*Brother's Opium War*

by: WhiteGloves

THE WAR IS ON! This is a real treasure cove XD

Merry Christmas to all!

Thanks for reading :)


Four: The Late Brother


Sharp sounds of door closing and opening and closing again filled the air.

"Sherlock… you're opening all the mortuary cabinet…"

"So?"

"You said you're only supposed to look for the bodies brought only today…" Molly Hooper crossed her arms but the affectionate expression did not leave her face, "Those bodies are from three days ago."

"Mmm." Sherlock closed another door with a sharp click, then opened the last one in the row and saw white hair of a woman and closed it again sharply before turning to the mortician. "You're a specialist registrar for corpses, the only one here and with a busy schedule with bodies raining every day it is quite possible for you to commit mistake—for example that body over there on the table has been tagged yesterday's date but I could swear I just saw him leave his car this morning. How's that possible?"

Molly looked behind her to the corpse without any tag and turned back to the consulting detective only to realized he had flown to another set of mortuary cabinet and opening them one by one. She sighed in strode beside him with hands on her pocket, fishing for her phone.

"Just who're you looking for?"

"My brother." He said simply that made the lady blink several times—

"Y-your brother? You mean the government employee?"

"Technically he employs everybody but, yes, him."

"You mean he's dead?"

"Possibly. That's why I'm looking for evidence. Without solid evidence the mind tends to wander, even turn stagnant and rebellious, that is the worst for mental faculties. Other human population would have succumbed to despair base on observation but that is because they cared so much. The disadvantage of your fragile hearts, always on display— like accidentally burning your finger, screaming around and forgetting to turn to ice. And shut up, John!" the detective banged the last cabinet door before flying to another cabinet. Molly looked around and saw no John, then remembered Sherlock's habit of talking to himself without John.

"Where's John?" she asked, now looking concerned as she took her mobile out and dialed the doctor.

"With the other employed agents of my late brother, interrogating an injured criminal with all the forces in Britain." He chuckled shortly. "Surprise me when it can actually change anything."

"John, it's Molly." The mortician turned around with her mobile on her ear, "Its Sherlock—"

"You mean he's there?"

Sherlock tugged the phone out of Molly's hand and heard his friend— "Of course, I'm here, I told you I'll be here." He heard John sigh on the other end.

"Whoever you were talking to at that time—it wasn't me."

"Of course, it was, I called him John."

"You call my armchair 'John'."

"How's the interrogation of your suspect?" Sherlock asked sarcastically, moving about and away from Molly who went about to close the other cabinet doors the consulting detective left behind. "Helpful?"

"No, he just knows what we already know. Other than that he's not much of an accomplice. And he's a kid."

"Shame, really." He turned his cold eyes to the next cabinet and opened an empty one. Sherlock stared at it, not moving. "I could have been there to hear everything. Maybe even hit him with a riding crop to make him retell how they got shot by Plaza's men, escaped to the alleys, heard the police come but because he was shot, he hid on the dumpsters and watched as we uncovered his ally."

"Did you also deduce he's got Mycroft's phone and fake ID's?"

Sherlock paused, his eyes flickering for a second. Mycroft was not one to bring his own personal gadget in any undercover assignment. If he does it would be a decoy, filled with information he was in character with. In short, it was all useless.

"Throw it at his face, it might be useful that way." Sherlock suggested, feeling his own mobile ring on his chest. "Better yet, you help me find his body, as I am dutifully doing here in the morgue. Now tell the agents have a busy day finding empty cars by the road or car parks, they might be surprised what's hidden in the trunk."

"Sherlock— Mycroft's not—"

Sherlock hung up irritably and answered the call on his mobile—

"What?" he snapped.

"Sherlock?"

The consulting detective's eyes widened as he recognized the voice. It was barely a whisper, even urgently done so, crisp and ready to give an order but it was him. In the voice. Sherlock blinked several times before looking away from the empty mortuary cabinet and closing it with a loud snap.

"Hello, brother. Funny, you're not dead."


It was a 9mm gun in a silencer, obviously. The bullet that travelled 900mph ricocheted because his hand was planted on the floor when his wrist was grudgingly stepped on once identified as a spy, so it didn't go through. But the pain was real; the piercing cry he let out as the bullet pierced him was real as the blood that splattered the ground. It shuddered his whole body, burned his insides and shook his every sense to the core.

And worse was yet to come.

