Chapter 1: Prologue
Notes:
I have had to crawl my way back into this fandom...hi, it's been a while. So I've really not been in this fandom for a bit and have really struggled to come back to it so in an attempt to get the wheels burning again I decided to attempt to rewrite this story. Hopefully my writing style has matured over the years. I have no idea how often ill post, I manage another account onto of this one and i'm going to be honest sometimes I forget this one exists. Let's be honest everyone has that old account with old stories they wrote that makes them cringe.
SO. Life update. Survived Covid, never contracted despite multiple unwanted efforts, graduated high school, attended university, moved to an entire different country what up people in the UK, survives some shit, back home now in the Asian Pacific, Got my license (finally), Almost got in a few accidents (none of which were my fault), Graduating with a Bachelors (ironically in English) and applying for my Masters. Oh and currently stuck in a flood that been ongoing for two weeks, legit had four evacuation notices but I refuse to not update so even with the potential of fleeing my home, here's an update guys.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“I rather do wish you would use the door Mr Moriarty” he drawled eyes unconsciously dragging across the man, his hands clapped in his laps, legs crossed over the other with an easy grin on lips, head tilted ever so slightly in crazed amusement.
“Where's the fun in that, Iceman?” The man leaned back in his chair behind his desk as if he belonged, one hand sweeping out under his chin elbow resting on the armrest, the other calmly resting a warm cup of tea on his armrest, eyes widening slightly as he lifted his eyebrows teasingly. “If you truly wanted me gone you would have thrown me out by now. Perhaps you need to revisit your protection detail,” the man lifted the saucer to his lips curling in pleasure, “Or lock your windows”.
He watched the man, moving to sit in the chair across from the desk, resting his umbrella against his leg as he lifted his chin to stare the man down. “Coming to boast about the latest riddle you’ve entrapped my brother in?” he asked in disinterest.
“Your brother has become so dreadfully boring” the man crowed, placing the porcelain down on the desk with a soft clatter, eyes pouring into his, “I threatened to burn his heart, and he looked for the military man”.
“Yes, well he has taken an unusual affection with Dr Watson” he agreed.
Moriarty's expression shifted to intrigue before morphing into an unfamiliar ease, leaning back in the chair. “I think we both knew this was never about him”.
They had been playing this game long before Sherlock had caught wind of it. Had too many tallies on either side of the board to truly claim that his brother had any right to their game, to his enemy, to his…archenemy.
“Regardless, thank you for entertaining him for a period”.
The man studied him for a moment before grinning with a lazy drawl “Well even us criminals have days off and must keep hobbies”. Moriarty leaned forward, elbow on his knee leaning his check into his palm making himself appear bigger in order to fill out the chair, legs spread wide raising an eyebrow in a mock, this is how I think you sit. Taking to his spot as if it was made for him, a cheshire smile in place the purred words placed between them in a dangerous trap, willing him to risk losing his fingers reaching for it. “I do believe this means you owe me a favour, Iceman”.
Notes:
Start date Jan 2020, Ongoing.
Chapter 2: Chapter One: Hour One - The disappearance of Antartica.
Summary:
Rewritten - 4/2-25
“Is the plane ready?”
“Already warm on the runway” she confirmed, “Fuelling up as we speak, Mr Holmes”.
“I’ll see you in Dubai, Mr Holmes” Athena nodded slightly, raising her hand to wave him off as he opened the door to the car placing his bag on the floor sliding in after it.
Notes:
I also realised that on top of rewriting this story I have changed the plot a bit to cater for the later season's of the show. Which means that the Timeline for this chapter would be roughly after 'the great game' S1E3, and between 'A Scandal in Belgravia' S2E1. So they're aware of Moriarty but he's not a HUGE influential impact on Sherlock yet (Also Sherlocks not dead so like yeah). This happens before Irene comes into play.
Chapter Text
Mycroft Holmes
Status: MIA
Location: Headquarter, Office 36D: Mycroft Holmes
Hour: 12:48am
“I’ll burn the heart out of you”
The taunt sat heavy on his ears as he mulled at the file in front of him, his lips were pulled back into a small contemplating frown, eyebrows furrowed in thought as he found himself fiddling in the silent room. His grandfather's pocket watch, passed to him by his father when he was only at the near age of sixteen when he left for university; his thumb brushed over the time dial twice, before he pressed down on the dial releasing the casing with a soft hiss, using his thumb he click the casing shut again as the satisfying click filled the room as he restarted the process, opening and closing the watch as if he could freeze time itself to his will.
“I’ll burn the heart out of you” Moriarty’s words filtered through his thoughts as he studied the video and the note’s from his agents' reports who had witnessed the interaction, always on hand just out of sight to intervene if needed.
A threat? Or perhaps a taunt. But to whom? Those were the very questions that left him as the sole applicant of the silent and dark office floor having only Athena as his company on the other side of the wall.
It could not possibly be for Doctor Watson, the man was an adrenaline junky and a war torn veteran but he was by no side a target for Moriarty, a man who had been on his radar for years before he reached out to Sherlock, those teasing grins and half smirks as the man looked up at the security cars a half formed word on his lips taunting him as if he knew he was there watching the stills.
-Croft
No this was not for Sherlock either. While Sherlock might be ecstatic at his newest challenge, he was new to Moriarty's role of entertainment. Someone he only knew about due to his determination to muck up his own good work in the embassy, that is if the suspiciously close calls they've been having recently had anything to do with the man, each one left behind with one letter. M, traced in blood.
This was a taunt. Showing him how close he can get, Moriarty wants him to know how vulnerable he was. How easy it was to determine his weakness, to touch, to wrap his hands around or in this case point a gun at, right in his brother's face.
I have been readily informed I don’t have one.
A concern his brother apparently didn't share, then again, he had taken the man's double words as a vest, an infatuation with him. A challenge. He didn’t realise how outside the loop he truly was, how late he was to the game he was being offered the key too.
Dear little Sherlock, oh how observant you are to everyone but yourself.
This was between them. This was a threat to Sherlock. A taunt to him. A danger to Dr John Watson, and therefore his entire existence.
We both know that's not quite true
Moriarty had stated it with such conviction that there was no way to miss it. The way his lips tugged up in amusement despite his relaxed stance, the way he gained so much joy in the way Sherlocks gaze jumped to the bomb strapped Doctor.
Wrong choice, the gaze all but sung. So pleased to have tripped up its player.
He sighed, eyes starting to sting from how long he had been awake dealing with his side project of keeping Sherlock outside a prison cell and mental institution. Finally relented with his watch he flipped it into his breast pocket over his heart. Sediment, he heard himself sneer, a much younger self barely on the cusp of adulthood reminding himself the only way he could survive in this world and maintain brain function was to cut all ties, not that it worked, he still had Sherlock hanging off him like a dependent all these years ago. Pushing himself out of his chair he winced slightly, feeling his back ache, tense form sitting in an office over a desk for hours on end leaving him with a stiff back.
He could hear Athena stifle a laugh from the partly open doorway, she was leaning back in her chair, as she lifted an eyebrow peering at him from her spot at her desk. “More tea sir?”
He pressed his lips together, he knew he should have listened to her needling about getting a ‘proper’ office chair instead of the wingback he preferred in his own home, he’d have to add it to the long ever adding list of things he needed to do.
“No, I’ll be visiting Bart’s. Have Henry bring the car around”.
She smiled, well used to him. She took no offence to his order or diversion and instead taking it in stride simply reaching across for her mobile sending off a message with quick efficiency that kept her on his payroll despite her snark. “Right away Mr Holmes, he will be waiting for you when you depart”. She stood, heels clicking as he collected her coat and purse taking her own cue to leave the building now that he signified the day had finished despite the clock ticking closer to 1am.
He found himself lingering at his desk to collect the paperwork he had been slaving over since…he took a moment to glance at his wristwatch and concluded with a slightly depressing weight to his chest that it had been five hours since he had sat down at the desk for his final day outbox work. It had been 8pm when he finished his meetings, having taken a 6pm dinner with Smallwood before returning to the office. It was now well after 1am, another late night at the office, one that seemed to be becoming the usual in the recent months, finding himself lost in thought over work that should be easy if they did not hold such a significant attachment to them. Despite long office hours usually drifting into the late pm’s for most office workers on his floor they were usually cleared out well before he leaves to return to his own home, it was one of the reasons he solely hired people without families to go home to.
He would need to leave soon if he wanted any chance of sleep tonight, a minimum of three hours excluding the time it took to travel between his home to drop off his paperwork in his safe and back to the airfield before his 5am conference with Dubai. He would need to sleep on the plane between organising landing preparations, and ensuring his security detail was in place. One of the only inventions to date that he appreciated with his job was the open access to the airfield of long ago experimental jets the CIA had tapped into that allowed it to travel twice the speed as a private airline jet, meaning he was able to travel for a diplomatic meeting in 4 hours rather than the usual 7, which he was sure was not their goal in mind when they created it.
Sherlock.
Moving swiftly, he collected the scattered files from his desk, no matter how much he preached neatness to Sherlock when they were younger, he couldn’t help the scattered mess of his desk as he attempted to organise his own thoughts. Placing them neatly in his briefcase, a Parisian genuine leather which had been a gift many years ago from a diplomat he had seduced to gain access to secure documents back when he was still on the field. Sliding the bag off the table, sliding his pen back into its place in his drawer, sliding it shut and locking it with his key, sliding it back into his pocket when he was sure the drawer was somewhat secure, ignoring the fact a simple wood splintering would destroy the illusion. He stepped away from the desk bag in hand, collecting his coat from the coat hook by the door of his office, sliding his umbrella handle over his forearm as he moved to meet Athena who was waiting by the open doors of the elevator.
I’ll burn the heart out of you, Sherlock.
Stepping inside alongside her watching as the doors slid shut, button already selected as she brushed down her skirt, coat already fastened around her shoulders. “Is the plane ready?”
“Already warm on the runway” she confirmed, “Fuelling up as we speak, Mr Holmes”. She wrapped her coat more firmly around her shoulders tugging it closer to herself in preparation for the winter air.
He hummed slightly, drowning out the soft elevator music, a distasteful song, as the elevator came to a slow, number dropping down into the single numbers before it stalled and the door opened with a ding.
Exiting, his assistant by his side, he walked out onto the ground floor as she followed him out the main doors to the car waiting ideally in front of the building. A black sedan with blacked out windows, his gaze centred on it noting with a nagging feel that the car was pulled further forward than usual, the wheels turned slightly on an angle out towards traffic instead of centred that Henry normally meticulously adjusted. It was late and a last-minute trip, it wouldn't be unusual for Henry to be slightly out of place if the man had rushed over and hadn’t taken the time to adjust yet.
I have been readily informed I don’t have one.
“I’ll see you in Dubai, Mr Holmes” Athena nodded slightly, raising her hand to wave him off as he opened the door to the car placing his bag on the floor sliding in after it. The door shut and the car started to move without wasting any time merging into traffic.
