*Brother's Opium War*
by: WhiteGloves
Some coarse language here and there... blood? Not quite *o*
Thanks for reading :)
Two: The Sixth
He has never been a dull person, thank you very much, particularly not in dire moments when the vigilance of his mind was warranted, his wits at test to never allow his emotion to cloud his judgement. Be it surprise or distress, he does not have the leisure to even think it, how good it was to be smart.
It was a leverage to safety that much was given.
So, when he found himself facing sideways on the floor after what seemed to be an apparent intentional assault, his head pounding terribly like something was continuously hammering inside it—no doubt an effect of the sedative forcibly clamped over his face, but this wasn't his first time—he knew he was in a situation. The memory of his capture came flooding his memory as soon as he opened his eyes, aware that there were people behind him. His arms were not bound—the fact that he was not restrained on a chair suggested many possibilities of his captors' psyche and how he could weave himself out of it. The first rule of being captured, as he would usually tell Sherlock because he was most prone of it, was try not to get disoriented which is what the hijackers want. Again, to Mycroft, it was all too easy for then he was everything but disoriented. Second was to assess situation. Done that. He was still in the drug den judging by the same fumes of toxic in the air, and the dreary blanketed wall he was now facing that had the same effects he observed when he came in. He probably appeared very suspicious after all, hence the attack; but he was not tied in any way which means his captors were still deciding if he was an enemy, agent or a typical user in need of a fix. Obviously, they did not find anything on him save what he wanted them to see—a fake identity as a bank accountant, a photo of fake family, even a dog and most importantly a wallet full of cash.
He was in character, who would be suspicious?
With this at his disposal, he pretended a grunt and give a painful groan, scratching his back and casually drawling out the name of his fake wife ordering her to leave the house once and for all. That should be easy to play out since it was what he meant to be from the beginning. He did love acting long ago. Lady Augusta Bracknell was his masterpiece.
"You sure he's not a snitch?" came a brusque tone from behind him.
"He's got a wade of cash and his receipts' all liquors on different bars. You think he is?" replied a younger voice skeptically. "Why'd you snatch 'im?"
"He's been poking around the wrong places." Came a dry reply, "and he's not someone I've seen around."
"His I.D says he's from Ludgate, Commonwealth Bank. Not far from Westfield, is it?"
"Yeah, but we can't take chances now. Not tonight when things are coming. If coppers got wind of this, we're gonna lose some serious millions."
"Oi," Mycroft's voice was barely recognizable from his own, his eyes losing their sharpness as he narrowed his gaze at the men, "Where's my pack? How many've I got left?". For an effect, he dropped his head sideways and gave another grunt.
"He thinks he's already taken some," said the younger one. "I should carry him out now, bring him to a bed and make him think everything's in his head, eh? It's almost time."
Feet came scuttling on the ground and Mycroft felt someone grab him under the arm and helped him up.
"Quickly, the boss' gonna be here any minute."
"You're the one who brought him here!"
Mycroft gave some considerations, before he let his legs giveaway so his whole weight dropped on the ground without warning, making the man groan at the sudden movement, till Mycroft was, once again, lying on the ground on his side. What was this about a 'boss'? Curiosity simply burned in him. He heard the two men argue more till there was a brief pause and then Mycroft heard new footsteps from the outside coming in and another voice joined the room.
"Why aren't you waiting at the backdoor? Plaza's car s'been waitin there you idiots."
"There's this—"
"Shut it, you want the whole operation to get busted? Have you the locations?"
"Got it just now." Said the brusque man behind Mycroft who did not move a muscle, his back on the men with eyes open and shrewd. "We got the final safe routes—NK59-02Z, NWAT-0ZT, NKLW-B3D, NKLO-BSX and NWAK-BS8."
Mycroft would have advised Sherlock to do the first and foremost instinct that any captives will have in mind—escape. It is most critical, especially on the first moments of abduction. He has already established the safest way out by now—to pretend to be a user. Only a few more steps and he would have been hauled outside, into the dirty bunkers, pretending to sink in the hazy dream of cocaine. Then he would slip away into freedom. That would have been the best approach. If only the conversation did not make so much sense to him like reading bylaws of the country; unfortunately, it did, and it was making hairs at the back of his neck stand on end out of excitement.