With feebleness, he held on to consciousness and felt himself get dragged up. He could still see the sole markings of his attacker on his wrist and feel the overwhelming pain that nearly made him past out if not for his mental faculties that prevented him from falling into shock. He was tormented by the pain, but his mind was as steel as he trained it to be. Plans flashed before his eyes and as he knew how things would turn out, he managed to leave discreet markings on the wall in his own blood before letting himself get hauled out of the building. Sherlock will certainly have a field day, he thought,

Then more swift gunshots in the air, and the real first body hit the ground. Then bodies just keep adding up with the trail he left behind, and he wondered… when was his body going to be piled above the others?

Soon.

Eventually, he was faced with the mastermind of it all: El Pla Za. Mycroft knew all about him from one glance— his bloodshot eyes caused by his insomnia, anorexia and eyesight degradation; the ghastly sight of his skin disease—clearly dermatosis— he'd been battling five to six years approximately. His sagging skin despite his bulk, his loose dress—loss of appetite and his uneven breathing, a cardiovascular condition, despite his aggressive talk all points to one bad habit of amphetamine abuse. Not to mention his age. The man was supposed to be in mid-40's in his profile now looked like in his late 50's. Premature ageing. Amphetamine does that to you.

He didn't have to point it all out as he observed this. Unlike his younger brother, he does not enjoy seeing people easily amused by such a simple play—it was tiresome. Sherlock, on the other hand, loses no time in bragging and would point out even a person's last meal. El Plaza had oyster before meeting him but that wouldn't make much of a conversation when two men were dead beside him and a gun was pointed on his face.

Mycroft welcomed it above everything. He always knew—

But then the Los Zetas leader offered a very crucial proposal that meant life and death. Nothing unusual—just some conspiring remarks all Secret Service agents are well oriented and Mycroft did not miss the opportunity to recite the three words he himself wrote on the MI6 bylaws.

"Queen and country."

The man shook his head. "Respuesta equivocada."

El Plaza pulled the trigger with a silencer—and Mycroft was left to deal with him shooting nonstop the already dead bodies of his henchmen till carpet floor turned dark with their blood, their skins and guts flying everywhere—even spattered on his cheeks— Mycroft bit his lower lip and looked away, feeling terribly nauseous at the inhuman activity. He clasped closed his fists so tight it numbed the injured one more. For brief seconds he wondered if he was shot, and wondered if his body would end the same with those empty shells beside him.

But it was obvious what El Plaza was doing. He was a cunning man, that was certain. He was instilling the most important psychological trauma to a hostage—fear. Mycroft does not fear him; if anything he was disgusted by the Mexican to the point of wanting nothing to do with him even if he dies.

The shooting stopped. Mycroft slowly looked down the carpet floor now soaked in blood… on to the red eyes of his imprisoner. With a manic grin, El Plaza put his gun beside him and feasted his eyes on his art beside Mycroft. The British Government Head refrained from closing his eyes and glared— for doing otherwise would show his nemesis that he had won. It was all a mind game and Mycroft never intended to lose… no matter the body count.

Then El Plaza stared at him and inclined his head a little.

"That should give you time to rethink. But you must know, I am not a very patient man."

Mycroft did not reply because he knew how his answer would affect not him but whoever else would be unlucky enough to be around; had he told El Plaza that shooting the dead was hardly any damage—knowing the man's temperament— the older Holmes was moved to think of the innocent bystanders that would be the receiving end of his gun.

This was not mere abduction but terrorism.

Few minutes later he found himself covered with a black bag thrown on his head; he was dragged off the car by the driver once it stopped in Westminster London, inside an underground parking space— possibly a hotel— Mycroft cursed himself for missing out the spot because he was distracted during the ride. Like having dead bodies beside him for target practice shooting not disturbing enough. The car door opened and large hands pulled him from the inside of the car.

He was thrown in a room with carpeted floor after the arduous 110 steps— aside from the pain as his feet kept hitting the metal stairs— of the fire exit. He then knew they were at the tenth floor, in the fourth room to the left. There he was tied in a chair from his waist to his shoulders. When the black bag was remove, he found himself facing the windows with curtains drawn. El Pla Za was nowhere in sight. This gave Mycroft time to assess the situation till he remembered there were human skin all over his suit. He closed his eyes in silence and tried to concentrate on other information—

Everything about him was aching from his sore feet to his thumping head… well, that's hardly helpful.

