Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

*Bad blood *

by: WhiteGloves

A.N: ahh another twist here and there :)

Thank you and enjoy!

221B was as everybody remembers it from its dark door with golden plate, brass Victorian knocker and white wall. The street was quite empty, except a visible dark sedan parked opposite main door. It was already common for the residents of the street to see unusual vehicle in front of the said building for as everyone knows— this is the spot of the great sleuth, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

Mrs. Hudson, the landlady and quite liked by many, is then seen coming out from the Speedy's Café to return inside her building, carrying a box of scones meant for her favorite tenants upstairs. Leading up, the ambiance of morning is still felt in the large sitting room of the second floor, complete with fireplace and only too familiar tangle tree wall paper with a vandal of a smiling face in yellow spray paint. The occupants were already awake and eating breakfast with utensils on plate in their little table amidst the clutter about them, but what was made to be a promising day of peace was easily broken by a single word like a ripple to a once tranquil river.

"No." It was dry and very deeply uttered.

"It's not a matter of choice, brothermine, and as you know I can be persuasive." Came the gentle retort with an edge to its tone.

"Mycroft, which word in the dictionary is strong enough to make that stubborn head of yours understand— let alone knock my answer in your forehead? I said no."

"But you are giving me no choice, Sherlock—"

"I've heard that one before."

"We have a situation." Mycroft said through gritted teeth, with his thin eyebrows forming a line as he stood in the middle of the flat with the kitchen behind him, "National security as well as our international interest is at risk. There are other immediate concern I need to attend with this being a priority. We are dealing with cyberattacks left to right, the government is in chaos over the referendum— I am late for a cabinet meeting and we are talking in circles when you know you'll interfere anyway—for godsake, just assure me you'll do as I say!"

Sherlock finally raised his eyes from the newspaper he was holding from the breakfast table he and John were sharing. It was top of the morning with the consulting detective still on his robes, while his older brother had graced 221B with his presence, yet again, in quite a foul mood Sherlock hasn't seen on him since the White House' unprecedented house call, wearing his familiar conventional gray three-piece suit, too polished black shoes and blue umbrella tie that goes with the typical frown on his ever cynical face.

"When did I ever do as you said?" Sherlock asked sarcastically as he sipped on his tea.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, "To be exact—28 years ago when I taught you how to tune your first violin."

"I didn't think you were such a sportsman." Sherlock jeered.

"If you two would stop flirting, I can finish some real work here. Rosy's sleeping." John interrupted as he cut on his bacon, and raised his eyes on the telly where he already muted the reporter in front of a precinct, "Of course, I'm not expecting any quiet morning but hey, who doesn't raise their hopes up around here?" he looked at the brothers innocently to find they had ignored him and was glaring at each other.

"I'm not having this, Sherlock. I can't let you be reckless or I'm telling you, you won't even survive."

"You wouldn't have to worry about me surviving if you just stop sending me to places where I can die!"

"What are you talking about—you don't even have to leave London for that. And I worry about you dying every day!" Mycroft corrected with some asperity.

"Oh, please." Sherlock muttered with less enthusiasm, "You'd leave me in South East if you think that's good for the country."

"Can I?" Mycroft feigned innocence, putting a hand on his chest pocket as his mobile phone vibrated, "Honestly, Sherlock, you think getting rid of you is easy but you always put up a good fight—hello, yes? This is me." He quietly walked out of the room, leaving his younger brother making faces at him and cutting his bacon grudgingly.

John watched him with sympathy. Having a bossy older brother was never easy.

"Why don't you just say yes to finish all this crap?" he suggested, "You're not going to listen to him anyways so just nod your head, make him happy."

"Nothing makes Mycroft happy." Sherlock said, acting horrified at the thought and then smirking when he's done. "He wants me to jump on his jet plane, fly to Russia and find the hacking agency the government thinks has been meddling with international roller coasters—"

"Yeah, I heard him the first time—"

"Deal with a number of anti-government agents, not to mention tough securities! Espionage, John!" Sherlock said it as if it was enough explanation, "In Russia!"

"Bit exciting, isn't it?" John shrugged.

"Yes!" Sherlock raised hands and made a gesture of triumph in the air. Then he settled down quietly as if nothing happened. "But I won't do it because it's Mycroft who's asking."

"Rule of the thumb." John sighed as he finished his meal and wiped his mouth, "You'd do it for free if it was Greg asking though."

"Poor bloke doesn't have an idea of the power he's got on me." Sherlock cheered, then his expression turned sour. "My brother's a real pain in the arse if I let him boss me around today he'll never let me hear the end of it."

"You never hear the end of him anyway." John snickered, "Best let him get the response he wants so we can have some peace around here."

"Do you hear yourself? You put shame in Mrs. Hudson's reputation."

"Come on, you can be nice sometimes—he is your brother."

"I never asked him to be my brother."

"Well, he is who you got so suck it up and get him out of this building before I kick you both outside."

Sherlock stared at John like he was the vilest thing he had seen. "John Watson, you're sleeping on the couch."

"That doesn't sound right." John gave the consulting detective a narrowed look.

"Nothing today is right with Mycroft beginning the day." Sherlock muttered as he turned on his food, he looked behind him with a frown, the same moment they hear Mycroft's approaching footsteps, "You hear blood is thicker than water? Get real how messy blood can be and only water can cleanse it."

Mycroft step back right in with a slight crease on his eyebrows. "Where's the remote?"

"Wonderful," Sherlock flashed John a sour smile as the doctor pointed at the couch and the older Holmes bent down to get it. "We didn't invite him to breakfast but he's aiming to stay till lunch and get cozy with the couch."

But Mycroft ignored him as he turned the volume of the television. John noticed his solemn expression while he crossed his arms and heard a reporter's over voice on a clip of police officers in front of a station, pulling on a tall man wearing a black cap with hands cuffed—

"—arrested for carrying firearms in a public place—he's now believed to be part of a terrorist cell that was recently responsible for another attack—"

Sherlock also saw his older brother's expression and watched the arrest with a narrowed look. "And I thought someone's crying Operation London Bridge—"

"Not funny, Sherlock!" John hissed heatedly while Mycroft put both hands on his hips looking with such intent on the screen that did not escape the consulting detective's attention.

"Mycroft—?"

"Mycroft!" cried the tall man on the screen all of a sudden that had three pairs of eyes watch it wide-eyed and held their breaths. The man was now dragged inside the police mobile and he was crying statements on the camera, "He's my brother—he'll help me, someone call him! Mycroft! Mycroft Holmes!"

Silence fell in the whole vicinity, and then Mycroft's phone began incessantly ringing. John's phone too, and then Sherlock's. The younger Holmes was the only one left not responding as he stared at the telly quite struck at what he saw. And then without warning, turned to his older brother who looked back at him with a raised eyebrow as he said—

"Why's he so desperate to have you?"

Mycroft gave him such an exasperated glare before leaving the room. Sherlock, not wasting time, stood up after wiping his mouth with the napkin, eyes still on the television for a moment, then ran to his room to change his clothes. John watched Sherlock go as the detective said an abrupt goodbye to a very inquisitive mortician on his phone, and then they were both off.

Interlude

-TBC

Chapter Text

*Bad blood *

by: WhiteGloves

A.N: I am also excited on where this goes! xD

Thank you for the advance support! All hail Sherlock fandom!

Thank you and enjoy!

Chapter 2: Nyet!

London remained bleak in the morning as a black sedan drove pass cabs and lorries before stopping at a traffic light on a pedestrian lane where a crowd of people crossed minding their business, unaware of the debacle about to unfold inside the tinted car.

"Stop giving me that stare, Doctor Watson because one— no, I'm not hiding another sibling and two— no, I don't make it a past time of keeping each siblings of mine in secret islands against their will." Mycroft said testily with pursed lips as he sat at the backseat of the car on their way towards his office. "If I had, you would not have Sherlock to endure. And behave, would you?" He threw a glance at the now smirking younger brother of his.

John pulled his eyes away, but couldn't help staring back at the rear view mirror, to the men behind him. He had left Rosy with Mrs. Hudson for the day as he joined the Holmes brothers in this rather unusual case. He was by the passenger's seat in front, giving the British Government Head furtive looks though the rearview mirror while Sherlock sat beside his brother in silence wearing his adorned blue coat and scarf. Mycroft hadn't spoken ever since telling the driver where to go, answer a few more calls on his mobile and then frown at the doctor whom he caught watching him.

"I'm just saying it isn't the first time." The doctor said as the sedan made a turn, passing by Westminster with quite a heavy traffic despite it being only quarter to nine in the morning. "When I found out about Eurus it did struck me why I haven't met your other relatives. Aunt, uncles, cousins, you know. No one ever visits during Christmas."

"I assure you it has nothing to do with locking them up as much as letting them know Sherlock is your Christmas host."

Sherlock glared at him. "Yes, because you are also a delight company yourself. Hold tight there, John, if Mycroft starts handing out invitations then it's going to be a very frosty Christmas."

"At least my house is free from constant engulfment of fire." Mycroft retorted evenly.

"And living people." Sherlock pressed his lips, seeing John a smile through the mirror.

"I do not suffer fools and rudeness," the older Holmes muttered with an arch of eyebrow, "as well as cramped space. So remind me again why I allowed you inside my car?"

"I'm paying for it dearly!" Sherlock exclaimed, raising the umbrella he was holding on his right hand and then dropping it between them like stone. "Your artillery is not light, Mycroft."

Mycroft wiggled his eyebrows and chose to ignore him as he looked outside his window. Then pulling his gaze back in what appeared to be an occurring thought, he went on, "Instead of coming along in this obvious waste of time, why don't you start reading the files I sent to your email? It will help you with the mission abroad—"

"Apparently you don't speak English anymore—oh hey, let's try Russian—nyet!"

"Brothermine, it's an international crisis—"

"And having my brother's name being called out in national television isn't?" Sherlock asked sounding dramatically concerned that could fool none in the car, "Tell me has anything so remarkable like this happened ever since you took office? A criminal blurting out your full name in broad daylight claiming to be a blood relative—? I wonder how many of your people are terrified over this by now—how many security alerts have been raised—what are we now, in critical?" he caught his brother bearing an unconcerned expression.

"He's already in custody and we'll find out soon enough. Sherlock, can you honestly imagine that man to be anything threatening? You saw him. The only thing significant that happened to him was saying my name—"

Sherlock chuckled. "You're obviously playing the fool to get rid of me. Like anyone can just dig that name from the ground. If he's going to say a name, he should have just called mine—I'm more well known in that field—"

"Really, Sherlock this is beneath you. There is no reason to be jealous—" Mycroft scoffed.

"As if—like I needed more publicity with John and the Daily paper citing me every second of the day—"

"Okay, so if I speak to this fellow, I'll tell him he'll have another interview and have him call out your name."

"Very funny."

"Are you two done?" John said with a pained expression on his face through the rearview mirror while the Holmes brothers simultaneously looked up with daggers in their eyes though their faces remained impassive. It often amused John how the Holmes brothers banter like there was no tomorrow. Seriously, give them a topic and they could last half a day not moving on their chairs and find ways to make everything seem important just because they are the one who's saying it. But then again, it was what Sherlock was good at ever since the doctor started living with him—the unending retorts and last words. Where else would Sherlock learn that from? But it was about time to make the impasse as John nodded. "So who's this guy and what do we know about him?"

Both the Holmes' brothers' eyes flashed.

"The proper question would be 'What we don't know about him'." Mycroft replied with a bored look. "He's a multi drop delivery driver, left handed and prefers sleeping on his left side with the window facing the west. No associated animal except those encountered on routine, no close family nearby but lives with a flat mate much as yourselves. Owns a handgun which will be investigated further. There's a leak on his bathroom by the mirror that needs fixing but since he's arrested, I don't think he can attend to that any time soon."

John stared. Then blinked at his flat mate. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock concurred, "If you only look at the black cap he was wearing at that time of the arrest, you'd notice the name of the delivery company much as the blue collar underneath his black jacket. Company uniform. The jacket does not belong to him and I would have said he grabbed it from someone homeless but since my brother said he has a flat mate then—" he made a full stop and turned to the older Holmes inquiringly, "Flat mate?"

"Shoes." Mycroft answered while he checked the traffic on his side of the window, "Someone else with the same size has been wearing it regularly. His day job as a delivery would have given him the uniformed shoes but obviously someone else has worn it so he was left to use this pair. He's comfortable with the shoes despite it being too large for him which means this other person has little concern of which to grab in the morning. Both has no family, obviously but this man needs to be neat as part of the requirement of being a delivery man ergo always in front of the mirror where his cap had been dulled on the same spot by the leakage."

"His color corresponds to the sunlight of the window side and posture of his body inclines much to the left side. Practically emotional dimension." Sherlock's eyes narrowed, "The handgun was a given considering there was an empty bulge on the side of the pocket of the jacket, that's why they considered him a terrorist. Was it during a delivery?"

"Yes, I've been told." Mycroft raised his chin, "But his disposition isn't my concern—"

"Yep, it's the fact that he let a slip of your name. How did that come to be?"

Though there wasn't any change on his expression, Mycroft's eyes flashed meaningfully, "We'll find out. But with this traffic I will soon lose interest."

"There's been an accident ahead sir," the driver letting his existence known didn't much draw attention to himself as the car began moving again, "We already took the route with less congestion. We'll be there in five minutes."

"So many accidents in London these days…" John whispered as the car glided to the right, "What are we doing with that, Mycroft?"

"What you are seeing is merely a percentage of the terrorism we have stopped in a year." The British Government Head said in a matter of fact tone, "There's bound to be a 0.1 percent at most to slip. And most of the time this is the terrorism done by the unexpected. The citizens."

"That's why my network has never been this large." Sherlock supplied in the silence, "Let citizens fight citizens. It's a civil war without anyone noticing. Except—"

"Us." Mycroft noted with a slight glance at his younger brother and John nodded with a sudden realization that neither were actually thinking of the obvious lie of the man claiming to be their brother. If anyone—and that means anyone at all would attempt to connect themselves to the Holmes brothers, then they at least must have some decency to figure out a man's background by simply staring at his shoelace. Without that John would never believe it even if they tell him the three of them have the same birthmarks in parts of their bodies he doesn't need to mention.

The car slid pass the traffic and Mycroft spoke again. "You really should mind the Russian business, Sherlock. The Americans are concerned over a citizen of theirs being accused of espionage. An obvious lie to exchange with their captured spy last month. The Russians are becoming aggressive—"

Sherlock's face lit up. "Do we have spies over there you need retrieving?"

"No one comes to mind but they have been under the Russian surveillance for some time now."

"Then pull them back before they make a mess, I'm not moving out of London—"

"You're the only one I can count on—a"

"And miss all this fun? Look— this isn't about you, Mycroft—it's about me having the possibility of having another brother." John pressed the urge to speak, ending in uncontrollable coughing. Mycroft's eyes fell on the doctor, before sighing and giving a narrowed look to his younger brother.

"Yes, the one you can drag around the corners of London, trespassing private properties and sending houses on fire without concern. Oh, my mistake, you have Doctor Watson for that. Sorry if I still could not join the Golden Trio in the near future."

"Happy to disappoint."

"Quite."

"Still not getting me off the hook the Russian business?"

"No."

"Really, you're the most exciting thing that happened to me, Mycroft. I'm sure you're going to be a very terrific big brother."

To John's surprise, they were not brought to Mycroft's usual office. The sedan drove straight towards one of those Metropolitan Law Firm commercial buildings with a large parking lot beneath. Then said parking lot had another entrance underground for another parking lot. Coming out of the car, John followed the brothers to a black, metallic door with cctv camera on both sides. Totally inconspicuous. Mycroft quietly took out an ID card, slid it on the panel at the side which automatically had the metal doors opening.

Darkness still met their eyes. Then emerging from the shadows, they were met by two large men in black suits who lead them in this glass door that needed Mycroft's right hand printing before it opened to this white winded corridor onto another contained space with bright lights—and then everything just spread before John. Apparently, it was one of those secret offices with large number of agents in dark suit walking around carrying documents and mobiles phones, otherwise in front of slim monitors gawking over the whole city and boasting with large monitors hanging over traffic, the streets even airports.

Mycroft's own underground. John decided in awe.

As they walked around the long corridors with busy men and women all making way as Mycroft headed the party, John couldn't help leaning to Sherlock.

"I've never been here before."

"Consider yourself lucky, you wouldn't have come out of here for three months after they're done probing you."

The doctor gave his friend a funny look. "You've never been either, have you?"

"It's located precisely underneath a section I would never dare come close to." Sherlock said proudly. "Lawyers. I hate lawyers. But then I come to hate everyone anyways. A bunch of careerists only there to read you your rights and getting paid for it plus the advantage of twisting words to their benefit. I believe I've rehearsed that to you before."

"Yeah, but not going to a place your brother disappears to, that's unlike you at all. Security that tight?"

"Been caught five times." Sherlock threw the back of his brother's head a narrowed look. They were both then lead to the left side of a much darker area. The corridor was only lit with dim lamps, Mycroft seemingly knowing where he was going until they reach another door. Opening it, they discovered a holding area—much like one of those small, gray rooms with a one-way mirror. There were two agents there facilitating the control area. As Mycroft headed for the glasses with the two behind him, their eyes fell on the other side of the mirror into the interrogation room. There sat by himself on a metal table a tall, slim man with blond hair and head bowed, still wearing his dark jacket with wrists on handcuffs, his fingers clutched together.

John observed him with arms crossing unconsciously to his chest, eyes narrowing at the man. Blond wasn't particularly too Mycroft or any Holmes at all, but then, as the brothers had noted it was not important who the man was but of how he came to possess the name of one of the most veiled individual in the world.

Mycroft gave the unknown man a cold stare, before turning to the dark haired agent beside him who walked in carrying a black folder in his hand. Sherlock stood by the glasses too, his interest piquing at what others could not see from his angle.

"No." the younger Holmes muttered but with only John to hear him.

"Brief me." The older Holmes said as he took the folder and scanned it with pressed lips.

"Charlie Kemp, 30 living in Tower Hamlets, East London. Family background from East Harrow. Two known vices of nicotine and drinking, been caught for jaywalking twice and several parking tickets. Currently employed as package delivery driver in Yodel and living with his flat mate in one of those Council Flats 7/4 floor. Family of five siblings, all native of said province with authentic certifications of birth. No irregularities on records that could prove his claim, Mr. Holmes. He's also given hints of the obtrusive lie."

Mycroft inhaled air in discontent as he browsed through the end of the folder, eyes quick as he unconsciously memorized everything. "We may have to send him abroad after this. Never mind the broadcast, it will die down eventually as long as the reporters who will follow-up are misled. You know the routine." He shut the folder with a snap and looked up professionally, "So pray, tell, what of my name? How did he come to know of it?"

The agent hesitated this time, earning a quick look from John and from Sherlock who glanced up at the silence that followed the exchange. Mycroft's expression went from indifference to stern.

"What is it? You know I don't like being made to wait—speak."

"The information he disclosed is still under investigation, Mr. Holmes. He had only just confessed everything not five minutes ago under pressure and we are in the process of confirming it." The man's eyes travelled from the British Government Head, to the man inside the interrogation room, and then back to his leader, "He said he heard the name from his flat mate, sir. The one who's supposed to be your real brother."

John's mouth dropped open while the Holmes brothers stared at the agent like he had grown two heads but still disbelieving it. Mycroft handed him the file looking very grim.

"Stop being dramatic, Mr. Phelps—you have been watching too much BBC drama. You know that's preposterous. I even once have a person claiming to be my other half and thought nothing of it—like I wouldn't know." Said the older Holmes with much indignity, "Whatever is the case, we cannot let this pass. Find out more about these people, leave no stone unturned. I would not be bothered again unless I see accurate results, not assumptions and claims. We will not be putting drama before my feet—I so very hate the unnecessary drama—"

But whatever he said midway was forgotten when John turned his attention to the interrogation room and loudly gasped. Mycroft turned to him, followed his eyes and saw that Sherlock had entered the other room and was now sitting in front of the blonde man with every bit of his expression visibly interested in the subject.

"What's that idiot doing now?" Mycroft snapped, both hands on his waist again, walking closer to the glasses.

"Leaving no stone unturned." John murmured as he stepped closer on the glasses while the conversation cracked on the speakers around them.

"Charlie Kemp?" Sherlock began sounding serious, "I am Sherlock Holmes."

Kemp studied the consulting detective from head to toe, looking nervous for he was someone who did not expect to be brought in a military like place where his eyes had to be blind folded and then interrogated many times. And now he was even sitting with a national detective! If he thought he was going to be killed, right now he felt like the next person to see him would be the guards of the Queen. But then seeing the famous face raised his hopes up—this man was supposed to be a hero, wasn't he? Though—he himself was on the other side of the law. It made him very nervous.

"You… that bloke detective? Holmes?" his face fell, "Oh... so you're related to this Mycroft Holmes?"

"Great." Hissed Mycroft in exasperation as he turned to his agent, "Prepare the jet to Brazil. Someone's not returning home."

"Sherlock?" John suggested, eyes fixed on his flat mate and Kemp.

"Sherlock." Mycroft never uttered the word with much contempt. "We never expose our relationship to known criminal classes, that idiot."

"Look, I never meant to say those rubbish—" Charlie's voice broke urgently as he leaned forward while Sherlock watched him closely, "I just heard this Mycroft Holmes works in the government with connections, alright? I didn't think I was getting meself into much trouble! I didn't do anything, I'm not a terrorist! I needed help, I was panicking, okay?"

Sherlock's eyes slightly turned towards the mirror and John understood the exchanged that happened between the brothers as he also saw Mycroft stood still, the frown on his face deepening by the minute. Because then whoever these people were—they know Mycroft Holmes was connected to the government. That meant the older Holmes was also being followed. It hadn't occurred to John how the business was getting serious till then.

"How did he know that name?" the younger Holmes then pressed, eyes transfixed at the man as he watched for signs of someone telling the truth—or what they believe to be the truth.

"He's never mention him a lot, really," Kemp said, oblivious to the weight of his information, "It was only one time— when I asked him if he had any relatives in London he said he's got a big brother working in the government and that's it, mate. I never thought anything of it because he doesn't say much. He did say they never get along, so I never put my nose there long. I just remembered this Holmes' name because I got accused wrongly—and he's well connected, alright? I didn't mean the trouble, geez."

Sherlock still looked absolutely expressionless that seemed to unnerve Kemp more. Mycroft crossed his arms this time as he now considered his younger brother's interrogation quite effective. John stood there, hanging for all their words.

"You said your flat mate is claiming to be related to us?" Sherlock went on the speaker in deep voice, "How—?"

Kemp blinked several times, "I told you he never mentions it. But blimey— he never mentions being related to you. He never said anything about another brother only that weird named big brother. If you want to know more then go ask him yerself— the only time he did, he said his dead mother made an exchange when they were wee bit babies or something in the hospital ages ago. I wouldn't know the rest—mate, I didn't mean to cause him trouble but his brother's name is causing me loads."

Mycroft's jaw was squared and it didn't look like he was dismissing the information this time. There was a veil of something curious in the glint behind his eyes while Sherlock looked so fascinated that John just stared from the consulting detective to the British Government Head.

"Name?" his flat mate then asked, as if the wonder of the unknown man's name has just come to him. "What is your flat mate's name?"

A beat. Then Kemp exclaimed—

"It's him, isn't it? Adams! Seth Adams!"

-To Be Continued-

an: always enjoyed the banters too xD thank you!

Chapter Text

*Bad blood *

by: WhiteGloves

A.N: Aw, thanks for sweet support!

Sherlock and Mycroft are always a pair of jewel! And this is getting... well xD

Thank you and enjoy!

Chapter 3: Oh Bother!

"You're going to question him too, aren't you? Adams?" Mr. Kemp noted nervously as Mycroft watched him lick and chew his lips as the interview went on with Sherlock still not budging from the room. "I don't think… it's the best idea, mate. I'm sorry I shouldn't have said anything but I was in tight situation with all police and cameras— Adams will kill me for this!"

Both Mycroft and Sherlock narrowed their eyes and even John could understand why. It was obvious the man was terrified of his flat mate for some reason.

"He tends to become violent?" Sherlock asked with an impressive poker expression.

"Nah, not to me. I don't do anything to get on his nerves… but he's… ah man I shouldn't be saying it. Just— I don't think he's keen to see his brother, alright? And you lot best listen to me."

"Why is that?" the consulting detective asked with an eye over the two-side mirror.

"He doesn't like the idea of a big brother, see?" Kemp looked Sherlock eagerly in the eyes, leaning forward too much that his chest was pressed on the table. "There's a reason we don't talk about his family. Six months ago he received a call from his mum and he just… lost it. He was going on and on about not planning to get anywhere near a brother he don't know. Destroyed half the place, didn't he? That was a week when she died. He was terrible."

"He's not the only one to feel like that about big brothers." Sherlock pointedly glanced at the mirror, exactly at the spot he knew where Mycroft would be standing. The older Holmes pursed his lips but his attention quickly returned to the blonde haired man, his brows still furrowed. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Kemp." Sherlock then said after a while, gathering himself from the chair and standing up, "I'm sure you've provided enough information for now to get us somewhere—"

"But—but—" the man sputtered incoherently, his eyes swimming with panic, "What have I done wrong? Why am I called a terrorist by those camera reporters?"

"You were carrying an illegal weapon in public, of course they'd call you a terrorist." Sherlock said impatiently, already by the door. "Next time try carrying a baseball bat if you want to look less—"

"But it wasn't mine! The handgun—it's his He's got sources, you know!"

Sherlock paused for a moment, before slowly turning back at Kemp. "Sources?"

"It's none of my business…" Kemp sucked in some air and shook his head, "aye, just bury me somewhere." He then looked up again but this time, there was decided glint in his eyes. An ominous one. "Alright, just don't call this big brother okay? Just tell him to stay away. Adams don't care and he isn't someone who'd fancy the idea of having a brother in the government. He's not proper like that."

"Again," Sherlock sighed as with a final curious look at his subject, he opened the door to leave the room where his eyes met that of his big brother waiting for him on the other side. "He's not the only one."

That was some twenty minutes ago and Mycroft Holmes, with no lingering thoughts on the said event, had casually overlooked the matter to check on the country's security status after separating ways with Sherlock and his sidekick. The two had been quiet while they were lead out of the headquarters, but being the Mycroft, he had an idea of what was running on his brother's head and no, he does not plan to get all tangled and mixed up in his silly exploits over the matter that seemed to be an example of a bad story telling.

So unconcerned, he went back to his own office, but not after leaving his secretary to dig details he needed to secure that Sherlock would shut up. So there he was found, inside his dark, shadowy underground office which was always his sanctuary with its protective walls and promise of isolation. But the place only saved him from the company and normalcy of common folk, never from the human catastrophes they can offer which seemed to always find their way to slither towards him when they need solutions. From the prevalent problems of the economy to the tiniest detail of who will open the door to the Queen's balcony, every single problem of the country has been dealt with in this very room. Therefore, in reality it was far from peaceful, far from indifference, and truthfully far from unwanted guests who come barging in whenever they wanted to feel important by having the most elusive master in the shadows give them undivided attention.

But at least here, he could control the amount of physical human contact and concern he could give to few number of people. At least here, nobody could see his exasperation at the absurdity of the common world. At least here, he was unreachable by anyone save people that actually knows the meaning of the word logic.

His mobile beeped and he had to look down at the screen. The message was only one word but did not help his mood for it was from his mother who was out of town with his father, her thoughts encapsulated in one word—

Seaweeds?

Mycroft crunched his lips and texted a quiet No.

Lady Smallwood then came in the room as he had expected, having been in contact with her for the last five minutes. She was in her stylish clothes as she walked in with confident gait, bearing authority seen in her every movement from the angle of her chin to her straight back her back. She gave him one look as she strode in before putting her bag down the chair and removing her white overcoat to hang behind it. Mycroft had just placed his mobile back on his chair when the Lady sat down opposite him with her legs crossed.

Raising an eyebrow, he leaned back on his chair as he understood her body language. She meant business.

"You look unhappy." he began with disinterest in his tone suggesting no further detail. "We are losing the referendum, are we not?"

"Why are you not responding to the call of the PM?" she inquired with lips thinning.

"Would you? After all my warnings now she wants me—no. I don't think even I have the power to fix this now that they have escalated this far."

"Don't be too modest, Mycroft. I know you." Lady Smallwood threw her back on the chair, eyes transfixed at the man. "What have you been doing if not trying to find solution to this?"

"Oh, I have my hands full with the Royals and their booming family. You can never know how many extra securities to pop up yearly with all these… babies." He pressed a fake smile that easily disappeared as his office door opened and his Secretary came striding in quietly. He nodded at her as she paused by the side table and handed him a black folder. She then left as quietly as she came. Lady Smallwood watched her go, before her attention fell on Mycroft who had begun checking the contents of the report eagerly.

"Is that about your brother?" she asked loftily as she leaned back on her own chair, putting both hands together at the top of her knees. Mycroft raised both eyebrows without looking back at her. "You only always wore that expression when it's about that dynamite brother of yours."

"Mm… it's about the other."

She raised an eyebrow. "Her?"

He smirked with that twinkle on his eyes whenever something worse was unearthed, only to reveal that there was far worst. "Guess again."

That puzzled her and she sat straight with frown forming on her brows. "What?"

"Apparently, I am to believe I have another brother… from another mother." Mycroft flipped pages with his own forehead creasing by the minute, "And… it doesn't seem to suggest otherwise…." His eyes fixated on a page for a moment, then flipped more till he reached the end. By the time he was done with the last page, he was too quiet with eyes deep in thoughts, before finally shutting it close and throwing it on the table and leaning back on his chair with a pained expression. "Oh bother."

"What?" Lady Smallwood stared at the folder, before pulling her eyes back at her colleague. "Your father had an affair?"

A long pause, then Mycroft opened his eyes and looked at her grimly, "If only that was the case. No, it's literally the biggest conspiracy. There is another brother."

"You mean there's another one— another one like Sherlock Holmes?" she asked sounding both perplexed and horrified at the prospect to which the older Holmes only smiled smugly that slowly turned into something that is almost near as sad. He seemed to be battling something in his mind but in the end, seemed to masterfully push everything back and look her in the eyes.

"Thankfully, there is only one like Sherlock Holmes. But I cannot say for sure because as it turns out—I may not be related to them as those facts suggest." Mycroft press his fingers at the bridge of his nose which never bode well. "This is all a surprise."

Lady Smallwood was seconds from telling off the older Holmes that he was nowhere near the look of surprise. If anything, he'd look more surprise if he was given a pet cat. "You don't actually believe—" she snatched the folder and had the shock of the day as she saw the file. "Oh my… Mycroft…" she looked back at him in alarm. The British Government Head nodded quietly.

"I know. I believe it means more inquiry is needed. The claim is standing strong." Mycroft looked up at her impassively. "The last resort of course is a genetic testing but in this case… I don't think it's necessary, do you?"

"Have you spoken to your mother?"

"My mother never had an inkling to the kind of food me and my brother are allergic to, I wouldn't put it pass her not to notice if a baby's been replaced under her nose."

"That seems unfair on all accounts, Mycroft."

Mycroft looked at his left and casually waved a hand there with an innocent look. "I have a file."

She closed the folder and dropped it back the table. Then looked him in the eye. "But… are you alright?"

Mycroft blinked at her several times. "Why wouldn't I be?"

There was a sound of a car's door shutting close with a snap, and then another. Seconds next, the cabbie drove away, leaving two men on the side street in the middle of the afternoon with sky unclearing of the smog above their heads; one man was tall with curly hair and distinctive dark blue coat while the other was a foot shorter in his comfortable dark jacket and trousers. At first glance, they look like an odd couple with a taste for mystery, both looking thoroughly suspicious in a neighborhood already plaque by isolation. But neither of the two seemed to care for they have done this numerous times. The taller man seemed to be the leader while the other was the proper lookout. He kept looking from left and to right of the road, preparing to cross as they were on the other side of their target location while his companion only had his dark eyes at the building opposite them.

"I thought we're going home." John whispered to Sherlock who suddenly crossed the street without another word and without even looking around before he did, making the doctor grit his teeth as he followed his friend while checking approaching vehicles on both sides of the lane. Sherlock ignored him and stopped in front of that dirty white flat complex with seven floors with ten units each called the Council Flat. It was one of those cramped complex with cheap prices around London that most people avail. It was obvious the complex was full given the number of towels, clothes, socks and many other articles of clothing hanging outside with numerous antennas protruding on windows.

John joined him and stared up the flat as well, thinking quietly how his previous flat was no better than this one but was still expensive anyway. His brow furrowed, he casted a glance on the sidewalk and saw no other people nearby. It was the middle of the afternoon in a weekday, the area should be bustling with people. Looking back at the consulting detective, he was surprised to see him already walking towards the entrance. He hastened to catch up.

"So, this is a ten, I suppose?" he tried to engage him again, knowing well Sherlock's brain was already on gears, "I mean, you're on your feet, you're here. You think this is a big case, right?"

"You mean against a Soviet Union case and I chose the domestic one?" Sherlock slipped pass the sleeping guard and went up the first flight of the metal stairs with John in tow, their feet making that clanking sound on metal as they climbed on zigzag. "Of course not. But the case has its own interesting points I can work on while dodging my responsibilities to the country. And I never get tired of seeing my brother's annoyed face."

"Especially he told you to lay off the case. While he investigates further." The doctor reminded him as they reached the fourth flight, "Now we're here on the prime suspects' building, planning a raid on his flat without a warrant with you being dodgy—you know what— sod off. You can't fool me you know—" Sherlock chuckled, but John persisted, "I know you're hyped about this case. And I know this isn't about some brotherly concern or anything—oh I know how that ship has gone by long ago for you two—so can you just tell me what are the conspiracies here? Someone working internationally against your brother? Enemies using any means to trap him somehow because you're too difficult a person to get hands on so they decide to create a false brother? I mean even for an international scheme that sounds a pain in the ass."

"I'd accept any excuse with a possibility of disowning my own brother." Sherlock quipped with a waggle of one of his eyebrows, reaching the sixth floor with the final one their destination. "But I didn't think you'd come with me prepared with the most outlandish theories which are not far from the truth, John, thinking these are all international affairs. And if it is not and it turned out to be some melodrama, don't hold me up when I accept Mycroft's offer abroad."

"Why?" they finally reached the floor and counting the third door which Sherlock knocked on. No answer.

"Because my mother's choice of words will get pretty colorful. Who wants to listen to her, do you?" Sherlock suddenly knelt on the floor after rummaging on his pocket where he produced a pick-lock. John watched him with a sigh, then frowned.

"Are you going to tell your mum then?"

"I don't think it needs to come to that." Sherlock pressed his forehead by the door as he worked on the lock, "Mycroft's affair will always be Mycroft's affair. Unless he wants to torment me then that's a different story."

"What? No one's going to tell your parents?" he asked incredulously, "But they are the ones who need to know the most! You two are going to keep them in the dark again—?!"

"Oh, sure, let's see—" Sherlock said with air of sarcasm as he glared at the unhelpful best friend, "Hey, mum, it's Sherlock—someone said Mycroft's not your son, can you clarify that for me? Thanks—and oh, no need to send a Christmas gift, I've just received it." He shook his head and turned on the lock again, "Be sensible, John. Mycroft and I are the age where we can choose if we want to concern our parents—"

"Which started when you hit puberty, you mean?" the doctor said crossly, "You guys are not being sensible! So this is Eurus all over again?"

"That. Is. Different." The detective said through gritted teeth, his hands gripping the tools tight, "Mycroft made a choice not for himself alright? He was trying to protect them and trying to protect—" the man suddenly paused as if realizing what he was about to say, and then began picking the lock again. "Point is my parents are unlikely to find out of this case—"

"So how will you guys check your facts, consult them if they think it's the truth—?"

"Asking parents doesn't always get you the truth." Sherlock heard a clicking sound and licked his lips, then continued his tinkering, "For instance, that man's mother could be delusional—because our… mother will definitely say she is. Besides, if somebody tells you Rosamund got mixed with another baby on the hospital, would you believe it?" he didn't have to look up to know that he had already put a sock on his friend's leeway of expressing his thoughts, "Parents will always be subjective in terms of children, that's their nature so instead of dragging them on the ride when nothing is proven, the best possible action is to check the facts from extensive digging and then tell the concerned if I get to have a Christmas present."

"You still taking long?"

"Almost there. Who thought this kind of flat can have strong locks— move it, John your shadow's blocking my—"

Before he could finish however— someone had smashed his foot on the door so strong that the poor standard door crashed on the floor with splits of woods and locks were left by the threshold. Sherlock's eyes went round and wide in surprise not expecting anything less than subtle. Looking behind him he saw a huge dark skinned man in black suit and clean cut hair standing just behind him while John was on the side with pressed lips.

"I knew you'd be here." Said an icy tone from behind the bouncer of a man. When he moved out of the view, Sherlock saw his older brother standing there with a narrowed look, wearing his black overcoat and three-piece suit underneath, his umbrella on his right hand. He didn't look pleased, but then he never was with Sherlock acting like an idiot. "You understand you're breaking-in, brothermine? Without papers to show in case anyone's around? You look like a common culprit. As you already are."

"You're one to speak, you destroyed property." Sherlock stood up to the height of his brother and dusted his coat while Mycroft raised his eyes towards the room where his guard had already come in and the three of them stayed behind. Sherlock's eyes didn't leave his brother's but it was John who beat him to it.

"Mycroft—are you in any time going to tell your parents about this?"

He received a scowl for that. "Why would I? Can you imagine the trouble it would cause after all my efforts to keep them at bay? Steady, Doctor Watson, this is not the melodrama you tune in with blood curdling twists."

Sherlock actually snickered that had John feeling the impulse to kick him in the shin but it was about the only time he found his flat mate actually siding with his older brother which made John look thoughtfully from one Holmes to the other—what was happening? He glanced at Mycroft again and opened his mouth to ask—but it was a different question than what he had in mind.

"You're planning to come here all along then?"

It was Sherlock who answered him. "No, it's been thirty minutes since he kicked us out; about enough time for him to get every information he needs. Too much time. So what did you find out?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed and glinted meaningfully as he saw Mycroft avoid his gaze. "There's something, wasn't there? Otherwise you would not come here on your own. You never do leg work unless absolutely necessary or about something you are concerned about. So spill."

At that exact time, Mycroft's guard came out of the flat, shaking his head as an indication that there was no one inside. He then stood aside as the three went one by one in order of the older Holmes, Sherlock and then John. The flat was smaller than their own at Baker Street but no less tidier with one short corridor from the entrance before two rooms on left and right, and then directly up to the kitchen with dirty plates and pans on the sink. The blue walls were dull in color and there were plenty of clutter on the gray, carpeted floor. There was a small table in the middle of the kitchen enough for two people, a broken green fridge and then one bathroom. The Holmes brothers ran their eyes in the entire room while John looked back at the doorway while listening to the two as they quietly walk around the room.