Why? Because his captors just uttered a word— a magic word that was enough to raise six security alerts in the country! This name was even enough to have CIA calling in to join force for a possible capture and finally, if not to put an end, then at least behead one of the heads of a notorious drug syndicate in the world! The magic word Plaza, otherwise known in MI6 as El Pla Za—one of the most prominent leaders of the infamous Los Zetas syndicate from Mexico with drug cartels all over the world— with his moniker as "Z-06" indicating his number for signing up in the group as the sixth. Mycroft felt much awake despite the gloom in the atmosphere and preferred to lay still, listening. That this man was in London without his knowledge was a tint in his reputation. Drugs had always been major problem in England, and though there may have been plenty of raids and busts and even successful captures, if the main head remained intact it was all for naught. For El Pla Za to be roaming the streets of the very city he was in charge with was something Mycroft Holmes can never allow. Let alone, let him escape at.
Oh yes, the war is on!
And the fact that he had always loathed cocaine and other substances ever since… well… that day.
He heard them talk more, all the while his brain had found his answers. The letters and numbers that were mentioned were familiar to him. They were coordinates yes, but if one was not knowledgeable of such system, they would fail to identify the precise locations. Now, common coordinates appear in latitude and longitude say London, England that can be found exactly at 51.5074° N, 0.1278°W. The mentioned routes however were the converted form in what they call as Makaney Code— an alphanumeric representation of geographic coordinates that follows a certain formula. One had to check the internet for that; he was sure Sherlock would have done so for he has little memory to spare such information. But not him. The moment the codes were given, Mycroft's mind was already picturing the places as he last remembered them to be in order: Angel Walk in Hammersmith, Beresford building in White City, Victoria's Museum in Kensington, Hilton Hotel in Westminster and Empire Casino in London.
How Sherlock survives without his smartphone, he could only guess.
Now how to send it to his people? If Mycroft had thought that things could go awry during his operation, he knew he'd never let himself down when it comes to alternate plans. Naturally he believed that when he was the one acting, less disappointing end would happen. Then he calculated Sherlock's involvement and therefore had to make the plans anyway. First was his own tracker untraceable in his body because it was attached to the center of his right palm. It was covered with an artificial skin, so nothing would be found in the instant he was searched. They never did find it. To his credit also, said tracker was modified to send messages in the form of the ever-handy Morse Code. Somebody suggested let it be a speaker or a microphone. The British Government Head disapproved for how obvious can you be when you whisper or received cracking sound waves during an interrogation?
So, Mycroft began pressing his middle finger on his palm, feeling the nano gadget pressing back.
There was a second silence broken by the new comer's voice.
"What's that?"
"Just another thick we nabbed. Big D here thought he's a snitch. Turned out he's just a banker."
Mycroft had just finished his last messaged when he heard footsteps come near—then he was grabbed by the arm and pulled back into a lying position, his face facing the lamp light. He pretended to be half asleep, his head falling on his right shoulder, doing a great imitation of the bodies he saw earlier outside.
To his great dismay, however, the new comer with big calloused hands—thicker than that of a mason and smelled strongly of all the cocaine and other drugs altogether except that dominant smell of old holborn tobacco mixed with alcohol and sea water— suddenly pressed his rough hand on Mycroft's face directly to his eyes, forcing them open to peer in the older Holmes thought his eyeball would fall out—and he knew the game was up.
"You fucking idiots, have you never seen anyone high? This man's got no touch of drug in his system! Who the fuck is this?"
Early that morning, Sherlock literally blasted his door open from his bed room into the kitchen, carrying test tubes on both hands with such speed his actions were blurred from sight. John Watson, who was seated on his favorite chair in the living room, didn't have to look at his flat mate as he too was busy typing in his computer to know of his best friend's horrid activities. All he heard behind him were the clinking of the beakers and test tubes, the sound or simmering water, the flame of the Bunsen burner and the forgotten water continuously streaming in the sink. John had better experience of the busybody consulting detective to even give the slightest attention.