He saw the Elizabeth tower on his left not five minutes ago which means at central London—a hotel at central London directly surrounding the tower— at Westminster—could be the Rochester Hotel, The Grand, The Strand Palace—

It was terribly itchy and screaming to be washed… Mycroft sighed at his plight. He half opened his eyes to stare at his pitiable, spoiled right hand. His arms were not tied on the armchair and he saw it in full view after getting shot. The bullet may have ricocheted for all the momentum and created a cavity right there on his palm.

Ruptured skin… crushed soft tissues reaching midpalmar space… damaged blood vessels on the palmar fascia, infections noted on the discoloration and swelling. Already immovable. Possible bone fractures in the phalanx… bone instability… if unattended for much long it will affect the ulna and then the damage will have long lasting effect, even irreparable. Then the blood loss… He couldn't close his hand anymore.

If he'd live long enough to actually worry about its irreparability, that is.

The British Government Head distracted himself by looking around him with furrowed and sweaty brows; he then made a mental note to enter all hotels in the city to recognize them when he sees them. This one was not familiar with only a table in the middle like an office less with the sofa and the paintings on the blue wall. He was around Westminster, if he could only see the outside of that window—

Just then the door was opened and the Los Zetas leader in London appeared in all intent, carrying a black folder in his hand. Mycroft watched him warily, spotting three, four to five bulging of armed guns hidden in his suit—two on both sides of waist, one at his backside, one on his chest pocket and a derringer on his right ankle. With all the weapons, Mycroft wondered if he should tell him how terminally ill he is.

El Plaza turned to him in all business-like tone, as if already explaining to a comrade—

"I intend to leave London as soon as my last transaction is done. A private jet. You have no problems with jet?"

Mycroft did not miss the meaning and clenched his jaw. "Go to hell."

"How much do you know for a spy?" He was ignored.

"Not enough to satisfy you." Mycroft said slowly as he followed him with his eyes till he stopped by the table.

El Plaza smirked with a glance at him, "But you crack codes. That is all the important thing. Todo lo demas sigue. And if you continue looking at me like that, you might lose an eyeball. I only need a good eye for my code."

Mycroft shook his head unfeelingly. "I do not plan to help you in anyway, you might as well remove both my eyes, but my answer will be the same." With Sherlock's best tone he added in Spanish that was too easy for him, "Vete a la mierda."

The Mexican stared at him with his mouth twitching, not looking pleased. A beat passed then he threw the folder on the table and sat down behind it with an ominous expression.

"You don't understand the situation you are in. Your very life is in my hands."

"And you don't seem to understand my response; I won't be manipulated, so what is delaying your threat?" Mycroft gritted his teeth.

El Plaza's eyes narrowed. "I thought I am speaking to a smart man?"

"And I to a Los Zetas leader with reputation that precedes him?" the older Holmes raised an eyebrow, "Shoot first and question later?" Playing threatening words was no stranger to him; Mycroft has his caliber. He just hoped it would be quick and not what he was seeing ahead of him. Pain.

El Plaza looked enraged for a second, but he was able to calm himself down. Mycroft saw the change in his expression, from pure rage, to calm—then sudden delight presented by the smirk that appeared on his darkened face. He put his fingers together carefully and surveyed the older Holmes. Mycroft sensed something sinister was to come.

"I can be very persuasive, you know."

"I don't plan to be persuaded."

El Plaza nodded. "You have a steel mind, maybe you are prepared for death."

Mycroft remained unmoved. The drug cartel leader leaned back on his chair, eyes boring on his captive.

"So how do we paint this room red? Who do you want it to be?" he asked next, gesturing towards the door, "The bell boy? The maid? The manager? Name it." He leaned forward as Mycroft gaped at him in alarm, "Or is it the single parent, a woman with three children occupying the room at the right wing? Or the senior citizen just below this one?"

Mycroft's lips thinned as he saw the unavoidable checkmate. Plaza seemed to read his mind and smirked again.

"You see, I know your kind. People like you who like to sacrifice themselves for their country—el martirchanges their mind when civilians are involved, todos son la misma raza. The first to jump to death, but unwilling to comprise with their fellow countrymen. This pattern is too common for me. So who would it be?"

Silence fell in the room, leaving Mycroft to close his eyes once and heaved in some air. A man who knows how to play is a worthy candidate for such a large organization, he had to give him that. His ultimate silence seemed to finally ring an answer as El Plaza gathered his black folder on the table again.