"I have the warrant." Mycroft said airily with both hands in his pockets.

"And I don't care." Sherlock followed him with his sharp eyes, "What have you found out?"

"Don't touch anything, John, even when pretending to look busy while eavesdropping." Mycroft said like there were eyes at the back of his head while John was actually about to pick up a cup on the floor. "We don't want to plant any finger prints anywhere near the criminal's house."

"Mycroft." Sherlock sounded grim. "Tell me."

The older Holmes paused in the middle of the hall, John listening intently as he stood behind his best friend.

"Some curious things." Mycroft admitted without turning a look at them, "For example, that Seth Adams is short for Sephir Thomas Adams and that he came from the same neighborhood as we did, brothermine. And most interestingly has records of his deceased mother giving birth to a baby boy at the exact day that I was born."

Sherlock gave his brother a long look. John looked up too. "What?"

Mycroft walked around the room, his umbrella acting as a walking stick as he tapped it on the floor with estimated tempo, his two companions following his movements. He stopped by the sink with the table between him, Sherlock and John. He continued, "Further inquiries reported that she kept insisting on said hospital that she mixed her babies out of impulse but that nobody believed her. She was suffering from severe Postpartum Depression at the time and they asked her to keep that baby… which she ultimately… loss in the early months."

John's mouth dropped open, "You mean she—"

"No, the baby was unhealthy to begin with." Mycroft faced them both, face dead pan and no visible expression to be read other than his glinting eyes that looked pass them on to the corridor. "She was never right again. Hello, brother."

But he wasn't referring to Sherlock.

It was then that John whipped around to see a man standing by the corridor quietly as he had just entered from the destroyed doorway with the guard behind him. The man was carrying a plastic bag of what seemed to be his lunch, wearing worn out jeans and long, faded gray jacket above his white shirt. His brown hair was cut clean but it was his looks that got the doctor terrified out of his wits for he looked very much like a younger version of Mycroft Holmes except for the scar on his right cheek. Even Sherlock was speechless at the resemblance from the shape of his face, his nose, his eyes... but his eyes were blue in contrast of Mycroft's dark ones, with traces of red around it. And the strange man didn't look happy to see any of them at all. This anger seemed to radiate to the older Holmes who heaved a deep sigh, with John throwing him a sharp look, still unable to say anything.

"Finally came snooping around, did you?" Seth Adams began in a quarrelsome tone nobody liked, his fist closing hard on the bag he was carrying, eyes transfixed at the older Holmes. "I knew you would. That stupid Charlie had to mention you, I saw it on the news. Knew it was about time you find out."

"I didn't come here to argue, Mr. Adams." Mycroft said equally firm, "I only came to talk—"

"Why?" his voice boomed, "She's dead, isn't she? After all those years of howling after you, she's finally dead. What did you come here for? Have me manhandled in my own house? I know what you are—followed you when I came here because she never forgot. You think it was heaven growing up beside a mad woman looking for a lost child? You think I like the idea of having a brother with guards around?" He looked behind him angrily.

Mycroft clenched his jaw. Even John and Sherlock seemed to have disappeared in the room as they were ignored. It was then that the older Holmes nodded at his guard, who got the message and slowly retreated back towards the door.

Adams turned his red eyes at Mycroft again. "You can get the hell out too."

Mycroft stood straight, opened his mouth, but pressed it again, before nodding at Sherlock and John. The doctor took one long look at Adams before finally moving his feet, still feeling that everything was too surreal. Mycroft moved next but just when he reached the corridor and inches from the man, did he stop and tried again—

"Look— if you would only hear me out—"

Something snapped in the man's eyes—Mycroft saw it. The next thing he knew a hand had pulled on his collar and slammed him on the wall. John doubled back and stood on alert with mouth hanging open as he saw Mycroft pinned on the wall like sly fox caught by eagle's claw. The guard was too damn far away to notice anything—

Mycroft and Seth Adams stood face to face, the man almost the same height as the older Holmes, with threatening eyes full of hatred of a man neglected by a mother.

"Who do you think gave me the scar, you bastard? You get away from me." He said through gritted teeth while Mycroft tried to recover from the shock, but he was let go almost immediately and left blinking and breathing heavily on the spot. John strode towards him to aid him.

"You alright?"

Seth stormed towards the kitchen without a care and that was when he found himself face to face with a man he didn't even know was still there and who was staring at him with his dark eyes glinting dangerously.

Sherlock Holmes.

The two stood opposite each other, both with heavy eyes. They seemed to weight each other's gaze, with Sherlock being the impassive observer but did not seem to be planning to do anything, till the tension was ignored and Seth brushed pass the consulting detective, their shoulders colliding. The man then disappeared in the next room, leaving John watching over the coughing Mycroft and Sherlock watching over them.

-To Be Continued-

I love Mycroft as Mr. Snow. Just saying xD

Chapter Text

*Bad blood *

by: WhiteGloves

A.N: Fun has arrive! And the drama! :D

Thank you and enjoy!

Chapter 4: I Asked!

"Just when I thought I've gotten used to the shocks of life with you brothers and now this."

John Watson found himself saying this as he flipped through the contents of the black folder he was holding while seated by a round, glass table inside an exclusive room in one of the British Government's private offices. By shock he meant that afternoon's misadventure which was still fresh on his mind— of finding out with immense disbelief that Mycroft and Sherlock might possibly be not related, and that Mycroft not only had a newly found younger brother, but that evidences suggest strongly of the account made him flip through the pages like he was on fire.

Yet, the real reason that had the doctor going was Mycroft not rejecting said claims. Indeed, the older Holmes had this air of someone who had accepted something so outrageous, and so quickly at that too with that deep set look on his eyes and grave expression. John didn't really get that. Wasn't there supposed to be stages of acceptance? Or grief at least? Was he in denial? Was Mycroft capable of denial? Just because it seemed it has been proven, doesn't automatically make it feel right… right?

So what was Mycroft thinking now? But most importantly—what was Sherlock?!

The doctor didn't even have to begin with that as his eyes diverted from the paper to the younger Holmes. Sherlock was seated beside him, calm and collected with literal tongue on his cheek. Silent yes. Morose? No available data on that. The consulting detective was the opposite of what John was expecting—especially since this was something close to home. At least let one sign that everything was registering. But no. John pressed his lips as he turned back at the pages. These machines… he thought grudgingly.

The only moment John Watson doesn't enjoy the Holmes brothers in utter silence.

The doctor continued on the black folder and read from top to bottom as he continued immersing himself in the silence that continued but then had to clear his throat and address Mycroft with a frown, "Do you honestly believe everything written here? I mean, it does sound spot-on with the dates on your annotations but—how just how could you be related? Just because he was outstanding on his chemistry in college with unbelievable IQ over the top doesn't make him your brother. Is that it? You believe this shit because he's a genius too when Sherlock and Eurus are much more?" he raised his eyes to the supposed older Holmes testily.

"That's confidential you know." Mycroft quietly nodded at the folder which John ignored as his lips curved.

"I've read it." Sherlock muttered tersely while slumped on the chair he occupies, eyes on Mycroft. The British Government Head passed him a look, and then turned to the doctor, both his hands entwined.

"The conviction that geniuses are born and not made are in fact, virtually nonexistent, John. There's just no basis for this claim or any scientific evidences. It is intelligence that has strong genetic transmission— or in Layman's term, inherited. Now, I did not simply believe it because of that— although it is one of the considerable factors. Have you seen the man's photo as a college man? Can you actually picture him without seeing my own face?"

John didn't have to look back at the photo on the front page as he had seen the actual man. Like two peas in pod. He threw the folder back on the table. "I can't… I still believe it's impossible… and I can't believe you're just accepting everything like it's natural—like it's okay for you to believe it! The way you talk like everything's final—you haven't even done any questioning of the man or DNA testing—what if it's all some terrorist plot—?"

John caught Sherlock's smirk beside him and threw him a scathing look.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "And you think with the behavior he displayed towards me, he'd be a willing participant in this game? He has believed all his life that I am his brother and to convince him to find proof sounds perverse, it does not interest him anymore whatever we find. He has set his mind on it."

"In short, you're the only one bothering?" John leaned back on his chair with a frown on his face, "Then just leave it at that—you heard him, he told you to leave him alone. Why are you doing all this digging stuff when he's the one not after you?"

"But this is not really about him." Mycroft shook his head with a dismal smile. "This is about me finding the truth."

"And what about Sherlock?" John felt like he needed to say that—because whatever happens to Mycroft would always hit back at Sherlock— didn't Mycroft think of that?

"Leave me out of it."

The doctor blinked and then slowly glanced at his flatmate seated beside him. The consulting detective was still slumped on his chair, his dark eyes glinting quietly as it stared unblinkingly at the man opposite them. There was not a trace of expression on his face, just his curled lips and sharp eyes.

"What do you mean leave you out of this—this is your family—"

"No." Sherlock replied drily, and with a nod at Mycroft he said, "It's his."

John stared at him, calculating even if the man was serious. Sherlock was determined to keep looking at the older Holmes with a vacant expression. There was nothing there and John could have gotten a better reaction if the man found out Mrs. Hudson had thrown all his blood samples on the fridge. The doctor helplessly looked back at Mycroft who was his usual self of unpainted care. These idiots, really? He turned at his flatmate. "You're being serious?"

The younger Holmes did not answer him, but instead, transfixed his eyes at his supposed brother before finally speaking.

"You've considered all other options?"

"I did."

"Remove all the impossible?"

"Arranged even the improbable." Mycroft narrowed his eyes, "So what's left—"

"Must be the truth…" Sherlock whispered nodding with eyes flickering, and his expression turning hard. "You went to his house to see his kind of lifestyle, didn't you? And even wanted to make offers and propositions? You and I both saw the inside of his house. What have you deduced?"

Mycroft studied Sherlock's face for a moment, before indulging him. "You almost have the same habits, you tell me. Possessions and marks of a perpetual nicotine addict, a very bad smoker considering the stench of his breath and color of his lips, alcoholic by the stains on his shirt, even had two bottles in the middle of the day but he was quite sober actually. Had numbers of so called junkie associates who comes around as both guests and residents without Kemp's approval. I suppose, they had a gathering last night, you saw the mess made by not one or two persons. And… an indisputably bad temper. Over all… he's as bad as you are."

Sherlock gave him an enigmatic look. "It's not going to be pretty if you get involved with him further."

"My job was never for the aesthetic. All soil and toil are on my plate, Sherlock. I think I can take my chances."

"Well…" the consulting detective pressed his lips. "Not like it's your first time handling a sociopath… good luck with that."

Mycroft smiled crookedly.

John gaped at the two as a prolonged silence fell—nothing more. What—that was it?! Just when he thought he'd hear everything they are thinking in a form of banter—then just that? He needed the banter! He closed his fist and glared at his flatmate. "Sherlock."

The younger Holmes rolled his eyes. "John seems to be having a hard time dealing with the wrinkle on your tie." Sherlock sat straight again after the prolonged silence and seeing that familiar gleam on his brother's eyes that had something to do with his innate stubbornness, "So let's make it clear for him—you already believe with the highest percentage that you were actually mixed as a baby in the hospital—that this man is your real brother, correct?"

"No question."

"Which means you have a solid source." Sherlock deducted with another nod. "Do share for John's sake."

"We have already found the hospital and the nurse that bore witness to the account." Mycroft explained patiently, like reading from a script, but his eyes avoided anyone's gaze as he stared into air. "The same nurse that had seen Mrs. Adams carrying a child onto her hospital bassinet. She admitted…" the older Holmes paused, and it was the only time John had actually seen him heave a deep sigh that he had been keeping for a long time. When he looked up, whatever pain he was feeling, seemed to have been masterfully shoved down at the farthest corner of his brain. He was Mycroft again. "Being just an intern then, she admitted she didn't want any scandal for having an obviously disturbed patient inside dozens of sleeping babies and so returned the baby from Mrs. Adams' arms on the bassinet labelled for her." He paused again, but this time it wasn't only him who felt the gravity of the information.

Even John stared at the older Holmes like he had been splashed with cold water. Sherlock just sat there.

"You checked that she's really… that you're the one replaced?"

"Got a weird name, she said… She's very old, you understand." Mycroft went on, like it was a pleasant anecdote, finally meeting Sherlock's eyes again and both seeing something no one else could, "Mrs. Adams came from that side of a baby with a last name like a house."

John didn't know why he did it, but he put his face on his palms and took a very deep sigh. Pressing it to the sides of his nose, he shut his eyes and swore under his breath. At least someone in the room was reacting properly to the news as both the Holmes brothers didn't seem willing participant with Sherlock only tapping his finger on the armchair, an ominous look appearing on his face.

"So we're finally not related?" he asked bluntly.

"Facts are facts, brothermine." Mycroft stated simply which was no different from saying no, not really bluntly. John slowly looked up at the two exactly as Sherlock stood up so suddenly that startled the doctor. The detective looked a little annoyed and disgusted at the same time as he stood in full height and sneered at his former older brother.

"You don't get to call me that."

"Sherlock!" John instinctively called, knowing and believing full well his best friend was getting ahead of himself again. He threw a look at Mycroft now but like he was some piece of statue, the older Holmes didn't even bat an eyelid. It seemed to piss the younger Holmes more. John couldn't help himself. "Mycroft!"

"Let's go, John," the younger Holmes pulled his coat closer to his neck and turned towards the door. "It's getting a bit frosty here and before you know—an avalanche!"

John stared at him wordlessly and then looked back at Mycroft who was just watching them. "We're going where? And why?"

"Why not?" Sherlock made a turn to give his former brother an arch of eyebrow. "It never pays to care when the subject itself does not permit unnecessary emotions. Remember that, Mycroft? Caring not an advantage tag? John, you may want to stand up, we're not really needed. As I've said before—Mycroft's affair will always be Mycroft's affair. That's pretty much sums him up."

He stalked of before anyone could say another word, leaving the door open wide as he crossed the empty corridor. John gaped at his disappearing figure and turned to Mycroft with mouth hanging open. Only to find the older Holmes smirking with a tender look on his eyes. Why does he always show that look whenever Sherlock's not looking!?

They caught each other's eyes.

"I expected him to be more cheerful." Mycroft admitted with eyebrows up his hairline. "Thought he'd rub it in."

"Are you?" John threw at him as he stood up too. "Happy with this?"

A considerable silence as the older Holmes looked down the table and blinked. "Does it make any difference whatever I feel at all? Whether it makes one happy or not, nothing can truly change when facts are stacked against you." The older Holmes said in business like tone, "We just simply… live with it and move on."

"No. People don't just let it go like that, Mycroft." John said through gritted teeth, "People react, people get angry—people change—I don't care what you do but at least choose one!"

"I'm not people." Mycroft replied acidly. "Ever wonder how much these 'people' waste time and energy believing the universe will suddenly stop existing just because they feel something. I don't do that kind of peopleing. But I've chosen to move on. And so should you."

John gaped again. "No kidding?" He received another raise of eyebrow and had to exhale. "So what's going to happen now?"

"What do you mean?" Mycroft narrowed his eyes as he sat up with a curious look now at the doctor.

"I mean this—you're not brothers." John glanced at the door that was left open by his flatmate and then back at the British Government Head who was frowning. "What are we going to do now?"

A beat. Then Mycroft blinked.

"It's simple, isn't it? You return to your lives. It's not like my affair will hurt any of you to begin with."

"But Sherlock—"

"Will still be under my direct observance and care, John, as well as Eurus." The British Government Head put both elbows on the table and leaned his chin on top of his entwined hands as if this was a given. "Finding out something of the past doesn't necessarily have to affect the present. Sherlock has been under my care since he was a toddler, that can never be changed. Blood or not, I am his other brother, this too is a fact. Sometimes blood doesn't matter. I thought perhaps, you know that more than anyone."

The doctor took this in, and then nodded. "You could have told him that—"

"And risk another tantrum—and before I know it he'll be sending me contracts to sign and persistently demand I leave him alone?"

"Which you won't?"

"Which I won't since he is still a national concern."

John pressed a sigh and shook his head, "You mean you're only concerned about him because he is Sherlock?"

"You're confusing me." Mycroft admitted after a short pause, "The government is concerned because he is Sherlock."

"Fine," John hissed as he looked back at the open door and knew he had to catch up to the younger Holmes, "put yourself up above feelings if you're comfortable with that—I don't care! But you have to get this straight from me— Sherlock's not as ridiculous as you! He feels! And despite what he said just now, you know your brother—whatever you call yourselves right now—will have a rebound. And yes, before you know it—you'll see your photograph hanging on every section of our wall and under that jackknife with gunshot letters on the wall asking WHO. His emotion is bound to ricochet one way or another!"

Mycroft had listened to the doctor's litany with raised eyebrows and even had to check his mobile before replying calmly, "Isn't that the purpose why I'm keeping you around? To keep him stable, keep him level headed? You're basically one of his legal guardian. In any case, you know you can always contact me when something 'unprecedented' happens."

The doctor clenched his jaw. Mycroft's words were reassuring, but he still wasn't sure about that. Especially when it comes to Sherlock. Though the man himself had always been antagonistic of his supposed older brother, Sherlock still was reliant on Mycroft whatever the two Holmes brothers make themselves believe. So when he asked what would happen after that, he was talking about the out of control Sherlock's on-coming rage at home.

Seems like John was on his own.

"John." Came Mycroft's soft voice as if this thought had also occurred to him and the two found each other's eyes again where this tender look the older Holmes seemed to be manipulating at will was once again as evident as light. As well as that passing sadness in the glint of the light.

"Look after him for me. Please."

When John came out on the street, his eyes immediately found Sherlock who was just on the sidewalk with hands jammed on his coat. The consulting detective turned to him the moment he stepped next to him and noticed that Sherlock was looking expectant with his lips pressed. He seemed to have calmed down now that he wasn't on the presence of the other Holmes.

"You took your time." His voice was deep, eyes narrowed like the sunlight was blinding him.

"Your brother has plenty of requests I'm not sure if reasonable."

Sherlock smiled. "He's always reasonable, but never tolerable. Besides, it's you. It's fine. Did he say anything else except the routine of me being his concern?"

"He's still going to watch."

"Old habits die hard." Sherlock looked back at the building thoughtfully. "He's an idiot, my brother. It's not me who needs looking after." There was a sudden pensive look that passed his face, somewhat making the doctor stare as they both began walking on the sidewalk.

"So you really think he should look after that Adams guy?" John asked, one eye watching for any cabs.

"He's an adult, why does he need looking after?" snapped the detective while the doctor gave him a narrowed look.

"Adult huh? I wonder about that too. Are you saying you believe this?"

"If Mycroft says so, then it's bound to be the truth." Sherlock looked down the pavement, hands behind him till they reach the corner of the street. "He's not one to take over matters in his hands if he doesn't see it worthwhile. You think my brother would waste time finding another headache and another junkie at that?" He hailed a cab and one stopped in front of them.

"I'm liking your insights, tell me more." John said rather sarcastically as they both clambered on the car, "It's not like Mycroft's going anywhere anyway and there's still the testing if it comes to it. So where are we going?"

"Home." Sherlock didn't elaborate after that, making John shift a little towards him with a curious look.

"It really doesn't concern you?"

"Of course it concerns me, this is still about me."

John blinked that turned into a frown. "And exactly how is this about you again?"

"You thought there's a plot? I think the same."

"What—how?"

"Connections, John. Connect everything. There's always a hole there that won't match."

"You think Mycroft knows?"

"I don't care what he knows, he always knows something anyway."

"True, if this is a plot then I'm all for it. Besides—how can you not be his brother when you're so much alike? In mental powers, I mean." He added hastily, seeing Sherlock glowering at him.

"Intelligence doesn't just cut on genetic transmission, it also has to be developed and intensely motivated by its environment. Anyone can be good at observation and deducing, John, all it takes is practice."

"I don't think so—I've tried—"

"I said there is genetic transmission." Sherlock raised a hand to stop his best friend's retort, "Highly creative persons and geniuses still need to discover their innate ability to create which means they need people surrounding them as a model who can play this vital role, but not just any model but someone whose occupation is the same as the performance equivalent of the geniuses' level. At least one influential member of the family can be that person. In this case, mine was Mycroft. No doubt about it as he occupies a hemisphere of my mind palace because he's taken charge of me since a child. His prowess on deduction was passed on me on regular basis of training and endless annoyance and me—who does not know better on my formative years was his avid fan."

"I can imagine that." John sniffed, remembering all Sherlock's side comments and epitaphs about his brother in 221B. Even Mrs. Hudson has heard enough. "So in other words—you're saying it only takes practice?"

"And power of observation."

"Right. Can you be more specific—"

"Wiggins." Sherlock suddenly barked on his mobile and it was when John noticed that his friend had actually pulled his phone and was talking to it. Remembering Sherlock's young junkie supplier had the doctor blinking for there was a time that the man was able to deduce his bicycle habit though inaccurately in the past. John frowned. "I sent you an email, you did not reply. Follow my instruction and meet me in Baker Street. I expect you to follow till the last letter."

John wanted to ask questions but refrained from doing so. Connections, huh? Sherlock calling Wiggins out of the blue…

Wiggins who was his junkie supplier… Wiggins who also was a gifted chemist and quite deducing skills… Heck, John would believe this man was Sherlock's other brother.

The doctor paused.

Oh.

Checking his watch, it was almost half past five in the afternoon when John finally heard the doorbell of 221B ring, then Mrs. Hudson answering. He had been sitting on his own chair, legs crossed with a black notebook ready at hand for almost half an hour now. He didn't know what would happen after all of this, but he was sure Sherlock has a plan. He tried giving the detective his own deductions which only received a smirk but no insult—which means he said something acceptable in the least. They heard footsteps from below. This made John glance up at Sherlock who was standing behind his own black chair, in his dark suit and less the tie with hands inside the pocket of his pants. He looked his usual self l as far as John could tell, with that distinct glint of excitement concealed on his passive face.

"Is what we're doing alright?" John had the impulse to ask when the footsteps finally reach the landing, he could practically see someone's silhouette by the doorway.

"In quest for the truth? Yes." Sherlock raised his eyes on the doorway, his eyes glinting as finally who he had been waiting for finally arrived. "Instead of making assumptions based on one side of the data, let's get the truth from the real source himself."

John looked towards the doorway and there saw the figures by the door. One was Wiggins, Sherlock's junkie buddy who was not allowed entry in the house whenever John was around because as Sherlock had also said it cramps the space; the other who was standing quite erect with a peevish expression was another person whom they had just met that lively afternoon. Seth Adams.

John took note of his appearance with Mycroft's features except the eyes. The man, probably the age of Sherlock was wearing three shirts underneath a faded denim jacket and pants. He was a little taller than Wiggins who had entered the room looking glum and uncertain at his captain. It had occurred to John too that these two might know each other after Sherlock's call. But what are the odds of that…

"Here he is, like you asked." Wiggins said while Adams scowled at him.

"I'll remember this, Wig." He said but didn't move an inch as Wiggins fled with one nod from Sherlock. The whole room fell silent as now Seth turned his glaring eyes at the consulting detective who quietly pointed at the chair in the middle of the room while he took his throne on the black chair.

"Please, sit down."

"Why would I?" Adams was determined not to be bullied down.

"Because that would make you a client," Sherlock said quite darkly, while a hand rummage inside his chest pocket, "and not a typical criminal. If you know what I mean." The consulting detective suddenly pulled his hand out and John gasped as the man pointed a gun in Seth's direction.

"Sherlock!"

Adams only stared at the gun narrowly, and then up at the detective. A smirk suddenly appeared on his face.

"Alright, if that's how you want it. Let's play."

John didn't know what happened but a second later, Adams entered the room and dropped himself on the chair in front of them looking smug and curious at the same time. The doctor turned at his flatmate who was also watching Adams with amusement.

"So you do recognize it." He let the gun point down the floor, eyes transfixed at the man. "Kemp did say it belonged to you, it's natural that you'd be snooping."

"Where is he?"

"Locked up. I don't think he's eager to come out any time soon after all he's told the police about you."

Adams retained that smirk. "That idiot. I wouldn't do anything to him, he's a nice chap."

"That's not exactly how he described you."

There was a short pause as Adams nodded, eyes still on the detective while John stared from one man to another. Connections? To hell with that—what was happening!?

Sherlock's eyes flickered. "So. What do you want from me?"

John gaped not for the last time. Adams looked slightly confused. "Excuse me? Shouldn't I be the one asking that—you had me carried here by a buddy of mine—"

"On to a place that didn't seem too unfamiliar to you, and with residents you seem to know from a far. Mr. Adams, I do this for a living, I can smell a plot from a hundred miles even when I'm sleeping. That's how great I am."

John stared again because it was rare for Sherlock to point something like this but he didn't say anything. Sherlock then leaned forward, gun still on his hand, "You know who I am even without asking and though I could probably lay blame to this blogger of mine, it is obvious you didn't find it surprising to be here. In fact, you didn't even look remotely surprised to be in my presence just now. Which gets even more curious if we look back at the reason why you are here."

"You're talking gibberish." The frown on Adams' face was the one John always see to all their defensive clients, but still the doctor was nowhere near the light of things as him. "What have you been smoking?"

"Sherlock—what the hell are you talking about?" John asked incredulously to which Sherlock threw the gun at him and with reflex, the doctor caught with his heart skipping a beat. "You jackass!"

"It's unloaded but that doesn't matter—" the detective went on—

"Doesn't matter—?"

"You." Sherlock pointed back at Seth Adams who looked back at him with the same frown that John had on his face, "Something doesn't make sense with you that's why you are here. Kemp may be believed to be the reason of your sudden exposure— national tv, calling out a man's unknown name to the public but to general offices—leading us to you, and exposing yourself as a real brother to mine. But all of this is a plot because then— how else can anyone explain Kemp's appearance with a gun in a public place where he knows police will be around? This very gun belonged to you. You had your flatmate get arrested. You plotted that."

John didn't realize that his mouth was left open as he stared at his friend, the gun tightly kept on his hand. Turning to Adams, he only saw the man quietly listen to the detective with a furtive look on his face. But he didn't say anything and so the consulting detective continued—

"Not that Mr. Kemp is aware that he was made into a tool. You had previously mentioned something to him—a name of a man who works for the government. You calculated that he would call to him—thus getting our attention. Since he's your brother. It's quite suspicious that you would choose to come out now and reveal yourself. And then you didn't want to acknowledge him. You're even adamant to get cleared of him—why is that? Because it's not really him you're after." Sherlock's eyes gleamed, "You just wanted to get his attention, and consequently use him as bait to your real target—which is me. He's the leverage you need to get to me. The number of visitors you had the previous night can suggest a transaction. I am very particular to ashes of known clientele and that one I saw there was someone familiar to me. A known enemy. Was he the same person who wants to get me?"

Silence filled the room. John was so awestruck he had forgotten that he was hugging a gun. He didn't know how to process all the information, but one question still remained—was everything really just as Sherlock had said? That this was all really a plot not about Mycroft, but an actual revenge plot against Sherlock? Because John would believe that. All his life, he's never met a man with an encyclopedia of enemies all arranged in alphabetical order on the shelf.

Seth Adams chuckled next, that turned into a hollow laugh. Sherlock didn't like that as he sat straight with lips curving down, while John held his breath. Adams was beside himself with a hand on his stomach, eyes clearly filling with tears.

"I asked what you were smoking." He went on, chuckling hysterically, "I didn't think you were so high to make up these visions and make everything about you. Has anyone told you the center of the universe isn't you?"

John froze as he knew an ensuing fight when he saw one. Sherlock was obviously being provoked. Glancing at his flatmate, John could just see the vein pounding on Sherlock's head as his lips thinned for being made to look like he was wrong.

"Then tell me," Sherlock said cuttingly, "why you hate my brother?"

"Hate your brother?" Adams mimicked with asperity, his eyes like glowing flames, "Right… you grew up with a brother while I…" he smirked again, "I supposed you grew up in a normal family? With a brother and parents to look after you? I didn't. I grew up with a self centered mother who wanted nothing but to have her first born back— I grew up in a place not wanted by my mum just because she knew he's alive out there somewhere and that never made her the same. She's a special case, my mum. Was very intelligent I heard, she loves numbers. But she broke down after giving birth to that bastard." He paused but John was anxious now, because he could see the man's eyes were flickering from unshed tears of anger, his voice breaking in rage and realized this all had to be true, "I was never intended to be born, but she was not herself and she was alone and she was taken advantaged. I grew up in a home where she would scream, where I would wake up with her standing by my bed… calling that bastard's name because she tried getting him back, even as far as following your parents' home. That's where she got his name. I know everything. Because she never stopped talking. Until she did."

A pause, then Sherlock turned to John with eyes glinting. "Getting the truth wasn't at all that hard if you know the right means of provoking your subject."

"What?" John threw back incredulously. "What are you talking about?!"

"Stop."

Three heads snapped towards the door way. They had been so engrossed that the three had failed to notice another presence that had arrived some time ago and had been there like a shadow by the doorway. Tall and wearing his pristine three-piece suit under his black overcoat with an umbrella on his hand. Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft was staring quietly at Adams with a deep set expression while the latter did the same. And before anyone else, the man stood up and rage his way out of the door, bumping his shoulder aggressively as he passed by Mycroft who closed his eyes quietly, his hold on his umbrella tightening.

John and Sherlock were quiet, until the older Holmes opened his eyes and looked sternly at the younger Holmes.

"Are you satisfied now?"

"Because you were so afraid to ask, I had to do it for you." Sherlock responded while John was at lost at the two, till Mycroft turned on his heels and disappeared too. "You can't treat him a like a bomb that could set every time you come close, Mycroft!" Sherlock called after the man.

"What just happened?" the doctor stood up and walked towards the door, before turning a confused face on the detective. "Why—why is everyone so angry?"

Sherlock was scratching his hair and ears now—an obvious sign of someone guilty but not at all repentant.

"I asked."

-To Be Continued-

Quite loaded but I hope it was fun and enlightening! :)

Chapter Text

*Bad blood *

by: WhiteGloves

A.N: Late upload equates Lengthy chapter! Sorry about that!

See Shezza in action ;D

Thank you and enjoy!

Chapter 5: Shezza

John woke up with a start when he felt tiny little fingers began smacking his temple. Gotten used to being awake without prior notice, be it his child or Sherlock, the doctor half raised his sleepy head with one eye open as he found Rosie sitting on the bed by his arm. She was munching on her donut toy with one hand, the other holding firm on his nose with her round eyes ogling at her father. The curtains shadowed the room from morning sunlight as John bolted up on his elbows, looked at his watch to find it was a good past 6'oclock in the morning. Then he paused to recall why he was feeling so grumpy. He remembered getting up in the middle of the night because Rosy had been crying and only stopped as he put her beside him. He didn't know what happened after that, only that they were both sleeping peacefully until she poked him awake. But of course, that wasn't why he was cranky at the moment.

Sniffing a little and rubbing his eyes with his palms, he gathered Rosie in his arms to put her on the crib and went straight to the wash room to relieve himself, wash his face and brush his teeth. He looked himself in the mirror and saw deep circles under his eyes and had to grunt because no, this was no fault of her child, but of another person who never returned last night after that little fiasco he facilitated in the sitting room. A kind of fiasco that involved the detective inviting someone in who was known for a violent disposition; the detective lying through his teeth and making it look like he has figured everything out to make his target reveal information John was sure Adams wouldn't repeat if Sherlock had asked properly. What was it he said?

'People enjoy feeling they have the upper hand to correct others, making them susceptible to rub the truth. When I gave him my intentional false deduction, him knowing my current occupation, jumped immediately to prove me wrong. Nothing could have stimulated his brain like cocaine.'

John pressed his wet hands on his eyes and then grabbed his face towel. He was still confused with the whole thing and wanted to discuss what Sherlock had found out with the interview, unfortunately Sherlock had disappeared after that and was out of touch for the rest of the evening. If Sherlock had returned now, he could just ask what inanity his friend has been up to. He knew Sherlock wouldn't rest for a second with this case at hand because the absurdity of the whole thing was really mind boggling. The idea that the Holmes brothers were not related was still questionable despite what has been said, written and done according to Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft Holmes who seemed resigned to believe the whole thing which terrified John more than anything as he still has half a mind not to believe everything being forced in his brain. There simply wasn't a case of Mycroft and Sherlock not being real brothers at all. Maybe if it was a case of them both being adopted then he'll believe it—Mr. and Mrs. Holmes appear normal on all accounts except for Mrs. Holmes writing books—but she was a proper genius. The Holmes brothers were a terrible force to be hold when it comes to the side of the enemies—those two never cut corners in using their brain to somehow make the world a safe place, one way or the other. And also, both brothers were annoying as hell. Though that can be a subjective opinion considering as Sherlock said, he had grown up under Mycroft's wing who was the most elusive, annoying and dispassionate brother in the world.

One thing John understood about Sherlock though was his reservation about Mycroft admitting they were not brothers. If Mycroft was holding it in—then that was exactly what Sherlock was doing and thus—results in him running around at night. John knows Sherlock by heart. Unlike his brother, Sherlock needed a fix for this without probably realizing the only fix he needed was the two of them talking properly. Which gets John thinking again—how do the Holmes brothers talk out situations like this?

Hopefully it wouldn't involve anything dangerous, but knowing Sherlock, it was like wishing for lightning to strike twice.

John was reduced to baby talks after taking Rosie from her crib and carrying her downstairs to the kitchen. Finding her special baby chair, he put her there and then stopped by Sherlock's door and knocked and called for him. No answer. John shook his head and knocked again but there was only silence. Hands on his waist, the doctor rubbed the back of his neck and proceeded back to the kitchen table to prepare breakfast when he saw a paper flew in the middle of the sitting room on to the floor. He shot a look up, wondering if the window was left open—or did Sherlock use the window as a door again—?

He crossed the kitchen to the sitting room and saw the windows were closed. Frowning, he looked down the floor and had to blink as he saw that it was no ordinary paper, but a photo—a shot from someone clandestinely taken. The doctor picked it up and recognized the man in front of the railway station. It was taken from an angle of someone sitting by a floor—so obviously a homeless network of Sherlock but what got John staring was the fact that it was a photo of Seth Adams. So, Sherlock really has begun.

John's brows furrowed as he turned the paper but found nothing at the back. It was then that he heard the lightest sound of papers flutter in the air behind him. Turning, the doctor snapped his head up to the wall behind the couch and saw to his astonishment that half of its center has been covered with London's large map with photos and strings attached to one another with Adams' face and whereabouts in all of them. It was obvious that Sherlock returned sometime in the night—but what had John's eyes skimming through his captions and notes were words turfs, country lines, HB and WAGOTS.

"Oh, no…" John muttered, shaking his head as his eyes feasted on what his flatmate has done in those hours that he had returned in 221B. Sherlock only ever did something like this when connecting big crimes and terrorist organization—what has it got to do with Seth Adams? More importantly—where was Sherlock?

"Oh, no no no…"

A tall, lanky bloke with thinning brown hair and bloodshot blue eyes wearing a black jacket with hood on strode along the busy street of London with both hands on his pockets. He made his way through the mob of day street hikers without making contact with anyone and without taking attention. He would glance behind him every now and then cautiously as if feeling invisible eyes upon him and would hasten his pace every time he felt he was followed. By the time he reached the end of the street, he was already jogging past everyone. Then in a blink of an eye, he was no longer on the street. He had taken a sharp turn on one alley with his face hidden in the dark. He paused for a moment, waiting for someone to go the same way he did and when no one came, he strode away and zigzagged on other alleys till he found himself on another different street, less taken by suited people and less prying eyes. He looked behind him again, before directing himself on a garbage container where a metal staircase hung above. In split seconds, he had jumped above it and was sliding himself on the third window and was gone again.

The junky dusted himself as he straightened inside a dark, abandoned dusty room filled with nothing but broken furniture, glasses, portraits, rugs and newspaper on the floor. The curtains were torn and the floors creaked as he walked. But despite the room's darkness, he seemed to know his way around toward the heart of the room where a table was set behind a red couch where he found someone lying around typing.

"What are you doing?" Wiggins muttered as he put cans and coins from his pocket to add on the clutter of things on the table. The man on the couch with dark, messy hair didn't even look up.

"Tweeting."

"About what?"

"About why I'm bored and I'm stuck with you—what else do you think I'm tweeting about? I'm sending London my love so they'd open their eyes to an upcoming gang attack."

The brown-haired man checked his own mobile and went to the social media site and raised an eyebrow. "SY better have goggles in their nose. 24/7 today. Hashtag HB looms? You think public will get that?"

"My followers would, as you did. And how hard is SY for Scotland Yard?"

"Couldn't you be more general?"

"Since when did you bother?"

"I don't mind but just sayin," Wiggins shrugged nonchalantly, "You've been here all day long, are you not planning to shoot up?" he looked at the untouched paraphernalia he left that morning and then back at the man in his junky clothes speedily typing on his mobile.

"I don't need it." A deep voice responded, "Did you find anything?"

"It's tonight." Wiggins took the paraphernalia and secured it in his pockets. "It's quite dangerous to be asking questions around this time, not when they're around London from Essex." He looked meaningfully at the man with dark hair and glinting eyes, "But he'd be meeting them in the old place. Didn't want to poke my nose around deadly things. You should really be careful."

"When you said old place—Peckham?"

"Peckham Rail Road."

"Mmmm. Interesting."

Wiggins waited for more but when silence was too much, he quickly added, "Look—Adams had been around this block longer than me—what you're saying about him—about being some kind of undercover jackass just doesn't fit. He aint someone to work for others—he's temper is as bad as yours—"

"Oh, I'm sure you haven't seen me at my worst."

"Nah—both of you shaking about with a gun in your hands—I've seen enough to compare—"

"And you'd have it again if you don't shut up."

"That won't work on me." Wiggins sniffed as he turned towards a broken chair near the fireside and threw himself there. "Guns, knives, we'll all get it when we get it. What's another bullet in the body, eh?"

"You seem cheerful at the prospect?"

"When Adams finds me, I'll get it one way or another. I've known him in this business long. I told you he's your common bloke with trades he can't spit out. I've seen him in action too—you better get your head together if you wanna deal with him, he's a seriously dangerous man to deal with."

Sherlock smiled. "And yet you turned him when I asked you to? Am I supposed to be move by the loyal gesture?"

"It's part of a job, we do that a lot." Wiggins shrugged airily, "And it's you who's asking, not a copper. Sorry, Shezza, but I've always fancy you too meeting. I mean, Adams is proper smart, he's taught me those chemistry mixing, you know. Even handily figuring out people? It's needed in the business, he says. So, we can recognize them coppers."

"Then why didn't you had us meet before? That would have been the pluckiest of twist."

"And lost my job? Who knows if you find another best friend in him, mate, you two being so much alike?"

