel. With narrowed eyes, the detective sauntered back and planted himself on Mycroft's right side again.
"Communication lines will be returned shortly." The older Holmes informed him as they began walking again.
"You shutdown London's signal tower."
"Much easier than requesting the shutdown of the whole satellite." Mycroft shrugged in a matter of fact tone.
"That easy, huh?" Sherlock struck a conversation so naturally as he fell on the steps beside his older brother. It was already dawn and camera reporters were already filling the streets. The two brothers walked towards the parked sedan at the corner where Anthea was waiting. "Where will our fallen brother be disappearing then?"
"That's already classified." Mycroft answered quietly with a nod at the secretary who slithered her long legs inside the sedan and the engine was on. "I have to go to the office and explain everything that happened, brother. Get in the car and we'll take you to Baker Street. It will do you good to rest after all these... fiasco. See if everything fits and avoid the media. Goodness knows how we need to avoid them."
"I don't see why I should." Sherlock muttered as he watched the man enter the car and followed after. The car slid towards the gate and in seconds was away from all the bright lights and siren. "You're the one they'd like to snap a picture though." He added when they saw a flash of a local media network. "You'll be top news."
"As far as they know I should be dead. If I die, I die—"
"Mycroft!" Sherlock snapped at his older brother who was surprised at the knee jerk reaction. The detective blinked to himself and frowned at the man in the car. "You had enough time saying that."
"As you do." The British Government head frowned at the detective too, "As ever, I am always at lost to everything you do, Sherlock. Time and again you always seem to find ways to get yourself nearly killed."
"I think you were actually the one who kept on getting threatened."
Silence then. Sherlock turned at his brother and found him sitting quietly beside him with eyes closed. And suddenly Mycroft looked so worn out with his eyes closed and pressed thin lips. His breathing was normal, though his shoulders were down and the way he leaned himself on the chair was enough sign of his fatigue.
"You better stay at the hospital too." Sherlock whispered with a look towards the window, and then exchange meaningful looks with Anthea who was watching them from the rear view mirror. "You're tired."
"The effects of you drug, brother." Mycroft opened his glinting eyes with a look at the detective who pointedly looked away again. "It's a nasty feeling that... tranquilizer. By the life of me I shall never take anything so repulsive. And speaking of rest—it should be addressed to someone who was in comma for more than twenty four hours."
"I was sleeping." The detective corrected.
"You had surgery."
"You had your back sewed."
"Are we really going to count this now?" Mycroft rolled his eyes while Sherlock chuckled beside him.
When for a moment silence fell inside the car, did Sherlock speak again.
"Just stop keeping me in the dark when things like this happen, Mycroft. You know how I like your mysteries. It wouldn't be half as fun if my supplier were to just disappear. Plus, I'm kind of really fond of Big Ben."
"Big Ben will never disappear." Mycroft replied softly with eyes ahead just as their car rounded on London streets and the giant clock that showed it was already five in the morning, Big Ben's light glowed before them just before sunrise. "If it does, it will be a national crisis. But then, you would really never let that happen, am I right, brothermine?"
Sherlock glanced at the clock and then sideways at his brother before looking ahead too.
"Never, brothermine."
*I JUST THINK IT SWEET HOW THEY KEPT CALLING EACH OTHER BROTHERMINE. LIKE A PET NAME :)
It was two weeks after the apparent double attack on the British nation's historical palaces that Sherlock received a word from his brother's secretary. All the news on the television was still filled with reports from different angle till it reached international attention. Posts from media, newspaper and even local radio station were all pointing towards terrorists, anarchies and even republicans. Even somebody called Trump kept appearing as the mastermind. Amidst the entire crisis felt by Europe, however, there was one power that was keeping everything in balance.
Mycroft's name of course, was never mentioned. A sign that he was once again back in full power. It was subtle, but the fact that he was once again all over the place without much attention was enough for the detective to lie low as well. Sherlock left his brother to sort out all the rigorous governmental problems while he was left to deal with the still simmering John.
"He's not in Diogenes." The doctor told him one day that got the younger Holmes rolling his eyes.
"Mycroft's not hiding from you, John." He said with a throw of his favourite new skull in the air as he sat on the sofa one Sunday afternoon. "He's just... busy. You should go check him on his house."
