All Souls' Day. Part One Chapter Five. The Line of Fire.
Title: All Souls' Day. Part One, Chapter Five. The Line of Fire.
Author: ghislainem70
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3,500
Warnings: Explicit sex, graphic violence.
Summary: Mycroft, Lestrade, Sherlock and John race to stop a mysterious terrorist plot.
Disclaimer: I own nothing; all honours to Messrs Gatiss, Moffat, BBC et al.
John was becoming alarmed.
Sherlock had lain flat out on the sofa, alternating between staring without blinking at the stains on the ceiling and closing his eyes and lying still as a corpse, for these past ten hours.
Sherlock’s intense focus upon Mycroft’s files had rendered him into a state that anyone who did not know Sherlock as well as John did would consider bordering on catatonic. John knew, however, that he was sifting, collating, evaluating, rejecting and reconstructing fragments and threads of data from Mycroft’s files, files so complex that a complete absence of stimuli was necessary for even Sherlock to attempt to unravel them.
It was almost time for Sherlock to report to MI6.
It was understood, of course, that whatever Sherlock might tell MI6, it would not be the whole truth. John understood, too, about the necessity of half-truths from his years in the Army, not to mention Spartan.
But Sherlock gave no sign of having reached any conclusion about the location of his missing brother. What he was giving a sign of, now that he was finally stirring - sitting up, pounding at lightspeed on his laptop, making frightening growling sorts of sounds in his throat --- was something that in lesser men might be called sheer panic. Never having observed such a thing in Sherlock, John backed away and tried not to do anything that would set him off.
Something about his brother being completely missing was disturbing Sherlock in a way John had never seen before, and was starting to hope very much he never saw again.
Sherlock was literally pulling at his hair in frustration now. When with a swipe of his hand he spun his laptop away, John leaped up and caught it before it crashed to the floor.
"Sherlock, stop now," he said gently. "It’s enough. We’ll find him. What’s your best -" he stopped the forbidden word, ‘guess’, from carelessly dropping from his lips -- "hypothesis as to where he would go? Surely you must have some idea by now?"
Sherlock’s face was white and strained and his eyes did not settle upon John, but drifted to somewhere beyond. He was still processing. At this point, John thought enough was enough. "Sherlock," he said more firmly, trying to suppress his own stretched nerves.
What would happen, he thought briefly, if Sherlock couldn’t find Mycroft? He buried that unworthy thought instantly. Of course Sherlock would find him.
"San Sebastian," Sherlock pronounced dramatically, rolling the syllables as though announcing the solution to a particularly knotty problem of mathematics or physics, meriting at the very least, a Nobel prize. His entire demeanor had changed in the blink of an eye, one of those rapidfire transformations that had been somewhat unsettling when he first knew Sherlock. Now John was used to living in the eye of the storm. So, he was really pleased with himself, John observed with relief. That meant that whether or not "San Sebastian" was their target destination, Sherlock had a very good idea where they ought to be going. "John, hand me my mobile?"
John didn’t roll his eyes. It was at least framed in the tenor of a question rather than a command. He had anticipated this, and gently handed it over without protest. Sherlock was, at least, firing off his own texts.
"They are sending someone over to ‘debrief’ me now. Us," Sherlock said generously. John just nodded, knowing full well that he had contributed absolutely nothing to the hunt for Mycroft Holmes.
Within mere seconds, there was a quiet knock on the door. John answered it to a muscular, compact man, built like a boxer, he thought: close-cropped dark hair, dark inexpressive eyes. A familiar and particular look about him. John decided he reminded him of certain types he had come across in Afghanistan - men whose mission was not spoken of, whose names were clearly not their own, who passed through and were not seen again.
"Agent Rennett," he announced bluntly. "I’m to debrief Mr. Holmes. Now." He pushed his way through the door as though sensing John’s instinctive resistance.
Sherlock didn’t bother to get up. He was still absorbed in whatever fragments he was analyzing on his laptop. Rennett stood over him impassively.
"Haven’t got all night, Holmes," he said finally. "Have you anything to tell our . . .superiors?"
Sherlock did not even glance up at the man, clearly having gleaned whatever he thought vital about Rennett from his frighteningly comprehensive peripheral vision. "Yes," he drawled. "I do. I believe that Mycroft has gone to Spain. That much is obvious. Specifically, to San Sebastian. I have identified three probable locations where he might seek to meet with . . . individuals associated with ETA. Because of course, he’s going to the source. San Sebastian, being a key ETA stronghold."
"But, the cease-fire," Rennett observed. Sherlock frowned at what he regarded as an irrelevant fact.