Learning back in the chair gaze darting over the interior, barrier raised, glasses in their holder, whiskey and water kept in a deep pocket just waiting for consumption, a liberty he didn’t currently have. He closed his eyes, breathing, taking a moment to regroup head tilted back onto the headrest falling back into his mind mulling over the clues that Moriarty had been leaving more aggressively over the last two months since he had put himself in Sherlocks path when his trail of thought broke.
They needed to turn right to head back to the house. The car went left.
His eyes opened sharpened gaze zoning in on the compartment, fingers moving to his side door panel of buttons pressing down on the button silently. The middle division didn't move. His eyes narrowed, “Henry”.
No response reached him. Henry might be professional, but he had been on his payroll for almost two decades now and the man appreciates a good talk any chance he got regardless of the hour, he’s never not answered when called upon.
This wasn't Henry. He reached forward cautiously, sliding his hand across the bottom of his own seat feeling for the hidden seam, pressing down on it, feeling it fold in on itself and slide to the side with a soft hiss, his hand curling around a replica of his service weapon sat inside. It felt familiar in his hand, but there was a weight missing too it. Years and years of meticulous handling of said weapon confirmed it.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you Mr Holmes” the unfamiliar voice of the driver filtered through the barrier. He was being watched.
“We're not going to the airfield, are we?” He asked carefully purely to drag on the conversation so he had a chance to analyse the man’s voice for any accent that could give away which group he was being kidnapped by. Slowly placing the gun back into the compartment, knowing from the weight alone that there were no bullets inside, that there was no point too holding onto it when it could do no more damage than his own fist when it came down to it.
“No sir” the driver confirmed, distorted voice low struggling to carry through the barrier.
But we both know that’s not quite true.
A black sedan sat on the curb side in his usual spot, 5 cm from the first slot, but only mm from the overhead partisan ending leaving the car out of the elements under shelter, preventing an angle of ambush by covering its over end. Car running, wheels adjusted straight to allow for an instant take off in case the need to, and the window partition open signifying he was open for conversation despite the early hours, and far too much caffeine in his system.
Henry watched the window front of the building with a sense of unease, Mycroft was late. Five minutes was extensive for him, but as the minutes ticked by and no one exited the building, and he received no follow up text signifying a deployment he felt his stomach clench as his thumb jammed down on the call button eyes scanning his surroundings.
You have reached Mycroft Holmes voice mails, please leave a message to my assistant will get back to you-
Clenching his jaw, he shoved the phone back into his pocket killing the engine and stepping out onto the curb approaching the ground floor entering the building easily finding one of the dead eyed security members at their post, knowing the layout like the back of his hand.
“Car for Mycroft Holmes, could you alert him please” he informed the man who glanced down at his paper, frowned then darted back up to his eyes widening in alarm. His own eyes narrowed, his phone vibrating in his pocket as he activated his speed dial calling up to Athena’s desk.
Nothing. No answer.
This wasn't good. If anything, his years in the military had taught him that nothing was a coincidence, everything was planned down to every meticulous detail. Mycroft was not late. He was never late. He was pushy, bloody annoying and always where you didn’t want him, but he was never late.
“What”. His patience for the guard had run out as he shifted foot to foot in front of him instead of informing him of the situation as if contemplating if he had the security level to hold his weight.
The man stumbled for a moment before blurting out, “A car has already come for Mr Homes, 20 minutes ago Sir”.
Shit. Athena had called only minutes before, there was no way he could have been here that soon. Athena should know that Mycroft should have known that. Turning on his heel dismissing the man he tugged the phone from his pocket instead calling Athena’s personal number, the ring rang before the tone fractured as shuffling carried over the phone, and a grumpy voice over the line.
“What”.
“Athena. Where was Mycroft going?” If he followed the route, he might be able to cut off the other vehicle or at least locate it before it got too far. 20 minutes was still a lengthy head start, even for bloodhounds.
“Henry?”
“Location Athena, now” he demanded, sliding back into his vehicle starting the engine wasting no time to rev the engine, call filtering over the speakers as he pulled out into traffic onto the main road pulling onto their usual route.
As if sensing his urgent Athena sounded slightly more aware, alarmed confusion filtering through the line, “What? Why what's happening?”
“Because he never got in my car”.
Chapter 3: Chapter Two: Hour One - Old Secretes Rise
Summary:
Rewritten - 4/2 - 25
She stared at the map as it froze, the line coming to a stop when the tracker died. She swallows thickly choking out “Rotate it left”. The map rotated, shit. This wasn't just a route, this was specially organised, this was a message. She forced herself to resist the agonising screech of frustration as the word twisted forming letters. Lady Smallwood glared at her, stopping at her side already moving to demand the map be removed when her eyes flickered to the map and she too paused.
The message stared back at her on the large screen.
Notes:
Updated A/N 4/2/25
So yeah if you're coming back to this in an attempt to get back into this fandom I'm attempting to rewrite this fic. I don't know how often I will be updating this, I'm kind of all over the place tbh. I rewrote a majority of this plot so I'm not sure how long all the world building will take in correspondence to the timeline.
But hey longer chapters so yay! You've got that going for you.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Mycroft Holmes
Status: MIA
Location: Unknown
Hour One.
Mycroft Holmes was missing.
Usually, a missing agent would be priority, they would get their own specialty team which would be sent out on the ground and track the man down and ensure their status was remedied while they integrated the agent for any clues or information that might have slipped out during their capture.
Mycroft however was a special case. This was a man with the queen on speed dial, a man who knew more state secrets then a room of highly decorated ranked officers, a man who called in favours like they were nothing because he could.
A man they would not risk losing track of. The very idea of the information that may be extracted from him could lead to the very ruin of the embassy and all its connecting links. It could decimate treaties, ruin countries, and single handedly topple a government.
Having Mycroft around was enough of a danger with the information he had his hands on, it was one of the reasons he was no longer in the field despite being top of his class and being the youngest agent in the agency to rise in rank as quickly as he had. But they had a deal, Mycroft used his brain and knowledge to aid the government, and they turned a blind eye on his brother's rather tedious trouble causing tendencies. An eye for an eye.
A brother for a brother.
Yet without the man by her side taking control of the room and holding the peace the whole floor was in shambles, every table filled, agents bowed over headsets on ss they hastily tried to communicate with other search teams to find a trace of Mycroft’s whereabouts. There was messengers rushing around with files, papers, everyone trying to pull their weight to prepare for what very well may be the start of the next war- all while Lady Smallwood stood stall beside her chin lifted eye glaring down at the agents below as she cut through the panic with ease with the simple order to find Holmes or die trying.
Now while it wasn't the time or place, she didn't like Smallwood. The woman was a liability, and she despised how the woman had managed to beat her here, how quick she was to cut her out of the investigation and took hold of the operation before she could get a word in. She knew this was the woman's way of getting back at her for interrupting their conversation’s at functions in order to give Mycroft an excuse to get away from her. For over scheduling meetings when she knew that the woman schedule was free with the sneaky intention that Smallmouth may try and put her nose into Mycroft’s business and bat her eyelashes in that coy wide eyed doe look that was truly not flattering on her aging face. What irritated her more was the fact that the woman immediately took to the role of bringing Mycroft home all under the guise of capturing the man's attention.
Lady Smallwood was a shallow woman. Married, not that it ever seemed to matter to her when her gaze trailed Mycroft's gait or how she always seemed to agree too quickly to a plan or hand brush too closely for two long with a earning that often received the long blank dissociated stare that Mycroft was so good at.
She was shameless, greedy. But she would do anything to bring Mycroft back if it gave her the opportunity to shower under his gratitude.
She had arrived as quickly as she could after activating the security protocol, having been home for less than thirty minutes at the time throwing on the first set of clothes she saw- the ones she had shed only minutes prior- and driven all the way to headquarters.
The slimy snake had glanced over her once with disinterest and a sneer standing at the helm of the room. She knew the woman was purposefully keeping her outside the loop. That she was holding back information that could be pivotal in saving Mycroft all because she was angry that she had ‘lost’ Mycroft in the first place.
They were using everything they could get their hands on. Security cameras, traffic cams, trackers, sleeper agents, getting all hands-on deck as the phone continued to ring off the hook as agents filtered between tasks trying to organise block radius searches, shutting down airports, and closing off roads.
Despite Lady Smallwood's clear attempt to ignore her she missed one fact. She had been Mycroft's assistant for just shy of 9 years, in that time she had earned respect, built bridges, and she had a much greater standing in the agent community then the grumpy whore of a woman that seemed to flaunt over rich married men the moment her husband wasn't looking.
It also meant that despite Lady Smallwood’s clear dismissal of her to the room, all she had to do is catch one of the painfully awkward gaze of an agent who was clearly attempting to avoid Smallwood’s ire, and wait until her blackberry vibrated with the new information for her to process. Both ignoring the fact they all knew she was the one managing the room out from under Smallwood nose, or how the older woman was smirking smugly sending her coy looks of arrogance as she turned and waved the new file at her as if taunting, see what i managed. She was yet to realise the information she was receiving was backordered, or that the agents turned to catch her eye before moving to complete the older woman's order, checking, ensuring it was the right call.
She may not have been in Smallwood’s loop, but she ensured she was one step ahead. Agents tend to stick in numbers, she had been there for more than one smack down of agents gossiping about the higher ups. She knew they would trust her in a heartbeat over a politician who had no interest in their lives on the field as long as the mission was completed. They would trust her concern for her boss, after all who knew a man better than his secretary.
She may not have been in the field for a few years but there was a reason she was Mycroft's secretary. She had respect on the ground and in the chair. She sure as hell didn't get the job from her CV.
The sight before her made her stomach clench, the sight of the room expressed in chaos before her, techs with shoulders tucked up to their ears in an attempt to hide, agents tense on the door hands on their holsters shifting in unease, and Smallmouth standing before them all on her platform, hands curled around the rail and her sharp orders cut through the room and how her patience snapped as she chewed into an agent on the floor who was attempting to debrief through gritted teeth. The scattering made her heart jump to her throat as she watched them unknowingly following the disturbing patterns of a nature documentary she had watched a few months ago on Mycroft's couch, legs tucked up heels finally kicked off for the night after a long week of back-to-back meetings and elections. She wasn't entirely sure how they had ended up watching it, but she was sure it had simply been left up to the fact they had both been too tired to change it.
Bees. They needed a queen, a leader, to live and maintain the hive. To protect its people. A hive without a queen bee tends to become a frenzy, a fight for survival, without a leader they fell into shambles, without guidance they tumbled and in desperation destroyed themselves. Without a leader they would rather destroy their hive and travel to start anew, following their queen wherever they may be.
If you wanted to tear apart a hive all you needed to do was take away their queen.
She allowed herself to flatter slightly, learning forward on the raised railing that separated the platform from the rest of the room. Anxiety tugged at her naval and her palms curled around the chilled metal trying to centre herself in an attempt to force her body to calm down.
It’s never good to panic in a serious situation dear, Mycroft reminded her his narrowed grey eyes narrowing on her, eyes softening slightly at the sight of her barefoot in his kitchen, that is how one gets killed.
