*Brother's Opium War*

by: WhiteGloves

Happy January! I will miss writing Sherlock!

Please enjoy the not so the-end!

Thanks for reading :)


Six: The Brothers' War

PART I- MYCROFT


Mycroft surveyed the streets from a hotel room's window and from his view, saw speeding vehicles of trucks and cars in the steaming granite road. Moving cars bustling under the hot beam of New Mexico's bright sky that was rare in London, and the unending picture of an open highway. Tall lamps were on every few meters, wire barricades separating the four lanes where traffic does not seem to be a problem. Beside the hotel, in front of his window, was a Cattleman's steak house with a long line of brown roof viewable from the second floor, red painted wall and wood horses and carriage in front, attracting cowboys in the saloon.

Such was New Mexico.

Beyond everything were sand, shrubs, rock formations in the half and thorn bush desert leading to the scenic blue sky of scattered clouds and shapeless mountain. Mycroft narrowed his eyes as he raised it towards the endless view of the blue sky, seemingly coaxing him out of the nightmare he plunged himself in. Now that was poetic. But for a man whose time was about to come, he could afford being poetic. He turned himself away from the singular window, casting his eyes onto the single unit room.

It was small, could be the size of his house's multimedia room, but elegant for a two-story building hotel. A double bed with a large painting of the same mountain view outside was above the headboard, with two comfortable couches right at the foot of it too. Mycroft was never selective with shabby rooms; he's had Baker Street to compete with.

He found El Plaza in one of the couches, sipping red wine quietly and staring at the blank television screen where Mycroft could see their reflection. El Plaza, it seemed, had been watching him. Mycroft looked away onto his right arm where he apparently had removed the sling since they arrived an hour ago. He was feeling against it anyway; he didn't need any arm protection, although the damage to his muscles was such he was unable to flex his hand to his wrist. No, he didn't need the arm sling as it wouldn't make any difference to the syndicate around him, he does not intend for them to pity him by wearing the handicap. He brushed the wrinkle on his right cuff and let his able hand fall mechanically to his pocket.

He dug deep into his pocket and found the packet still there. He didn't take out his hand, thinking… thinking…

He was taken out of his stupor when El Plaza spoke.

"Is this what you would call, in my brother's own mind… the land of the Aztec?"

Mycroft didn't even raise his head; the carpet floor seemed observable to him now after a minute of staring into space.

"It is his code." he answered quietly, straight to point, "It is natural that we are led here."

El Plaza grunted. "In USA." It was said with the distaste of a Mexican tongue, "We brothers hate this country. The border, the wall… the people. All the places and this wretched country." He spat on the floor.

Mycroft looked up this time, eyes indifferent. "The more reason he would put it here as you recall… Enemy of my enemy is my friend."

A demented gleam appeared on the Mexican's face and it lingered for a minute, before he turned attention at the British man who was standing very still with his back on the window. A grimace, much more than a smile was plastered on his face.

"How did you get us here again, compadre?" he said, still sounding much amused when Mycroft remembers explaining it to him en route inside the jet plane. His patience was getting tried but he recited all the same.

5.44770+, Veracruz

Quite unusual to be called a code as it does not follow any certain pattern. No wonder the other codebreakers the Zetas abducted had a terrible time. It was unique and with much signature of its maker whom they probably had no background whatsoever. Mycroft began.

"You no doubt searched everywhere in Veracruz, Mexico."

"It is the only obvious location."

"But why bother with the closes in proximity when you know your brother expected you to pillage the whole place? It does not make sense." Mycroft frowned, then accepted the idea that El Plaza was not as smart as his first impression, or the man had been desperate—

"I got impatient." El Plaza replied with a dark look. "I might with you."

If it was possible to raise his eyebrows even higher, Mycroft Holmes managed it to a degree. El Pla Za dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand and urge him to continue. Mycroft stood straight and put both hands inside his pocket conversationally.

"You showed me the photo of your code and with my not-so-considerable talent, I saw everything others did not. I noticed his dead hand near the paper, possibly when he had just been killed—in minutes I believe— and noticed a marking at the back of his hand, a tattoo of a tail of a snake. The tattoo detail is very precise, it was carved using a group of five #12 diameter extra tight round liner and with super long taper. I'm not much of a tattoo fanatic but I am well versed. Anyway, the snake was a tiny detail, barely visible and snakes are common a sign when I remember how you confessed you and your brother's patriotism to the Aztec legend. The eagle carrying a snake, on the top of a nopal."

