Previous part of Knight at the Museum.
***
Chapter 21: Of Meissen Men
“You are not stopping me from helping, young man!” Martha Hudson said, adamant that nobody was about to get the better of either of her charges. John had joined them quickly, having located Anderson in Conservation Lab 2, and he was hard pressed to stop her.
“Mrs Hudson,” John said, urgently, “we do not have time to argue.”
“Good,” Sherlock muttered. “Then it’s settled. Let’s go…”
“You can count me in too,” said a voice from the doorway. Everyone looked at Anderson who was standing in the doorway, armed with a fire extinguisher. “What? CO2 is an effective deterrent,” he said. “And these things pack a punch,” he added. “Besides, you might need someone responsible to hand the Venus over to, as nobody here seems capable…”
“Shut up, Anderson!” Chorused three voices.
“Right, well, you two can stay right here,” John said firmly. “No! Please, hear me out,” he added, overriding the protestations. “Sherlock and I are going to head off to Mycroft’s office, while Mrs Hudson calls the police, which should give us around five minutes to get into place, and then she’ll hit the fire alarms. Anderson, stay here and protect Mrs Hudson, okay? Make sure the coast is clear. If you see anyone you don’t recognise, give em a blast.” John glanced up and alarm lit his features. “Mrs Hudson, where in the Hell did you get that gun?”
“This? It belonged to my husband,” she said, offhandedly, regarding the Glock in her hand. “Well, sometimes I feel the need of protection, an old lady like me, walking home on a dark night…” She grinned at them.
“Hudders, you sly fox…” Sherlock grinned back, took the gun from her and checked it, springing the magazine and checking the bullets. “Full. You don’t have any more about your person, do you? Only a former military man like John, I can imagine he feels a bit naked without a weapon in his hand…”
“Just you be careful with that, Sherlock. I don’t want you getting hurt, your brother would never forgive me.” She reached into the drawer. “Here, I’m afraid this one isn’t real though. It’s only a lighter…”
“Here, give it over,” John said, hefting the—very good—replica. “It’ll fool anyone not close enough to check. I’d prefer the real one, though. I know I can shoot…”
“Here, John. Take it,” Sherlock offered. “Give me the lighter. Apparently I prefer talking people to death anyway…”
“Get on the pair of you,” Mrs Hudson muttered, exasperated, “or it’ll be too late. Go, save them both…”
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Greg watched as Mary lifted the weapon and trained it on him. She took a half step forward, deliberately moving out of Irene’s line of sight. She calmly met his gaze with her own, and fired. The noise was deafening. Greg felt the air graze past him, hot on his skin. He shut his eyes and waited for the pain, but instead his eyes flew open again as he felt something strike behind his knees, toppling him in a graceless heap to the carpet instead. Mary stood over him for a moment, urgently motioning him to keep quiet and stay down. He could hardly hear anything, his ears were ringing, and he saw Mary move away toward the door again. He instinctively curled into a defensive ball, heard what he thought were urgent voices, although muffled—it was like listening through water—then feet were running, moving past him, a flurry of movement….
Sherlock and John were heading toward Mycroft’s office when they heard the bang. Barely sparing each other a glance, they sprinted forward to be met with Irene and Mary pelting full tilt out and away from them, headed for the stairs. John raised his gun and yelled “STOP! POLICE! STAND WHERE YOU ARE!” They ignored him, so he let off a shot into the ceiling, and leveled the gun at the fleeing figures. That had the desired effect. The women stopped and turned yards from the head of the stairs, Mary holding her gun above her head.
Sherlock had dashed into Mycroft’s office, half expecting to find his brother on the floor, only to find Greg instead.
“Oh, shit! John!”
“What? I’m a little busy. You found your brother?” John added.
“I don’t know where he is…” Sherlock sounded desperate.
“Well, find him!” John turned back to the women. “You two, get back here. Now. Drop your weapon or I will shoot.”
“John!”
“What!”
“Lestrade is down...I need you…” The momentary distraction took John’s attention off the stairs for a moment, in time for a large man brandishing his own gun to appear at the top of the stairs and aim it right at him.
John registered movement and was in the process of getting off a shot as well as diving out of the way, just as the man loosed off a couple of shots of his own, enough cover for the women to get away down the stairs behind him. It left John out in the open, with no cover. The next few seconds seemed to slow down. John registered a blood curdling yell, and a flying figure dashed in from the left with a flash of red and a cloud of... steam? Gas? There were a couple more shots, splintering off the walls and the woodwork above him, a cry, and a hefty clunk, then a thud. When the dust settled, John looked up to see Anderson, standing over the prone body of the gunman, the CO2 extinguisher still in his hand.
“Did you just…?” John managed to ask.
Anderson nodded, panting. “Might have known you wouldn’t be able to handle things on your own,” he said with a sniff. “Besides, you’re not the only one with military experience, you know?”
“Phil, you were in the TAs…”
“So?”
“For less than six weeks?”
“Yes, well, better than nothing, under the circumstances. Looks like I’m one up on you anyway.” A hand reached to help him up and John grasped it gratefully.
“Yeah, well, he got the drop on me.”
“I’ll get something to tie him up, you go...deal with…” Phil cast a worried glance toward Anthea’s office.
“Right,” John said. Just as he turned to go into the room, the fire alarm went off. “Bloody Hell, timing!” he muttered, and ran in to find Sherlock on the floor next to Greg. John started toward them but Mycroft suddenly appeared at his office door, took one look at the scene before him, and his legs buckled from under him. John was just about fast enough to catch him before he hit the ground too hard.
“Thank God,” he thought he heard Sherlock say.
“Sherlock, what?” Sirens sounded in the distance, and the alarms made things difficult to hear. He was too busy checking Mycroft’s vitals, but the man was in a dead faint.
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Time stopped for Mycroft when he heard the bang of the gun, too loud in the enclosed space. Then Mary was grabbing Irene and pulling her away, shouting about the noise having alerted the police, and needing to move now. He stood rooted to the spot, ears ringing, shock draining colour from his face, shortening his breath to gasps… He couldn’t move, couldn’t make himself go to the door, knowing what he would find. There was no way she could have missed at such close range… There would be blood… Greg’s blood… Trembling, he forced himself forward. He could hear shouting, another shot, two… Half afraid, half not caring, he moved one step at a time to the door, in time to see John come rushing through from the corridor beyond, and his brother crouching on the floor beside the fallen body of his lover. Dizziness swept over him, and Mycroft felt his legs give out, but did not register John grabbing him and slowing his descent to the floor.
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“So, Mr Holmes, let me get this straight, a woman who doesn’t exist masterminded a heist on the Sherrinford to steal a small Roman statue of Venus…” Detective Inspector Hathaway of Thames Valley Police stared disbelievingly at the man in front of him.
“A gold statue, yes. From the British Museum…” Sherlock reminded him.
“Yes, a gold statue…”
“From the British Museum.”
“Right, to fund her retirement to a foreign country, possibly Brazil, with her lover…”
“Who used to be a member of the Russian Mafia, yes. Do keep up, Hathaway…”
“Jesus, is it any wonder we don’t allow you near crime scenes?”
Sherlock gave an annoyed huff. “I can see you’ve been speaking to Dimmock…” he began but was interrupted by a voice from behind them.
“Detective Inspector Hathaway?”
“And who might you be, sir?” A man was approaching them with an easy confident stride, suited in charcoal grey pinstripe and carrying an umbrella.
“Bill Tanner, sir. MI6.”
“Pardon?” Hathaway inspected the ID handed to him and raised his eyebrows. “Please, don’t tell me all this is true?”
“I think we need to talk, sir, if you don’t mind? We’re taking over this crime scene as of now. With your cooperation, of course. One of the people involved is on our wanted list. A matter of National Security.” He nodded to Sherlock. “Mr Holmes, sir. I shall of course have a chat to you in due course. Gareth Mallory sends his regards and asks that you pass his on to your father.” Sherlock gave him an answering nod. “Now, if you would talk me through the details, Inspector…?”
Sherlock smirked and waved Hathaway off, then turned to where John stood beside one of two ambulances that sat in attendance on the tarmac. Greg was sitting on the back step, a blanket around his shoulders.
“Why do they give you one of these?” He twitched at the appalling shade of orange.
“It’s for shock.”
“But I’m fine, I’m not in shock…”
“Obviously the blanket is working then,” Sherlock quipped.
“Where’s Myc?”
“In the other ambulance.”
“Is he okay?”
“Yes, he just fainted. Hypertension, that’s all,” John said. “Probably brought on by the stress of the situation.”
Greg chewed his lip. “God, what a mess… She m.m.made me tell him…” Greg’s eyes were haunted as he looked at John. “I thought I’d been...shot…”
“Tell him what?” John asked gently. “What did she make you do, Greg?”
“Lies, John. She wanted me to make him believe I was working for them, like you said, Sherlock…otherwise...she said she’d make sure he suffered...She would have shot him...”
“What, and you convinced him?” Sherlock was sceptical. “How? You’re not that good an actor…” He stopped speaking when Greg’s expression crumpled and put his face in his hands and started to weep. “John?” Sherlock said helplessly.
“Be gentle, Sherlock.” He lowered his voice. “Greg’s mental state is a bit unstable at the moment. Look, just stay with him, won’t you? Don’t let him out of your sight. I’m going to speak to your brother.”
“John, what do I do?” Sherlock looked trapped and out of his depth.
“I dunno, do what human beings do, Sherlock, comfort the man…”
Mycroft surfaced to the bright lights in the back of the ambulance. He couldn’t focus. He remembered seeing Greg lying on the floor… Oh, My God! Mary...gunfire…Sherlock? Did I see Sherlock? Was Sherlock here? Oh, Gregory…
“Mycroft, Mycroft, it’s okay, you’re safe. Do you know where you are?” The voice of John Watson, dependable and safe, reached his ears. He felt a hand on his shoulder, grounding him.
“Oh, John…” Mycroft momentarily hated the fact that anybody had seen him like this; vulnerable, in an ambulance… “Gregory...I s.s.saw…”
“Greg is okay, Mycroft,” John reassured. He watched Holmes’ eyes fly open at that statement. “He’s fine. He…”
“What? Don’t lie to me, John! I know what happened… That woman...shot him…”
“No, she didn’t, Mycroft, she only pretended to. Turns out she was double crossing Adler and came out on Greg’s side. Had to make it look real though. So relax…”
“Don’t!” Mycroft spat, angrily. “Don’t tell me to relax, John! Everybody is telling lies. What the Holy Fuck is real right now?” Coming from Mycroft, the swearing sounded wrong. “I want to see him, John. I need to see Gregory…”
“Hey, hey, easy there. Come on, calm down or the nice man there might have to give you something to sedate you. It’s fine, Mycroft. You can see him when they’ve finished checking him over. Everything will be sorted soon as we can make sense of what happened. Now I’m not psychic as I told Sherlock only this evening. So can you talk me through what happened, hm? Your own words, in your own time, yeah?”
It took some time for the two men to unravel what had gone down. MI6 had been alerted by Mr Holmes Senior. They had dispatched people to investigate, and Tanner had brought his team, but had arrived really too late to be effective. They were fully prepared to take over the investigation though. By the time the police arrived, Mrs Hudson had spirited the firearms away, the lighter back into her desk drawer, the gun in question into the Museum’s armory. Mrs Hudson had a surprising array of keys, and the shop store rooms had altered so many times over the years she had kept a copy of pretty much every key to every door in the place. “I knew one day they would come in useful…” she had said cheerfully. The gun could be dealt with later, she had assured. There were bigger things to take care of.
Sherlock disappeared into the guards’ lodge by the front entrance of the Museum, accompanying one of the guards who had appeared on the scene very quickly on hearing shots, despite there being nothing they could achieve beyond alerting the police, which they had done as a matter of course. Sure enough, the car park cctv feed had been disrupted, the screen blank, as had the one in the staff corridor.
“It was noted, sir. However they were clever in their choice of eight o’clock. That’s change over of shifts, sir. Looks like someone noted the screens going off but hand over takes place at eight, so by the time the new shift was on, well, it was all over, sir. We heard the shots and came to investigate…”
“How did you hear that from here?”
“Some of the cctv have microphones, so we can record sound. Usually we turn them off during the day, but when the screen fails we check in case we can hear noise as a backup. The one in the staff corridor has a mic, although the one outside doesn’t. Too much extraneous noise for it to be useful. In this case, when we turned the volume on, we got the sound of gunfire.”
“Yes, well, they had a man on the inside, one of the volunteer staff. Doubtless he would have known where the cameras were and also what time your shift changed. After all, I don’t suppose it’s much of a secret.”
“Sorry, sir. Monitors do go off accidentally. If we called the police for every single one… Besides, they don’t appreciate being called out because our server’s gone down either. The new shift would have checked the camera, but they also need to check if there’s been a computer problem first. However, I think we may have found something.” The guard paused, leaned over and brought up another feed. “If we backtrack this external one...There. This is the street view to the west. See that merc, on the other side of the road? He’s on the road that passes the car park gate. Watch him, he pulls out about ten past eight, going north, and…” there was a pause while he fast forwarded to around half a minute. “Right… there. Same car, going to other way. He’s turned around, heading south, and he’s pulling away a bit quickly there. More people in the car too. He’s obviously stopped to pick people us, can’t have been further than the back gate, so that might be your man.” He froze the playback. The back of the mercedes showed a complete number plate. “Gimme a mo and I’ll print that off.”
“So, firearms were discharged,” Bill Tanner said to Sherlock a little later, examining the corridor ceiling with his torch. “From the hostiles, I am presuming? It would be impossible for either of you, as civilians, to own a firearm?”