She had remembered how she scowled at him tea towel clenched to her wrist from where the knife had slipped startled from spotting him leaning against the doorway, his eyebrow cocked in amusement before sighing and rolling up his sleeves in preparation of dealing with the blood slowly gripping onto his spotless wood flooring.
“God dammit it Mycroft. Where the hell are you?” she whispered in despair worrying her lower lip between her teeth, voice too low for anyone to hear but it felt like a prayer of sorts. “Give us a clue or something” she pleaded into the empty space before her.
Her blackberry vibrated. She glanced frown from where she was fiddling with it, twisting it between her palms digging the sides into fat of her thumb trying to centre herself; the weight of the phone in her palm, the nonslip bubbled corners dragging across her skin, the smooth screen sliding, warm with heat.
Slowly her heartrate lowered and he found herself taking a shallow breath, eyes fluttering open as the object vibrated and a familiar number lit up. MSecDR.
Henry.
Her thumb slid across the screen as she stepped back out of range of Lady Smallwood as she made her way down the stairs to the lower sector with the fellow agents. Nodding her head slightly to a woman who shifted slightly adjusting her computer screen to shield her as she leaned back against the desk placing the mobile to her ear.
“What do you know?” she asked, cutting right to the point.
“They didn’t follow the route for long” Henry’s voice carried over the line, “I followed the signal of his tracker, but it’s gone dark already. Whoever did this know exactly what they were doing, they knew our inner circle security measures, and they knew exactlywho Mycroft was. Mycroft’s not stupid Athena, he would have known something was wrong the moment they deviated from the course, he wouldn’t go down without a fight. If there was any evidence of him escaping their clutches, I would have seen it by now. The signal was cut smoothly, they wouldn’t have needed to deviate from the route, they easily could have taken him, and we wouldn’t have caught it until it was too late. Yet they chose to do it in a way that would leave a trail, it's almost like they’re taunting us. Someone’s been doing some footwork down here on the ground, covering their tracks, it's sloppy, enough to keep the less experienced off their trail but I managed to grab a description of the car from a civilian heading out to Sultan, but I lost him there. I haven't been able to pick up anything other than a few unregistered road work and blockages, but I’m sure we’ll be able to follow those up” she tilted her head, and the women nodded quietly already moving to pull up the database adding the blocks that Henry ratted off for her onto their rout to attribute to the unusual twist and turns.
She squinted peering at the route forming on the screen, “Why wouldn’t they follow the original route” she mussed, “Why would they go through all the effort of hiding their involvement to hide the kidnapping, then ensure that we noticed?”
“They wanted him to know he was being taken,” Henry responded.
“That he couldn’t do anything to stop it” She realised with a sigh, allowing her head to bow as she watched each line etch down on the map, “That’s why we didn't see any evidence of him fighting back, he knew it was someone who was close enough to know his schedule, someone who had clearance, who could push his hand and knew his weaknesses enough you use them against him. This was blackmail”.
She motioned for the agent to move the map up onto the big screen as she approached it, she heard the heels clack on the flooring before the woman hissed at her “What do you think you are doing agent-”.
She stared at the map as it froze, the line coming to a stop when the tracker died. She swallows thickly choking out “Rotate it left”. The map rotated, shit. This wasn't just a route, this was specially organised, this was a message. She forced herself to resist the agonising screech of frustration as the word twisted forming letters. Lady Smallwood glared at her, stopping at her side already moving to demand the map be removed when her eyes flickered to the map and she too paused.
The message stared back at her on the large screen.
Redbeard
“Athena?” Henry called worriedly.
“We have a problem”. She could barely hear herself, blood rushing through her ears in a blind panic as every executive plan Mycroft put in place to protect his family crumbled before her.
“Redbeard, what is a Redbeard?” Smallmouth frowned, eyes narrowing in suspicion.
She took a breath, forcing herself to lower her pounding heart rate, shaking slightly before she stood straighter, swallowing back the throbbing anxiety below her skin and took charge. This was no longer about Mycroft and a woman's ego. This was Mycroft's family. This was something she would handle herself, she had too. And she looked forward to staring the woman down in front of the council then an official reprimand came against her when Smallwood got her teeth in her, but this was something she had to ensure was handled delicately.
“Something far above your paygrade,” She twisted, allowing the open phone to drop to her side as she addressed the guards by the door with a slightly tense smile, “Would you be able to escort Lady Smallwood from the room please? I want this quarter in complete lockdown in five minutes, anyone with a level 8 clearance or less i request you leave the room before you are escorted thank you”.
The room started clearing out immediately, monitors shutting down, chairs pushed in, and agents swept past her, no questions asked, none needed. This was not uncommon; a command takeover was rare but practiced within their evacuation measures monthly. She had just hoped she would never need to call one.
“What the hell do you think you are doing?” Smallwood demanded. “You need a senior commander to run an operation of this significance. You need experience and a high enough clearance to get you the equipment-”
“Respectfully ma’am I have all of the above. I am an agent, just like you. Just because I wear a different uniform and answer some calls every now and then does not make me any less capable than anyone else in this room”.
“You're just a secretary” Smallwood’s gaze danced over her, lips curling back in a grimace, dismissing her with a distasteful sneer.
“And that assumption alone is the only reason Mr Holmes is still alive to this day; people tend to underestimate those of lower class. Trust me ma'am I have spent the last nine years under Mr Holmes employment spending almost 24 hours a day with him all year round. If anyone would be able to get him home, it will be me and my team. Now if you excuse us, I have an operative to run”.
The doors clicked as agents swarmed out of the room avoiding them in their stare down, security moving one placing a hand on the woman's shoulder and Smallwood scoffed shoving him off stepping out of his grip with a gritted out “I can walk myself”. Still evidently cross and barely retaining her fury but willingly walked from the command room, a guard hovering on either side of her to ensure she left the premises. 12 agents remained, they turned to her silently waiting for their next command and she placed the phone on the desk connecting it to the room sound as the soft purr of the engine filtered through.
“Henry?”
“I'm here, what do you need me to do?”
“Anything you are willing”. They still needed to make up an excuse for Mycroft's absence, they needed to push back meetings, to hire some men and place them on the ground to keep watch, she needs to secure Sherlock and John, she needed to send someone out to Oxford to collect their parents and she needs to ensure that there hadn’t been a breach at the facility. Most of all, she needed to keep the bubbling emotions at bay. She took a deep breath before lifting her head to address the room, “Ok. we need to arrange a search team-”
Notes:
This is not abandoned, I have been really busy but I found some time to write a chapter for you all. I’m so sorry for how long it took. I have a base line for this story but it’s not solid. Hopefully I can have some new chapters out soon.
Chapter 4: Chapter Three: Hour Five - The recollection of Victor: the consequences of one’s actions
Summary:
Rewritten - 8/2 - 25
“You know Mikey you're a very hard man to get a hold of”.
“That’s rather the appeal” Mycroft's tone drawled between them “Sorry for the inconvenience”.
The man’s lips twitched in amusement, “Oh don't worry darling I love a good chase”.
Notes:
A long one for you folks!
For Context: I know it may be confusing how much it jumps between James and Moriarty in this chapter but it was an attempt to display Mycroft seeing Jim’s/James more humane side (who he perceives with the innocent, somewhat lesser crime, and intelligent man he met at the bar); and the mad man who had become Moriarty in front of him through obsession (the man who lost track of the point of the game and intends to win, all regardless of the cost).
Song for chapter https://open.spotify.com/track/56P7blUafQK9P8LKda9Y6P?si=90d7899842e641b6
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Mycroft Holmes
Status: MIA
Location: Unknown
Hour Five.
The car slowly rolled to a stop, the first time it had stalled for longer than a traffic light in the last few hours, approximately four if his watch was correct. They had stalled at one point, only an hour into the car ride, the engine had been left on and the driver stayed seated, but he had seen the dark shadows against the tinted windows as people crowded around it, barely a foot separating them as they began tugging at something, a sheet, or some sort of peel that had surrounded the vehicle; modifying it. The driver had hardly waited from the civilians to back off before the wheels had spun audibly and it had taken off again.
He straightened, hand curling around the handle of his umbrella, abandoning his case by his leg. Not that it could help him, while the emergency gun was unloaded it was highly unlikely that they had managed to get to the loaded weapon intwined with his umbrella.
A weapon he was not fond of revealing until the last possible moment.
He had expected some lackey, a hired hand, a civilian. He had not expected a military man who managed to point a loaded handgun to his temple before he could move as the door swung open and they stormy grey eyes of Sebastian Moran met his. He would recognise the sniper anywhere, this man had taken a lot of work from him, foiled many plans, and tried to kill him on several occasions, although the number has lowered significantly since the man had taken to Moriarty’s employment.
Of course, the man would manage to work his way up to a bigger boss, after all why settle for an over worked and underpaid Army squadron when he could work for the most powerful man in Britan and get a nice wage and health benefits.
At least that had been the reason for a surprising number of freelance assassins they had lost to the man over the years had claimed.
“Moran” he greeted lowly, hands flexing over the handle of his umbrella the other coming up in a ‘at peace’ movement, palm held extended before him.
“Holmes” the man drawled back, “Pleasure to see you again”.
“Disappointed I’m not six feet down?”
The man’s lips tugged, “Only slightly, you make it quite tedious to keep you where I leave you”.
“Dig further next time” he suggested dryly.
Moran motioned for him to move with the gun stepping out of the way as he led Mycroft out of the car. The now white car. It was so similar to his usual vehicle that it though him for a moment, other than the stark colour, anyone could mistake it as one of his. It brought him to wonder just how much time Moriarty had around his cars in order to get it correct down to its finer details. The familiarity unnerved him. They hadn’t changed cars; no, it was still the same and he had no reciliation of falling unconscious during their relocation. They had chosen a quicker more efficient route then. A paint peel, it was not the first time he had heard about the technique being used, certainly more commonly outside London but he had always thought the strategy was time consuming and wasteful, clearly something Moriarty had no quims with. After all, with a peel you can commit a crime, and be completely under the radar with a simple colour change, only at the expense of the paintjob.
They were hours outside of the city now, acers of land surrounded him, shallow stone walls, damp unmanaged roads, thin as if one way signifying not many cars use it; they were in the country. A large family home stood before him, made completely of brick styling large wall to celling windows, and roof balconies.
The house was large, a large multi-story family home, constructed by old stone that had been aged over the years by weathering. It styles several large floors to ceiling windows across multiple gables and a prominent arched entranceway. It was an ancestral home, that much was clear, the architecture was old, he couldn’t quite date it, but he knew it was close to his own home in age, either Tudor or Jacobean. There was nicely pruned and maintained hedges in front of the house, as symmetrically planted trimmed trees framed the gravel and a white chalky sand lined the driveway leading to the arched doorway.
In all it was exactly something Moriarty would stay in enough land that no one would accidently stumble across the house, but far enough away from civilization that no one would hear an execution.
The important selling points for a mad man like the younger.
