Alea Iacta Est (1/1)
Title: Alea Iacta Est
Author: hope_tang
Rating: PG
Spoiler Warnings: A Scandal in Belgravia (2x01)
Summary: It is, to put it mildly, a fine mess.
Disclaimer:Other than being a fan, I have nothing to do with Sherlock. I’m not even British…
Betas: As always, my gratitude goes to agent_bandit, bluewillowtree, and dkwrkm for their kind and helpful comments on this story. There would have been far more head-banging against the wall if it wasn't for their constant support. Any remaining mistakes are my own.
Author’s Note: This was written and set post-Scandal, pre-Reichenbach. The ending has been revised to take the events of Hounds and Reichenbach into account, but without direct spoilers for either episode.
~
Despite his brother’s claims to the contrary, Mycroft Holmes is not the British Government. Nor does he precisely hold a ‘minor position’ in Her Majesty’s Civil Service. The truth lies between both statements. He does not comprise the whole of government, yet a significant portion of the British Commonwealth is answerable to him. That still means he is accountable to his (few) supervisors.
They aren’t pleased.
The most recent turn of events has engendered a certain degree of consternation among his superiors. It is, to put it mildly, a fine mess. They do not look kindly upon the inadvertent leakage of sensitive intelligence to a criminal mastermind with a penchant for illegal explosives, mass murder, and terrorism.
(Never mind that it was not Mycroft’s oversight failure that an unqualified, high-risk employee was able to obtain classified information that the man was not privy to and smuggle it out of the MoD. The employees in question have been dealt with…creatively.)
Nor do his superiors tolerate the enlistment of a younger brother with a very ‘troubled’ past to handle a highly sensitive situation, only to have said sibling fuck things up beyond logical belief.
(Mycroft is of the firm opinion that this is primarily true because Sherlock is his brother and not theirs. The main point in his favour is his initial refusal to involve his brother and John in the situation, but his objections were overruled.)
That the overall mission remains viable despite unforeseen complications is another point in his favour. It is a miracle that this operation will not be an unqualified disaster, but Mycroft did not attain his position at his age without being prepared for contingencies. There is much to be done before he can breathe again, and sacrifices that must be made for the greater good. That his sleep will be disturbed for months to come is merely the price that he must pay to safeguard the lives of future generations.
With hollow chimes, the clock strikes midnight. Mycroft stares at his Blackberry, willing it to vibrate with the confirmations he needs to save this mission and the lives of some of his most vital assets. He has prioritized who is irreplaceable and who is expendable. The mayday messages have been sent. Until he knows who still lives to answer his summons, the most powerful man in the United Kingdom can do nothing but wait.
Under the guardianship of his trusted agents, Irene Adler has been (forcibly) escorted to Heathrow, given her passport, and issued a blank ticket to anywhere in the world. She will leave British soil in the next twelve hours with nothing to her name, other than her freedom and a much-reduced bank account. She is never to return to the United Kingdom, except, perhaps, in a body bag.
Sherlock was wrong. If Mycroft were kind, he could have simply had Ms Adler quietly overdose and put a neat end to this entire mess. In their line of work, a swift death is always the kindest end. Instead, he has made it clear to her that she has a month before he sets his people on her trail. They will find her, and if she provokes them, they will turn her over to Moriarty without a single qualm. It is a (mostly) idle threat. Mycroft has enough blood on his hands without adding hers. She is smart enough to know that she has nearly enough rope to hang herself. If she does not stop now, she will sign her own death warrant. Her fate will be due to her own choices and no one else’s. He knows he is thinking with his heart tonight, not with only his mind, and that is dangerous.
He has sent men and women, in the hours to come, to die for Queen and country. (Many of those officers would say it was their honour to make the ultimate sacrifice for “God, Queen, and country.” He has sometimes wished he could share the surety and comfort of their faith, but he has seen enough to know better. Belief is never unwavering). Through choices made and not made, he has decided who must live and who may die. If bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, then Mycroft is a coward who sends others to die willingly for a cause greater than their own lives. He is not the heart of the Commonwealth, but that does not mean he cannot feel. He does not care because he cannot care. Caring is not an advantage. Caring will not solve any of the near-impossible challenges that cross his desk on a daily basis. Logic will.