"Yeah, where's that?"
The suggestion was ignored as Sherlock explained the multiple secret service and guards that roamed his brother's house and for a week John seemed to lie low. Only to find out from Mary that she convinced him to drop the idea by referring to that one time when she, herself, shot Sherlock, Mycroft's brother.
"He had to do it. It's a full cycle." Was what Mary said without much as a shrug, referring to Mycroft shooting her.
It was then that Sherlock found himself eating his third meal right after lunch courtesy of Mrs. Hudson when the door bell rang and Anthea herself came. Surprised at the messaged she carried that couldn't be relayed through phone, the detective put on his dress and thick coat before following her suit on the sedan.
Sherrinford was allowed visitors, it seemed—at least immediate family. And his request was his youngest brother.
"Mycroft allowed it?" he asked sceptically before they plunge in an hour drive towards Western Way where it was located. Anthea nodded and told him the man himself visited two hours ago and was already back to Pall Mall.
They parked the car at the one of the highest security prison in London, Belmarsh. The secretary gave a nod and told him they will be waiting for him to come back so he went out of the car and pulled his coat closer to his neck as he looked up the building. The area was surrounded with high fences, its three floor building seemingly dark from the inside. A crest of her Majesty was on the wall with the letters written in bold that said, HMP Belmarsh. Sherlock knew the kind of prisoner kept there and knew by standard that as they said—it was a prison inside a prison.
A man in dark suit and short ginger hair then met him before he could take the first step and one glance told Sherlock the man was from the Secret Service and has the same air of one fallen agent he slightly liked, Carruthers.
"He was my colleague." The man quietly said who didn't bother telling his name as they walked inside the halls of the prison bearing the clearance for the visit. "He was always punctual, that's all I remember."
For a moment, Sherlock was tempted to tell him of Carruthers' habits he discerned from their time together but then thought of the man who was one of the casualties in his brother's affair. It was part of the job, yet still. Especially when now he realised, did Carruthers have someone special? From his lifestyle it was apparent he was living alone and committed to his job. Did he die alone? Without any family to remember him?
And it all went back to the time when he played dead—where he heard news about John's grief, Mrs. Hudson's cries, Lestrade and Anderson's sincere apologies. But it was John he truly felt for. He was not alone.
Sherlock frowned to himself as they were lead by another security guard towards a gray door that read visitors. He travelled his eyes to another large hall where a number of long tables were in. He stopped pointedly but the guard shook their head and pointed to another gray door that read restricted.
Sighing, Sherlock followed them again with a lingering memory at the fallen agent. He was never one to think solid about death but somehow, after everything, the lost lives, the near attempt on his brother and even his life; John's and Mary's lives... death doesn't seem that appealing than before. Not to the people he swore to protect.
They entered the gray door and it was much smaller, not more than his kitchen. It was white walled too with a door at the other end and a table in the middle where a familiar man in orange suit was waiting for him quietly.
Sherlock's eyes met his brothers and for a moment, he wondered if someone would actually weep for this person.
"Sherlock." Sherrinford offered him the seat opposite while the Secret Service men stayed outside and there were only the two of them plus the guard waiting at the other end of the room left in the area. The detective raised his eyes to the corner of the room and saw a CCTV camera.
"What do you want?" he began when he leaned back on his chair till they were both settled in and warmed up with each other's eyes transfixed.
"Two visitors in one day should suffice my social skills." The eldest explained in a very slick voice while Sherlock's eyes fell on the man's handcuffed wrists on the table. "I'll call for our parents next."
"Like Mycroft would let you."
"Ah, yes, Mycroft. He was just here right after lunch. You missed him not two hours ago."
Sherlock eyed him but didn't speak and the same question was ever on his eyes. "What do you want?"
"You're very impatient." Sherrinford sighed and leaned his back on his chair, his eyes full of life despite the two-week incarceration. "I heard Mycroft sent you to prison for a week. How did that work for you?"
"Made me mentally disable." The detective answered with eyes darkening at his eldest brother. "It was such a boring place and boring existence. I nearly killed myself."
Sherrinford looked amused for a second. "Why didn't you?" he asked.