"Cease-fire. By whom? ETA has been extorting protection money from the businesses of San Sebastian for generations. They have safe havens in France, of course; but to earn their daily bread, they have to maintain their presence on the ground in San Sebastian. . . .I’ve examined Mycroft’s files and it is mentioned very seldom," he said.
"As such," Rennett pursued, "he wasn’t terribly interested in San Sebastian? I thought that ETA was making an effort to put a clean face on San Sebastian. Expand tourism, restore public confidence," he said. San Sebastian, on the northern coast of Spain, had been plagued by ETA, the streets dominated by roving separatist youths attacking tourists, and the businesses groaned under the extortionate demands for protection money. Now, with the cease-fire, it was thought that San Sebastian was entering a new golden age.
"Of course they are. Rather clever, much more money to skim off a successful tourist economy. They want to be Dublin, not Belfast. We’ll need a substantial amount of cash. Twenty thousand pounds to start," Sherlock said boldly. Rennett didn’t blink but pulled out his mobile and typed a moment.
"You’ll find Mycroft Holmes, then," Rennett said, " make sure he puts us in the picture of whatever he has learned about this ‘Day of Wrath’ scare, bring him to us, back to London, yes?"
"I take my orders from the Director, I believe. I won’t discuss them with you. I’m not prepared to say any more than I’ve told you at present, and it will have to do for you, and for him."
"When are you leaving?"
"Tonight, if we can."
"Are you asking for transport."
"No."
At this, Sherlock’s frosty gaze fell at last fully upon Agent Rennett, who blinked and turned to leave. Something about him raised John’s hackles. Their eyes locked. Rennett’s had no more warmth than a snake, John thought.
Rennett departed and John went to pack. Any real conversation about what Sherlock had learned would have to wait until they had privacy. They both knew that wasn’t inside 221b. Within half an hour, a different, anonymous man had delivered their cash. They took a cab.
"Heathrow," Sherlock announced. But before they left the city precincts, Sherlock told the cabbie to pull over. Sherlock pulled John from the cab and they sprinted down into a tube station, where after several changes they arrived at Waterloo Station. The Eurostar high speed train for Paris was just departing. Sherlock flourished two false passports, and they purchased their standard tickets with cash and pushed to the back of train.
They took their seats and John surreptitiously examined his false passport. His name was Roger Trent. Sherlock was Cedric Neale.
"Cedric?" John whispered.
"We lost him. Probably," Sherlock said quietly into John’s ear.
"Who was it?" But then he realized he knew who. Sherlock nodded once, satisfied that John was keeping up.
* * *
Mycroft watched Lestrade waken, his hand feeling for the gun he had left under the pillow. He pulled it out and laid it beside him, and then he smiled up at Mycroft, a brash smile that did strange things to the pit of Mycroft’s stomach and which he realized he was going to have to ignore entirely if they were going to leave this room. Ever. He wondered for the hundredth time if he had not done a very rash thing in bringing Lestrade here.
Lestrade’s eyes took in the fact that the bed beside him was undisturbed. He felt it with his hands; the sheets were cool, not warm.
"You didn’t sleep," he accused.
Mycroft didn’t say anything. He didn’t know how to explain his vigil, his need to watch over Lestrade, keep him safe, guard him like . . . well, like his most prized possession. It was critical that Lestrade not perceive this. In truth, he had never before wanted to possess anyone; to the contrary. Things, yes, very much; he was a serious collector. Also, experiences . . . he collected those, too. Mycroft preferred his romantic associations to be brief, if possible challenging - within the limits of his own control - and most of all, disposable. Hardly romantic at all; quite the opposite, he fully realized.
Everything about this was different. The feeling of quiet warmth, and a sort of completeness, alien and thrilling, filled him just being in Lestrade’s presence. However was he going to stay sharp enough to get them out of this alive when all he wanted to do was fall into bed and lose himself completely with this man? Losing himself, now that he had started to actually permit such a thing, was quickly becoming an imperative.
He turned away to hide his confusion. "I didn’t," he agreed, "But you’re not to worry about it. I can do without sleep for at least three days. If I deem it necessary. I’m quite all right. We have a luncheon appointment. You do remember our plan, yes?"
Lestrade slid out of bed and marched over and turned him right around, and planted a warm, generous kiss on his mouth, just enough to make him a little dizzy before Lestrade pulled away, the grin even broader and more dazzling now. He was quite enjoying the slightly bemused expression on Mycroft’s face. In fact, he was determined to induce it quite a bit more often than he had had a chance to, up until now.
"Champion. Let’s go get these bastards," Lestrade said, wandering from the bedroom wearing nothing at all but the gun in his hand.