"I said shut up about that." The consulting detective glared at the man by the chair, "You said he's a common guy but all his records are not available anywhere I look. What do you make of that?"

"That's your job, why ask me?" Wiggins blinked, "And I've given you everything I know, isn't that enough? Seth Adams used to work in South London—"

"Yes, I remember everything— you said you met him in Essex, then met him again in boroughs of London. That he's the man who connected you to some suppliers. Big suppliers. That he's involved with gang crimes— that is so obvious with weapons and load of cash he's got—you failed to mention that one—can't help but notice his bulging pocket when he assaulted my brother. Obvious meth addict by the looks of him Mycroft didn't need to mention that—a typical gangster alright. I remember all of that that but doesn't really tell me anything about his background, does it?"

"Then why don't you ask that fella? Whatsis name? Mike? Far as I recall you always brag about him knowing stuff that would make my hair stand on end—"

"And disappear on the surface of the earth. I can still ask him and he can still do that but I won't which puts us both where we are." Sherlock suddenly sat up, his face unwashed but with eyes with a dangerous flicker, "My brother's in a position of a god which can make him move things to his will. If I keep believing everything, he throws at me, I'd be another pawn in a silly game where he is in control. Believe me, that's the last thing this world needed—me Sherlock Holmes controlled by his older brother."

The young junky stared at him with his glassy eyes. Then shook his head. "I don't understand, you said you have no brother now?"

Sherlock slumped down the couch again so heavily it rattled its old, creaky legs while the consulting detective sighed and fixed his eyes on the dark ceiling. "Yes. I'm also practicing independence that's why I rely on you for source. Good thing you deliver or I would've been walking around the street with a helicopter hovering above my head, yours truly by my brother."

"You don't have a brother." Wiggins reminded him as his glazed eyes began to droop. "You only got me."

Sherlock smirked. "And it's a fair trade, isn't it?"

The junky shrugged again, half asleep with head nodding off. "Nah. That'd be bargaining for something more than I can chew, Shezza. Best stick to someone who'd not run away from you." The young man fell asleep as soon as his eyes closed while Sherlock heaved a sigh as he slowly sat up again and put both his feet down the floor.

"True." He muttered and let silence fell for full five minutes, before his attention was taken by his mobile when its notification alerted him on a reply on his tweet. Browsing down the comment section he found John Watson's message—Answer your fucking phone.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and did as he was told when it rang.

"John."

"Where are you? You've been gone 46 hours—!"

"I was afraid you were counting."

"No, your brother just reminded me— where the hell are you?"

"Oh, that's right, I have a brother. I'm under cover—of course I'm undercover. After all these years you still ask the same boring question every time—"

"Because every time you say you are, we find you on some doss house or crack den!"

"Why a doss house?" Sherlock said, sounding a bit stung, "I have a case—you think I'd really go there? Mycroft's got a mysterious brother popping out of nowhere and I for one am trying to help being the man that I am. And you think I'll be in a doss house?"

"So, you are in a crack den?"

"Yes." At least, he was near one. He heard John visibly sigh heavily and could imagine his grumpy face.

"What are you doing there?"

"Finding the truth, what else?"

"What truth? Mycroft already told us—"

"Don't believe everything he says." Sherlock snapped all of a sudden, "He's got every reason not to tell you the truth."

"Nobody knows the truth these days which is crazy— look— I know you're upset about this whole thing—but just show up alright? We're worried about you—even your brother expressed concern and is being extremely nice again—"

"Nice—why would he be nice? I hate it when he's nice, it makes me look like a jerk."

"I think you might be on to something there, Sherlock. Just get back, alright?"

The detective checked the time on his screen and pressed the phone back on his ears. "I'm afraid I can't do that. I have an appointment in eleven hours and unlike you who's got time to worry about people as a habit, I have business to attend to."

"Can't you at least let me come with you?" John's desperate voice had the consulting detective consider for a moment, standing up even from the couch and trotting his sneakers on the dusty floor. After a while, he shook his head with a smile.

"I'll pass on that. And do tell my brother I'll reveal all the conspiracy in no time? He's there with you now in the flat, isn't he?"

There was an abrupt pause, and Sherlock heard John pressed a sigh, then a silent, "Yes."

"Is he looking at the map?"

"Yes."

"Did he cross his arms?"

A pause, then another decided heavy sigh. "No."

"Ahhh." Sherlock nodded, crossing towards the window and peering through the dirty ragged curtain where he saw two homeless men stand around looking suspicious and restless. "Both hands on his sides then? Typical. I'll see you later, John."

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" John Watson hissed as he stared at his phone with his heavy brows together before looking up at the British Government Head behind him. "He hung up— he said you got the message, Mycroft?"

"Yes…" Mycroft pursed his lips on one side with an obvious frown forming on his temple, "He does his homework when no one tells him. His psyche is just too easy to read…. But why would he get involve like this…Oh Sherlock."

John blinked as he heard a hint of concern rare in Mycroft's tone. "What—why? What's going on?" but the older Holmes ignored him that got the doctor gritting his teeth. "Fine—but if you know he's got something in mind, why didn't you stop him?" John couldn't help the edge at the end of his voice.

"Really, John." Mycroft glanced at him quietly, "The number of times I know my brother's up to something, but never always sure what. What do you think I should have done? Send people as his body guard? Lock him in his own house? Escort him out whenever he's figured out something from his trivial cases? Isn't that why he's got you now?" John continued frowning at him so the British government head shook his head. "No, I didn't know he was up to this—I knew he was after facts but to had him do this? It seems I never really understood my younger brother."

"You never understood how his emotions work—what does that mean, this is an emotional level?" John stood next to the man with arms crossing. "But that makes sense, that's Sherlock. So, where the hell is he and what message did he leave?"

"Something I already know and he's rubbing it in." Mycroft said rather tartly. "He has found out Seth is involved with some large gang names." The older Holmes raised his umbrella and tapped its point to the HB, "To be exact, that." He glanced sideways at the doctor to see any hint of recognition to which John nodded. "Good."

"You mean those crazy Albanian mafia?"

"Yes." Mycroft turned back at the map and continued tracing it with his umbrella. "A local organization linked to international mafia. The NCA has had troubles with them in the past up to present from importation of pure drugs to weaponry. I must admit the British Secret Service is having a hard time monitoring their trades and number of their members because of the organizations' strong networks. The country lines are worst."

"Adams is part of that?" John asked in awe, looking at Mycroft with critical eyes. "And you don't go talk to him? If you know he's part of it why don't you interrogate him? The bloody gun was his, wasn't it? Don't tell me your sentiment thing is kicking for Adams when Sherlock could be in danger?!"

Mycroft fell silent for a while, then, "It's more complicated than you think."

John stared hard and long at the older Holmes and shook his head. "You're hopeless, you know that? Everything is complicated for you! I thought you're the smart man with resources! Do something!"

"It's a delicate situation—" he replied through gritted teeth.

"No— complicated is you not being Sherlock's brother! Delicate is you still not reaching out to both younger brothers! You now have two of them! But Sherlock did say it—what are you so afraid of Adams for? Because Mycroft you're afraid, you know it."

"Doctor Watson." Mycroft's icy tone had the doctor clenching his teeth and the two found themselves eye to eye. If Mycroft was going to threaten him, it was not going to work. If Mycroft was going to give another excuse, John would burst. There were so many things that needed doing—the Secret Service knew Adams was a threat! But what was Mycroft doing about all of it? With a firm look on his face, the doctor waited. He could see him choosing his words carefully but a dark gleam appeared on his eyes, the one that was always there when the Ice-Man as Sherlock would quote, was resurfacing. "Just know that I'm doing everything that I can."

"No, you haven't done anything." John clicked his tongue and turned back at the map. "So where is he?"

Mycroft pointed his umbrella near central London onto a rectangle of buildings. "No doubt he's here. The last time my men registered his whereabouts it was around Piccadilly square, then he disappeared. If he was planning to make contact with his homeless network where he is expected to take action, this is the best spot. But I don't think you'd find him there now."

"Why not?"

"He just confirmed to you through phone that I understood the message, correct? Chances are he won't be staying long after that phone call, he might even be on the move now." Mycroft dropped his umbrella to the floor and stood in his full height. "Did he mention the time he would get engaged?"

"Time?" John blinked and wondered how Mycroft could know the content of his conversation with the consulting detective, "E—in eleven hours, that's what he said—hey!" For Mycroft had begun sauntering towards the doorway. "What—what am I supposed to do? Do you know where he's going!?"

"Eleven hours is too long a time." Mycroft said mysteriously without turning back, "Which means he's headed somewhere that needed full surveillance or someplace he can hide from me until that time." He paused again, then finally turned sideways with eyes on the floor. There was a contemplative nature in his expression that John had seen once—and that was about Eurus. "I'm not afraid of Adams, John… rather… it's his history that frightens me more. If you are every bit of the sensitive doctor that you are, then you might have noticed his untoward emotions when he sees me. You know what that means?"

John pressed his lips closed as he stared at the British Government Head.

"Childhood trauma." Mycroft supplied with a reserved sigh, "Sherlock was capable enough to rewrite his but that was after so much push and persuasion. It took will. So, what of this one, doctor? Without proper guidance and nurture as Sherlock had me—a kid can only live in so much anger and hatred. And if I am a trigger of that…" he paused again, and before John could say anything else, Mycroft was gone.

Bill Wiggins grinded his teeth in his sleep, perfectly still on the couch with his hands crossed on his chest, his body curled up on his knees and was having the most silent dream when he heard a loud bang that had him bolting right up and pulling his jack knife out of his pockets while blinded by the flashlight being pointed on his face. The door that had been jammed with woods now lay on the floor, broken.

"Who's there!?" Wiggins croaked, still half asleep as he shielded his eyes with one hand, "I'll kill you if you come closer—who's there I said?"

The flashlight was pointed down, then a familiar heavy sight came along, "I should've known…"

Wiggins to blinked several times enough for him to make out the small figure of a man in dark jacket standing across him with the light on his brown shoes. "John Watson?" the junky followed where John was looking and saw that the man was looking at his raised knife. He gasped and immediately dropped it on the floor, remembering a time in his life they had the same encounter.

John had scanned the room and saw no sign of the younger Holmes. "Where's Sherlock?"

Wiggins sniffed, looked about him and then shrugged. "Gone."

A man wearing a black hoodie came out of a convenience store in the dead of the night with a cigarette on his fingers. It was chilly as he shook his shoulders and stood blowing smoke that instantly disappeared with the wind. He stopped by the corner of the street, eyes watching the other side of the road where few to none were walking. He raised his eyes to those who were there and spotted a homeless man digging on the garbage, a security guard pulling down the steel shutters of a jewelry store while his mate was talking to a homeless man sitting by the wall to move out. The homeless man picked up his things and then disappeared while the guards checked everything before they too began walking away. Then there were teenage men walking in a group as if they owned the place. One of them even kicking the homeless man by the trashcan and laughing their asses off. The man with the hoodie observed them, his eyes lighting with fire as it reflected the end of his cigarette and then blew a large cloud out of his nostrils. The group glanced up at him with their noisy mouth asking him what he was staring at so he threw down his cigarette and crossed the streets. The teenagers saw him come and as if they recognized him, they all ran away, shouting to their mates to scram.

With a glare, he turned on the corner and brushed past the man by the garbage and went on his own way. He walked along the side street for the next fifteen minutes without making contacts with anyone. The road was eerily silent but it was always like this in Queens road where only those with nasty business are out and about. Next thing, he was on a small alley leading to the open over ground Rye Station with its broadly lit corners but empty railway. The station office was open with the station master on the phone. He kept out of sight as he looked around cautiously, before moving his feet away from the light, towards the three grand buildings at the other side of the rails.

There was this old waiting room at Peckham station as grand as an opera house with its Victorian architecture, high ceiling and empty floor that he broke into. It being old and an open house though, there had been plenty of vandalism, broken glasses to more than twenty windows where the light from the outside was enough to keep the darkness away. He stood there in the middle, waiting for his contact to arrive before heading to the meeting spot where he was told to show up. This guy he was meeting was to secure that he came alone— only that—he noticed a shadow seated by the corner of the large wooden floor. Was that the man?

He came closer to the figure and realized it was the homeless man that had been sent away by the guard earlier on the street. It made him hiss and was about to scare the man to scram when he noticed said man was already staring at him with sharp eyes. It made him stop.

"Are you the guy I'm meeting? Where's Tom?" he began with a scowl, one hand already behind his back, holding on to his gun.

"Let me see…" said a deep, drawling voice, the man standing up in his full height with his own hoodie falling behind him, but his face remained in the shadow, "This is a rendezvous point for you which means whoever you're meeting doesn't trust you. You came because you're under obligations and failing to show up means you won't be seeing daylight, isn't it? Mr. Adams?"

While the homeless man spoke, Seth Adams had pulled out his gun and had pointed it at him. "Who are you?"

"Oh, I don't believe you'll easily forget this face." Said the man, also pointing his own handgun at Adams, exactly as the ground shook and a train came passing by with its blaring sound and blazing headlights filling the air, enough for Adams to see the face of none other than Sherlock Holmes.

"Damn you again." He pulled the hammer and ready to fire, "Why did you follow me!?"

"I'm a detective, it's my leisure activity." Sherlock sneered, "And you are not exactly the type of man to be left alone. Not with all your dealings—you never were an innocent citizen with your connection to them. You don't need to hide anything, it's my business to know it all. I'm interested to know how your suppliers continue to go without a trace?" he also pulled the hammer.

"You don't know who you're dealing with." Adams furiously said, already itching to fire for why would he pull back when this man had done nothing but to be a nuisance. "If they find out—if they knew about this, we're both a dead man. Leave while you can! Leave while I let you!"

"Would you be giving him the same choice if Mycroft was the one standing here?" Sherlock's eyes gleamed. He watched as Seth slowly grimaced and knew the answer immediately. It made the younger Holmes close his fits and was glad that he made the right call to be the one ahead of Mycroft—because he knew Mycroft was about to come. It was just like Mycroft to do shady things like this. Seth's hatred of Mycroft was obvious with the way the man tightly gripped his gun.

"So, he was about to come? Here? He knew?"

"He knew the moment he came to your apartment." Sherlock didn't blink, eyes hard on his adversary, "He's been planning to show you what he truly can… He's known all about your dealings and was planning to warn you to stop. Knowing him, he'd be doing something like this. I just decided to intervene before he gets blood on his perfect suit. No one should mess with that suit except me."

"You're trying to tell me he would have been right here, in front of me to meddle with my business?" Seth's eyes bulged and suddenly both his hands were on the gun, pointing it aggressively, "Should have let him. Then I can show him what I can and that'll be the last thing he remember before he dropped dead."

"Not on my watch." Sherlock glowered as he too held the gun with both hands. "Your intent to kill is becoming troublesome. I may really have to turn you in even though you're nowhere near the kind of criminal I go after."

Seth Adams frowned at him, then understanding a little, he was disgusted at what he figured out, "Trying to protect my brother from me, are you?" Sherlock's lips thinned, "What are you—some sort of pet he's told to hunt me down? That's what you are, isn't it? My brother's pet? You both get out of my life or I'll kill you both!"

"You have to fall in line." Sherlock muttered, eyes narrowing, "But I still don't trust the story you're going after. I don't even trust Mycroft when it comes to you. Tell me who's behind this and I will lay off because believe me—you don't want me right behind you every step of your way. I tend to get over fixated on people and they never end the same. This, for instance."

"Are you—are you threatening me?" Adams' voice boomed in the large hall like a megaphone, "I could kill you now and send your body to him if that would make him see my point—I don't want anything to do with him!"

"Because you know that he can get your little gang of friends arrested in a blink of an eye?" Sherlock said squarely, making the man fall silent. "You know Mycroft works in the government. You insist on the hatred because you don't want him getting into your Albanian group? Afraid your connection to government would get exposed by a brother you didn't need—?" Sherlock was about to go on but the next thing he heard a hammer of a gun next to his right side. It was only then that he noticed another man with dark complexion was already standing beside him with an aimed gun on his head. Seth Adams lowered his own weapon and nodded at the guy who grabbed Sherlock's hand gun and remained rooted on the spot. So, this was the man he was waiting for…

"Who's this guy, Seth?" the man had such a deep voice and severe expression with eyes Sherlock only recognized to be one who would not mind killing a person.

"Doesn't matter." Adams said with amount of hatred building on his face as he drew towards Sherlock, "Some guy. He doesn't matter to anyone here—kill him."

"I don't think so." Said a fourth voice and everyone turned around exactly as the Detective Inspector of London came striding in from the open doorway with a gun on hand, followed by a swarm of police right behind him. The whole area then flashed with bright lights from the outside as feet filled the room.

"Grei," Sherlock muttered as dozens of officers flooded the area—and then guns were surrendered and two men had their handcuffs. The consulting detective turned to the D.I standing beside him. "My brother?"

"Your brother. And nice try with the name, you had it correct before." The Detective inspector nodded at him, "You alright? We already have set ups on the other station—it's a whole army there of these Hellbanianz we caught red handed. There was a shootout and five of them were dead. These guys are members of the same group? That's going to be quite the news."

"I don't think my brother—" Sherlock paused as he saw the glare Adams was giving him.

"He's not your brother." He muttered with contempt. Sherlock raised an eyebrow while Greg blinked at the consulting detective. Sherlock's face was indifferent.

"What's he means by that?"

"Never mind. Take that guy and leave this one to me."

The detective inspector blinked again, and then ordered his men to move the other guy while he walked away to answer his phone. Sherlock let the dark man get taken as he and Seth remained standing in the middle of the room. "You think this is over? That organization you just upset could pay you back the moment they realized who's behind this. Sherlock Holmes. You think we don't have men inside your prison?"

"I don't care about any of that." Sherlock, staring Adams straight in the eye, "And I may not know what you're after yet—"

"You're the one I'm not even sure why you're getting mixed up with me!" There were daggers on Adams' eyes as he addressed the detective, "But I'll get you for this. I'm sure to pay you back in double."

"Can't wait." Sherlock smile triumphantly which seemed to irk Seth more. A sudden dark gleam appeared on his eyes and a sneer followed. The detective frowned at his sudden change of nature.

"It's interesting how you're so attached to Mycroft. Does that mean he was a very good brother? Why… I'm suddenly feeling interested with that brother of mine. He is a powerful man if he can control Scotland Yard, don't you think?"

Sherlock's face was unreadable for a moment with his jaw clenching. "You—"

"Hey," Lestrade walked back in the circle with a serious look on his face. He was eyeing Adams with concern before looking at Sherlock and shaking his head. "We've got to set him free." He nodded at one of his men who immediately responded while the younger Holmes stared at Lestrade in outrage.

The Detective Inspector shook his head. "Your brother's orders."

Adams visibly looked amused as he looked down at his liberated hands, a smile so sinister forming in his face.

"So… this is the power of Mycroft Holmes? I didn't think he could be so useful—"

A smack on the face sent Adams down the floor as Sherlock mustered all his strength and planted his right fist on his cheek. The man dropped down, coughing and dazed while Lestrade pushed Sherlock away but the consulting detective was already pulling his own mobile out from his pockets and pressed Mycroft's number with his eyes filled with contempt. His older brother's cool voice answered him and Sherlock was yelling—

"Meet me! Now!"

-To Be Continued-

Chapter Text

*Bad blood *

by: WhiteGloves

A.N: No nooo I didn't meant to leave this...! No not abandoned!

My heart stopped at reading that! Ahoy~ I'm just buried with work and deadlines!

But I think I can manage now! *whistles*

Thank you and enjoy!

Chapter 6: Truth or Dare?

"Meet me! Now!"

His younger brother shut the phone on his ears and Mycroft only had a moment to taste his bitter tone before dropping his hand on the armchair, rubbing the mobile between his fingers and sighing.

"Good…" he muttered not really sounding much himself, "He sounds energetic… that's good."

There was a blank look on his face for a while, on which he pondered over Sherlock's incessant agonizing way of meddling with things that were never quite his business and manages to get himself always nearly killed. It was one of those reasons he could never feel free to tell him the truth because if he did then it meant activating his brother's erratic self going gung-ho, which also meant constant concern on his part. Not that he was getting tired of the idea, but there could only be so much number of times to imagine different kinds of ways his younger brother could die whenever his men reported Sherlock was at the center of danger. Practice does quite make it feel less traumatic, especially when Sherlock was acting the idiot and Mycroft could only spare him thoughts of 'I told you so' and 'didn't I warn you?' whenever Sherlock finds himself in deadly situations. But then, he supposes, that was always his brother's fix that could never be removed. The adrenaline rush, the living on the edge and the adventure. Good thing Mycroft had mastered the art of handling the chaos that is Sherlock Holmes, otherwise his poor heart would always be aching for him. Still, it would also be his lost if Sherlock were to die… good thing the boy had uncanny abilities to survive.

Prodding him in the art of self-defense had been Mycroft's idea when he realized his younger brother was prone to deadly situations. Sherlock's whimsical side had always been both his charm and curse. And it was 'whim' was it not, that drove his younger brother so stand in the middle of his personal meeting with Seth Adams? If Mycroft hadn't known his younger brother any better, he would have thought Sherlock was worried. But this was Sherlock and he was sure the thrill of being involved and outsmarting his older brother per se was the younger Holmes' motivation. Sherlock was just too easy to read like that. The call was expected, he knew Sherlock would contact him immediately after Scotland Yard had arrived, if not to boast then somewhere along those lines. By the looks of it too, the Detective Inspector handled the backup plan quite well and Sherlock, still being able to call meant he was out of harm's way.

Why he sounded angry on the phone eluded the older Holmes, but there were other things to solve than the enigma of Sherlock Holmes. His unexpected visitor for instance, who was standing in front of his table who was the sole receiver of his transfixed eyes. He was inside his underground office with a tall man of short blonde hair and blue eyes who was wearing a neat dark suit that spoke volume of his tidiness and orderliness as a person and gifted intellect. Mycroft didn't bother with the rest as his eyes fell on the delivered documents on top of his table he had just finished reading when Sherlock so interrupted his thoughts. Now that Sherlock has stopped occupying a part of his brain, the immense meaning of what he had just read went back to him in a rush. Mycroft found himself taking a deep breath as he glanced up at the man who was waiting for him to speak. Good thing Sherlock was far away, there would be no problem of someone eavesdropping.

Mycroft reached for the papers with delicate fingers and pushed it forward.

"This really came from him?" he asked in a hollow tone. "Sebastian, this—?"

"Yes, sir. He received your inquiry and said you may need this to understand."

"What else did he say?" the urgency in his own voice didn't escape Mycroft, but he didn't blink either so this smart Sebastian should identify how the grave the situation was, "What message did he leave me?"

"He said you're on your own sir. You ought to know what to do."

Silence fell between them. Sebastian looked straight at him inquiringly. "Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?"

Another brief silence, then Mycroft Holmes shook his head. "I don't think anyone can, I'm afraid." He put a hand on his tie and pulled on it uncharacteristically. The room felt warm somehow. And what was that thumping right by his ears?

"Go." He told the right-hand man who then slightly bowed and bid him a goodnight, before turning on his heels and leaving the office as if it was the most typical thing to do right after shattering what Mycroft thought was an impenetrable defense. He waited till the footsteps of the man had disappeared before fully immersing himself with what he had found out. There was that thumping again… and no it wasn't from his ears.

It was his heart.

How was that… possible…?

Sherlock would have loved eureka moments like this but Mycroft for one, could do without the family drama because that was what it was… drama. And exposure. His heart felt right to function at the dark future it holds. It was then Mycroft recognized his apprehension as to what this revelation could mean. Wrapping his palms on his face and slowly reaching it to his head, the British Government Head bowed his head in defeat.

A scrawny boy of six wearing loose shabby shirt and dirty trousers was slowly moving down the stairs of a two-story house with empty gray walls, his long brown locks were untidy, his hands unwashed as he held on to the banister to support himself as he reached a foot down the floor after waking up very uncomfortably. His stomach hurt, he knew he was hungry. He couldn't remember the last time he ate, but he was sure his mother was in the kitchen. She was always in the kitchen, she could give him something…

His small bare feet pattered on the cold floor, but he was used to it. He just wanted something in his empty stomach then maybe the pain would go away. Something was itching in his throat like it was dry. He suddenly realized he wanted water too. Reaching the threshold of the kitchen, the boy paused by the doorway as his eyes fell on his mother, her long messy brown hair all over her face as she sat still by the table in the middle of the small room. He stared at her with transfixed eyes but she never looked up. Slowly, the boy's eyes went hungrily over the empty table with only an empty bottle next to her hand. There was nothing there. Blinking away his tears at his disappointment, he raised his head towards the sink and noticed a plate. He couldn't see anything pass so he walked near it, and accidentally stepped on shards of a broken glass on the floor that was shattered there earlier. Hurt and shock at the extreme pain, the boy stepped back, sniffling and crying and looking up at his mother to take him, to comfort him as how small boys ought to feel, wanting her to wrap her arms around his small frame but she didn't even glance his way. Crying louder to get her attention, he succeeded as she finally snapped her head up at the sound of his voice with her round eyes and half open mouth, staring at him emptily. She did stand up after a second, and did take him to her arms.

"Mycroft, what's wrong?"

The boy sniffled and pointed at his feet to which she gasped and frantically placed him on the chair. Running to the sink, she snatched a dirty white cloth by the wash bin and soaked it. She returned, kneeling in front of him to clean his wound while the boy continued sniffling, his attention getting drawn from the pain of the sole of his foot back to his growling stomach.

"Um hungry…" he mumbled tearfully and she nodded slowly as she understood. She went back to the sink and remained there, deciding what to do next, her chest heaving at the tension of something he couldn't understand. Then he saw her take to the cupboard and grab a bag of bread. She returned and he eagerly took a piece when she placed it on the table.

"Does it hurt, Mycroft?" she watched him with a forced smile on her sallow face.

The boy stared at her unblinkingly, his thin cheeks bulging with food as he shook his head innocently. "Not Mycroff."

The smile on her face diminished. "Not…?"

The boy gulped. "Am Seth…"

Her eyes rounded and both her hands shook in the air. She stared at him with something the boy could not comprehend but he stared back all the same. She looked terrified, angry and pathetic all at once, her arms crossing around her tightly as she turned, hunching as she walked away and muttering to herself words that Seth had always heard—

"It's the son of that bastard…"

The boy continued nibbling on the bread, wondering why she left all of a sudden, why she kept saying the word bastard every time and why she kept insisting he was Mycroff… who was Mycroff…?

You son of a bastard… she came shrieking next and it pounded on his eardrums—

Seth Adams sat up from the bed with clenched fists on his sheet. Blinking and dehydrated, he felt cold sweat run down the side of his face. This made him look down his watch to find it was only two in the morning.

And it was that dream again.

Mycroft Holmes entered his silent abode pass midnight, still wearing his thick dark overcoat on his gray three-piece suit, carrying his dark suit case and umbrella on both hands with his every step echoing inside his isolated dominion. A lot of things have happened that day, a lot of things to decide upon from the normal rate of terrorisms and hate crimes, to reports of civilian warfare to the impending government failure over the referendum to the continues err of the Prime Minister and alas the subject of his approval—the controversial return of a pregnant woman from Syria whose return to the country was causing stir around the globe. But to wherever corner of the world the news reaches, at the end of the day, it was Mycroft who will decide her fate now and no this was no matter of compassion when the whole country was at risk. She did play the game and put all balls on the table in 2015. All balls are on his table now.

A sudden sting on his right side of head made Mycroft realized a headache that was perpetually there, only ignored until he was back in the comfort of his home. He quietly made his way inside the dimly lit kitchen, placed his suitcase and umbrella on the table to open the refrigerator and take a bottle of water. Twisting the bottle open, Mycroft took a glass from the cupboard and began to drink, thinking of that thing he was repressing until then for he had been busy and remembered the disaster involving Sherlock few hours ago.

That's right. The perpetual headache was his subconscious reminding him this concerned Sherlock. The same ache that had been pounding on his chest ever since he found out of another development concerning his origin. Sebastian's message was too diabolical that made him miss his appointment in Diogenes club at eight. Nothing could make him miss Diogenes so that was saying something. Then again, he had lost heart at the contents of the documents and what he went through that night was nothing like the time he saw this clown nor the time Sherlock told him of Eurus' escape.

His mind had gone blank back then, then on careful analysis, his brain had decided to thread carefully and solve cases he could and leave the bomb later to this very hour. Well, he was now on that hour where he was alone with not even the problem of the world could interrupt A place where he can think things through and take the next action necessary to avoid hitting rock bottom which here meant a glass of strong wine for company and the silence of his room.

Time to untangle and bury his fears deep down the recesses of his brain… so no one else would notice that in the end, he could fool even Sherlock. Thank goodness the man was miles away—

"When I said meet me now," came a voice in the dark that made Mycroft jumped so hard and accidentally spill water all over his chest, "I thought it would imply the immediate present and not a secondary thought for pass time."

Mycroft looked around him onto the dark corners of the kitchen, and then saw from the corner of his eye the refrigerator door closing and there, standing on the left side of the shadows was the familiar form of his younger brother standing with his arms crossed and back pressed on the fridge. This both surprised and somewhat unnerved Mycroft who for a moment was frightened Sherlock had found out. But reasons suggested it was impossible, and that Sherlock didn't know anything about Sebastian's report. So, calming himself and trying to act his usual self, Mycroft pressed his lips and looked down his chest to his damp clothes. At least that stopped his heart from that thumping.

Glaring with an eyebrow arched, Mycroft took his pocket handkerchief and brushed his front curtly.

"You're near a door, you could have knocked." He began hotly with a nod at the refrigerator door when Sherlock emerged into the light with eyes watching his senior, "I knew I should've changed that lock of mine. Why I still give you access to my house after that affair with your clown is beyond me. Then again, it saves me from paying for constant damages and replacing security alerts every once a month."

Sherlock remained standing there quietly with hands now deep on the pockets of his coat. Mycroft noticed his silence and glanced up again, his eyebrows contorting at the man's unusual behavior. His eyes met his brothers and Mycroft just knew the root of the silence as his hand stopped brushing his clothes. Sherlock had his sharp eyes and accusing look all over his expression that spoke volumes, which Mycroft ignored as he looked down his watch.

"Couldn't this wait in the morning?" He suggested, sounding vexed which earned him another scowl from the consulting detective.

"You've evaded this topic long enough." Came his grim tone.

Mycroft didn't like that tone. He didn't like having Sherlock there at all that signaled a brewing storm—not when his own thoughts were vulnerable with fresh information he received few hours ago, "Look—we've already done this—why must I keep repeating myself? I told you everything there is to know—" he responded with much constrain in his voice that only had Sherlock shaking his head.

"Who made you god?" Sherlock asked meaningfully, his eyes glinting that had the older Holmes close his mouth. "You think I'll believe you easily when you're also at the epicenter of this comedy?"

"It's a tragedy." Mycroft corrected before he could stop himself. "Did you come here to be the drama queen again?"

"Suit yourself, Mycroft, but I need to know what you're hiding. I need to understand what compelled you to release a criminal caught on act of conspiring with a terroristic gang or else—" he stopped as both their glares clashed, and Sherlock swallowed.

"Or else what?" Mycroft's right eyebrow rose up dangerously up his hairline, standing straight and chin raising. "I dare you— what Sherlock?"

"I'll make you stop." The consulting detective was undaunted by the British Government Head's intimidating aura, "Until I know what you're playing at, I'm not going to play by your rules. You know I never do."

"Yes…" Mycroft nodded with eyes narrowing, "that's why I found you halfway across London, playing guns with Mr. Adams and a dangerous organization right at his back. I wonder—are you aware that Hellbanianz Mafias are quite the revenge-seekers? If they realize that you are involve in the arrest of a quarter of their members they will surely be looking—"

"That organization is a child's play compare to what I've been through so stop changing the topic." Sherlock drew near his brother threateningly, his eyes not leaving Mycroft's till they were almost nose to nose, "Tell me what I want to know."

"There's nothing I can tell you." Mycroft replied firmly.

Enough with secrets and lies— stop thinking you're the only one concerned, Mycroft. This is family."

He said the last words carefully and meaningfully in a way that made the older Holmes study his face for sometime before looking around in the room undecidedly and pressing another sigh. It seemed too long ago when his younger brother was telling him in the face to 'fix' this. A message that was perhaps meant for Mycroft to make things right in favor of Sherlock—which here meant that Sherlock was expecting to wake up the next morning with things in their rightful places which included his older brother up there in the government and proceeding life with eagle eyes upon him. The poor consulting detective must have thought this was all another puzzle for his bored mind but when the younger Holmes realized things were going quickly awry, his perspective changed and was thus reduced to this tumult of emotions that Mycroft would have found surprising had he not seen Sherlock's emotional outburst back in Sherrinford when he broke the coffin and went on rampage. Mycroft then realized, based from experience, that Sherlock was actually truly concerned now. But what was Sherlock expecting him to say?

And what was he—Mycroft— feeling about all of this?

He tried to focus on his emotions and was unsurprised when he found none. But it concerned him that he was suddenly feeling the gravity of the information he was withholding. It made him conscious and defensive as he raised both eyebrows up and sigh in exasperation at his own dysfunction but then— even he has his limitations. Glancing back at the younger Holmes, he shrugged slightly and addressed him once more.

"Fine. Let's settle this but I have to change first—wait for me in the study room—" he needed to compose himself badly.

"No. We talk here. Now." Sherlock retorted obstinately that had the older Holmes give him a ridiculous look.

"What? Here in the kitchen?"

"This is not politics we're talking about!" Sherlock snapped. "Where else do you think domestics squabble?"

Mycroft ogled at him. Then snapped too— "But the kitchen? Not even in your flat?"

Sherlock shook his head. "This is personal."

"You didn't think the same way when you made me sit there in the middle when interrogating me about our sister—what word did you use for me? A client?" He watched Sherlock turn around towards the chair on his side and sat there quietly.

"Wasn't my idea, it was John's."

"His creativity never ceases to astound me." Mycroft muttered exasperatedly, removing his dark coat, folding it nearly and placing it behind the nearest chair. He then proceeded in removing his gray suit and loosening his damp tie, an eyebrow up and eyes travelling every now and then to the consulting detective who was watching him. "You owe me a dry-cleaning." He muttered ominously.

"There's always the fire." Sherlock leaned on the chair with a frown on his face, obviously getting impatient.

Mycroft glared, and then continued removing his tie. His precise and slow action, however, got under Sherlock's skin that in a minute's time his voice was once again ringing— "Go a little slower, why don't you? Mycroft, I wouldn't care if you're on your birthday suit now—start talking!"

The British Government Head's point-blank stare was unnerving to any other human being, but not to Sherlock. "I'm sorry but unlike you, I'm not planning to leave any scrap of my dignity on the floor, like how you did it in Buckingham palace in that white sheet of yours from years ago."

"I didn't see anyone of importance back then, just a queen prancing about in his three-piece suit."

"It pains me when you show no mortification for your actions."

"Mortification implies I did anything remotely wrong which I didn't. In fact, the palace should feel grateful I even dragged a sheet." The consulting detective replied coolly to which Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Of course. The specialty of Sherlock Holmes." He said drily.

It was only till the older Holmes was on his gray waist coat and had pulled the sleeves of his white shirt up on his elbow that the two found themselves glaring at each other again like the usual. It was one thing they grew up doing— they never stopped squaring at each other when it presented itself because both know if they cannot keep pace with the other, the other one was sure to gobble them up like dinner. Mycroft remained standing behind the chair where all the rest of him hung with both hands clasping the back of said chair. He hesitated for a moment, but Sherlock never interrupted his line of thought which was uncharacteristic of him because Mycroft always thought Sherlock loved the sound of his own voice. Realizing the man was willing to listen and was serious this time, the older Holmes began.

"Look—things are already out of hand, Sherlock, and if we keep taking three steps forward and three steps back every time you think I am involved, it would be too late for us to prepare for what's coming ahead—so I suggest you eliminate me from whatever theories you've come up because in contrast to it—I'm a quite as baffled as you are." His words were met with Sherlock's frown deepening. Mycroft read his expression and shook his head, saying, "You really thought this was all my doing?"

"You mean this isn't really…?" Sherlock's eyes dilated and for the first time some part of his rigidity was loosen.

"No, Sherlock, this isn't me this time." Mycroft shook his head with a blank expression, realizing deeply that his younger brother was truly relying on him to say that everything going on was merely part of a scheme. Sherlock was holding on to the thought that this was all a lie. Well then, Mycroft always thought it was his job to burst his younger brother's bubble. "I'm sorry, but this is really happening… If you are outraged because you think I had a hand in it, then imagine my own confusion because from the very beginning I knew… it's real."

Sherlock only kept his eyes at his brother for a moment. "You really mean we're not really…?

Mycroft shook his head finally, sensing that something was different with the way said it this time unlike before. This time there was understanding in his eyes. This time Sherlock looked more than just upset.

"I'm sorry…" Mycroft murmured and he meant it. The consulting detective closed his eyes.

"So, what you're telling me is this is all a coincidence?" Sherlock abruptly retorted, sitting up with a hand on the table into a ball of fist, "That Kemp just happened to carry a gun in public and shout your name out of sheer fear—and that his flat mate happened to be your brother whose known affiliation are gangs and terrorists?"

"Don't be daft, there's no such thing as coincidence." Mycroft stared down at his brother sharply as how he usually would when his idiotic baby brother was blurting irrational things, "It's just the Universe. Like the Titanic hitting an iceberg that just happened to be there and sunk when one declared it unsinkable. It's ironic, isn't it? How the universe works on its time? But the universe will always work on the truth, so the saying the truth always prevails." He paused and his eyes were unseeing now as he stared blankly in the air, "So I think what happened here, Sherlock, are the pieces of truth that was scattered apart finally weaving itself out of its buried history. It was just always there, lying untouched… until the Universe thought it right to be kicked in the shin and jump out of its resting place."

"I've never known you to be less cynical." Sherlock observed, still looking dissatisfied, "So let's go back to being rational— who were his parents?" he shot the question to his brother who found himself looking straight at the consulting detective again, "You removed all his records—family history—everything that was him—"

"Of course, I had to. He was claiming to be a relative of mine and with the position I have even if this was an ongoing investigation I had to act. And I already told you about his dead mother… or in this case our dead mother—"

"Nope." Sherlock clicked his tongue, "You're not feeling it. At all."

"That's the only thing probably saving me now." Mycroft pointed with an easy shrug while Sherlock sighed with a heavy look in his direction. "Because you know Sherlock… I've never really known what it means to break down…"

A sudden silence fell for both Holmes knew this was the truth.

"I don't think that's saving you at all." Sherlock said more to himself as his brows furrowed again. "And his father?"

"An ex-convict currently serving life imprisonment for murder." Mycroft paused as he let this sink in, "The mother she… was taken against her will. I believe Seth Adams told you already on that night you trapped him in your flat. I don't think I need to elaborate on that."