He was forced out of the car and led up the driveway by the nozzle of the gun placed firmly over his spine between his shoulder blades. Moran was taunting him, the motion mimicked the very same position from where the man had caught him, mid-ambush, in Bagdad all those years ago.
Once again leading him to his death. Let’s hope this one also didn’t stick.
The door looked worn as if it had been opened several times during a thunderstorm, there were marks on the floor, scrapes. Someone had left in a hurry, that was if their bodies weren’t currently feeding the soil. Whatever had been transported had been heavy, enough to leave marks in marble. They had only made it as far as the porch steps having hit one of the pillars before the marks came to a halt.
Where they were killed. He did not need the blood splatter stains to deduce the previous owner’s fate. Likely someone who had gone against Moriarty, thinking they could steal something and make a quick escape. An antelope escaping a tiger.
He was led into the entryway, a room that despite its extravagant outside looked bare, furnished with the essentials for a ‘mudroom’ but failed to brandish any personal touches. The large doors slammed behind them, a large grand staircase in front of them, an arch into a grand kitchen to his left and some sort of arched living room to his right. He was led to none of them, instead he was forced into a chair that had been placed in the centre of the reasonably sized foyer, facing towards the living area. It was then that a hand curled around his side, palm spraying across his ribs, the other holding the gun which shifted to press the nuzzle into the side of his neck, between his collarbone and jaw, cold metal making an imprint with a small pinch. It was clear Sebastian was taking a sense of satisfaction from this, the position of power; he kicked his feet apart, the man’s hand slipped from his waist over his jacket flicking him quickly but efficiently, tugging the mobile form his pocket, not that it was much use having discovered some sort of jammer preventing a signal not long into his kidnapping. Content with his search the hand drifted up to grasp the back of his neck.
“How does it feel to be my bitch for once Holmes?” Sebastian asked, pressing him down more forcefully guiding him into the chair. Gun nudging against his throat as Sebastian stood over him snapping a pair of cuffs around his left wrist, clearly having already been attached to the chair.
“I’m not sure, perhaps you should inform me. Being so used to being on your knees and all”. He had expected the hit; it didn’t stop the slight click of his neck or the ache in his cheek from the pistol. He couldn’t physically fight the man, no matter how much his hands twitched to reach out and snap the man’s neck and be done with it all. Sebastian knew that too.
If he ended the game too quickly, he would never know why he was taken. If Sebastian damaged him, then James would ensure the man never saw the light of day again. Neither were willing to risk their chances.
Sebastian’s lips curled into a disgusted scowl, “Sure, Ice-man”.
Instead as the man retreated to his spot by the open arch doorway, careful to keep the wall to his back swiftly moving out of grabbing distance, clearly not trusting him to not break his hand to get loose and attack. Well trained, smart, but not smart enough. Boding his time, he wrapped his hand more firmly over his umbrella handle, placing it by his side where it could lean against him as he placed one leg over the other, crossed. Content with observing the man before him.
He had a white scare fading with age against his ribcage from the last time he had been in close quarters with the man 13 years ago, the very first time he had come across the hitman and witnesses his skills firsthand. He had been young and stupid, confident he could take on the man without backup after being warned to maintain position by his commanding officer. The bullet had gone straight through, close range, nuzzle pressed into his hip, trigger pulled without hesitation for his younger appearance as the man picked up his sniper case and disappeared into the darkness leaving him to bleed out and die. It had fractured a rib, punctured a lung as he laid there choking on his own blood. He had been 19. A blade scare, still pink from his right ear across his neck to his spin, easily hidden by his collar, he was lucky not to slice open his jugular. Another by his shoulder, another gunshot wound, a glaze, hardly considered a wound. He had been a casualty to a diplomat’s assassination, and he swore the man did it on purpose, there was no way the sniper needed to shoot through him, other than a petty grudge, instead of taking the time to adjust to a clear shot. There had been many more scrapes and fumbled between the two men but truthfully, they had only met face to face four times in their lives, each with years between them, yet time had not calmed their hatred for the other.
“Like it?” Moran shifted leaning back against the arch, eyes trained on him as he held the gun lazily in his direction. He wasn’t stupid enough to fool himself into thinking the man wasn’t sharp enough of a shot to hit him if he tried to attack. Moran motioned to the surrounding rooms, “Helped renovate it myself”.
“It looks like a torture chamber” he drooled. “I suppose the work on the front steps is yours too”.
“I thought some personal touches would suit the house” Moran gave him a fake smile, gun aimed broadly over his chest, “Knife to the throat, but you already knew that didn’t you”.
“Always quick to deduce, Holmes. How did this one die? Did I slice him open, remove his organs only to replace them before his very eyes? Did I torture him first, did I peel nail after nail from his fingertips-” the man had once puffed at him, hand curled over his side, the other hand wrapped around his neck.
He could feel the cool blade across his skin, the damp humid air of the rainfall that had fallen that night as the man pressed against the wall of an alley in China town, attempting to slit his throat despite having a knife three inches deep in his stomach.
“Like my work that much?” he asked eyes roaming over the man.
“Thought you might want to autograph it for me” the sniper lifted his free hand tugging his sweater up, his oxford shirt with it to reveal the scar, a firm pale line, above his hipbone spanning over his side. “Scar tissue closed over so nicely, I was thinking of tattooing Mycroft Holmes used this hole above it”.
“Clever”. Vulgar, he was trying to unsettle him.
Moran’s expression turned sly his smile clearly pressed in insincerity “I try”.
“Is he coming soon or am I left to your lovely company”.
“He’s coming. Despite the infatuation he displays for you weirdos, he has more important matters to handle first,” the taunt was low, clearly not meant to have an effect any further than a snide remark but the insinuation caught his attention.
What type of scheme was Moriarty cooking up that was worth more time than Sherlock. A game the man was willing to chuck out millions of dollars for five minutes of his attention. What was more important than entertaining the man he had gone out of his way to kidnap.
Although the men beside manors may not be charming, having left him to wait alongside his bodyguard who he knew would try to engage him in a petty fight. He had also brought him here for a reason. He wanted him to know he had something bigger than the Holmes brothers going on. He wanted him to be weary. He wanted them afraid.
“Charming, I don’t suppose I’m allowed to walk around,” he allowed his eyed to sweep over the room pointedly.
“And let you snoop? Jim would be ecstatic, but I wouldn’t dare give you the satisfaction,” the assassin sneered.
“I take it he’s in the house?” He wondered where the office was, upstairs or down. If the man was taunting his team with another one of his viruses. He wondered idly how long his team would take before realising what had happened, how long Athena would wait before informing his brother, before a MI6 specialist team came to retrieve him.
“You and I both know I’m not that sloppy” the marksman replied, his stormy eyes narrowing. “You have several layers of security and guards before you could get close to him”.
How long it would take before he allowed himself the liberty of removing the ring around his finger and swallowing it, allowing the laced cyanide metal to poison him before they could retrieve the information they wanted.
How long he would be in captivity until death became his only option. He had no quims with death, he would be annoyed at the organisation, he had left files for Athena to take care of all his private projects and Sherlocks protection detail, but death itself did not scare him. It was inconvenient, a practice that despite the numerous assassination attempts, rogue agents and missions gone wrong he had faced over the years, never really stuck.
Would Athena follow his orders like law, or would she take them as suggestions, he wondered ideally if he should have put more emphasis on why she needed to follow each order to the letter to prevent complications or…escapes. The more space she leaves open the more of a risk there were of his projects becoming more familiar with each other.
Which would be very unfortunate for Britian.
What excuse would Athena give to his sudden absence at the conference, it was unlikely for anyone to believe he was ill, called away perhaps was more likely, but he had known some of the politicians personally, who knew he would have regretfully informed them of his absence beforehand.
He hadn’t realised how far into his mindpalace he had fallen into during the lull until the sniper spoke, clearly familiar enough with Moriarty to recognise he had not been completely there. Knowledgeable enough to know how to drag him out slowly without inciting his fight or flight reflexes. Every movement was practiced, precise.
“What’s going on in that big head of yours?” the grey eyes stared into his, peering with a certain reluctant curiosity. “Trying to figure out the game?”.
“Well, I would be very disappointed if you gave him a hint” a droll voice called from the top of the staircase, he lifted his head to spot the elegantly raised eyebrow. Moriarty tilted his head, typing away on his phone without glancing at the screen once as he descended, Westwood tailored to his body as always, hair swept back looking every bit the criminal he had been observing over the last few months. “You know Mikey you're a very hard man to get a hold of” Moriarty noted idly.
“That’s rather the appeal” his flat tone drawled between them, “Sorry for the inconvenience”. He let the air linger for a moment before reluctantly adding, “If you wanted to speak to me, then you could have arranged an appointment”.
The man’s lips twitched in amusement, “Oh don't worry darling I love a good chase. Besides where’s the fun in that?” the criminal gnashed his teeth at him teasingly, eyes raging through a series of emotions, too many for him to pin down as thoughts slid through the man’s mind. “Let you hold all the power? I think not”.
“I think you’ll find I can be quite accommodating”.
The man sent him a long side glance as he reached the landing, heals clicking on the marble as he approached tucking the phone away as he slid his hands into his trousers pockets looking at ease, stopping a mere few feet from him unconcerned at the danger Mycroft may pose. He rocked back on his heels, eyes roaming over him, observing him silently. His narrowed look was glazed over with the same disinterested air he had been receiving from his brother as of recent, it had been months since he had felt his brother’s gaze settle on him long enough to do a surface level deduction. Sherlock was always rather agitated by the time he got out of his car and climbed the steps to 221B; a lull that made him worry enough to organise a sweep of his place, agitating him further until Sherlock’s gaze slid over his form entirely in favour for his newest obsession.
John Watson.
The reason for all this trouble. The unforeseen outlier. The weakness.
Moriarty hummed slightly, “I trust Tiger has been keeping you entertained?” his hand curled around his shoulder, fingertips dancing across his collarbone in a pattern, binary code, 0100001010001-
“Beside his horrific bedside manners? To a certain degree,” 0100100001000110100. “You should consider putting him in puppy training with how often he follows you around, at your beck and call”.
The fingers stalled slightly, 10002001000100- The man allowed a low hum in the base of his throat, thoughtful, “He would look rather good in a collar” the man agreed lightly, finger restarting, only the pattern was different this time, inverted, twisted, snarling into something frighteningly familiar. His other hands straying up, fingertips brushing against his underjaw, curling loosely, but firmly. Over his throat, stroking the skin under it with a longing, “Then again, so would you”.
Oh. The rules to their games had changed.
He realised it with such a stillness it almost rocked him. They hadn’t played this before, Moriarty had taunted him, been vulgar, sly, and the man had flirted with him. They had claimed ownership of the others mind, twisting tricks and riddles to the point of physical reactions but never extending past the silent agreement that physical ramifications were unwelcome.
This was new territory. Dangerous.
How fascinating.
His grip tightened around the handle of his umbrella and the man huffed lightly over his ear briefly, “Oh so sensitive” the Irishman teased lowly, finger tracing the curl of his jugular, “If I didn’t know any better iceman-” the man’s fingertips stilled over the vein, taking his pulse with an exhilarated whisper “I would say your nervous”.