* * *
At a seaside restaurant in St.-Jean-De-Luz, Mycroft Holmes in his new identity as Felix Vasco, was loudly admiring the view, the sea air, the excellence of the food, in a brash American voice completely unlike Mycroft’s usual cultured and restrained tones.
Lestrade was impressed. Here was a theatrical talent he had never suspected. Even Mycroft’s face seemed reshaped; something in the set of his jaw and the look in his eye made him seem harder, cynical. Lestrade was supposed to be a sort of shady business agent, using his Guy Lamont identity. The idea was that Mycroft was a successful businessman from America, of Basque heritage, looking to recover some lost properties of his illustrious family as well as invest some of his fortune in business opportunities in the old country.
"Take this restaurant, for example, Lamont. Could you find a better view anywhere?" They were seated on a patio overlooking the sparkling blue bay. Lestrade shook his head. You really couldn’t. The restaurant was an old Art Deco era building, neglected and crumbling. "They aren’t taking advantage of what they’ve got here. What a waste. I’d buy it myself, do it over, put a nightclub on top . . . what d’you think?"
Lestrade’s job was to be the devil’s advocate. "I’ve seen much better properties, sir, if you’re wanting seriously to look at restaurants. I thought you were interested in boats today, anyway."
"What do you reckon it would take to really do this place up right?" Mycroft boomed. "I think three million would about do it."
"Dollars or euros?"
"Don’t be dense, Lamont. Euros."
A nearby waiter, a startlingly handsome fellow of apparent Algerian descent, was so diligently attending to Lestrade’s coffee and water glass that it was becoming distracting. At every opportunity he flashed a white-toothed smile and melting brown eyes at Lestrade. He did not smile at Mycroft. Mycroft frowned. Lestrade paid him minimal notice, but smiled easily back, causing the young man to gift him with such a look of frank invitation that Mycroft was sorely pressed not to leap from the table and throw the insufferable wretch under the wheels of a passing bus. But then Lestrade looked into his eyes with perfect understanding and reassurance, and the moment passed.
They spent another hour leisurely over their luncheon, talking loudly about the many things that Mycroft wanted to buy so that he could have the pride of investing in the Basque Country, the land of his fathers. Mycroft noted with satisfaction that for the last half hour or so of this vulgar discourse, a figure had been listening to them intently from the shadows of the kitchen door.
Boldly, as they rose to leave, he said, "You know, it’s still my dream that the Basque will achieve a separate state. They’ve not given up. All this talk of a cease fire is well and good, of course. But they need to stay focused. Eyes on the prize," Mycroft said, fully aware of the complete inappropriateness of the quotation as applied to a terrorist movement.
"Sir, we need to get down to the docks if you want to take a look at that boat," Lestrade said.
Mycroft carelessly threw down a wad of cash which he unwound from a huge roll of bills.
* * *
At the dock, row after row of sleek yachts bobbed. Languid jet-setters lounged on the decks, house music booming. But they passed the yachts by, stopping instead at a fast-looking motorboat, in the cigarette or "go-fast" style favored by drug smugglers and speed enthusiasts. The seller’s agent was waiting for them.
"You like to go fast, sir?" The agent smiled obsequiously.
"I like to go fast, yes. Very, very fast," Mycroft said. They climbed into the narrow boat and he was examining the controls. "Horsepower?"
" Twin engine, 490 horsepower. Each. It has some interesting modifications, let me show you." The agent pulled open the engine compartment and Mycroft bent over to admire the beauty of the powerful engines.
Lestrade was watching a group of men that seemed to be paying too much attention to them from the docks. He fingered his gun. Then they were pulling out into the Bay of Biscay now, thundering along, so fast that they seemed to barely skim the surface. Boats like these could escape detection by just about anything but a helicopter overhead. The huge wake splashed him, and Lestrade almost wanted to laugh, it was so exhilarating. They were already almost halfway across the bay.
But then he saw something that wasn’t funny at all.
Mycroft had his hands around the boat agent’s neck from behind, and was probably going to kill him, and it had happened so fast that Lestrade hadn’t seen it. The boat started to spin and he lunged for the wheel.
"He just wants a meeting," the man gasped, red-faced, struggling for breath.
"I don’t like how he issues his invitations," Mycroft said calmly. "He has insulted me. I don’t like that." He was still in his character, and Lestrade realized suddenly that he was quite terrifying. And he didn’t need any help from Lestrade. Not in the slightest.
"Just a meeting. If you want to do business in St.-Jean-De-Luz, you’re going to have to meet him. One way or another. Be reasonable," the agent gasped.