When Mycroft looks in a mirror, he knows that there is little to distinguish him from those he fights; even a necessary war is never glorious, only bloody. This has long ceased to be a game. This is war, and Ms Adler is only one of many casualties. She is one he will not mourn.
His mobile vibrates. The text is from Anthea: Beijing
Irene Adler is no longer his concern.
~
There is no formal title for his position, just as there is no public acknowledgement of his labours. However, in the court of Queen Elizabeth the first, Mycroft would have held the position of Her Majesty’s private spymaster. The title is a gross oversimplification of his actual duties for the reigning monarch, which range far beyond matters of intelligence and national security, but the world has changed since 1533.
Mycroft has earned the grudging respect of the select few who know him, or at least know of him. Some dare to match wits with him across the negotiation table, but few have the actual intellect to sustain their disagreements. Information is power, and he gathers more information at a glance than most people would amass in a lifetime. However, Mycroft is not so much omniscient as he is influential in domestic and international politics. He does not actually run the world. Nor does he have the same amount of influence in every country. After all, he is but one man.
Mycroft has his blind spots, entire swatches of the globe where his influence wanes and his information flow is unreliable. There are nations where history is being written without dictation or direction, only guided by the chaotic dreams of humanity. Afghanistan is one obvious country, Pakistan another.
The news trickles slowly onto his desk in bits and snatches of evidence and hearsay: a British citizen captured in Lahore; an Englishwoman disappearing in Karachi; another execution for ‘immoral acts'-stoning, beheading, acid attack, strangulation, immolation in Peshawar; unidentified female remains found in Quetta; finally, a grimy videotape.
Anthea is the one who delivers the film to his attention. She makes no comment about the ‘hard’ evidence, but he can see the slight tremor in her hands. She never signed on for this; he is glad she is still here. He offers to give her a half-day. The glare he receives in return is impressive both for its rejection and its gratitude.
Mycroft waits until he is alone in his office to watch the footage. It is of poor quality, doubtlessly due to amateur skills and old equipment. He has seen too many of these messages for any lifetime. The usual script of impossible demands abruptly cuts away to a darkened exterior shot, with a female figure kneeling in the sandy dust. In the harsh headlights, her high cheekbones are unmistakable, as is her straight-backed posture.
He does not need to hear her name to identify her.
From the declaration of her supposed crimes to the gruesome conclusion of her mock trial, he watches the entire tape from beginning to end. Then Mycroft studies the evidence, forcing himself to ignore the blood and the twist of his throat as he reviews the video frame by frame. When he is certain of his conclusions, he turns off the monitor.
It is extremely convincing evidence. There are minor inconsistencies, of course, ones that will be missed by the experts he will assign to tear apart this tape (and not, he hopes, by the newest Kore on his staff), which point to the execution as an elaborate piece of stagecraft. Still, he will not disabuse the world of the notion that Irene Adler is dead.
After all, she still has a role to play.
~
Ada Mann is safe. The set is yours.
The text is unsigned. He does not expect to recognize the number. However, he knows that his people, if given the order, would trace the SIM card to a burner phone issued to a Vauxhall field agent currently stationed in India. Mycroft also knows that said field agent likely has no idea that he has been kindly pickpocketed by one of his colleagues.
The sender is not a member of the Secret Service, but rather a ‘concerned friend’ of Her Majesty’s. He trusts this field officer, as far as he can trust anyone with other allegiances. Over the years, Mycroft has built his own global network of contacts, and this ‘unfortunate situation’ has demanded he call one of his more valuable favours into play. Still, he does admire the spunk and wit of this particular asset, so it is with implicit gratitude that he replies:
You know your orders.
There is no response, and no need for one. They all have their duties, their loyalties, and their choices. It is time.
Before he puts his mobile away, Mycroft hits send on a saved draft in his inbox. It is twenty-two minutes past the hour.
For God, Queen, and country…
Message sent.