"Now I got your attention, do you have a name, agent?"

Mycroft hesitated, then gave a dry reply. "William."

"William? Do all of you British men follow your monarchy names to the last will?" he grunted, "In my country, Hispanic names are taken because of España that conquered and colonized my country for more than a millennium. Of course, you do not know it— you ignorant Europeans know nothing of other history aside from your Queen."

"Actually," Mycroft interrupted before he could stop himself again for that kind of insult was something he could never let pass, "You do not need to exaggerate. Three hundred years colonization was all there is, same with Philippines. Your country was colonized during Spain's reign of power, in case you were misinformed, from the 16th century. Before that your nation was widely known as a pre-Columbian nation and was founded Mexico-Tenochtitlan in 325 as an altepetl state with a strong Mexica empire expanding 15th century. In relation to names, it is hardly a secret; that your moniker— El Plaza— translated as The Plaza refers to the fact that you are a fieldworker and hands on to your every transaction is obvious; that the infamous drug cartel Los Zetas founded their name from the idealism of the la ultima letra, which means the final letter Z in Spanish is no secret either. That the 'Z-1' who founded your organization—let's be discreet to mention his name, former Governor Herrera— was said to influence most of the major cities in Mexico by the letter Z in all the names of the major states such as Veracruz, Orizaba, Xalapa-Enriquez, Coatzacoalcos, Aculztingo, Cidudad Mendoza, Zongolica and many others did not come unnoticeable to me. So pardon me for being an ignorant European who also happens to know your real name."

El Plaza's reaction was something Sherlock would enjoy. Mycroft soon was rewarded by a dumbstruck expression, his bloodshot eyes seem to bulge out of their sockets, his violet lips opened and dropped a centimeter, his shoulders sagged, but his stare was of pure interest.

When the Mexican found his voice, Mycroft was still just glad to put him in his place.

"So… you're really one of those agents who's really at the top of their game, eh, William?" he maneuvered out of his chair, carrying his black folder and sat down in front of the table instead, so that he and Mycroft were almost face to face. Nothing in between them. "All brains and skills. I believe in genius, I really do. My late brother was one and he's giving me trouble now. I've taken five CIA agents and three secret intelligence from other countries just to crack my code and like you—they're all at the top of their game but no one could really give me an answer. I think maybe it is because they have no knowledge of my country's past which is essential. But you… I think this time I took the right man. This could be all the difference."

Mycroft curt his eyebrows at the meaning of his words but remained quiet. El Plaza took his time, smiling to himself and just staring at him it made the British Government Head uncomfortable. Then finally, the Mexican began—

"You no doubt know the origin of my country? You know of the Aztecs?"

Of course he does but he did not say so. In 1325, the Aztecs were the fist settlers in what was now called the Northern Mexico. They built The Aztec Empire before getting conquered by Spain. El Plaza took his silence as a yes and went on—

"There's a myth that goes along the line of our ancestry of the Aztecs in Mexico. It was said that when the Aztecs were looking for an ideal place to build a new city, the Aztec god told them to find a place where there would be an eagle, carrying a snake that lands on a nopal. As the prophecy would have it, they found the exact image of an eagle with a snake on a cactus in a huge swampy area and there they built their nation. The Tenochtitlan capital." He smiled to himself, "That's what my brother used to tell me as the history of his favorite Mexican figure. Then years later, came the Spaniards in the name of Hernán Cortés. The Tenochtitlan emperor, Montezuma II accepted his guest and offered Cortés gold and silver in the hopes that the Spaniard would leave them in peace. But knowing the Spaniards greed for power and authority, they ransacked the city of its treasure and killed its inhabitants. Brutally. Montezuma was killed and the Aztecs rose in rebellion. The Spaniard fools fled in terror, carrying with them all the stolen treasure which they were forced to dump in the waters of Lake Texcoco. A year later Cortés returned to conquer Tenochtitlan for good but the treasure was lost. Ultimately now known—"

"Montezuma's treasure." Mycroft finished for him, his mind working at the end of the story telling. Montezuma's treasure was listed as one of the *Six Famous Missing Treasures of the World. With a flat stare, he said, "You are telling me this… because you believe your code can uncover the lost Montezuma's treasure?"

"Oh, it has been retrieved." The Mexican man opened his folder, "Descendants of the Aztecs passed down details of how it was taken with Montezuma's exhumed corpse and brought it to Utah. It was lost in history forever until I and my brother traced it and was able to take possession of it. Wealth like that needs to be returned to my country." He smiled at Mycroft's impassive face. "You don't look excited."

