*Brother's Opium War*
by: WhiteGloves
It's been a great year ;)
Would be better if there was a Sherlock on sight of 2018!
Thanks for reading :)
Five: The Question
What happens in fifteen minutes?
C019—Britain's SWAT team charged out of their armored van in Liverpool at the Albert Dock, bursting in front of five fishing boats managed by six fishermen who were all at gunpoint and arrested on the spot. Their cargo contained 3,500 kg cocaine worth £410 million and their sentence: life imprisonment. It was the same with three other spots in Canterbury where 900kg worth of cocaine and a dozen men were arrested by swat teams responding to the most reliable source they've ever had in that year. The last was in Las Iguanas Plymouth where 15 tons of cocaine worth £400million was seized, leaving one of the gang's second in command dead and twenty-two others arrested after a fatal shootout that lasted for minutes. Not counting the marked spot in Southern region where the police uncovered a £280 million worth of cocaine and stash of money buried in a backyard inside tonne of cans guarded by a thirty-year-old man.
Sherlock would label these boring; drug busts were never areas he enjoyed. It was too common a case, too human to even be inclined and too pointless for illegal drugs were something mundane, something the world could not exist without—a part of the society that holds a delicate balance—something that will never disappear; and busting it was only like putting a stopper in an already teeming champagne and fighting an already defeated war.
After all, we're all just a bunch of addicts struggling with the drug of our choice.
So it was only ideal that he was charging the opposite end of the line, the line where the mastermind was likely to be hosting. Same line where he was likely to find his brother—dead? Fifteen minutes was the time limit—and fifteen minutes there he was running in the corridor with a gun at hand.
Mycroft wouldn't be happy if he was any later—but clambering the building from the stairwells of the fire exit where he saw clues of the troupe coming from, then infiltrating the CCTV station where he found the tenth floor to be the mark took two minutes of his time—by which he could just picture out his brother's captors, in their rage for getting thwarted once more, giving his only brother a time of his life. He remembered his time in Siberia when he was the one captive and it was Mycroft doing the infiltration. Didn't Mycroft calmly sauntered in the room, sit idly by and watched as his younger brother was beaten to pulp? And yes—Mycroft really did enjoy it, otherwise as a proper brother—or any proper John would do—he'd be raising fists or guns to stop the attacker for all the good it would do. But then the very idea of Mycroft raising his fists was laughable, and him raising a gun was even implausible for his older brother was not one to destroy his own cover just because of an emotional outburst to somebody hurting his kin. Mycroft was not dumb to do that and Sherlock did understand. But when did he ever stop annoying his brother for not acting the dumb brother everyone else has?
That was why he made it a point to come bursting in the room and beat whoever was beating his brother to show Mycroft an example. Unless they've already put a bullet in his head then Mycroft would have to satisfy himself wherever he is as Sherlock still beat the crap out of the enemy and maybe even send him to hell which was a better place.
He was just itching to beat somebody. He just knew he was late.
He reached the tenth floor, run in the corridor—saw the door, raised his gun and without further thought kicked the door open and burst in in all arms— ready for his much-awaited assault and hoping beyond his cynic mind that Mycroft only got a broken nose or arm— only to find the room empty—except for a body situated in the middle of the room in a chair with back towards him, his head leaning very still on his right, unmoving.
Dead.
Sherlock was beside him in an instant, his ears silencing everything. Mycroft was dead—wait—the detective had to double check as he put two fingers on his neck after. It was beating very strongly, even racing. The consulting detective stared at his heaving chest, and realized his brother was only knocked out with a slight wound on his head, he was tied up around the shoulder and waist, his wrists also tied up on the armchair that looked as though it had made a gap on his skin. His already injured hand looked worst but apart from that, he was alive. Not even a broken nose.
"Why are you alive?" Sherlock breathed, his eyes glinting.
The man then turned his back on him to observe the surrounding—a table, drapes closed, no footmarks— blood on the floor? Sherlock was already on all fours at the floor with windows open when his backup came—in the form of John Watson, carrying a small white bag he was clutching tight on his hand. He looked tense, with that gun on his other hand as he came in.
"Sherlock…" he said in between breathes from apparent running, "Greg's just arrived—he called me and—jesus!" the doctor was beside his patient in three strides and was checking his eyes, his pulse and all over his body for any gunshot— when he saw that there was no threatening damage, he proceeded in untying his wrists. "Mycroft? Mycroft? Geez… why didn't you wake him?"