"And he chose New Mexico because of the symbols?" El Plaza grumbled, taking his wine in one gulp and eyeing his companion from the blank tv screen. "Even I would look at New Mexico without his symbolism."

"But you didn't." Mycroft observed with a hint of cynicism, "Veracruz was a useful clue as it is a useful distraction. 5.44770+ would not make a proper coordinate without it. The eagle, snake and nopal are known symbol for Mexico, it is even found in your international identity—your flag. And speaking of flags, which country could respond to the beginning of 5 and 4? We are speaking of your brother whose mental state, as you said, a genius, not the same of others which proves that making his own codes was much exciting than using other means of cryptograms; therefore, I could only think, in his uniqueness that 5.4 has something to do with the main country he's been hiding, if he wants to avoid your invasion. Of flags, a country with visible 5.4—"

"United States." El Plaza interrupted, now looking less amused at his deceased brother's wit.

"No other flag in the world could produce such combination except the United States with its 50 stars." Mycroft closed his eyes and saw his own brother nagging at one corner of his brain because this sort of game was his to play. He shook his head and dismissed the thought. "But 5.4… look at the American flag and there you'll find, so audaciously the alignment of the stars that are all referring to a particular state or so the country boasted. Five in the first alignment, four in the second and this pattern is repeated till it completed the fifty. Get this key and your puzzle is solved because the rest shall follow—the number 47. We speak of the stars and their states—which state of America was hailed as its 47th? That's New Mexico."

Mycroft found El Plaza watching him in the silence that fell and had no qualms in returning the gaze.

"70+ of course, refers to the particular location inside New Mexico… Las Cruces, The City of the Crosses; Veracruz was just a distraction but it had its uses." Mycroft looked away. "So we find ourselves here in Las Cruces, New Mexico, taking the road to the Aztec Drive which is what they call the street… it's all actually quite telling. A ten-minute ride from this point. The rest we can make a simple speculation for your brother's enthusiasm with the Aztecs… I wondered why you didn't come here in the first place."

"He was playing being smart." El Plaza raised a bushy eyebrow as he poured himself another drink. "And yet at the end of the day he is still dead. And I still win… thanks to you, compadre." He raised his wine at the British man who gave him a levelled look.

"We are not, sorry to say, compadre."

"You're still alive, so I say we are." The Mexican drank his glass of wine in one take and stood up gingerly, his large, calloused hands full of rings pointing towards Mycroft. "We stay for another hour, I have my men round the perimeter of Aztec Drive and we'll leave once they secure the route to retrieve my gold. You will stay here and remember how well you will be guarded."

"I'm not a prisoner, I hope?" he didn't really care what he was up to this point.

"No," El Plaza answered as he crossed the room towards the hotel door, "But I am a protective man of his possessions. Especially if said possession caused him two billion in a single night." He opened the door where two large guards in dark suit stood, "I already called for the meal to be brought in so there is no reason for you to go anywhere. At all." He left a jarring smile and closed the door, leaving the British Government Head staring back towards the window, to the street below where three more men were on standby. Not that he thought of escaping in the first place. What he was thinking, however was…

Just as his hand fell right inside his pocket again, he heard a knock on the door, possibly the ordered breakfast, heard it open from the outside by one of the guard's outstretched hand, and saw a hotel servant in red uniform and cap enter, pushing an open cart with its goods. Mycroft let go of the packet of drug in his clutch as he saw the servant draw near the table. The door was closed.

"Would there be anything else, sir?" the man looked up at him.

It was his large nose that interested Mycroft first as he leaned on the wall, slightly disconcerted.

"If you prefer a different main dish, we have the menu card, sir. A variety of English cuisine is included on the list, with equitable desserts, should I complement you with scone and tea? Or do you prefer cakes?"

Mycroft need not question it as he shook his head as a sign that it was enough. "Sherlock."

A pause, and the servant stood straight, his bent back from pushing the cart revealing his true height, his smile almost splitting his face, the gleam in his eyes sharp and cutting.

"Hey, bro."

Mycroft stared at him with the same cutting stare that was both familiar to them. In cold tone, he responded.

"You figured it out?"

"I think you're losing you're touch, it wasn't much of giveaway."

"How did you know this place?"