Because something dark has indeed dawned on the British Government Head.

"I can't help but notice…" Mycroft was very careful in each word, "A treasure between brothers… and you mentioned late brother…"

El Plaza's face darkened despite the smile on his lips. "You truly are observant. But yes. I killed my brother." Mycroft said no more as the Mexican continued, "Like the Spaniards, he became possessed with greed, so I had to kill him before he gets to me. The fool. My only mistake was killing him before realizing he did not keep the treasure in his mansion but put it somewhere only the Aztec god knows. And now I'm only left with his code to know the exact location. I have scoured all his hidden mansions and cartels but found nothing. My only resort is to find someone with expertise on code breaking. I kidnapped more than you could imagine for this. Let's hope you really are better than you care to think."

He walked towards Mycroft who saw his every step full of menace. Of course, he knew the man had kidnapped plenty of people for his benefit. It was a thread among the Zetas—to take in whoever they want to—kidnapping of Mexican civilian was a common practice as show of power while the authorities' neglect and turn a blind eye. Engineers, doctors, slaves—it was all Los Zetas' account.

To think he would someday fall in their hands was simply… awful.

The Black folder was handed to him and the British Government Head took it using his uninjured left. There was only a photo inside— A4 in size and colorfully showing a dead, bloody hand and then a piece of note beside it. The note had numbers—which Mycroft assumed was the code and it read—

5.44770+

Veracruz

Mycroft frowned, and then felt El Plaza walked behind him, grappled a fist full of his right shoulder and clasped it so tight to the point of pain; he felt the strain reach his already incapacitated right hand and let a soft hiss escape his lips.

"You can crack that, can't you?"

Mycroft tried to pull his shoulder away to no avail. With gritted teeth, he raised his chin and muttered—

"Everything takes time."

There was a knock on the door and another man in suspicious black suit motioned for his master. El Plaza straightened and tap Mycroft's shoulder one last time.

"Yours do not." He said and left the room with his cellphone on his hand, leaving the British Government Head time to bow his head, curse his burning hand and look around the room again. He let silence filled him, let air enter his lungs and blink several times before turning to the folder on his hand which he had cracked at single glance.

Best nobody knows where it is for the time being. He let the folder fall down the floor and then concentrated on the sleeve of his left hand. With effort, he shook it. He was bound tightly on the chair from waist to shoulder, so it took an amount of effort before he could slide that object hidden by his left cuff.

A mobile phone slid out of it. A bloody mobile phone. Literally.

Mycroft raised his eyes on the doorway, before turning the mobile on. He remembered well how he found it lying there in front of his shoe from the dead body beside him. Plaza entertained himself by shooting the dead bodies while Mycroft inconspicuously stepped on the mobile and retrieved it when the black bag was thrown on his head. He didn't know what happened to the bodies but he was sure they were burned somewhere. Whether anyone noticed the missing mobile phone, Mycroft wouldn't know. They did not search him a second time after all. There was a passcode but it was trivial, the number of times he saw the man type it—by listening intently on each note it made and the movement of his finger—was all he needed.

Access granted.

He raised his eyes to the door again, and then browsed the dead man's inbox.

What he found was worth the trouble of reaching this point of the laborious journey. Determined to put everything to a stop, he then dialed the number of his most destructive asset, because that's what his brother really is and right now that was what Mycroft wanted to happen in this organization—to have Sherlock Holmes fall in their path towards destruction.

He had to turn on speaker for he could not put it on his ear. His brother's phone rang once, twice, thrice.

Obviously his brother was having fun making him wait.

"What?" came the snap answer anyone who ever called him probably received on daily calls. Meaning, him.

"Sherlock." Mycroft said with some urgency as he looked at the doorway again with the volume low. There was a short pause, and his brother in a bored tone replied—

"Hello, brother. Funny you're not dead."

"Sorry to disappoint," Mycroft raised both eyebrows, "but not for long, I suppose. I'm just cutting your fun short and give you some real data since all of you would likely to be dancing without appropriate steps by now."

"Where are you?"

"Somewhere in Westminster but I couldn't be sure, I'm all tied up."

"Ahh… that's pathetic, isn't it?"