“Impossible, Mr Tanner,” Sherlock agreed and the two men shared a meaningful glance. “Unless you count a fire extinguisher, wielded very effectively under the circumstances by the Head of the Museum’s conservation department.”
“While there might be irony there somewhere, Mr Holmes, I do not believe fire extinguishers are currently on the list of prohibited weapons. Certainly no conceal and carry there.” He smiled, wolflike, and walked into Anthea’s office. Sherlock followed.
“I believe at least two of the group were armed, although I believe Irene Adler was not,” Sherlock added. “John was still out in the corridor when he was shot at by the man Mr Anderson managed to knock out with the fire extinguisher, although we do know there was a fourth man with them earlier, and another who was part of the group whom we did not see, namely Milverton. I believe Mr Lestrade informed us a man named Culverton Smith, a professor at the university, was present, but he had vacated the area by the time Dr Watson and myself arrived. If there were any others acting as guards, they made themselves scarce. In short, we know of Irene Adler, and a woman giving her name as Mary Morstan, plus Culverton Smith, Milverton, and the man we captured. One of my homeless informants is on the take from Smith, but beyond that, I do not know how far her involvement goes. I also doubt that I ever had her real name, or that she will be around from now on. That’s all I can give you, really.”
“It’ll be enough, thank you, sir. Coupled with the cctv image, I think we have enough to track them, and we’ll do our best to head them off at the pass, as it were.”
“I’m sure you will. May I ask… You’ll be watching the airports, docks, private landing strips?”
“All modes of ingress and egress, sir, although personally…” Bill paused. “I doubt we’ll be successful…They’ll be travelling light, they have a head start, may well head to a strip close by, private charter flight...” He shrugged. “We shall of course put the word out with Interpol, but extradition proceedings can take years, assuming we locate them, that is.”
“Well, one never knows…”
“No, sir, one does not.”
“Concerning my brother, Mr Tanner… The British Museum?”
“Ah, the theft of the Venus… We will, of course, be preparing a complete police report. Your brother has undergone a traumatic experience, and was under duress. We’ll gather his statement as soon as is possible, and together with yours and Dr Watson’s…”
“And Mr lestrade’s.”
“And Mr Lestrade’s, yes. I think this should prove to be an open and shut case. Barring any glaring anomalies, of course. As such, I’m sure there is no cause for concern. The police do not advise heroics when in such a situation, sir. I am sure the British Museum will understand. The object was insured, of course.”
“Of course. I shall inform him of this course of action. It might help alleviate any sense of...guilt.”
“Please do. Thank you for your time, sir.”
“So, we’re in the clear?” John asked.
“As far as possible. Father’s influence goes a long way. Besides, you only discharged one bullet and that was into the ceiling.”
“You’re forgetting the one I fired at the gunman.”
“Semantics. Still illegal whether you fire one bullet or many.”
“Self defence?” John suggested.
“Still a handgun. Still, nobody was shot by you anyway. Did it feel good?”
“God, yes.”
“I suppose the shame is that they’re probably long gone by now. The venus is lost to us, which will be a stain on Mycroft’s honour…”
“Sherlock, he’s not a regency heroine.”
“Well, he did swoon spectacularly.”
“You are a bad man, Sherlock. A bad, bad man…”
“Mr Tanner also informed me that as long as our statements back each other up, Mycroft will most likely be in the clear. Under duress, etc, etc, the police don’t advise heroics, yada, yada. He’s off the hook.”
“Not in his eyes.”
“No, well, my brother was nothing if not stubborn where responsibility was concerned.”
“Was?”
“Point.” Sherlock sighed. “Lestrade, however, is another matter.”
“Yeah, I know. Mycroft is a bit…”
“More than a bit, in this case, I think. He’ll blame himself, and his feelings for Lestrade, and everything he can bloody well think of…”
“Sherlock, we have to let them work it out.”
“But…”
“No buts. Give them time before you wade in. Let them work it out.”
Sherlock looked rebellious for a moment, but capitulated when John leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “Come on, you. Let’s go see what we can do to help clean things up.”
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Mycroft’s thoughts were in turmoil. They insisted he spend the night in hospital under observation, because of his blasted fainting fit. The ambulance had set off before he had been able to verify that Greg was actually unhurt. He spent an uncomfortable two hours in A&E being poked and prodded and questioned repeatedly. Of all the ignominious endings… Have you fainted before, Mr Holmes? Do you know of any history of heart problems in your family, Mr Holmes? It made him want to scream and run away in the opposite direction. He was frankly sick of it. They insisted on an ECG, grip tests, bloods, blood pressure… The list went on. He had even been accompanied to the hospital by a police constable, like a common criminal… When finally they told him he was free to go it was nearly two in the morning. Stubbornly, he told them he felt sick, and had no way of getting home. They allowed him to stay the rest of the night.
He had no idea what to feel about what Greg had said and done…. He didn’t understand what had happened. How had he not been shot? John had tried to tell him that Mary faked it… but he had been lying on the floor… he had looked dead.
Giving it up as a bad job, he finally fell asleep, exhaustion pulling him under despite someone moaning in the bed in the corner and someone else retching behind the curtains around the bed.
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Greg was saved from hospital by the plain fact of not being physically hurt, and was released by the paramedics with the injunction to go home, get some rest, and to call his GP in the morning, but it was clear he was far from alright.
“Greg?”
“John.”
“How do you feel?”
“Crap, honestly. Where’s Mycroft?”
“Hospital. He passed out, so they’ve played safe and got him under obs. He’ll be fine. So...you going home?”
“Not sure…” Greg ran his hands through his hair, leaving messy spikes in their wake. “Dunno where my keys are, or my phone, or wallet… Mary kidnapped me, I’ve been kept in an unknown location for the last forty eight hours and I have no idea where my stuff is…” He felt completely lost. “I hurt him, John.”
“Hey, none of that right now. He’ll recover. Come on home with me, mate,” John offered. “You can use the shower, and you can have the spare bed for a couple of nights. I’ve got track pants and a t-shirt you can borrow. Sherlock?”
“Yes, John?”
“Everything done here?”
“Yes, I think so. Security will clear things here, and both Anderson and Mrs Hudson have gone home.”
“Come on then, let’s get a cab to mine, call out for food…”
“I shall order online, it’ll be there by the time we arrive.”
“How long do you think the journey to my flat takes?”
“Thirty two minutes and twenty seconds, given a prevailing wind and no roadworks…”
“I can’t believe you know so precisely… No, hang on, yes I can. Knowing you, you also know which take-away businesses will be able to deliver in a half hour…”
“Forty minutes, John. We still have to flag down a cab…”
***
Chapter 22: Tying Up Loose Ends
When the morning nursing shift came in with tea and toast, Mycroft was more than ready to leave. Dressing in yesterday’s clothes felt awful. He felt in need of a shower, but he was so tired. John had reassured him that Greg was fine but so many lies had been swimming around he had no idea what was real and what was not. He was unprepared therefore to find his brother at the door with an overnight bag just as he was about to leave and call a taxi to take him home.
“Mycroft.”
“Sherlock. What are you doing here?”
“Doing, apparently, what brothers are supposed to do. I brought you fresh clothes,” he said, gesturing with the bag. “Collecting a sibling from hospital is on the list of things siblings regularly do for each other. It encourages feelings of mutual respect and trust such as those normally found between family members.”
“And you acquired this definition from where, exactly?”
“John.”
“Ah. Understood. The John Watson School of Normative Studies.” He smiled. “Has a certain ring to it. Am I to expect the loss of my Anthropology Curator in favour of a career in motivational speaking?”
“I very much doubt that,” Sherlock said with a wry smile. “However, I am also supposed to ask how you are feeling and John has warned me that if I do not bring home a suitable answer I am given to understand that I should not expect the usual...conjugal element of our relationship?”
Mycroft tried to keep himself from smiling at the honesty in those words. He nearly undid himself by glancing up at his younger brother but mastered the desire to smile and studied him more closely. Sherlock actually seemed to be genuine about wanting to know. “I regret,” Mycroft began with care, “I am not feeling my best right at this moment.” He stared into the middle distance, unfocused, and drew a deep breath. “We lost, did we not?”
“Lost?” For a moment, Sherlock was nonplussed. “Oh. Yes, I see. Well, that depends upon your viewpoint. Yes, they escaped, and yes, they took the Venus, but...we are all alive.”
“About that, Sherlock. What exactly happened? How is Gregory alive?” Mycroft’s question opened the floodgates, and he then had to sit through the next twenty minutes of Sherlock explaining the events of the previous night, including Philip Anderson’s heroic action with the fire extinguisher, Mary’s personal agenda, and Mrs Hudson’s fearless summoning of the local constabulary, not to mention setting the fire alarms off for good measure. When Sherlock ran out of steam, Mycroft sat quietly, digesting the information.
“So…” he began, “Irene forced Gregory to lie?”
“She wanted you to suffer, Mycroft. He lied to stop her physically hurting you. Had to make it sound convincing. She threatened to put you in a wheelchair, permanently. He is...quite distressed.”
Mycroft’s stomach twisted. “She would have had both of us if she could.”
“Why didn’t she? Why not summon me as well?”
“Time, perhaps, or lack of it. After all, the Venus was the goal, and we were collateral damage. They had a schedule to keep in order to leave the country before they were caught.”
“Makes sense. Events conspired to lead her to the Headmistress’ position, she just employed opportunities as they arose…The opportunity to attack me was denied her so she took it out on you. I...I am sorry for that, Mycroft.”
That made Mycroft pause. His heart constricted in his chest. Sherlock was being one hundred percent truthful. Not trusting his voice, and admitting he was not sure what to say anyway, Mycroft reached out. He entwined his fingers with those of his brother, then squeezed gently. Sherlock looked at their joined hands, then almost hurriedly disengaged himself from his brother’s grasp, but not before squeezing back first. Mycroft allowed himself a tired smile. “Do we know anymore?” he asked, reaching for the bag to see what clothing his brother had chosen.
“Not much. Bill Tanner and his team from MI6 are now handling the investigation. Apparently, Freeborn never divulged any personal information to anyone at the school. Our man Tanner updated me that it looks like she had falsified documents for her qualifications, and owned several passports too. MI6 located her apartment, some cottage in Wilsmancote…”
“Wilsmancote? That’s miles from Ashton Parva…”
“Deliberate, it would seem. It was comfortable, all the necessities to live, but nothing much beyond that. A means to an end. She does not look to have been expecting to stay too long. Tanner shared that they found old documents, probably those she felt she did not require, left behind. There are no photos, nothing substantial, no record of anything too personal.” Sherlock watched as his brother shrugged on a clean shirt and fastened the buttons carefully. “No surprise that the university in question has no record of her attendance, although her graduation certificate looks very genuine.”
“No surprise at all,” Mycroft agreed. “What have they done concerning the school?”
Sherlock frowned. “The School?”
“Where she and Greg and Mary taught, yes, the school.”
“I have no idea.”
“Doubtless they will want to know why three teachers have gone missing.”
“With the current levels of stress in the profession I doubt anyone has even noticed their absence. It probably registers as normal to have three colleagues off sick…”
They drove home in Sherlock’s borrowed car. “This is Gregory’s,” Mycroft said, getting in.
“He allowed me to borrow it. There were spare keys in his flat.”
“You broke into his flat again.”
“Necessity. He wanted his clothing.”
“How is he?”
“Distressed, as I said. The stress has affected his PTSD, John tells me. He might have to take some time off work.”
“I feel...terribly responsible.”
“Mycroft, you know what you keep saying concerning coincidence?”
“The Universe is rarely so lazy?”
“Yes, that. There are always people weaving their webs, casting the dice, making their plans, and pulling them off. Sufficient number that coincidence seems more and more unlikely the more people make plans, the more dice get cast.”
“Dice are random.”
“Probability, Mycroft, not random. Probability is mathematics, nothing less. The Universe is structured on mathematics, not chaos, as some prefer to believe. Therefore your argument is invalid.”
“I did not make an argument, Sherlock.” Mycroft could feel a headache coming on.
“You did. You said dice were random, and that you were feeling, and I quote, “terribly responsible”.”
Mycroft sighed. “I am responsible, Sherlock.”
“No, you are not, at least not for everything. Look, Mycroft, events conspired to cause decisions to be made that may...that you may consider regrettable, and you are responsible for your decisions, but you are not responsible for the chain of events, nor for Greg’s decisions. He made those based on how he feels about you, as you made choices based on your feelings for him. Sentiment,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “Caring is not an advantage, you were right about that.”
“No, indeed.”
“However, I find life is infinitely more boring when one does not care. John is in my life now, and I care a great deal for him and suddenly, my life is not so...boring, as it was before. John is my conductor of light. I highly recommend it. Gregory is....good for you, despite the brain power of the proverbial goldfish. You have been altogether more agreeable since you got together…”
“Sherlock…”
“Besides, he is...a man, and good at it...”
“Sherlock…”
“What?”
“Can we go home now?”
“Where do you want to go?” Sherlock revved the engine and drove out through the hospital gates and turned left, back to Ashton Magna. The morning traffic was sluggish, and the day was warm.
“Home, as I suggested.”
“Are you sure?”
Mycroft rolled his head to glance at his brother, wondering what was on his mind. “Where else, Sherlock? I do not have anywhere else to go.”
“I just thought…”
“You thought what, brother?” Mycroft sighed. Despite the progress Sherlock was making, at times getting information from him still felt like pulling teeth.
Sherlock sighed too, and pulled up for a red light. “Gregory is staying with John.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. John is taking care of him.”