So it begins.
~
Author: hope_tang
Rating: PG
Spoiler Warnings: A Scandal in Belgravia (2x01)
Summary: It is, to put it mildly, a fine mess.
Disclaimer:Other than being a fan, I have nothing to do with Sherlock. I’m not even British…
Betas: As always, my gratitude goes to agent_bandit, bluewillowtree, and dkwrkm for their kind and helpful comments on this story. There would have been far more head-banging against the wall if it wasn't for their constant support. Any remaining mistakes are my own.
Author’s Note: This was written and set post-Scandal, pre-Reichenbach. The ending has been revised to take the events of Hounds and Reichenbach into account, but without direct spoilers for either episode.
~
Despite his brother’s claims to the contrary, Mycroft Holmes is not the British Government. Nor does he precisely hold a ‘minor position’ in Her Majesty’s Civil Service. The truth lies between both statements. He does not comprise the whole of government, yet a significant portion of the British Commonwealth is answerable to him. That still means he is accountable to his (few) supervisors.
They aren’t pleased.
The most recent turn of events has engendered a certain degree of consternation among his superiors. It is, to put it mildly, a fine mess. They do not look kindly upon the inadvertent leakage of sensitive intelligence to a criminal mastermind with a penchant for illegal explosives, mass murder, and terrorism.
(Never mind that it was not Mycroft’s oversight failure that an unqualified, high-risk employee was able to obtain classified information that the man was not privy to and smuggle it out of the MoD. The employees in question have been dealt with…creatively.)
Nor do his superiors tolerate the enlistment of a younger brother with a very ‘troubled’ past to handle a highly sensitive situation, only to have said sibling fuck things up beyond logical belief.
(Mycroft is of the firm opinion that this is primarily true because Sherlock is his brother and not theirs. The main point in his favour is his initial refusal to involve his brother and John in the situation, but his objections were overruled.)
That the overall mission remains viable despite unforeseen complications is another point in his favour. It is a miracle that this operation will not be an unqualified disaster, but Mycroft did not attain his position at his age without being prepared for contingencies. There is much to be done before he can breathe again, and sacrifices that must be made for the greater good. That his sleep will be disturbed for months to come is merely the price that he must pay to safeguard the lives of future generations.
With hollow chimes, the clock strikes midnight. Mycroft stares at his Blackberry, willing it to vibrate with the confirmations he needs to save this mission and the lives of some of his most vital assets. He has prioritized who is irreplaceable and who is expendable. The mayday messages have been sent. Until he knows who still lives to answer his summons, the most powerful man in the United Kingdom can do nothing but wait.
Under the guardianship of his trusted agents, Irene Adler has been (forcibly) escorted to Heathrow, given her passport, and issued a blank ticket to anywhere in the world. She will leave British soil in the next twelve hours with nothing to her name, other than her freedom and a much-reduced bank account. She is never to return to the United Kingdom, except, perhaps, in a body bag.
Sherlock was wrong. If Mycroft were kind, he could have simply had Ms Adler quietly overdose and put a neat end to this entire mess. In their line of work, a swift death is always the kindest end. Instead, he has made it clear to her that she has a month before he sets his people on her trail. They will find her, and if she provokes them, they will turn her over to Moriarty without a single qualm. It is a (mostly) idle threat. Mycroft has enough blood on his hands without adding hers. She is smart enough to know that she has nearly enough rope to hang herself. If she does not stop now, she will sign her own death warrant. Her fate will be due to her own choices and no one else’s. He knows he is thinking with his heart tonight, not with only his mind, and that is dangerous.
He has sent men and women, in the hours to come, to die for Queen and country. (Many of those officers would say it was their honour to make the ultimate sacrifice for “God, Queen, and country.” He has sometimes wished he could share the surety and comfort of their faith, but he has seen enough to know better. Belief is never unwavering). Through choices made and not made, he has decided who must live and who may die. If bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, then Mycroft is a coward who sends others to die willingly for a cause greater than their own lives. He is not the heart of the Commonwealth, but that does not mean he cannot feel. He does not care because he cannot care. Caring is not an advantage. Caring will not solve any of the near-impossible challenges that cross his desk on a daily basis. Logic will.