"And risk him talking after his own abduction? I don't think so." Sherlock moved to the table and opened the drawers. "Best leave him at peace, he doesn't look good, does he?"
John was already checking on his swollen hand. It was already white as chalk, every vein seen with the reddening cove in the middle about to turn blue. John checked and timed his pulse again, then rounded behind him to untie the man's ropes then replied, "No."
"Then much better to keep him unaware."
"He could have concussion!"
"He does have concussion, doctor."
John managed to remove all the ropes, put a hand on the man's shoulder and shake him gently. "Mycroft?"
"You really don't want to do that."
The doctor rounded in front of the man, unzipped the white pouch he had been carrying and procured a disinfectant which he avidly poured on a clean linen and onto the man's broken palm. The yellow liquid dissipated a little, but Mycroft remained immobile that made the doctor wonder if he would ever wake up.
"Findings?" Sherlock was talking from the corner of the room.
"Concussion and shot palm." John answered flatly while wrapping a clean bandaged on the open wound.
"Couldn't be more obvious."
"What about you?" the doctor shot him a look and found him still by the floor. "What's happened here? Why is no one here? You think they escaped? Sniffed we were coming?"
"Locked room mystery with no suspects…it's a game." Sherlock slowly stood up, eyes critically surveying the surrounding, then to his brother. "Something is not right."
"What?" John blinked expectantly at the man, then felt Mycroft stir on his touch. "Mycroft?" he held his shoulder steady, knowing the man was about to bend and fall on the floor, then watched as the British Government Head opened his eyes wide, and saw terror upon them—something which John had never seen before which caught him off-guard. "My…croft? It's alright hey, it's us? Mycroft, it's us…"
His intense eyes suddenly turned blank as recognition hit his face, his tensed shoulder sagging but the next thing, the older Holmes looked around listlessly, breathing heavily, making John put a firm hand on the man's shoulder to keep him from standing.
"He's panicking."
Sherlock was gazing at his brother from the table with a frown. "He shouldn't be."
"Well— he is! He's already got an infection, his sweating a lot. And he's already warm. No—don't use that, it's useless, Mycroft." For the British Government Head had suddenly raised his bandaged hand with an equally petrified expression that finally made Sherlock to stride towards him and stop his swaying hand.
"Brother." He saw Mycroft's face was ashen, his lips dry, his eyes unable to hold his gaze as they locked with him; there he saw the same terror John had seen. He also noted his brother's strength despite his condition, as his right hand continued to pull away from his grasp, seemingly wanting to reach on to something— and Sherlock sucked his breath as he looked where Mycroft wanted to reach his injured hand—to that left arm covered by wrinkled fiber of his clothes as if it was intentionally pulled up. In haste, Sherlock worked on Mycroft's left arm and raised his sleeve—
And saw a very familiar point made by a needle.
Sherlock's eyes widened while John's mouth dropped open, both realizing its meaning.
"You big bag of trouble." The detective muttered finally.
"No…" John whispered while Mycroft dropped his head backwards in exhaustion. "Mycroft? We—we need to move him. Mycroft?" to Sherlock he bellowed, "The ambulance is downstairs, what's taking them so long?"
As if on cue, footsteps pounded on the corridor outside and in the next beat, Detective Inspector Lestrade came running in followed by five men, all geared up for battle, filling the room. The medic support was the last to come in.
"No trace of anyone inside or out," reported the inspector which only made Sherlock stare at him; then the D.I looked over Mycroft and saw him half conscious. "He alright?"
"He's drugged." John explained, helping the medic put the man in a stretcher. "We need to know what kind of drug it is. It could be deadly." The medical team wasted no time and disappeared from the room, leaving the D.I looking around till he found Sherlock still by the table. Only the two of them were left with some forensics.
"You found nothing?" Sherlock asked, surveying him."
"No, we've covered the perimeter but no sign of vehicle coming out of this place."
"Interesting."
"What do you make of it, Sherlock?" he asked, standing beside him. "They left no civilians harmed, they left no other trace, the cameras are being checked around, all their operations are prevented and your brother's alive… if you ask me we had a big win this round."
"Yes."
Lestrade chewed his lips for awhile and shrugged. "So why the bloody hell you look so dissatisfied?"
Sherlock turned to him, similarly puzzled. "Why is he alive?"
"It's a trick, it's only natural that it is. Otherwise there won't be so much question."