“Does he need someone to take care of him? I thought he was unharmed.”
“Unharmed, yes, but…”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Sherlock, spit it out. Is he or is he not hurt?”
“Physically, no, but…”
“Oh.” Mycroft knew that Gregory suffered PTSD. Had the stress triggered an attack? “Is John capable of caring for him?”
“Ex-army trauma surgeon,” Sherlock murmured. “I should think so. He’s seen plenty of Post Traumatic Stress cases. He says with the correct medication, Greg will be fine. He probably needs counselling but he’s not hearing voices or having flashbacks, although he’s had a bad dream or two. He won’t be going back to school for a while though.”
“I do want to see him. It is whether he wants to see me.”
“He was asking about you, this morning. John thinks I should keep out of it all, leave you two to work things out by yourselves, but…”
“But?”
“I do care about you, brother. You’ve always been there for me, I just wanted to return the favour. I know I can be...and have been...an ass about some things, but...this is important. I also feel responsible. I brought this to your door, the information concerning the heist, after all.”
“You were merely the messenger, Sherlock.”
“Yes, well…I do not think either you or Gregory should feel...guilty, concerning each other. You each did the honourable thing, in the end. You made decisions based upon sentiment rather than cold hard logic, but I suppose the painful truth is that we can’t all be perfect…”
Mycroft glanced at Sherlock with a scandalised expression that turned to a wry smile. Sherlock grinned.
“Take me home, Sherlock. I need a shower, and to contact Anthea. I will need to sort things out at work. After all, we have a new exhibition opening at the weekend, with no Abbotsfield Venus to display. Press releases will need to be changed, damage control will need to be enacted upon.”
“Tanner wanted me to let you know, he feels, subject to your statement of course, that there will be no case to answer concerning the British Museum. He says they will inform the museum concerning the loss. Father called this morning, but I was on my way and couldn’t talk to him. The message he left was positive. Insurance will cover everything. No loss of prestige...etc, etc.”
“In spite of that, it will still haunt me. I shall probably be known forever as the one who let the Venus get away…”
“That depends on what MI6 have concocted with regard to what happened.”
“Yes, I rather suspect it does.”
00000000000
Home was empty. Silent. Peaceful but not...soothing. He wanted company. Very specific company. Eventually, after a hot shower, and a meal pulled from the freezer and tossed into the microwave, Mycroft began to feel more human. He dreaded calling work though. Finally, he mastered the urge to run away and picked up the phone.
“Anthea,” he said, but was all of a sudden swamped with questions.
“Sir, are you alright, sir? Mrs Hudson and Philip Anderson were on my doorstep this morning, caught me before anyone else arrived, filled me in with what happened last night. Sounds as though it was dreadful. Are you alright?”
“I...yes, Anthea. I am...perhaps not fine, but I am on a more even keel, shall we say. What did they tell you?” He listened for a while as she reiterated what had been said. They had told her word for word. Nobody seemed to be aware of what had happened in his office, just that he had been forced to give up the figurine in exchange for his life and that of Greg Lestrade.
“Anderson told me what happened, that they shot at you, and John…”
“Did he also reiterate his own heroic part in it all?”
“A little. He was...extraordinarily modest, actually.” She sounded doubtful.
“He did save John Watson’s life, so far as I can understand it. I did not see that part of the proceedings, however. Has anyone from the police been in touch?”
“Oh, DI Hathaway visited. He says he’ll be in touch soon, concerning the release of the incident to the press. They need your statement, but beyond that, there is no sign of the gang, or of the Venus. I’m sorry, sir. They think a plane took off from a local abandoned airfield about a half hour after the theft, and they think the gang were on board. A farmer saw it flying low over his property around nine thirty. It looks to have been a small light aircraft. Possibly a hop to a larger airport.”
“Most likely long gone by now.”
“Yes, sir. Will you be coming in this afternoon, sir?”
“I did not intend to. Why?”
“Only a few emails concerning the exhibition opening. A package was left for you this morning, it came by courier, and there are a couple of magazine coverage queries. I can deal with them, or ask Marketing.”
“Deal with the queries, leave the package on my desk, and ask Marketing to handle any articles, but are they apprised of the situation? I do need to operate damage control. There’s nothing they can do until after this breaks. Tell them to hold off with everything until we know more. We need to weather that storm first.”
Mycroft retreated to his study and sat at his computer, feeling a little divorced from the events of the past 48 hours. He had an email from Bill Tanner with an attached press release draft for his perusal. It kept to the facts, kept the details of his and Gregory’s involvement out of it, and stated that an armed gang had broken into the staff area with help from an insider, a museum volunteer by the name of Francis Culverton Smith, ex- of Sherrinford University History Department. Currently a wanted man, etc, etc, the public should be on the lookout but should not approach, etc, etc. They had forced the safe and taken a single artefact, a gold figurine known as the Abbottsfield Venus, dating from the Roman period and found near Abbottsfield, five miles from Ashton Parva. Security had disturbed them and the gang had fled, firing shots on the way, but nobody was hurt. Head of Conservation, Mr Philip Anderson, aged 39, who had been working late at the museum ahead of the new exhibition in which the Abbottsfield Venus was due to play a prominent role, had valiantly attempted to stop them with the use of a fire extinguisher, knocking one of the gunmen unconscious. There was the usual warning that the police believed that five of the gang remained at large and gave a number for the public to call if they had any information. It went on to list the gang by name, including Charles Milverton but leaving Mary’s and Irene’s names out of it all.
Mycroft did not know how he felt about it all. Ambivalent, if truth be known, he thought. It was all rather too much to cope with. He could not order his thoughts around everything he and Greg had been subjected to. He poured himself a whisky, his favourite Macallen, and took it out onto the terrace behind the house. The warm silence of the summer evening was soothing, so he sat on one of the bistro chairs and tried to relax.
I am not my brother, he thought. I am not the clever one, with the fearless analytical mind. Where his brother would see this situation clearly, I am clouded with emotion… Despite his brother’s self-destructive tendencies, his insecure genius, sharp-tongue and marked lack of people skills, Mycroft could still envy him his intellect. He was not as clever as his brother. He was the sensitive one, as his mother had always labelled him. Always hurt more deeply, always quick to bottle the pain away, to hide behind a mask of indifference. Politics would have destroyed me, he thought, father was right, although this... he could not shake the feelings that Gregory’s words had evoked. Despite knowing why he was doing it, despite knowing deep down that it was designed to protect… It was warped, and wrong, and for a few hateful hours he had believed it to be true, had not been able to see it for the lie that it was.
Why am I not more upset about the Venus? Surely I should be more upset than this? He was not. He would gladly have given up everything to protect Greg, and that shocked him. Scared him even. That in so short a time he was invested in both loving and protecting the man he hadn’t even known existed a scan few weeks ago was baffling. He felt battered by the speed of events, by the ferocity of his feelings...
00000000000
Greg slept well, considering. He was awake at six, but John had beaten him to it, and the smell of coffee and bacon was almost overwhelming.
“Here you go, mate,” he said when a disheveled Greg appeared in the kitchen. A plate was slid his way with toast, bacon, scrambled eggs and beans, closely followed by a mug of coffee.
“Ah, John. Thank you, this looks...amazing.”
“How are you?”
“All things considered, not too bad. Yourself? Recovered from being shot at?”
John smiled. “Does it sound wrong to say I may have missed it, the adrenalin?”
“There speaks the ex-soldier.”
“Sounds like you speak from experience.”
“I work with one. James Sholto. He...what?”
“Sholto? Tall bloke, blue eyes? Served in Afghanistan?” Greg nodded. “Bloody hell, small world. He was commanding officer when I was there. Invalided out about a year before me.”
“Talking of small worlds… Do you come from around here?”
“Not far away actually.”
“Your dad didn’t used to be a teacher, did he?”
“No, why?”
“Oh, just...when I was a kid, I had this history teacher, Mr Watson, and he was...a bit of a surrogate father to me. The reason I went into the police, really. When I had to leave, I think I retrained as a teacher because of him too. He died some years ago, and his son wrote to me to tell me.”
“Was his name Brian by any chance?”
“Never sure I knew his first name.”
“I had an uncle Brian, he was a teacher. Died about four years ago I think. His son is Ben, my cousin. Don’t see him much but...if you like I can ask.”
Greg smiled. “Yeah, thanks. I’d like to find out. Where’s himself this morning anyway?”
“Already gone. He was off to borrow your car. You did tell him he could borrow it, didn’t you?”
“Yes, he asked last night. He said he could pick my lock and get into my flat for me. I’ve got spare keys in the back of the fridge for the flat and the car. He said he wanted to go pick Mycroft up from hospital today. Told him he could borrow it if he brought me some clothes back with him, and if he cleared out my fridge as well. God knows what’s gone off in there.”
“Greg…”
“Hm?”
“You and Mycroft, you know you’re neither of you to blame for any of this, don’t you?”
“Don’t care, actually. I’ve thought about it all, and you know, I’d do the same again. If it meant making sure he was okay. I just...don’t want him thinking I really was involved. It hurt to tell him, specially when I realised I might die and my last words would have been…” He choked, cleared his throat, took a gulp of coffee. “That was my one regret, that we’d have parted on bad terms…”
“Well, you haven’t parted for good yet and nobody thinks you were really involved so you can relax. You and Mycroft should talk, when you’re ready.”
“Assuming he wants to.”
“Why wouldn’t he? After all, you did it with the best intentions.” Greg was silent long enough that John looked back at him with concern. “Greg?”
“Hm?”
“You okay?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“You should go see your own doctor, you know. This was traumatic enough to potentially cause you problems with your post traumatic stress. You maybe should seek counselling…”
“I know. I… I don’t want to go through that again…”
“Through what again?”
“Rounds and rounds of being asked questions about how I feel and having some young twit who had no idea sit there and recite text books at me….”
“That’s not how counselling should go, Greg. When did this happen?”
“After I lost my wife…” Greg sighed.
“But you obviously responded to treatment?”
“Oh yeah, I did. Hated the counselling though. I wanted to put it all behind me and they wouldn’t let me. The guy acted like I was wasting his time when I wouldn’t ‘open up’ as he put it. Yet I would say things, tell him how I felt, but he didn’t offer me any solutions. It was like he was expecting me to find my own way out when what I needed was guidance.”
John nodded. “It’s about matching the right person to the right therapy,” he said, wisely. “Therapy, particularly talking therapies, can work, but you need the right approach. Finding that can be hard. Don’t let one bad experience put you off trying again.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll think about it,” Greg muttered.
“So how come you chose teaching as a new career?” John asked. “I’ve heard it’s not the most...stress-free of careers.”
Greg huffed a laugh. “No, guess not, but kids, you know. I’ve always loved kids. Got a lot of time for ‘em. They make sense to me. And for me teaching couldn’t be as stressful as police work. Besides, I’ve kind of kept that bit of history quiet. The doctors assured me that I wasn’t a danger and that my treatment was successful, and...well, prospective employers are not allowed to discriminate against you on mental health grounds. Won’t say it doesn’t bother me, occasionally, that I might lose it again...but if I haven’t done so after this, maybe I won’t.”
“Well, this was something you could have done without.”
“It was something we could all have done without. MI6 found them yet?”
“Don’t think we’ve heard anything. Sherlock’s been out all morning, but he’s not texted. Mycroft...We’ll have to wait for Sherlock to tell us what’s happening there.”
00000000000
The phone rang. Mycroft answered it before he realised he had been intending to let it go to voicemail so he could screen the call, so he paused, listening.
“Mr Holmes?” Came the level tone. “Bill Tanner, sir. Have you had my email?”
“I have seen the one with your prospective press release. I see you have left a few names out of it.”
“No sense in making it more complicated than necessary. However, there have been...developments.”
“Developments?”
“Yes. I would like a face-to-face, if that’s possible, to discuss it with you. Would it be convenient for me to visit with you today? I do require your statement for the police report, and that of Mr Lestrade. I have had those of your brother and Dr Watson, and Mr Anderson’s we had this morning, along with that of Mrs Hudson.”
“I dare say today would be convenient, but...would it be possible to meet me at the Sherrinford? The exhibition opens on Saturday with or without the Venus, and I need to discuss the approach we need to make. If there have been developments we need to take into consideration it would be more convenient for me to find out what they are before I attend to the business of approaching the Press.”
“That is perfectly acceptable, Mr Holmes. I can come to the museum.”
“In that case, I shall make sure you are expected. Um...may I ask, do I require legal representation?” There was a pause.
“You are not under any suspicion, Mr Holmes. However, it may be a good idea for you to invite your brother and Mr Lestrade to attend, assuming you don’t mind the inconvenience.”
“Certainly not, but…”
“I shall see you this afternoon then. Would two o’clock be acceptable?”
“Certainly.”
“Two it is then. Goodbye for now.”
Mycroft was left staring at the phone.
00000000000
“I just had a text…” Sherlock breezed through the door at lunchtime, tossed the keys to Greg and threw himself onto a chair.
“And good afternoon to you too,” John grinned and went to put the kettle on.
“And this text?” Greg prompted when nothing was forthcoming.
“Text? Oh, yes, text. Apparently we are invited to the museum this afternoon for a meeting. Mr Tanner has something to tell us.” “Mr Tanner?”
“Bill Tanner, MI6.”
“Oh right, yeah. Him. So what did he want?”
“Further developments, apparently…”
“They’re probably going to tell us they missed the gang and they’ve managed to leave the country,” Greg said glumly.
“Well, much good it will do them. Extradition takes forever, assuming they even bother. Also assuming they find out where they went. At least they’ll be out of our hair...”