“Don’t be preposterous,”. Pushing back his training he played into the risk, tilted his head back, the man’s hand sliding firmly around his throat almost caressing it as his head bumped back against the Moriarty’s stomach, staring up at the blue eyes, shining in clear amusement.
This game of theirs had always been tentative, intimate, almost tauntingly slow. One move after the other, always taking the time to make a move to put a play in motion – always fighting to stay 5 steps ahead – treating it like a game of chess.
Moriarty was flamboyant, he used up his pawns freely, there was a strategy, although the man tended to bounce around the board with no rhyme or reason. Constantly changing his direction and strategy to play into his own madness. He had no regards for the pawns, but he held his rooks back, shielding his king, the queen always nearby, shielded by a reasonable number of pawns that he had slowly chipped away, but out of all Jame’s pieces the queen was his murder, his right-hand man, never his partner, never his second in command.
There was Jim. Then everyone else. No hierarchy displayed in his moves, simply those who he deemed below him, those he placed prices on their lives and expected them to pay him back with every last beat of their metaphorical heart.
He was much more careful, something that seemed to infuriate and fascinate the man. His pawns were meticulously placed, sacrifices made, traps spun, but his Queen never moved. No matter how much the man prodded, he remained stiff, rigid, button done up tight, repressed. Shielded by his bishops, knights raging on through battle leaving his king scarlessly unprotected on several angels in order to shield the one-piece Moriarty had placed on aa higher pedestal then his king, the one piece that in Jame’s eyes life cost more.
The one he wanted to extinguish even if it cost him very last piece.
The game rather showed their stance on their sides. Moriarty was willing to play into his hand if only he could release a little chaos along the way, uploading a virus that took down Heathrow, hijack the comms mid mission, organizing terrorist cells, making ties and stealing his own freelancers all while tugging his metaphorical ponytail. It was all for him.
Your go, Mycroft.
He countered him. He held secrets, both familiar and the government, his life was costly, but he had always placed it behind the queen and country, behind Sherlock. He would always place his own health and wellbeing below his brothers, James was playing into his weakens, tugging at Sherlock, tugging him into a game that he knew was lethal. He had hand feed his secrets to that- that beast.
He wanted to burn his heart. What better way than to use his own brother?
Holmes, the man he had heard thought his life following scorn or praise, one more recently he had heard in a purr followed by James secretive smile, knowing something he hadn’t.
That was until he stepped into his office, a man sent as a gift, a tyrant.
Charles.
The man who had come to wipe away all his trouble, to give him a clean slate.
Augustus.
A man he knew he needed to wipe of the face of earth before his brother learnt his name.
Magnussen.
The bogyman.
The blackmailer, the prince. Of course, Moriarty had his grips in him. He had sent an executioner to do a pawns job. A warning, for what was to come.
Only he had ignored it, intending to rid the man before the damage could be rout.
He had been wrong.
James lips curled into a sharp smile, “No?” he sounded amused, nails tracing across the line of his throat eyes darting up momentarily to meet with Moran’s, “I could slit your throat right here and now and there would be nothing you could do about it darling. I have you truly cornered. I do believe a prize is in order”.
“You won’t kill me”. It was bold, he resisted the urge to swallow, refusing to give the man satisfaction of feeling his throat bob under his fingertips. “You would grow bored”.
The man rolled his eyes, almost fondly, “You think rather highly of yourself”.
“How could I not?” he asked, eyes searching the man, neck starting to ache form holding the awkward position, “When you were the one to put a price on my life first”.
After all, James had been the first one to extend his hand, to put the first play in motion, to approach him at that bar in a flux of a one-night stand. For a moment they had been tempted but he had been on a mission, he had dismissed the man, a mistake that had very quickly become obvious as they became entwined.
James had made the first move. Defying all rules of chess.
Black pawn, E7 to E6.
The man had risked introducing himself, “Jim Moriarty, darling”.
He had opened himself for scrutiny. Begging him to open his lap and roll the dice, to engage. To play a game with someone of similar intellect in a world of goldfish.
He had been tempted.
James Moriarty. Orphaned at 15, ‘accident’; Jim Moriarty Sr drowned in a bathtub while drunk. Considering the older records he had dug up, the ones the man had left for him to find, the man was an abusive prick. James had gone to the same school as Carl Powels. It was not a hard leap. James had left country was he was 20, no passport, a smuggler, already building up his network with a few loyal lackeys from the surrounding towns he had been playing. At first the drug game. Then the affairs, marriages, the simple murders. Then by 25, it all hit. A terrorist cell, overseas links, everything expanded overnight.
At 27, he walked into a hotel bar and introduced himself.
He had been intrigued.
So, he had played.
White pawn, G2 to G3.
Moriarty had rigged a bomb attack into the underground, an abandoned station, one that coincidently sat beneath a conference building where an election was taking place. He had caught it with hours remaining. A team had been briefed and sent down, security heightened, he had cast his eyes to their surroundings more then he should have, slightly disappointed to not he was unable to distinguish the man he knew to be watching from the crowds. The bomb had been disarmed, the members of the election none the wiser to the attempt on their lives.
All evidence had pointed them to a strained relation with previous terrorist cells. But he had known. And dutifully as if waiting for him Moriarty made his next move.
Like a snake in a chicken’s pen, just waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
His thumb stroked his skin, he couldn’t help it, his throat bobbed, James eyes widened and shined in pleasure. His composure fracturing under the grip of the regretfully powerful man.
Black pawn, 7E to 5E.
An assassination. It was successful, point James.
White knight, B1 to A3.
String of serial killings, all which targets members on his strike teams. He caught them, making a fatal mistake, the prize had been the man’s gurgled shout of pain as he pressed gown on the bullet wound “Moriarty!”. The merchant had hardly been worth his time. He made his move. Point him.
Black Castle, H8 to H6.
Opera bombing. Point James. They had been unable to disarm it on time, blaming the international incident on a gas line leak, several important political figured killed in the blast. He had been brought in for review. Point James.
White knight, H3 to G5.
Prison break. Which would not usually be his issue other than the fact it had been at the exact time an extraction team was driving through the back roads to take down part of the man’s network where they had been ambushed, roads cluttered with violent inmates, two men killed, one permanently disabled. His personal friend, the leader of the team, slung up in the trees for him to find, eyes gouged out hanging form his sockets, a neat M carved into his forehead, stomach sliced open his own intestines binding his hands to the branches, organ looped around his neck where he hung. The part that made his stomach turn was the clear blue ting to the man’s lisp signifying that he had been alive, that suffocation from bring hung by his own organs had taken him before the shock could. Point Moriarty.
Black Pawn, C7 to C6.
He has led a team through the dark into an underground base he had managed to trace one of Moriarty’s IP addresses two. A fentanyl den, mercenary’s, a clear base of operations. One he hit with such force, head still reeling from the loss of a precious friend, despite what sherlock may claim he had a heart, one that had been aching with grief as he tore apart a fraction of Moriarty’s network rapid as he retreated into his blank façade. He did it with military efficiency. Taking the rare change to gear up with the others who sent him concerned side glances, vest wrapped around his chest, gun in hand, something that he had not done for several years but had ensured the moment he engaged in this dangerous game to maintaine. This was his responsibility, his fight now, and he burnt out the infestation as far as he could before Moriarty manage to slam down the flood gates to lick his wounds. Point fucking him.
White Knight, G5 to F3.
And so, they played while no one else was the wiser, moved hidden through movements of code. Correspondents through events, missions, never face to face.
No, that was reserved for Sherlock.
That was reserved until James could stand before him and watch him burn.
This game had been far from ending and yet was too far in to back out now.
He refused to leave them on a stalemate.
“Just because you have a price, don’t mean your priceless,” The man’s grip relented as he stepped back finally allowing him to sit up straight as watch as he strolled calmly towards his bodyguard. His phone rang, Bees Gees hit ‘Staying alive’, the tempo filling the room for a split second before dying.
It stilled, smothered into silence, but it caused the madman to twist on his heel, eyes lighting up, as if he was about to be sucked into something much bigger than they had broached before. “Just on time” the Irishman purred tugging the mobile form his pocket swiping it open, grin growing wider, almost encapsulated with whatever was being displayed on the phone before he stalked closer. Kicking the umbrella from his side where it rolled despite his grip, the man didn’t hesitate, shoulders slammed back by the rough contact. Moriarty was in his face, one hand curled around the back of his neck, two thighs balancing on the edge of the chair with him, squeezing slightly ensuring he couldn’t ignore the madman saddling him. Sebastian’s mirth was gone, his face shuttering the emotion wiped off in a split second as the cold emotionless sniper returned, the gun raised, grip tight, having taken a halted a step forward in alarm.
James inhaled slowly nose brushing his jaw as he leaned closer, “I just knew you would be the perfect audience for this”.
His finger curled until he could feel his nails dig into his palm, chain of the cuff rattling at the movement. The man in his lap huffed as if amused, “I can tie your other hand up too if you wish,” he offered, “Otherwise there’s a perfectly good waist there Mr Iceman”.
“I didn’t want to assume” he forced out dryly, slightly unnerved at having the man so close, too close, the same nerves that had filled him when the man’s fingers curled around his throat roared in his ears. Too close, too close, tooclose-
“Well, aren’t you just a gentleman”.
“I try”. His hand flexed, throat bobbed. Moran was glaring at him jaw tight. He stared over the sniper’s shoulder clinging to the crack in the wall trying to strategies how to pull the crater together, to sooth it, to fix it. If only to pretend to ignore how each rising beat of his heart and each shuttered breath carved a crater through his mask that he wasn’t sure he could repair. “Mummy would be affronted if she learnt, I wasn’t putting all those years of leaning to practice”.
“Oh, the sweet memories coming back to you Croft?” the man’s hand tightened, eyes wide in exhilaration as he rolled his hip teasingly. “Does sweet mummy know of all those dirty little secrets you keep-”
What in the absolute hell had this man gotten his hands on.
“-Do they keep you up at night? Seeing all those faces, the blood on your hands? Seeing all those people you failed to bring home. Would she still think so sweetly of you if she knew just how badly you had failed Sherlock? Just how many times he’s OD; how many times you’ve scrapped him off the floor. Poor little Mycroft could never live up to expectations could you. You were never good enough.” Moriarty’s teeth snapped like a shark; snarl so wide he wondered if the man would actually try to bite him. His heart was pounding in his ears. Panic.
“Do you see them when you close your eyes all the people you failed? All the people who died because of you. Do you think of Sherlock? Of how sheltered and outcast he is because Mycroft couldn’t take time away from his studies to teach him to blend in. That he’s reduced to a mere detective because you couldn’t protect him, his mindpalace-”
His heart was racing, his lungs constricting. Too close. Too close. Too close- Moriarty was shaking, voice almost roaring, fury raging through him, knuckles white the tight grip on the phone which whined as the case cracking under the force. Too close. Too close. Too close.