"You know me— always the party crasher. You were never one to invite me, brother." the younger Holmes said mockingly as he removed his fake nose and drop it on the floor. Such carelessness it made Mycroft frown again as Sherlock went on, "I came to save the damsel in distress. Classic story and with treasure in the end, it's a making of fairy tale." He winked at his brother and removed his red cap and threw it across the room. "Thought that wouldn't fool you but I was hoping you'd be too overdosed to notice anything."

"Overdosed." Mycroft blinked several times, but then understood his brother completely and unconsciously touched the pocket of his coat, "You don't mean… Oh, Sherlock… I am above you. Such temptation only works for adrenalized being meaning you… Lethargy has always been a fault of mine."

"Yet you still keep it?" Sherlock looked pointedly at Mycroft's pocket as he rounded on the couch between them and eyed his brother suspiciously to which Mycroft managed a small smile.

"You really think I'd have the same reaction as you with drugs? Sherlock, if this can heighten your thought processes… imagine what it could do to me? I who's only a brain?" He watched his younger brother closed the distance between them till they were face to face. "Even I know a real ghost when faced with one."

Sherlock gave the most sardonic smile. "Really?"

Mycroft looked down his right hand and closed it into a tight fist. "Of course."

"Shall we leave this place then?"

"Yes, but where's John—?"

The door banged open and there was John, in his army uniform carrying what looked like a gun type, hand grenade around his shoulder, and a frenzied, military expression and stance. Behind him the two guards, twice as large as he, were knocked out on the floor, rings of alarm were already setting chaos in the whole vicinity.

"Alright girls, we've got the perimeter breached, all civilians' safety out, code red we have to move fast, are we clear?"

Sherlock was grinning and this time he was already wearing his favourite dark, thick coat with an eyepatch on his right eye. He looked ridiculous.

"Come on then, brother dear, we're going to deliver you back to the Queen." He saluted.

"The car won't start!" shouted the voice of John in urgency.

Mycroft had ceased looking at the duo ever since he noted the eyepatch and was staring at his right hand with focus. It was still tightly closed. Slowly, he opened it and found it unblemished. His gunshot wound was gone. He closed his eyes as he was hit by sudden realization of this absurd reality and shook his head.

"Come on, brother dear." Goaded Sherlock from somewhere but then John had set off his hand grenade and blew the wall away with a loud explosion, that which did not faze Mycroft who then felt the automatic sprinkler wash down on them from above. "Big brother, come on!"

"Move it, Mycroft!" he sounded so desperate. Clearly unlike the real one.

Mycroft felt the cold water on his face, felt his whole body get damp and closed his eyes to welcome its coolness. All the noise had died out and all he felt was pain and cold.

Good… that was good… for it could only mean…

He first noted his shivering body when his eyes flew open. Blurred sight met his erratic pupils and it took him awhile to realize he was breathing too hard, his stomach was aching at the constant pump of air. Then came the pain; all cells in his body was on fire—he was profusely sweating, he could feel both coldness of his skin and heat underneath—

In his blurred vision, he saw an outline of a man blowing on his cigar. He was seated right across him with legs crossed, his eyes glinting darkly in that scarred face as the puff of smoke engulf his background.

"I should not have given you a whole packet." He sounded anything but regrettable, "I thought you'd have control. It's in your aura, see. It was a dosage for each meal, regularly taken and for your injured hand. You emptied everything. I am very intrigue at what you are seeing in your head. But this cannot keep up or you'll be no use to me. A millimeter a day before your heart stops, eh?"

Heart… what was it about hearts…?

Oh yes. He doesn't have one.

Then what… pray tell… was that organ pumping so powerfully and rapidly to the point of pain right there on his chest? Like some sort of angry beehive knocking, rocketing, pounding to be free?

Sherlock's face was there before he could think, and his brother was sitting on his sofa, hands clasped together, looking thoughtful and pensive. Mycroft noticed his scarf and raised an eyebrow.

"Sherlock—"

"You know what, brothermine? I think I shall marry Mrs. Hudson to annoy you." Mycroft's lips curled and thinned till Sherlock opened his hand with a triumphant smile, and pointed at his ring. "Oh, that's right. I already did."

"Sherlock." Mycroft cleared his throat before he could have any other ideas and raised the umbrella on his right hand and pointed at him. "Your scarf's pink."

Before Mycroft knew it, he clicked the gun on his umbrella and shoot the opposite wall, barely missing his brother who did not look faze and continued smiling at him with his perfect teeth. The next thing, ballistic gun shots came out from everywhere, like overexcited pair machine gun rattling, shooting the wall Sherlock loved to put bullets on. Ten holes, twenty holes till two dozen of bullet holes continued cracking the 221B wall Mycroft knew was bound to happen one day.