“Why would they not bother, Sherlock?” John asked, leaning against the kitchen door frame as he waited for the kettle to boil. “They’re criminals. Kidnapping and theft were crimes last time I looked.”
“Because, it’s her, isn’t it? She doesn’t exist. She is persona non grata with the Royals and Thames House. They will want to keep it off the radar, and anonymous. Oh, by the way,” he rummaged in his pockets and threw a worn leather wallet at Greg who caught it, clumsily.
“What are...hey, this is mine.”
“On your mat when I opened your door this morning.”
“On my...what? How?”
“Somebody must have posted it through your letterbox. Your phone was there too. I left that behind though, battery was dead. The keys I just threw you, those are your master keys. I’ll let you off with not noticing. I left the others in your fridge.”
“Damn… there might be fingerprints…”
“Doubtful. Besides, fingerprints won’t tell us much that we don’t already know.”
John checked his watch. “Well, might as well get going then, people. Takes me a half hour to get to work at the best of times…”
00000000000
Mycroft managed to get to the Museum barely half an hour before the expected time of arrival for Tanner and his brother. He ignored everyone on his way up to his office, going in by the front door instead of the staff entrance. He wasn’t sure he could face that yet. Part of him was reluctant to go into his office, but some things had to be faced. He squared his shoulders and opened the door to Anthea’s office. He was quite unprepared for the delight on her face as she recognised who it was.
“Mr Holmes, I wasn’t expecting you to be here today.”
“Unexpected appointment. A Mr Tanner will be arriving at two, as will Mr Lestrade and my brother. Tanner is attached to the Security Services, he has news for us concerning the...events of the previous few days. Would you call down to the front desk and advise them that the visitors are allowed straight up. Ask for someone from Security to escort him up. My brother and Mr Lestrade know the way, however, I am sure that security have altered the door codes after recent events…”
“Certainly, sir. I’ll make sure the appropriate arrangements are made. Would you like me to ask Mrs Hudson to supply afternoon tea for you all?”
“Yes, thank you. That would be most acceptable. Would you ask her to bring it up in about three quarters of an hour?” He stepped up to the door of his office and hesitated when she called his name.
“Sorry, sir. I...I rather thought a change might be good…”
“Change?” he said, turning back.
“Yes, sir. Under the circumstances. I hope I wasn’t too presumptuous. I...the furniture...and the decor. It’s not really been changed since you arrived. I had Terry bring a few new items up to decorate the place. Brought a new painting or two. With the new exhibition coming up, you know. After all, a change is as good as a rest…”
Bless the woman, he thought. She had understood the implications of what had happened, and obviously decided to alter things so he wouldn’t be faced with returning to an office that reminded him of...those events. He opened the door, and smiled, gratefully.
The desk was the same, and after all, all his things were in the drawers and they had a dearth of suitable desks in store so that was probably not such a surprise. It had, however, been placed slightly off to a new angle but was at the back of the office, still facing the door. A new painting, a landscape, sat on the hinges that allowed it to cover the safe. There was a new rug on the floor (how she had accomplished that in such a short time would remain a mystery), and she had contrived to make the area immediately inside the door a more informal place to relax; two chairs either side of a coffee table, and on the table a few artfully arranged copies of Archaeology Today and the Museums Journal, the Museum’s own guidebook and a book on the history of antiquities in China.
Along the wall just inside the door to the right, where before there had been too much space, there was now a long narrow glass-topped table with six chairs, laid out with placemats, notepads, pens and a tray with water glasses and a covered carafe. There was a distinctly Scandinavian feel to the place, with a fifties vibe throughout; narrow furniture legs, smooth satiny wood, glass and tubular metal. Stylish but understated, his mind supplied. Terry had provided a few new things from the Decorative Arts collection to enhance the room. Gone were the intricate but overly flowery Meissen figurines, the washed-out blue of the Delftware platter, and the—in Mycroft’s opinion—overbearingly gilded splendour of the Royal Worcester vases. He missed the Chinese blue and white vase but he could cope with the change.
The first item that met his gaze reminded him of his brother’s eyes; the pale aquamarine of a plain Chinese Temple Vase in celadon porcelain. Mycroft found himself looking at it contemplatively, meditatively. It was quite calming. A Peruvian stirrup vessel shaped like an owl was sitting on his desk, its burnished russet earthenware enhanced with white geometric lines. It brought a smile to his face simply looking at it. A fine Liberty silver vase with blue enamel roses by Archibald Knox sat in the simple display cabinet positioned behind the coffee table, accompanied a little eccentrically by a 16th Century silver communion cup. Mycroft found he appreciated the pairing. Things that could be admired, contemplated, meditated upon. He was struck by how little he had realised the staff had come to understand him in his short tenure as Director, or how much he was thought of.
“I considered your needs for a conference area,” she said from behind him. “As luck would have it, Furbishing said they could fetch things up from the basement this morning…”
“It looks...thank you, Anthea. This is… above and beyond, seriously. I do appreciate your efforts, all of you, the rest of the staff included. I understand this cannot have been an easy thing to effect at such short notice. The result is...very pleasing to me.” He was rewarded by a pleased smile.
“Thank you, sir. I was going to make tea, would you care for some? Earl Grey?”
“A cup would be calming, yes, thank you.” He took his seat behind his desk with none of the trepidation he had expected to feel. Reaching out, he petted the owl as if it were a live thing, the cool smoothness of it under his fingers grounding him. Anthea deserved a bonus, he considered. In fact, so did the rest of his staff. He would, he decided, review finance and profits and look at booking a proper Christmas Dinner at one of the venues in town for the staff. Something with a good bar and a club, dancing into the early hours, and if not at Christmas, then New Year. He would have to see what he could do. They deserve some recognition...
A knock on the door made him pause in his efforts to answer his emails while he was waiting for his guests to arrive. Anthea came in with his tea, and passed him his mail, whereupon he was reminded of the package she had said had arrived.
“Oh yes, sir. Arrived this morning by courier. I’ll go and get it.” She disappeared out the door, but wasn’t gone more than a moment before she buzzed the intercom.
“Yes, Anthea?”
“Your guests are being shown up now, sir. Do you want me to bring them straight in?”
“Yes, thank you, Anthea. Ask them if they require refreshment first?”
“Certainly, sir,” she said, as if slightly affronted he would think she would forget. He smiled. Anthea took her duties rather seriously after all.
He could not stay sitting, he realised, rising to his feet just as the door opened and Sherlock breezed through, obviously leading the way. He could hear Anthea’s voice through the door, welcoming, obviously taking coats as well as orders for tea and coffee.
“Brother, how are you?”
“Not too dissimilar to how you found me this morning, Sherlock. I’m fine.” His brother was looking around the room.
“Interesting,” Sherlock said with a smile. “They do love you, don’t they?”
“Pardon me?” Mycroft affected not to notice. “Oh, the decor. Past due a change, in advance of the exhibition. Anthea’s doing, not mine,” he said, airily. “Now, do take a seat. I wonder shall we conviene around the table?” He looked up to see John behind Sherlock. “John, welcome.”
“My idea,” Sherlock said, “hope you don’t mind but after his involvement the other night…”
“Not at all,” Mycroft agreed. “John deserves to be here.” Mycroft’s attention was taken by the next person to arrive, and as blue eyes met dark brown, his mouth dried and he stalled in his eloquence. Gregory stood there, casually dressed in his grey linen suit against the warmth of the day, loafers on his feet and his hair tidied into some kind of order, despite a few unruly strands kicking off somewhere about his fringe, refusing to be subdued. He looked well rested, a very different person from the cold, impersonal and somewhat dishevelled character of the other night. There was an awkwardness between them though, which would not be settled here.
“Gregory,” Mycroft managed. “It is...good to see you. You look...better.”
“You too, Mycroft,” Greg managed in return, voice gentle.
Mycroft cleared his throat. “Well, gentlemen, do take a seat.” He turned as Anthea saw Bill Tanner through the door. “Mr Tanner, welcome. I was just saying, let us conviene around the table, there’s more room there.” He lead the way to the conference table and they all seated themselves. Anthea arrived with a tray and handed out their drinks, retrieving Mycroft’s tea from his desk and placing it carefully in front of him.
“Anything more I can get you, gentlemen?”
“I think that will be all for now, Anthea, thank you,” Mycroft said.
“Very well. Mrs Hudson has instructions to serve afternoon tea in half an hour, sir. I’ll leave you to it.” She drifted out and closed the door.
“Would that my assistant was so diligent,” Tanner murmured enviously.
Mycroft smiled. “A very capable young woman,” he agreed.
“Might steal her from you, if you’re not careful,” Tanner suggested, smiling. “So, gentlemen, you probably want to know why I’ve asked you all to be here.” He chuckled. “Despite sounding like a terribly second rate detective story, I do have a good reason. Several, in fact.” He opened the briefcase he was carrying and lifted out some files. “Of course we missed intercepting the plane that the gang took off in. They flew out of a local abandoned airfield, a farmer reported hearing the plane take off around nine thirty, which corresponds to the timings we had. Their vehicle, the same mercedes that was captured on your cctv system, was found abandoned on the field, in one of the outbuildings. By the description the plane was a light one, probably a single engine. We don’t think there was a flight plan.”
“Big surprise there,” Sherlock murmured.
“However,” Tanner continued, “they would require one to travel through controlled airspace, especially if they intended to land at a normal airport to change flights.”
“So what you’re saying is, you lost them,” John said, “but you don’t think that was the overseas leg of the flight?”
“Effectively, we never found them,” Tanner explained. “However, I believe I said there were...developments.”
“I do believe you did,” Sherlock drawled, leaning back and lacing his fingers behind his head. “Do share,” he invited. “I’m sure we’re all agog…”
Tanner smiled grimly. “Yes, well, something flagged up on the alerts this morning, from Southwark Constabulary. Two bodies had been found on waste ground, an abandoned factory site south of the river. I wonder if you gentlemen would be able to identify them? I warn you, these photographs are distasteful, so please, feel free to decline. However if you can help us, a quick identification would be expedient to the investigation…”
“I don’t mind,” John offered. “Ex-army surgeon too,” he offered, grinning. “Not likely to lose my breakfast, or pass out for that matter.” Tanner nodded, and passed him the file.
“Pass them to me when you’re done, John,” Sherlock offered.
On taking a look, John shuddered. “Whoever did this did not intend for these bodies to be identified readily, did they?” he commented. Greg itched to look but said nothing. Maybe discretion was the better part of valour.
“That’s her,” Sherlock said, scrutinising the corpse in the photo. “Adler. It’s her.”
“How can you be so sure?” Tanner asked.
“Ring finger...manicured red nails….I think if you match her photos from the original investigation, you’ll find her earlobes are identical in shape and contours. Hairline is right, eyebrows...Have you done DNA on her teeth?”
“In process, although I fail to see what good that would do. She isn’t on any database…”
“That’s not strictly true…”
“Explain.”
“Her DNA is on file, one of the samples taken from the premises where her brothel was situated. It might not be pinned to her, but it’s still on record. Match the DNA from the corpse to one of those samples and you have a higher probability that the corpse lying there is actually her.”
Tanner nodded. “Good enough. Who else could it be, after all? So talk me through this, Sherlock. Apart from her ears, is there anything else?”
“Little finger, left hand, see? The one outstretched.” Tanner took a look. “That woman has a flare for the dramatic even in death.”
“I see, but what does that tell me?”
“It tells me that this is Adler, Freeborn, whatever her name is…”
“Sonia Yvonne Blaketon was her original given name,” john read out from the file. “She was born of a half-Hungarian father and a Welsh mother, in Brixton, 1982. She went under at least four aliases; Sylvia Freeborn, Irene Adler, Clare Jones and Katherine Harrington, and The Woman, on her business cards.”
“Yes, well, her left little finger was broken,” Sherlock added. “It was incorrectly healed, an injury from childhood, which is fairly unique, and as you see from exhibit A here,” Sherlock pointed to where the woman’s hand was flung out from her body, “her little finger, left hand, has at some point been broken and misaligned. I rest my case…”
“Seems conclusive,” Tanner said, faintly impressed. “And the man?”
“That’s…” John paused. The ferocity of the attack had left little to be identified. “Unsure,” he added. “Looks like it could be Milverton. Same clothes, same hair, same height, roughly. I can’t be more specific.”
“Again the details,” Sherlock pointed out. “See by his collar?” Sherlock pointed to the tiny smudge of...something. “Tattoo,” he said. “Under his shirt collar but just noticeable. If the body exhibits a tattoo of a coiled serpent swallowing its tail, you have Milverton. He has another one as well, on his bicep, right side. An eagle. Ironically an American eagle, despite his Russian origins.”
“How in God’s name did you know that?” John said.
“The night of the reception here, I said I’d been tailing Milverton. I went to his gallery in Soho under the pretense of being a customer. He showed me into his office to discuss costs. To say the man was a narcissist was an understatement,” Sherlock explained. “Photos of himself everywhere. He had more than one where he was showing off doing some sport of other. Of course his tattoos were on prominent display; American Eagle on his right bicep, a coiled serpent on his left shoulder and up the back of his neck. That one was large, must have been at least a four inch diameter circle.”
Tanner nodded. “The list of tattoos is here,” he said, leafing through the papers in the file. “Post mortem report, here we go…. Male, caucasian, six foot one, mid forties...etc, etc, Ah, here it is. Tattoo of an American Eagle, three quarter view, upper arm, right side, natural colours…” Tanner turned the paper, “and, on the back of the shoulder, left hand side, an oroboro… Orub… A what?”
“Ouroboros, the snake swallowing its own tail. Bingo,” Sherlock intoned. “I think we have our man.”