When Mycroft looks in a mirror, he knows that there is little to distinguish him from those he fights; even a necessary war is never glorious, only bloody. This has long ceased to be a game. This is war, and Ms Adler is only one of many casualties. She is one he will not mourn.
His mobile vibrates. The text is from Anthea: Beijing
Irene Adler is no longer his concern.
~
There is no formal title for his position, just as there is no public acknowledgement of his labours. However, in the court of Queen Elizabeth the first, Mycroft would have held the position of Her Majesty’s private spymaster. The title is a gross oversimplification of his actual duties for the reigning monarch, which range far beyond matters of intelligence and national security, but the world has changed since 1533.
Mycroft has earned the grudging respect of the select few who know him, or at least know of him. Some dare to match wits with him across the negotiation table, but few have the actual intellect to sustain their disagreements. Information is power, and he gathers more information at a glance than most people would amass in a lifetime. However, Mycroft is not so much omniscient as he is influential in domestic and international politics. He does not actually run the world. Nor does he have the same amount of influence in every country. After all, he is but one man.
Mycroft has his blind spots, entire swatches of the globe where his influence wanes and his information flow is unreliable. There are nations where history is being written without dictation or direction, only guided by the chaotic dreams of humanity. Afghanistan is one obvious country, Pakistan another.
The news trickles slowly onto his desk in bits and snatches of evidence and hearsay: a British citizen captured in Lahore; an Englishwoman disappearing in Karachi; another execution for ‘immoral acts'-stoning, beheading, acid attack, strangulation, immolation in Peshawar; unidentified female remains found in Quetta; finally, a grimy videotape.
Anthea is the one who delivers the film to his attention. She makes no comment about the ‘hard’ evidence, but he can see the slight tremor in her hands. She never signed on for this; he is glad she is still here. He offers to give her a half-day. The glare he receives in return is impressive both for its rejection and its gratitude.
Mycroft waits until he is alone in his office to watch the footage. It is of poor quality, doubtlessly due to amateur skills and old equipment. He has seen too many of these messages for any lifetime. The usual script of impossible demands abruptly cuts away to a darkened exterior shot, with a female figure kneeling in the sandy dust. In the harsh headlights, her high cheekbones are unmistakable, as is her straight-backed posture.
He does not need to hear her name to identify her.
From the declaration of her supposed crimes to the gruesome conclusion of her mock trial, he watches the entire tape from beginning to end. Then Mycroft studies the evidence, forcing himself to ignore the blood and the twist of his throat as he reviews the video frame by frame. When he is certain of his conclusions, he turns off the monitor.
It is extremely convincing evidence. There are minor inconsistencies, of course, ones that will be missed by the experts he will assign to tear apart this tape (and not, he hopes, by the newest Kore on his staff), which point to the execution as an elaborate piece of stagecraft. Still, he will not disabuse the world of the notion that Irene Adler is dead.
After all, she still has a role to play.
~
Ada Mann is safe. The set is yours.
The text is unsigned. He does not expect to recognize the number. However, he knows that his people, if given the order, would trace the SIM card to a burner phone issued to a Vauxhall field agent currently stationed in India. Mycroft also knows that said field agent likely has no idea that he has been kindly pickpocketed by one of his colleagues.
The sender is not a member of the Secret Service, but rather a ‘concerned friend’ of Her Majesty’s. He trusts this field officer, as far as he can trust anyone with other allegiances. Over the years, Mycroft has built his own global network of contacts, and this ‘unfortunate situation’ has demanded he call one of his more valuable favours into play. Still, he does admire the spunk and wit of this particular asset, so it is with implicit gratitude that he replies:
You know your orders.
There is no response, and no need for one. They all have their duties, their loyalties, and their choices. It is time.
Before he puts his mobile away, Mycroft hits send on a saved draft in his inbox. It is twenty-two minutes past the hour.
For God, Queen, and country…
Message sent.
So it begins.
~