"Don't start now, I'm in a hurry. Apparently, another transaction is on going as we speak and it's big, Sherlock. Really big. It involves all states in England and all done through email. But I've found their locations fine using this phone I snatched from a corpse. It has very intricate details. You'll be sorry to find I found your biggest supplier of cocaine, brother that would result in the absence of the drug in this country for half a year, I estimate. You'd have no problem identifying them too if you use the Cartesian square. I'm sending you all the coordinates. Time is of the essence, they are doing it simultaneously again at 13:45. In short now."

"Do they never learn of doing simultaneous transactions one after another?"

"With a big catch not long ago, they'll probably thinking the police would be so occupied with the number of drugs they already gathered. Besides, El Plaza is no ordinary scoundrel. He can think."

"How is he so far?"

"Everything we ever believed him to be."

"I'm sending it to your agent—why didn't you send it to your agent?"

"Because I'm bullying you to it—why do you think I sent it?" Mycroft sighed quietly, suddenly remembering how dehydrated he was. "This could be my last phone call and you still never think, brothermine. It's like hitting two birds with one stone, I don't have the leisure to phone call everybody just to say goodbye. But then that would mean three phone calls only, wouldn't it?"

A ringing silence filled the other end and Mycroft wondered if he was still connected. "Sherlock?"

"You don't think you'll survive?"

"We both don't think I'll survive. Even you found it amusing. You've been busy trying to find me in the morgue. You were at the morgue, weren't you? I thought I heard Ms. Hooper's voice at the background calling to you. Maybe you'll get lucky next time."

"I might. So what's your situation?"

Mycroft looked down his injured hand. "I've lost all the feeling on the artery of my right hand. The blood already clogged, and infection is unavoidable. Amputation necessary by now. Familiar threats here and there and amusing colluding remarks from captors. But I never planned to be persuaded in anyway less I bury myself in shame. Whatever the outcome is, you'll always know I will never betray my country."

"That is all good and shiny dialogues but you know sending these locations—once they find again you've brought down another opium trade you won't be as lucky the second time. This is your own death sentence."

"Again, why do you think I sent it?" He heard Sherlock's impatient clicking of the tongue and wondered briefly why his brother was all worked up. Then something hit him hard as he realized something that made him frown, even smile next at his readings. "Brothermine, are you concerned for—"

A loud honking sound of a lorry was heard from the phone next and Mycroft had to clap his hand down the mobile and raised his eyes, afraid his connection had been compromised. When nobody came in, he turned it over again—

"Are you planning to give me a heart attack?!" Mycroft demanded through gritted teeth, "I am a hostage in case you forgot and I'm on speaker phone since I am unfortunately tied up!"

"What—sorry?" Sherlock's voice was loud, "I crossed the street—you were saying—?"

"You're going to get me killed! And I'm even planning to choose the right hour!"

"Oh, shut up, Mycroft, you're not going die there."

"Watch me."

"I'm hanging up—I can't speak and think and talk and avoid people and cars—hang up—"

"Sherlock?"

"In fifteen minutes I'll call you again so you better put that on silence if you don't want to get discovered. And frankly brother, your men have already received your message and most likely on their way to entrap England drug dealers again, which puts you in a very bad situation, but then use your brains till I come and take you out. That's why you called me, isn't it?"

"No—"

"Hang up—" the line died, leaving Mycroft staring at the mobile for full ten seconds before putting it back on the sleeve of his cuff. To even think that Sherlock would peacefully say goodbye to him was out of the question. Why did he even bother? But Sherlock will find him.

The British Government Head sighed.

Fifteen minutes later something changed in the atmosphere, the same moment that the mobile on Mycroft's phone began ringing. He struggled to get it out of his hand, worried that his brother had gotten himself in trouble, when he saw on the small screen the letter Z in capital letter calling. Mycroft stared at it, then comprehension hit him as he heard the door open.

"I knew it was you."

Mycroft sharply looked up and saw El Pla Za in the open doorway with a dark glow on his eyes.

How late his brother could be?


*ToBeContinued*


Respuesta equivocada- wrong answer

Todo lo demas sigue- everything else follows

Vete a la mierda- fuck off

el martir the martyr


A/N: Operation Holdcroft is actually a real operation by the British Police ;D

I love spotting Mycroft's part name like that xD even if its coincidence ;)

All other information are with sources, i should put the six treasures site here how? XD

Next chapter might be before new year though! And it'll be painful T_T prepare hearts!

Happy Christmas to all!

Thanks for reading! ^_^

~W.G~