“I would be satisfied to say so, given your detailed summary,” Tanner agreed.
“No mention of the other man or woman in the gang then?”
“I’m coming to that. We’ve still no sign of the woman calling herself Mary Morstan, however, the man known as Francis Culverton Smith, apparently he joined a charter flight to Paris from City of London Airport at 3am. Already bought and paid for. Landed at Paris at around four in the morning. French police apparently received a tip off that he was on the plane and wanted by British Police, so they took him into custody and denied him entry to France.”
“Anonymous tip-off?” It was the first time Greg had taken an active part in the conversation. Mycroft realised how much he had missed the man’s voice.
“Actually no, the name they gave us was Detective Sergeant Gregson.”
“Gregson? He was a constable in my division,” Greg said, surprised.
“Well, it may come as no surprise that the caller was a woman, gave Gregson’s name and number, but it convinced the French police to act. However, quite apart from the fact that Sergeant Gregson is a man, he could have had nothing to do with the call anyway. He’s currently on holiday with his wife in Malaga. The call came from a mobile somewhere near Gatwick.”
“Burner phone, probably,” Sherlock commented, “designed not to be traced, one use only. I would guess that was Mary.”
“I would be inclined to think so too,” Tanner agreed. “We sent someone over to collect Smith this morning. The French are not interested in holding onto him. They didn’t even allow him through customs, and furthermore, they’re not interested in making life difficult for us either, so we have two of the gang.”
“Have you questioned the one Anderson caught?”
“We’ve tried, but beyond the names he was given, and what they were attempting to do, I’m fairly confident he wasn’t trusted with anything else. He doesn’t know where they were heading, he had no idea of any of the gang’s individual plans. He was a grunt, someone who was willing and able to shoot a gun. He told us he was expecting £20k for the completed job. He’s been arrested of course, and he’ll be convicted. The moment there was a whisper of a treason charge, not to mention murder, he sang like a bird. The problem there is…”
“You already know the song?” Sherlock speculated.
Tanner nodded. “Pretty much, yes.”
“So what now?”
“Now we have to effect damage control. The Press have so far not been made aware of this incident. However, there remains the matter of a double murder of a couple in Southwark, a school that has lost three teachers in very quick succession, a missing Roman statue and a high profile museum that lost it.” Mycroft cringed to hear the details laid out in such a clinical way. When he glanced up, it was to find Greg watching him with concern. He coloured slightly and tried not to look away. “So, my suggestion is this…” There was a soft knock at the door.
“Ah, my apologies. That,” Mycroft said, pushing back his chair and rising to his feet, “will probably be afternoon tea. I took the liberty of arranging refreshment for us with our Cafe. We may as well eat as we chat.” He got up and went to the door, opening it to find Mrs Hudson pushing a rather well-laden tea trolley. She was accompanied by one of the waiters from the cafe. Mycroft greeted her with a smile and allowed them in, and they quickly and efficiently placed a burgeoning cake stand on the table, together with plates, cups, cutlery, two teapots, milk and sugar. As they left, Anthea handed him the package. He nodded thanks, and absently examined the address on his way back to the table. It was addressed to him, but there was a return address in small type in the top left of the label.
Ms M Morstan, Venus Holdings, Culverton Lane, Milverton, M8 4UG
***
Chapter 23: Curiouser and Curiouser
“Mycroft, what on earth is the matter?” Greg couldn’t help noticing how quiet Mycroft had gone. He was staring at the package that sat before him on his place setting. Mycroft, startled out of his thoughts by Greg’s voice, glanced up at him.
“I…” he started to say, then stopped. “Forgive me, gentlemen. Do dig in. I forgot to ask Anthea to do something for me…” He glanced at Greg and his message was clear. Come with me, please.
“Yes, well, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll take this opportunity to visit the loo,” Greg said. “Could you remind me where it is, Mycroft?”
“Certainly, if you’ll follow me.” Sherlock did not miss the speed of his brother’s departure, but at John’s quizzical glance, he minutely shook his head and grabbed a scone.
“These look delicious,” he said, and pulled a plate toward him. “Don’t be reticent Bill, dig in, Mrs Hudson’s cream teas are the talk of Ashton Parva.”
“I will gather you are not interested in the whereabouts of the men’s bathroom,” Mycroft said as he closed the door on his office behind them.
“You looked like you needed company.”
“Yes, well, look at the return address on this,” he said, handing the package to Greg.
Greg glanced at the label and boggled. “What the fu…?”
“Precisely. Anthea, scissors, now,” Mycroft ordered. She lifted some smoothly from her office drawer and handed them over.
“Why can’t I do that?” Greg grinned at her. “Never where I want them to be when I need them.”
“Always return them to the same place,” she offered. “Don’t be lazy.” Her smile was gold.
Mycroft wrestled with the tightly bound packaging. “You said this was delivered by courier this morning?”
“Yes, bike courier, apparently. Janine wouldn’t stop going on about how sexy he looked. A guy in black leathers, about her height she said, which puts him around five foot eight. Slim and lithe I believe were the words she used, and never took his helmet off… What?”
“Never took his helmet off, hm?” Greg said, quizzically.
“That’s what she said.”
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” he said to Mycroft.
“I have no idea,” Mycroft replied. “We do not know what this holds yet.”
“Get a move on then, or they’ll come looking.”
“I am doing my best…”
“Here, hand it to me,” Anthea said, fondly exasperated. “I do this for a living, remember. Don’t worry,” she reassured. “I’ll be careful, I highly doubt it’s a bomb, but…” She smiled wider at their twin expressions of alarm. “How precious,” she said. “It’s nice to know I’m cared about, but seriously, airborne pathogens commonly only require an envelope, and bombs weigh altogether more than this…”
“How do you…?”
“I have a very interesting resume, Mr Lestrade, and Mr Holmes inherited me so has never had occasion to read it. There,” she said, profering the open end of the package. Sure enough, hidden inside was a box with the British Museum logo emblazoned on the end.
Dry mouthed, Mycroft slid the box from its packaging, and stared. He slid the box lid off, and inside was a small hand written note on white laid paper, typical of hotel notepaper the world over. “Here,” he said. “You read it, it’s actually addressed to you. It has your initials on the top, not mine.” Greg took it and read the small neat handwriting silently.
Dear Greg,
You remember I once said you were one of the good guys? Well, consider this my contribution to making sure the bad guys don’t always get what they want. My clients were very pleased with the service I provided, and the finders fee contained a bonus. I told them I hadn’t managed to get the other thing they asked for. Blamed it on my colleague and her revenge kick. They weren’t pleased, but it’s a hazard of the job. Considering she was tied up with other things at the time, she was in no position to contradict me, and even if she had, I doubt they would have listened. However, if I were you, I’d get your fella to consider a bit of extra security for your guest. Couldn’t hurt. Anyway, you won’t hear from me again, unless you want someone finding, that is. However, I doubt you could afford me. You’ll find the things you misplaced on your doormat too. Posted them last night. So have a good life, and I hope it was worth it. Do everything I can’t. Get married, have kids, love each other. Least I’ll have one good thing to remember was my fault.
Regards
MM.
Greg looked up and wordlessly passed the piece of paper to Mycroft. “Now what?” he asked. “Is that what I think it is?” Mycroft nodded, without glancing away from reading the note. His hand extended toward Greg, holding out the box. Inside, bright against her soft cushion, lay the Venus. Greg grinned. “She’s lovely.”
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” Mycroft said. “However in this case, how could the beholder’s eye lie?”
They went back into the room separately. Not that they needed to, but they found they had a desire not to look like they were in collusion, and when Greg went back in, Mycroft was already telling them about the Venus.
“Sorry, guys, I got lost, place is a rabbit warren. What did I miss?” Of course he had to feign surprise, but then, he had already honed his skills as an actor once before and found it easier to act surprised than he’d thought it would be. Of the note, there was no sign.
“So there’s nothing with it, no note?” Tanner asked.
Mycroft met Greg’s eyes. “Nothing I could see apart from the label.” He pointed it out. Sherlock laughed. “Well, if that isn’t obvious… Looks like Ms Morstan has had a fit of conscience.”
“I don’t get the postcode though,” John said.
“Nothing to get, John.” Sherlock met his eyes and smiled. “Just a random thing to make sure it look convincing, I should think.”
“Well, I should take this as evidence, however,” Tanner said, watching their faces, “seeing as how we haven’t told the British Museum about the events yet, I was going to do that after we’d spoken this afternoon and discussed where to go from here, and seeing as how our protagonists are in fact not going to be facing trial, I think we can say this is an open and shut case. We can manage details like Smith. I’m sure he’ll settle for a shorter sentence in exchange for keeping his mouth firmly closed, not that anyone would believe him anyway, but if he needs incentive, we can always threaten to find kiddy porn on his computer. Assuming you, Mr Lestrade, are not wishing to pursue damages…”
“Who would I pursue?” Greg asked. “Looks like Adler and Milverton are dead. Morstan has dropped off the map and I didn’t really have any contact with Smith. As to the man you have in custody, I’m not sure there’s a point.”
“I think I can persuade Phil Anderson to forget about the real events,” Mycroft offered. “Perhaps say how he and Dr Watson teamed up to stop a burglar in his tracks…If john is agreeable, that is?” He glanced at John. “Easier to manage what he tells people if there were two of you involved.”
“Then include Mrs H, she’s easily as courageous as us, and she did call the police,” John said.
“And set the fire alarms off,” Sherlock added. “Well deserved, John.”
John grinned. “Well, it’ll sound better if the headline is Museum Staff Team Up To Foil Unwitting Burglar, don’t you think?”
Tanner smiled. “That would tie things up nicely. Let me know how it goes. I think an award for bravery might be found from somewhere…”
Tanner took his leave a short time later. Mycroft saw him out and then came back to find Sherlock and John devouring the rest of the cakes, and Greg… Greg was standing apart, hands in his pockets, looking around the room.
“I’m kind of glad it’s changed,” he said.
“Anthea’s doing actually. Apparently the staff pulled together to change things for me so I wouldn’t be reminded too heavily…”
“That was kind…”
“Yes it was, and they deserve a bonus. John, I am thinking of booking somewhere special for a corporate Christmas Dinner this year. Would you think the rest of the staff would approve?”
“Sounds good. We’ve not done that in a while.”
“Overdue then, good. Well, canvas the rest of the staff for me, would you? See where the general consensus is that they’d like to go.”
“Sure, I can manage that.” he turned to Sherlock. “So, what was the postcode on that letter meant to mean?”
“Oh, come, John. You know my methods…”
“Yeah but I’m not such a devious git as you…”
Sherlock smiled. “It’s text shorthand,” he said. “M and the figure eight, em-eight, mm-ate, mate. 4U is obviously ‘for you’ and I am presuming the G stands for Greg. Mate, for you, Greg. Well, she did send you a note, Greg.”
“Note?” Greg affected a casual confusion at Sherlock’s certainty that there was a note.
“There was no note, Sherlock,” Mycroft said.
“There was a note. She couldn’t simply have sent that back to you without saying something…”
“No note, Sherlock,” Mycroft maintained. Their eyes met. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, nodded and smiled again.
“Very well. It’s to be like that, is it? Fine. Come on, John. You promised to show me the new Exhibition before it opens…”
“Sherlock…” John protested.
“It’s fine, John,” Mycroft said. “You might do me a favour. I think Terry will want to get this in place today. Would you find him for me, tell him he can settle the Venus in her showcase as soon as it is convenient for him?”
“Sure, Mycroft...er, Mr Holmes.”
“John, come now. None of that. Please call me Mycroft, at least in private. You are, after all, dating my brother. Are we to expect a happy announcement in the near future?”
“Gah! Come on, John. That is enough…” With a sheepish grin, John followed Sherlock out the door.
Silence fell. Mycroft hardly dared meet Greg’s eyes. When he did look up, it was to see Greg gazing at him longingly.
“I’m sorry, Mycroft…” he said gruffly, his voice weighted with emotion.
“Oh, Gregory. There is nothing to be sorry for. I understand you thought you were keeping me safe.”
“I was. What she threatened...I...I would never have been able to live with myself if…if you got hurt...”
“I know, me either. I...I would have given her the whole bloody museum to keep you safe.” There was a silence between them for a moment and then Greg chuffed a laugh. “Grief, look at us, hey? Come here.”
Mycroft found himself engulfed in a hug, wrapped in Greg Lestrade’s strong arms, held close, raspy stubble against his cheek, hot breath against his ear. Heaven, he thought, holding Greg as fiercely close as he could in return. They stood like that for what seemed like an eternity, just acclimatising to each other again, until a quiet cough from the door interrupted them. They broke apart reluctantly and Mycroft tugged his jacket down before turning. “Anthea?”
“Sorry to disturb you, sir. Terry’s here to see you. Apparently Dr Watson told him he could put the Venus in her case this afternoon?”
“Ah, yes, please, send him through. And Anthea…?”
“Sir?”
“Thank you.” She smiled a radiant grin and walked out.
00000000000
“So… seems like that’s an end to it all.” Mycroft settled back in his deck chair on the terrace behind his house, regarding Greg who was reclining on a similar chair beside him. The summer breeze ruffled the leaves of the lush trees surrounding Mycroft’s garden and the sun’s warmth radiated from the high garden wall to their right. A peach tree and a pear had been carefully trained to grow against it, fruit slowly ripening in the heat. Between them, on a low garden table, sat a decanter of decent whisky, the remains of two coffees and a scraped clean plate each. They had each polished off a substantial chunk of fudge cake to celebrate. With ice cream. A desultory wasp was investigating one of the plates in hopeful anticipation of finding the remains of something sweet. Greg leaned over and batted it away with a magazine.