"He was born seven years after you—just like me and you're still telling me there's no coincidence?" The consulting detective shifted on his chair, "Fine. Let's say you are really her child then… from a real husband, of course, which would be your father. Who then is your father?"

Mycroft had this strange look in his face that disappeared in a blink of an eye but Sherlock still saw it. A beat next and the older Holmes shook his head. "She was unmarried and the father of the supposed deceased child was unknown."

"Liar." Sherlock glowered at his older brother, "You know who he is. Tell me."

But Mycroft shook his head and pressed his lips closed and Sherlock knew instantly there was no way his stubborn brother was about to speak afterwards because Mycroft Holmes always take it literally—that line that says lips are sealed for Queen and Country. The consulting detective suddenly stood up belligerently, his chair toppling backwards at the force that had Mycroft jumping and standing still as they find each other eye to eye. The older Holmes half expected Sherlock to charge at him—grab him by the collar even—but the younger Holmes remained on his spot, eyeing him, calculating him and if it was possible—trying to understand him. Mycroft knew Sherlock would get there in the end.

The consulting detective did and his eyes flickered in disbelief. "You're protecting someone."

"No." Mycroft clenched his jaw but his response was too quick—too instinctive.

Sherlock slowly turned massively beastly as he put two and two together.

"So that's why you're convinced we're not…? Because you know he exists and you're protecting him." Blinking several times, Sherlock then shook his head. With fury visible in his eyes, the younger Holmes put a hand in his chest pocket, but Mycroft knew he wasn't about to pull any gun for he didn't deduce it coming from the chest pocket. Instead, Sherlock drew what looked like a flask—a tiny vial with a covered needle at the top which he then threw in Mycroft's direction. The older Holmes caught it in both hands and stared at it with another eyebrow jumping up.

"Seriously?" he said mildly amused, "What do you want now, my excretion?"

"You just proved I can't trust you." Sherlock declared, "Give me your blood, I'll do the testing myself."

Mycroft frowned at the object and then leaned backwards till his back touched the wall and the foldable table underneath. "I don't draw blood, Sherlock. And I didn't think you'd go this far—"

"Believe me, I haven't even begun yet. You want me to help you?" Sherlock suggested brusquely, "I already have a sample of Adam's blood after punching his face, making sure to make contact, his DNA now rests on my lab. Now I only need yours and everything will be exposed."

Mycroft considered this with a disapproving stare, before looking at the vial and then up at his younger brother.

"And if it proved that I am telling you the truth?" the older Holmes asked testily, "Will that really make you stop?"

"You're making it sound like I'm the only one stirring everything—"

"Oh yes, you are. This is none of your concern—any of it. I thought you said as much when the last time we spoke, you said you understood."

"Well, I was not the nut who planned to go undercover and meet this other man with anger issues in an isolated building with nothing but his umbrella at hand."

"It's a combat umbrella." Mycroft hissed defensively with eyes averting to the table to where his weapon was lying. Sherlock grunted as he too stared at the black weapon concealed with many contraptions. The older Holmes pulled his attention back to the dark-haired man. "Had you allowed me to meet him, we could have made an arrangement over and—"

"You would have been dead." Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "Which in retrospect was not really an inviting idea no matter how annoying I find you, you're still my brother."

Mycroft opened his mouth, but being unable to find any words to say, he shut it close again, the frown on his face visible. Sherlock was feeling beyond any rivalry at this point nor any shame. Idiot Mycroft—the one who was mostly doing things on his accord because he always thought he was in control—the idiot who always felt he was the one responsible of everything was here before him acting all tough when upon closer inspection, he was crumbling. Sherlock had recognized from experience that when Mycroft was like that, it was quite dangerous for him to be left alone.

Because Mycroft first and foremost does not know an inkling about human relationship—only how to be responsible about them whether he was the one who caused the trouble or was just thrown in the mix. Try as he might, he will try to solve it regardless of the consequences. This was Mycroft. This was his brain working and the same brain waiting for the other shoe to drop and take it head on. This was Sherrinford all over again with Mycroft was acting and making decisions on his own now. Sherlock had realized this in his quiet hour in that dark crack den. Mycroft was always trying to act alone.

Because he felt alone.

"Funny. Remember the answer you gave to John?" Sherlock found himself saying that got Mycroft's attention. "This isn't about you. It's about me finding the truth. If you're not going to give me the truth I needed, then let me do what I want."

"But this is all pointless—!" the older Holmes retorted.

A long silence then—

"Pointless? Stop acting arrogant!" Sherlock's voice erupted in the whole house, making even Mycroft give him a hard stare as he closed his hands on the glass vial, "Enough acting— stop pretending like you don't care—stop pretending like you're on your own! Our whole life is changing and there you are—still playing your role as this stupid ice-man! For godsake, what am I to you, a brick?!"

"You are driven by your emotion to interfere, really Sherlock." Mycroft gritted his teeth. "The truth is as I laid it in front of you, roll on it if you must—it won't change."

"I'm not asking it to change." Sherlock replied evenly, "All I'm asking is give me the chance to know the truth—let me help! To whatever end—just stop keeping things from me! Stop all the secrets!"

"Secrets protect us." The older Holmes insisted, throwing the flask back in Sherlock's direction who caught it in one hand, but the consulting detective has already confirmed one of his previous assumptions. That there was a secret. Mycroft seemed to realize what he had just revealed, but only shook his head nonetheless, "There are secrets that does not involve you knowing for your own sake."

"And you think saying it's for my sake would stop me?"

"Then at least for my sake, stop this!"

That had Sherlock pause with eyes rounding, his mind palace pulsing erratically. "What secret is so powerful that could make you like this?" he asked in a hushed voice, "A secret you're even willing to renounce me, it seemed."

"Oh, that's a truth that is no longer a secret, Sherlock." Mycroft eyed him impassively. "We're not brothers, never were."

His familiar smirk didn't fool Sherlock as in a few steps, there was the detective in front of his older brother with blades in his eyes as they went on head to head, to which the older Holmes didn't budge and stared hard knowing exactly the game Sherlock was playing. Squabble? An adorable term not quite applicable here. No one was planning to admit defeat, that was for certain and between the two of them, it was always a competition. But Sherlock has risen a little higher.

"Who are you really protecting?" he began, eyes determinedly flashing and embedding the blank image of his older brother, "Adams? Our parents? That stranger? Them…? Or me?" The little color on Mycroft's face drained as Sherlock made his point and stepped backward after seeing the obvious response. He studied Mycroft's face who was searching his eyes and Sherlock realized he didn't need any fire to expose Mycroft's priorities. It was there on his face burning bright. "I never believed it when people say I'm your weakness… I didn't think it possible to have power over you, but I guess the knowledge does help to know to create a perspective… to understand your ever-inscrutable actions."

Mycroft reached his hands on the folded table behind him to support himself, his face ashen.

Sherlock found his chance. "So, who is it? This person you're protecting?"

But Mycroft failed to give him a reply and it was all Sherlock could do not to lay his hands on the silent older Holmes when long ago strangling him was a form of entertainment in his mind. Things have changed because despite his high and might act with power in his hands, Mycroft had always been physically weak. Sherlock remembered how easily Adams had manhandled his brother and promised himself then he would never hurt his older brother again.

But Mycroft keeping a secret this dutifully as if ready to take it to the grave if he had to, that scared Sherlock more than he cared to admit. What power—what idea was possessing his brother to keep silent? What would be the consequence of allowing Sherlock to the truth? The younger Holmes glared at his brother, fully glowered at him till he thought all the anger he must be feeling had poured towards Mycroft and couldn't believe this unusual betrayal of the only brother he thought most loyal to him—was in fact loyal to someone else.

"This has nothing to do with you." Mycroft repeated with eyes tightly closed while Sherlock stared, "Just… leave this to me." He opened them and he looked like a person who had seen a ghost, "It wouldn't shatter any reality you are living in so just… let it go this time. Alright?"

The older Holmes looked up and Sherlock saw something he hadn't seen before. Not even with a gun on his face, Mycroft had never worked out that expression—of someone on the edge of breaking but was still desperate to cling on his feet. Mycroft looked tortured which drove Sherlock to finally grab on his arm and shake him.

"The more you say this has nothing to do with me, the more I believe the opposite." Sherlock hissed furiously, "You walking away—this isn't like you. This person—your father figure. His name now. I need to know. It has everything to do with me!"

"Why?"

"Because idiot, you're still my brother! Didn't you tell John that same thing?"

The two clashed glares once more, before Mycroft abruptly pulled back no matter how painful. Sherlock seeing him struggle decided to let go and the older Holmes had to rub his forearm with a slight annoyance on his face.

"If I told you his name it would only cause plenty of inquiry and if you ask me where he is, I swear Sherlock you'll wish you've never met me in this life time."

"I'll take my chances." The younger Holmes responded, albeit clearly taken aback at the sudden ominous words by his older brother, "Who is he?"

"Mother…" Mycroft hesitated, as he composed himself, knowing it would be the only information anyone would get out of him. "Call mother, I'm sure she knows."

Sherlock stared at Mycroft like he had never seen him so clearly. "You want me to call our mother now and… tell her about all of this? Wait—does she know?" there was a skeptical look on his expression that got the older Holmes glaring.

"I dare you to do that. If you can't then you lose. I have a feeling… no… I think she knows. Both our parents know about this."

"You mean… they know you're not…?" Sherlock froze on the spot as Mycroft rummage inside his pocket and handed him his mobile phone. The consulting detective took it before glancing up at his older brother in disbelief. "You really think they know?"

"I've never gone that far to confirm," Mycroft confessed, looking pale but distinctively calm, "But you know how my estimation are usually spot on."

Sherlock stared at him, and then found himself dialing his mother's number. Mycroft found his way back to the empty chair where his clothes hung and collapsed there with hands wrapping at his bowed head. The younger Holmes watched him from the corner of his eyes, till he heard the familiar voice of his own mother.

"Mycroft?"

"No, it's me…" he stopped dead, the horror of finally asking dawning on him and suddenly, he realized why Mycroft never took the initiative to ask. It was alright for him to know…but different if it came from her voice.

"Sherlock? Why are you calling using—oh my dear lord—did something happen to your brother?"

He turned towards his older brother and found him still immobilize by the table. Sherlock wanted to tell him their mum was worried about him. Then again, Mycroft could careless about such affectionate gesture that rarely comes from this source. Mycroft was never that affectionate of them, yet, he was responsible enough to stand as Sherlock's guardian from the beginning and if their parents knew anything then he had to ask—for the sake of finding out the truth of this plot.

"Mycroft he… he's not your son, is he?" It was one of those times the younger Holmes wished his mother would explode and get angry on the phone. Sherlock saw Mycroft slightly raised his head as if listening intently, but no matter how good his hearing was, the consulting detective was sure he couldn't have heard anything—because then his mum had gone silent.

"Mum?"

But there was only a sharp gasp on the other end, followed by a muffled tone of cries and question of how and who told him so. Sherlock's eyes widened just as he met Mycroft's eyes who had looked up expectantly and who—upon seeing Sherlock's expression, nodded slowly and shut his eyes closed with a small tear sliding down his cheek.

Sherlock lowered his arm down with eyes on Mycroft, his expression full of disbelief. Then slowly, he found his feet moving on their own as he stood beside his older brother and placed a supportive hand on his shoulder.

-To Be Continued-

Chapter Text

*Bad blood *

by: WhiteGloves

A.N: Ahh...it's taking me weeks now! I can't even pull an all-nighter!

*rambles on being old and workaholic*

Sorry! WE WILL WRAP THIS, I assure you:) for now... enjoy!

Thank you and enjoy!

Chapter 7: Disadvantage

An incessant ringing of the phone in the middle of the dark. A hand shooting out from a blanket, clumsily picking up the mobile from the bedside table after several tries of finding it and then slamming it on the side of his face. A hoarse voice grunting, audibly grumpy, "What?"

A darker voice spoke on the other end that made the man bolt up from the bed with his hair all over his now alert eyes.

"It's Big D. L's pissed. Party at ten tonight in Hell for the router. No show will get the lines dead. Got that Adams?"

He could hear craze music from the background but he was much too preoccupied with the message of the man to think of whatever background he was calling from. The clock on his wall read it was just past four in the morning and the silence of the vicinity was adding to the chill slowly creeping up his spine. It was a death call, that's what it was. From Big D, one of the gang's top right-hand man, conveying the message of L—the unknown leader of Hellbanianz Gang. He knew it was coming, knew they would retaliate after the unanticipated capture of half the gang's new members and some of their tenured ones. They were finally trying to fish out who was involved and saying no at this 'party' was the same as admitting he was the 'router'. The rat. That might as well mean swallowing a ticking bomb.

He suddenly felt hot, beads of sweat were sliding down his cold back and the side of his face. He looked at the glass on the bedside table and found it empty. He remembered drinking it after that stupid dream about his mother and the name that she kept repeating. The same name of the man who rattled and incapacitated one of the most dangerous gang in the country. Would they be able to trace the connection to him? Seth shook his head and cleared his throat.

"Yeah… yeah I got it."

"You know anyone who talked to the coppers?"

For a brief second, the name of the man which had been playing at the back of his mind nearly escaped his lips. Why not? Admitting that he knew the person behind the gang's ruin, not to mention the man behind the police it seemed with power enough to have him free from bars— would be enough to have him, Seth, meet the biggest names of the gang. He was sure whoever this L was would be interested with the information he could provide.

Just say the name, the back of his mind prompted. Let them know. A flash of this Mycroft Holmes' face appeared on his memory and it was not simple hatred that started revolting from the pit of his stomach, even enough to bury the fear he had initially felt at the untimely phone call he received at the wee hours of the morning. A morning tactic of predators to easily catch their prey unprepared.

"No." Seth knew he had to sound firm, with sudden clear of mind. "I don't know anyone. I got almost arrested too, you know."

"But you didn't." there was an obvious suspicion there that Seth had to quickly dissipate.

"Yeah, well I gave them a slip. And I helped Andrew too, we reported to Big Mike. He could tell you we were all in danger there."

"Yeah? We'll find soon enough. We got Kemp coming, he's on blacklist. You better clean your nose, Adams. See you in Hell."

"I know." He heard the other line die abruptly and had to heave a heavy sigh as he put his hand down his lap. The room was very dark and the place eerily silent. This was the first time he's heard of Kemp after days since he was arrested. He thought that stupid older brother of his would be keeping the man from public eye. Since when was Kemp freed?

Pulling his legs and setting them down the floor, the man reached for a medicine bottle from the bedside table and took three capsules, throwing it straight to his mouth without bothering for water. Standing up in his boxers and white shirt, he strode towards where his jacket hung and rummage its pockets. From there he pulled a crumpled black calling card with an initial slanting M with delicate golden patterns and then a number underneath, handed to him by a man wearing a black suit and shades as Seth emerged from the building filled with police that night. He remembered planning to shred it to pieces the moment he realized who's card it was but was startled by the words of the unknown person.

"He said in case you ran into trouble. Mr. Holmes' said don't hesitate to call."

"Hang on a sec—your mother knows?!"

John couldn't believe his ears the moment he heard the full account from his best friend whom he found present in 221B after another night's absence. It was early Sunday morning and he found Sherlock surprisingly seated by his favorite black chair in the sitting room when he came out from the loo with an untouched black coffee by his side table, still wearing his complete black suit with elbows on each side of the chair, palms pressed together near his lips. A habitual action the consulting detective usually falls into when facing a tricky conundrum, of which John could already guess what about. The last time he heard of the man, he was away claiming to be in the middle of a case before disappearing from a crack den, leaving Wiggins behind. From there, John decided to stop his wild goose chase and wait for Sherlock to appear on his own. Now he did and the doctor sat by Sherlock, seeing clearly that the man was disturbed—not that he wasn't on daily basis—but today he looked more upset than his usual incensed mood. He then prompted the silent man into confiding and there he heard Sherlock's visit to his brother after the misadventure at Peckham railroad and found an unexpected truth that which rooted closer to home—his very parents.

"And I call myself a detective…" was Sherlock's unemotional word, clearly aghast but trying to conceal it. A trait he undoubtedly adapted from Mycroft whom John was expecting to be inside the flat too—because where else must he be but beside his confused younger brother? But the British Government Head was not there, which also was typical.

"Don't be hard on yourself, you didn't know." John started, shifting on his chair and sighing heavily for his friend.

"Yeah—like the many other things I didn't know happening around me because I'm too distracted—too idiotic to notice a thing—" countered the fuming man with nose twitching, fist closing tightly. John shook his head sympathetically.

"Yeah? And blaming yourself helps a lot—you didn't know, Sherlock. How could you know? If Mycroft wasn't aware of it, then how could you be?"

Sherlock glared at the doctor almost as if spitting that John was being idiotic which he didn't have to say. But his words were still full of contempt, "Weren't you listening? I'm the detective! Our own parents kept this for years—I should have noticed—"

"And he's the British Government but he didn't. Both of you are clueless when it comes to family, Sherlock. You two barely looked back to your childhood because of—" he licked his lips but had to say it, "of your sister's condition. Thinking of it, Mycroft might've been too busy with her to even care about anything else. It's not that you didn't notice— it's that there were other problems that needed dealing with. Why would you blame yourself for something out of your control? This happened before you were even born!"

Sherlock stared hard at John Watson, then scathingly looked away, fingers flexing as his body unconsciously tried to find a way to release all the tension and energy which as enough to throw and smash things about. John sighed when he saw his friend's expression slowly cool down, but his hands continued to fidget all the same.

"Where's Mycroft?"

"In his government."

"You said your parents are dropping by later—isn't he coming?"

Sherlock snorted and found the doctor's eyes again with almost a look of mockery. "Mycroft confronting my parents? He thinks that's above him. No. He's sitting this one out. Said he's got too many appointments to squeeze in another family affair. He's not very good at this." Sherlock's voice faltered.

"So, he's maximizing the use of his heartless machine again?" John's eyebrows furrowed a little.

"No…he's hiding." the consulting detective breathed unexpectedly that made the doctor look up and from Sherlock's expression, John suddenly found himself wondering if something happened between the two when they spoke in the middle of the night. To John's utter surprise, Sherlock locked eyes with him so sincerely it caught him off guard, "He's trying not to let anyone worry about him. What's new with that?"

John smirked in disbelief. "What are you talking about, let anyone worry? Mycroft's not like that, he's okay. He's always okay. Probably better than you, I mean I've spoken to him, he doesn't care."

Sherlock gave him a peculiar look full of wonder and slight vexation that had the doctor blinking. Did he say anything bad? The detective slowly put his fingers together that made John surprisingly nervous and sarcastically said, "Look at you. Look how far he's manipulated you. Manipulated everyone. That's why I said 'let'. Everything is according to his plan, John. Even how you feel about him. He's successfully embedded in your little hard drives that's he's actually strong, hasn't he? That he's the Ice-man. Even Jim Moriarty was deceived. He's got into your little brains. A single thought that would make your brain eliminate him automatically from your thoughts... 'He doesn't care. The Mycroft-Doesn't-Care-Holmes."

"Sherlock…" John whispered seeing the man's dark eyes glint dangerously. "What are you on about…?"

"The man can manipulate your concern, even sparing thoughts, John—that's what I'm about. To intentionally remove yourself from people's list of concern… the most terrifying power the man behind the government could ever pull just to remain in the shadows. A terrifying act. Rather endearing, but still terrifying."

The doctor shook his head, frown deepening by the minute. "I don't understand— that's Mycroft—even you always say he doesn't care. You're the one who kept saying he's heartless, you know."

"My disadvantage— that's why I'm an idiot and he's at the top." Sherlock said gravely and with conjecture that made the doctor gape, especially with the younger Holmes speaking too fast, "Mycroft's got us all in his little hands, the gesture of our ignorance a signal of triumph to a game he's long been playing. I've only just found out how terrifying he really is."

"Let me just make it clear— you're now saying you think Mycroft's manipulating us by not having us think about him? How? We always talk about him—we think about him—"

"But we never cared." Sherlock seemed stomped by his own ideas while John gawped at him incredulously.

"But he's got that coming!" John injected, feeling heated and confused. What was Sherlock rambling about caring and uncaring? It didn't need to be complex— "He acted so coldblooded all the time—you think anyone would treat him nicely when he's like that? That's no manipulation, Sherlock—it's what goes around comes around!"

A cold stare from Sherlock got John shutting up.

"There's a reason my brother is never on anyone's league to any of you goldfishes. You people who only understand the surface and deal with things openly slammed on your plates. You'd never understand."

John furiously stood up with a vein pounding on the side of his head. His eyes digging on Sherlock's skull who didn't give him another look, the doctor stalked off towards the kitchen sink, hands clutching on its edge. What the hell does that mean? A single thought that would make your brain eliminate him automatically from your thoughts... 'He doesn't care'?

Then John, for all the money in the world, was seized by a sudden realization as a flash of Sherlock whispering to Greg awhile back when they had just emerged from Eurus' captivity in Musgrave came to John out of nowhere— of Mycroft being not as strong as he thinks he is. Does he mean that somehow—that all this time— Mycroft Holmes was sparing everyone a thought by not letting them worry about him? By making them believe he was incapable of feelings? Mycroft whom everyone—and by everyone he meant a number not exceeding ten fingers or less— knows to be the level-headed Holmes, at the same time the heartless one intentionally detached himself from his emotion, even made people believe he had none of it so when it comes to breaking situation and tragedy, he would be less a burden in their thoughts?

But then he does recall a few times when Mycroft's well being was mentioned inside the four walls of 221B on occasions… The common after thought of people who suddenly weren't too busy with anything else in their lives—

Like Mrs. Hudson one day, wiping their table while John was typing on his laptop burst out, "Oh, Sherlock I haven't seen Mycroft in a while. You think he's mad, I rightfully called him a reptile?"

Sherlock snickered from his chemistry set, "A proper title too. Never mind him, he's an idiot. He doesn't give a penny for anyone's thoughts about anyone. He'll only be annoyed you remembered him just now."

"He wouldn't care." John said passively. "Say Sherlock, about that case with the opera glasses—"

And that's probably how he was usually mentioned anywhere at all. Just how effective was Mycroft to pull that? But then Mycroft was—and will be a man who sees the bigger picture at all times. The man who was intellectually gifted, he never was too eager to deal with his emotions. What was it that Sherlock said before that Mycroft often tells him? Never let your judgment get clouded by your emotions? A true rational person would believe so, but what if there was some truth in Sherlock's words? What if Mycroft was merely saying those things to stop people from worrying about him? That from the very beginning he didnt want any attention to his heart especially when things like these blows in the face. Family drama. So that people would stop wondering if he was okay. Making everyone feel he was invisible and invincible when it comes to suffering that in the end, he was merely a figment of their imagination with no actual connection. He was a stranger even in 221B. And he made that possible by acting the cock that he is. John stared at Sherlock long and hard. Even when the doctor told Mrs. Hudson of Sherlock's current family situation, the housekeeper could only worry about Sherlock. Never mind Mycroft, he's fine.

Even Sherlock's parents didn't seem that worried about him after the incident with Eurus, John noted that from Sherlock's recounts. Even John… who had gone tired of Mycroft's flat attitude regarding his real blood origin, could only spare him a thought because the older Holmes only rebuffs his attempt. It was Mycroft's choice so people would stop paying attention to his pain. But impossible… no one's that calculating…

Then he realized… Mycroft Holmes is.

And Sherlock figured it all out. He has figured out Mycroft's ultimate game. But when did it all start? When did Mycroft begin being like this…? Was it also because of Eurus? Why is Sherlock so fierce about this?

Something else must've happened…

Jolted by this, the doctor blinked several times. He shot a look back at the sitting room, then seconds later, found himself sitting opposite Sherlock again with his own emotion calming. He waited for his best friend to look him in the eyes, see that he was ready to hear him out again, before starting once more.

"Sherlock, I think you're overthinking this. Why, what happened to Mycroft then?"

Sherlock's nonverbal response confirmed the doctor's speculation. The consulting detective's eyes widened and he could barely pull his eyes away from John. Like he meant to tell him, but was feeling guilty of revealing it. John felt it must've been something delicate.

"Tears. He cried." The consulting detective tried to smirk, as if making it out as something funny but his expression only came out as unpleasant as he gulped, his Adam's apple getting stuck in the middle. It was when John understood that Sherlock's mind was now trying to grasp a change of view to his supposed to be colder, much dominant brother. "Believe me, he did… and no one cares a damn thing."

"I think you just did." John supplied with eyes not faltering away from his friend who fell agonizingly silent. So, this was Sherlock trying to muster his emotions… because he saw his brother cried. And it disturbed him. Frankly, even John would be stupefied—this was Mycroft. A tear from the man's eyes was enough to dishearten even the doctor's gritty side of being an ex-soldier. Now Sherlock was so upset like a child who found his mother crying and it distraught him. Possibly strained too with the idea that they weren't brothers. If that wasn't the greatest display of care on Sherlock's part for Mycroft then John doesn't know what is.

"Did you talk to Mycroft? About this?"

"Couldn't even look him in the eye…" Sherlock sighed, craning his neck towards the desk where he saw his phone where he left it ringing. He just stared at it quietly and let it on, "I was too distracted by what our mother said…she knew from the very beginning. It makes no sense now that she got very angry with Mycroft for keeping Eurus when all this time, she had a secret of her own."

John fell silent. Here was Sherlock, finally in the front lines of a family affair they thought only exists on the telly. Gone were the days the detective was vigorously and callously stamping his observation and calling out on a tv show about biological parents and who their real sons and daughters were. This time, he was on their shoes. It was like him watching himself on the telly which brought John wondering if Sherlock was following their pattern of behavior.

"No, I don't think you should look at it that way." The doctor finally stood up to get Sherlock's phone when he noticed his friend was in no mood to grab it. He saw an unregistered number and walked back towards the chairs. "Maybe your mother had no intention to tell you both at all… maybe she already thinks Mycroft is her own son. She could have let it slip while she was angry but she didn't. Maybe she does care about him. Give her a chance, Sherlock." He handed the phone to Sherlock who glanced at the caller ID once before putting the mobile on his ears, eyes travelling up to the doctor thoughtfully.

"That's a lot of maybes. Wiggins?"

John remembered the wreck of a young man he left at that crack den and felt pity for the boy who was wasting his talents… well, on Sherlock Holmes? Maybe Sherlock was the best thing that happened to the man. But them being in contact could mean something was afoot so he sat back on his chair and waited for Sherlock to finish, only to watch the consulting detective's eyes flicker and in an instant, he was on his feet and grabbing his blue coat from the stand by the door—

"What's going on?" the doctor asked already watching his flat mate slipped on his coat. "Where are we going—?"

"Nope, just me. My mom could arrive earlier than three pm. Stay here, I'll text you later—"

"Sherlock!"

"Sherlock?" there was an unamused expression on Mycroft's face when Sherlock came into his underground office that day with the hand of the clock striking ten in the morning. He partly even looked annoyed and somehow Sherlock was glad his older brother was back to his normal self. "What is this? I just saw you not seven hours ago— what's happening? Has 221B become inhabitable?"

"Why, do I need an appointment now to meet my not-so-related brother?" Sherlock looked around the room, studied down the metal chair opposite his brother's table and then to his many phones from the black mobile to the old red telephone. Everything seemed to be in order. Even Mycroft's fake smile was in place when he replied—

"Don't make me pull that plug."

"Did you have any other visitor since we parted?" the younger Holmes ignored him and sat down without being invited, eyes falling on the papers in front of the older Holmes' hand. "Phone calls, perhaps?"

"You may want to be less candid if you're going to spy on me, Sherlock."

"I'm not spying on you, I'm asking you directly to avoid unnecessary waste of time." The younger Holmes fixed his eyes on the British Government Head who studied his face closely with a little frown of concern Sherlock barely noticed this before, but it was just too apparent now. Then it occurred to him that Mycroft had always watched him like that since they were children, an action he had chosen to ignore because Mycroft was supposed to do that as an older brother. Why are the foggy clouds only clearing now?

When  Mycroft no longer holds the title of his older brother?

This seemed to cross Mycroft's mind too as the British Government Head cleared his throat and went about in a business tone, "So, what is it? What can I help you with? Did you have a case?"

"I asked you a question first."

"You must've forgotten my occupation, Sherlock, I always get visitors and phone calls. Is there a problem with what is common nowadays?" he smiled his usual one and gathered papers on his desks, "If you're only here for amusement, I suggest you leave early. Even without severing blood ties with you, you know I can only tolerate so much of your company."

"True." Sherlock smirked, finding that Mycroft sounded strongly like his old self, and even had found a new way to approach the blood-related topic not hours ago was too sensitive for discussion. But then again, this was Mycroft. It was obvious he had found a way to bury everything in. He was no longer the vulnerable man he caught late that night with unprocessed information. Of course, Mycroft will become Mycroft the moment the sun rose up. "Had a good night sleep, did you?"

"On the contrary, I was called in early because of the impending referendum."

"So, meaning, you haven't even slept a wink."

"Indeed." Mycroft nodded, unconcerned, "Which makes me quite a difficult person to work with today."

"Meaning you can't be persuaded to meet her."

"Meaning I am busy."

Sherlock heaved a sigh and slammed a hand on his face. He studied his older brother for a few moments again, then lowered his eyes on the table.

"What about Adams? What do you plan to do with him?"

"Adams?" The older Holmes glanced up, "You know I find the Conservative's problem with the voting more complicated than our family drama."

"Oh, stop even comparing this to your paper works, you were rattled, the same as me."

Mycroft grinned again and put the documents inside his drawer, an eyebrow up as he addressed the younger Holmes.

"Of course, I was. I'm still human, Sherlock, even I can die from heartache, which I chose not to, naturally as that would imply disadvantage on my part. But as I have told you before you left this morning, that eventually we have to move on. No matter how we felt, no matter what has been said, it should not reflect on my desk job in the morning and it won't."

"Yes, but mum's coming over."

"So, you came just to make a second invitation? I thought I made myself quite clear—"

"I left you for many hours— maybe I'm expecting your brain to be working now—"

"Oh, then forgive me if my genius didn't get wrapped around you seeing as yours failed working the moment you even thought I'd changed my mind."

"Maybe I'll bring her straight here so she can have a look at that brain of yours—"

"Do that and you'll find your jet plane to Moscow parked in front of your flat, Sherlock."

The consulting detective stopped and stared, wondering just how true Mycroft's words were. Observing the older Holmes, he realized it was not even supposed to be doubted. Mycroft was serious. He was actually threatening him!

"You're an arse." The younger Holmes muttered insultingly derisively.

"Now that's clear, what actually is here intention in being here?" Sherlock watched Mycroft reach for his mobile and place it inside his coat pocket, eyes glinting coldly. There was no trace of emotion on his face but he looked no better than a man who had risen from the grave. His eyes were dead but Sherlock had long seen the agony behind those eyes hidden in plain sight. Even when Mycroft has masterfully pulled that indifferent expression, Sherlock could still see the trace of the lone tear that had escaped his older brother's eyes. He would have pointed this out during their early exchange, especially with Mycroft threatening to send him to Russia, but seeing his graved expression stopped the younger Holmes. Mycroft was still the same no matter what happens, still trying to bear everything. To make fun of him now… even Sherlock wasn't that cruel.

"Are you okay?" he suddenly asked kindly, understanding that Mycroft was going to play the stronger man until his last breath because that was how he had trained himself to be— an unshakeable heartless machine.

"I beg your pardon?" Mycroft looked offended, which only made Sherlock remember John's words. That Mycroft indeed, was asking for things to come around with this attitude. Always the older brother even when no one was looking. Why must he be so hard on himself? Sherlock felt a pang growing at the pit of his stomach. Was it annoyance he was feeling? Or pure anxiety? Or the idea that Mycroft was too heavily guarded—even around Sherlock. He needed to break the ice that was ever Mycroft Holmes and found himself casually asking—

"Do you need a hug?"

The look he received from his brother was nothing he didn't expect. Why it was easy to reach John and embrace him was for the same reason that Mrs. Hudson liked him—he was warm, easy to approach and appreciative. With Mycroft it was like colliding with a metal wall, once overcome then had to clamber on dozens of stone blocks and right at the top was a snarling dragon. Like attempting to wrestle a beast, it was. Rather chilling and challenging.

Mycroft raised his eyes with an eyebrow threatening to disappear atop his head. He put both hands down and clasped them, his penetrating gaze on the young man's direction. "I'll pretend I didn't hear that."

"I'll pretend I didn't say it." Sherlock narrowed his eyes, all his words to John suddenly bursting out all once. "But that's all you are, isn't it? A pretender? Even now you're still pretending to be okay."

"But I really am." Mycroft inclined his head, looking a mixture of confusion and indignant, "You can't force your thoughts on me, Sherlock. Is this by the way your reason for coming? Because I have to apologize, I have an appointment by eleven and if you're only hear to catch the fire from last night again, then I'm sorry, go spend your time somewhere else, I'm busy." He began standing up but Sherlock shook his head.

"No, I'm here to clarify something before facing our mother alone later."

That caught Mycroft's attention and his eyebrows were both up in curiosity. "And what's that?"

"Did you have any suspicion they were lying to you as a child?" Sherlock observed Mycroft's reaction closely but was only granted the blank expression of someone listening intently without any effects, "Smart little boy like you, you must've been aware of your surrounding than your average toddler… you must've noticed something."

"How could I?" Mycroft replied curtly, his eyebrows contorted that surprised the detective. "I never believe I was not her own… I couldn't have. She has more influence to me than you'll ever know. No, but I suppose I did ignore the few details at home when it rose… there are some… moments I remember. About them talking about it in whispers… it wasn't hard to figure out but I suppose I didn't really… care."

Sherlock grunted. "Unlike you to ignore details like that. You're probably worse than me as a kid."

"Disadvantage of being no more than one year old."

"But does she know who your real parents are?"

"It doesn't matter—"

"If it doesn't then why can't you tell me—?

"Telling you would be on your disadvantage."

"Saying that to a detective's face, you really are something. Why? Will I find out you're a long-lost descendant of Napoleon now? Is that why it's too dangerous to know?"

"I didn't say dangerous—I said unnecessary—"

Sherlock lost his cool as he remembered. "Yes, because you know something I don't."

"I always have the advantage of you."

"And you think I'd really stop if you don't give me the answer now?"

"I think you have to." Mycroft said this not with his distinguishable threat, but a matter-of-fact expression that didn't welcome any objection. "This is about me, Sherlock. You had nothing to do with it."

Sherlock could only chew his next words because no matter how he flipped the coin, this time, Mycroft was right. What does it matter to him who Mycroft's father was? What does it matter to him if Mycroft wanted to keep secrets about his family when in fact, they were not related at all? What does it matter to him what happens to Mycroft now?

"Quick to switch gears, are we? You're actually the one so eager to get rid of me, aren't you?" he taunted the smiling older Holmes who nodded encouragingly.

"If you're aiming to make me feel better, Sherlock, I assure you, you are failing miserably."

"My only aim is to know the truth—"

"Which you've gotten already so begs the question—why are you still here?"

Mycroft's skeptic tone and cold eyes found Sherlock's and for a moment, the consulting detective who realized he was sinking into this usual repartee with both sides throwing ungrateful remarks at each other until the main subject has been set aside. He doesn't understand the power Mycroft had over him, he was the only one aside from John who could pull real emotion out of Sherlock. But he realized that was how siblings were supposed to be—annoying each other to no end. Something neither of them needed at the moment so Sherlock decided to be patient.

"I don't aim to be of anything, I just… want to know if there's anything I can do…?" the impulse to argue with the older Holmes finally disappeared from Sherlock's mind and was replaced by lenience. Only that, Mycroft doesn't seem willing to fall on the same steps.

"But there's nothing to be done, Sherlock." Mycroft said quietly settling down and sighing quietly, "It is what it is. They're not my parents, and I'm certainly not your brother." He sighed in exasperation, "Quite the ad nauseam if you ask me. We've been repeating the same things for hours now. When are we going to move on and simply let truth take hold so we can do other things?"

'Like you moving on to never referring to me as 'brothermine' anymore, you mean? Is this part of this disadvantage of yours?" Sherlock said rather derisively that had Mycroft catching his annoyed eyes and smiling drily. He could go back to the last time he was addressed so fondly by the older Holmes and didn't find this revelation any amusing than finding they were not related. Surely, there's a limit to Mycroft acting like an idiot?

Mycroft opened his mouth, then pressed it back with an unreadable look in his eyes. Even confusion. "I didn't mean… I just thought it too intimate for someone—"

"Resetting us to strangers won't work either." Sherlock patiently, realizing that Mycroft was unconsciously setting the barrier now which he planned to trample on. Idiot Mycroft. "I thought you told John nothing will change between us? Yeah, I was listening." He confirmed upon the light on his older brother's eyes. "We're okay. It's okay whatever is the truth, right? It won't change anything."

A slight color returned on Mycroft's face as he nodded, but just as the younger Holmes was sure he saw a tiny sparkle behind the man's eyes, he saw it quickly disappear too and Mycroft's face turned grave in a blink of an eye.

"No… I don't think that's possible now too. Given the circumstances. Things did change, and that included us changing."

Sherlock's eyes became steel. "Yeah, right. So, what comes next? Me not allowed in your house?"

"There are smaller steps." Mycroft looked thoughtful again, "say—not bothering with what the other is doing, perhaps?"

"You mean severing ties?" But Sherlock didn't believe him and he knew Mycroft was saying it so his stupid secret wouldn't have to be discussed. The detective tried to control the anger that suddenly welled up inside him and drilled Mycroft with his sharp look. "You're an even bigger idiot than I thought. Like you could stop watching 221B or my every step on your cameras."

"I can try if it's only to prove a point."

"And I can still send mother here and see how that will work." Sherlock saw Mycroft stiffen and fall far back on his chair. It was an impasse. The younger Holmes had never felt sober even when he was not intoxicated. Even if he was, he was sure his mother's confirmation—a source that was out of anyone's influence, let alone Mycroft, was enough to bring him back even from the depth of the underworld. For days he had been quite certain that this was all Mycroft—all of it. It was not beyond his supposed older brother's capability to build truth from lie when compensating for saving hundreds of lives from criminals and terrorists or simply saving the face of the British Government. Or simply saving anyone he bothered to care about without perceiving them victims or suspects alike. They were all the same to him, all under his care and Mycroft Holmes was hopeless when it comes to his sense of duty. Sherlock could confirm that being the sole receiver of his older brother's scrutinizing attention since a child and though it was not pleasant, it was assuring. Being an older brother was perhaps one of the most underrated job Mycroft had the misfortune to have. But he took it and did his best and Sherlock never questioned that because Mycroft was undeniably the only person made for that position. It had never crossed his mind that his brother could ever leave—that behind their daily banter and obvious contradicting nature, he and Mycroft would always be connected by that single word—brothers.

