Chapter Text
"Extinction is the rule. Survival is the exception."
– Carl Sagan –"Beauty and seduction, I believe, are nature's tools for survival, because we will protect what we fall in love with."
– Louie Schwartzberg –"We stand tall for all humanity"
– The motto of the PPDC Jaeger Corps –
Chapter 1 – The Legacy
– London, Union of Former British States –
– The 3rd of May, 2041 –
Sherlock perks up when he hears a key rattling in the lock. Witnessing an actual metal object filling that purpose instead of an electric fob or retinal scanner would feel wonderfully old-fashioned, if it hadn't been used four hours earlier to lock him into this holding cell.
It doesn't surprise him that The Internal Security Agency – built on the ruins of the old MI5 – would have to make do with such vintage tech. More money than the British government can really afford is still being poured into the so-called war effort, even though things have been quiet on that front for years. Most Earth denizens have moved on from the state of perpetual horror they had been stuck in until humanity began winning, but not all – some individuals have forged careers out of convincing others of their own importance, should humanity be thrown into full conflict again.
One such man is now flashing his high-ranking PPDC badge to the officer outside the door.
When he walks in, Sherlock squares his shoulders and lets his head loll back in relief.
"Finally," he complains, constructing a generous helping of disapproval into his tone. He may be the one in handcuffs, but he would never give his big brother the satisfaction of thinking he's lost control of the situation.
Mycroft will open his mouth any minute now, and Sherlock knows to expect a well-prepared lecture delivered in his brother's most refined tone of disapproval – one he had adopted after becoming Sherlock's guardian after the demise of their parents. Mycroft, even though still in his twenties then, had taken on the sudden pseudo-parental responsibility foisted upon him as though he'd been awarded the bloody papal throne.
Sherlock raps the table with his fingertips. He wishes Mycroft would just dispense his florid disapproval – get it over with, so that they could each go their merry ways and stop wasting time in this hellhole.
Yet, against all expectation, his brother says nothing. He simply reveals the paper-thin tablet computer he had been holding concealed behind his back, and places it in front of Sherlock on the scratched table. The chain the handcuffs have been attached to is just long enough for Sherlock to tilt the screen so that the glare from the ancient, chittering halogen lamps won't be reflected on it. The cheap light fixtures coat the room in a disgusting shade of yellow that look as though someone has spent years coating the walls with tobacco smoke residue – another sign that the Intelligence Services are suffering from a dire lack of funds.
Sherlock, certain that the voice control function of the tablet is probably locked to his brother's vocal signature, taps the rightward pointing symbol on the screen, and a news report begins playing. He instantly recognizes the apartment building on Montague Street he has called home for some years now – how many exactly is, admittedly, a little vague, since many of the events of those years have been spun into the glorious haze of 7-ace, orfentanil and whatever else he could afford to buy from London's multitudinous dealers.
The news camera soon zooms in on a large, gaping hole on the side of the building right in the middle, approximately where his rental flat had once been. Dust particles are thickening the air and blocking the view to the floors below, papers are floating down or being blown away in the wind, and alarms of several early model self-driving cars have been triggered by debris landing on them. A few dozen curious onlookers have arrived to gawk at the scene, and a fireman standing on a ladder is putting out the flames on remnants of what is probably Sherlock's sofa.
It hadn't been a very comfortable one, anyway. He'd found it in a skip and rejoiced in sharing this fact with Mycroft on his first visit after the prissy berk had already taken a seat. His brother had probably had his suit incinerated afterwards.
"At approximately a quarter past three p.m. today, an explosion destroyed three apartments at 13 Montague Street, and a pedestrian was injured when a flying brick from the facade hit them on the head," the reporter on site explains to the camera.
"I know," Sherlock points out disinterestedly. "I was there--- well, quite close by."
He stops the footage and shoves the tablet across the table, trying to broadcast disinterest. He takes up the indolent tapping of fingertips on the wooden surface again because he knows his neurotic brother hates such irritants. If he manages to rile the man up well enough, he might huff an end to whatever dull tirade he has planned for tonight's edition of Sherlock's correctional education, and promptly arrange for his release. That's what Mycroft does: gets him out of trouble. It's his function, his purpose in Sherlock's life. His brother has never failed in this task before, and admittedly having to watch him strut about like a peacock with a military badge is a reasonable price to pay for Sherlock not having to deal with these things in court.
"Once the forensic team arrived, accompanied by the chief fire inspector, it was discovered that the oxidizing agent was an illegal sample of kaiju blood, and the heat source an antique Bunsen burner left on while the occupant of the flat had vacated the premises," Mycroft says, sounding as though he's reciting the news report verbatim. "At least you weren't passed out on the couch such as you were on the previous occasion when the fire brigade needed to attend to your idiocy. Had you been in the vicinity of the blood when the explosion happened, we wouldn't be having this conversation."