“My copper’s instinct says this is not done with, but...given the latest news, I guess the worst is over. You never know if Mary might pop up again someday.”
“I truly hope not. Greg…” Mycroft looked at him, curious. “Thank you…”
“What for?”
“Just...I feel I owe it to you. You did everything you could to keep me safe, and we...well, we’ve not...been together…” he cleared his throat. “Our relationship is not...I mean…”
“Mycroft?” Greg rolled his head to look at the man who was clearly struggling. “Soulmates, remember?” he said gently.
“Really? I mean...are you sure?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know...It’s just...a scant four weeks ago, less than a month, I didn’t know you. You were not even on my radar. Then you come tumbling into my life and my world and suddenly everything is overturned…”
“Too much for you, love?”
“I...I admit I am having occasional difficulty in...assimilating this…” He glanced guiltily over to where Greg was lounging in a completely relaxed state, as if he belonged there. He does not look worried or irritated or angry or...anything really. He is accepting. Concerned, yes, but not...not angry. Patient, that was it, he looks...patient, calm, content. Mycroft felt relief wash through him. “I am sorry, truly. I...I am finding events are...snowballing too fast.”
“Hey,” Greg said, gently. “It’s fine. It’s a lot to take in. Look, mate, I was a copper for a lot of years, I’ve been through stuff like this before...well, maybe not the kidnapping part...but I’ve faced off criminals before, I’ve arrested people, ended up in more than my share of fights, and...I ended up with a breakdown after Ellie died, because of the grief, and work stress added to it. I tipped over because I couldn’t cope. This… I admit it nearly tipped me again, and I am going to seek help, to find counselling, talk it through, but...you’re not used to this kind of thing. Hell, I’m not blasé about it, but at least I’m probably better trained to deal and I’ve had experience of what you do when you can’t deal with it.”
“A veritable expert,” Mycroft murmured, smiling.
“Hardly, but enough to know, it can be hard on the victim, and you may need someone to talk it through with too. Offloading can help, despite the fact that I had a bad experience with it before.”
“You did?”
“Yes, I was telling John. I had to go through what was essentially something I wanted to forget and put behind me, and they wouldn’t let me. Patronising bastard of a doctor too, but that’s in the past. Doesn’t mean therapy isn’t useful. This time I’ll find someone I’m compatible with. John and I had a talk about it. He’s given me some advice, offered to contact people he knows and trusts.” He had asked John about it before they had left the museum earlier, and John had assured him he would put Greg in touch with someone he knew. “Darling, you said, back there, you’d have given them the whole museum to keep me safe…”
“I would have.”
Greg smiled and sipped his whisky. “Thank you,” he said. “I don’t think how we feel about each other has suffered, Myc. I think it’s consolidated. I know how I feel about you.”
“And how is that?”
“LIke you’re a missing piece of me, like before you I had a bit of the jigsaw missing and you slotted into it, perfect fit, you know? Like before you, I didn’t know I had a bit missing...Well, I thought I did, I thought I knew which bit too.” He sighed. “I’m not making sense either. Look... When Ellie died, I thought I’d lost everything. Life carried on, yeah? I pulled round, I made myself continue, I retrained, made a life… Four years on, Mycroft, just four years and, while I miss her, nobody ever made me feel like you have, not even Eleanor. I am sad she died, I am sad, and that sounds a very inadequate word to describe it, but…”
“Like the word love is inadequate to describe our most heartfelt attraction sometimes,” Mycroft suggested, “but it will have to do, lacking a better one.”
“Yeah, agreed. So, I am sad that she’s gone but...she’s not here anymore, and I am. I have a life to live that she would want me to live, despite it being without her. I know we try to justify that our dead relatives would have wanted us to do certain things...You know how it is, how many times do we say, oh, he would have wanted you to be happy, or she would have wanted you to do such a thing? How do we know? Sometimes there might have been a jealous bugger who is looking down on his wife going how the fuck dare you marry again, you bitch? How do we know? Answer is, we don’t, not truly, but I knew Ellie, and she had no jealous bone in her body. If there is something after death, then I hope she’s happy, and I hope I see her again someday, but...right now, right here, I’m with you. I’ve found you, and if you think for one moment I am giving you up without a struggle, then you thought wrong. I love you, Mycroft Holmes. I love you. If I was in any doubt before, I’m not now. However, I can wait. For you. If this is too much, if you need space, then so be it. Take some time to get your head straight, to sort your feelings out. Whatever, I will be waiting.”
Mycroft swallowed against a sudden lump in his throat. Gregory’s words were so heartfelt and sincere. For me, he thought. He is doing this for me… He took a deep breath and let it go slowly.
“Gregory, I... You are such a wonderful person. If we can thank that covetous bitch for anything, it is for consolidating my feelings about you. I do love you too. Unequivocally. Irrevocably. You are a part of my heart and I do not think I could do without you either. However, this is a lot to...cope with, to get my head around. I have the exhibition opening to work upon, and a lot rides on it with regard to my career… If you are agreeable, I would appreciate us taking things a little more slowly… just until I am… a little better able to process…?”
“Course,” Greg agreed. “I’m content with the fact that we both love the other, and there’s a foundation there. We can build on that at our own pace. The best houses are built with care and time and attention to detail. You’re a master of that, Mycroft Holmes.”
“Well, you know what they say?”
“What’s that?”
“A Holmes is where the heart is…”
***
Chapter 24: I'm Your Venus, I'm Your Fire, Your Desire...
Flash bulbs popped and champagne flowed, eager chatter and the sound of glasses clinking filling the gallery as Greg wove his way through the throng of guests. The buffet table was being overseen by Mrs Hudson, keeping a careful eye on things, and Anthea was busy making sure everything was running smoothly without appearing to do so. Business as usual then, he thought, snagging two glasses of something cold as he passed a waiter. He paused to scan the faces to find Mycroft. He was standing over by the Abbottsfield Venus with Lady Smallwood, heads together, discussing something serious by the look of them.“...distinctive influences of Eastern Europe,” Mycroft was saying, “with overtones of…” His words were lost in a sudden burst of chatter from a group of women who walked past, and Greg maneuvered around them, trying not to spill the champagne. He stood just to one side of Mycroft’s eyeline, watching him discourcing on his subject with confidence and enthusiasm. He was lit from within, Greg thought, seeing the passion for his vocation coming through.
“Gregory,” Mycroft said happily, realising he was there. Alicia Smallwood allowed herself to be drawn away by another couple she obviously knew, leaving them alone.
“Mycroft, thought you could do with a refill.” Greg handed over a glass.
“You are a lifesaver,” Mycroft murmured, accepting the glass and taking a cooling gulp. “Christ, I’d forgotten how intense these opening nights can be.”
“Talked yourself hoarse?”
“Practically, yes.”
“It’s going well, love. Everyone is loving it.” They took a moment to look around. The slick interactive screens were currently surrounded by people all waiting to try them out, and James Moriarty was surrounded by guests, happily discussing the installation and content for anybody who would listen. Behind him, Seb Moran was standing looking a tad possessive, which was interesting. Greg wondered briefly what might be developing there. Glass cases displaying pot sherds, coins, jewellery, weapons, armour and shoes, in fact everything from the Roman era that the museum collections could muster, were strategically placed throughout the exhibition, backing up archaeology with replica where required. A legionary soldier walked past them, nodding to Mycroft in recognition.
“Who was that?” Greg asked.
“Harry Piper, Head of the local Roman reenactment group. They agreed to field a few people to bring the place to life.” A half dozen Roman Legionaries and their ladies were dotted strategically about the gallery. Two of the soldiers stood guard at the gallery door, and another soldier and one of the women were occupying the partial reconstruction of a Roman Villa in one corner of the gallery. Mycroft had wanted two replica Roman rooms to be constructed, to be used as classroom and interactive facilities. It had worked surprisingly well and the people in costume made it come alive.
Mycroft took Greg’s elbow, moving them through the gallery, stepping through slowly rotating images of mosaics and coins projected on the floor. A background soundtrack of music played on period instruments could just be heard above the chatter. It was everything Mycroft had hoped for. In pride of place, of course, the Abbottsfield Venus looked on in splendour, never knowing how close she’d come to not being there at all.
Greg glanced at his lover. Mycroft was positively glowing. Greg wondered if Mycroft knew what he looked like; a supremely confident man in his home environment. It made a wonderful change to the vulnerable, defeated person Irene had created. Temporarily created he corrected himself. We’re still here, and they’re not. He had to admit to feeling somewhat triumphant about it.
“You’ve been busy this evening, haven’t you?” Greg said. “I’ve had a hard time getting you to myself.”
“That, my dear, is an understatement. So far I’ve been interviewed by three newspapers, the local radio, and two magazines,” Mycroft replied. “Our marketing department has been working overtime.”
“Talking of working overtime,” Greg murmured, sipping his champagne, “James Sholto called me last night.” “Ah, yes. Did he tell you how the school is coping?”
“He’s now acting Head, and as far as the rest of the staff are concerned, Mary’s had a family emergency and has handed in her notice, effective immediately. Apparently, her husband has been diagnosed with a rare form of cancer and they are seeking treatment overseas…” “How lamentable,” Mycroft murmured, casting his eyes around them in case there was anyone close enough to eavesdrop. “This is the husband who never existed, I take it?”
“The same.”
“How has Irene’s departure been explained?”
“James said the police have been round. Apparently, Detective Inspector Tanner called to inform them that Irene had been found dead, murdered alongside her lover, Charles Milverton, at his gallery.”
“Murdered, eh?”
“Apparently so. The press report said that an unknown gang mounted a raid on Milverton’s gallery in Soho on Tuesday night, murdered the couple in their bed in the flat upstairs.”
“How tragic,” Mycroft murmured. “It’s a believable story I suppose.”
“Yeah, well, seems nobody is that upset, despite the usual expressions of shock about it all. There’s more than one hinting at how maybe she deserved it.”
“Not really surprising.”
“Yes, well, James isn’t stupid. He knows something was going on before…I sort of confided in him that I was in a fix, but didn’t give him details.”
“Did he question you?”
“Nothing probing. He’s a soldier, he knows when silence is required, but he did ask if everything was okay.”
“What did you say? how did you explain your own absence?”
“Well, apparently my absence has been explained for me. James thanked me for sending my sick note in. Amazing what you can achieve despite not having visited a doctor.”
“I gather someone organised that for you?”
“The Fairy Godfather had something to do with it. Thankfully Tanner called me before I spoke to Sholto, told me he’d had me signed off by a doctor as having flu, so I wouldn’t have to answer any awkward questions.”
“He counted without sholto though.”
“Yeah, but James isn’t daft, as I said. I just told him everything had worked out. He asked about the robbery at the museum. He’s obviously put two and two together, knows what was going on at school was part of it somehow, just doesn’t know how. I trust him though, he won’t ask more. I hate lying to him but…”
“But. It is better this way.”
“I know, it’s just…” Greg could not continue, he didn’t have the words. He shrugged. “I know MI5 want to keep Irene’s name out of it all because of her history but… still seems a bit cloak and dagger.”
“Her death was convenient, and it suits them to make sure her real identity never comes to light. If that involves a little cloak and dagger cover-up, then that is what they will ensure.”
“Still seems a bit...unreal, I guess.”
Mycroft smiled thinly. “Believe me, MI5 and 6 are very real. They will do whatever they have to in order to protect the Crown, and thus our sovereign status overseas…Anyway, when do you return to work?”
“Probably next week sometime, although the absence of any residual sniffles might be thought odd.”
“Just blame it on robust constitution.”
“If I had one of those, I maybe wouldn’t have caught flu anyway?”
“Fair point. Vitamin C?”
Greg chuckled. “In that case, my intake must have been Herculean.” He took a breath and fixed Mycroft with a look. “I am actually looking forward to seeing the kids before they leave, it’s just…” Just then a phone beeped in someone’s pocket, making Greg pause.
“Oh, good grief,” Mycroft murmured, fishing his phone out of his pocket and glancing at it. “My assistant’s timing is abysmal. Please forgive me, Gregory. That was a text from Anthea. I’m needed at the podium.” He handed the now empty glass to Greg and leaned in, kissing him on the cheek unselfconsciously. Greg smiled and kissed back.
“Don’t worry about me. Go get em, Myc,” he said gently, watching the man weave through the crowd, plucking some folded papers from inside his jacket.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, if I might have your attention please?” Anthea stood at the podium that had been set up at the back of the hall. She tapped a spoon against the cut crystal of a wine glass and gradually the hubbub died down. “Thank you,” she said, when the volume had dropped sufficiently that she could be heard. “Tonight, I would like to welcome you all to our new exhibition, “A Far Corner of the Empire”, on behalf of the Trustees of the Sherrinford Museum and the Ashton Parva Philosophical Society, without whom this exhibition would not have been possible. So, without further ado, I now have great pleasure in inviting Mycroft Holmes, Director of The Sherrinford, to take the podium to deliver this evening’s address.” She turned and began to clap as Mycroft walked up to take his place, and soon the room was filled with the sound of applause.
