Pieces of a chess game [Sherlock x Harry Potter Crossover] [COMPLETE]

Chapter 22: The Six Thatchers, Part III

A cab sprinted along Millbank towards Vauxhall Bridge, breaking the silence of the early morning. Hermione observed how the sun's reflections on the Thames danced over Sherlock's features. The bruise covering his left eye had bloomed soon after he had arrived at Baker Street, and now it was an angry purple against his pale skin. He had been drifting in and out as his system tried to fight the last of the drug he had inhaled, only grunting when the car had taken a hump too fast, and the impact had gone to his healing ribs. Hermione herself was not much better. Sitting against the leather warmed by her own body heat, the lack of sleep and the events of the last 24 weighed on her. Currently, Hermione was dissecting the last conversation she had shared with Mary in her head. She should have pressured her more, Hermione thought. She had known something was amiss.

'Stop blaming yourself,' Sherlock said, staring through the window. 'No one saw this coming, not even me.'

Hermione thought about answering with a witty remark about how people were not as predictable as he thought, but she was too emotionally exhausted. And Sherlock was partially right. How could they have known that Mary's past was going to come back this quickly and so soon? They had been too naïve, thinking that erasing Magnussen would suddenly erase years' worth of enemies.

The cab exited the bridge and slowed down near the main gate of the MI6 headquarters. The security guard took Hermione's credentials and registered Sherlock, and they took the corridor to their right and down the stairs leading to the basement. Mycroft's door was open, and he was already waiting for them behind his desk.

Hermione entered and sat in the chair right in front of Mycroft. Sherlock stood behind her, the door closing with a loud thud.

'I assume Dr Watson is seething at home?' Mycroft asked.

'Someone had to stay with Rosie, brother.'

Mycroft smirked. 'Of course.'

Hermione felt Sherlock's knuckles brushing her back as his hands curled over the backrest. 'What do you know about AGRA?'

'Agra? A city on the banks of the river Yamuna in the nor—'

'Mycroft.' Hermione cut him off. 'Please. Enough with the riddles.'

Mycroft shifted his eyes to her and cleared his throat. 'They were a team of agents, the best. Mary was one of them. But you already know that,' he said, looking at Sherlock.

'One of them, Ajay, is looking for Mary.'

'Indeed? Well, that's news to me.'

'Is it?' said Sherlock in a disbelieving tone.

'Our sources said nothing about anyone surviving the whole ordeal. No one but Mary.' Mycroft reclined in his chair. 'AGRA were very reliable; then came the Tbilisi incident. They were sent in to free the hostages, but it all went horribly wrong. And that was that.'

'So you hired them, then?'

'The Government hired them.' Mycroft emphasised. 'After that incident, we stopped using freelancers—my initiative. Freelancers are too woolly, too messy. I don't like loose ends. I proposed the creation of our own in-house dedicated operatives.' He gestured to Hermione with his head.

'There was something else; a detail, a code word.' Sherlock stepped closer to the desk and pulled a notepad towards himself. He scribbled something and pushed it round to Mycroft.

'AMMO?' Mycroft frowned and tapped on the notepad.

'It's all we've got, brother.'

'Little enough.'