Sherlock glares at him. "I hadn't passed out---"
"No, I suppose that is not entirely analogous to having overdosed on multiple illegal substances. A person with more grasp on the laws of cause and effect would have learned a lesson from being dragged out of a fire just before the chemical fumes from a so-called 'experiment' became lethal. We could argue the semantics of your narcotics use until kingdom come, but the fact would still remain---"
"---that I wasn't being vigilant enough," Sherlock sing-songs, in a mockery of his brother's voice. He then raises his wrists. "These are starting to chafe, so if you'd be so kind. I'm sure you have budgets to balance and politicians to soft-soap which you'd like to get back to."
They both know how this works. They've been here before. He pretends to be grateful, perhaps even a bit remorseful if he's in a charitable mood. Mycroft then pretends that having the upper hand doesn't please him in the slightest and gets him out.
It's been five hours since Sherlock's last hit, and the awareness of that is becoming more and more acute by the minute. There's a slow hum in his bones, an occasional tightening of his abdominal muscles, the desire to grit his teeth and a cold sweat approaching like a storm in the horizon. He needs to get out of here to fix it, to fix himself, and Mycroft is standing in the way.
"It hardly matters how vigilant you were. You were in possession of an illegal sample of kaiju blood. That alone would be grounds for imprisonment, let alone exploding half a street with it."
"It was hardly half a street." Sherlock tugs at the chain. It holds, of course, but it's useful to remind Mycroft what he should be getting on with.
"You've finally overstepped the mark. Before, you at least had the sense to limit your transgressions to something that was dangerous to only you, but this stunt has landed both of us in hot water. If you've been following the news---"
"You know I don't."
"Had you followed the news, you would have known that as of January 1st this year, possession of any part of kaiju anatomy, be that a genuine sample or a genetically engineered replica, is punishable by life imprisonment."
"Hasn't it always been?"
Before he'd acquired the sample, Sherlock had been bored. Aimless. His trust fund is nearly empty. He won't have any chance of finding a flat to let after this. There are no jobs available that he'd be interested in, especially after nearly all the research funding for universities has been leeched by the club of war mongerers Mycroft is a member of. While it is understandable that the sight of twelve-storey high things that could only be described as monsters – kaiju in Japanese – decimating coastal cities like houses of cards would make anyone rake money at the PPDC, there is no guarantee that the kaiju will ever come back. Meanwhile, human culture withers away into oblivion because there is no one to further its knowledge and understanding of the universe or fund and preserve its artistic endeavours. The only university faculties still open are utilitarian ones such as the medical and law schools. Sherlock had managed to finish his Cambridge degree in chemistry just before the second Breach happened, but even then, the universities were able to fund nothing of interest when it came to research.
There are plenty of jobs and training offered by the PPDC, of course, but even an insignificant criminal record will prevent entry into the science apprenticeship and research schemes, and Sherlock wouldn't want to be anywhere near any of it, anyway, since it only serves the war effort. The PPDC snatches up anyone with half a brain and some engineering aptitude, leaving only the mediocre to sit around hoping that the tattered remains of the civilian universities might eventually re-open more of their faculties.
Yes, Sherlock had known the risks of being in possession of the kaiju blood; curiosity has always been his driving force rather than any desire to be a law-abiding citizen. In all honesty, he had not cared about how dangerous the stuff was. He'd done it because he could; wanted to find out if he could manage to obtain some of it right here in London. It would have given him a rise to see his brother's face when he would have demonstrated that a terrorist group could have acquired a sample just as easily.
Mycroft can throw him in prison to teach him a lesson if he wants. It'll hardly be worse that what his life has been like for the past few years. Besides, judging by what he's heard, it might be almost as easy to get his hands on certain varieties of pharmacological relief inside prison walls than out on the streets. The government doesn't much care for prisoner rehabilitation these days. The Breach Wars have cost a lot of jobs even in countries where not a single kaiju bone litters the beaches, and lots of people have turned to crime to feed their families and to drugs for comfort. What else is there?
"As of January 1st, life imprisonment due to possession of kaiju material includes extradition to a PPDC prison facility in China. I can assure you that the Chinese prison services have not improved much since the 1800s when it comes to living standards and adhering to international ethical conventions."
"I thought the PPDC only ate caviar and drank champagne. I guess that doesn't extend to prisoners, then."
Mycroft's steely gaze softens a fraction, but only a fraction. "I can't help you out of this one, Sherlock. I wish I could. The eyes have been on us ever since---"
Sherlock tries to silence him with a glare. He doesn't like to talk about their parents – neither of them do except for when Mycroft uses them as a battering ram to get Sherlock to obey. His brother had already stood on his own two feet by the time they died, but the much younger Sherlock had been left with nothing except for a brother who wasted no time in banishing him to a hellish boarding school.
"It's our legacy, Brother Mine," Mycroft declares.
That's one of the man's favourite phrases, and one Sherlock had grown to hate. "I never asked for any of it. You can gladly help yourself to my share."
"The incident is all over the news, and unless I want my life's work to be for naught, we need to make a public gesture of loyalty towards the greater good. This is too big, Sherlock, and I have limited control over what happens next. I did all I could to prevent it, but they've de-classified your aptitude screening results."