Greg found himself smiling with pride. The capable, dapper man who commanded the room with ease was his partner. Mine, he thought, happily. Smiling, Mycroft used the time until the clapping subsided to put his spectacles on before speaking. He looked dignified, professorial. “Firstly I must thank you all for your attendance this evening to help us celebrate the opening of our new exhibition. Your support is greatly appreciated. As with every exhibition,” Mycroft continued thoughtfully, absently pushing his half-glasses up his nose, “sometimes you reach a point where you wonder if it will ever happen. Sometimes you wish it would never happen!” He smiled ruefully, and paused as the audience chuckled politely. “However, in this instance, I very much hoped that it would come to pass, considering that our Exhibition Officer, Terry Grant, worked extremely hard on the content and his vision for the exhibition is nothing short of inspired.” Mycroft allowed a wave of applause to subside before continuing. “As every school child learns, Roman influence on this country extended over a wide area, and left us with a legacy that has lasted the best part of two thousand years. In the Ashton area the remains of not one but two Roman Villas have been located, and we sit close to Watling Street, one of the major arterial routes through the country for the Roman army. Over the years many and various artefacts have been located in the area dating from the period, and some have proved to be rather special. Indeed, with the developments for the new HS2 rail line many more archaeological investigations have been undertaken allowing us new insight into this part of England’s history. Through our innovative light and sound installation, provided by James Moriarty and Richard Brook of Moriarty Brook Associates, you can experience the magnificence of the mosaic floor from the Levenlowe villa right here in this gallery, and In 1986, a treasure hoard was found less than twenty miles away down the road from Ashton Parva, in Abbotsfield. We have been lucky to be able to partner with the British Museum who acquired the hoard for the Nation, and we are therefore proud to host the Abbottsfield Venus, a gold figurine of outstanding beauty and workmanship...”
Greg found his mind wandering as Mycroft continued to wax lyrical about the content of the exhibition. His memory called up of soft skin, lean muscle, and freckles. Unbidden, he recalled prior activities and suddenly all he wanted to do was go home with Mycroft and ravish the man.
“And so, in conclusion, all that remains for me to say is a few well-chosen words of praise and appreciation,” Mycroft said, bringing his address to a close. “A lot of people have put in a great many hours of hard work to bring this exhibition to its completion and, like any award ceremony, I need to make sure I do not forget anyone, otherwise there will be Hell to pay.” Another ripple of polite laughter washed through the assembled guests. “So…” Mycroft consulted a piece of paper in front of him. “In no particular order, I would like to thank…”
The list went on for some time, thanking all the contributors and the sponsors, citing their individual involvement and help. The proceedings were paused frequently for appreciative applause until the last person had been publicly acknowledged. Just as Greg was starting to despair that it would ever end, Mycroft cleared his throat as the applause subsided again.
“If I may beg your indulgence for a few moments more?” Mycroft requested, pausing for a moment. He scanned the crowd, waiting for their attention to once again fall on him. “Many of you will have seen the news that hit the papers recently concerning an attempt to rob the museum.” There was a murmur of agreement and a lot of people nodded their heads in assent. “For those of you who have not been privy to that information, a small gang broke in last Tuesday evening, aided and abetted by someone familiar to both staff and security alike for a good many years. It has saddened and surprised us that someone in a position of some authority at the University, someone who has volunteered and studied here at the museum for many years, chose to betray our trust in such a manner. Nobody expected him to turn on us, but the fact remains that he did. Security was bypassed and the gang would have managed it, had it not been for some quick witted members of our staff who happened to be working late that evening. Instead of remaining safely behind office doors, they decided to take a risk to protect their museum and its artefacts, thwarting the robbers and alerting our security team and the police. I am immensely proud to say that these people are my colleagues, and I would therefore personally like to thank our Head of Conservation, Philip Anderson, our Head of Anthropology, Dr John Watson, and our Shop and Cafe Mangeress, Mrs Martha Hudson. Had they not intervened, in my personal opinion I very much doubt you would all have been standing here tonight. So for services above and beyond, I would like to dedicate tonight in part to them, for displaying the spirit of what it means to be part of the Sherrinford Team.” Mycroft started the clapping himself, which grew in volume. Greg had never had occasion to see Mrs Hudson blush before, but the lady coloured slightly as people around about offered praise, and both John Watson and Phil Anderson looked a little uncomfortable, but at the same time, proud. Standing slightly behind John, Sherlock also wore an expression of pride, and his arm slipped around John’s shoulders drawing the smaller man in for a hug. Mycroft leaned to the microphone and said “Thank you, Ladies and Gentlemen, we hope you enjoy the rest of the evening.” He stepped down as the audience broke into applause again, and immediately found Greg at his elbow.
“You,” Greg said, “were magnificent.”
Mycroft smiled. “I wish I had been able to include you in the praise. You deserve it more than anybody.”
“Nonsense,” Greg said. “I don’t need it, love. We’re safe, we’re okay, you’re mine, don’t need more. You were very…”
“Pompous? Pretentious?”
“Not in the least. You’re a museum director, you’re supposed to sound like that, aren’t you?”
“Like what?”
“Well, all praiseworthy and academic.”
Mycroft laughed. “I dare say you are correct. Now, I need to stay for a while at least. I cannot be seen to leave too early. Come on, let me introduce you to a few people.”
000000000000
“Penny for them?” Greg looked around and then down at the small woman who had sidled up to him. “It’s Greg, isn’t it?” She had caught him staring unfocused into the middle distance, his thoughts elsewhere. Mycroft had been whisked away again by Anthea for more press photos, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He had no idea what he must have looked like, considering his thoughts had taken a downturn.
“Oh, hi. It’s Molly, isn’t it? How are you?” He shook her hand, trying to bring his brain back on track. “We met when I brought my class, didn’t we?”
She nodded. “Yes, that’s right. I’m fine, thanks. Anthea was telling us all about what happened. Must have been awful. How are you though?”
“Oh...I’m okay. It wasn’t pleasant but...well, Mr Holmes and I are alive…”
“Thank goodness. Oh, please don’t worry,” she whispered, “I understand we’re not supposed to know all the details. Anthea said it was all a bit hush hush.”
“Some of it, yes.”
“Well, it all sounds just awful. You and John and even Phil… Who’d have known he’d have turned out to be so brave?”
“People can surprise you.”
“Yes, they can, can’t they?” She sipped her wine.
“So what do you think about all this then?” Greg asked, hunting for something to say.
“I think it’s amazing,” she admitted. “Means more work for me though.” She giggled, nervously. “With the Romans being in the new school curriculum, we’ll probably be offering more workshops and such next term. Going to need help though. I’ve got so much to work on I’m snowed under.”
“Well, here’s to help when you need it.” He raised his glass.
Molly grinned. “I’m going to need a lot,” she said, and then drained her glass. “I’m going to find another drink.” She giggled again. “Doesn’t that sound terrible? Makes me sound as if I get drunk on a regular basis. Nice talking to you, Greg. Hope to see you again sometime.” He watched her go, weaving through the crowded halls.
“Hello there.” Greg turned to see a smaller man, dark eyes smiling, drink in hand, other hand outstretched to shake.
“Hi. You are?” Greg asked, shaking the man’s hand firmly.
“James Moriarty, last time I looked,” the man joked. “Let me introduce you to my brother and colleague, Richard Brook. We did the installations, the AR, and VR.” A slightly shorter and younger man standing behind James leaned forward with a hand outstretched. Greg could see the family resemblance.
“He means the interactive stuff,” Richard explained, grinning on seeing Greg’s puzzled look as they shook hands. “Augmented reality, and virtual reality.”
Greg grinned. “I see. Forgive me, but… computers are not my forte. So you’re brothers?” he asked.
“Half brother, really,” Richard said. “Hence the different names.”
“Ah, I see. Well, guys, you’ve done an amazing job with all this. It’s all very engaging,” Greg said, smiling. He cast about for Mycroft but the man was nowhere to be seen. Ah well, no rescue there then. “So,” he said to James, “tell me more…”
Finally Greg sought Mycroft out from where he was chatting to the Lord Mayor. “I’m really glad this worked out for you.” He gestured around the gallery, at the people milling about, chatting, making appreciative comments. “But...take me home?” he asked hopefully. “I’ve spent all evening trying to find you. Had a hard time getting away from a certain pair of IT specialists. I know a lot more about augmented reality than maybe I needed to know…”
“I spent mine trying to get back to you, only to be thwarted at every turn by inquisitive guests and overzealous photographers.” Mycroft checked his watch. “Well, the Lord Mayor is leaving, so I think I might possibly withdraw at this time without causing too much offense. Give me a moment to talk to Anthea, and to collect our coats, and we will make our goodbyes. I also need to make sure I say farewell to Lady Smallwood, otherwise she’ll never forgive me, but after that, I am yours. ”
In the taxi back to Mycroft’s, the sky pale with the late dusk of high summer, Greg leaned against his lover and smiled. “You think it was a success then?”
“Hmm,” Mycroft hummed noncommittally. “I reserve judgement until I see the reviews in the newspapers tomorrow.”
“Well, I think it was a success anyway. Thought you were amazing.” A soft huff of laughter reached his ears. “What?”
“I am not amazing at all. I am human, Greg. You’ve seen me at my worst, and my most vulnerable, and you still think I’m amazing.”
“All the more so.”
“Why?”
“Love, because you are human, you can be vulnerable, but you can also pull out all the stops like you did tonight, standing there all...handsome and intellectual and academic and posh. You had everyone there in the palm of your hand, hanging onto every word. You sounded so...erudite and charming. So accomplished.”
“Greg, I…” Mycroft paused, unable to find the words. “You…”
“Charming, intelligent, and handsome. Sexy too.” Greg let the statement hang there in the air between them. He saw Mycroft shiver, and close his eyes.
“What have I done to deserve you?” Mycroft asked, his tone hushed, almost reverent.
“No idea. Karma's a bitch,” Greg deadpanned.
“Gregory, please. I am being serious. Honestly, I have no idea why you would find me so interesting…”
“Soulmates,” Greg said firmly. “You know those mosaics…?”
“Yes?”
“What do you call the individual brick bits?”
“The tiles?”
“Nope, they’ve got another name. I just can’t think…”
“Tesserae? Tessellations?”
“Tessellations, that’s the word. That’s what you are, Mycroft. My tessellation.” Mycroft smiled, warmly. “We just fit together, like those tessellations. We complement each other. You complete me.”
“Gregory…I confess I feel the same. You are...like the missing pages of a book I am only just beginning to read...despite the disparity in that statement.” It was Greg’s turn to laugh.
“Listen to us. What are we like, hm?” Greg took Mycroft’s hand, gently squeezing his fingers. “However you describe it, we’re obviously important to each other.”
“Yes we are, and on that note, something you said caused me concern earlier…”
“What did I say?”
“You were talking about being glad to go back to school to see your class again, and then you added a but. But what, Gregory? You sounded somewhat uncertain.” Greg was silent, wondering at the deductive powers of Holmeses. One small reluctant word and Mycroft had noted it. “Are you not looking forward to the Autumn term, so you can experience a full year in your new vocation, with a new Headteacher?”
Greg huffed. “Not a lot gets past you, does it?” he muttered. “I guess I should be, but....I’m not sure what I expected, you know? I went through training college and I passed with flying colours. Never expected to. Never expected I would drag myself out of my grief long enough to do well, but I did. But...it’s not been easy, at times. I’m not talking about my colleagues, either. Apart from Irene, the others have been great to work with, even Mary, despite the fact that she wasn’t really a teacher. I’m talking about the teaching itself. Being there for the kids, being their rock, their guide, their stability, their mentor. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Don’t get me wrong,” he said hurriedly. “I admire anyone who can do this job. It’s tough sometimes, and you need to be dedicated to it, but I found it hard, to be honest. I got given the ones with disadvantages, Myc. I was given the rough ones, the tough cookies, the hard nuts. Was it because I was an ex-copper? Was it because I was expected to find it easy to maintain discipline? Dunno, but I got the ones with problems, the grieving ones, the rebels. I think she set me up to fail, but I didn’t. I managed to turn them around, to make them believe in themselves. I’m not a hero, or a genius. It took me hard graft but I got there, eventually. It’s just…”
“Just?”
“Me, I suppose. I’m not sure I’m cut out for it, really. Even if I am, I’m not sure I’m up to it any more…”
“Are you sure? I mean, you are good at what you do. I’ve seen you. The children love you.”
“It’s not enough, Mycroft. You have to be dedicated, and I’m not sure I am, completely.”
“Well, teaching isn’t for everyone. It seems a shame though, because you obviously have a talent for it.”
“Thanks, but...I’m just not as certain as I used to be.”
“I do hope that you are not letting one bad experience sour your career, Gregory? Irene has a lot to answer for, and I hope she has not destroyed your enthusiasm for your vocation.”
“Maybe, maybe not. I don’t know.”
“Perhaps now is not the time to discuss this,” Mycroft suggested, gently. “We both require rest, and tomorrow is another day. I was hoping you would spend it with me?”
Greg smiled. “Of course. I’m looking forward to having you all to myself.”
Mycroft smiled, relief coursing through him.
They stumbled through Mycroft’s door, making their way up to the bedroom without preamble, both far too tired to do more than throw off their clothes and climb into bed under nothing more than a single layer of cotton sheet. It was too warm to sleep close, but Mycroft left the window open, and a light breeze wafted through the room. In the dark, Mycroft’s fingers found Greg’s and laced them together. It was good to finally relax in his own comfortable bed, especially with such company. Greg’s soft snores reached his ears soon after, but Mycroft lay awake, thinking. He had an idea, but there would be some work involved…
000000000000000
Mycroft was up early. He threw open the patio windows on the summer dawn and breathed deep. It was fresher but still not too chilly and when Gregory joined him, they sat sipping tea, clad in their dressing gowns, on the terrace watching the sun rise higher in the sky, burning off the morning chill.
The day proved to be a warm one, and they spent it companionably, sitting in the garden in shirtsleeves and perusing the Sunday papers, then driving into town to go food shopping. Neither man discussed what had been said concerning Greg’s doubts, and mycroft kept his considerations to himself.