Except now that they weren't. And Sherlock felt that emptiness again. The gap that was once filled when he found Euros because she was part of his missing piece. This time a new hole was threatening to appear, but unlike his old scar, it was an even bigger gap—almost taking half of him and that's when he knew Mycroft was not allowed to leave. He didn't know what Mycroft was feeling… he doubted his older brother even know what it was causing the turbulence within him, but Sherlock had lost and found people in this life. He knew when to keep holding on to something important.

Mycroft never fell short on that list.

Their eyes met and Sherlock gave Mycroft a hard look, trying to dare the man if he would continue this little secret game against him. But Mycroft, ever the trained disciplinarian, merely shrugged and put both hands on the table and clasped them again.

"Then, brothermine," he put much emphasis on that with a tug of smile on his lips that turned Sherlock's lips into a scowl, "Whatever happens after that meeting will all be on you. Will you be willing to be the responsible host?"

"It's not like I'm activating a bomb, we both are well aware of what she's going to say. You're the one unprepared for her, Mycroft." Sherlock whispered, leaning close to the table so his eyes were only fixed on the cold man.

"Am I?"

"Yes. And if I'm even taking it that far… I think you're afraid."

"Really?" Mycroft's eyes glinted dangerously, and Sherlock knew he was overstepping his limits to whatever limit Mycroft thinks he has, "But hear me, Sherlock. When I said you will be the responsible host, I didn't mean her words and action or whether she rejects or accept me. Believe me, it's the other way around. Are you even prepared for my own reaction?"

That had Sherlock falling silent with eyes slightly rounding. "What are you saying?"

"I mean," and unlike their previous engagement, Mycroft didn't look like he was joking this time, "I can easily discard the Holmes family name. You know I can. And you're making me."

So, what was it to him if Mycroft does renounce being a Holmes? Sherlock pondered on this on his way back to 221B late that lunch time. Walking out of the underground office after the disagreement, the consulting detective was still juggling the matter on his hands. If his older brother thought he was buying this word play then he was wrong. Mycroft had always pride himself to be the smart one and to that Sherlock would always concur. A practice he had tried to drill on Sherlock before the consulting detective was compromised by his constant exposure to John, Mrs. Hudson, Rosy and even the ever-admiring Molly has made Sherlock aware of people and their sensitivity. Society was much more than just walking, breathing people, but people that worked with their brains while regularly being bombarded by their too much to handle and sometimes more than overflowing emotions. They process that, they function and they reach an actualization no highly intelligent people could ever reason with their hard drives.

Emotions. Feelings. So human.

Words that Mycroft loathed because of the implications it could cost his job, his title as the ice man. But Sherrinford has proven to Sherlock that these were all lies and that Mycroft was never without them. He was just better than others in shielding them, keeping them out of reach of others to protect himself. To protect himself from situation like this.

Of confrontation with his parents. Sherlock wondered if Mycroft was too upset or too stressed to say something in that manner so he would just leave him alone? But unnecessary anger was beyond Mycroft. But what's with the threat? Then he remembered… because that's what Mycroft does. Reject feelings and icily show everyone that he was beyond its control. But to prove he was even beyond familial issues?

That made Sherlock uncertain.

He stepped back into his flat to find his parents already sitting on the long chair in the sitting room, both looking anxious and uneasy. Just like the first time when they found about Eurus. His parents… he suddenly realized he didn't want to worry them further for they must've been feeling so wreck already. Why won't Mycroft meet them? Why must his idiot older brother continue keeping secrets? He watched his mother jump to her feet the moment he came in, watched her looked pass him expectantly and looking more worried as seconds go by.

"Where's your brother?" she asked unflinchingly and Sherlock admired her resilience of character despite the slow crumbling of her family. Sherlock shook his head quietly and eyed John who was standing in the middle of the room with arms crossed, expression grim

"I told them you went out to get him." He explained, making the detective look back to his worried mother. He could tell her Mycroft didn't want to come, that he was too preoccupied by himself and needs time. Or he could lie and tell her he was called by his duty to his office and couldn't risk a leave… which would it be? He gazed at her eyes, the woman who raised them, the woman who had always been the source of strength in the family, now looking like her world was going to pieces again. He decided it must be the latter—and the parallel of it now to Eurus' case—of how Mycroft had to lie to spare her struck him.

Why didn't they have the heart to be honest with their parents?

Same reason why your parents couldn't tell us the truth, said the Mycroft inside his head.

"He's busy at the moment, he might come at dinner…" Sherlock whispered, leading her back beside his silent father who only watched his movements quietly. The consulting detective removed his coat and sat on the adjacent chair on their side. All attention was on him and his attention was theirs. This was not a case… this was a family thing unfolding.

"I'm sure you have plenty of questions but let me start." He told his mother who looked full of questions, much as he does. But he needed to know. He needed to find grounds of why Mycroft was still lying to him. "Do you know who his real parents are?"

He watched his parents exchanged looks of concern, with John standing just beside Sherlock, also looking attentive.

"Of course." She said without hesitation and Sherlock believed her words to be true. "He was the first one given under our care. His mother is too dangerous… or incapable or so his father said. So, they gave Mycroft under our care, before letting that other boy come too."

"Boy?" Sherlock shook his head in confusion. "What boy? There was another?"

"You know him, he's your playmate when you were just a child." His father offered, grasping the hands of his wife and despite looking calm, his eyes were speaking of his own silent sorrow. "Trevor. Victor Trevor. That poor boy. Victor's father came to our doorstep long before Victor was born, Sherlock. And gave us Mycroft to look after."

Sherlock stared numbly at his mother—just what is she saying—?

It was John who voiced his thoughts exclaiming—

"Wait— Victor and Mycroft are related—?"

Deep in his mind, Sherlock was quickly realizing Mycroft's words—'telling you would be on your disadvantage.'

And he was afraid yet again, that Mycroft was right.

-To Be Continued-

Chapter Text

*Bad blood *

by: WhiteGloves

A.N: Two chapters to go!

I wish to keep writing... I wish to keep writing.

Mycroft and Sherlock dynamic is truly a gift!

I'm so tired cause of work but just imagining them being brotherly... aww!

*badly needs sleep*

Thank you and enjoy!

Chapter 8: Brother's Keeper

[Mycroft's phone ringing]

Slender hands shot inside his black coat pocket and a ready curving of mouth as the owner answered crisply—

"Dear god, Sherlock! With all the nonstop ringing of this phone you'd think the monarchy has collapsed and needed immediate attention. Try me again and I might just pitch this one into a sink hole—you remember what happened to your phone after your last meeting in the Cabinet Office?"

"Sleeping under Thames, I imagine." Sherlock's dark voice intoned evenly, "You didn't have to throw it, by the way, just because I commented on the ginger nuts. Where are you?"

Mycroft smirked as he stood quietly on a corner of an almost empty street, under the shades of a tall tree with a bleak noon sky, wearing his dark overcoat and umbrella clutched on the other hand. "I'm in a middle of a business of which nature you need not know."

"Something more important than my phone call?"

"Guess again." Replied the older Holmes drily.

"Mmm." A pause from Sherlock's side, "Your priorities are changing, I see. Makes me wonder what speed dial I am now."

"I'm never on your speed dial, I know. I've checked." Mycroft raise both eyebrows and scanned the area without particular place to look at, then looking somewhat displeased, he turned back on the phone impatiently. "So, you want to ask something? I'm assuming you've heard your parent's side? How did it go?"

"Funny you should ask. They decided to stay in the Grand, waiting for you to meet them. You know they won't go back until they reach you." The younger Holmes paused for a while, then added, "Mum made it specifically clear you are not to remove the 'Holmes' from your name or so help her she would find you even if she needed to announce herself to the queen."

Mycroft fell silent, mind clearly remembering the mother who he had believed all his life to be his. She must be devastated to learn the truth had been unveiled, but Mycroft understood her position more than anyone so there really was no need to prolong the drama clearly done out of kindness. But how ironic that a man such as he who was the center of all information across the country was also—unbelievably—a victim to a classic tale straight from one of the novels of Charles Dickens. An orphan, indeed.

"You make it sound like I'm avoiding them." Mycroft replied airily, pointing his umbrella on the lines of the bricked street as a way to untangle whatever was on his subconscious that which was under his grand mind palace. "Which I am not, no matter how many times I tried to push them in your hands whenever they come here for a visit."

Sherlock sounded relieved for some reason. "Please. People avoid you, not the other way around."

"For their own good, but then the Holmes Family had always been different than your average civilians, and that's a compliment." Mycroft sighed. "So, what do you want? I'm assuming they've told you about how they acquired me…?"

"That's one way to put it." Sherlock sounded disapproving, but tried to collect his tone into a serious one. "I need to talk to you personally about this, and then both of us are going to meet our parents— where are you anyway?"

"I can't postpone this business of mine, Sherlock and I'm afraid I will be occupied till tomorrow evening so if it can't wait till then—"

"Fine." Sherlock grumbled. "You know about him, don't you? You remember? Victor?"

Mycroft kept his eyes fixed on the tip of his umbrella which was as dark as his shoes…

Oh, does he remember…

A young and quite bulky Mycroft wearing gray long sleeves and black trousers came out from the back door of the house carrying a blue medicine kit with eyes scanning the backyard of his Musgrave home. It was the middle of the day with the sky covered with dull clouds, yet he had to crinkle his eyes as he looked around, not used to the light of the day as he much preferred the peace of his room and company of his books. He had to come out today though for he had a duty of care for his parents were both out and there were younger children to look out for in the house. The Musgrave backyard was wide and spacious with nothing but lavish green field that turns dry gold during the summer with bits of broken wall ruins surrounding a made-up stone graveyard by their ancestors. Dividing the backyard's territory was a waist high stone wall with a closed wooden gate in the middle. It separated the yard from the road and the adjacent forest. Mycroft never had preference for the outdoors and the forest would often trigger his allergies. Not that it matters when he was on duty. Bless his home for the few minutes that his younger brother was unattended and Mycroft knew it was a risk he couldn't take, especially that day when they had a sudden visitor.

Laughter filled his ears in the next second and the next thing, he watched intently as the two boys emerged wildly from the green meadows, wearing their silly pirate hats atop their bobbing heads. Sherlock's shirt was already untucked, his hair disheveled from running too much while on his hand wield what Mycroft observed to be poor attempt of wooden scraps of swords. Sherlock was yelling something incoherent with fits of giggles to his comrade, his dark curls disappearing in the tall grasses while after him with his own brown curls was their regular visitor of Sherlock's age, Victor Trevor. The two had been playing since that afternoon after Sherlock's playmate had been dropped once again without a second warning like phone calls. It was courtesy to do so, but Mycroft supposed there were just adults like that. Mycroft was not overly concern with having the boy around since he was a good fuse for Sherlock and often he left Victor alone, but today was different. Today was something 'strange' and when something odd caught his attention, it was quite difficult to ignore it as the strength of his mind, his curiosity was still overpowering. It was worst when he was just a toddler—everything surrounding him was just getting sucked into his vortex like brain.

Now, Mycroft was not aware of the arrangements with his parents, being typically locked inside his room, reading, but he could read the atmosphere between his parents whenever Victor was around like an elephant was in the room. He guessed they pitied him but did not want to show it in front of the child. Being generous in their nature, he knew his parents were doing the gesture out of kindness too. Mycroft would have asked, but he never really fancied getting involved in other people's personal business and if there was anything he needed to know, he was sure his mother would tell him. Besides, if anything could keep up with the lightning that was his younger brother, Mycroft could attest it was never going to be himself but a younger, much functional creature in the form of Victor Trevor.

Mycroft was internally satisfied to have him around to serve that childish purpose. Sherlock needed that.

But Victor, in Mycroft's conjecture, had poor example of parents for who would leave a seven-year-old child on his own? He supposed it was something ordinary to this age, of children growing up independent from their parents at a young age—for starters—Sherlock was now left under his care because their parents received a word of an old friend's passing. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes had to leave early that morning so Mycroft was left in charge and was the one who received Victor from the young woman who brought him to the Holmes' doorstep.

'Strange' was Mycroft's initial thought as he remembered the woman who thanked him and left without another word while Victor ran inside, already calling for Sherlock. It was the first time Mycroft had seen a guardian of Victor face to face, but she didn't appear connected to the boy at all. Normally, he would have shrugged it and minded his own business for he had learnt to be cautious in meddling with other people's affairs— he had quite a fiasco when he was merely four years old as he reduced one of their house-keeper into tears when he tactlessly told her that her husband was seeing another man, something he deduced easily from her handkerchief. But today with Victor was different. Not different with his usual glum expression only lightening up when he's with Sherlock or anything, but there were bruises on his tiny arms.

And as strange as it could be, the guardian didn't even clean it. What sort of irresponsible adult was that? Not to care for a child? Then reasons came to him, but he had no energy to prove them. Maybe that was just how life was for other people.

So, Mycroft feeling deeply affronted for he had been taking care of his own siblings devotedly, followed the two boys outside carrying the medical kit after making brief conclusions he wished to clarify with his parents later. He saw Sherlock disappear beyond the gravestones but was just in time to see Victor appear from the field as he tried to race with Sherlock. Mycroft could still see the red gashes on the boy's arm and pursed his lips disapprovingly. Quietly, he called Victor loud enough for the boy to glance in his direction. Mycroft beckoned him to come closer, all the while walking towards a stone table under one of the beech trees near the house. Surprisingly, the little boy bid his command and was with him by the table just as Mycroft was opening the medical kit Victor was curiously looking at as he knelt on one of the round stone seats.

The two looked each other in the eye with Mycroft sighing in the end.

"Doesn't it hurt?" he asked flatly as he spread out a disinfectant, gauzes and cottons. He raised his eyes quietly at the boy who shook his head with eyes round at the disinfectant as if knowing its effect, a hand protectively wrapping on his injured arm. Mycroft sat on the stone seat and gave Victor a heavy look. "Come here. I can't let you run around with bruised arms like that."

"I don't wanna." The little boy shook his head, stepping down a little but stopping with one look from Mycroft. He pressed his lips and muttered uncertainly. "It's going to hurt."

"Oh, it will." Mycroft saw no reason to lie. The boy paled a little, making the older Holmes blink and added a little more gently, "Well... just a little, yes. But you're a man, aren't you? You can take a little more pain as it is. Won't you?"

"Redbeard? What's going on?"

Mycroft and Victor glanced around to where the voice was coming from and watched Sherlock jog towards them with eyes wide and full of interest. Upon seeing his little friend, Mycroft saw Victor's little shoulder relax. Taking the opportunity, Mycroft—who had not done any heavy lifting in his lifetime since the day he carried Sherlock when he was a baby— placed both hands under the boy's arms and raised him onto the table. Sherlock was as surprised as Victor who found himself facing Mycroft with his short legs dangling by the table.

"See, Sherlock's watching. You can do this." Mycroft said without removing his eyes from Victor as his hands busily worked on the antiseptic and cotton. He saw Victor half glanced at Sherlock who was now leaning on the table, his knees on the stone seat with concentration on his brother and friend's activity. Mycroft waited till the little boy to give the tiniest nod, and then proceeded on cleaning his wounded arm.

Victor's free hand jumped right at the sleeve of Mycroft's shirt at the first contact of the cold cotton. Sherlock blinked.

"It's okay." Mycroft whispered, eyes intent on the red gash as with his precise hand, he cleansed it without wasting any drop, "It'll be over soon. Hang tight." Victor's eyes glued on him, gasping now and then at every dab on his skin, until the very end of the work and that was fine because he didn't wriggle much. By the time the older Holmes was done and satisfied with the protective gauze on the boy's arm, he didn't expect to find an odd pair of eyes staring at him fixedly, nor did he expect Victor to clinging on his wrist when the older Holmes stood up after telling them they could go and continue playing. Mycroft looked down and there was the boy behind him, clinging like a…well, child.

"You're fine now. Go on." He encouraged the boy, feeling not much encouraged at the sudden twinkle on Victor's eyes—the twinkle he would often see on Sherlock whenever they have their little deduction games Sherlock usually find awestruck. Victor's big round eyes spoke it all. Mycroft had to sigh as he stared down at the tiny hand on his wrist again. He did read a book about pliers but the flesh is just too delicate… he might just cause an injury.

Sherlock was frowning at the way Victor was clinging to his brother.

"What are you doing, Redbeard?" came Sherlock's somewhat annoyed tone, rounding on the table and stopping on the other side of his friend, "My brother detests physical contact. Let him go and let's play."

But Victor refused to budge as he slid his feet down the ground, and grabbed a handful of the older Holmes' trousers. That surprised Mycroft as he blinked at the tiny boy, then his eyes travelled towards Sherlock who was now pouting for some reason as he stared from Victor to Mycroft. The older Holmes shook his head as his brother's line of thinking crossed his own—of how Sherlock must've thought his brother was taking away his only playmate.

"I'm going to read—you don't want to be stuck inside the house, right, Redbeard?" using the boy's name ought to have some gentle effect, Mycroft surmised. But Victor was not to be easily fooled.

"I like reading too. I have books in my room too."

Mycroft realized his patience was getting tried and was just about to tell Sherlock to come and take Victor when his younger brother, who had been watching them, burst out from his pursed lips—

"That's my brother, Redbeard! Let him go!"

Sherlock grabbed a handful of Mycroft's trousers possessively too. The older Holmes raised an eyebrow despite the sudden revelation of his brother's affection. Sternly, he told them, "Are you both going to play nicely or do I have to be cross and turn beastly like mum?"

The boys looked at each other and giggled. Both releasing their hold, the two ran together towards the field again, leaving Mycroft staring in wonder at his younger brother. There was a warm feeling at the pit of his chest that was making him feel strangely positive. He wondered about that. Sighing, he turned around and was almost by the door when a loud crash filled the air mixed with a blast of horn—an impact of a vehicle crashing somewhere on the other side of the building but too close—damn too close. Mycroft paused to collect his startled heart, but then his head snapped behind him to where he remembered Sherlock and Victor were heading minutes ago—to the wooden back gate that was supposed to be securely closed now hanging open—

The medical kit on his hands fell on the ground. Mycroft felt that cold feeling covered his entire being. That must be what other people call, 'shock'. He always thought it was merely a state of mind, but he didn't think his mind could create such vivid horrifying images that could make all the hair on his skin stand on end. Then he realized that yes, with an exact mind like his, he could picture out any scenario without actually seeing them—and it was worst, much worst for it was causing his heart to pound in a dangerous rate by just imagining his little brother was in anyway involved—

Someday he's going to have to learn to control that or bless him, it'll be the death of him!

Before he knew it, he was running with nothing in mind except his little brother—why on earth would Sherlock go out when he specifically told him a number of times to never—because on the other side of the door was the road—

His feet brought him outside, to where his eyes fell on an old red truck with its colors fading. Its front had crashed on the other side of the road, smashing its front on a cracked wall with the air surrounding it now filled with smoke. The door on the driver's seat was already open with a middle-aged man waving his hand to clear the air off his face. But Mycroft wasn't paying attention to him anymore as he saw the boys and ran to them, his familiar hands catching Sherlock by the shoulders for his younger brother was standing by the side of the road with Victor right behind him.

Mycroft pulled the boy in his arms and embraced him tight, seemingly letting his pounding heart know that Sherlock was alright. Thank heavens…

"M—croft! Stop it, you're squeezing me!" Sherlock complained just as Mycroft got to his feet, his expression dark enough to render his little brother silent. Victor stood just behind his friend, obviously frightened with what he was witnessing.

"Why did you both go outside?!" the older Holmes demanded curtly, "You know the rules—"

"But she threw the map you gave me through the window!"

Mycroft stopped dead, his eyes staring at Sherlock's finger pointing towards their house' upper floor rooms. He didn't have to look where. He could perfectly remember the position of each of the building in the neighborhood, much more with his own household. He knew exactly where his younger brother was pointing and knew even who he meant by 'she'. There was only one. Straightening, Mycroft slowly looked up to the second floor of the house, to the now closed window with its curtain parted. From there, he could just see her silhouette. Mycroft stared at her with a wrenching feeling on his gut. He was just by her door an hour ago, asking if she wanted to read with him…

"Hey!" barked someone angrily and the older Holmes' attention was diverted to the driver who had just pulled a long, ruined parchment paper stuck by his windshield and by the looks of it, Mycroft already know the story. Added with the man's reddening face, he knew it was going to be a conversation not for young children to hear. Mycroft's lips thinned with displeasure. Quietly, he nodded at the man to give him a second, before ushering the two boys to the open gate, instructing them to go inside the house and wash their hands.

They bid him without question and Mycroft shut the gate close, before turning around with a deep heavy sigh and walked towards the driver with as much as his own indignation on his shoulder. The man nearly crushed his brother and his little friend— at least one of them should be properly outraged!

Minutes later, Sherlock and Victor both had wiped their hands on the clean towel by the kitchen and had decided to take their seats by the dining table. Quietly, the two waited for a few more minutes, before Victor looked back towards the door as if trying to see if he could see what was happening outside.

"It's okay," Sherlock found himself saying as he blinked at his nervous companion, "My brother will fix it."

Victor nodded avidly. "Your brother is amazing, Sherlock. He didn't even look afraid of the old man."

Sherlock cocked his head on the side. "My brother has too much sense of responsibility when he is in charge, so he would not allow himself to show any weakness."

"But you always said he was very lazy. He doesn't even come outside to play but today he has taken care of everything, even my arm, see?" he raised his covered arm with eyes shining. The younger Holmes looked thoughtful.

"You're right. It's weird for my brother to be so energetic. But you know, there is no one more reliable or responsible as him. He will fix this. He will keep us safe, he's my brother." Sherlock looked quite proud exactly as Mycroft came in from the door. Judging from the smug look on his face, he heard the whole conversation. The older Holmes walked inside the kitchen and ruffled Sherlock's hair affectionately. Victor eagerly stood up beside Mycroft and the older Holmes who saw him come, fairly raised his hand too and ruffled the brown-haired boy's hair. Sherlock's annoyance must have shown on his face again for Mycroft stopped being hands-on and pressed both his lips tight.

Then from his pockets he took out Sherlock's pirate map and handed it to him, sternly saying, "We don't jump on the streets for maps, Sherlock, do you understand? Or I'll tell mum."

Sherlock's ashen face slowly nodded as he closed his hands on the parchment. Victor was still looking up at Mycroft in full admiration and Mycroft just had to return his look with a wiggle of his brows. There was something about the boys that day that had Mycroft thinking if he should often come with them outside, especially both of them were both hazard zones. He could bring his book along… and then maybe she could come too. He could persuade her.

Mycroft looked up the ceiling to where he knew her room would be, wondering worriedly if she was aware of what she nearly caused. From her window she would be able to see any approaching vehicle on the road at the same time watch the boys trudge on the backyard… but… no. She couldn't have.

There was a sudden tug on his right sleeves again and there was Victor. Mycroft finally gave him an awkward smile. Victor smiled too, an innocent smile… unknown to Mycroft, it was to be one of the last smiles the little boy would leave him and would hunt, even with memories so buried it would always be at the top of his most disturbing dreams as two weeks later, Victor disappeared forever.

"Do you remember him? Do you know?" came Sherlock's voice again from the mobile phone as all of this played in Mycroft's mind triggered by the consulting detective's questions. Memories of the past long suppressed in the recesses of his mind that resurfaces whenever the boy's name was mentioned came pouring in like a dam had been opened to overwhelm him. Sherlock asked if he remembers Redbeard…in another interpretation here— if he knows now their real connection. Mycroft would have chuckled if not for the lump on his throat. How could he forget that boy? The boy whom he spent months and months searching for, with his tiny appreciative smile embedded in Mycroft's head? The little boy he desperately wanted to find not only because of Sherlock's decline, but also because he was looking after the boy when he was under the Musgrave roof. That was why Mycroft hated the past tense— it reminds him of unnecessary things he never had control from his childhood. It reminds him of that boy, and that tragedy, and his own helplessness, but furthermore, it reminded him with what he never really forgot from the beginning.

He was never good with forgetting…

And the irony that the boy was actually a blood relative of his, Mycroft had known since he read the file. He closed his eyes as Victor flooded his vision once more, but no matter what it was that he felt then, it had come to past. Victor was gone and Eurus was nowhere in better place. Wrath? There was none. Resentment? It was impossible to find that in his icy heart. What was done was done and punishment had been served. It was still all his fault…

"Mycroft!" Sherlock's voice raised from the other end, almost alarming and filled with what Mycroft wondered if concern or guilt. He decided to put the ever-hyperactive man at ease. With a soundless inhale, the older Holmes considered a moment before speaking again.

"Yes, I know. His name was on the file… middle child. Three years Seth's senior. Eight on mine, almost your age." He offered this quite sufficiently without breaking a sweat. Everything was normal. Everything was purely information. "The boy was uncared for… you remember our mother was unstable after my abduction or… well, she was never right, and Victor suffered her neglect. Seth does not seem aware of him as the boy was taken by another guardian—"

"Your infamous father?" Sherlock inquired heavily that had Mycroft smiling.

"Yes. But he was never any better. I supposed he never saw the boy in person too."

"Was that why Victor was always at our home?" Sherlock sounded appalled, "His own mother didn't even know he exists?"

"That's why both of us were in your home." Mycroft pointed out while Sherlock breathed on the other end only. Mycroft could understand him. Typical Sherlock to be very sympathetic. But Mycroft didn't need that. There was no point in stressing over the past… he still hated that past. "Though, the reason I'm sent over to yours was different to his. He was merely discarded because she was unable to recover from the shock of losing a child."

"The same reason no one ever raised concern on his disappearance?" Sherlock asked sharply, everything making sense now that a child disappearing didn't make it on any newspaper. The consulting detective thought it was all because of their Uncle's power but there seemed to be other stories to tell. "Victor was an abandoned child."

Mycroft became silent for a moment, until he whispered, "Yes… nothing really changed from his file."

He looked over to his black car parked a couple of steps behind him, his attention shifting on the sidewalk again as memories continued rushing out. Uncle Rudi was the one who took care of Victor's matter back then. Mycroft was only a teenaged boy but reliable enough. Still, he didn't know what became of Victor's guardian. He never saw them visit, never saw them question the household... It was just, as is. Only Uncle Rudi was giving developments whenever he came around. Mycroft would have raised concern over this, but then his younger brother began to change and his attention was diverted to the poor suffering child.

But something happened to Sherlock then that involved both Eurus and Victor. Mycroft tried all his might to help Sherlock recover but the boy could not be persuaded no matter how many times he tried to reach him. He won't eat, he won't sleep. He was just… there and Mycroft's heart ached for him. It was his fault that Victor was lost… Mycroft believed that. He had a duty of care to all of them.

Until one day, Sherlock began functioning like nothing happened. He began to talk and eat, he began to play albeit quite morosely. If not a tad darker for a small boy. But there was no mention of Eurus. Or Victor.

Not even Sherlock's affinity and fondness of Mycroft—even that was lost— for by repressing the memories of Eurus and Victor, Sherlock inadvertently lost his memories of Mycroft's affection. And what was left was Mycroft being Mycroft after experiencing and understanding the threat that was in Sherlock's every step, took initiative to guide and monitor the only family member left under his care. Had to harden his heart for the position he would soon take over after realizing what Uncle Rudi had done. There was no other way.

To find that Victor, this boy was an actual younger brother of his did not make anything better. He still failed him, like he failed the first time when Eurus snatched him right under their noses. It was still his fault.

Mycroft had glimpsed his file when it was his turn in the office, fearing any family members of the boy who might have motives to retaliate and realized Victor was already an orphan with no trace of origin from the orphanage. Mycroft indeed found it curious, but he stopped the search there as long as no one would come looking for what happened to the boy… how truly… ironic.

It was still his fault. He closed his eyes slowly, then found himself staring up at someone standing on the other side of the street. Mycroft raised his chin and narrowed his eyes as his appointment came closer.

"Sherlock, you remember I gave you Victor's file not long ago after Sherrinford. I thought you would have done your homework and locate his next of kin even if my records said it was futile."

"I'm already talking to one." Sherlock said without a beat.

Mycroft's eyes hardened. It felt like a knife just cut through an internal organ of his. "Well… you are. What now?"

Silence fell on the other side again and the older Holmes could just hear the consulting detective breathing on his ear.

A pair of boots stopped just right in front of the British Government Head. Mycroft met his eyes as he slowly lowered the phone. "Hang up, now, brothermine…"

"Mycroft—!"

"Is there any point asking you to leave me alone?" Seth Adams said as Mycroft put his phone in the pocket of his pants, his hand staying there quietly, eyebrows raising up to his hairline while Adams gloated at him, "I didn't even ask you to come."

"But you called me and as undesirable it is to you, my brother—" Mycroft saw Seth's eyes flashed dangerously, even the steps he took closer seemed threatening but the older Holmes stood his ground, "I'm the only one who can help you."

"You're also the reason my friend's in this mess to begin with." Adams said scathingly.

"It's a fault on both sides," Mycroft replied sternly, "now if you could just let go of that jack knife you've been thumbing in your jacket pocket, that would be great. I have my own means of protection, brother—"

"What, an umbrella?" Adams uttered with a pointed look at the only object in Mycroft's hands. The British Government Head tried his best not to look offended and did great with the pressing of his lips. "And stop calling me your brother—we only share the same mother!"

"Be that as it may—a half-brother is still entitled to a certain percentage of my concern." Mycroft firmly put both hands on his umbrella as Seth continued keeping a hand inside his jacket, "You called. I came. That's how I normally function and if you could only get over yourself— if we could both put our difference aside—you'll find how efficient I truly am in helping you sort… delicate business, even the most impossible."

Adams gave Mycroft a strange look with a lopsided smirk appearing on his lips, "Your fake brother did say you were really at the top. I thought you work as secretary in some department by how prissy you look, I never bothered. Didn't want you looking down on me. In fact, I didn't feel like I needed you at all."

"Until now." Mycroft corrected with an even fake smile that didn't reached his eyes, automatically disappearing as his eyes turned serious, "It is not my business to dwell on how others see me, I don't go about living on the expense of others' perspective. Now, we have to focus on our common goal and that is to find Charlie Kemp who has escaped his prison because of a carelessness in our part and whose life, by your own confirmation, is in danger."

"Well, what can I expect? The government never really does anything right." There was a gleam on Adam's eyes that made Mycroft give him a narrowed look and slightly nodded.

"Depends on what you understand as right. But I need Charlie Kemp as well. I can't risk him falling to their hands when he knows certain information that must not be released to the public—or known enemies. I need him found."

"You mean dead or alive?" Adams sourly added, "Charlie will die if he shows himself in that gathering. We've all been called by the Hellbanianz leaders and it's going to be a mob because of your doing. You had half the group's notorious players arrested! Now their taking it all on us— strangers, locals, merchants, birdman from everywhere in one single hall, all to find the router. The rat. Everyone connected to that group have to be there and Charlie will have to be because he's on the list of suspected people. If the connections don't show up, they die the next day."

"Well, isn't t easier for you to just surrender me if I am to make an appearance?" Mycroft said offhandedly. "That would be quite a scenario."

"I'm not asking you to go." Adams said bluntly with a frown, "You'd only be a liability."

The older Holmes looked so taken aback that Adams had to blink and frown at the same time. Does this boy know no manners…? Mycroft struggled with the idea that he was helpless.

"I said I need help, not decoy." Adams pointed out as Mycroft tilted his head, watching Seth curiously who continued, "I'll be the one to go if your men can't find him till midnight. We need to find him before he goes there, but if he does turn up then I'll help him escape. You can keep him imprisoned or change his name—if you're really that powerful then help him. You helped me last time with the coppers, but if you can't help me in this one—"

"You doubt me?" Mycroft cocked an eyebrow, his experience in wading-ins for his other brother nearly at the tip of his tongue, but as ever, he was self-deprecating when it comes to his international activities, "What makes you think I can't help you extract him?"

"I have a feeling it's more than extraction you're about to do. You might send a whole army there." Adams said in a matter-of-fact tone which to his amusement, Mycroft never denied, "But it's like entering a war zone of street gangsters. Taking them all out will be easy with an army but there will be a war. I have friends there—kids who will be there, underage, barely school juniors—you telling me you're also going to risk their lives too?"

"You said it's a war zone." It was Mycroft's turn to say this in a matter-of-fact tone, his expression dead pan, "Wars don't pick with age or gender. It just destroys. Death is inevitable. It comes to us all." Silence fell between the two with only sounds of passing vehicles. Adams was giving his half-brother a critical look.

"What did you say you need Charlie for? Is it because he knows your name? Has he seen your face?"

"No," Mycroft shook his head, standing a little straighter with eyes venturing lower, before meeting Seth's eyes again, "it's not my face he has seen. Some careless idiot just happens to strut in his face that could cause damage if he's captured. I can't just leave it be."

"Careless idiot?" Seth Adams raised his chin and nodded across the street, "Someone like that?"

Mycroft looked over his shoulder to where his half-brother was pointing and saw, to his exasperation, a man in his thick blue coat, stepped down the cab alone and was now heading towards their direction with a grave expression on his face. His dark eyes were glinting mad and if Mycroft didn't know any better, he could swear he could read the line of thought from his face—one that says disaster was aboard. Shutting his eyes close, he then felt Sherlock drop beside him with their shoulder blades bumping and it was all the older Holmes could do not to raise his umbrella and start thwacking on his head.

"Sherlock." He muttered ominously, eyes opening as he glanced at the consulting detective whose grin was from ear to ear.

"Hello, chaps, sorry I'm fashionably late." He said conversationally while Adams gave him a disgruntled look, remembering the last time they came face to face. Signs of dispute rose high in the air the moment Mycroft's eyes fell on Sherlock who ignored him for a moment, giving full attention to Adams who was looking neither surprised nor happy.

"You told him to come?" he shot at the older Holmes sullenly.

"I didn't invite him." Mycroft shook his head unenthusiastically, his shoulders sagging.

"Invite, summoned, told, stalked—they're all the same." Sherlock was still smiling creepily, not leaving Mycroft's side as he watched Seth Adams full in the eyes, "Came here to check on my brother. Didn't want him getting attacked again, you see. Just planning ahead to keep him safe." He winked at Seth who was looking thoroughly infuriated as the consulting detective never did shut up. Breathing in the end, Sherlock went on, "So what did I miss?"

"Nothing you need to know about." Seth gave the consulting detective a dirty look while the younger Holmes's eyes widened mockingly.

"Too bad—I'm the world's number one detective— it's my business to know what others withhold from me. And oh look—I'm guessing it's about a large gathering of London's most notorious drug dealers at midnight." He smiled again, making Adams glaring at him one last time. The older Holmes felt the tension between the two and couldn't help his own impatience rising up.

"Enough. Sherlock, there's nothing to discuss anymore—" Mycroft began, to find Sherlock upon him in an instant.

"Great, then it's time to go." Sherlock turned to him pointedly. "You're coming with me."

There was no time to reply as the consulting detective strode towards Mycroft's sedan and opened the backdoor. Beckoning the older Holmes to step inside, Mycroft stared at the younger Holmes with an incredulous look on his face. He stood his ground for a moment, full of disbelief at being ordered around, before he half turned to Seth who was mostly scowling at the detective. What on earth has gone in Sherlock's head? Mycroft looked back at Sherlock who remained waiting by the car door. Adams jammed both hands deep in his jacket pocket, making Mycroft watch his movements warily with Sherlock frowning too; obviously he had deduced the weapon hidden underneath the clothing.

Seconds passed, Seth only exchange glances with Mycroft, and then he turned and walked away.

Sherlock followed his back with his eyes before averting his eyes to Mycroft who was giving him a strange look. The consulting detective pointed at the car again. Realizing it was useless to resist, the older Holmes gave a final sigh and slid inside the car grudgingly.

"You're being ridiculous." He whispered as Sherlock slid next to him. "Proper insane."

"I'm trying to protect you." Sherlock said squarely as the car began moving with Mycroft bidding it to go to his underground office. Hearing this, the British Government Head rolled his eyes.

"Protect me from what, Sherlock? Doing my job?"

"You're going through a heart break; your judgment could be clouded." Explained the detective to the gaping older Holmes who felt it necessary to scratch his ears in case he heard wrong—heart what?

"What are you rambling about?" he demanded, wondering what level his normally low blood pressure was now.

The dark-haired detective's jaw tightened with eyes transfixed at the back of the car seat in front. Then calmly, Sherlock Holmes began with as much reason as he could, "He's your real brother, Mycroft. I know how easily you can be moved when your siblings call for help." Sherlock turned and caught Mycroft staring at him straight in the eyes, "Cause there's no one more reliable or responsible as you are. Believe me, I know."

Mycroft pulled his eyes to the front, his jaw clenching and feeling his pulse out of its normal beat.

"You remember?" he asked in the ringing silence that fell, recalling from a very distant memory of two children talking sincerely by a dining table about him and how his normal functioning heart fluttered affectionately for the boy. Mycroft felt the need to inhale deeply.

"I remember." Sherlock confirmed with a sigh. "Ever since the well…"

The older Holmes nodded, eyes reflecting the disappearing view on the car mirror. "Mmm… I often wondered…" He could remember it like it was yesterday. The overflowing affection from a little boy who only wanted to be a pirate and have his big brother around. They were good memories that were sadly taken away from Sherlock, but Mycroft remember them very well, even on his own.

"About Victor…" Sherlock started but Mycroft slightly shook his head.

"Not now…" he whispered quietly. "Please…"

Sherlock lowered his gaze and then suddenly continued with a stronger, much clearer voice that truly belonged to the dynamic younger Holmes, "Okay... about Seth Adams then. I know you'd want to help him but he could be setting you up in a trap that's why you can't go."

"How did you know what we were discussing anyway?" Mycroft asked sharply, "Did you have me bugged?"

"No. I've been on the trail of Hellbanianz's movements, okay?" the younger Holmes replied crossly, "There could only be one reason why he'd approach you without murdering you first and that's by acting the victim. That's how you lay a trap. You know it's a trap and you still look willing to jump in! What—just because he's your brother?"

There was an awkward pause as the older Holmes glared pointedly at Sherlock—who realized for what it was worth—that Mycroft had been jumping in to save him every time without asking how high. The consulting detective looked away and cleared his throat, not wishing to say anything about the matter, but obviously keen to keep the close distance between them. After a moment, Mycroft suppressed a sigh and shook his head.

"Whatever you're thinking, Sherlock, it turns out, it's not me who needs protecting. He didn't even want me there, just a helping hand to Charlie Kemp."

"I already said it." Sherlock said grimaced at his older brother, "Trap. There are so many ways to get to Kemp—he's escaped then? You're not the type to let him go. Losing your touch, are we? Going to need you MOD man back?" the younger Holmes grinned slyly. Just that Mycroft knows what he was doing.

"Quiet, Sherlock." Mycroft glanced at him sideways, "Your obsession with this case has turned alarmingly out of control. In any case, you're not going there. You're the main reason half their men have been arrested and not to mention a famous sleuth in London to boot. You think they wouldn't recognize you? Besides, Seth may have not decided yet if he wants to sell me out, but when it comes to you, I'm pretty sure he'll only be too happy to comply with his master. So no, you're not going."