"Yeah, you go about to answer your questions, what about my question?" John shook his head, "I know your bored, Sherlock and I know you're not happy that whoever did this to your brother escaped—"
"Oh please, it's a syndicate—"
"Shutup and listen. The drug they found on him is called Fentanyl, an opiate pain reliever typically given to patients who have undergone surgery or have severe pain or injury. It's a hundred times more potent that mor—"
"Morphine, I know." Replied Sherlock quietly and said no more, making John press on—
"It's a fact they did not give it to him for his injured hand, Sherlock."
Sherlock snorted in distaste. "Who'd be stupid to think that? No— your guesswork—they didn't kill him—they injected him with fentanyl thinking it'd do the job. Line of thought? To kill their hostage using drugs to make him suffer the consequence of his action because everybody knows death is the easiest way out."
John sighed inwardly and put a hand on his face. They had been arguing about this ever since they rescued Mycroft. Sherlock had been very insistent on the case and nobody blames him. It was obvious he held grudge to whoever abducted his brother but as usual, the manner to which he presented it all was beyond anyone's expectations.
For one, he kept asking why his brother was alive. John would have smacked him if he was on sight— in the end, he just said through gritted teeth, "So what— they didn't have time to torture him that's why we found him with fentanyl pumping in his blood?"
"That's one conjecture. Not at all improbable—
"But you still don't think it's just it, do you?" John said quietly now, remembering how he'd seen the consulting detective fly away on another vehicle when his brother was cringing inside the ambulance, almost unbreathing with oxygen mask on his face. "You think there's still more to this case than just getting him drugged, otherwise you wouldn't leave us—"
"Where else are you going? Don't be a drama queen now John, you're just in the hospital."
"Fentanyl of that amount is addicting, Sherlock! And deadly! Mycroft needed a CPR because his heart was too weak to pump after overexertion with the drug two hours ago! I think you should really come here in person—" John said on his mobile as he walked along the corridor of the hospital Mycroft was admitted in twelve hours ago. The doctor had been there with him since he arrived, talking to other medical experts who could give him opinion, found Mycroft delirious on more than one occasion, speaking nonstop about oysters and flags to the point of alarm, then the seizures, and the cardiac arrest at that. John had called Sherlock's mobile many times— after checking on his daughter, to update him because he just won't show up.
Investigating, he said. While his brother was dying.
"It's a hospital." Came the brusque reply, "Not my area of expertise. If I want to be of help to him I'd be on the ground, tracking his adversaries—which wait—I am doing exactly, thank you very much. I would be more useful here than stand there gawking at every turn of his pulse—"
"Sherlock." John gritted his teeth, "Don't do this now. He's dying."
"Which is something I can never prevent now—you're the doctor, do something!" And the consulting detective hung his phone at that, making John curse under his breath and gripped his phone. Finding himself in the middle of doctors and nurses walking the corridor, the ex-army doctor proceeded to Mycroft's room which was easy to locate seeing as there were two tall Secret Service men standing on guard in front of it. Almost half a day and everyone's still very active. He heard Mycroft had awoken minutes ago while he was on the cafeteria and made a point to meet him.
Thus, at 2 o'clock in the morning, John Watson gave a short nod at the guards. He was allowed entrance after a knock. He was then surprised to find the British Government Head already sitting by his bed, white as his bedsheet with his whole right hand wrapped and into an arm sling. He was talking to his secretary whom John knew so well. She glanced at him and smiled briefly, before turning to Mycroft.
"Is that all, Mr. Holmes?"
He nodded and she took her shoulder bag from the chair, giving John another smile before disappearing behind the door, leaving the men staring at each other in the silence that followed. Mycroft seemed determined to be still, he was such a disciplined man.
"How's the hand?"
Mycroft tried to move his finger, only ending up sighing. He looked blankly at the doctor. "Like lead."
"You're not supposed to sit up, you know."
"The same with you not supposed to carry handguns in public, you know."
John lowered his eyes to his right chest pocket where his handgun was hidden. He made a face and raised his eyes to the older Holmes. "Your guards didn't search me, you should do something about that."
"Seeing as you're the person in charge of me, I wouldn't blame them for their consideration."
John smiled. "You seem better now, if you can observe from the distance."
"My dear doctor… I could barely make your outline." Mycroft closed his eyes and sighed. "It was mere… inference." He opened his eyes, straight to John. "You haven't changed your clothes since we came here. I assumed you had no time to dispose of your weapon since you and Sherlock came for me. That was a trifle obvious."