And still, Sherlock was there, seated quietly with no damage whatsoever. Mycroft gave him a disquieting look, knowing that what was happening was of his brother's own doing and no other people could be blamed for it.

"Strange as it is, brothermine," Mycroft went on with some urgency as the gunshots continued showering them. "I don't want to see a shadow of you at that location. It's a war out there… there'll be dead bodies."

"There are dead bodies."

"It's dangerous, Sherlock!"

"Thank you for the invite but I prefer crashing in."

"Their crashing the place." John was beside Sherlock, nodding his head, looking so spirited he looked five times younger.

Mycroft clutched his umbrella. "You don't understand—this war—"

"What is it good for?" Sherlock turned to John who shrugged.

"Absolutely nothing."

"Listen!" Mycroft hissed as if he was out of breath, like he was out of time. He looked at his hand and found blood there—there was a fresh new hole on his hand and he could see through it to his shoes. "Both of you—this war cannot be prevented! I made it!"

"What makes you so righteous to start it?" Sherlock's deep voice sounded so grave.

"A man who knows how to control his pieces absolutely has every right." Mycroft said sternly, feeling his ground shook and his whole body shiver, but it did not lessen the coldness in his voice, "And knowledge, precisely that, can both start and end it, so do not question my authority again, Sherlock, not when I know the casualties I make."

There was no reply but who minds? He was busy sorting his black folders of known enemies on his file cabinet, one particularly he stopped to look at was a pale old man with a sharp looking pointed face, unhappy sort of mouth, thin spectacles and his cold, calculating, dead stare. The master of Appledore. Mycroft browsed through the file as he was on the letter M and he was yet again reminded how psychopaths tend to have this consonant letter. He raised an eyebrow at the pointless estimation and turned around his table, exactly as his office door burst open and the delicate figure of Lady Elizabeth Smallwood came stomping in, looking terribly vexed and even possessed.

"You've been assaulted, I observed." Mycroft said silently as he put his folder down and sat behind the table. From the corner of his eyes he saw the Lady go straight for the mirror with a basin and water only available at the corner of the room and began washing her face with a handkerchief she was dipping on it.

"I'm going to murder him." She said with some emotions as she looked up at the mirror and stood straight.

"I don't doubt it. But no." Mycroft looked up at her and put both hands on each side of his chair. "No one's going to get murdered by anyone when he is under my care."

"You know who I'm speaking of?" she asked with some hint of surprise.

"His stench came in with you. You must've gone very close. And I thought it was a mere probing." Mycroft smiled sarcastically, earning him a glare. "Of course, I would know. I ought to. He was scheduled for the Cabinet meeting." He watched as she strode towards his table and sat on the opposite chair looking fiery.

"You should have been there."

"He knew I should have been that's why he answered the summon. When he realized I wasn't, he opted to bully you. But I don't think I can be bullied…not in that way."

"He's been after you for months, who knows what he's already found out?"

"Whatever it would be, I assure you it would never be my doing." Mycroft curled his lips and sighed, eyes transfixed on her. "It would be yours." When she looked back at him, affronted, he went on, "You've been to 221B. Of course, I know. I have it heavily monitored ever since John Watson's wedding. I need warning when Sherlock's idea of afternoon tea involves ransacking my fridge or sleeping in his drag on my bed. Yes, just to annoy me."

She glared still, then took poise to calm herself. "I'm sorry for involving you further, Mycroft but he's the only one—"

"Please." the British Government Head raised a hand, "That's Sherlock's expertise. Getting involve."

"Your security did not stop me when I arrived at 221B, so I thought you approve of hiring him."

"I have no question to the nature of the job, you probably wanted the letters retrieve. My concern lies on Sherlock's ability to cause trouble. Magnussen would have found the connection between us anyway but nothing Sherlock wasn't known of publicly could affect me. That he is a sleuth? A fake detective? A con artist? An addict? All of those mean nothing to me so blackmail is out of question. I don't want to raise your hopes up, Alicia, but with Sherlock in on this, expect things to escalate to war."

"Do you not plan to get involve?" her curiosity of his concern to his younger brother was apparent. Mycroft assessed the context of the question and blinked.