Except—
"Should be enough with Hydrogen sulphide (H2S), methyl methanethiol… nitrogen, hydrogen…"
"I swear if you set the kitchen table on fire again…" the doctor muttered under his breath with a click of 'save' on his document, aware that some of the substances were flammable.
"If I had wanted safety to be my priority every time I conduct experiments, John, I would be typing on the computer just like you. Likewise, if I think removing safety out of the equation makes any difference in my efforts and find there's no difference whatsoever then whatever that activity is, it's probably a waste of time."
It was followed by a considerable loud blobbing sound which made the doctor shake his head.
"Exactly what are you doing then?" he could not bear it anymore and had to look behind him to find Sherlock on his feet, wearing goggles and whitegloves and preparing to mix two liquids in test tubes, one colorless and the other a rich color of tangerine, in a beaker on the table. "Sherlock?"
"Something interesting that would keep Mrs. Hudson at bay for many hours." He poured, and an instant reaction popped in the air like an atomic bomb—John smelled it even before his brain registered it and was on his feet flying towards the window for an escape with expression an unpaintable horror—
"God, Jesus Christ!" and he swore aloud with eyes tightly shut, catching a spasm of cough lurching from his stomach that threatened to break his lungs. He even opted to jump as his instinct's advice. The odor was repugnant and could clench the stomach, even make one pass out for its potent smell like a combination of rotten garbage, dead fish and black canals. The room was filled its colorless haze and if John wasn't busy trying to get a hold of himself, he would have smacked his flat mate out cold.
Sherlock waltz in the maze of chairs and tables and opened the other window happily.
"Nothing beats fresh air, even in dreary London."
"What the hell was that!"
"A potential weapon to eliminate obstacles and impositions of neighbors, even landladies in the form of the most useful science in the world—chemistry. Why, if we can have this release at any chosen time we'll be saved the trouble of always entertaining unwanted visitors, John, not that it isn't available to every body but it is something that cannot be willed. Still, you all fail to see the handiness of your own Frequency Actuated Rectal Tremor."
"A what?"
"FART!"
John shut his eyes and mustered all his strength in his fists and shoulders so as not to beat the man bloody; he ended heaving deep breathes. Weren't they just speaking of risking safety so as not to waste time?
"Why would you make something like that!?" John said through clenched teeth with a murderous eye to his target. The smell hasn't subsided, and he was almost feeling the killing spree.
"For that." Sherlock suddenly replied mysteriously with both eyes looking down the street. John followed his eyes and saw a black car glide down the 221B lane purposively.
"Your brother has a knack of appearing at the most trying moments." The doctor whispered, checking his watch that reflected half past six in the morning. The detective turned his back on the window without a word. "At least we get to annoy him today."
"That's not Mycroft. Different car, similar brand." Sherlock said shortly as he crossed the tainted room. The smell, it would seem, was planning to stick for long unlike the natural element which perhaps was no thanks to Sherlock. John looked out of the window again and saw a bald man come out of the car wearing a dark suit that was typical for Mycroft's men. Wondering what on earth it was about, John turned to Sherlock and saw him already sitting on his chair, waiting.
They only had to wait a few seconds before they heard the footsteps of their unknown visitor. Once on the top landing, they saw him pause by the door, looking grim and discomfited. John busied himself with his pen and notepad for the odor was still hanging in the air. Sherlock was eyeing the man in the suit with disinterest, if possible, even boredom. His theory, however, that the Frequency Actuated Rectal Tremor release would dishearten any unwanted visitor to come in was disproved when the agent stepped in the room without further delay.
"I came here to speak with Sherlock Holmes." he said in a heavy voice, dark eyes already on the detective.
