*Brother's Opium War*

by: WhiteGloves

Everyone's running everywhere! xD Hold on your belts!

And its quite long *O* but since it's gonna be one of my last fics well... XD

Thanks for reading :)


Three: The Mistake


The raid was done, and no sign of Mycroft was seen. The atmosphere was already murky inside the moving car and as if this wasn't enough Sherlock—who was ever the mood-setter, just had to speak—

"He's dead. I think it's better if he's dead."

John threw his friend a reproachful look while Agent Wood did not bat an eyelid at the statement. Sherlock had been very vocal of his brother's inevitable death ever since Wood had updated them on the drug den's status that was raided concurrently with the other five spots to retrieve Mycroft. Unfortunately, there had been no news of his whereabouts except the capture of at least three personnel and forty-six users which only made the younger Holmes' claim plausible. John almost believed him for the next five minutes of the ride, thinking of nothing that could save Mycroft when he was in the middle of gunfights and proper criminals! But he had hoped Sherlock would not embrace this fact so easily, which was what he was doing so typically now.

"You don't think that." John countered calmly as if saying it would make it true; he tried to search any sign of uncertainty in his friend's blank face and saw none. Sherlock Holmes was stating cold fact as it is. Like the usual. "Maybe he—"

"Los Zetas members are never known for mercy, John." Sherlock's unwavering eyes met the doctors and the flat stare he received made the doctor despair, "They are mercenaries, trained elite group with military skills and tactics they only use to protect their market share on drug cartels; they are brutal, fierce and executes people on the mark be them friend or foe leaving traces all over places to show power. One of the many instance, they kill assigned Police Chief of Mexico region, leaving their heads in front of the police stations, or ambush and killed on the spot. Politicians mean nothing to them, they killed 20 Mexican Mayors in a year; reporters executed in their own videos and murdered in their own home. Without a doubt Zetas are one of the most sadistic, most psychopathic criminal organization in Mexico so there you see why I think my brother's dead."

"I get the picture." John shifted his eyes on the car floor for a second before looking up at the detective again, "But Mycroft's smart— maybe he's able to save himself?"

"With a group that shoots first and asks questions later?"

John gritted his teeth in annoyance, "So he knows they're dangerous! Why did he go after them like—like you!?"

"Is that supposed to be an insult—?" Sherlock's impassive face turned into a frown. "Fancy understanding his brain waves, John." He looked outside the window where the sky, though already morning, was still bleak, "Let's apply your 'maybe'. Maybe he got bored. Maybe he didn't like their breath, or maybe," he flashed his flat mate a look again, "he's trying to bring down as many of them as he could before he died, which is more than I could say about him. All this time I thought he'd die in his sleep with his umbrella without a care in the world—"

"Stop—" the doctor shook his head with eyes shut, "Just stop acting he's already dead! It's not helping."

"Yes, it is helping." Sherlock snapped, "What's the point of you mourning over the dead, you can't help them. We've been through this now, get over yourself. We need to stick to the fact that if we do not hurry El Pla Za will escape and if he does then nothing really ever changed in the world."

"But if Mycroft's alive—"

"Yes? Then we can all picture him in our head as El Pla Za slowly carve with a jack knife on his face, then cut off his ears, then his eyes—then his legs—"

"Jesus." John shook his head and let it fall on his hand while Agent Wood, who was sitting behind him, was looking at Sherlock with a strange expression. The detective noticed it and gave the man his full attention.

"You also want to hope he's alive?" it was weaved with sarcasm that made John press his lips.

"No," Wood shook his head quietly, his eyes not leaving the detective's, "I don't think that's any advantage for him but… I would have thought it as a delicate matter to be discussed in an offhand manner, Mr. Holmes. He is your brother after all."

Sherlock gaped at the man in silence, and then looked at John who met his eyes, probably wondering if he had gone too far and then everything went still inside the car. It took another five minutes before they reached the drug den which in broad day light was quite different than Sherlock remembered it to be. The palpable number of police car and their yellow tapes surrounding the once eerie, isolated building indicated the action that happened not ten minutes ago. There were still plenty of men being towed in police trucks, all of them out of their senses, and half asleep. Police jeepneys were already setting off to the police stations with their carriages and ambulances that didn't cease to arrive.