Sherlock blinked, then shrank back to the car seat whispering, "It's going to be a dull night for both of us then."

Fifteen minutes later, two pair of feet are seen walking in the dark hallway leading to Mycroft Holmes underground office. It was already past six when they arrived at the spot and Mycroft had to make a few phone calls to his men for the hunt of Charlie Kemp, whom—he explained to Sherlock even though the detective seemed perfectly aware— was believed to be the traitor and might possibly die that night.

The older Holmes was walking quietly ahead, his back straight and shoulders balanced while Sherlock kept up the rear. The consulting detective kept a close eye to his older brother as they slowly approach his personal work space.

"Are you going to leave this to the Secret Service?" Sherlock couldn't help but ask, their footsteps echoing in the silent hall. He tried to fall in the step of the British Government Head but Mycroft was taking the space in the middle to allow anyone to be on his level; typical attitude of a megalomaniac as Sherlock observed.

"With you breathing on my neck, I might just send you."

"Why not?" Sherlock was serious.

"I don't quite trust Seth when it comes to you yet." Mycroft confessed plainly.

"I don't trust him when it comes to you at all." Sherlock retorted evenly, an answer that made Mycroft half glanced in his direction when they reached his office door. Taking the key from his coat pocket, he turned to face the younger Holmes and throw him a narrowed look.

"I'm becoming very suspicious of you, brothermine. What is it that you have under your sleeves?"

He opened the office door and stepped inside, Sherlock staying outside longer before following the older Holmes suit and stopping right behind him where Mycroft had stopped partly by the door. Looking around, Sherlock was unsurprised to see his parents seated by Mycroft's receiving chairs. They stood slowly when they saw the brothers enter with Mycroft staring at them with his face robbed of any expression.

"Mycroft…" Mrs. Holmes began, which somewhat made Mycroft step involuntarily backwards, before he felt Sherlocks' palm pressing at the middle of his back, urging him to go forward. Mycroft pressed his lips closed and allowed his arms to fall on each of his sides. To Sherlock, he said—

"I've been wondering why you've been cajoling me this entire time… you've been talking about trap a lot. I should have known you're setting me up into one… just like most of our Christmas dinners." He sighed. That stung Sherlock more than he let on as he blinked and then frowned.

"I'm not your enemy, Mycroft." He said with his hand crawling to his brother's left shoulder and gripping him tight, "I only want to help you. This is something we should talk about as family."

"You don't say?" Mycroft gave him a piercing look, "And while we're having our 'family' chat, where would you go? I don't think you plan on staying longer here at all."

"I'll do what I can for Charlie Kemp, my network will be all around scouring every corners of London street. You stay here and try to keep the peace, I don't think mum's quite happy with you shutting them out." He nodded at Mrs. Holmes who was staring at the older Holmes with her sharp eyes unblinking.

Mycroft could just feel her stare behind him. He glared at Sherlock.

"If you think this is the best option at this critical moment, Sherlock—"

"Best option?" the consulting detective's eyebrows furrowed together. "Of course. If it will keep you safe."

Mycroft shook his head, one last flash in his eyes appearing, "Jesus… this is all John, isn't it? He's got you doing this ridiculous—"

"No." Sherlock assured him and the light in his eyes spoke volume of his sincerity. "This is me not leaving you alone."

The two stared hard at each other, till finally, the older Holmes withdrew. With one last look from Sherlock who nodded at his parents, the younger Holmes was gone, leaving Mycroft feeling trapped as he slowly turned to the parents who had taken care of him for number of years despite knowing that he wasn't really their child… all because they were kind.

That's probably where Sherlock got that natural trait.

Fortunately, Mycroft had a different mix of blood on his own. This cold blood he had gotten from his birth father—the man who made it possible for his eldest son to be sent to the Holmes family, only because of an experiment— or the man's personal quirk—who knows— but Mycroft knew his father lacked that certain quality most humans thrive to achieve. A heart.

For what kind of man couldn't even say to his child 'I am your father?' despite the many chances of them together?

Right… Uncle Rudi?

Turning to the Holmes, Mycroft closed his heart and heaved a very heavy sigh as he walked pass them onto his table. Reaching just beneath the table, he raised his eyes at Mr. and Mrs. Holmes and saw they were waiting for him to speak first. He did, but not after he tapped the red button under his table and all the lights in the office turned red, followed by warning alarms.

That was when he said the three words amidst the chaos. He hoped they would forgive him someday.

"I am sorry."

-To Be Continued-

Chapter Text

*Bad blood *

by: WhiteGloves

A.N: I must say... I enjoyed writing this! All hell breaks loose!

Fair warning/ heads up for non-con suggestion! And the climax!

Thank you and enjoy!

Chapter 9: Bad Blood

Dead of the night with dark clouds surrounding the crescent moon. It erased the silver rays which were the only source of light in what was an isolated countryside. There was nothing to be seen except the silhouette of the swaying trees visible against the pale gray sky surrounding a long empty road. As the view slowly disappears, every little sound emerged like volumes have been steadily turned upward with the rustles and scurrying of leaves in the cold breeze and unseen swishing of wings. Everything was eerily silent and at peace.

But then a low, rumbling sound of an engine came and two pale orbs shone in the middle of the gray road. A black 1968 Aston Martin DB6 car arrived and pulled over the side of the hill with its blinding headlights dying down and melted into the darkness. Then silence.

One would assume the car drove its own as no movement came from the inside. However, the silhouette of the driver was there, steady and unmoving with hands still gripping the steering wheel. He didn't seem bothered by the darkness enveloping him and seemed dead even, though the sharpness of his eyes said otherwise which looked very much buried alive. Then mechanically, the man quietly raised a hand inside the pocket of his black leather jacket and pulled out his mobile phone. The man's thin eyebrows contracted slightly as his lips curved down even further when his right thumb slid down the number zero and stayed there for a whole minute. Making up his mind, he pushed the lone button and pressed the mobile next to his ears and waited still.

He didn't have to call him. There was no reason to even inquire the man's agenda nor ask why he did what he did when there was but one simple truth. Something never too pure.

Yet he needed that one last push…

Three rings were the usual. Then he picked up.

"Mycroft." A resonant deep voice shortly answered, and though it belonged to an old man, it could not hide the power reverberating to its core. Mycroft's eyes flickered in attention on hearing the voice, his face solemn like he had made a call to the devil himself. It was a testament to the dangerous waters he was wading in and the man on the other end knew that too, ergo his next response, "Surprisingly, you really called. I hope this is not a distress call regarding your birth or you're wasting both our time. If I wanted you to be that fragile, I would have dropped you off outside an orphanage, you understand?"

Mycroft gripped the steering wheel with eyes clouding. "Of course."

Yes. He should have known this was his father. To what universe did he even accept Mr. Holmes as the real one?

There was a huff on the other end again. Skeptical. Displeased. "More important matters should have been raised here, Mycroft—like about what happened to Sherrinford? The way you handled it was very disappointing. The death toll when she was supposed to be under your guidance. You remember the message I sent you? Keep your act together or better let go of your position at once, you're unworthy."

Mycroft took a moment with eyes falling on his dashboard without a trace of emotion. This person was still the same man with that same methodical tone when he told the fifteen-year-old Mycroft that Eurus had to be rejected from their lives and he unquestioningly followed. Even though there were other ways… The only man Mycroft ever believe who can carry out a summary execution with the firm logic of the end justifies the means and still be in time for tea.

Uncle Rudi was never one to be forgiving.

Mycroft's eyes travelled to his side mirror and only saw an empty road behind him. He decided to ignore the latter's commentary and went straight to the point. "It won't happen again. I apologize for calling so late without prior notice. I understand I must have disturbed your midnight routine—"

"You know well what you were doing as I did when I brought you to the Holmes." Replied a snide remark of the old man and the older Holmes could just imagine him with that dismissive cold air. "Unless you want to contend my decision?"

Mycroft's lips split into a grim smile, his eyes narrowing as he slowly glanced up the windshield. "No… no, it was the best option. I would have done the same had I been in your position. There was no other way… less of course, as you suggested, you dropping me off an orphanage. I couldn't imagine."

There was a chuckle on the other end. Disdainful. Proud. He gave the right answer. "Good. But you're still dissatisfied with my answer, elsewise we won't be in this position now. Speak then, what else do you want?"

"There is a matter I wish you to shed light— and it's not about me." The older Holmes lowered his eyes on the dashboard again, "I don't need explanation of whether I was wanted or not, though clearly it wasn't planned. But there is one thing I wish to clarify regarding this little disaster from your past— which you— my biological father—can only answer. By the way, you of all people should know the right age for me to know. I was a willing accomplice with the matter of Eurus, you could have mentioned this during my tenureship."

"You were slow with all the hints I've left you, Mycroft. I told you many times when you were a kid to never trust anything—not even what you consider absolute. Once you believe you possess the truth, it blinds you from seeing other options. Regrettably, you never suspected anything."

Mycroft sighed and controlled himself from rolling his eyes. "So that was still part of the test I see… never mind, I wasn't blinded, I was distracted…" he paused for a moment, then eyebrows flew up on his hairline. "The Holmes family didn't make it easy, there were plenty of things going on… things I didn't understand about the people…" he paused for a moment, then blinked, "Never mind— about my inquiry—"

"Let's hear it." came the ever-undaunted father in his gruff tone of indifference.

"Victor." Whatever amount of feelings Mycroft had for the name was reflected by his face as it contorted darkly with his reflection from the windshield. It didn't matter that his whole surrounding was dark nor the vacant lot he was presently occupying was in the middle of nowhere. It was a perfect spot for him to be in. "Why did you do it?"

"You have to be more specific than that."

"Him." The older Holmes stared far than his reflection into nothingness but in his mind palace all he could think of was the little boy in his odd pirate hat. "Why did you have him with my biological mother after seven years? I don't think you were driven by a night of passion the second time, a man like you. That is not your nature. I know you. You're calculating. If having me was unintentional—"

"Yes? And so?"

Mycroft pressed his lips tolerantly as silence followed. That of course, was obvious. He had known from records that he must be, Uncle Rudi was a rigid man who still couldn't go beyond his carnal desire, and took the opportunity. But Mycroft wouldn't dwell on that. There were far worst revelations than finding out you were unwanted as a child. He understands. But it was different if it was about him, it was different if it was about his siblings.

"Then why have Victor?" his tone had gone down, forcing it to be calm and preparing himself for the answer. "You know full well our mother… she must not have been in her right mind in those latter years after losing me. Helpless, I might say. So then why still her…?"

It was something he wished to know from the man himself. It wasn't enough to theorize alone; the answer mattered to him like how Sherlock's opinion of his Lady Bracknell had always nag at the back of his mind. Unlike most of the things he could leave alone whether he was proven right or wrong, this one was about his deceased brother. Of course, there were things that couldn't be explained by logic when logic in itself was the missing link because some humans tend to act more on instinct. But with Uncle Rudi, instinct wasn't to be repeated twice. If he was the man Mycroft knew him to be, who probably saw his first child's birth a mistake, then why have Victor at all?

A beat came, then the old man's voice came out strong, amused even when he said, "You really have to know from me, don't you?"

"If it's not an inconvenience to you." The British Government Head replied drily.

"He's an experiment." His father went on with blunt facts, "You were very impressive as a child, Mycroft, it was only natural that it made me curious of the genetics… I wasn't a man to miss out the opportunity. But surely, you know that too?"

Know it he did, he just hoped there was a different answer as Mycroft closed his eyes painfully with his head dropping on his free hand to cover what was half his face. He realized his hands were cold and weak.

"Please tell me you didn't take advantage of her…" it was barely a whisper.

"I shall leave that to your deductions. You're very good at that." There was still amusement at the edge of his tone.

Mycroft couldn't help leaning back on the car seat with his hand phone dropping by the steering wheel. He could feel his face heating up, he hadn't expected such a multitude of reaction at once when he could control them at normal level. He imagined Victor again, the boy's easy smile and carefree nature. Much like Sherlock, that's why they got along well. At the same time, the sadness that would fill the boy's being every time it was his time to go home. Mycroft remembered and thought it was merely because the boy wanted to be with Sherlock. He always watched Victor being ushered out of the door from the Musgrave home when the day ends, how the boy would look back to the waving Sherlock dejectedly. But once the door was closed, Sherlock's attention would easily divert to the next person within reachable distance which means knocking down Mycroft's door, which would lead to plenty of mind games and puzzles. Sherlock was always happy. Sherlock would often forget his friend because he had his older brother.

Which would leave Victor in his empty house, in his empty room. Did the child even wonder what happened to his parents? Was there even anyone to care for the child's needs?

"You abandoned him…" Mycroft whispered drearily, more than he anticipated.

"He wasn't anything like you." came Uncle Rudi's clear voice, unmistakably just after drinking wine as the older Holmes heard him lick his lips, which made Mycroft realize how dry his throat had been. "Ignorance was bliss for your brother, Mycroft so stop disappointing me further with your trivial inquiries and pretend it matters. These are in the past—why take the trouble? Reject your sense of injury, boy and the injury itself disappears." Exhibiting another huff, Uncle Rudi's abrupt tone from the other line turned half exasperated. "My time is of the essence, and unlike you, I don't have another ten years ahead of me, unless you get careless enough to let me outlive you."

"I don't think you'd have to worry about that at all. There is a saying 'the devil looks after its own.'"

A bark like laughter struggled out of the old man's throat. "Was that you or me?"

"Hardly matters…" the older Holmes lowered his voice, reverting to his indifferent tone, "We both get there in the end. It's only a matter of how… and how soon. So, you'll forgive me if I don't discard my blood relatives as easily as you can. Take it as a side effect of your sister who never turned her back on me… her nephew. This is me returning a favor to my kin."

"You're talking about that half-brother of yours?" Uncle Rudi's voice came sharp with a grunt, "Why do you care? Leave him be. He's not half as you will ever be—"

Mycroft squared his jaw. "He is still my brother."

"Yes, and did you ever look back to what happened to those siblings you speak so fondly of? You know what happens when we get too close to innocent people, Mycroft—we destroy them."

Mycroft's eyes slightly narrowed and his lips ever thinned, his full attention returning to that deep voice who hardly ever expressed concern unless it was for his amusement. "You're still hung up about that story… the East Wind."

There was a chuckle on the other end as the older Holmes' grip on the wheel slackened with a memory of him standing behind a tall man with unbelievably thin hair and long nose whose hands were beside him, telling him of an old story as they stood in the middle of a glass window. The East Wind was his father's making. The East Wind that metaphors power. It was a story Mrs. Holmes have also heard most likely from her brother. The East Wind that lay waste to the unworthy…

Mycroft remained and his father had to continue in an almost sardonic tone.

"No point telling you this, you've always known. You must have. People around you have a bad habit of meeting ill-fated ends. It's never a coincidence—anything we touch… anything we make contact with withers away, Mycroft. Your mother, your younger brother who perished under your wing. My sister' family who was eventually destroyed. What happened to Eurus and Sherlock's trauma…all people surrounding you. That's what we are capable of doing, Mycroft. You and I. It's a chain reaction. If you would allow me to use the words of a romantic then I might even go as far as described us as 'cursed'."

"If I wanted preposterous story telling I would have contacted Sherlock and allowed him to bore me death." Mycroft could only be terser and colder. "Why are you even recounting this, you're never a believer of anything save yourself?"

"I'll believe in anything that has a pattern. Our pattern is to destroy those we give too much care. So be very careful of caring too much or you'll be at a disadvantaged when you break them. Don't lose your head, boy… or too much care will kill you."

"I wonder about that. Is that why you're still alive?"

Without another word, the British Government Head hung up and found both his hands clutching the car's wheel, his mind palace as silent as the dead of the night. If interpretations suggest that one must panic or be devastated by what was just said, then Mycroft was glad there was no area in his brain that entertained such reflex. It was typical of Uncle Rudi to deliver the obvious in the frostiest manner, but everything he said was not something strange to the older Holmes.

The idea that he was the bringer of destruction was appealing to him.

It had never bothered him, in fact, he bathed in such knowledge and even used it as threats to people opposing him— the number of times his intimidation was sound as he told each and every one of them that going against him was disastrous, that meddling with him was a mistake. That merely knowing the owner of the initial 'M' was a death sentence.

Even Sherlock was much aware of that—the very reason his younger brother had started antagonizing him because Sherlock knew what he was capable of. And it wasn't all rainbows nor black or white. It was darker. But then Mycroft had always thought that Sherlock was the same as him. Both of them with power. The younger Holmes just didn't find it necessary to reach such heights because he was too distracted of himself—if not too human and perhaps, he was right. It had never been clearer to Mycroft how he and Sherlock were so much different.

Until he realized it was him and his father who ruined the Holmes family.

That he had taken on the footsteps of Uncle Rudi willingly and continued breaking Sherlock's family.

Like what he had done to Seth's mother… Like what happened to that boy falling down a deep well…

The mobile fell on the car floor with a thud and Mycroft realized how his hand had begun to tremble. A tremor he could not control. Why? He was feeling fine.

Gripping it with his other hand, the older Holmes took a long look at the phone but didn't bother retrieving it. He didn't know how long he had sat there, holding his calming hand, but soon he knew he had to move. Surely, he had enough power to act? There was a pawn to be taken out, a queen to be snatched, pawns to be saved and knights to be guided back.

If it was a matter of power, then he had plenty to offer. Power itself was not evil.

How often had he said that to himself?

All he had to do was to overcompensate.

Which here means, everything was his fault.

"Don't you think it's a bit dead giveaway?"

John muttered as he stood by the cold road just after jumping out of an old, black van containing a number of people who poured on the night street after a long hour ride with plenty of other van coming from both directions of the road. John turned to Sherlock who was standing just beside him with his quick eyes on the surrounding, wearing a beanie to cover his curls and an ordinary blue jacket with a hoodie on top of his gray buttoned shirt and graying pants. John was wearing an unbranded cap and casual clothing with black jacket and together the two stood side by side, watching the downpour of people from various directions and going to the only building in sight. Sherlock quickly raised a hand and pressed it on the side of his head with a frown.

"What is?" he piped questioningly.

John continued looking around, "This place. I mean, if they were going to find a mole connected to the Hellbanianz cartel, choosing an abandoned asylum called Hellingly Hospital is not such a smart idea, don't you think?"

"Shhh." The consulting detective glared at the doctor who stared at him in surprise, "I wasn't taking to you, John, so do shut up. My homeless are pouring me with reports and even with active brain like mine, I can only focus on eight reports simultaneously so keep talking to yourself."

"I was doing that." John muttered sounding annoyed as Sherlock moved ahead of him and silently spoke to his microphone hidden somewhere on his collar. "Show off."

Trudging behind his companion, John then raised his eyes once more to that large, derelict, hunted-house like building made of red bricks with large barb wires surrounding it. It was the size of the whole Baker Street building combined with its multiple windows covered, bushes untrimmed and the open gate in the middle guarded by heavily armed men black jackets with their hoods on and who were one by one checking those falling in line. The asylum had been closed for twenty-five years after a huge fire in 1993 according to Sherlock. But what was once a grand psychiatric facility standing atop a hill believed to be the most advanced asylum close to the village of Hellingly in the East of England in Sussex was now nothing but an abandoned building in the middle of nowhere with sole function to shelter a whole band of troublemakers.

The consulting detective watched as almost a hundred people gathered towards the main door and couldn't help gritting his teeth. The location was quite in favor of the gangsters but there was no other choice that night what with them failing to find Charlie Kemp on time. Sherlock was notified by Wiggins earlier that day that an extraction process from the main land will happen right under the security of the Scotland Yard. Black vans were to stealthily bring all Hellbanianz members to a remote location where everyone will assemble before the remaining leaders of what they expected was a demonstration of power— pure torture and cruelty to whoever was identified to be the rat responsible for bringing down half the commanders of the group. Naturally in fear, most of his homeless network that were part of that group knew they had to go, so Sherlock and John took over two positions to infiltrate the assembly.

The trip was silent and cramped, as all members from varying ages, genders and class inside the van were nervous. Most of whom were familiar with each other but never showed any sign of acknowledgement, except Sherlock who could read most of them. One and a half hour of extreme discomfort and bobbing sleepy heads later and here they were with the consulting detective frowning at the men, women, young adult, even nervous wreck junkies tripping among themselves as they fell in line to enter the building.

Still trailing towards the building even when all of them knew it would lead them to their deaths. Sherlock noticed that what appeared to be doors before were now cemented. Recently cemented.

Slowly, Sherlock and John began walking towards the guard with heavy artillery. The power of the Hellbanianz were not to be trifled with. Soon, Sherlock was showing the email he received as an invitation to the group, proving he was one of them. As he had expected, his arm was wrenched violently forward. The next thing the crude guards had pulled his sleeves upward and were checking on his arm to see his marks as a user. Sherlock avoided any direct eye contact in case they recognized him as he pulled his arms back for the marks where ever present there. Next was John, but coming there prepared, John was able to show his own needle marks. The doctor who wouldn't miss coming here for the world, could still remember Sherlock's only condition if he was to go at all—that John must first be initiated as a user. Of course, the needles were empty, like a nurse simply drawing blood but John was used to that. After a thorough body inspection for any weapon, Sherlock's mobile was confiscated together with John's wallet they deliberately put fake IDs on with a sachet of white pills.

The next thing, the two found themselves walking in the dilapidated corridor with hazardous falling out ceiling and door less entrance of rooms along the way.

The pathway was lit by strange connecting cables of wires on lamps that showed vandalized writings on the wall, broken woods, furniture and other clutters along the way. Sherlock eyed all dark corner with his sharp eyes taking note of everything from the burnout wards, old laundry carts, rusting oxygen tanks, gas tanks, bathtubs and many more objects he could spy.

John was looking around too, albeit more vigilant with fists closed as they all followed the large queue walking ahead of them. From ahead, a blinding source of light could be seen. As they reached closer, it became apparent that they were all heading towards the main hall of Hellingly Asylum.

It was an extraordinarily large hall that was already jampacked by the time Sherlock and John arrived with less than a hundred heads oozing and buzzing uncomfortably with shoulders rubbing at how narrow space was left. It didn't help that parts of the floor were broken so that one misstep could cause one to break a leg. The arched ceilings were filled with dozens of giant lamps so most could see where they were walking in the hall surrounded by vandalized, faded green walls. At the center of the hall was a wide stage with broken planks and broken chair but no one was on it except a line of large men standing as guards just below the stage, monitoring the number of people with guns at hand.

Sherlock walked closer the stage with John right behind him, wading through shoulders and backs, eyes open in case their target was on sight.

"Can't believe we're risking it for that idiot Kemp." Sherlock heard John muttered right behind him, amidst the noise, "If he's any smart, he wouldn't even come here or he'd be assassinated on his toes. I know, we're no better. But why would he come here? You sure Adams wasn't playing us? What if he's already got his man out?"

"I saw Adams on the other side when we stepped in." Sherlock had his eyes fixed on the stage, "I doubt he's any successful. Our last exchange was before the van came to take us. He heard nothing from Kemp so he's convinced he'd be here. If not, then he's already captured and would be the source of tonight's entertainment." The consulting detective pointed at the lone chair in the middle of the stage. John, following his eyes, blinked several times and shot his friend a look of alarm.

"You don't think—?"

Sherlock made another eye contact with a stranger who shook of his head as he moved along the line of people. John obviously saw the exchange and arched eyebrows to those surrounding them, then to his best friend.

"How many of your homeless network are here?"

"To be honest?" Sherlock stopped with John easing himself beside him. Now they stood at the corner of the stage with two lines between them and the armed men, "A quarter of the population. They'll be on lookout for Kemp. They know how he looks like. We'll find him before, hopefully, before the party starts." There was an edge on his voice as his dark eyes scanned the area again, the little of his curls completely blocked by his beanie. John watched him for a moment, before letting out an inward sighed.

"You're surprisingly very cautious. Don't want to make mistakes in front of Adams, huh?"

"It's not that."

"Then why are you…" he stopped as two men from the front brushed passed them, leaving the space open and Sherlock aptly stepped forward with the doctor right beside him who went on, "why are you acting strange? You barely talk, barely told me the plan—"

"I told you, we find Kemp and get the hell out of here."

"Yeah, I was listening. Your homeless network will surround him once he's spotted and sneak him out of the door with us following right behind. That easy?"

"If only." Sherlock pulled his eyes back at the broken chair in the middle of the stage.

"Just that? I don't believe you." John met Sherlock in the eye when the detective finally looked his way, his brows furrowed dangerously, "Practically allowing yourself to be kidnapped by black vans—this is more than just your average human hunt. I know you, Sherlock. This is much more than finding Kemp. There's more, I know, so spill before we get stuck in a brawl here."

A sharp gleam appeared on the consulting detective's eyes. He looked around in case anyone was close enough to listen, and then pressed his lips in an annoyed manner. John didn't take his eyes away from him which only aggravated the younger Holmes further. Both of them were already sweating at the overcrowded area.

"Adams. I'm no longer sure this is his trap."

"That makes one of us." John said with gaze not shifting away from the man who was still looking a bit puzzled so he had to ask. "What gives then? What makes you say he isn't an accomplice—?"

"He didn't seem bothered with Mycroft not coming when we arranged to meet." The consulting detective looked sideways, now searching along the heads, "Which could either mean—"

John fixed his eyes at his friend with eyebrow arching. "He's after you."

"Or." Sherlock's eyes narrowed, "He's really innocent. Which means he's one of the people we have to get out if things go south. He can't die here, otherwise Mycroft…" his voice faltered but his eyes remained determined.

"Yeah…" John nodded, not needing to hear the rest of his words, a hand clasping his friend's shoulder, "Okay, I get it. We have to keep him safe or your brother's sacrifice to be stuck with your parents will be in vain. How did that go for him anyway?"

"He's still sore, I'm sure. He called me an hour ago saying he's sent them back to the hotel. He wasn't pleased but from the homeless lookouts I planted on his office, he's still in London." Sherlock tapped his right ear beneath his beanie to indicate the tiny communicator hidden there, "It'll take him another hour to locate this place and by then he'll only have to clean our mess."

The doctor nodded with Sherlock looking around now. "Okay… that's good. We have a backup. Mycroft can play the rescue unit in the end, as usual, huh? Then we're the only one in actual danger here so you might want to stop thinking about your brother and answer me this— how bad do you think the situation is?"

That was because at that moment, a group of men all with leathered jackets and black pants came from the stage, still heavily armed that sent the whole room in an ear-splitting silence. Sherlock and John watched warily as one tall man walked in the middle and placed a large classic radio on the chair the consulting detective had been ogling not a minute ago. The party was about to start.

A hand suddenly shot out of nowhere, grabbing John by the left arm. The doctor shot his friend a look and saw that his expression was full of alarm, steady but alarmed. "Sherlock…?"

A minute passed, Sherlock's expression relaxed, but his eyes continued dancing apprehensively.

"What's happened?" John pressed him but a cracking sound came, and the radio produced statics exactly as the consulting detective nodded at his friend quietly. "They got him. Kemp. Adam's found him and the networks have surrounded them." His eyes turned across the room, listening intently to what was being said on his ears. John let out a sigh as he gazed back at the strange radio, fully understanding that the boss must not be coming in person and would be bullying his members into—what, he wondered? Admit they were the spies? Just then, his best friend stopped on his tracks with eyes wide and before John could ask what else was happening—whether Kemp's group was caught—or they were found, Sherlock didn't give him a chance to ask as quickly, he slid away from the third throng and fought his way among the shoulders. John gritted his teeth and stole a glance towards the stage, wondering if anyone noticed them breaking out of line and was glad most of the attention was on the cracking radio.

What the hell was with that radio anyway?

And what the hell was wrong with Sherlock?

With one last look behind him, John swiftly followed his best friend to whatever it was that distracted him. The radio began talking in broken lines for a second, before it boomed loudly in a man's deep voice—

"A count of seventy-eight present in the hall. Twenty of my men. And twelve people dead." There was a flood of whispers and talk surrounded the mob while John continued following Sherlock's disappearing form. The gruff speaker went on, "—out of twelve, seven as most of you know, have died tragic deaths on the streets. Gunned down, beaten and knifed. The other five for your information, can be found with their bodies outside—"

Gasps and horrified expressions filled the air. "—you know why those five died? They were conspirators on tonight's agenda. Our regulation does not give second chances to code breakers even when they begged. This is a warning—" John stopped and turned back at the radio where everyone was too struck to look away at. Knifing? Those incidents…? The doctor looked over to Sherlock to see if he knew, or that if any of his homeless were suspected but the detective continued his battling his way to reach the other side without stopping. The radio went on. "—to those who came here intending to come out alive— and those who came here as agents—will die— unless you give us the names—"

John had made his way behind Sherlock whom he noticed had stopped dead on his tracks with eyes wildly looking around.

"Sherlock," the doctor hissed, standing by his flat mate's left shoulder with a wary look at the stage. "Sherlock—they've killed—are they any of yours—?" But the consulting detective quickly silenced him with a raise of his right hand, his thick eyebrows furrowed and there was a look on his face that John couldn't quite understand. "Sherlock?"

"Can you smell that?" whispered the detective, but just as John began to do, Sherlock was once again racing with his feet towards that endless direction—John gasped the next second as he muttered under his breath—

"Kerosene!"

Mycroft was leaning quietly on the dirty wall of the main hall, watching over the eighty or more people crowd around the stage of the asylum with narrowed, unconcerned eyes and folded arms. He had been standing there observing the moment the radio was placed in front and knew at once that a disastrous end will meet those that were there. On his complete disguise of casual faded leather jacket and army boots, the older Holmes kept a safe distance from everyone else as he sported a wool black beanie and kept a vigilant, haughty atmosphere he believed was radiating from the Hellbanianz army he was playing to be one at the moment. With his height and body built he had acquired after tremendous exercise, he knew he could pass to be one. He blended in well enough.

Until on his line of sight, there came the storm.

He saw him come like the dragon slayer that he was and it almost amused the older Holmes to watch the murderous intent present on his younger brother's eyes. Without waiting for the chaos to apprehend him, Mycroft pushed his back from the wall and silently slipped by a dark room to his left side and stood where the light from outside couldn't reach him, until a pair of strong hands grabbed him by the collar and shoved him roughly by the wall—

"What are you doing here!?"

An amused Mycroft looked back at Sherlock even though his younger brother's fist were nearly clutched near his face.

"Here I thought I'd only ever hear you say that when I'm at the premises of your precious home." He gave a fake smile, rendering Sherlock even more annoyed for some reason. John slid into the room in time to see Sherlock still visible by the scattered light, pin one of the Hellbanianz member on the wall in one swift pull of his strong arms. Staggering a little, he saw the man press his lips into a smile—and then John did a double take as he recognized that smart smirk and sharp eyes—

"Bloody— what is he doing here?" the doctor looked back behind him in case anyone followed, and then strode behind Sherlock who dropped his older brother with a glare while Mycroft merely rubbed his neckline, eyes falling on John before glancing back to Sherlock. The two continued glowering at each other while the doctor stood between them.

"Next time, do try to show control when attacking a person in disguise as your today's enemy." The older Holmes stood straight sounding a little vexed, one eyebrow raised. "Though, you never really strategize in the middle of bout, do you? You're one of those who just keep kicking and always come out bloody? Yes, that's you."

"While you'd be dead standing around and making faces." Sherlock retorted, following his brother with his eyes as the British Government Head now in the fray walked quietly towards the entrance to scan the vicinity. "What are you doing here, Mycroft? What happened to our parents?"

"Your parents" Mycroft corrected without looking back and John visibly saw Sherlock's jaw tightened from where he stood, "In this case, my aunt and uncle. They're fine." He finally turned back with the same expression he would use when standing in front of a Cabinet meeting with hands characteristically crossed on his chest, "I made arrangements to have another appointment in the future. I don't quite approve of ambush, Sherlock. You know how busy I am with the current economy status, not to mention persistent assemblies called in by the PM who's about to get sacked if the nation does not make up its mind about the referendum." He rolled his eyes easily and turned back behind him to the noisy main hall. "And then there's this. Don't you watch the pattern of soap opera and movies, Sherlock? Long talk almost always happens at the end of a tragic episode."

The consulting detective frowned. "I told you I'd take care of this, you didn't have to come."

"But this is more of my personal business than yours." Mycroft replied quietly, eyes jumping to John, "You even involved someone entirely unrelated. I don't remember requesting the Baker Street boys to take the job."

John's ears went red and he stepped forward, ready with a snappish reply when he felt Sherlock's hand stop him by the shoulder. Sherlock himself was staring at his brother quietly, before letting his hand slip down his side and took a step toward the older Holmes.

"Mycroft, we're here to help." He said calmly.

"Have you located Adams and Kemp?" Mycroft turned business tone almost at once, staring Sherlock straight in the eye. For a moment, his younger brother stared at him quietly before blinking and pulling his eyes back and tapping on his ears.

"My homeless got them cornered. Adams found him, they'll be pulling back on my command or when a riot starts because there will be one so those not really a fan of hand to hand combat must exit now." He gave the older Holmes a pointed look, then lowered his eyes to Mycroft's left pocket. "Having a gun won't be enough here, brother. Didn't you smell kerosene in the air just now?"

John and Mycroft both turned their heads back at the main hall to the buzzing body. Sherlock only kept his eyes at the British Government Head, his eyes flickering at the reflecting light. "They're planning to burn everyone alive or at least, create terror so these people would become desperate. Apparently, that's how Hellbanianz roll when it comes to mass purging of rats because it's not only one. They know there are more than one rats in their field."

John shot Sherlock a look. "I thought you said they only think its Kemp?"

"They already killed five of my homeless networks, John, weren't you listening?" Sherlock glanced at his friend, "The situation has turned for the worse. It seems some of my contacts too are in league with the Hellbanianz. They've given these people heads up."

The doctor gaped at him while Mycroft simply stood there watching them.

"You know five of them are dead? Why aren't we doing anything—?" began the doctor hotly, thinking of the nameless agents Sherlock sacrificed like pawns. "Dammit, Sherlock—let's pull out now—"

Mycroft suddenly scoffed that had John glaring in his direction and saw him crunching his lips in disapproval.

"So afraid to lose number men you barely know, doctor? What did you expect when you decided to come here—that you'll just come out waltzing with all your friends in your arms?"

"These are human lives, Mycroft—! They're not even soldiers!"

Mycroft's whole demeanor was unsympathetic. "They were employed by Sherlock, they knew the risks."

John wanted to take a swing at Mycroft not for the first time since seeing him that night, only to find his best friend in front of him, grasping his shoulders to push him back, eyes transfixed at the doctor.

"Let me go, Sherlock. Your brother or cousin or whatever the hell you call him needs real beating."

"No. Listen, we don't have time." Sherlock hissed at him, "They've started moving out, we have to get out of here too. We have to get Mycroft out."

The way Sherlock was looking at him got John calming down, though his chest was still heaving when he gave Mycroft a glare, only the find the older Holmes not even paying any attention. He was already standing by the entrance with that steady look and when he said his next words there was no trace of fear nor any concern—

"The massacre has begun"

John listened in horror as deafening number of guns went off at the same time mixed with screams and shouts filling the hall— and pandemonium ensued. Sherlock immediately grabbed Mycroft's shoulder and tugged roughly on his clothes, pulling him while John quickly lead the way into the darkness with the light from his mobile phone which he kept hidden during the body inspection. Their steps in the corridor echoed with all the clatters they hit under their feet, but not as loud as the cries and shouts from the main hall they were desperately trying to get away from.

"Aren't we going to run into any of them here?" John called back, turning left when they ran into a fork, hearing the brothers right behind him with Sherlock goading his obvious slow brother to speed up, "We don't have any weapons, Sherlock."

"I am a weapon." the detective snapped with some difficulty, "And didn't you hear the radio? 20 Hellbanianz were only supposed to be here. Guess what, I counted 21—how else do you think I spotted Boo Radley here? He's the only one emitting the impression he's the big boss leaning on that wall casually. Imagine my surprise to realize it was my brother—I nearly believed he was behind everything, which of course he is."

There was a snappish grumble behind John and he was sure Mycroft just let out a curse.

"Everything alright, Mycroft?" the doctor called, finally finding a clear path without broken walls, woods and fragments of glasses and furniture they've been threading on haphazardly. The dark corridor deepened as they strolled farther.

"If you mean if Sherlock has successfully managed to rip my sleeve together with my shoulder, then I am not clear what you mean. What in here is alright? If tetanus could kill—no wait—it can." Sarcasm was ever there.

"Always enjoyed talking with you." John muttered under his breath, turning to a small room with toppled tables and stopping just about the side entrance, listening for anyone following them.

It gave Sherlock and Mycroft a chance to face each other with the latter with a swift flick of his arms.

"You don't have to worry about tetanus at all if they get their hands on you." Sherlock said, predictably belligerent. "What are the chances of them already knowing your name. Whose name do you think is next to Kemp on their list? Oh, let see—the mystery man whose name was shouted on national television by the same man about to get killed tonight!"

"You don't get to play that card on me, I am not irresponsible."

"And that's actually the problem."

"Hey…" John began, ears prickling at a sound coming from the corridor which was coming closer and closer but the brothers didn't pay him any attention. And the banter went on.

"I didn't come here to be a captive, you think I'd go beneath as to be rescued by you?" Mycroft said with a dead pan expression and a condescending raise of eyebrow. "I'm on a business trip and unlike you, dear cousin, I don't make it a habit of landing myself in trouble I cannot sort because I never overestimate. Generally speaking."

Sherlock gaped, distracted by the sudden address, then shook his head, "Then clearly, you haven't been looking in the mirror—" the detective abruptly stopped as darkness fell with nothing to be seen. Then there was John's voice—

"Quiet, will you?" the doctor hissed and soon it became apparent why as they heard impending footsteps of not one but a number of people from the corridor they just came from. With their visions next to useless, the three had to rely on their other senses, heightened by their impairment. Heart pounding seconds passed, John inhaled as the footsteps approached their level. He slid down the wall and felt on the ground, trying to find something useful to defend them and was able to pick up a large chunk of rock. Holding it tight, he raised himself and waited for the ambush. Oh, this reminded him of Afghanistan alright, but then this was how he had felt ever since meeting Sherlock.

Gritting his teeth, he knew the men were already by their door as lights shone in the corridor from their own torches—the next thing, lights flashed inside the small room that found Sherlock and John both ready to pounce on their enemies, only to find themselves staring at two familiar faces of Adams and Kemp.

"It's you guys," John exhaled and lowering the rock and turning on his own mobile torch. "You escaped, that's good."

"Where are the others?" Sherlock straightened, looking behind the men on to the dark gap behind them.