"Obviously." Sherlock did not bat an eye, the annoyance in his expression at the infectivity of the fart was replaced by apparent curiosity. "Now what sort of precarious situation has my brother found himself in to be sending a tenured subordinate, possibly five, six years in service? Unmarried, been in the office for 56 hours, no rest, expert code officer with inclination to caffeine because of his job that required attention for days? My brother caught his leg on the treadmill, didn't he?"
"He didn't send me, Mr. Holmes. I came here under orders from the officer-in-charge in the absence of your brother. Requesting that you assist us in the retrieval of Mr. Mycroft Holmes if it becomes necessary."
"Absence?" John choked as the last effect of the F.A.R.T escaped the room, "Retrieval?" he looked pointedly at his best friend whose expression did not change one bit.
"Stop dramatizing words, John." He whispered, eyes rolling, "And you, stop with the cryptic words and give me details, or I'll throw you out for making the blogger so excited and let Mycroft rot wherever he is and whose lost d'you think it would be? God, you people are slow."
Details of the older Holmes' adventure was then unfolded from the planned incognito mode inside a hidden drug den, retrieving an important character whose name was classified—Sherlock eyed John for he had already shared this piece of information to his blogger at the request that he shut up about it or Mycroft will be slicing his blog to bits— to the appointed time of his own recovery from the location after the target has been secured.
"Your brother did not come out to meet us, Mr. Holmes. He was out of contact for more than two hours."
The consulting detective raised eyebrows sarcastically, "And after the more than two hours?"
"We received a message from him indicating certain locations. That was an hour and a half ago."
"Not his location?" John interrupted but Sherlock shooed him impatiently—
"It's a tracer, obviously. Mycroft never goes nowhere without a tracker in his spine. Or maybe it's his government he's attached his tracker into, afraid it'll float in the air when unsupervised. Maybe I'll mix something to make land float just to annoy him?"
"Sherlock." John shot him a reprimanding look before turning back to the visitor.
"It so happens the tracker also has a Morse code mechanism." The agent went on, "To assure us that precise information can be given. We've been using it with other agents who cannot have any mobiles exposed during secret missions. It's attached on the palm with a fake skin to go unnoticed."
"Mycroft's design?" Sherlock smiled slightly when the man nodded. "Always with the practicality."
"Anyways, he began sending us locations we weren't expecting. Six locations to be precise and each has been identified except one."
Something in Sherlock changed as the agent said this, he sat straight, his eyes shone, and the anticipation betrayed his body. John observed this and immediately knew his friend was enthralled, finally, by his brother's absence.
"You said six locations?" John repeated, now sounding lost, "Why would he send you six? Are you supposed to look for him on different areas?"
"John, imagination—please." Sherlock turned to the doctor with glinting eyes, "Mycroft is or was inside a drug den where anyone—and I mean literally anyone can come and go— people who need fixes, trades and sometimes even dealers or big dealers who happens to check their accounts, smuggles, even make further transactions to those places. Mycroft must've caught himself some big fish that he decided to play." He turned to the agent who nodded eagerly in his direction.
"Precisely, Mr. Holmes. That's what we thought and having identified so, our men are already surrounding the perimeter of all these locations in Hammersmith, White City, Kensington, Westminster and London as we speak."
"All major cities." John piped up. "What's the last place? You said you couldn't identify it, that's probably why you're here?"
"Yes," the agent nodded but before he could continue, the consulting detective, who turned pensive just then, beat him to it—
"Tell me, Mr. Wood—oh yes, I know you, I can read confidential files when I'm bored you know—don't tell Mycroft—" he glared at John, who knew perfectly well Sherlock knows everyone working under his brother. Sherlock glanced back at Agent Wood in a more matter of fact tone, "obviously my brother's status is still on mission till this very moment. Did he send a word that he needs my help?"
"No, Mr. Holmes."
"Your officer-in-charge suggested I get involved?"
"Yes, Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock suddenly chuckled continuously that lasted for a few seconds, the smile on his face could hardly be wiped out that made John frown in his direction.
"What's so funny?"
Sherlock shook his head, "Because these people are trying to give me a case where Mycroft's already involved and when Mycroft's involved personally I'd be the last person he would want to finish what he started unless he, in his own words, wants heaven and hell united. I am delightedly confused— is it Christmas?" he grinned at both men.