John's first instinct was to run to them, hoping the Mycroft would be there but they were met by another Agent in black who shook his head after speaking on his radio.

"There were no identified suspects in this area except the users and a look-out guarding the door. It seemed they knew we were coming and was gone even before we arrived. We found skid marks out of a car at the backdoor and traces of blood, and then this—" he raised a gloved hand and showed them a plastic container for evidence. "It was found in the room where Mr. Holmes was apparently kept."

Looking over, John saw it was a piece of an already destroyed mini gadget covered in dark grease—

"A chip?" he asked while Sherlock walked passed them onto the familiar steep stairs of the underground den.

"Tracer." The consulting detective whispered as he disappeared on view and John ran after him with a lump forming in his throat as he realized it was not grease after all.

"Mycroft's tracer?" he asked, his lips drying again.

"Obviously."

"Was it soaked in—?"

"Blood." Sherlock supplied without glancing back, his hurried steps not slowing, "It was supposed to be hidden in an artificial skin and simply detaching it would be enough to remove it. But the tracer was in pieces and destroyed in fragments, not intact to be considered stepped on, and then the blood—conclusion: they shot it with a bullet out of his hand once they discovered him a spy and escaped—yes, that's how they would react."

"And Mycroft?" it was a tentative question.

"They shot his hand because he's a spy. What more when they realized all their operations had been impeded by him?"

John did not dare break the silence that followed with his own conclusion forming of Mycroft's fate. He silently dashed after Sherlock who had ducked inside what appeared to be a narrow opening, leading into a cave-like place with low lamps and ceiling that lit a large room inside. Dozens and dozens of blankets were on the floor with some officers still investigating at every corner with masks on their faces. The doctor had to clamp his hand on his mouth and nose once he ducked inside for the cloud of smoke was great and the strong smell of cigarette, nicotine and other drugs was still hanging in the air. Not only that but the apparent compost on the floor, plastics, syringes, and more plastics mixed with human waste. John did not mind the stench as he was already exposed to a more notorious aroma, courtesy of his flat mate and his horrid artificial FART. He was amazed by Sherlock however, at how easy and acquainted he was with the place despite the drastic change—then remembered it was not a good thing. The toxic fumes became unbearable at one point when Sherlock lead him to a room full of empty bunkers except the shadow of police coming out of the opposite door.

"In here, sir." Called another agent, nodding at Agent Wood who was just behind the doctor. John let him pass through and whispered behind his best friend as they followed—

"Mycroft infiltrated this place?"

"Queen and country." Sherlock replied quietly without turning, "He's a real busy body when it comes to saving anyone from the family. Alas, it seems like they could do nothing to save him this time. Typical."

"We'll find him."

"Dead or alive?"

"It isn't funny."

"Truth is never. I'll suffice in hunting down his murderers; he wouldn't like that, of course, but I never listened to him alive, what difference does it make?" Sherlock made a face, "And they said vengeance is sweet. Imagine me invading Mexico. All the fun it would be. I honestly don't think you should come—"

"You're already planning ahead." John shook his head in exasperation.

"When did I never?"

"Can we just concentrate in finding your brother alive first, forgodsake—!"

"Mmm…told you the probability of that, John, will be disappointing."

"No, but really…" The doctor hesitated, his frustration at his friend's denial becoming more evident as they get closer to their destination. And yes—it was obvious Sherlock was in denial—no matter how much he denied it! What more of what they will find inside. John fretted to think of the impending disaster because he knows his friend more than Sherlock knows himself. It will be a mess because despite all odds, and of Sherlock Holmes being known as a 'heartless machine', as what Agent Wood seemed to point out in the silence of the car, John Watson knew better. John knew Sherlock and he was much better. So he asked the question—

"Do you really think he's dead?"

There was a short pause from his best friend as he stopped just outside the door of the next room. The doctor spied in his eyes that pensive look he would see when he was concentrating. He prayed there was something in his mind palace that could solve even this tragic case. Then in a very low voice, Sherlock replied. "I don't know… until I see a body."

John did not know whether to be happy or distraught so bracing himself, he followed Sherlock into the square room with nothing except a single light bulb on their heads. It was an empty room with only three agents, him and Sherlock ambling about.

"Nothing." John breathed a sigh of relief but not before seeing his friend move forward and knelt on the ground.

"Nothing you can see." Sherlock said as he took out his peering glass down the floor in all fours. John was on him at once while the Agents were speaking around them.