Note: Abbotsfield and Levenlowe are fictitious places but across the UK there have been located various Roman villas and mosaic floors of great beauty and in a fantastic state of preservation. I have no idea if there is such a figure as the Abbotsfield Venus. I have found one of Faustina, the wife of Marcus Aurelius, and one of Zeus Serapis, but not one of Venus in gold, although there is a Roman Venus figure in copper in the museum at Astypalaia, Greece. It is not inconceivable that there might be such a thing, a tiny gold figure of Venus waiting to be found somewhere.***
Chapter 25: Epilogue
Mycroft returned to work after the weekend in a haze. He spent the morning scanning the papers, perusing the first reviews of the exhibition which seemed unanimously in favour. Everyone seemed to be full of praise for the innovations, the content and, of course, the exhibits themselves. Everybody settled back into their routines, and their visitor numbers increased encouragingly. The summer weather grew hotter. Life carried on. Several times Mycroft caught himself wondering about Greg and how he was coping on his return. A brief phone call at the beginning of the week had confirmed that everything had gone well on day one, but Mycroft was still concerned at Greg’s lack of confidence concerning his future.
A knock at his door towards the end of the week heralded a visit from Molly Hooper, who was looking none too confident as she came in. Mycroft invited her to sit, and she did so, albeit reluctantly.
“So, Miss Hooper, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company? End of term is nigh, is it not?” He smiled. “Looking forward to a well earned rest?”
“Yes, I am, Mr Holmes. Got holiday booked week after next but… well, I hope you don’t mind me coming to see you…” She seemed suddenly nervous.
“Why on earth should I?”
“It’s just...I don’t think I can manage the new workload on my own.” The words tumbled from her lips in a rush. “It’s just...with the new exhibition there’s so much more work. We’re being asked for outreach, which I can’t do on my own, and workshops we don’t yet have… Reservations are turning schools away.”
Mycroft was quiet for a moment. “As I understood it,” he said eventually, “the Education Department program is aligning with the new curriculum, there will be new offerings to schools....”
“Oh, yes, yes, it is, but there’s so much to do, and I’m just about starting from scratch. There’s so much work to finish I’m not getting home until after nine at night. We don’t have enough staff to deliver the volume you’re expecting either…”
“Exactly how many workshops do we deliver?” Mycroft regarded her over the top of his half rim glasses. For the next half hour they turned to discussing the Education Department requirements, mycroft’s embryonic idea growing form and substance as he chatted. Several things seemed to be coming clear. “Well, Ms Hooper, Molly,” he said warmly. “I will of course give this my full attention and I shall endeavour to have some answers for you before next week. Please don’t worry any more. We shall meet again before you go on leave and we will sort this out. I shall have Anthea contact you with a time.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He watched her go. Remiss of me, he thought, that I have not made provision for the greater pressure on the education department. He picked up his phone. “Anthea, yes. Would you get me Bill Murray in Finance? Yes, ask him to call, would you? Fairly urgent, yes.”
“So, you want me to give you a rough outline of the education budget and what we have available immediately?”
Mycroft nodded, regarding the man sitting across from him at the table with interest. Bill Murray was a shrewd thirty-something, an accountant with his finger on the pulse of the museum’s finances. He was currently examining some printouts, his briefcase open beside him, pen twirling in his fingers. “I took the liberty of talking to Reservations. Trying to get an idea of how much more work this exhibition is generating.”
“Did you come to any conclusions?”
“I’ve had a preliminary look at the numbers, nothing conclusive, you understand. I may need more data to be certain. However I am fairly sure we could support two more full-time members of staff. We’d be taking a punt on it, so I would suggest at least one of those positions being a short term part-time contract with a view to a possible extension, instead of two full timers.” Mycroft listened as Bill outlined the potentials. “I can have HR sort requirements and contracts and run them by you, and I can be back here in a couple of days with something more conclusive with regard to figures.”
“As ever, Bill, you understand the workings of the museum and it’s requirements perhaps better than I do.”
“Wouldn’t be good at the job if I didn’t, Mr Holmes.” Bill grinned and rose to his feet, packing his briefcase up again.
“Go work up something solid that I can pass by the board next week. Shall we look at Thursday to reconvene?”
“Consider it done, Mr Holmes.”
0000000
The following Saturday was the School fete, and Greg was not about to miss it. He did, however, invite Mycroft, who—to Greg’s eternal surprise—accepted. Mycroft was rather taken aback at the frankly alarming number of families with small children (which was to be expected, considering this was a school). However, most of them seemed to own dogs, everything from the small annoyingly yappy variety, to the large blundering hairy type, most of them excitable. The noise level was aggravatingly high. Mycroft swallowed his agitation and focused on his Gregory who was happily greeting parents and kids alike, petting their dogs, and complimenting Mrs and Mr concerning their little darlings.
Mycroft looked around him as Gregory greeted yet another family. His lover was happy, ebullient and welcoming. Behind him a bouncy castle and various child-sized fairground games had been set up in the playground. Mycroft knew that the school hall had been designated the indoor craft market and would be sporting home-made cakes, greeting cards, knitted and crocheted baby clothes, and bead jewellery, amongst others. He had pitched in and helped set up the tables that morning after Greg had insisted they turn up ridiculously early to help people prepare.
They strolled through the school complex, Greg still greeting people, sharing jokes and good wishes as they worked their way to the yard at the front of the building. Greg had volunteered to have water-soaked sponges hurled at him to raise money for the school, and had, in his genial way, persuaded some of the parents to join in. It went on for a long time, and Mycroft eventually went for stroll until the soaking had ended. Greg found Mycroft afterward at the school kitchen, which was selling tea, coffee and juice to thirsty parents and kids alike. Overseen by the army of dinner ladies, they were doing quite a brisk trade.
“How on earth did I let you inveigle me into this?” Mycroft muttered as Greg dripped on the floor. He reached to move a stray lock of hair that was plastered to Greg’s brow. “You require a towel…”
“Yeah. well, it’s actually rather nice. I’m finally cool.”
“You look hypothermic, Gregory. You are turning blue.” “I’m f.f.fine.” Greg stuttered, shivering. “Mother hen…”
“I am concerned for my partner, that is all.”
“I’m fine, love,” Greg reassured. “Dotty, you couldn’t pass us two teas and some paper towels, could you, love?” A motherly woman in a red apron poured two teas and passed them across with a grin, but handed him a proper hand towel. Greg thanked her and applied the towel vigorously to his hair, leaving the matter of tea retrieval to Mycroft.
“Do you have any other...water-based duties to attend to?” Mycroft asked, handing over Greg’s tea when he finished drying off.
Chuckling, Greg managed not to spill his tea as he sipped it. “Not water-based, no. I do, however, have the onerous duty of judging the dog show. It’s fine, I brought spare clothes...”
“Ah, that explains why there are so many canine visitors,” Mycroft said.
“We also have a police dog handling show in…” he checked his watch, “...twenty minutes, and then we do the dog show.”
Mycroft lowered his voice and murmured, “When will we be able to leave?”
“Not before I visit the plant stall. There’s one or two things I want to buy…”
The afternoon passed pleasantly enough, despite the high numbers of people attending the event. It seemed like every child—there were nearly three hundred of them at the school—had at least three siblings, two parents, and possibly at least one set of grandparents in attendance as well. Mycroft watched in amusement as Greg stepped up to don the padding and be pursued by the rather large alsatian called Sabre, who turned out to be a rather friendly animal when not under orders to bring criminals down. James Sholto also joined in, allowing Apollo, a German Shepherd, to do the same to him. After their heroic participation, to much applause from the crowd, the two men came over to where Mycroft had seated himself on the low wall that bordered the field, both of them laughing and breathless.
“Not thinking of reapplying to the police to join the Canine Division then, Gregory?” Mycroft enquired.
“Christ, you have to be joking. That was…” Greg heaved a deep breath and let it out gustily.
“Intense?” Sholto suggested.
“Intimidating, at the least, I should have thought,” Mycroft said.
“Haven’t had such an adrenaline rush in years,” Greg admitted. “Mycroft, allow me to introduce this mad bastard, James Sholto. James, this is my partner, Mycroft Holmes.”
They shook hands. “Glad to meet you, Mr Holmes.”
“Mycroft, please,” Mycroft said pleasantly. “I understand you are acting Head now, under the...distressing circumstances.”
“Yes, for my sins.” James sat down beside him. “I understand that there was more going on than I know, or will ever find out, but doubtless, Greg has told you, I understand ‘need to know’ situations, and I am therefore not pushing to find out details.”
“You are a wise man, Mr Sholto.”
“James, please. And yes, I do try to be, although somehow the ability eludes me.” Mycroft instantly liked the tall man beside him. He was clever, sharp-witted and experienced; ex-military, professional to a fault, and also intensely loyal.
“James, come on,” Greg said. “Ashton Parva’s answer to Crufts is calling…”
They returned home laden with home-made cakes, several plants and a bottle of merlot that Mycroft had won in the raffle. Bemused, because he could count on the fingers of one hand the times he had won anything, Mycroft carried his prize into the kitchen, and placed the cakes into cake boxes to keep them fresh. He also switched on the kettle, although he had drunk enough tea over the course of the day to float a battleship. “Gregory?” There was no answer, and Mycroft presumed he had gone to the loo. However, the tea brewed, there was still no appearance, and Mycroft called through the house to find his partner.
“Greg?” Mycroft finally located him in the garden, planting out his purchases in the borders. Greg enjoyed gardening it seemed, having taken to rearranging the plants in Mycroft’s borders for maximum effect with height and colour. Mycroft watched him as he added a few more to the herb bed he had found under the kitchen window. “Gregory?”
“Hm?”
“I am sorry to intrude on your therapeutic planting but I have made you tea. And I want to speak to you.” Greg sat back on his heels and took off the gardening gloves, accepting the tea from Mycroft’s hand. “It looks lovely, thank you,” Mycroft said appreciatively and Greg looked up at him with a grin.
“Glad you like it. So...what’s on your mind?”
“I have been pondering something at length.”
“Oh, what would that be?”
“I think...I may have a solution to your conundrum.”
“My what?”
“Your conundrum, your puzzle...Whether or not to return to Sherrinford Primary next semester.”
“Ah, ‘k, so what have you come up with?” Greg turned his full attention on Mycroft, eyes alight with curiosity.
“A job.”
“A job? Doing what? Am I about to be offered a post as your full-time live-in gardener?”
Mycroft laughed. “Why on earth would I need to do that, considering you already enjoy such a position unpaid? No, I think I have a much better proposition. Well, I obviously cannot completely guarantee that the job is yours but...I would very much like it if you would consider it.”
“Come on then, don’t keep me in suspense. What is it? Where?”
“I had my Finance Manager review our budgets last week. We have also been reviewing our staffing at the Museum as a result. Following this, I have been in talks with our Personnel Department with a view to taking more people on. Our Education Department is woefully understaffed and we cannot deliver the quality or quantity of workshops and outreaches that the local schools are requesting. It is an area that has long been neglected. As such…” Mycroft took a nervous breath, “I cannot come right out and offer you a job. We are obligated by law to advertise the posts first but…”
“But?”
“I suggest you go in for one of the positions, Gregory.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. I shall even help you construct a CV...”
“I...what makes you think I’d be good enough?”
“You have a love of history, you know the museum of old, you are familiar with the collections, and you are a good teacher. I am sure you could offer a lot to the job. However, while I would love to be able to offer it to you immediately, I am afraid protocol would have to be followed and you would have to apply just like everyone else. I would of course not be the sole arbiter either but...I should imagine my preferences would carry weight. However, would it interest you?”
“Actually, yes it would. You think I could do it?”
“Yes, Gregory, I do. I think you would be an asset to the Museum and its staff, and it should give you the best of both worlds, working with children but not requiring the volume of work that comes with being a class teacher. We would also be seeing each other every day. Will you consider it?”
“Yes, I’ll certainly do that.”
“I was also hoping...that you would consider something else as well…”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I...I am lonely, Gregory, and I think you are too. After all we’ve been through, after what we’ve learned and accepted about each other, would you consider moving in here, with me? Ditch your flat and come here, so we can continue to get to know each other…or not. Keep your flat but move here, just in case it doesn’t work between us...”
Greg sat back, stunned. “I...um…really? You sure?”
“Yes, I am certain.Think about it, please. I will not insist….”
“I don’t need to think about it, Myc.”
“You...you don’t?”
“Nope, it’s a no-brainer for me. When can I move in?” Greg smiled, got to his feet and came over to Mycroft, gathering him in for a hug. “I can’t wait,” he admitted. “Being here with you, waking up to you every day, eating meals with you...chatting, making tea, sitting out in the garden…” He blushed. “Shit...I wanted to do this for you...but my flat is crappy...I wanted to suggest moving in together but...well, my flat is an embarrassment…”
Mycroft smiled. “I understand. Mine is the logical choice for us both. Look, if this is successful, if it works between us, then we could look at buying somewhere together. Our choice. I admit to no sentimental attachment to this place. It is simply a house.”
“Yeah, okay, be happy to do that. Somewhere for us.” Greg grinned.”Bring it on…”
“I too must admit to some eagerness for this to happen. I do hope I do not disappoint you, Gregory. Are you completely sure?”
“Damn it all, myc, of course I’m sure. I have no idea what will happen, I’m not a fortune teller, but I know I want to try.”
Mycroft felt his heart swell with joy. “This will be beneficial to us both I feel.”
“Soulmates, love. No more being lonely.” Greg leaned in for a kiss. “Here’s to whatever the future brings.”
***
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