The Third Holmes (𝗠𝗼𝗿𝗶𝗮𝗿𝘁𝘆 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗣𝗮𝘁𝗿𝗶𝗼𝘁 𝘅 𝗠𝗮𝗹𝗲 𝗬/𝗡)

CHAPTER 1

In the dimly lit corridors of the Ministry of Defence Intelligence, the sound of confident footsteps echoed with purpose. Y/N Holmes strode through the hallways, his eyes sharp with mischief, and a wry smile tugging at his lips. He knew exactly where his destination lay-his older brother's study, tucked behind reinforced oak doors on the upper floor.

Without a hint of subtlety, Y/N pushed the heavy doors open with dramatic flair.

"Mycroft Holmes," he announced with an exaggerated grin, "did you miss me?"

Behind the grand mahogany desk, Mycroft looked up, disapproval etched deep into his features. He bore the familiar features of the Holmes lineage-tall, refined, with sharp eyes that mirrored both Y/N's and their other brother, Sherlock's. Dark hair framed his expressionless face as he sighed.

"Y/N," Mycroft began wearily, "I told you not to visit when I'm-"

"Busy doing shady work for the Queen, yada yada yada," Y/N cut in, dismissively waving a hand. He sauntered further into the office, his presence as disruptive as it was magnetic.

Mycroft's glare intensified. "Do not disgrace my service to Her Majesty so flippantly."

"Oh?" Y/N gasped with mock offense, placing a hand over his heart. "Are you secretly in love with her, brother? A royal infatuation, perhaps?"

Mycroft nearly choked. "Y/N!" he snapped. "Do not say things like that aloud. Someone might take it seriously!"

Y/N burst into laughter, his eyes gleaming. "Relax, Mikey. I know you're not into her. You swing the other way, remember?"

A deep shade of red colored Mycroft's face. "How shameless," he muttered.

"You're so easy to tease," Y/N chuckled, leaning against a bookshelf. "Anyway-what's the fun of being family if I can't cause you just a little stress?"

Mycroft sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why are you here, Y/N? Don't you have an article to write?"

At that, Y/N's smirk faltered.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "Is something wrong?"

Y/N shrugged, avoiding his brother's gaze. "I was supposed to write a piece about a London-based crime group manufacturing and distributing opium. It's gotten out of hand-people from all social classes are falling prey to it."

Mycroft nodded slowly. "And your publisher didn't approve."

Y/N's fists clenched at his sides. "Of course not. Because the ones responsible have ties to the royal family."

"You should be careful," Mycroft warned quietly. "Powerful people don't take kindly to being exposed."

"I know. But that's the problem, isn't it? People using power to crush the weak."

Mycroft's expression grew somber. "That's how society has always functioned."

A knock at the door broke the moment.

Both brothers turned as the door opened.

A man stepped inside, tall-easily six foot two-with a pale complexion, narrow build, and green eyes that held a calculating gleam. His brown hair was parted and slicked back, the strands falling just to the nape of his neck. He was dressed impeccably in the uniform of a high-ranking officer.

Y/N blinked. He's quite handsome, he mused, before Mycroft's voice snapped him back to attention.

"What does the British Indian Army want with me at this hour, Commander Moriarty?" Mycroft asked coolly.

Moriarty. The name rang a distant bell in Y/N's mind.

The commander offered a courteous smile. "I hope you don't mind. I'm only here to initiate a monologue."

The two Holmes brothers exchanged puzzled glances.

Moriarty strolled into the room as if he owned it, his tone light but his words deliberate. "I hear whispers of a secret agency, in need of significant funding to come into existence."

He turned his back to them, admiring Mycroft's collection of foreign curios on the shelves.

"The Army, of course, lacks the budget that the Royal Navy enjoys," Moriarty continued, running his fingers across a model warship. "And Parliament, it seems, is not keen on a new agency that answers directly to the Crown."

Mycroft was silent, but clearly listening.

"But," Moriarty said, turning once more, "solutions exist." He offered a low, formal bow-right hand to chest, left behind his back. "And I believe I have one."

Y/N narrowed his eyes, intrigued.

"You have my attention, Mr. Moriarty," Mycroft said smoothly.

"They're acting like I'm not even here," Y/N muttered under his breath.

But then something clicked in his memory.

"You're the first son of the late Earl Moriarty," Y/N said aloud. "I read about your family. The manor burned down, and only three of you survived."

Moriarty turned to him, his expression unchanged. "Yes. Myself, my younger brother William, and our adopted brother Louis."

He glanced back to Mycroft with a faint smirk. "And you must be his younger brother."

"Indeed," Y/N replied evenly.

"Well, I must be going," Moriarty said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. He turned to Mycroft once more. "I look forward to our next meeting, Mr. Holmes."

With a dramatic turn of his coat, he exited the room.

"What a-"

"What an interesting man," Mycroft interrupted.

Y/N sighed. "I was going to say that."

As Mycroft rifled through a stack of folders, Y/N spoke again.

"Do you think he has a plan to stop the opium trade?"

"That's what he implied," Mycroft said thoughtfully. "And if so, it's likely a bold one."

Y/N gave a small nod. "Then let's see what he can do."

***

The clatter of Y/N's typewriter echoed through the room as he worked tirelessly in his office at the publishing house. He was mid-sentence when the door burst open and his editor-in-chief stormed in.

"Mr. Holmes," the editor said breathlessly, "urgent headline just in."

Y/N raised a brow. "What's it about?" Though part of him already suspected.

A stack of papers landed on his desk. Y/N scanned the front page and felt his breath catch.

"LATE EARL MORIARTY'S SECOND SON TAKEN."

"A noble... kidnapped?" he murmured.

"We need your article before the day ends," the editor said firmly.

Y/N nodded. "Leave it to me."

As the door closed behind his boss, Y/N leaned back in his chair, the edges of a smirk forming.

"This must be part of Moriarty's plan," he muttered, pulling out the unfinished article in his typewriter and replacing it with a fresh sheet.

He cracked his fingers and set to work, the keys clicking with new urgency.