"Did you find anything?" Agent Wood was looking down at Sherlock while his men, in their dirty whitegloves, and notebook shook their heads.

"There are blood traces in the room, that's where we found the tracer and a bullet." He indicated the spot where the consulting detective was kneeling, and John saw red smears and spots which was probably Mycroft's blood. From the corner he spotted a shrapnel of a bullet, already encircled with chalk as police evidence. It made him press his lips again and knelt straight, eyes on the agents. "We also found traces leading to the backdoor," he pointed at the wall and the doctor saw that concealed on the same gray color was an actual door leading to a dark passage. "That goes straight to the backdoor, aside from the skid marks and blood, we didn't find anything else."

Sherlock stood up without a word, putting his lens inside his coat. John watched him and when he saw no reaction, he had to look down the ground again into the smear of dried blood, his best friend's possible line of thought clear: If they killed Mycroft on the spot there'd be a body and more blood… he heaved a sigh.

"But what of Mr. Holmes?" Agent Wood asked as his two men lead him to the door.

"No sign of him sir," the agent responded quietly, "The tracer's gone and all we have are the cameras surrounding the street. Our agents are retrieving them for possible clues. We're doing our best to track them down."

John expected Sherlock to cut him, but he didn't. Without a word, they followed the men into the passage, John following his friend. If the trace of blood stopped at that door, then how else were they going to find Mycroft? Is Mycroft going to be one of those bodies dumped on Thames? Or disappear forever without a trace? John could not help stealing a glance at his friend knowing full well that deep within his mind palace, Sherlock was firm with his conclusion and this was making his face and his heart set so coldly, because if it was so, there was nothing that could be undone. John looked behind him.

Maybe Mycroft was indeed…

He looked back, only to realize that Sherlock was not following behind him but was still standing at the threshold, examining the wall leveled with his waist. John stopped walking as he saw the consulting detective touch and trace the wall with his finger, paused as he raised his hand—then his eyes widened as he shouted out loud—

"I need lights!"

John was the first person beside him with the torch of his cellphone on—

He saw blood on his best friend's finger and automatically set the torch light on the wall—it revealed a long line of blood in one stroke and as John followed it, he saw the line go up and track down twice and then formed a shape of u before ending there. Greatly bewildered, he turned to his friend as the agents ran towards them and saw that Sherlock's eyes were glinting with interest.

"Interesting, brother, really interesting." He breathed as the agents halted behind them.

"Lights!" Agent Wood called and minutes later they were all facing the wall with the strange looping cursive line like a signature. For the first time in his life, John knew what the code was called, but its equivalent in meaning was lost to him. To naked eyes who was not familiar of it, it may appear only as gabble—a simple marking of a hand leaning for support—but not for them. It was something he as a medical doctor had encountered in university as a prerequisite course, and something he often used when writing down prescriptions, or even jotting down note of Sherlock's new adventure. It was as common as breathing to him—to them English men— or those under the course of journalism—

"Short handwriting." Said the Agent behind them whom John never really recalled having asked the name. But it was true, the long red line on the wall as a form of shorthand writing— a type of symbolic speed writing that compresses the language, intertwined letters to form words without using the common alphabet. Much more than a code, it was a method to make listing on note pads quicker especially when you are a news reporter. John, living with Sherlock, had master the art with his flat mate's quick and often sporadic speeches.

"You think Mycroft…" John whispered, thinking of the man with a hole in his hand leaving such a discreet message right after getting shot. He turned to Sherlock, expecting him to at least show any sign of concern at his brother's exertion, but he only gave a curt nod.

"To the last touch." he said shortly, and John was left to think alone of the horrendous situation Mycroft found himself in.

"But it's…" Agent Wood now went on as he too understood the problem John had encountered. "It makes no sense." He looked at them with a deep frown, "I'm an expert on code and shorthand is easy as breathing to me but this is not recognizable of the Gregg's or Pitman's system. It's not even Tironian's which is one of the oldest and it's Latin! Which makes me doubt if this is not a mere smear on the wall…"

"It's not." Sherlock took the center stage with eyes not leaving the mark, "It's nothing you know because it's my brother's own developed system." He glanced at them quietly. "I can read it. It's very simple and I know it's really him. He even left his name on the word." A glimmer of hope lit not only John's face but also the others as Sherlock looked back at the wall. "Holdcroft. It says 'Holdcroft'."