"Well…" John cleared his throat and stepped near the bed. "If you're looking for Sherlock, he's still haywire outside and the hospital couldn't possibly contain him. Unless he's got a bullet somewhere around his body, but then even that wouldn't stop him moving about. He's like a hurricane, isn't he?"
Mycroft chuckled once and John just knew he had just become terribly sick for his smile looked so raw—even genuine. It made the doctor stood straight, on guard.
"Well," his voice was weak, all the wires attached to his chest, to his pulse now not looking ominous, "as a tradition… you would never see me and my brother in the same hospital room. Probably not even on each other's funeral." John slightly narrowed his eyes as Mycroft continued, "Not because we do not sympathize as everyone else does, John… but it would be too risky if a connection between us is made. Humans are vulnerable in terms of affections when inside hospitals; it is a sanctuary for pathos. I have my enemies as Sherlock has his and to establish a connection between us would be too colossal to both our beings. He would be in constant ransom if my enemies where to find I was his brother just because of a simple hospital visit."
That explained Magnussen. Now John frowned at that. "And if his enemies find you are his?"
Mycroft smiled with meaning. "How many times have you been used as leverage against him since you knew him?" John was left to think of that and muttered another curse, Mycroft watching his every reaction and added, "Not that it would make a difference if you counted… you always loved the side effects of my brother."
"Fine." The doctor let out a sigh, "No hospital visits then. But Sherlock is still working on your case, he doesn't think it likely that a criminal organization like the Los Zetas would let you live after what you've done with all their men in London in less than eight hours. You started a war; you've got a price on your head."
"I've always got a price on my head." Mycroft muttered, undeterred. "No, my brother's just bidding his time… possibly disappointed his dragon got away."
"Aren't you?" John asked testily for it was not in Mycroft's character to have loose ends, "Maybe Sherlock's finishing it for you, before you get actually snuffed out."
Mycroft's smile was beginning to alarm John, "You don't think he's doing this for anyone save himself? Sherlock is not a hero, John…he's a pirate, if I may point out. It's his fix to see all mysteries till the end, which means finding an empty room with me would be driving him on edge till the end of the week because the biggest mystery is: why am I alive?"
John would have plenty of heated argument to that— why can't they just be thankful they're alive? —but for once, his logic seemed to kick in before his emotion as he remembered how Sherlock described the Los Zetas as the most sadistic, most psychopathic criminal organization in Mexico and how he was most convinced all through out that Mycroft was dead. There should be no chance of that—not with billions of drugs money gone. So why?
He eyed the older Holmes with some regard and went on, "What happened back there, Mycroft?"
The man looked away blankly, onto the opposite wall of his bed.
"I would give you an answer… but I'd like my audience to be counted just and not have anyone hung about… unnoticed. Am I right… Sherlock?"
John's head perked in attention and shot the older Holmes a look. Following his eyes quickly, he looked at the opposite wall where—oh where the walls rotated after a short pause—and revealed none other than Sherlock Holmes in his dark suit, sitting cross legged on the available chair, his mobile phone on the table.
John stared at him in disbelief. "You…"
"We've been over this, John." Sherlock said quietly, his eyes intensely transfixed at his older brother. "Revolving walls, hospital room—the only room. You've not forgotten that case, have you?"
John looked around the room and realized—this was the same room Culverton Smith had used back then. He sighed out loud as he now saw the same exterior—except for the new paint, new portrait on the wall, new curtain—everything else was the same. How could he have missed that?
"Lack of observation." Sherlock answered as if reading his thoughts and leaning his head on the left, eyes to Mycroft, "So do tell, brother. What happened back there?"
"You cock!" John began shrilly as he shot a demented look at his flat mate, "You—you've been here this whole time and you just left me alone to look after your dying brother? And you're just sitting there? I thought you were on the case—"
"I am on the case," Sherlock glanced at him with a shrug, "Undercover, otherwise I wouldn't know if he's still himself or working for others, maybe even coerced."
"Still himself—?" the doctor looked from one Holmes to the other, "You—why—you're suspecting your own brother?"
Mycroft raised his chin with an eyebrow up but didn't say anything. Sherlock locked gaze with him and replied—
"Of course I did. Locked room mystery, no sign of the enemy, room cleaned out whole and the only person left behind is the victim. You shouldn't get easily fooled. Even Cluedo has worst clues."
"It's Mycroft!"