“-he doesn’t even know, does he? What keeps you up at night? What cracks the armour of the Iceman-”
What cracks the Iceman?
Everything.
“-answer me this Mycroft-”
His fingers felt cold. His fingers were white from the tension and force he was putting on his joints, curled so tightly into his palms, trying to force back the tremors he had fought to get rid off so long ago in childhood. To the blood he could taste where he had bitten a chuck of his check in worry and kept picking at it with his teeth. The Irishman’s fingers were digging into the back of his neck, not kneading, more digging into the joint forcing him forward but keeping him complacent giving him no choice but to face Moriarty – who he so desperately wished to rear back from– only to force himself backwards into the uncomfortable pain.
He tried to cling to the mask, to the icy glacier that seemed to be cracking as rays of sun shined through. Dark stormy clouds on the horizon.
“Do you think of little Victor?”
His eyes snapped to his in alarm, breath seizing in his chest, Moriarty’s grin was wide, mad, cheshire. Like a shark, deadly, predatory. A man who got exactly what he wanted. Moriarty hadn’t needed conformation; he had wanted a reaction. He had wanted him to know that he knew one of his biggest and darkest secrets. One so closely linked to the monster that plagued his mind that he feared the man might skip down the halls of his mindpalace and break open the padlock holding the door shut and let her lose.
This hadn’t been about power. This wasn’t about proving that he could. This was Moriarty changing the game. Shifting the rules to accommodate more people. First it had been Sherlock, then John. Now he feared the empty seat staring back at him in the corner of his mind where he did his best strategizing.
This was Jim calmly knocking over his queen with a petty smile and softly declaring those daunting words, check.
He was too close. Too close.
He had too many skeletons he wanted to keep chained to the bottom of the boat for Moriarty to be roaming through his mind so freely. Each step approaching that locked room in the base of his skull, the door raddled with screams, chain after chain wrapping around the steal, padlocks, melded metal, anything he could do to ensure the door would never reopen and this man was strolling in like he owned the place, ready to set it aflame, just for the sake of it.
In the distance lighting cracked down.
The East wind was coming.
“Do you think of the little boy you failed?” Moriarty taunted softly, “The little boy who used to look up at you with those wide eyes. Do you miss how he used to worship you”.
The East wind was coming.
“Do you remember his screams? To be let out. For her to stop. For you to help?”
The East wind was coming.
“Dear Jim, come save a little boy for me” he swallowed.
The man’s lips curled, “Just so”.
“That’s what this is?” his heart was pounding in his throat; he could feel it. “Another game?”
“Oh sweetheart” Moriarty purred, “We’ve always been playing a game, every move, every breath, every life, and every death”.
“Rather big board don’t you think?” he asked.
“I’ve never exactly been fond of mankind anyway”.
Clearly.
It was a split second. But he saw it. The flash of the night vision image on Moriarty’s phone, an image he hadn’t taken more than a second to acknowledge. CCTV, no smaller, slightly better quality then the grainy image he looked at daily. What had caught his attention had been the scope, the clear barrel of a custom rifle. One that so clearly looked in on 221B baker street from one of the unrented apartments across the street, the one on the corner if the angle was correct. One that was aimed directly on Sherlock. The foolish boy stood oblivious to the danger. To the sniper that had a clear shot through that damn window he had scolded his brother so many times not to stand near. Watson typing away at his laptop in the kitchen, chatting to Lestrade who looked on his last leg grilling the man no doubt about a new case before his shift starts.
Moriarty had made a split-second mistake, leaning back just slightly titling off his balance as he shifted as if to wave his arm around in a big grand movement when he struck.
His palm slammed into the Irishman’s shoulder throwing him off balance enough to tug the suit jacket and force the man to twist, back to chest, forearm wrapped around his throat cutting off the man’s air who gasped then choked at the sudden removal of oxygen from his lungs. He was at a disadvantage, one bound hand, his umbrella – his gun – his blade – too far away to reach. Sebastian had a gun, but he had Jim.
He could see the frustration in the sniper’s eyes, his molars grinding as he pulled Moriarty closer using him to shield his body. He never had been fond of hostage play. The man’s eyes darted looking for an opening, eye twitching when he failed to see one, Jim was skinner then him but clearly the man still thought it was too risky of a shot – there was only a certain amount of time before Moriarty started to twitch and frail as he slowly suffocated. Any of those openings could close in a split movement and Mycroft could become Jim. The snipers grip on his weapons tightened, but made no move to shoot, refusing to take the risk of hitting his boss.
Oh, so where were those sniper instincts when you used me as a ricochet.
Moriarty’s mobile had tumbled to the ground by his feet in the volent shift, screen up, green image still playing in real time before him. Moriarty’s hand clutched his forearm, likely instinctive, fight or flight; nails digging into skin, the fabric feeling much to thin in the moment, but the man made no movement to fight, to crawl, to struggle, appearing perfectly calm as if it had been planned down to its last movement.
“Release him” Sebastian ordered roughly. “Before I shoot a 9mm hole in your forehead”.
“Play nice ‘Bastian” he taunted lightly, “Share your toys”.
“Boss-”
“Your rather cute- you know that” Moriarty swallowed roughly clearly comfortable by the small grimace. “Almost predictable really”.
His grip tightened the man let out a wheeze, “Talk” he ordered. Releasing the pressure ever so slightly. Sebastian glare darkened.
“I knew you react to Sherlock” the mad man laughed breathlessly, “You always do”.
“He has nothing to do with this-”
“I knew I had to give you an ultimatum” the man continued, “I knew you would see Sherlock and react. That’s boring, predictable, mundane. I needed to make you exciting again”.
“To make a big boom” Sebastian added with a straight face and gritted teeth.
“So pretty” Moriarty cooed, “I knew it had to be big, something that you’d actually feel guilty for. People you knew”.
A bomb? There was a bomb. When a pyromaniac and Jim Moriarty joined forces, it was never a good outcome.
“Where”, where the hell was the national security, the alarms, something.
“That’s not part of the game sweetheart” Moriarty almost pouted, “That’s not how you play. You need to pick”. The man was starting to squirm, voice growing hoarse no louder than a mutter, “The embassy, or Sherlock. Who will you choose?”.
Sebastian had a gun, he had Jim, but Jim had Sherlock. Sherlock trumps all suits, always.
He hesitated. He loved Sherlock, had given up most of his life, his childhood to raising his brother, but the embassy - it would be filled with people. Hundreds injured or dead. British citizens. Woman, children. He had no idea if any of his safety precaution had picked it up, if a security round had found it, if anyone body knew about it and was already working on disarming it. He had no idea if it was real.
Yet, he always fell back to Sherlock.
His eyes darted back down to the screen; he could see him. Sherlock bow resting by his side, violin still raised, a small furrow in his brow as his eyes roam the streets below him. Looking for him. Even when he was not wanted the boy found himself looking for his older brother in the darkness of London.
Usually when there was a lull in cases, he would brother him, check in on him, see how close he was to a danger night, yet Sherlock had noted his lack of presence.
Sediment.
He always had been a greedy man.
“I’m afraid you’ve rather played your hand” James sounded relaxed, if a bit pleased, his tisk sounded daunting, like a teacher telling off a disobedient child. The screen shifted as a hand came on view adjusting the scope, loading the weapon.
That’s when he noticed the information he had missed in his original deduction. The twitchy finger. That hovered so eagerly over the trigger, begging for the command.
An agent just waiting to go rouge to feel the rush of the kill.
Had Athena activated his security measures yet? Would his guards be there, on shift. Would they notice, were they already getting ready to intervene? Did they even know he was gone yet? It was clear that Sherlock didn’t, he couldn’t spot the man’s usual irritation when the was brought in to solve one of his issues.
They should be on high alert. Yet, Sherlock cast his eyes over the street below him with clear boredom eating away at him, clearly dismissing his search as he plucked at the regularly violated violin and pulled the bow across its string in such a familiar pattern, he could almost hear the music.
Reluctantly he swallowed loosening his grip, James slipped from it easily, standing with an incredulous look as if signifying as he tugged down the suit fabric, “Westwood!”. Moran didn’t back down, eyes narrowed strolling forward not oppressive but lingering by James side as if resisting the urge to reach for him.
The man continued his tangent as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “I had rather hoped you would be more willing to up the stakes, you know palls and all”, disappointment lingered for a split second before the grin returned, flamboyant, “Oh well! We never said you had to play”.
There was a click, a clear movement of the safety being flicked off, twitchy finger caressing the trigger-
“Stop” he gruffed out, eyes unable to look away from the surveillance. “Leave Sherlock out of this”.
“Well, that’s hardly my fault” The Irishman rolled his eyes flamboyantly waving his hand in a lazy motion, “You wouldn’t come out to play, you forced my hand dar-ling. You made me make it personal”.
He had been ignoring the game. Working on keeping the newest royal scandal a secret, foiling assassination attempts, terrorist cells, election season, and changing the security rotation in Sherrinford to ensure Eurus couldn’t get her craws into anyone – apparently too late.
He had all but handed her the key.
He had been pushing back his turn, so Moriarty had apparently decided to skip him. To rush forward into his play, tired of waiting, never waiting, cutthroat as always had decided to sever the head from his queen.
“And I’m afraid I rather took offense to that”. The Irishman gave him one of those terrifying smiles Sherlock tended gives him when he wants to unnerve him and force him into leaving. It was mimicked right down to crinkling of the corner of his eyes. The slow crawl of his lips tugging into a wide arch, too unnatural, too many teeth, too threatening to be human, the delight roaring in those too wide strained eyes- “Goodnight Mycroft”.
Before he could protest, lunching forward desperate to do anything – his hand already shown in its raw entirety. Moriarty stayed infuriately out of reach fingertips brushing against the fabric of his shirt only for his wrist to be snatched up, Sebastian lunching forward in the same movement, ripping his arm across his chest to his shoulder forcing his weight back into the chair as the distinct feel of something being jammed into his shoulder made its way through his subconscious.
The sly malicious intent shining through Sebastian’s expression as he pressed the plunger down, the foreign subsentence making its way through his system; fast acting, limbs losing energy, slumping, down into the man, who calmly curled a palm around the nape of his neck like he was caring for a drunk friend, as if he was endearing. “Night night kitten,” the snipers soft croon followed him deep into his unconsciousness, bouncing off the cell walls as he found himself into the locked room staring down at the one face, he had never wanted to lay eyes on again.
The East wind was coming.
Whether he liked it or not. He could only hope that Britian was still standing when he finally broke through the lull off the drugs in his system.
A hand ran through his hair, he could feel it faintly, buzzing against his skin through the fog. “Isn’t he cute Tiger? We’re going to have so much fun with our newest cub”.
“The best boss”.
For my christmas gift, I want Jim Moriarty.
Only five minutes.
Fine.
What harm could come from 300 seconds.
The East wind was coming .
He wasn’t sure he could survive this one.
Notes:
I bet you didn't expect us to get there that fast. Don't worry things will slow down for a bit after this, god forbid Moriarty make something easy
Chapter 5: Chapter Four: Hour Fifteen - The Puzzle Box in the Cop Office.
