Mycroft Holmes was no ordinary civil servant. In many ways, he represented MI6, MI5, and the Cabinet Secretary. The reason why Sir Arnold, the honorary chancellor of Oxford University, often invited Solomon for dinner was due to Mycroft's recommendation. Under Mycroft's persuasive flattery, the aging Sir Arnold had come to believe that Solomon would one day be "one of us."
Without such authority and information channels, Mycroft couldn't possibly have removed the obstacles Solomon had planted or guided Sherlock Holmes so precisely to the final answer in such a short amount of time. But what he hadn't expected was that the final answer would turn out to be such a powder keg. Vampires had begun pouring out of the sewers, attempting to retaliate against the overly audacious Sherlock Holmes. This outcome was beyond even Mycroft's calculations, forcing him to make a late-night phone call to New York for help and to deploy the SAS to block the sewer exits. Only when Solomon arrived did Mycroft finally breathe a sigh of relief.
He was always trying to assimilate Solomon, to bring him—someone supported by powerful external forces—into the fold. However, Solomon had already rejected him back when they were still students. This time, both had their own agendas. Both knew that neither wanted this matter to become public, but negotiations were always a process of mutual compromise. No matter how reluctant they were, they had to find a middle ground.
"This conversation reminds me of the ones I had with Nick Fury. What you're after is secrecy. From the moment you met me, you've been probing into my secrets—just like Nick Fury did when we first met," Solomon said, spreading his hands. "But you have a choice, Mycroft. I can show you the secrets. Nick Fury is dead now—and I can assure you that had nothing to do with my secrets. Just keep this information locked down until my mission is complete."
"And how do you plan to do that? Fighter jets can't get into the London sewers," Mycroft replied more relaxed now, knowing Solomon's arrival meant the operation was already a success. The rest would be a long back-and-forth, and he was confident that after decades in Whitehall, he could extract at least a few secrets from Solomon.
Solomon knew Mycroft would keep the information under wraps. Mycroft pretended not to know that Solomon knew this and used it as a bargaining chip. There was no way Mycroft would call the Prime Minister right now to report the nightmare brewing in the sewers. Just like Solomon hid many of his secrets, Mycroft too had his fair share of skeletons.
"I have my own ways," Solomon said, pointing to his earpiece.
He had nothing but disdain for the petty games and small-scale maneuvering of civil servants like Mycroft. That was exactly why he had rejected Mycroft's recruitment attempts and refused to join the power center through such channels. As far as he knew, back in his Oxford days, Mycroft frequently hung around the Sackler Library—the one funded by the Purdue Pharma family, the same group behind OxyContin. Opioid distribution in the UK carried the fingerprints of Mycroft and his bureaucratic cronies. Where else could he have gotten the funds to build an island prison to lock up his own sister?
"Tell your people to back off. Mine are taking over. I don't want any elite soldiers dying in a crossfire over a misunderstanding."
"We have time to talk, Solomon," Mycroft said, slowly pointing his umbrella around the room. When the tip passed in Solomon's direction, the spellcaster tensed. He knew Mycroft could pull the trigger at any moment. "This isn't the right place for a conversation. Come with me—somewhere with a warm fire and a glass of sherry. That's more appropriate for this topic."
"Sorry, I'm not cold-blooded enough to sit back and enjoy myself while soldiers are bleeding out in the front lines. In that regard, I suppose I'm still very different from the British," Solomon replied coolly. He didn't mind showing weakness in negotiations—his priority was to resolve the matter at hand. Right now, the SAS was blocking the path, and they wouldn't budge without Mycroft's orders. Clearly, Mycroft wouldn't miss any chance to gain the upper hand. He stood there with a cryptic smile—right now, he was leveraging the SAS soldiers' lives to pressure the merciful Solomon. Anyone who had seen Solomon's ruthless side—like Coulson's team—would be baffled to see this. Especially Daisy Johnson, formerly known as Skye—she might even muster the courage to punch Solomon in the face.
"Your compassion always comes out at the strangest times, Mr. Damonet."
"A seasoned veteran who's saved the world many times, Mycroft! This isn't compassion—it's not wanting to waste valuable assets."
Solomon shifted his tone, prompting Mycroft to nod repeatedly. "I've said before, you're quite gifted—and it seems I was right. You're a moral vacuum now, and you've adapted quickly. If you don't like sherry, we could open something from the wine cellar. Or would you prefer to talk at the manor in Oxfordshire?"
"This is my second time here," Wanda said to Constantine. Behind her followed the Sisters' heavy weapons squad, though none of them seemed particularly chatty, so she had to make small talk on her own. "Last time there weren't so many vampires. Where the hell did these things come from?"
Constantine muttered, "According to the records…"
"I already know what the records say. I'm just wondering—can vampires really multiply this much?"
"In fact, ghouls, werewolves, and vampires all belong to the same bloodline. When only a trace of that bloodline is passed down, it spawns the ugly creatures we're seeing now," Constantine said, hunched over as he walked forward. "Clearly, I'm not built for this environment."
"Keep moving. You need to hold the chokepoint ahead," Aura interjected. "We need to wrap this up quickly. Where are those SAS guys? Send them ahead to scout."
Solomon was not pleased. Though he didn't show it, that didn't mean he wouldn't settle the score with Mycroft later.
The vampires in the London sewers weren't much trouble for the fully mobilized Immortal City. On the way back, the gunship even brought back several survivors—namely, the SAS members Mycroft had abandoned. They had witnessed the brutal deaths of their teammates, who were torn apart by vampires while waiting for orders that never came. Persuaded by Constantine, they boarded the gunship, eager for revenge now that they knew exactly who was responsible for the massacre.
Mycroft hadn't expected the SAS's loyalty to crumble so quickly.
Solomon had him pinned to a soft chair. This was Mycroft's apartment in the West End—Solomon had followed him there without a shred of concern for potential traps. Constantine had already reported the situation via comms, and Solomon had handed over the recording of his conversation with Mycroft, instructing him to play it for the SAS members.
"A warrior's loyalty belongs to those who show up, Mycroft. Pencil-pushers like you would never understand that kind of devotion." Solomon shoved a glass of sherry into the bureaucrat's hand. "Now figure out how you're going to fix this."
"I don't think this needs to escalate any further. This is a nation of laws. You always forget the role power plays, Solomon," Mycroft said, sipping his drink calmly. "Now then—you still haven't told me what you intend to do with my brother. Please, go on. I'm listening."
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