A dawning comprehension hit the agents' faces and no sooner, the other agent was already on his phone and running to the back door with urgency finally expected of the Secret Service. Agent Wood was left to explain at the questioning stare from the doctor and the silent consulting detective.

"Operation Holdcroft* is a joint effort to share intelligence of the Metropolitan police, British Transport police and other police forces in major perimeter of the capital like Kent, Hampshire, Surrey, Sussex, Thames Valley, Westfield, East End, Harlow to round up all the gangs, members, dealers against drug trafficking. The last time the Metropolitan did it, they've gotten 74 arrests from Hackney, Brent, and Newham alone."

"They?" asked John.

"MI6 does not get involve with the actual operation but the supply of intelligence. Mr. Holmes was particular with that. He has noted the increase of drug trafficking in the country and is, with all effort, fighting alongside the local authorities. Ever since Operation Holdcroft and *Operation Jupiter, there's been a slight vary in the scale in favor of us. Having Operation Holdcroft activated again means MI6 is open to give classified information to the Metropolitan and assist them in every way possible and vice versa since the hunt for Mr. Holmes need all the aid we can get. With El Pla Za among us, I believe it is the right decision."

"Yes, that's all very good operations—but what about Mycroft?" John steered the conversation back in the present, aware that Sherlock had lost interest a long while ago and was staring at the blood message again.

"We are already checking all the CCTV footage," Agent Wood answered with a nod, "There are total of six cameras surrounding the perimeter of the roads and intersection—we'll get them."

When nobody replied, Agent Wood excused himself to attend to his other men still searching the back street for clues. John heaved a long sigh and turned to his ever-quiet friend.

"He says they'll get them." He repeated quietly as if Sherlock did not hear.

"Yes, which means another five years before an actual resolution, no. I don't think we should prolong my brother's agony."

"You have another clue to follow?"

Sherlock raised his hand and John saw a stub of cigarette on his hand. His eyebrows furrowed, the doctor took the stub and studied it and saw nothing—which was apparently not the same for the consulting detective. He returned it to his friend.

"Mycroft's touch you said." He said in awe as he looked at the wall again. "Leaving clues here and there… something only you could read. It's as if he's counting on you to come." He gave Sherlock a pointed look to which the man nodded.

"To gloat." Sherlock said, mildly touched, "To show off his last hold of power. If you put it simply… a dying message."

"Sherlock—"

"Pretending he's not dead is a terrible inconvenience—"

"You said until we see a body!" the two glared at each other but then—

"Mr. Holmes! Doctor Watson!" Agent Wood suddenly yelled from the backdoor, "A dead body's been found!"

John was last to react and the second he realized this, Sherlock was already sprinting ahead of him and had disappeared out of the door in speed of light. The doctor ran after him feeling nonplussed and uncertain, as if walking into a hazy space—seeing Sherlock's back disappear in a slow motion—

Mycroft—?

Before he knew it, he was outside the door, turning to his left to find the group huddled close to a toppled steel dumpster with black trash bags inside and then— a stiff. John hurried towards Sherlock who was already turning the body with both hands— John's heart stopped as he halted his steps, eyes transfixed at his friend who did not move a muscle and waited for the inevitable. Sherlock then stood up, his face was very pale.

All sound seemed to vanish in the air—

"It's not him." Sherlock gibbered abruptly, with difficulty in gulping as his Adam's apple uncertain whether to stay up or down, "Uh… not him…" he repeated, his wide eyes meeting the doctor's, who understood.

"Then who?"

"It's… uh, it's Big D… one of the care taker of the cartel."

John looked down the dead body, which was massive in size, his bloody face did not cover his open eyes, staring into the sky blankly. His mouth was open in what seemed to be his last scream. A bullet hole was on his head.

"Who killed him?" Agent Wood said out loud while his men cleared up the body and Sherlock and John remained rooted on the spot. "You think your brother—?"

"No." Sherlock shook his head at once, eyes darting to the dead body being covered on the ground, "Or we wouldn't have found it hidden in the container. No, this is a work of at least three other men. My brother did not, and could not possibly carry such a heavy man… and could not escape their clutches."