"Naturally, I already am. But it's been a habit of mine to cause war, but not fight it. Let other elements collide as we silently sit by. Have you never heard of the Seven Week's War? Austro-Prussian War also called—the Brothers War of 1866. Russia's role back then was to have Germany, France and Austria clash before seizing glory—a perfect idea for the war rule to subdue the enemy without fighting is the acme of skill. Have your enemies fight each other. It's General Sun Tzu's strategy I typically apply on daily basis."

"No blood on your hand?"

"Unnecessary."

"So you are going to let your brother handle the matter?"

"My dear Lady," Mycroft's eyebrows creased, "Whoever said I'm going to let him do anything?"

Because he's just going to jump in on his own accord, with jet planes and car crashing style.

Did the car just crashed?

"You're going to get used to it." Said the gruff voice Mycroft had been so familiar now. It was the constant voice at the back of his head, which had found its roots he cannot know when. Amusingly, the same voice was making him feel both nauseous and troubled at the same time. He tried to reach for his dried throat but found his right hand unmoving. And he was lying on his left hand that had gone so terribly numb. All he could feel now was how tired his body was from exertions he could not recall.

"What have you done?!" the same Mexican gruff voice was shouting too close on his ear. Was it the background of Sherlock's wall again with that terrible sound of his gun? A war had happened, that was apparent, but the unusual nagging of his subconscious that something dangerous was happening was setting his teeth on edge… but he has been shivering since the beginning! Why won't people stop screaming at him?

"JOHN!"

Why won't someone stop Sherlock screaming that name? Then Mycroft doubled back— and prayed aloud not to hear his name to be shouted in the same strained tone— over his dead body— but then, of course, Sherlock wouldn't. That would put too much strain in their already heated relationship.

"I will kill all of you! Starting with… you!"

Then a gun— why won't someone stop pointing a gun on his head? Pray do listen—! Go for the heart!

"It's too late… it's already irreversible." Sherlock had never sounded so high, on the edge, and villainous till the end. "Mycroft's already won… there's nothing you could do about it. He's won."

A pounding on his head, urging him to stop the shivering. El Pla Za was a hateful sight. That was new. He had never hated anyone before. Still the gun…

Then Mycroft blinked. Did Sherlock say he's already won?

Why does his younger brother sound so surprise?!


PART II- SHERLOCK


In a nutshell, Sherlock did not waste time as he contacted Lady Smallwood on the small matter of extending her power to authorities allowing a small helicopter to make a roundtrip to the Department of Defense military base, borrow a single jet plane and to fly them off to New Mexico. It would have taken considerable amount of approval with Mycroft gone and it would have been too late had Sherlock not mention the possibility of losing Britain's powerhead and the casual addition of his photo with the little prince he helped the Secret Service retrieve from a drug den not so long ago with Mycroft.

He did take a photo while he carried the young man after all, just a bit of souvenir to annoy his brother with. Photos and their uses. But that helped hasten the matters so feeling a bit like Irene, but not too brightly about it, he took the phone call from the pilot once they were on their way to the New Mexico, informing him it was someone from Buckingham Palace.

"I don't think your brother would have approved of such low attack." Said Harry Whatsis on the phone while Sherlock looked over the view of the Atlantic, its vastness sucking him to go to his mind palace for the intricate detail his brother had taken, stopping himself on time, before replying darkly—

"He's never approved of me on anything and since he's not around because of you and your mates, you might as well send the whole barracks you have to help me get him back. There's a war there."

"Do you not understand how this can turn into an international affair?"

"It is an international affair, get your head on it already." Sherlock snapped, "Now you either go to my good side or the other because if anything else happens to my brother I'll hold you personally responsible."

There was a long pause, and the consulting detective heard the man sigh in defeat.

"I will send all the help you need—"

And that's all Sherlock needed to hear before hanging up and throwing the phone on the empty seat across him. He fell silent for a while, his mind palace turning abruptly to different conclusions, then casted his eyes to his best friend who was sitting across him with a newspaper on his hand. They were both clad in black and appropriately armed.

He found John Watson looking at him meaningfully and knew he had to answer questions.

"You said there's a war." John began when Sherlock paid him his whole attention.

"There is. It just won't happen on a larger scale but definitely will."

"And Mycroft's headed to New Mexico why?"

"It's where the treasure is."

"He falsely gave us a location to what— not get gold, jesus, he's not one for it is he? Does he even have a plan?"