Summary:
It was that damn box again. He narrowed his eyes as he noted the man lingering by the hallway of the break room. The man was tense, eyes scanning his surroundings, hand periodically reaching instinctively to his hip when anyone moved too suddenly. He knew a guard when he saw one. So, what the hell was so important about that box for it to be receiving an immediate transfer alone with one of his best? And who exactly was this mystery family member who had conveniently existed the moment the guard walked in the building.
song for this chapter: https://open.spotify.com/track/7FjKU2mfpEpvKIbx8naZRk?si=5f7beb759cec4733
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Mycroft Holmes
Status: MIA
Location: Unknown
Hour Fifteen.
The red eye shifts were by no means fun, but they were a necessary evil. Having found himself with an empty nest and now no one to return home to, he found himself slowly slipping more frequently on the overtime list, not that he wasn't a chronic worker before his divorce but there was something haunting about an empty home once filled with light. If he could take a shift so the younger kids could go out and enjoy their night then he would, finding himself sometimes staying an hour or two after his shift to ensure no one needed him before forcing himself to order takeout to watch on his couch in his empty house watching the rerun of his taped football game.
Then again there might be nothing sadder than falling asleep at your desk and being found by your subordinate, alone, on Valentine’s Day. The clock was barely at 2am so maybe she would give him a pass, it had been a slow night, a few purse snatchers, an assault and assist, and a few minor drug and underage drinking charges but overall, nothing that caused a major rush for the night.
The knocks had barely stirred him, still blinking slowly as he lifted his head from his crossed arms, back aching dully as Sally stuck her head in between the cracked door “Hey boss do you have- oh sorry” she winced.
“Sally” he rasped, clearing his throat, blinking and he sat up trying desperately to rid the red flush forming on his cheeks from his skin as he nervously ran his fingers through his hair trying to avoid the wince as his finger caught a knot. “Uh, what can i do for you?”
“Do you have the Peterson case? His lawyer wants to get him discharged” she trailed off lowly, eyes scanning his with a down tilt to her lips, concerned despite the fact she had matching dark bags under her eyes and a sickly pale tone to her skin from far too many overbooked shifts.
“Uh” he scrambled, squinting as he tugged the files apart trying to find the labelled one that he knew he had been adding notes to before his impromptu nap. “The drinking case?” he frowned clearing his throat uncertainty as he squinted reading the dot notes from the arresting officer, “Did you say a lawyer?”
She rolled her eyes, lips tugging up slightly in limp amusement, “Yeah, the kids going off the rails, an entitled one. Been demanding we give him his own room, claiming we aren’t being ‘accommodating’ enough. You know the type, high and mighty, above the ants” shew sent him a side glance, “Anyway he called his lawyer first chance he got. So, if you get a call about department neglect and abuse…”
“Yeah yeah, I’ll handle it” he let out a small groan rubbing his forehead, “You know I’ve never heard of ‘im” he muttered holding the file out inviting her in.
She smiled briefly, nudged the door open and crossed the small space taking it, flipping it open ensuring all the documents were there before nodding to herself. “Me either, but thanks. I didn't want to go down to lockers and try to get that damn printer hire they gave us last shift to get copies”.
“They still haven't fixed that?”
“Nope” she drawled, popping the p, “Pain in the arse to work from what I’ve heard. Some new fancy model apparently. I don't know why they needed to update it, our one worked fine”.
“It was also from 1980” he pointed out leaning back in his chair lifting a pen absently to twist between his fingers. The updated equipment had been nice in theory when it was brought up, however they soon discovered that they were not up to date with modern electronic and most of the crew still struggled with pagers and fax machines despite the younger recruits’ best efforts to help.
“Yeah, but good things come with age” she grinned coyly, sending an exaggerated wink his way.
He lifted an eyebrow flattening his tone, “Sally Donovan if I didn't know you any better, I would accuse you of fraternising with a superior officer”.
“Good thing you know me then sir,” she tilted her head, knuckles rapping softly against his deck. “Coffee?”
“God yes” he breathed, pushing himself out of his chair willing to take the silent offered support to drag through the last few hours of their shift trailing after her out of the office. They were short staffed, the office feeling empty despite the clear skeleton crew he spotted dancing between their desk, some processing, some typing up reports, others talking to lawyers, phone wedged between their shoulder and ear dotting down information on a pad on their desk or even walking a handcuffed perp down into holding.
“Bit of a slow night, hasn't it?” he asked with a frown, looking around as they approached the break room periodically pausing to step out of the way or hold a gate open for another officer with their hands full, boxes of evidence stacked high.
“Nothing we couldn’t handle, just the usual. I thought it would be more busy tonight, Becky said they were slammed last night, but apparently most made bail or were transferred”.
He hummed softly as he ducked into the breakroom following the freshly brewed coffee like a bloodhound. Josh, a younger man then him only in his early 30’s with brown shoulder length hair tugged into a half bun at the base of his neck and a pair of snakebites on his lower lip that made him grimace, gave him an amused look, placing the coffee pot back down, mug curled loosely in his palm. “Have a good nap, sarge?”
He gave the man a confused disgruntled look and the younger man lifted his free hand to brush against his right cheek lightly with a small grin. His hand lifted and groaned at the raised line, he scrubbed at them hoping that the red irritated skin would clear the marks that his files and binders had left across his cheek. He sent Sally an irritated look and she simply laughed quickly moving towards Josh and poured herself a cup.
“Could’a told me” He grumbled as he moved towards the kitchenette, pulling out a mug and holding it out so Sally could fill it with a gracious pour before placing the coffee jug back in place as the glass clicked against the counter.
“Could have” she agreed easily. “Then again you don’t pay me to deduce you. That’s Sherlock's job”.
He lifted an eyebrow slightly at the lack of moniker the woman took his gaze with ease shrugging her shoulder lightly, “I don’t have the energy to uphold my hostility at the moment, not like he’s around at the moment anyway.”
Sherlock had been unusually quiet recently.
“I don’t pay Sherlock” he pointed out.
“Considering he does half our guys work in a quarter of the time we sit at crime scenes and is one of the main reasons we have the highest case closure in London, that’s kinda fucked up” Josh pointed out. He held his free hand up peacefully at Sallys reproachful look, “Hey don’t get me wrong, I’m not a fan of the kid, he’s arrogant. But you have to admit, he gets the job done. The guys work ethics is better than half my day team’s”.
“I mean he’s not wrong” he muttered “He did help out on the pink lady’s case”.
“I suppose he wasn’t completely useless” Sally grumbled, squinting “That is if you don’t consider he’s a past drug addict, a sociopath, is continuously withholding evidence to prevent us from doing our job and is just an overall prick”.
“I mean yeah but you just hate him because he keeps insinuating your having an affair with Anderson” Josh pointed out.
She grimaced, “Out of anyone in the department why Anderson? I mean I’d take Lestrade over him any day”
He frowned glancing between the two unsure if it was a compliment or an insult, “Thank you?”
“Yeah Sarge, you’re a silver fox. I’d take you for a rumple in the sheets” Josh grinned, cocking his hip against the bench wiggling his eyebrows as he tossed back his cup with one last sip before dumping it in the sink for wash up later that morning.
Suddenly exacerbated, aware he was about to fall back into the same fight they always had, much to the younger’s glee, he asked the man “You’ve been working here for four years now? How hard is it to call me Detective Lestrade?”
“Hard Boss, besides” the man winked, “I like Sarge better”.
“Is there a bet going around?” he asked suddenly, “See how many of you can flirt with me before I have an aneurism and drop dead?”
“Did you ever take into the fact your hot Sarge, and now that you’re not attached some of us are willing to take the risk to see what’s under the uniform”. It was said with such ease that it startled him, Josh paid no attention to it. Instead, he let out a groan grimacing as he stretched out his back, it popped no doubt sore from spending so many hours at a desk and lifted two fingers in a mock salute a lazy smile falling onto his lips. “Alright love birds, some of us gotta actually work”.
“You know that insinuates your actually finishing reports and not scrolling on your tumblr page” he pointed out, because he knew for a fact that there was a legal issue just waiting to happen with the man’s ‘incorrect quotes’ page from the Scotland yard. Only they were actually quotes and it wasn’t the first time he’s gotten complaints about it.
“Yeah, yeah I hear ya. I’ll do some work. Promise, cross my heart and hope to die, blah blah blah” the man rolled his eyes trailing off as he made his way pass them out into the battlefield.
“He’s not going to get those files done, is he?” he asked wearily.
“Nope” Sally sighed, “But hey they don’t need to be in circulation until Monday at the latest, so I say let someone else deal with it”.
He lifted the cup to take another sip only to pause as his phone vibrated almost in time with Sally’s, he lifted a cautious eyebrow as she checked it swiping across the screen before snorting, a flush rising on her cheeks. She twisted it to show him.
@Scotland Yard – Incorrect Quotes
When your Boss is a silver fox and is oblivious to the entire department hitting on him.
Boss: Do you all want me to die from stress?
Department: Can we die under you?
A flush climbing up his neck he twisted sharply sticking his head out the kitchen eyes narrowing on the man’s back, shoulder’s shaking as he laughed quietly. “Draven” he barked, Josh glanced up raising an eyebrow grin widening clearly aware he was walking on thin ice, “Get to your work before I fire you”.
“Yessir”, the man grinned ducking his head as he snickered actually closing the Tumblr page and pulling up some transfer forms.
Sally slid to his side, glaring at the man, “I hate him”. Sally grumbled at the clearly energetic and awake man in clear jealously, “I don’t know how he does it, but I hate it’.
“Think I could book him for a drug charge?” he asked.
“Crack?”
“That’ll do it”.
“I’ll back you” she offered.
He shook his head, turning, humming lowly at the warm liquid as he sipped, eyes roaming the room in lazed awareness only to pause on the unfamiliar object settled on the corner table that had been wedged there beside the lockers years ago. He frowned slightly, approaching them before nudging the lid from the carboard box and flicked the first page of the case file over to look within. What the hell were these doing in here?
“Hey Sal?”
Her head bounced up eyes blinking slowly clearly exhausted, not used to doing red eye shifted back-to-back anymore as they grew older, but she hummed lowly in acknowledgment.
“Are these files new? I don’t recognise them”.
“Those- uh I think there Jerry’s? He came rushing out in a panic. Had some files faxed over, family emergency apparently. I think he just went to meet someone at the front desk?” She pulled the warm steaming cup to her lips letting out a soft delighted hum at the taste, “Uhhhh cofeeeee.”
“I didn’t think he had any family”. Not any that the man had felt worth mentioning apparently.
“Huh”. She blinked in suprise, “Must have been pretty importance files then, he seemed pretty insistent on leaving early. I think he’s just signing out his weapons and PTA”.
“Someone from his military days?” he offered.
“Didn’t think he kept much contact with them these days” she shrugged “We all have our vices, maybe he found his. Who are we to judge? I for certain know I need much more coffee to get through this shift and you need to sign those forms I put on your desk four hours ago so I can start transferring people from holding”.