"Why kill him?" John was finally able to let out a sigh that was stuck in his stomach for a while. That was when his friend's glinting eyes found him again that made the doctor feel apprehensive, not for himself, but for the captured Holmes.

"Mistake." Sherlock said vaguely, his eyes darkening even more, "Their plans were thwarted. Someone ought to pay."

John did not think it possible for his heart to sink any further. As it did, John saw something move at the corner of his eyes. Looking at the end of the street, he saw a thin form of a man limping away into a narrow alley way.

"Hey!"


It was all too blurry to remember, but he did. The pain, the noise and the struggle. His right hand bleeding, damaged, immovable, numb in all aspects—useless. He was humored by the cuffs he was in.

Mycroft's head throbbed terribly as it was once again hit with the butt of a gun; now it was scorching by the minute. Still he commanded himself to breathe with ease, to take matters into the mind much more than his physical condition. He was never lacking in concentration and so was able to put at bay half the excruciating pain.

Did he think he would survive? Not in the least.

It would even be unthinkable. He was already preparing for the worst like his initial captor, who upon meeting El Pla Za's men and explaining what happened, was shot in the head near the dumpster while the other young man escaped. If a twinge of unease hit him, he adamantly pushed it aside as the gun was next pointed to himself.

To death then.

But then he was inconveniently thrusted inside the car to wherever they planned to bury him. Or maybe was going to be tortured and get blamed for everything. He pitied how scared they were with this boss. Still, Mycroft was heedless to all their demands and the next thing he knew, he was hit in the head and blacked out.

Why was it always the head?

When Mycroft came to, he realized he was still inside a moving car. The same car. Sun struck the heavily tinted glass and he saw the car itself passed by Big Ben. Blinking in confusion with his throat on fire, his head still pounding, the British Government Head felt something heavy was leaning against his shoulder. Turning behind him, it took all him everything he's got left not to jump back—for there behind him, with mouth open, dead as a doornail, were his two captors who put him in the same car.

The words murder, gunshot, point blank range all crisscrossed in his mind, his stomach clenched at all the blood and guts— until he realized was someone else was there with him in the car—someone alive and smoking cigar—

Mycroft turned his head and saw El Pla Za; he was everything his profile described—his old, square, tanned face, and short, dark hair, the long scar across the bridge of his nose, his red, dark eyes that knew no fear, his large nose to his large mouth—and all the other ailments, habits, and bloodlust Mycroft could read. It made him sat rigidly, especially when he saw the man playing with a gun on his hand.

"I heard you cracked my code." Plaza said simply, eyes haunting, his voice deeply Mexican accented. "Really smart. I'm impressed."

"If… you call that a code." Mycroft said, unable to contain himself. It earned a nasty curving of displeased lips.

"Five hundred men and two billion pounds. You know you owe me?" he played with the gun still.

Mycroft's eyes flashed. "You are in the soil of my country, I owe you nothing."

"You a British spy?"

"What else would I be to you?"

Plaza gave a grin, but his eyes were ever dangerously sparkling, "I heard British men are loyal to their Queen to a fault."

"Something I cannot say the same with you." Mycroft glanced at the bodies beside him, and glared back at his enemy, "These are your men… you killed them."

"They are idiots who costed me billions. What's a hundred men if all of them have no brain? I respect intelligence— something too rare in my country—and the way they told me how you did your job… I think I underestimated the British spies."

"That's your mistake. This country will never bow down to your terrorism. And be assured, even when you kill me—a wind so strong from the East will destroy you." Mycroft said proudly; he was already resigned to his fate and unconcerned if it was sooner or later. And he was so confident of his brother—he didn't realize how much he was relying on Sherlock with this—

His defiance, however, seemed to have a different result with the notorious murderer. Plaza was grinning again and the British Government Head was confused at the idle chat. "Well? What are you waiting for? You're not planning to make me your new friend, are you?"

"On the contrary," El Pla Za's voice boomed with a chuckle, his eyes were nowhere near friendly. "I think we are going to be inseparable. I have a proposal to make." He pointed the gun at Mycroft who did not even blink, already making a choice with chin high—

"Queen and country."


*ToBeContinued*

A/N: I overdid it, didn't I? -.- very looonggg indeed!

Three more chapters tops! Maybe we can even finish before 2018!

Sad there's no new Sherlock T_T

Thanks for reading! ^_^

~W.G~