"I ought to throw you overboard," Mycroft said. The look in his eyes said very clearly that he just might.
"Go ahead. But when you get back to shore, believe me, they’ll be waiting. No matter where you land."
Now another boat was approaching fast. Very fast. The agent smiled. "Sooner than that, it seems."
There were five men in the other boat, dark and hard-eyed. They had guns. Lestrade pushed himself in front of Mycroft, right into the line of fire, and pulled his gun. He figured if they were serious, they would start shooting. But they didn’t. So, intimidation, not assassination. So far, so good.
Mycroft let the agent go. He cut the engine. The other boat came alongside. The agent pulled out his own gun and held out his hand. "I’ll just have that little stash in your pocket. My boss wants to be sure you know your place, Senor Vasco."
"Don’t be ridiculous," Mycroft said. He handed the agent the wad of euros. "If I’m going to pay protection to your boss, this is hardly enough. We’ll meet tomorrow. He’s making a mistake, if he thinks I don’t wish to be reasonable. Tell him from me that I am always reasonable, and that I expect a good return on my investment."
"Tell him yourself. And you’ll meet him tonight," the agent said as he leaped nimbly onto his confederate’s boat, and they started pulling away. Soon they were a tiny dot in the distance, then the dot vanished.
They were alone now, bobbing in the brilliant blue water.
They were quiet for a moment, Mycroft spinning his complex plans, Lestrade unable to tear his eyes from Mycroft’s hands, hands that had almost killed a man before his eyes.
Mycroft began to turn the boat back toward the docks. The town looked very tiny in the distance. "Never, ever put yourself in the line of fire like that, never for me," Mycroft was saying, a line of worry, even anger, between his brows, but Lestrade took his hand and stopped the boat. "Come on," he said, pulling Mycroft’s arm hard. You had to duck low, Mycroft much more so, to climb down into the narrow bed in the rear of the cabin. "Greg, I mean it, I’m very serious, you have to listen - " but his words were swallowed by a kiss, hot and greedy, and there wasn’t any need for words. The narrow bed was perfect for fitting them tightly together, so tight, Mycroft on top and Lestrade almost crushed against the wall, grinding into him as they tore at each other’s clothes like they were burning, and he had his hands on Lestrade’s cock now. The look between wonder and lust in his eyes was so perfect that he had to close his eyes to it so that Lestrade couldn’t see the truth, that it was really he that was the one possessed. Instead he twisted his hand just so, and exulted to hear Lestrade’s helpless gasp under his lips. He wanted to take him in his mouth, see if he could pull him just a little higher before he spilled over but Lestrade pulled his head back up and whispered, "Just kiss me," and he did, drowning in it, the sound of Lestrade moaning into his mouth as he came hard into his hand the most erotic and precious thing he had ever felt.
A few minutes later, they untangled themselves from the tiny bunk, and Mycroft said, "I didn’t know, you see. I suppose I didn’t let myself."
"Know what?"
"About you. About this. About us. I’m a fool. If I’d really known, really understood, do you think I would have waited all this time? Stood by and let you throw yourself away on John? But maybe . . . it had to be now."
"What are you on about? I’m the same as I’ve always been. I’ve not changed a whit, not a thing different. You should have asked me, Mycroft, told me, from the very beginning. But now, or then, makes no difference, Mycroft. It was always right there, and if you’d have been honest about it, right from the beginning . . . imagine that." He smiled ruefully.
They got dressed and Mycroft piloted the boat back to the docks.
"What was all that about, then, anyway?" Lestrade said, gesturing toward the vanished boat.
"We’re going to meet a local ETA boss tonight. He’s already heard about me. From his friend that owns our little restaurant, I expect. He wants his piece of the action. We’re going to make sure he thinks he’s getting everything he’s entitled to. And more."
"And so, are you buying the boat?"
"Probably. She’s fast enough. And don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, Greg."
Lestrade looked back innocently.
"You’re trying to distract me. It won’t work. I meant what I said before. You’re not to risk yourself like that, do you understand? Not for me. Promise me, Greg."
"I will not. If I know you’re in any kind of danger, you can believe I’m going to do what it takes to get you out of it. Whatever it takes. Don’t you get it?"
Mycroft shook his head. He really didn’t understand how he could possibly be hearing this, could possibly be entitled to hear this.
"Whatever it takes. Whether you like it, or not. You’re just going to have to live with that."
He promised himself that they were both going to live with that for a very, very long time. Together. Whatever it took.
To be continued . . .
Listen to "Call On Me" HERE::http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hiVnU4TeV6U
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