“Yeah, I’ll get to it” he waved her away, hand curling around his nearly empty mug, eyes trailing over the information in the file before placing it back in the box nudging the lid back to prevent damage from the occasional leaking roof. He sent the box one last unsettled confused glance before venturing back to his desk knowing he would need to savour this cup because there was no way he was moving from his desk for the rest of his shift.
He stood corrected. By the time the sun was creeping through his blinded window, casting stray lines of sunlight across his desk he had been sitting for around three hours with barely an moments reprieve to go to the bathroom or snag a pastry from the breakroom – Liv always brought some in for shift change when she took over from him, one of the good things about red shifts.
He felt like he had a hangover, a headache thumping away steadily behind his eyes. Too much stress his ex-wife would have told him, not enough sleep his doctor would echo. Forcing himself to his feet making a mental note to badger financing about replacing the chairs because he felt like he could break his spine with how tense it was. He slid on his coat and collected an armful of files dumping them into their respected boxes before stacking one over the other and picking them up careful to balance them, an empty coffee mug handle wedged between two fingers as he nudged his door open with his hip and shoulder stepping out into the fray.
The workload had picked up a little over the last few hours, able to hear the phones going off and people organising pick-ups and communicating with patrollers. If the look Sally had been sending him as she passed his office window – was it a window if most of the wall was glass?
A disgruntled sour face as her eyes narrowed on him as if blaming him for taking so long, the entitled kid was being a bit more than a hassle. He had sent the papers out a while ago, but the issue hadn’t just stopped at the lawyer apparently.
It was starting to look regrettably like it was going to escalate into a case he would need to cover with their legal team in the future and it was not something he was particularly looking forward to. HR was hell to deal with, not in the case that they were unmanageable or irritating but Juley was such a nice woman and always looked so disappointed when he turned up in her office despite only being two years older than him. “Come now laddie what did you do now?”
Sliding the boxed onto the metal trolley that had all the finished box files that needed to be process and placed down in storage, he saw Sally’s head tip up and search for him making a clear “Thank you” motion as she received the files, he had forwarded her.
He sipped passed his coworker making a point to great Liv who has leaning over a desk one hand on the back of an officer’s chair as she explained one of the forms to a newer recruit. She nodded her head in a greeting with a small smile. Pushing through towards the kitchen intending to wash up his cup, knowing Liv would come find him when she finished to do handover, that’s when he spotted him.
Black sneakers scuffed purposely to look used, no way to get scraps on the side like that unless he was breaking his ankle in an attempt to drag the midsole and toe cap of his shoes against concrete. The man was anxious, clearly so. Not in cuffs so not being booked, he had a visitor badge, and no one sent him a second glance. Clearly having spent time in that very spot, observing, studying.
It was that damn box again. He just knew it. A mysterious box turned up in the department and now they had an undercover guard. Not a coincidence. He narrowed his eyes as he noted the man lingering by the hallway of the break room. The man was tense, eyes scanning his surroundings, hand periodically reaching instinctively to his hip when anyone moved too suddenly.
He knew a guard when he saw one.
So, what the hell was so important about that box for it to be receiving an immediate transfer out of the building despite having just arrived - along with one of his best? And who exactly was this mystery family member who had conveniently existed the moment the guard walked in the building.
He wasn’t stupid, he knew something was going on. If something truly confidential was in that box, there was no way in hell it would enter the precinct. Not unless it was address to someone, someone…who had military training and was able to understand and study the files with an experience normal cops wouldn’t be able to obtain. Something that Jerry was clearly eager to get out of work for, something that was not meant for goldfish eyes.
What the hell had the man gotten himself into?
This had the government written all over it and unfortunately, he had more familiarity with it then he’d prefer. Mycroft had kidnapped him enough to recognise the behaviour, the skittishness, he had seen it in the man’s own guard. Stone faced but fidgety, he knew it had been for the same reason that Mycroft had protected his side unconsciously during their last meeting. Why his breaths seamed shallowed almost pained.
Something had happened. And Sherlocks brother was at the bottom of it, he was sure.
The guard’s heavy brown eyes gaze that darting to the cup in his hand then up to his coat wrapped around his shoulders. He offered the guard a tiredly half heartily smile as he approached, shifting slightly to allow more space for him to slip passed into the kitchen.
He forced himself not to glance at the box keeping his gaze on the coffee, playing further into the tired cop façade, he knew he was being watched. Seriously? Out of anywhere they chose to guard this, they chose where they kept the coffee?
Filling the cup halfway instead of putting it in the sink like he had intended he carefully ensured his coat covered his front before twisting to swiftly and stumbling right into the man who had turned to watch him covering the small distance between him and the door as he lingered. A bumbling excuse already falling from his lips as a pained hiss left the other’s.
“I’m so sorry!” he forced his eyes wide in surprise as he hastily put the cup down shaking out his hand the liquid had actually burnt him slightly and the skin was irritated and red, he hissed slightly as his eyes darted up to the mans soaked through shirt where he was gripping the soaked front tugging it away from his skin, creating a barrier from the skin and hot liquid.
Mycroft owed him a new coat after this, hell if he had to go through so much effort to snoop the man may as well endorse him for it.
He chuckled nervously, “Oh man! I’m sorry, late shift am I right? Uh…There’s a bathroom down the hall, you best wash that out before it stains” he offered as he grabbed a napkin from the bench and started wiping his own coat. The man grumbled, eye drifting to the box then down at the still hot shirt which he very much doubted could be saved before huffing clearly irritated and turned on his heal rushing off in the direction of the bathrooms.
He waited a minute ensure the man was out of sight before darting to the side towards the table knocking the lid of the box uncaringly digging through the files scanning them for any information. Security measures, missions, nothing of use. There had to be something worth his while to endorse this level of secrecy.
Irritated he dumped the files to the side tugging one out from the middle, thicker in diameter and flipped it open only to freeze as the image of Mycroft Homes stared back at him. It looked like a service image, not recent, only a couple of years old the man’s face stone cold, a familiar expression. His eyes flickered down, reading the file, then reading it again. The mental countdown dropping into double digits, all too aware of his fleeting time.
Mycroft
Status: MIA
Location: Unknown
Hour thirteen. – Last updated 3:25am
Last scene location: Intended trip to Barts Hospital, visiting brother.
Mission: Dubai international conference with several highly profiled investors.
His eyes kept returning to the red stamped across the page, heavy handed, ink more localized to the right side indicating they were right-handed, pulling it off on an angle to ensure it didn’t smudge. Mycroft’s image was clipped to the file with utmost care, clearly by someone who was involved with the man, who was fond of him, it covered part of the stamp, carefully dried to prevent it from spreading onto the image. That didn’t hide the gut dropping dread that accompanied that status.
Unknown.
Red ink spelling out M. I. A., each letter more empathized then the last.
Missing in action.
How do you even lose a man of that status. A man of that security.
“The most powerful man in Britain,” Sherlock had once scoffed.
Swallowing thickly, he was quick to tug his phone from his pocket snapping a few photos of the pages as he flipped through them making sure they were as clear as he could get them before shoving everything back into the box, trying to make it look natural as if it hadn’t been disturbed in his haste. He moved back to the sink, picking up a few napkins and running them under the water before rubbing at his coat swearing lowly as the man stalked back in eyes snapping to the box then back to him as if trying to retrace his steps in his absence.
His head dipped up to the man still wide eyed, “Oh shit man that didn’t come out at all” he winced, “Look how about I go grab some cash and pay you for a replacement-”
“It’s fine” the man’s eyes narrowed, “I’ll bill the department”.
“Uh” he stuttered, “Yeah you could do that? I mean it wasn’t really their fault?”
“I’ll ask for Lestrade,” the man stared at him; it made him uneasy.
He frowned “I didn’t tell you my name- you know what, I’m too tired for this”. He huffed chucking the wet napkins in the sink rubbing his face no doubt gonna have to chuck this in the wash later and curse all the tissue breakage that comes out with it. “I’ll deal with your freaky Sherlock powers later”.
The man lifted an eyebrow but shifted aside as he moved and pushed passed him. Most of the crew had changed by now, Sally’s desk was empty, Anderson sliding into the chair frowning at the sight of him.
“You alright Greg?” the man was glancing over his shoulder eyes furrowed.
“Yeah yeah, sure. Where’s Liz?”
“For heavens sakes Lestrade go home” the familiar voice called behind him he twisted the woman looked unimpressed and frankly concerned, “You work too much as it is and you look like you're about to collapse, you're shaking”.
Yeah, that was the adrenaline, his heart was still pounding. He gave her a sheepish look; she rolled her eyes shoving him gently towards the door. “I’ll read your closing reports and call if I need anything but go home”.
“Yes ma’am” he offered a weak grin, mimicking the half salute Josh had made so many hours before and stumbled out of the Yard into his car where he sat hands shaking on the wheel taking a shaky breath. His phone feeling like a weight in his pocket, very aware of the confidential content on it.
Swallowing he shifted the car into drive, he had to get this to Sherlock. It was clear these files were never meant to see the light of day and if they were calling in ex-military members to deal with it then it was far out of their hands. He doubted Sherlock was even aware his brother was missing, not with the way the man screened his calls.
Pulling out onto the street from the parking garage, unaware of the CCTV camera following him controlled from many buildings away, he mourned the loss of his coffee.
The things he sacrificed for the greater good.
Maybe he should bill Mycroft for that too.
Notes:
There we are, finally up to date. I'm struggling a bit with the next chapter because I'm finding the characters dynamics between the characters are fighting me. Hopefully, I can fight through it before it pushes me into another slump. Fingers cross.
image link https://www.tumblr.com/concentfortea/776417463305945088?source=share
originally posted, 5 Sep 2022 - rewritten 28th Feb 2025
B (Guest) on Chapter 2 Fri 04 Mar 2022 05:55PM UTC
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georgie_porgie260405 on Chapter 2 Sun 03 Apr 2022 04:05AM UTC
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Nicholas Clarke (Guest) on Chapter 2 Tue 08 Mar 2022 09:47PM UTC
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georgie_porgie260405 on Chapter 2 Sun 03 Apr 2022 04:06AM UTC
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Emily (Guest) on Chapter 5 Sat 24 Sep 2022 11:01PM UTC
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georgie_porgie260405 on Chapter 5 Thu 29 Sep 2022 02:44AM UTC
Last Edited Thu 29 Sep 2022 02:45AM UTC
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tata (Guest) on Chapter 5 Sat 05 Oct 2024 07:57PM UTC
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georgie_porgie260405 on Chapter 5 Tue 04 Feb 2025 10:53AM UTC
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georgie_porgie260405 on Chapter 5 Fri 07 Feb 2025 11:57PM UTC
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Grumplent on Chapter 5 Fri 14 Feb 2025 11:18AM UTC
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Sherry_21 on Chapter 5 Sun 16 Feb 2025 02:08PM UTC
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georgie_porgie260405 on Chapter 5 Mon 17 Feb 2025 03:43AM UTC
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