When the words sink in, Sherlock's eyes go wide. He would already be out of his seat, fingers curled into the lapels of his brother's extortionately expensive coat if he wasn't chained to the damned table. "You promised!"
Mycroft reflexively takes a step back, then shifts on his feet, clearly embarrassed that he had visibly reacted to the outburst. "It's out of my hands. Those test results could be your way of turning your life around. As I've told you before, going down that road could be a good chance for you; surely it is much better than prison."
"Yet again, your solution is to send me away," Sherlock snarls from between clenched teeth. He needs to hold on to anger to prevent the shock from sinking in.
"You don't have anything here. Or anyone."
It stings more than Sherlock would like to admit that Mycroft doesn't mention himself as the sole exception.
This must be it, then – the anticlimactic ending to a complicated and deeply disappointing sibling relationship. The seeds of its downfall were planted years ago in death, which was neither of their faults, but they may well have both had a hand in the final shape and form of their alienation.
"You're delusional," Sherlock accuses, "There hasn't been a Breach in ten years, unless you count the ones created by one of your lot. You work for the Pan-Pacific Defence Corps as a foreign lackey with a massively inflated sense of your own usefulness. You are actually aware that not a single kaiju has ever set foot on British soil?"
"Are you truly so stupid as to believe what the media claims? You would not be throwing petulant spittle at me if you knew how close we have come to an attack right here at home. Because we did not have our defence program yet, we had to rely on the French to stop the threat of the Bete Etrange kaiju! You've not heard of that name – no one without a proper clearance should have. Why the hell do you think our base is located in the Azores? That is where a Breach opened two years ago; the fact was, thankfully, kept out of the press to stop mass hysteria. It did finally draw attention to how ill-prepared the Commonwealth was on this side of the Atlantic. It is high time that we had a large enough pool of British pilots available to serve on the front line of Europe instead of humanity only defending the Pacific Rim."
Sherlock takes in the tirade without offering a word in reply. Normally, he'd find some amusement in the fact that he has managed to rile his brother up so badly that he starts revealing highly classified information, but he's still reeling from the fact that he's no longer safe.
He knows what his aptitude test results mean – even when it's quiet on the war front, the PPDC would do everything in its power to reel him in. Now, they have the ammunition to effortlessly decimate his freedom. Were he anyone else than the brother of the Commonwealth Marshal of the Atlantic Sector of the PPDC, who has a high enough intelligence clearance to be able to bury aptitude test records in a nearly fool-proof manner, he would have been shipped out to the organisation's Azores base years ago. During and after the first Breach crisis, it didn't matter who you were: doctors, lawyers, politicians – if your Drift compatibility was high enough, they wasted no time in shipping you off to be kaiju fodder. Now, it's voluntary – or so they claim.
Mycroft leans his palms on the table. He looks tired, much more tired than he usually ever lets on. Sherlock finds no sympathy within himself for a man willing to turn his back on his only living family member even if this is a PR disaster for him: black sheep sibling being branded as a terrorist. It doesn't matter that Sherlock had simply been trying to explore the chemical and biological properties of a substance that doesn't seem to obey anything encountered in Earth biology before.
Sherlock would still have thought that after everything, family would have meant more for Mycroft. That it would mean at least something. Had he truly done everything he could to conceal the test results?
"Who knows," Mycroft muses coldly, "Maybe this'll help you find some direction in your life. I would much rather attend the honourable funeral of a member of the Ground Crew or a soldier lost in battle, than to receive yet another phone call regarding an overdose, one that would have finally proven successful."
Sherlock lets the words flow through as though they were meaningless. Over the years, he has learned to push hurtful things away, lock them in a room in his head and lose the proverbial key. Just like Mycroft is about to do to him. Discarded. Dealt with. Problem solved. Reputation rebuilt.
"By using considerable influence and some favours I really couldn't have afforded to invalidate, you will be spared a trial. Escorted by a Recruitment Liaison Officer, you will shortly be put on a flight from Brize Norton to Ponta Delgada. From there, the Azores Military Police will ensure that you make it to your sea transport to the Chard's Rift base."
The flexor muscle on Sherlock's right hand begins to twitch and he covers it with his other palm. The clock is ticking: the receptors in his central nervous system are already beginning to screech in alarm for having burned through his last dose. "You will ensure that my face will continue to adorn the news for some time, I assume. Can't waste an opportunity like this to show that you'll throw anyone under the bus to save your hide. That you'd do anything for your career."
Mycroft straightens his back, glances to the door. "Where did you even get it? The blood?"
Maybe Mycroft is getting sloppy in his moderately obese, middle-aged world-weariness; he should have started with extracting information. In his impatient desire to promptly deliver the harshest blow, he has let slip that he no longer has anything to reward snitching with.
Sherlock forces on a cold smile. He owes his brother nothing. "You know what they say: Harrods can get you anything."