"Because I realise it was just boredom speaking." Sherlock smirked at him. "And that I have Mycroft to trust to. He wouldn't let me rot in a cell. Turned out, I was right—he was ready to send me to Eastern Europe." He smiled at the memory and vexation.
"Thrilling." Sherrinford narrowed his eyes. "When he could have easily brought you out, he decided to give you another lesson. Much same with me when he sent me to exile with the CIA. Mycroft's having a field day getting rid of his brothers."
The detective frowned a little and then looked down the table again.
"It's his job."
"More like a choice."
"You didn't call me here just to gang up against Mycroft, did you?" he kicked the floor and was about to stand up- his brother could rot and be hidden in that place for all he cared- when he found Sherrinford's gleaming eyes of mischief at him.
"I called you here to give you a tip. A head's up of what's to come because something is coming, Sherlock..."
"What do you mean?"
"Depends on your answer first—why are you against me?"
The question came out of nowhere that for awhile the detective didn't know where to start. His deep frown lasted for about a second before Sherrinford leaned closer on the table.
"Are you angry at me for killing Redbeard? Poor boy." He started that got Sherlock's eyes round. "How about when you got addicted to cocaine? Or was it when you nearly died trying to salvage Mycroft from his doom in Belfast? But that one's on you. You chose to follow him...why do you follow him?"
"What are you up to?"
"I just don't understand where you get that unwavering loyalty to Mycroft." He sounded in full wonder. "When after all he has put you through with the prison and all...you should be hating him— so why are you only against me?"
Sherlock stared at his brother as he leaned back on the chair. That was when he took notice of the man's pale complexion and reddening under his eyes. His brother was deteriorating. Sherlock wondered if this was how Mycroft saw him during his daily visit.
"Of course I hate him." He began slowly as he met Sherrinford's eyes. "He's my brother."
Silence followed that only made the man before him smirk.
"So you hate me too, because I'm your brother?"
Sherlock's eyes flashed at the question and before he knew it his voice had gotten stronger as he said—"No. I hate you because you tried to kill my brother." It was true—it was never anything that Sherrinford tried to do to him—it was always when he tried to do away with Mycroft that Sherlock couldn't forgive him. And it reflected on his eyes.
The answer got Sherrinford silent for another second, until a smile spread on his lips that didn't bode well.
"Now well, I suppose you'll hate me even more?"
A beat came, and Sherlock sat straight, all eyes on the man.
"What do you mean?"
"I told you...I don't like loose ends. Not killing right away leaves loose ends."
"What?"
"You and Mycroft never learn. Many times over and over I kept telling you people never underestimate enemies, not even when you think you're winning. So now you're back to square one."
Sherlock reacted fast as he grabbed his brother by the collar, thinking of Mycroft's visit—only to find Sherrinford smiling from ear to ear, his dark eyes with reddening corner told him of a drug's effect—
"What did you do?" he didn't wait for the answer as he turned to his phone only to find the signal off. So with a loud shout he went to the door to call the unknown Secret Service man and told him to call Mycroft or his secretary immediately. He turned back to his brother on the chair who was now smirking so bluntly while shaking his head.
Sherlock gritted his teeth and put both palms on the table and with very intimidating eyes, looked Sherrinford in the eye. "What did you do?"
Sherrinford took his time until he found the energy to return the gaze.
"Are you aware of the Fallen Angel incident back in United States around 2003?"
Sherlock's eyes widened in understanding as his brother went on—
"A person identifying himself as "Fallen Angel" sent letters filled with ricin to the American President in the White House intending to do harm. Fallen Angel was never found and the letters were intercepted of course... but there goes the legend of never opening emails again. You know what ricin is, don't you? One of the most poisonous substances on earth—a pint salt amount of its grain can kill a person if it enters their system. And it's a pretty easy poison to make. Pretty easy to slip to anyone you hate."
He grinned at his brother who had turned pale as he snatched his brother's neck—making the guard to suddenly come in between them but Sherlock wouldn't let him off as he shook Sherrinford vigorously who was smiling wickedly.
"And I suppose you are the Fallen Angel?" Sherlock hissed when two more guards came in and held his shoulders back but the detective didn't care as he listened with his ears all too alert for the return of the Secret Service man. "You tried to kill the American President?"