"They're on their way, we just got ahead with our own phones on," Adams answered briskly, dark eyes on the consulting detective. "They've killed people there. I think those who were ratted out by the others… over dozens of bodies—" he stopped midway as his eyes fell on Mycroft who remained standing next to the wall observing them. With a leap—Adams charged at him with fist ready to connect. Mycroft didn't even flinch as he saw him come—only that Sherlock stood between them with palm raised, holding Adams by the middle—

"Hold it—" Sherlock warned, "I'm sure my brother deserves what's coming, but who's going to carry him if he passes out?"

"Very slick." Mycroft commented sounding anything but grateful. "Normally, that's my line."

"What's wrong?" John ogled at Seth, though not really surprise at the behavior remembering the first time they met the man whose anger for his brother was beyond measurable. A case of a bad blood. But John thought they made up? Wasn't that what Sherlock said?

Seth was beside himself as he pointed at Mycroft fiercely, "He started all this."

Sherlock gave the man a narrowed look as the doctor nodded and said, "Yeah, that's about sums it up."

Mycroft remained silent as his half-brother tried to pass Sherlock but the younger Holmes easily pushed him back eyebrows raising. Seth glared at him and went on—

"He released Charlie, he set him up as a bait and you know why?" he spat with eyes on his older brother now, "To spy on me. Charlie told me everything— he offered him money then set him up with the gang. That guy put my friend in danger on purpose and acted as if he's doing me a favor trying to find him! What sick person— I'll kill him—"

Sherlock shoved him back with a glare while John sighed as his eyes fell on Mycroft who remained rooted on his ground. When the older Holmes looked back, the doctor shook his head exasperatedly as he muttered more to himself—

"Yep, you're getting on our page alright. Welcome to the club."

Just then more footsteps came running in the corridor and before any of the people in the room could react, five to six men stopped by the doorway, all heaving breathes and eyes wide when they saw people in the room.

"You guys," one of the men with thick brows and beard sighed when they recognized Seth and Charlie, "thought we'd lost you. This damn place is so dark and messy. Things are messy—people dead—"

"I'd get lost here even if this is our crack house, I'd never been to creepier place." Breathed Charlie with large eyes scanning the number of men as they pointed their torches in their direction, "What's happening out there?"

"They killed fifteen people and set out their men to hunt the missing guys." Answered the youngest of the men who looked terrified out of his skin, his dirty blonde hair all over his face. "I think that's us, but they gave out names—they said your name, Charlie. Something about spotting you—and then hunting some weird Holmes guy. The leaders said they'd stop killing when they get the two of you."

Sherlock and John both stiffened as Seth's eyes narrowed and asked, "Which one? What name?"

The blonde haired shook his head and shrugged, "I dunno—some Mikey Holmes?"

"It's Mycroft." Came an almost bored voice from behind John and Sherlock and all attention fell on the older Holmes by the wall, looking thoroughly cool despite the alarming situation. Sherlock scowled at him pointedly as if telling him to shut up while John's shoulders sagged, giving up.

"That's him, ain't he?" Charlie's voice suddenly rose from the corner, his own eyes gleaming as he stared at Mycroft whose eyes also only found him. "Mycroft Holmes."

Eyes were all on Mycroft now as Sherlock slowly eyed all the men, all of course were his contacts from the network but the way their eyes jumped to his older brother, all filled with anticipation, mixed with fear, desperation and relief that they could still survive suddenly made him understood not all of them were on the same side.

Seth Adam's eyes flashed dangerously.

"Take him."

-To Be Continued-

Chapter Text

*Bad blood *

by: WhiteGloves

A.N: I am terribly sorry for being gone for... nearly a month!

*gasps* real life is really pulling some punches! In compensation- I made this extra long!

Plus one final chapter! Do forgive me! (kicks the shadow of work from pulling her baccccccck to oblivion xD)

Thank you and enjoy!

Chapter 10: Way Out

[Six years ago: Serbia]

"So, my friend. Now it's just you and me."

He heard the man spoke in perfect Serbian, understood its meaning even having been trapped there for many weeks with his handler incessantly inflicting him pain. His mouth was dry with only the taste of blood. His arms were numb from the way it hung, stretched on his side like a spread eagle. His body stank with his sweat, blood and grime, his throat dry but at best, he was able to use it to buy him some time as he told his torturer about his wife's infidelity and like the small-minded fool that he was, the bald Sebrian guy was gone.

Leaving him alone with that idiot brother of his because make no mistake, Sherlock recognized him even with the layer of his thick coat and fur. Sherlock knew it was Mycroft the moment he entered the room and settled himself on the opposite chair. The way he silently made his presence known without having to speak, the precise footfall of his feet and the way he carried himself that stood among the barbarians. Mycroft had tried to blend in, but his superior nature was always showing. At least to the trained eyes.

And now Mycroft had stood up from the chair, his feet hitting the ground quietly.

"You have no idea the trouble it took to find you." He stood beside him, then there was that painful tug on his hair, followed by sounds of chain as a hand clamped on his head and pulled his head firmly. Mycroft surely enjoys himself, Sherlock thought scathingly as he heard his brother speak now in their native tongue about a terrorist network acting in London.

Of course, why else would Mycroft be here if it isn't for his next utility?

"Back to Baker Street." said the man, "Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock felt a smile tug at the corner of his lips but it didn't last as he slowly looked up behind his long curls, his murderous eyes staring intently at that tall man still beaming at him with his hands behind him. Mycroft looked elated, especially when he raised his right hand, revealing a chain of keys. He looked triumphant but all Sherlock could think about was how long Mycroft had been sitting his bottom there without any inclination to stop his torturer. They stared quietly at each other in the next seconds, Sherlock seething in annoyance and Mycroft somewhat looking confused. When Sherlock continued giving him a glare, refusing to even utter the words of what should be obviously done next, the older Holmes sighed and blinked at each of his red wrists quietly and then moved on to use the keys.

The first chain clicked and Sherlock felt himself sway to his right, his knees buckling beneath him as his free hand landed on his leg, heaving breathes as Mycroft moved to unchain his other hand. He felt sore, felt his body was warm but not enough to render him unconscious.

"The trouble you find yourself in, brothermine," came Mycroft's voice, free from any emotion as the chain locked and Sherlock found himself kneeling on the floor, trying to regain his composure. The cold floor was haven to his aching legs. He coveted Mycroft's shoes who stood in front of him, knowing his own feet must still have those unattended wounds from all the running in the woods. Slowly, he relaxes as at the back of his mind, he knew he was finally going home.

But the package that Mycroft was the person to find him made him revolt and glared upwards again. Mycroft was still smiling down at him with his sharp eyes dancing. He was really proud of himself. Sherlock gritted his teeth.

"You came." He huffed, finally clambering to his feet to meet his brother on eye level. He couldn't stand being under his condescending smirk anymore and knowing Mycroft, he knew he wouldn't hear the end of this.

"Of course." Mycroft nodded, eyes still light, "Who else do you think has the capacity to make the perfect rescue?"

Sherlock groaned and massaged his right wrists. "Why you?"

Mycroft stopped and blinked, seemingly trying not to be offended. "Because it's me. Who else do you think is there, Sherlock?"

"Point." The younger Holmes rubbed his other hand, a frown forming on his forehead as he was reminded that yes, there was only him and Mycroft. Ever since he faked his death after the Reichenbach fall, there was only the two of them—just like old times. Like Baker Street had never even happened, and John never existed. That Mycroft's presence was the only ever thing he could count on and though it never made him feel alone, it didn't make him feel any better. Not after knowing a warmer presence in the person of his flat mate. The thought somehow sent melancholy on the man's chest, but he rubbed it off together with the pain on his wrists as he stood straight, eyes hard on the door.

"You don't seem to have any lasting damage on that body of yours. You'll be fine." Mycroft voiced his assessment and Sherlock was once again painfully reminded how Mycroft just sat there but he opted to change the topic instead.

"Fine is when I'm out of this hell hole, Mycroft. Now stop bragging of your rescue when we're still stuck in here, what's the plan?" he shot a glance at his brother and found Mycroft already staring nonchalantly at the doorway.

"There's only one young sentinel outside, he doesn't even count as a threat. Five more lingers by the corridor but I don't think they would dare get on my way. See, I have quite a distinct reputation and rank—"

"Oh, shut up, get on with it." Sherlock interrupted before Mycroft could elevate himself further at his successful infiltration where he obviously managed to rank up. Sherlock had no time for his shit, his body ached like he was in flames. "If we're going, then it's now."

Mycroft nodded in agreement and gestured for Sherlock to keep himself hidden while he stood in the middle of the room. Sherlock did and the older Holmes proceeded in calling his man outside in perfect Sebrian tongue. The metal door opened and the guard, seeing as the chains were no longer holding their captive, gasped especially at Mycroft's icy tone in Sebrian—

"What's the meaning of this?" indicating the chains, his tone accusatory. He flashed the poor man one of his most deadly look and the guard frantically ran to his side, his weapon raised in alert as he told Mycroft in sequence how he was sure he heard their prisoner in here not long ago—

Mycroft didn't even have to turn his eyes when Sherlock made the assault. He kept himself standing there quietly, waiting for Sherlock to finish his business. Only when he heard Sherlock zip his jacket did he look beside him to find his brother donning the sentry's look that fitted him perfectly.

Sherlock mused on the fitting and gave his older brother a suspicious look. Mycroft smirked, looking as if he was caught red-handed as his eyes travelled down the unconscious guard on the floor.

"There's a reason I hand picked him to be the sentinel outside, he's the only one near your body size."

"How far are we from the exit and how many obstacles?" Sherlock ignored him and Mycroft didn't see to mind as he watched the younger Holmes put the strap of an assault rifle around his body and fixed his long hair clear off his face and wear the fur hat.

"Fifteen minutes if we don't meet anyone. But they know better than to engage me."

"What'd you do—kill a person to prove it?"

"I don't have to eliminate anyone to prove power, Sherlock."

"Sure. And I didn't have to save my skin from my torturer with your 'power' looming in front of me either."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Now you're asking." He smirked and left his older brother as he stepped towards the door, "Are we leaving or not?" There was no response for a long time and for the briefest second inside his mind palace, Sherlock thought something had happened while his back was turned— like the guard waking up realizing the traitor and slitting Mycroft's throat—it sent an unpleasant shiver on his spine that in a snap, he turned to look at Mycroft in annoyance, knowing full well his mind was getting too active for his own good.

He found Mycroft standing there with a gun on his hand, eyes inspecting it quietly.

"I could use a weapon on the way out." He said, more to himself.

Sherlock's expression scrunched. "Really? You don't have a weapon under all that garb?"

Mycroft gave him an exasperated look as he kept the weapon and walked behind him. "I'm surprised you couldn't tell. I didn't come here with the plan of aggravating anyone to the point that I get myself in a fix before I even get to my target. Weapons are for direct combat and self defense. I didn't plan on acquiring one as I see no necessity to defend myself. Now that you my brother has been located, I think there is already a reason for combat." He took something from his other pocket and Sherlock watched as his brother attached a silencer at the tip of the gun before slipping the weapon inside his coat pocket.

Sherlock couldn't help the snort that he made as he reached for the door and opened it, peeking cautiously outside.

"You bring a weapon around you all the time in London inside that umbrella." He pointed out. "Yet not bring one in a terrorist cell?"

"Well, you know London," Mycroft tapped Sherlock to move aside and stepped outside the metal door, legging the corridor and seeing no enemy, gestured for Sherlock to follow as he continued, "I find the Parliament even more deadly than this place combined."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning it's difficult to fathom the actions of people with hidden agenda whereas this place moves single-mindedly."

"Ah." Sherlock whispered as they briskly walked, "Now there's the understatement. Not like you get up from the chair, pointing your umbrella at them?"

"Maybe, but the gun will remain in my hand, Sherlock." Mycroft clarified, somewhat knowing the point of the conversation, "It's an insurance. A gentleman can't walk around without protection when a havoc like you're around. It's like walking naked in the Cabinet office."

"I'm sure Lady Smallwood will enjoy that."

Mycroft gave a pause, Sherlock grinning back at him from where they stood at the end of the corridor, still not meeting anyone. The prospect of his brother being intimate with anyone seemed so ridiculous at that point.

The older Holmes' eyebrows rose up. "And why wouldn't Sir Edward enjoy it as well?"

Sherlock nearly pulled the trigger of the gun on his hand. He looked back at his older brother to find him smiling at him easily and realized Mycroft was pulling his leg. It made him crunch his teeth as the older Holmes walked ahead of him.

"Very funny, Mycroft."

"You started the picture."

"I don't want to remember you in your birthday suit."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "How unfortunate for you."

Sherlock hissed, angling his shoulder to a more comfortable position so his wound would not be grazed by the belt of the rifle. His slight groan made Mycroft look behind him as they pressed their backs on a wall. There was an amused expression on his face.

"Your wounds are not deep, but it will sting, I imagine."

"I'm aware, Mycroft. I can feel them." He said through gritted his teeth.

"If you prefer to rest for a while—"

"Just move!"

The two moved adeptly with Sherlock bringing up the rear despite his body's condition. The corridor was narrow and dark, like an underground that it was, and each turn they see more enemies standing or walking around. Not once had they been stopped the moment their eyes fell on Mycroft who seemed to be acting the part as their superior. Which again heavily reminded Sherlock that this brother of his sat there, knowing he could stop the beating earlier on, enjoying himself.

He decided to let it slip for now.

They rounded a corner, just before the door at the end of the corridor Mycroft obviously had memorized to be the exit when the British Government Head collided with someone with sturdy body as wide as the wall. An angry yelp slipped from the man who was a few inches taller than Mycroft, wearing the same attire with heavy eyebrows and pointed large nose. Mycroft rubbed his shoulder with his expression a mask of unconcern. The man seemed to recognized Mycroft who stepped back to shield Sherlock from view as the consulting detective automatically lowered his head.

In no time, both were exchanging gruff greetings in Russian tongue.

"Kusteekh." He said, addressing Mycroft who gave a slight nod, lips thin.

"Kañ-ool."

"What are you doing here? The leader's been calling for you. He wants to send you now to Moscow for a negotiation."

"Was that supposed to be now?" Mycroft's eyebrow arched and Sherlock stole a glance up, trying to sense if they were in danger with this man. They were still within the cell—heck they haven't even stepped outside the prison camp and creating a ruckus right now could be a poor strategy and a waste of effort on his brother's part. Like sinking the walls of a dam with them standing before it. No, they couldn't miss this chance.

"Change plans." Said Kañ-ool, standing sideways and showing Mycroft the door and gesturing his head to it, "I'm supposed to escort you, let's go."

Mycroft stood rigidly for a second, before nodding and Kañ-ool walked ahead. Mycroft didn't move. Immediately, Sherlock was on his side and the brothers followed the tall Russian man's figure with their eyes.

"Is it possible to tell you to go ahead without me while I try to follow you back when I can?" the older Holmes asked with humor while Sherlock shook his head.

"Nope."

"I figured. My chance of escaping is pretty slim if I am left behind. There'd be no way out."

"Then why ask?"

"Just trying to avoid the inevitable…" there was a strange note in Mycroft's words that Sherlock caught, before he saw his brother dig his hand inside his coat pocket. It stayed there for a few minutes. The younger Holmes could see hesitation in his brother's eyes.

"Hey, what are you doing still standing there?" called Kañ-ool with heavy tone. Mycroft's eyes flickered and from his pocket he slowly pulled out the gun and weighed it on his hand, his eyes focused on his target. Sherlock threw his brother a quick look. Kañ-ool was standing too far to see what was on the older Holmes' hand.

"Mycroft…" Sherlock called softly.

"But we have no choice." Mycroft replied grimly, yet the gun remained on his side. Seeing that his brother could barely clasp the weapon on his palm, Sherlock clenched his jaw and took the gun from his brother. Mycroft jumped in surprise, but felt himself getting pushed from the back forcefully—

"Sherlock—"

"Walk." The consulting detective commanded, eyes on his target, as he kept himself behind the older Holmes, "He's a few feet from the doorway. He's the only block to freedom. We need to get rid of him."

"You're not—"

Sherlock didn't answer. His eyes flashed dangerously as they slowly approach, already seeing that it would be a difficult combat with the man so muscular but hey, what's with the element of surprise? In one single motion, just as they stopped beside the man, Sherlock gave all his might and swung the butt of the rifle he was clutching at the side of the head of his target— the most vulnerable one— making sure to make contact with a pressure point—

The strike knocked the man out in an instant. Sherlock breathed heavily, knowing his own blood was rushing in his veins at the strength he had to muster right after being tortured. But he had to make sure the man was taken down quickly. Any other disturbance there would call the attention of the whole vicinity. He turned to Mycroft who was staring at him with mouth slightly open.

"The gun's heavy." He said dryly.

"Of course it is." Sherlock said as he turned his body towards the last steps heading to the door, knowing well both of them understood the weight of the weapon. He clasped a hand on the metal doorway and pushed it open, stepping in the clear path and seeing the gray sky.

Will you look at that? Sherlock thought in amusement as Mycroft stepped behind him.

He got himself out.

Just another day for Sherlock Holmes and dear brother Mycroft.

Which was saying something in the present as Sherlock found himself yet again in a difficult situation where his brother was concerned. It would have been like any other operation they have handled from their years of experience with Sherlock destroying everything he can reach and Mycroft cleaning up his mess. Sherlock wouldn't have been worried at all even when surrounded by enemies looking for his older brother, or in this case cousin—but this didn't feel like anything he has handled in the past. Somehow, Sherlock felt like he was alone even with John watching his back. He could even feel a trickle of cold sweat sliding down his cheeks, hinting on his awareness that something was not right.

It was screaming on his face every time he looked over at his older brother.

Mycroft remained stoic and in control—nothing new. But why was his mind—no, why was his heart hammering—? Like an instinct telling him something was off? Mycroft was unfazed even with the prospect of being taken by the group of men only after their own self-preservation. But that was just Mycroft being Mycroft. He was never one to show weakness in front of others… Mycroft was fine… Mycroft was okay…

Sherlock knew he was only trying to convince himself.

In the silence that fell after Adams' demand, came a forbidding voice in the dark.

"Take one step…I dare you…"

It was deep and low, like a rumble of thunder emanating concealed power. He didn't have to shout, but everyone knew that his threat was sound. His eyes glinted darkly and though he was not holding any weapon, the consulting detective radiated like an atomic bomb as he stood like a boulder between his older brother and the men surrounding them who had attempted to seize him in order to save their lives. Even John Watson had positioned himself behind Sherlock, standing in front of Mycroft the moment he saw the threatening movements toward the older Holmes.

Sherlock's eyes were on Seth and Seth alone. John could not see his best friend's expression but he could just imagine his silent anger seeping through the look he was giving Mycroft's half-brother. It could only be that look—the same look that had graced the kind of Magnussen, Culverton and Moriarty. Whenever anyone he ever cared about was under threat, Sherlock was sure to have that look.

Mycroft was silent.

"You know you can't give him up." John said amidst the tension, Sherlock not moving an inch while his networks stared at him dumbly and anxiously. They obviously know what he was capable of. John knew he had to do something as his eyes fell on Adams. "You know Mycroft came here to help you. Whether he's the reason we're in this mess or not, he still came for you. He maybe manipulative, but he's never left anyone hanging in the air. He's here to prove that. Aren't you, Mycroft?"

He glared back at the British Government Head whom he found staring quietly at the back of Sherlock's head before meeting his eyes pointedly, an eyebrow always superiorly up, his answer was stern. "You really think I'd stoop low enough to prove myself to anyone?"

John couldn't believe he was standing between this poor excuse of a human and the men who could beat him in satisfaction. Maybe he should have let them. Mycroft didn't look like he was being insincere and this above anything else ticked John into clenching his fist rather than tackle the man himself.

"Sherlock…" he hissed, a warning on his tone. Sherlock eyed Mycroft from the corner of his eyes.

"Don't be stubborn, Mycroft." He whispered quietly, eyes darting back to the men in front of him, a hand slowly raising up to halt any movements. "No one will take anyone, and no one will get hurt. I say you step down and no one here will get killed. My brother doesn't answer to any of you. Not even you."

Seth and Sherlock glared antagonistically at each other and it was obvious there was real bad blood between them when Mycroft stepped from the corner of the wall, standing almost ahead of John, his features grim and silent.

"If testosterones could level down, the two of you idiots will all get us killed by the time you decide whether it's safe for us to linger." Eyes pulling from his brothers, the British Government Head addressed the other men, his tone dead, "I don't think you'd want to lay a hand on me. Not if you know what's best for you because I promise you, the moment you escape this hole, no amount of hiding can save you from the British Government's most elite force. This is a reconnaissance. As we speak, an infiltration team has been progressively moving at this epicenter from northing and easting locations within 20 m radius, waiting for my signal. Units have been standing by on all escape routes a kilometer from this point, leaving no chance for the enemy to slip." Mycroft's eyebrows rose up characteristically, his tone in calculated measure, calm and lucid. "So, if you plan to identify yourself opposite me then resign yourself to the consequences, it will not stop whether I am present or not. If you have made a decision, take a step forward and pray… take me."

He opened his arms in a welcome invitation but there was something in his cold demeanor and expression that had all men stare at him in awe. A beat passed; nobody made any movement. Sherlock's eyes were trained on his older brother. Seth never took his eyes from him too as Mycroft blinked ever so slowly, an eyebrow rising higher than the other and whispered, "No? Good." He lowered his arms, "It's the smartest thing you've ever done, I assure you."

John swallowed hard and he was sure Sherlock was looking at him now too. The doctor knew from the beginning that Mycroft had a plan. This was an intelligence operation; it was impossible for Mycroft not to have prepared any countermeasures when outnumbered and chances of survival are minimal. Especially when it involves having to interact with potential traitors, the man himself was a walking threat to others, that much John understood. And yet he could not stomach understanding this deeper… he couldn't help the silent rage in his voice when he spoke above the noise after the British Government's revelation.

"So… you're saying your men have been waiting all this time..." He licked his dried lips, his fists clenching and unclenching as Mycroft slowly turned his direction. "Outside— waiting for your signal to come and rescue. And you haven't made a move even with those people are dying under your nose?" That one John could not understand and he made sure to get it across the British Government Head as his heated eyes burned him with intensity. "You let people die even when you have the option to save them?"

"Their rescue is not my concern." Mycroft replied dryly, not a sign of life on his eyes, "I do not compromise operations, Doctor Watson. Not for anything."

John hissed and before he could stop himself, his right hand had clasped on the lapel of Mycroft's clothes. It didn't matter if Mycroft was inches taller than him, John was sure he could take down the mountain any second. Had Sherlock come between them, John was sure he would have punched his best friend. Sherlock knew better and stayed where he was, watching John muster his anger as he concentrated on the older Holmes.

"That 'anything' was lives, Mycroft! You could have saved them! What's more important than human lives!? How could you not— you—" he didn't know how to describe the man anymore and he would have used the word monster but realized he didn't have to. Mycroft got his message loud and clear but his eyes remained icy.

"It's not my concern." He repeated still.

"John," Sherlock finally stepped between them, putting a firm hand on his friend's wrist gripping Mycroft, "It's already done. We can discuss this at length later." He gave his older brother a penetrating gaze which Mycroft only returned without much as a scowl as he freed himself from the doctor. "We have to move. The radio has been buzzing about finding Adams as well and from the looks of it, they are already threatening to burn the place down." He tapped on the device in his ear to silently convey where he got the information. He looked his brother square in the eyes, "Your men would be useless here if they engulf the place in flames. But really, a reconnaissance with you as the vanguard?"

"Not the first time I've done it to secure the target." Mycroft answered pointedly and both brothers were reminded of those many times the older Holmes would appear on site when Sherlock needed rescue the most, the most recent one in Sebria flashing in their memories. This time, however, Sherlock knew Mycroft had a different 'brother' in mind. The idea clipped something in his stomach but this was no time to act irrationally because whatever it was that made him glance at Seth Adams was not pleasant. He turned back to Mycroft. "What's your plan?"

Mycroft took one look at Sherlock with a frown, then swept his eyes at everyone else, his lips curling.

"We don't need this many number going in one direction if we all want to escape unnoticed. We have to go on separate directions to locate the different way out. North and East side are where my men will meet us once I give the go signal. We are located at the annex of the left wing. From here the first group can take the right corridor leading to the backdoor onto the trees. Continue in that direction they are can reach the railway station. Safe to say, that route is the most secured as the north unit will meet them approximately 32 minutes from now. If apprehended by my men just give them the code: Umbrella Corporation and they'll know I sent you."

He finished his words, clearly looking at the members of networks staring at him. In the next beat, they were all scrambling out of the room with energy like the devil himself was chasing them, leaving the Holmes brothers, John, Seth, Kemp and two younger men staring at them, uncertain whether to follow or not. Mycroft huffed silently but with no visible concern.

"Halfwits, I said it's unsafe to go as group."

Not a second passed when he said it, thunderous feet could be heard from the corridor followed by gun shots hitting walls and men roaring behind. Sherlock immediately grabbed Mycroft's arm and ushered him out as the others ducked, going in the opposite direction and out on the other corridor. They ran like hell, with gun fires still ringing on their ears. As much as John was concerned for those who were chased in what they believed to be the 'safest route', he couldn't help but feel vexed at Mycroft's obvious goading. Did he plan to eliminate those men singlehandedly by manipulating their fears? Because that's how he saw it happen.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was busily dragging his older brother, especially when they heard heavy feet running behind them. There were thuds and cracks as they made their way on the darkened and cluttered corridor blocked by several pieces of broken ceiling that were dangerously kicked around by Seth and John who were running ahead. Moonlight shone above them from the cracks of the ceilings.

They hadn't been running long when Mycroft gasped in pain—the next thing he was limply following Sherlock and the detective was sure his brother, in contrast to his unrivaled sharp mind— sucked the most in his clumsy physical nature, must've hit something along the way.

"Hurry up!" he scolded him, aware of Mycroft's heavy breathing, unaccustomed to such physical exertion. But Sherlock was only half sympathetic as another part of him wanted to teach his older brother a lesson about sneaking around and placing himself in operations that required bodily flexibility to survive. Mycroft remained apathetic even to his brother's admonishment.

"You forget I'm not made for legworks." He said quietly between catching his breaths.

"Then you shouldn't have volunteered here in the first place." The consulting detective spat.

"Let me go."

Instinct made Sherlock to grip him tightly. "If you look at yourself now, you'd probably realize it's the exact opposite you're doing. You didn't have to come here… what you are doing here eludes me. I know it's pointless to ask."

"Then don't." came the cutting reply.

Sherlock was tempted to just stop and knock some sense to his brother; as dire as their situation was, Mycroft's absolute indifference to his surrounding and his consistent dramatic repose and stasis despite their situation was starting to unnerve Sherlock. It was not out of his brother's character to be calm during an operation. Hell, Mycroft can infiltrate terrorist camps with only his wits and escape unscathed and unnoticed. Sherlock visibly recalled their time in Sebria, when he was captured and relentlessly tortured. Mycroft had come to his rescue in perfect disguise as one of the ranked officials. Not that he doubted his older brother finding him, but to find that Mycroft was there spoke volumes of his concern and his priority. Not to mention, probably to make sure everything goes smoothly. Mycroft covered this later by confessing afterwards that he didn't want Sherlock to jeopardize the rescue operation.

They were late as it is. Mycroft had said, as if speaking of missing a tea party.

Sherlock had acknowledged that, but was deeply annoyed by then that Mycroft took time in watching as he was tortured. He remembered Mycroft smirking at him as they waded themselves out after unhinging him from the chain. It was quite easy to escape from there seeing as Mycroft had made sure he was at the top position not to be questioned of his business by anyone they encounter along the way. If Sherlock hadn't been too warped in his own bitterness of having been rescued by Mycroft (which then felt like a slap in the face), he would have admitted to be impressed.

Mycroft knew that he knew he owe him another one. His dancing eyes said as much. Good thing Sherlock was able to get even by saving his older brother's behind many times after that encounter. Otherwise Mycroft would never let him hear the end of it.

This time was no different than then. Mycroft infiltrating. Mycroft in disguise. Mycroft being there.

Yet, it was all wrong. Where as Mycroft had been a walking sass and wit back then, letting Sherlock do all the physical fight till they were out of harm's way with comments too sarcastic for Sherlock to tolerate, today he was nothing but a walking corpse. Dead inside. He would look at his older brother and all his sees was the depth of the coldness of his eyes, staring glassily ahead with his too short replies. This was not the Mycroft would rescue him when the situation was serious, no matter how dire. This was not the Mycroft who willingly staged himself as a fisherman out of humor despite the grave business in Sherrinford. That Mycroft was missing here replaced by a soulless shell. Sherlock should have noticed it from the beginning. What has happened to his brother? He kept a firm hold on that sluggish arm.

But at that moment, his best friend's voice alerted him.

"Turn off your lights!" John hissed frantically, "someone's behind us!"

"Take left!" Kemp hollered loud enough for them to follow his voice as all lights turned off and Sherlock struggled with his feet to make sure nothing blocks his path, "There's a boiler room in there we can hide going underground!"

Without question, Sherlock tugged on Mycroft whom he found pliantly following his direction. Their way was dark and dangerous with only feeble light coming from the moon on the broken ceiling and window, but after all the colliding sounds head of them, the two soon heard crashing sounds Sherlock quickly identified as woods scratching the floor and crashing to many things in front of them. Someone apparently thought it wise to clear their path using broken woods used to block and tackle —but the noise it was creating was enough to make racket in the whole floor—

"Stop that!" Sherlock bellowed, glad that Mycroft was not letting himself get dragged anymore, though he still kept limping. The two of them were the last in the troupe. "You want them to find us quickly?"

"Tell that to splinter of woods sticking on my ass!" Kemp retorted but there was a sound of heavy wood getting thrown on the side wall and sounds of feet begrudgingly making its way on the corridor. An annoyed sound came next, and then Adams turned on his mobile's torch.

"This is stupid." He muttered, pointing the torch up till they saw how near they were to adjacent corridors.

"Left!" Kemp began again and he was already halfway on the direction, followed by Adams and the two homeless network members when Sherlock was suddenly stopped by his brother-cousin's hand, pulling him back. Looking sharply behind him, the younger Holmes found his brother's silhouette, close and tall against him. He could not see Mycroft's expression, but his eyes glinted in the reflected moonlight.

"Sherlock, this is the perfect opportunity to disperse. Our number is still great and can attract attention."

"Why? Our number is enough as it is." Sherlock answered, taking a step closer to the man to see his face, but Mycroft, as ever, was devoid of any emotion at the moment. "Come on, we can't waste time—"

"Tell me you don't think it's a good idea to split up—"

"No, it's really not—and even if it is, there's no way you're not going to the other group other than mine."

"Sherlock?" Came John's inquiring voice not far from them that had the detective glancing behind him, before looking back at Mycroft. "Come on, we can't do this now. We have to go."

There was urgency in Sherlock's tone now for he was sure he saw torch lights coming from the end of the corridor they had just come from, "Mycroft, we really have to go—"

"Would you rather Doctor Watson lead the other group?"

Mycroft's question had Sherlock frowning. "Why are you obsessed with splitting up?"

"They're coming! Jesus!" John called in whisper, scrambling back to the Holmes brothers, "Sherlock!"

"Go!" Sherlock barked at his best friend, clasping both hands in front of his idiot brother's uniform and slamming him inside a room on his right, "We'll follow! Shortly! Throw your phone on the right corridor, John and leave the torch on! That'll mislead them!"

He did not wait for the doctor's reply as he grabbed the top of Mycroft's head and forcefully had him duck down inside the too dark room, sliding on the wall and placing a finger on his lips, not sure if Mycroft could see him. No sooner had they done this, they heard rumbling footsteps and the floor vibrated with running feet coming closer and closer—Sherlock clutched his hand at the back of his older brother's head, having imagined for the wildest moment Mycroft to raise his head out of impulse—

Which reminded him once again of what was the matter—what was off? Was Mycroft having an episode!?

Angry voices went pass their hiding place, three- five—seven men trotting one after the other. Sherlock pressed back on the wall till the last man was gone, before letting out a long sigh he didn't know he was holding. Slowly, he craned his neck by the door less archway, but only saw the empty, dark corridor. He listened for a few seconds, and when nothing came, he pulled himself back inside the room.

"They went right," he sighed, dropping his head back on the wall and opening his eyes to the broken ceiling, revealing a starless sky. His heart was still pounding under his chest which was a good thing. If he hadn't been too afflicted about the man beside him, he would have found all of this funny. "And there are no gunshots… they're safe."

"So, you made a choice to let Doctor Watson lead the other group?" Mycroft sounded grim, but dead pan straight fact.

"Better him than you." Sherlock now glared at his brother, finally having the space to turn to him, see his silhouette unmoving from where he sat and the way his head drooped concerned Sherlock. "You're too unstable to be left on your own, Mycroft. What's wrong?"

"It doesn't concern you."

"Bullshit." His voice came out strong and for a second, he thought he saw Mycroft turn his way a little too quickly but stayed silent. This made Sherlock grimace even more for the Mycroft that he knew wouldn't be able to resist a sharp comment on his profanity. "Mycroft…" his tone was full of warning. "What's happening to you?"

"I want out." Breathed the older Holmes.

Sherlock paused, his frown deepening. "Out…? From what?"

"From everything."

Sherlock studied his brother's silhouette for a few seconds, the meaning of his words sinking deep and touching something alarming in him. Was he suggesting…?

"Don't be an idiot!" he snarled, but after a few seconds, Sherlock found himself blinking as reason started to flow in his head instead of instant rejection. Why Mycroft would want to be 'out' when everything around him had crumbled in no lesser than a week, everything he strongly believed in, the very foundation of his very being trampled upon by no other than his own father. Sherlock couldn't blame him, yet couldn't support him in that out either. Many times, he wanted things to end, but every time he does, the reprimanding tone of his older brother would bring him back to his senses. No matter how lost he was, no matter how stoned he was he would always hear Mycroft's strong voice of reprimand and goads to come back—to think. Was that what Mycroft needed right now? Someone to tell him to get off his arse and start thinking? Sherlock then wondered who it was that can always push Mycroft to go forward when he stumbles. It made Sherlock pause again. Has his brother ever stumbled before?

And even if he did—when did he ever expressed himself in such a way—? Mycroft was never one to show inclination to emotion— let alone depression—

Sherlock's jaw dropped open as he stared at his brother. "Mycroft—"

"I want out." the British Government Head muttered as he raised his chin and glanced at Sherlock's direction. "We need to get out of here soon, Sherlock. We have to escape. If we don't, I have a feeling this is where we will meet our end."

Sherlock crinkled his nose and looked away. "You don't want to meet your end?"

"I prefer it is not in a dingy environment where a possibility of my body getting charred is high, so no."

The younger Holmes sucked some air and let his arms fall on his knees tucked near his chest. "Good to hear." He didn't know why, but seeing his older brother breaking down, or admitting a weakness in such a way had a huge impact on him. He was just glad Mycroft still got it together. He hoped his brother could keep it together, but there are times he wanted the man to just be an open book like John. But then, that was like hoping the sky would crack open and reveal its maker. Near impossible.

When silence greeted his ears for a long while, Sherlock opted to speak again.

"You know we can always escape. We've had plenty of wading ins in our lives. Nothing can stop us getting out of here alive together."

"There is now." Mycroft's tone was quiet, and for a moment, Sherlock thought he planned to end it there, only for him to continue, "This time, it's not just the two of us, Sherlock. This time we have other people we need to protect. You have yours, I have mine. We need to set priorities, brother…" his voice trailed away.

Sherlock pointedly look at his older brother who was no longer looking his way. It dawned to him that Mycroft was speaking of John, and of Adams. Strangely, he could not counter that. Was that why Mycroft wanted to separate their groups? So he, Sherlock, could concentrate on saving the life of his best friend? But what does Mycroft expect himself to do? Tackle Seth's enemy in a hand combat? Adams was practically throwing Mycroft around the first time they met, it was obvious who needed the protection.

"I need to do this; I am his brother." Mycroft's voice was unrecognizable. "The least I could do is save him."

Sherlock closed his eyes as he realized this was not about what he can and can't do. Mycroft needed this to ground himself on something. To rebuilt his foundation. Not allowing Mycroft to do this was like shackling him from independence. The man was trying to function in a strange orbit he had just stepped in and he wants to be in control. And it all came back to Sherlock how he was always getting in the way of his brother from meeting with Seth, to bringing him back to talk to their parents—his aunt and uncle or whatsis. Have those affected Mycroft's self-esteem? Maybe he had meddled too much… it was possible he was also adding to whatever Mycroft was going through by being too much of himself. Too selfish.

But to leave without Mycroft?

It was still all leaving a bad taste in his mouth.

"I can't just leave you…" Sherlock started, stopping with a wave of protest on his chest.

"You're not." Mycroft's voice was firm and for a moment, Sherlock saw his older brother, the one from before any of this began, stared back at him with confidence, "This is merely a tactic. It's not like we can't see each other at the end of the tunnel."

Sherlock found his eyes not leaving his brothers. He gritted his teeth.

"You make sure you come out of that hole, Mycroft."

Only his brother's silhouette making a curt nod was there to assure him that he was heard.

"What's going on? What took you guys so long? Did they find my phone?" John scrambled to his feet inside the long boiler room with five tanks, pipes and trinkets around surrounded by doors on each side.

The Holmes brothers appeared there fifteen minutes later, Sherlock with his phone's torch on and Mycroft right behind him. Both brothers looked a mess with torn pants and scratches on their knees and legs. Mycroft had it worse as his right shin was actually bleeding.

"It wasn't there any longer so obviously." Sherlock informed his flatmate as he looked around the company, "Anyway, we're going to split up. Units from North and East will meet us at juncture right outside the trees. But the two of you are coming with us," he told his network whom he doesn't really trust at the moment, "I can't let Mycroft get distracted by anything you might pull."

Actually, Mycroft doesn't care, John wanted to point out as he stole a glance at the apathetic Holmes.

"Split up is fine with me, but why not take him?" Adams nodded at his half brother who caught his eyes but remained silent. Adams returned his look sullenly, "His leg is already busted, he's only going to slow us down. Take him with you."

Mycroft's eyes didn't leave Seth. "If you feel safer with Sherlock, then go wrap your arms around him."

Sherlock suppressed the initial thought to laugh, "We're the only two people in this group to have memorized the entire area's layout plan to a fault and know where our back ups are currently located. I don't like the idea but moving with seven men, it will be difficult to slip anyone along the way without getting attention."

"He's right," Kemp muttered behind Seth, "The way we run's like having rhinos in the distance. We'll be dead before we can find that exit door."

Sherlock looked from Kemp to Adams, before his eyes fell to his older brother. "You'll be alright?"

Mycroft nodded once, "I have sent a message to my men just now. They will be infiltrating in the next ten minutes. It's best that we are not on their way when they engage. Hopefully they will not set the whole place ablaze… I have also sent for fire marshals to use the helicopters. If we can still save lives as what Doctor Watson intended—"

John just stood there with arms crossed looking disgruntled. "You're only working that out now? They're all dead."