Sherlock chewed on his lips, his eyes darting here and there. He was sure John was reading his reactions to prepare any alarmed answer and couldn't find any other way not to alarm him because he should be. Besides, Sherlock could already see the soldier showing on him already. Moments like this Sherlock was glad Mike Stanford did not offer to be his flat mate. He was glad enough alright.

The consulting detective produced his own cellphone and showed it to the ex-army doctor who immediately transferred seats opposite him and took the phone.

"I had one of my network infiltrate Mycroft's house just now—"

"That's burglary—"

"— with consent. He sent me all the things he found that would be useful and sent me this—"

"Okay so uh—a picture of a sticky note?" John sounded foolish for pointing out the obvious, so he earned a stupid glare for that, he compensated quickly as he added, "There's writing—Mycroft's handwriting then? Is this how you found his location?"

Sherlock pressed his eyes in exasperation, "You really think I wouldn't spend half my day putting tracking devices on my newly drugged-hazed brother's clothing?"

"You spent your day hiding behind his wall in the hospital but at least you're learning to babysit." John muttered, "Hang on, seven-weeks war? He wrote Seven? Sherlock—explain. It's not like I can hear your thoughts as you brothers could."

Sherlock obliged with eyes glinting—

"The Austro-Prussian War— mostly about Germany and Austria trying to inflict casualties to one another—however the actual action is not the main thing. Mycroft never likes violence, he is a strategist, the man on the table, the general, so even when he memorized this by heart it would be of no use to him so which angle should I look for? Naturally I'd have to think the same with my brother, his interest in the background power affecting the entirety without having to be seen. It led me to two words."

John let the dramatic pause to ring, before showing an expression that questioned the what.

Sherlock's voice was melodramatic as ever. "Sun Tzu."

"To you too." John sat straight with a frown.

"It's a name." Sherlock snapped impatiently, "The name of the Chinese general that authored the war book The Art of War. He included several advices on how to win war which includes the phrase, to win one hundred victories in one hundred battles is not the acme of skill. To subdue the enemy without fighting is the acme of skill. Technically it's just as in Seven Wars where Russia was on the sideline, letting their spies cause stir between the warring states and watch them crumble without using a single ammunition. Germany and Austria pulverizing each other for seven weeks—"

"So, you're telling me Mycroft went to New Mexico to have a seven weeks war? Whose army is he using?" Then as if comprehending, the doctor's eyes went large, "Don't tell me he's going to get the USA and Mexico into—"

"That would be interesting, but no." Sherlock took his phone and used it to view Mycroft's tracer. "I don't think my brother's up to that kind of international warfare. Nope, he's going to end this, but not with anyone's army. Enemies against enemies, remember? You clearly don't. Who else would the be the greatest enemy of the Zetas? It's definitely not the police."

John's eyes flickered again. "You don't say…"

"Yes." Sherlock, "The cartels that separated from the main Zeta—the Family, the Gulf and the Sinaloa—which all had the same aim to take down the Zetas. I don't think Mycroft missed that. It's been a complete turn of the clock since then, I'm sure my brother has done a lot. Imagine sending solid information to these cartels about this huge gold made of opium to be seized by a Zeta leader? It's Christmas in the middle of sandstorm. Mycroft is literally bringing the war to them."

The ex-army doctor could not hide that he was much impress by the brothers, but when he turned to the consulting detective, Sherlock knew his next question and this was, above everything, the action where they were needed.

"So what will we find there?"

"Bombs and blood."


Approximately five hours later, in the Aztec Drive, Sherlock and John were both very still as they waited inside a rented car parked along one of the houses in the middle of the night. The streets were all empty, each house was all very dark to the point—they were all deceiving. They had been there since the detective figured out the route from Mycroft's tracer when he saw it stop by a hotel. Gritting his teeth, he had a bad hunch why his brother had to be delivered to a hotel and wondered if they should have had the assault there—however upon driving past the Super 8 hotel with numbers of Los Zetas around, he knew an infiltration was not optional, so they had to wait there on the driveway.

An hour wait, and then cars began driving in numbers. Especially the long black car Sherlock saw on the driveway of the hotel. He checked his phone and saw the tracer in. Mycroft was on site.

Sherlock nudged John who nodded at him and both muttered in unison.

"Vatican Cameos."

The war is afoot.


*ToBeContinued*

A/N: Awww what else could be happening in Mycroft's head!?

Sherlock's POV to be continued!

I could not wrap everything here or it will take another 5000 xD

But it will be with an epilogue! The last one!

See you there!

Thanks for reading! ^_^

~W.G~