"I was bored and thought it could slip by." Sherrinford shrugged, and then his eyes danced in glee. "Mycroft's probably at home right now, enjoying his drink. You know he has two favourite bottles of wines on his study table when I came to pay a visit—one Saint- Emilion 2001 and the other a Pomerols of the same year— I mixed ricin on one of them."
Sherlock's eyes widened.
"It's been two weeks ago and Mycroft's still alive. He must have been so busy or too lucky to choose the poison-free bottle." Sherrinford sighed as he put both hands patiently on the table. "But just today I reminded him of some things that would make him need a drink again—a strong one—you get the idea."
Sherlock was on him again—kicking and nudging away the police officers as he tried to lay his fists on the fiend he could never look at as his family anymore. He clawed his hands on the man's neck—enough to hear him whisper—
"Just when you thought you are the winner... bam... it all goes crashing down. No loose ends, brother."
Sherlock was running—he could not wait for them anymore. He circled the area with police meeting him and directing him to an area with signal. He immediately called Mycroft's number.
The phone rang. Many times. But there was no answer.
And somewhere around London at a warm study room, a phone rang with Sherlock's name on it on the table but there was no one around. Except for a half empty bottle of Saint- Emilion beside it.
A few steps towards the fire however, a familiar hand with a golden ring laid on the floor, unmoving.
And a glass of wine toppled with its content all over the carpet floor, forgotten.
The news of Mycroft Holmes' death reached the public news. Interests were upon it especially when they remember his face on the websites and television coverage. How did he die? They ask. Was it the terrorists? Was the ransom not paid? Did the government leave him to his fate? In the end, nobody found out what happened and so little people were interested.
Sympathies were in the air for the length of a week till it died down too. Then nobody remembered. It was just another one of those weekly news. Nobody could remember him personally, and nobody would claim contact with him either. Even his connection to Sherlock Holmes seemed unhelpful; one obituary did name him as a close brother.
But 221B Baker Street was closed down. Shut off.
Nobody had lived there since the incident and reporters couldn't get anything from the land lady. Clients would come every now and then only to get discourage. But their lives went on despite the troubles. London continued on despite the apparent atmosphere of lost. The world went on despite the absence of the two brothers that had once made it if not a better place then at least—a safer one.
Little did the world know of its actual lost.
But then... all good things must come to an end.
And the hour of departure has arrived.
FALLEN
~The End~
"There's an east wind coming all the same, such a wind as never blew on England yet.
It will be cold and bitter, Watson, and a good many of us may wither before its blast.
But it's God's own wind none the less and a cleaner, better stronger land will lie in the sunshine when the storm has cleared."
-Herr Holmes.
A/N: I'd like to thank you all for all your time and support during each publishing time :D It has been a very good experience writing for Sherlock BBC's unique characters. Especially the Holmes brothers. Though their dynamic is different from the books (Sherlock and Mycroft were never seen publicly insulting each other xD), the love underlying the brother's sharp tongues were as bright as the sunlight enough to make path for this story! And Mycroft's power really has so plenty of potential.
I can't wait for Season 4. All the hints of Mycroft being a 'real' central figure of the three-episode conundrum is highlighted! Something is coming for him, I believe ;)
Thank you- W.G
And now...
Sherlock Holmes kept his copy of Beekeeping inside his pocket as he sat down a large stone while he surveyed the grounds out on the field at Sussex Downs where his family had kept their old vacation house. The accumulated beehives at the back of the house had been growing in number and so were the bees, obviously. But Sherlock wasn't much interested to bees as he was to their venom and its properties plus the recently identified properties of their beehive glue that modern science has been inclining to change medicine. Surely his efforts would not be in vain?
Glancing down at his clock, the curly dark haired man stood up from where he was seated on the stone and turned a glance at the house porch where a man was sitting on what appeared to be a wheel chair. He was tall, considering his the reach of his legs and with thinning hair. He was wearing a dark collared shirt and white pants and despite the immobility of his feet, it was well compensated for by his glinting sharp eyes, though his face was still pale. The poison was deadly and indigestion was its least dangerous way of consumption. But there were effects.
Sherlock stared at the man for quite awhile before moving forward and jamming his hands inside his trousers.
Such men had to remain hidden. But it won't be for long.
This is The Hidden Holmes.
Thank you once again for reading! :)