"Nothing bad in trying." Was Mycroft monotonous reply without his usual fake smile that would normally accompany his remarks. "We should be going now. Time is our enemy." The Holmes brothers took one last look at each other, before the older Holmes turned his heels and left.

John stood beside Sherlock as they too faced the opposite door, a heavy frown gracing his eyes.

"Is he gonna be okay?"

Sherlock pressed a smile, glad that despite his best friend's aversion to Mycroft, he still had enough soft spot for him to care. Not many people could hold that spot on his older brother. Either Mycroft ticks them, or he simply do not allow them which only made Sherlock admire John more.

"He'll be fine. Now we need to move to safety. And John?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

Seth and Kemp lead the way as they were the ones with the phone torches with Mycroft guiding them from the rear. They heard no one follow them in the first five minutes, not even heard a sound of other people's footsteps as they made their way in a hurry towards the northern exit. No wind could be felt or heard, yet at some point, the dilapidated wallpapers would flap in their presence, their shadows growing with the torch's light. The corridor they crossed was not as cluttered like the rest but it was narrower with lines of open metal doors to their right, showing numbers of empty beds, some with bed foam, others rusty metallic bunkers that were all left forgotten. This was an Asylum after all.

Mycroft gave the objects no heed as he stared at his two companions. They were nearing the exit area yet all he could do was to stare at the two men, especially at the blonde, lanky man he knew had to answer to him. He stopped walking.

The absence of his footfalls made a considerable change in their ears and the two men also had to stop. Adams looked back first and pointed the torch at his half-brother.

"What's wrong?"

But Mycroft didn't answer. Instead, he pointedly looked at Seth's friend with his shrewd eyes. There was something cold in the atmosphere that had nothing to do with the night sky for there are no windows on the long wall, only the creaking, rusty metal doors and the emptiness of each room. Mycroft blinked once and narrowed his eyes.

"I seem to recall you saying you've never been in this place."

Charlie Kemp was surprised to find himself being addressed and his frown was deep. "Yeah? So?"

"Then pray tell… how you know where the boiler room is located?"

A ringing silence filled the air. Seth glared at his half-brother, then turned a confused look at his friend who seemed to have forgotten how to close his mouth. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly that." Mycroft continued, aware of Kemp's sudden rigidity and glare, "And while you're preparing to explain that, you might as well enlighten us on your abstruse lie… that I… how did you phrase that? Used you to get to my half-brother. I am sorry, but I do not need pawns like you to reach a goal. Do stop thinking highly of yourself, I merely paid you money to do as I bid and that was only to judge your character whether you are to be trusted or not. Safe to say, I proved my point when I told you that you're just like everyone else. Did you mention it to him? That you accepted the money?"

Seth's eyes widened. He shot Kemp a disgusted look. "Is that true?" It was clear from his voice that he didn't think the idea beyond his companion. Mycroft kept his eyes at the blonde man who neither shook nor nodded his head.

"H-he bribed me with money and he said there'll be more…"the man's breathing was starting to hitch, but the redness of his eyes was more alarming, "And before I know it, they've come after me—the gang when I got released—what am I supposed to do then?"

"Don't lie." Mycroft's icy eyes nearly discouraged the hyperventilating man, except Kemp wasn't at all that scared. He took steps towards Mycroft violently and swore.

"What do you know? You're not the one they promised to torture!"

"Did they ask you to bring me here?"

"No—it wasn't you. They were after Sherlock Holmes at first—"

Mycroft's eyes glinted. "You told them about Sherlock Holmes?"

"They weren't as interested with him as they were with you!" Kemp knew he was gaining upper hand and was too obvious in trying hard to manipulate Mycroft. Except Mycroft was always ten steps ahead of everyone else, even with his legs hurting, "I told them you've got the money and influence! I told them your name but they don't know you— that's when I know you'd show up where your brother is!"

A quick movement from Mycroft and the next thing, Kemp had a gun pointed directly in his temple. Mycroft looked gravely down at him, his eyes showing no sign of hesitation nor emotion except spite. Kemp suddenly dreaded standing there, unarmed. Seth immediately took steps near them, his fury heard as he shouted—

"Drop the gun!"

Kemp was shaking so bad his legs were about to giveaway. Mycroft did not find it amusing.

These goldfishes thinking that they can get the best of him…

"Mycroft, put the gun down!" Seth repeated, reaching Kemp's back and raising a hand, catching the look of pure malignancy on his half-brother's eyes. And that was the moment Seth Adams realized how his friend already had one foot on his graveyard. Mycroft was dead serious. He had faced enough enemies to know their murderous expression and Mycroft without having to say his intention, was radiating of such aura. Does Mycroft plan to kill Kemp there? Was that his plan from the beginning? Questions tumbled one after another in Seth's mind, but there was only one question he thought enough to get the British Government Head's attention. "Is this why you wanted to separate from Sherlock Holmes' group so bad!? So, you can murder anyone in cold blood?"

Mycroft didn't seem moved for a few seconds, before his silent eyes travelled up to Seth who was already standing beside his shaking friend. "And what do you know about me being cold blooded?"

"I can see it clearly," Seth insisted with his voice shaking, "you with your heavy gun and cold-blooded look! Just make sure you can carry the weight of killing my friend, Mycroft!"

But Mycroft had already begun dropping the gun the moment he heard those two words. Heavy. Gun. Life.

Sherlock.

Before Mycroft could comprehend what was happening, Seth's hands had pried away the weapon on his hand while another set of arms—long arms tackled him and threw him face down a dark room. He groaned in pain as his already injured leg got pressed beneath him. It sent his head spiraling in dizziness. But before anything else could register on his mind, he heard the sharp rattling of metal doors snapping shut followed by the loud noise of its hinges being driven against another metal—and then all noise was gone.

Darkness enveloped him; he couldn't even see his own person. Mycroft sat still, numbed by the pain on his legs.

That was when it hit him as he felt both coldness seep to his skin. He realized amidst the pain that he had been locked in one of the asylum rooms in the middle of nowhere.

And there was no way out.

-To Be Continued-

Chapter Text

*Bad blood *

by: WhiteGloves

A.N: It ends here!

It felt like an age had passed before Mycroft could move and step away from the frigid metal door with its rustic old smell lingering on his perspiring cold face– not because he was emotionally affected by the turn of events, being left to fend on his own or process betrayal, oh no, but because his mind palace had swallowed him into its cradle. Emotions do not function in times of crisis, if only to double the stress, and being one Mycroft Holmes, one need not doubt his absolute control. If he was startled even for a second, his mental mechanism proved steady as like clockwork, it quickly made calculations of his next action and possibilities that by the time he settled both feet on the unseen floor, it was not darkness that enveloped his eyes but the data that his brain had layout before him. His genius, that one thing he could always trust.

What are his facts?

On a formal note, rescue is on the way to control the damage. His MI6 assigned men will cover the area and secure everybody responsible for this atrocity that will cause him paperwork. A reason why he was not inclined to panic, they were only waiting for his signal. On a more personal note, he and Sherlock do not share the same parents, but they are blood relatives and it shows because genius in blood has an impeccable way of manifesting. They are direct cousins and the late young Victor was his real brother. He also has an ill-tempered half brother who wanted him dead because of their dead mother and right now their drama is reaping what it sowed with the brazen Hellbanianz cartel (one of London’s most notorious drug dealing gangsters) finding its way to make family reunions complicated. A typical Holmes Holiday.

And that his father, in the person of the ever mysterious Rudi Holmes, was (in John's humble words)a bonafide son of a bitch. No wonder the man hardly shows himself, his very presence kills. But that meeting will have to be postponed with Mycroft's current situation: locked up in a dingy, tetanus infested, highly suspicious for numerous deaths of an asylum.

But damn, did his leg hurt like hell. Had he stayed put in his office and let the usual leg work enthusiasts do their work, he wouldn't have to put up with mad men-killing spree as an excuse for gangsters, manic relatives gungho for drama and actions, knock his delicate leg against a hard metal that should not have been in that corner of the pathway meant for walking, nor the unnecessary trouble of explaining everything in the council should the situation escalates. Christ, just the thought of it was already making his head ache! So, no, it was not especially nice that he got abandoned here when a mountain of work was left behind under his name. He could turn off his emotions at will, yes, now he wished he could turn off the turbulence that is everything else.

Mycroft felt himself tremble starting from the tips of his fingers going through his elbow and convinced himself it was the coldness in the empty but suffocating room. Also the fact that he was mentally exhausted. But this will not do, he told himself. If he remains here physically and mentally would mean a defeat of some sort. His pride couldn't take that as he remembered Sherlock's words. He wanted out just seconds ago, and he still wanted it now. But he couldn't afford to make Sherlock do all the work. The boy needed him still.

So, he collected his thoughts that were momentarily distracted by his slightly quivering lips. Anyone other than him in the same situation would make a blunder of themselves, panic or scream in terror even, but not him because he still has that. Taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, Mycroft will not be led astray by fear. Why would he be? What with the blueprint of the asylum lighting his eyes like a hologram, he could practically see everything. 

Mind palace. He screwed his face at the repulsive information it wanted to drown him about the Albanian gangsters. Nevertheless, he glanced at it before deciding it was too complicated to process alone, so he put it aside for another more urgent information.

He easily identified his position and admitted he was not to be found easily but with the device he had in his person, it was not a concern. His thoughts did not linger on if he would allow himself to be rescued, that could wait. He traced the line of where his impressionable half brother and his perfidious friend who sold him to the devil, both probably were headed to the boiler room judging from where the sound of their footsteps disappeared. 

The underground boiler room. Unless there was a hidden passageway in there, it was not a location any escapees would venture. Mycroft furrowed his eyebrows, thinking deeply into what else was there other than unused wastes– then it hit him. His eyes shut and he couldn't help muttering a curse under his breath when he realized their intention. Surely, these idiots are incapable of such monstrosity? Or are they not aware of the consequences? Then he remembered how they were linked to the Hellbanianz whose hearty code of besa ‘to keep the promise’ and ancestral code of kanun that ‘blood must pay with blood’ eventually leads to the delivery of violence. 

For the first time since stepping in Hellingly asylum, Mycroft felt a chill run down his spine. If he was correct, and unfortunately he rarely misreads, his half brother would not only cause several deaths, but a toll of it. From his knowledge, this hospital was a four hundred acres of land surrounded by unused electrified railways, mountain of coals supplied for the boiler, and buildings of derelict, flammable materials.

Not to mention how it converted to using oil fuel in the 60’s.

It made him step backwards in the unlit room, thinking of something to do, then realizing again that he was hopeless here without aid. He needed help when things turned south. This impulsive plot was not part of the risk, albeit a turn he could have prevented had he pulled the trigger on Kemp. But too late now to regret, the alert level was now critical.

And when it comes to matters of critical importance, Mycroft did not forget, the person who he turned to slay dragons? Mycroft almost sighed in relief, scorning himself for the slight emotional upheaval. Of course. There was always that person at the top of his list that he could count on to do the impossible. The only other part of him he was willing to bet to turn the tables, who else?

Like a red bulb lighting a position, Mycroft knew where Sherlock would be stationed. At the end of the tunnel, where his brother and his self appointed best friend would be standing right now, likely meeting his MI6 units with an infiltration time left by 20 minutes. John and Sherlock will be with them for the duration of the operation. Safe. 

Not for long. Knowing the mental works of his close kin, Mycroft made an approximate eighteen minute gap from now on when Sherlock would be banging this very door outside. He saw rather than imagine how the consulting detective would realize the absence of communication or a response from the other unit where Mycroft's team was to be expected. Sherlock would figure out something was amiss and then would come back for him. Even without the balance of probability, he knew Sherlock would pull him from the grave if he needed to. Mycroft considered it to take fifteen minutes if Sherlock really put his mind into it. Ten minutes if the man was possessed to find him desperately because of self justified affection. 

One brother tried to kill him. The other one is just about to. One thing was clear: Sherlock Holmes will arrive and it won't do good to come without an ace on their sleeves. Mycroft took the device from his pocket and started hitting buttons urgently. It was not a mobile for network signal, there was none. But it was enough to deliver his message in Morse. It was their only hope.

After that, he waited. But not for long. Sherlock’s footsteps came in five minutes. Mycroft was impressed.

“Mycroft!” there was a sudden bang outside the metal doors. “Mycroft, answer me!”

Now Mycroft was suspicious. He checked his collar and pockets for any tiny, strange device.

“Is it a wiretap or tracker?” He asked ominously from the darker side of the room. “Or you wouldn't have known my exact position so accurately.”

“They probably knocked you on the head hard enough if you're still asking questions,” chuckled his overzealous brother who was already trying to figure out the steel door. “Look at you, I turn my back for a second and you're already in trouble.”

“Yes, this is what happens when I get out of my office for things that are right up your alley. Me being in trouble, the plot twist of the century.”

“It’s true. A deluxe package of trouble.”

“Yes. Most amusing.”

“So? Any suggestions on how to get you out? We need to follow the schedule and get you to the monarchy before tea time.”

Sherlock did not need to ask as Mycroft had already covered the information, seeing so many steel doors along the way. 

“The door panels are made of steel sheet reinforced internally with longitudinal profiles, hinge reinforcements and security locks with manual operation, as well as deadbolts.” Mycroft recited, “With proper tools, you’re going to want to pop the pins out of the hinges themselves. Essentially, all you need is something thin and cylindrical with a diameter less than the inner diameter of pin housing and a hammer. That is, if you also have a screwdriver.” he couldn't help the cynical tone that Sherlock frowned upon.

“Very helpful. I only have a gun and a bullet wouldn't work on this, I should've brought my own axe from home.”

“Sherlock,” the older Holmes heard rustles and clinking of metal from the other side, knowing Sherlock was pacing around, looking for something. Anything

“Your lucky gps are still working underneath here. My mobile got cut off while talking to John on my way down–”

“Sherlock–”

“Have you contacted your men? Opening this will take awhile if I don't have the right tools– not even with the right tools, it's so old.”

“Brothermine, I know you're not good at this one thing, but for the first time in your life, just listen,” Mycroft had stepped closer to the door this time, the urgency in his voice stopping Sherlock from moving around, “Adams and his friend had gone down to the boiler room and I don't think they went there to retrieve any hidden treasures.”

“Boiler room?”

“Still operational and surrounded by untapped gas fuels.”

Silence greeted his words.

“There’s also the kerosene prepared by our excitable drug lords.” he added as an afterthought.

“Fuck.”

“Language.” Mycroft said sternly. He could hear Sherlock clicking his tongue, but then ending in a long sigh.

“I did think blowing up the whole place was a proper ending,”

“Of course you did,” Mycroft sighed.

“Approximate casualty?” the consulting detective asked and Mycroft approved it as he preferred a business tone Sherlock anytime.

“Entire asylum, its nearby railways and the remaining people in it. Less the dead ones already and your network escapee.”

“In short, only the gangster will meet their end? Because you're not calling your men in?”

“No. Dispensable as they think they may be, I owe it to myself to put them at less considerable risk because of my other brother’s spontaneous plan.”

“So, you're not going to tell me to follow the idiots who left you here, and save the criminals trying to capture us up there by preventing the explosion?” Sherlock had apparently found a way to keep himself busy in the conversation as the British government head heard more clunking and banging outside his door.

“You know I don't have such a big heart for saving the not-so-innocent. No, I am saying, if those two in the boiler room figure out the fastest way of setting the whole place on fire, and do it unsupervised, not even them will come out on time alive.”

“Mmm... how long have they been gone?”

There was silence from Mycroft who had found himself crossing his arms in reverie. “You won't reach them on time.”

“If that's clear why are you still hesitating? You want me to try still?”

“No. It would be too late. They may be able to escape without our meddling.”

“Then why are we having this conversation? You realize there are still bad men with big guns running after us? Just shut up and stay put, I’ll get this open in no time.”

Mycroft thought hard if he should voice out Sherlock’s possible next action to safety. 

“By now they could have reached the boiler room, Sherlock.”

“Music to my ears,” Sherlock found something metallic and was now banging the bolts of the door. 

“Sherlock–”

“Mycroft, do stop bothering me when I’m physically engaged– ”

“Sherlock, time is running.”

“I know that, dear brother,” The banging ensues.

“This place will be gone in seconds. You have to go.”

There was hesitation in the one response that made Mycroft clench his jaw. He wanted to point out to his brother– because brothers they will forever be– that there are times one can choose to give up on someone. Just like how he had let go of his half brother. 

“No.” Sherlock responded shortly.

“Brothermine, it's useless. Not to mention, loud!” The monstrous banging Sherlock was doing outside.

The consulting detective actually laughed.

“Oh, you're going to have to keep up with my noise all through your living, (he banged the hinges) breathing, (he brought it to another notch) life!” And still the door didn't budge an inch.

Mycroft could hear Sherlock panting heavily outside.

“Maybe you should go and get your personalized axe from Baker street.”

“If you think for a second I’d fail this one mission of opening rusty doors, you should know me better.”

Mycroft raised his chin but he knew there was no way of winning an argument when his younger brother's tone was like that. But the time limit was coming dangerously close and there was no backup coming to their rescue.

Just like old times.

When something else, apart from the ruckus Sherlock was making, caught his ears.

"Sherlock.”

It was evident his brother knew better what was going on outside. The banging of the door halted, Mycroft stood straight, alert to any other sound while berating himself for not reminding Sherlock that continuing the deed of sounding the bell would obviously attract attention.

Heavy footsteps and muffled voices behind the door got Mycroft pressing his body close to it again. Instead of the quiet metal, the British Government Head could actually hear a loud thumping. Why, it was his heart.

“Sherlock?”

There was a beat. The consulting detective’s voice was deep when he spoke.

“The other party has arrived.”

Mycroft knew that. He wanted to know what Sherlock's game plan would be. His fingertips felt cold again and this time he admitted he was afraid. But fear is no help for him here. He clenched his jaw and leaned his forehead on the cold metal in a silent, if that was how it was called, painstaking vigil.

Sherlock usually had a good handle on tricky situations be it cases like Mayfly men, Bloody Guardsmen, Poison Giants or Elephants left in the room. If he didn't then it warranted someone's help and apart from his flatmate, that help of course would be his older brother a.k.a The British Government. Now that Mycroft was woefully indisposed (he was limping, he needs a blanket!), and in the face of dozens of high-end weapons pointing to Sherlock’s direction, the consulting detective carefully weighed his options. 

Glancing from the ranked leader to the metal door behind him, he had seconds to make a decision: fight, flight or feint.

Obviously, it was the latter. But how much time can he buy before he found a way to get Mycroft out of his misery and things blowing apart? He didn't know why he was excited, or maybe that was just his nerves, but he felt like he could do anything at that moment. John would call it being too optimistic, Sherlock would name it as instincts. His eyes took in everything, thinking there should be a way out, that it is possible.

Even escaping death with Mycroft in tow. But how?

“Sherlock Holmes,” his accent thick, a dark haired, tattooed Italian guy donning an expensive gold watch, rings and even gold teeth stepped forward and he was not asking a question. He was tanned and with dark sharp eyes, definitely the cunning one in the troupe. Obviously, the head of the gang in the province, but not quite the kingpin. “I’ve been hearing about you messing up in our territory, but you were nobody in our circle so we left you alone. To think you dare meddle in our business–”

“Save the speech, for God sake, we don't have time for it.” Sherlock snapped and there was a cough behind the door which he ignored, “Unlike you, I understand everything. No need to enlighten me of what has had and will happen.” Sherlock was eyeing the men with his brain working like clockwork asking himself the same question (how, how how, how?) while running his mouth, “You wanted traitors and threats dead, they are dead. That's plain and simple. The question now is how exactly are you unaware that I am not the only threat, and that while you exercise your right for the villain’s monologue, there are other forces at work already waiting to blow everything up in your face? You think you will come out of here alive after dealing with me? Ha, you must be too high in your luxury cars and buildings if you think you can survive me.”

A confused silence followed the consulting detective’s speech. But he was not done because if he let them take a turn speaking then more time would be wasted. It was time he didn't have. “If you think only a simple, local detective like me can cause this much mayhem in the turf you’ve been claiming as your own, then you are mistaken. Because right here, right now it's not just me. Clearly, there are other pawns playing.” His eyes danced around as aggressive murmurs filled the air.

“If you think your little, mmm, stint will save you a second–”

“If you don't believe me, should I reveal the name of your daughters in this crowd where there would be– let’s see– two, three- four people you consider a personal enemy who’d give nothing to dig your most kept secret? I know you think your surname quite hides your real identity but I know you still answer to the name Ricasoli.”

A sullen, most dark expression befell the Italian man’s face as the men behind him all held their breaths. Sherlock's eyes glinted. Tattooing anagrams on the forearm certainly did not do well for him. And if one wants to take down a dragon, begin with what's underneath their scales. Sherlock could clearly see three names of females on his armed tattoo and the positioning obviously tells him the two were daughters. Sherlock smirked at him. Even the most ruthless of men would have biases to their kin, a classic gangster ideology believing that family– blood or not– is something to hold dear to protect their ego. 

A gunshot rang in the air with a bullet digging deep into the metal door behind the consulting detective. It barely missed his head. 

“You talk a lot. I don't like people I will kill to talk a lot.” The man stepped closer, emanating a menacing aura and Sherlock braced himself getting shot a second time, certain, it will hit a spot, “You will not reveal any names because the second you speak, I will shoot that big mouth of yours. It's your turn to listen, good detective. I will find out how you know that, but let's talk about you. I remember the name of the man on our hit list, this Mycroft Holmes? Isn't he family?”

Sherlock remained impassive, realizing the cunning man, Ricasoli, was also going to play the same game as he saw the evil grin plastered on his face. The man pointed at the door behind Sherlock where thumping sounds were coming from and Mycroft’s voice calling his name. After the gunshot, his older brother must have forgotten to play his no-weakness-card.

“That your brother?” the Italian smirked.

“What does it matter, you can't touch him.” Sherlock felt high, he felt every bone in his body ready to pounce at the man. Mycroft heard his voice and was quiet again, probably losing at least a year of his life. Sherlock wanted to raise his gun but with dozens other weapons aiming at him, he’d be stone dead before having a proper aim. How to escape this?

Oh, Sherlock.

Sherlock inhaled.

The answer is simple. You're asking the wrong question, berated Mycroft's voice in his head. Sherlock blinked. Rude of the man stuck behind the door to still be giving answers in a telepathy. But he had a sudden awakening. Like he was doused with cool water and now found that straight line of winning the game. Wrong question indeed.

“How do you intend to escape this?” Sherlock asked, face void of any emotion.

He wasn't the one trapped here, they were. Ricasoli just stared at him as if he just asked the most dumb question. Sherlock didn't blame him, it took him a leap to turn it around.

“Outside you are already surrounded by military personnel of the most elite units. We are underground but you probably could hear helicopters outside. The ground is covered by professionals, all holes are heavily guarded. And even if you don't believe that, any second now this whole place will blow apart because the two rats you consider worthless have tampered with the boiler equipment and set it to be your next atom. How are you going to escape that?” 

Ricasoli was still giving him a hard gaze as if weighing his words. Sherlock was still facing multi-weapons pointed in his direction and waiting for his message to sink in. And then the Italian lifted a finger then three men from behind came near him. He gave them instructions, obvious by the way they nodded and ready to head out the tunnel they just came in from. But not long after they disappeared, did they come tracking back, eyes fixated on what's above their heads. Growls and gasps filled the air. Sherlock saw it, all of them did. At least he was no longer stuck at the how. He was stuck at ‘what’.

What were those flying objects doing silently wading their way above the heads of the notorious criminal kind? And why was Sherlock feeling mesmerized as he recognized it as a drone carrying what looked like grenades… dozens of them. 

Oh, the over-dramatics.

Once upon a time, Sherlock was in Baker Street, in the middle of reprimanding the same brother stuck behind him, when this little gift came. Now they came in bulks, and they don't conceal intention like that silver egg it formerly carried, now it was clear as a daylight– grenades. Sherlock almost laughed. But could it be? The same person? Impossible!

The evil crowd started pointing their guns at the flying objects. Sherlock nearly bellowed a curse. “Are you all idiots? You really want bombs to come dropping on your head? Stop moving or you’ll lose your life.”

Ricasoli was throwing curses, then to Sherlock he spat, “Don’t listen to him, they will not drop any bombs as long as the detective is here. Seize him!”

“You really want to risk it?” Sherlock challenged. The men did not move but started from their consulting detective to their boss. “You want to die that bad?”

“You're dead, too,” Ricasoli sneered.

“Then I will see you in hell.” Sherlock replied evenly. 

The Italian boss gritted his teeth but ordered his men to lower down their weapons.

One thing stuck out as it zoomed higher above. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the black box it carried. A modem? For signal connection?

Out of the blue, his mobile phone rang.

Sherlock’s awe was visible on his face as the familiar number lit up on his supposedly unworking mobile. They were underground and now a signal box was coming down! There could only be one answer and like always, it was Mycroft Holmes, but not the one from his Mind Palace. It was the silent one behind him.

The mobile rang once more.

“Answer it.” Mycroft’s deep, dark voice commanded him from the metal door and Sherlock’s eyes glinted in interest. 

“You…” he murmured but wasn't quite able to find the right words as he pressed the green button and listened to the familiar haughty voice of his sister.

“Hello, brother,” she chirped like she was used to talking to him on the phone after an overdue vacation.

“Hello, my favorite sister.” 

“I am your only sister,” she pointed out. “Or your only sibling for that matter. How are things?”

“A little tight, just common. I don't mind the reinforcement, only I already got a bigger one under my feet.” She was in-the-know, Sherlock mused, updated.

“Oh, those duds?” She chimed as if in the middle of drinking tea while talking about grenades, “Don't worry they’re only for display. But might have one or two firecrackers, you know? For distraction?”

Sherlock nodded with eyes guarding any unnecessary movements from the gangsters. He wanted to ask a lot of questions but knew his seconds were counted. Eurus talking to him was probably just her display of pulling his feet.

“How's our cousin?”

“Locked up in a dirty asylum.”

“Mmm, deserved it so…do you plan to get him out?”

“I’m afraid so. He still has his comedic uses.”

“Or we can just leave him there to rot and have all the fun,” she said quite darkly and Sherlock could imagine her grinning.

“So this is for fun?” He steered the conversation gently away from the dark humor, else she became serious and let her ‘intrusive thoughts’, as this generation calls it, win. “You’re now using your free time to infiltrate criminal activities?” Sherlock eyed the unmoving men all uncertain of their next move.

“Well, I was told to provide instructions, so here I am. There’s only a five seconds window after this call when my duds will create the necessary distraction. It's up to you if you can come out of there, either ride a horse or run like the devil’s after you.”

“Oh, please. The devil doesn't scare me.”

“Right-o, slayer.”

Sherlock heard considerable shouts on Eurus’ end that made him frown. “Where are you?”

“Oh, you know, terrorizing the citizens,” there were more disturbing sounds from the phone, “before I hung up, can you tell your audience they can also use their phones? I want them to see this live. They are social media people, aren't they?”

But Sherlock didn't have to say anything as the moment Eurus said this, a blow up of ringtones and calls spammed the place. The gangsters began picking up on their phones and social media with all the same horrified reaction. Sherlock didn't have to see to know, judging from the noise on his sister’s end, she was clearly devastating their lands.

The entire estate tower on east London Gascoigne, the Hellbanianz’ territory headquarter, was on flames. Giving them a devil's end.

“Good luck,” Eurus cheered him as she hung up.

Sherlock didn't waste time. The grenades dropped. People shouted and opened gunfire. Fireworks went off and it was everything they could do to make sense of the chaos. Sherlock jumped to the fray and kicked and grabbed and elbowed men amidst the floating smog before running back to his brother carrying a hatchet one of the gangsters was carrying. 

Seconds next, the boilers heated up, and everything blew up in millions of pieces.

 Epilogue

“Tell me, is this you, and your blood relatives’ way of reunions?” John Watson wanted to know, sitting on the available chair beside Sherlock’s bed in a hospital room where his flatmate was confined. Sherlock was in a sitting position, supporting a broken left elbow in an arm sling. They were both watching the news on the television a day after Hellingly Asylum nearly disappeared on the map with camera footage all over the screen with what the news media found left after Sherlock Holmes was done with it.

“You’re the one that always hinted what it must be like during Christmas dinners, why still sound so surprised?” Sherlock sounded disinterested with eyes staring at the window opposite his bed, “It's not that grand, just your typical D-Day.”

“You nearly died,” John pointed flatly, eyes falling on Sherlock’s body covered with bandages underneath the hospital gown. “Got shot, even. You also dislocated your shoulder–”

“Don’t nag. The shoulder accident happened because of my lack of judgment during the tug of war of killer hatchets. You're just upset because you missed all the fun.”

John rolled his eyes but he wasn't all without credit. From what he recalled after separating ways with Sherlock, he was the one who nabbed Adams and Kemp after seeing them emerge from an old man hole just outside the walls of the asylum. They were too suspicious and when asked what happened to Mycroft who was supposed to be with them, neither answered. John was no novice, it was easy enough to overpower Kemp. Good thing Mycroft's secret service appeared on time to get Adams, but without explanation, they led John to a helicopter saying there was an order to take off. John wanted to know who gave the order and to get off, especially not knowing what had happened to his best friend but they were already in the air. Minutes later, they watched the whole place explode from some distance with the former army doctor too dumbstruck to come up with anything to say.

But as if with the devil’s luck, both the Holmes brothers survived with the secret service receiving a call from Mycroft half an hour later. They found the two in the same hole that Kemp and Adams came from, the British Government Head half carrying and supporting a bleeding Sherlock. John didn't even realize he was holding his breath until they were found for such a long time. But then, Sherlock dying was almost too cliche.

“You devil.” the doctor sighed, then looked up when a report about the Hellbanianz appeared on the news. Footage of the burning tower owned by the gang had made news together with the blowing up of the asylum. But surprisingly, there was no mention of the Holmes brothers. Or sister. “And she’s the she-devil, that one.”

Sherlock turned his attention to the television where the news was completed with the arrest of many more gang members and leaders; ports for trade getting blocked and raided and big league names fleeing the country after their money and accounts were all accosted by the authorities. All thanks to the intelligence provided by the most intelligent of them all.

“She’s a queen,” Sherlock chuckled, a softer expression glazing his usually sharp eyes.

John heard how Mycroft had utilized Eurus. It sounded crude, but Mycroft was desperate, Sherlock said. And their sister wouldn't have it any other way. He gave orders for her to be given the details and made a deal with her. She delivered. Of the coverage of the deal, John was not provided with details, but found that she will no longer reside in Sherrinford. That she will be transferred to some place where she will be guided to become more ‘human’. Somewhere near their parents and Sherlock’s reach. Mr and Mrs. Holmes insisted. Sherlock had suspicion that it got approved easily so the two won't have time to nag Mycroft about his secrets. It will not be without heavy security still, but Sherlock knew his sister was slowly changing. She was social to begin with, it was only a matter of time before she could free herself.

“And what of Mycroft?” John pulled the remote and switched off the tv after the news report.

“What about him?” Sherlock asked sullenly.

“He hasn't gone and visited you, has he?”

“He badgered me for half an hour during that underground escape.” Sherlock grunted as if he was still sore from the experience, “He could be a very bad, smothering mother the way he kept yelling and crying on me.”

“He cried?” John repeated, askance.

“Oh don't bother, his tear ducts are practically non-existent. No, it was him looking at me with pity as if I was hovering on death’s door. He put his heart into every time he called me names. Wait till I pay him back two folds. His house's max security will be put to shame.”

John listened to the detective drawled on, knowing that even after everything nothing's really changed. Well, maybe just a little bit of Sherlock's obsession with his siblings.

But all’s well that ends well. At least that's what he thought.

“What about his half brother?” The doctor asked as an afterthought. He saw Sherlock's eyes gleaming and John just knew it meant trouble.

“What, indeed.”

It was uncharacteristic of the one ‘M’ to be waiting, but after all, he was not here as an official with a minor government position. He was here as a regular visitor to his relative, sitting in a private room with no windows except the square glass window on the door. Two CCTV were on two corners of the white bricked room of the city jail; one steel table between him and the chair opposite. There was no other place to meet, and no other reason why there was a need to in the future, so here he was taking that last opportunity to speak with his half brother no matter how unwanted.

Still, to wait for ten minutes, his visit must have been an inconvenience. Just like a real family member, he mused.

He didn't have to wait for long as the door was opened and in came, as silent as a grieving ghost, Seth Adams, wearing a long, unimpressed expression as he sat down opposite Mycroft with both hands still in cuff.

“Back in your regular schedule, are you?” was Seth’s greeting, eyeing him up and down for he was wearing his most formal black three-piece-suit. Was his half brother trying to see if he was injured or something? Was he concerned? Because Mycroft will wave it off, but that was expecting too much.

“Quite, but this is a personal visit.” he clarified.

“I didn't ask you.”

Mycroft raised both eyebrows but refrained from giving a cutting reply. Right after the incident, Adams was brought immediately to a facility and had been incarcerated for the duration. Even without Mycroft's interference, the council barely paid him attention as he was not a name heard of with any threat. They were almost concerned about hooking the kingpins of the gangsters. Mycroft certainly did not need to report the attempts on his life, nor do they need to know his connection to said person. This way, the limelight would be far from his half brother who seemed unruffled by any of it. Not bothered by the fact that he also left his brother to die there. Not that Mycroft was there to take that against him.

“No matter, I am here to make a final amendment to your case.”

“Because that's the only thing you could do?” Adams smirked.

“The only thing I choose to do, for you’re not at all, innocent.”

“What makes you think I would accept your help?”

“Because without it you are facing a half a decade sentence if given all accountability of what transpired there, which I think is not really in your favor. Also, insisting on giving me guilt at this point is futile. I have files of people incarcerated despite having close relations with.”

“Why do I believe you?”

“Take my word for it.” Mycroft stared at him, equally, “If you want to keep in touch my personal number will be in your disposal–” Adams chortled mockingly as if the idea would never cross his mind. Mycroft let it be, knowing full well he was doing his best to be accommodating. “-- that shall only be accessible in dire need and not for trifles. You will remain incarcerated for three months as seen fit by fair judges considering minimal involvement with the Hellbanianz syndicate. Other than that, any point of trying to use me or lure me in as bait will automatically make you a national enemy–”

“Are you threatening me?”

It was Mycroft's turn to almost smile. “I am stating facts. You know I also deliver.”

There was a brief pause where the two stared weighed each other's gaze but it was Adams who straightened on his chair.

“You said this wasn't business.”

“Quite so,” Mycroft thought somberly for a second, but never added anything into the silence that befell them.

“Guess we’re now seeing eye to eye on this relation thing. There’s nothing between us, so I won't be bother you anymore. As far as I am concerned, I have no brother. I don't want to see hide nor hair of you.”

Mycroft was quiet for a moment, before he raised both eyebrows up his hairline. “Well, as long as you do not cause any national concern. And that includes involving yourself with Sherlock Holmes. He is a force you are never to take on by yourself.”

"I wouldn't dream of it. But this might be the only possible human thing I noticed about you. You care about him, that Sherlock. Only time I’ve ever seen fear in your eyes when he’s in danger.”

Mycroft paused for awhile as if choosing his words, but then he smiled that one that didn't reach his eyes.

"My concern about Sherlock Holmes is confidential. Whether it is an advantage to both of us, shall never be known. Caring is a disadvantaged for people like us.”

“Like you, you mean. Yeah, keep up to that and stop getting on my business. Whether you want to be honest or not, I don't care either way. Also” Adams actually arched an eyebrow as if distracted by something on the door. “You caring or not caring, you should tell that to him yourself. He’s been staring at me like a hawk.”

Confused, Mycroft was to respond when the door opened and there sat beside him– like the devil summoned him– the very man Adams was speaking of–

Mycroft sat rigidly with clenched jaw. He slowly turned to Sherlock with a murderous gaze.

Sherlock beamed at him.

“Would you look at that, it's my brother. What are you doing, brothermine? Sneaking about again not a day after a near death defying stunt, no thanks to some one. That's just like my brother.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, ears ringing in what felt like embarrassment. He knew what Sherlock was doing.

“This was a private meeting, Sherlock,” he said curtly.

“And I didn't allow it.” Sherlock piped, "And why are you dressed to impress?"

"You are the only one thinking it's appropriate to come out of the door wearing your garb."

"Touche," Sherlock turned to Adams and grinning like a maniac, “You can give me your phone number. Even if you didn't, I am sure to have it one way or another. You know, just to catch up.”

Seth Adams stood up, giving Sherlock a look full of loathing. “Has any one told you you’re a psychopath?”

“I'm not a psychopath, I'm a high-functioning sociopath. And I will still get that number.”

“I want a restraining order,” Seth told Mycroft quickly as he started for the door, “that's all the help I need.” With that, he was out of the door, leaving the two brothers sitting side by side in the room.

A sigh came out of the British Government Head.

“I was serious when I said you are supposed to be lying on your death bed in the hospital.”

“If being grazed by a bullet was your idea of dying, then John Watson is a ghost.”

“Let’s go back before you collapse,” Mycroft stood up, seeing Sherlock hiding his injury underneath his garb of detective clothing. He made a face. “Did John let you out like that?”

“Overdramatic,” Sherlock stood up too and the Holmes brothers walked out of the room together, into the narrow pathway towards the exit of the building.

“What even is your point coming around here?” Mycroft asked without turning to the consulting detective, walking side by side.

“What else? To give you your umbrella. How could you leave it in my hospital room, do you want them to think I’m a violent person?”

“Only if they know it is not your usual umbrella. You're not allowed visible weapons in the vicinity.” 

“I have no use of this, I have a John.”

“How many of that do you think I have as spare? Also, what am I to do with that here in a jail where criminals are cuffed?”

“Whack 'em with your umbrella, what else?” the two reached the end of the corridor, and still in their own worlds.

“God, I am so tempted to do it to you.” Mycroft sighed. Sherlock gave him a contemptuous look, but managed to smirk too.

“But you won't because you don't resort to violence? Or childish dramatics?”

“Or I just don't hit disabled people?”

“Or the indecency of it all. Come now, you know I came to fetch you. The doctor said I’d live even without staying there. So now we're heading to Baker Street.”

Mycroft groaned. “Oh, Sherlock. I would be lost without you.”

“You can thank me later.” The consulting detective chuckled. “For now, let's get everything back in order.”

“I have on my end. You're just slow, brothermine.”

“Or you have too much free time. May I remind you're the one who called Eurus for help? Now you owe her.”

“Fine. Duly noted, thank you for the reminder.” Was the sarcastic remark of the older Holmes.

“Not at all, brother dear.” was the same snide tone but both were smiling.

And the two disappeared from sight with no bad blood between them.

After  almost 6 years... 

THE END