"Never make an exception, John, an exception disproves the rule; when you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. The mystery of his survival till now has been bothering me since the beginning, ergo that he has something to do with it—deal, compliance, agreement name it—was never out of question. My brother is an official government worker, it was always up to him to make moves for the country with his own consent, he is The Government. Unless he was compromised."
John gaped at the detective, and then looked at the older Holmes whose whole expression had taken a turn and was now looking a bit more like himself with the creased on his forehead, his raised right eyebrow and his ever-pursed lips.
"You could have just asked, you know." Mycroft breathed in the end, leaning back on his pillow and closing his eyes. "For your information I did not make any unnecessary treaties that concerns the government. Los Zetas are never that prim to even meet our exceeded expectations. They are just barbarians who're after the money. They are like pirates." He opened his eyes and stared directly at his brother who scowled at him. "They are only after the loot… which goes without saying… they are after a hidden treasure."
Sherlock and John did not say anything and Mycroft was forced to continue.
"A literal hidden treasure."
Their faces broke into different expressions—John's eyes and mouth widened while Sherlock frowned.
"Treasure? Like gold treasure?" was the doctor's—
"That's just absurd, but not unheard of." Was of Sherlock—
Mycroft nodded once, "They could not hope to decode the detail of its whereabouts, however, and took me in their confidence to find it. They were much impressed by my identification of their smuggles the first time—thus answers your question of how I have survived. Even until now."
Sherlock's eyes glinted in understanding as if his puzzle word was getting filled one by one.
"Hang on…" comprehension struck John, "that means you're the only person who knows the treasure's whereabouts this Zeta members are looking for?"
Mycroft lifted an eyebrow in a very offhand manner. "I must admit, it did not take any of my ability to identify the code, however, that I did not share this intelligence to them is something they'd be very concerned with and would be most eager to make contact once more. Isn't that why you've decided to wait for the right moment, in case they manage to reach me in this level of security?" he looked shrewdly at his younger brother who reached for his phone and began typing. "Caring, brother… I do not advise it still—"
"An organization like that would be willing to take in a whole hospital if necessary, you know." Sherlock cut him off with an impassive face. "I wasn't just here for you."
"Of course." Mycroft smiled sardonically, leaving the doctor to look once again from one Holmes to another and shake his head.
"So you're both telling me this organization can attack us any moment? And what are we doing about it?"
"I've had my secretary cover the perimeter." The older Holmes offered, still much unmoved.
"And my network scattered about places where Los Zetas are prime. That's how I got your location from Wiggins." Sherlock noted with a nod to Mycroft, "Showed him the number you used and he was able to identify its owner working in Park Plaza Hotel. He was a patron. Which leaves the final question— where is this treasure?"
Mycroft's eyes gleamed. "You're never one to excite yourself over treasures, brothermine… remember the Pearl of Borgias? You were never that inclined."
"I'm hunting down pirates." Sherlock smirks, "Why wouldn't I be inclined?"
"Cardiff?" John muttered in disbelief as now he and Sherlock were in a helicopter, with Mycroft secretary's arrangement, and headed straight to Wales, in Cardiff which they would be reaching in exactly half an hour. "Why would they be leaving behind their treasure in Cardiff?"
"Plenty of grounds to dig." Sherlock said much solemnly. "There are drug cartels in Cardiff, Newport. That's what I gathered from the intelligence of the Holdcroft operation. Seems likely this is the time El Pla Za's surrounding Britain."
"Mycroft said he killed his own brother."
"Well," a grin so mysterious appeared on Sherlock's face. Then seeing his best friend's raised eyebrow, he wiped it off and continued, "Vendetta is never uncommon to drug cartels, John. Especially with a large organization as the Zetas who'd become victims of their own bloodlines and division. They made many enemies after many split ups and they wage war on everybody trying to become the biggest drug trafficking cartel in Mexico. This has led to the three main cartels - the Family, the Gulf Cartel and the Sinaloa Cartel - joining forces to eliminate the Zetas and so far succeeding. You cannot blame El Plaza for fleeing as far as Europe, and neither his brother. That he killed his brother for fortune… is a mindset of a real dealer."
"Yeah, and now he's after to kill your brother, that sounded just about right to you?"
"He needs Mycroft. He wouldn't kill him." Sherlock looked outside the window, "Mycroft has made himself indispensable again even to known enemies. Even after finding his treasure I doubt El Plaza would waste such a talent." He looked up to find the doctor staring at him in awe and had to explain, "Human trafficking is also something not unheard of. Unique people, brilliant people, John… extraordinary people tend to disappear because of dark organizations like this. With Mycroft's talent he'd be an instant hit as a codebreaker or a maker of one as long as they overlook his sarcasm. It so happens the government got him before anyone can. Rather, he got the government."