"These people wouldn't have come to you if nothing seriously bad already happened." John retorted. "Aren't you even slightly worried about your brother?"
"No." Sherlock made a face, "Why should I be? Mycroft, despite his tendencies too lazy about, is expert in infiltration. He has infiltrated a number of organization without detection so many times by merely using his best asset— knowledge and do you know what that suggest? He's too brilliant to upset any cover, too smart to be outsmarted and too precise to be worried about. He's bringing war to them. Now since he did not himself send a message to fetch me, I fail to see the reason of you even coming over?" he arched an eyebrow at their guest as he put both hands together.
John sighed on the opposite chair and would have thrown his notebook to his friend at his lack of finesse. And it was the wellbeing of his only brother at stake. Did he really think Sherlock would have a different answer otherwise?
Well, he did hope. But them brothers were never the affectionate sort. It really made him wonder what sort of brother Mycroft had been if this was how his younger brother would react every time his life was in jeopardy. Then again, that was Mycroft, and this was Sherlock. Who knows what kind of bond was there? If there was any.
"You said there was a sixth place." the doctor whispered at the silence that fell as Sherlock remained quiet afterwards having made his point and the obvious 'no I would not take the case less Mycroft begs for it.'
Agent Wood's eyes fell on the doctor and in a straightforward manner, he answered, "It's an incomplete name of a place, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson. It was either he lacked the time to continue or something else happened. We could not verify for the tracer remained unmoving on its spot in Westfield. We could not move in also in case it exposes the intel about the six locations so we're going to do it all at once. The bust."
"What was it? The name of the place you can't find?" Sherlock finally gave in after receiving a glare from his flat mate.
"It's a common one, so we were hoping you could help us since you're also well verse in each location in the city of London. Well, it's just a plaza. Nothing more and going by the number of plaza in London—"
He was cut short once again when this time, Sherlock Holmes stood up without warning that surprised the other two men in the vicinity. The consulting detective looked entranced for a few seconds, before shooting a look at the agent.
"And you call yourselves MI6 agents. Do you know it's not even a place but a name of a person? Or at least a signature." When the agent continued looking confuse, did Sherlock below, "El Plaza!"
A dawn of comprehension appeared on Wood's face.
"Sherlock—" John began but Sherlock suddenly gasped, louder this time as something else occurred to him—
"You said your men are already in those locations? And you haven't retrieved my brother—you're making a grave mistake, you have to find him first before the heist!" He was running towards the hanging rack, grabbing his thick coat and pulling on his shoes, still speaking to the much-aggravated John who was also pulling on his jacket and the much-obliged agent who was now contacting his men, "El Plaza is not a simple drug dealer, he's one of the leaders of the Zetas—a ruthless group of military deserters turned drug traffickers who kidnaps and tortures people just to show their power! They even have their own civil war among their group members. No doubt Zeta is one of the most dangerous organizations in the world and if Mycroft ends in their hands—"
They were practically running down the stairs with John at his heels—
"Mycroft's undercover." John reminded him quietly.
"Except when they realized that all their operations had been obstructed by a single person who happens to be in their vicinity?" Sherlock threw his best friend a look, "Oh, Mycroft knows how to play the game but only to a point—I don't think he's much inclined when it comes to what happens next—"
"Too late—" called Agent Wood who came bounding after them from the stairs with phone on his ears, his face mixed with expressions that Sherlock did not greet too happily. "They've made the raid. All of the drug dealers had been caught."
John stopped a breath while Sherlock's eyes flickered with interest and a tinge of worry that passed ever so slightly on his straight face as he breathed when he turned his back on them unto the streets—
"Oh, brilliant."
*ToBeContinued*
*laughs with Sherlock* Is it Christmas?
I don't think Mycroft, for one, would be that intimidated of blood like in s4e3 -.-
Still, splash of colour next -.- and the WAR is On!
Thanks for reading! ^_^
~W.G~