"But you're not gonna let it happen to your own brother, are you?" John was frowning heavily now. "This human trafficking?"
"Mycroft shouldn't tempt me. Which is always."
"He's going to be fine there in the hospital?"
"Greg's on it. What else could pass through the man? And the Secret Service is in their full alert until we bag our target. Even the MOD was already alerted."
"So why are you interested with this treasure?"
Sherlock's eyes gleamed once more as it fell to the doctor. "Good question. This treasure Mycroft's mentioned could not be anything save the Montezuma treasure. It is the only thing you can connect with a drug organization and Mexico after all." When his best friend remained looking blank, the detective pressed on, "The Treasure Drug! Golden treasure with traces of cannabis and opium, John. Dating back 2,400 years, about fierce nomads—Aztecs whose exploits and drug fueled rituals chronicled by Herodotus. There are even facts that the Aztecs included opium to make their statues, stones and cups, even gold with opium. So anyone who'd see them will be entranced, will almost immediately fall prey to its effects. I do not know if the drug statues or cups still have the effect it had 2000 years ago, but if you are willing to betray your brother and hide it, even kill a brother for it, I must say that effects are still lasting."
"So you're telling me…" John said abruptly, "that you are after this treasure… because it's made of drug?!"
Sherlock gaped, then retorted— "What—no!"
But the consulting detective was saved from the doctor's probing when his phone rang once and he answered almost eagerly. "What?"
John looked outside the window and saw Bristol. They've been on air for half an hour. Then he heard that question that sent chills to his skin—
"Mycroft disappeared?" Sherlock's voice rang in the air, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Or escaped?"
Escaped?
A puff of smoke encircled the night air around a man wearing a thick layer of coat over his dark, striped suit, a Stetson buffalo hat, dark jeans and thick boots, and overly golden chains and rings. El Pla Za was on his best attire, ready to aboard his jet plane that had been on schedule since the beginning.
"It isn't strange at all," he said in his husky Mexican accent, his eyes gleaming at the light of his cigar, "that we find ourselves in the same boat… in this case I'd say same plane, isn't that right, Mr. Holmes?"
Mycroft Holmes emerged from the shadows behind him, wearing his adorned thick dark overcoat over his three-piece suit, with the arm sling, carrying an umbrella with his good hand and a proper neck tie this time. His face remained pale even with the lights from the airway, and looking very livid. His whole expression was stern as he walked slowly towards the man and stood beside him, the nature of their founded mutual understanding hidden in the fifteen minutes that elapsed—
"You are a man of code, a man of dignity," El Pla Za whispered to him as his wrists were tied on the chair, and his sleeve raised up to his elbow, "And once you say that you do not plan to work with me, I believe you. Todos son la misma raza. But even you would not be able to resist this—"
An injection was raised in the air with red tint liquid of some kind, making Mycroft grit his teeth as it was slowly stabbed to his skin, freely entering his system. The effect was instantaneous as his head whirled— in the middle of it all was the voice that invaded the deepest part of his mind—
"You have never tried any of this kind, I know it. Your smart mind would not allow you, which makes you even more vulnerable to its effects. La primera. But this is no ordinary drug, William. This will make you run… run to it like any madman… and you'd do anything for it, but Britain has no supply of this. Not as stronger. So you come to me. You come to me and we can work this together. I know it, ya sabes donde encontrarme."
What happens in fifteen minutes?
Mycroft raised his eyes to the black jet with the insignia of Mexico.
Then to the man beside him who raised a packet of what the older Holmes recognized as the same sachet he'd find beside his brother but instead of repulsion, Mycroft only recognized elation as he took the bag quickly. El Pla Za gave him a side glance, a grin forming in under his bushy mustache.
Mycroft hid the packet inside his pocket and took the first step towards the plane.
"New Mexico is the place. Let's go."
The Mexican could not help chuckling as he threw his cigar on the ground and followed.
"Holmes, vamos, chico grande."
*ToBeContinued*
Todos son la misma raza - you are the same kind
La primera - first taste
ya sabes donde encontrarme- you know where to find me
vamos, chico grande - let's go big boy
A/N: Mycroft's in the greatest war of his time!
Not lose himself!
See you in 2018!
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
Thanks for reading! ^_^
~W.G~
