Acknowledgements:

This is another non-profit indulgence based upon characterisations developed by Messrs. Moffat, Gatiss and Thompson for the BBC series Sherlock. The character of Mycroft has been brought to life through the acting skills of Mr. Gatiss. No transgression of copyright or licence is intended.

Author's Note:

This story is a direct sequel to "The Education of Mycroft Holmes". Reading this sequel will make so much more sense if you have read the original tale first.

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Mycroft Holmes: A Terminal Degree

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Chapter One

An Offer – A Damnable Man – The Legal Visit – Partners Or Nothing – Witchcraft – The Dilemma – One Other Thing – Foot in the Door – To the Ball – A Fragrance of Gun Oil.

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"Dean?" Cate looked surprised.

The University Bursar, Ruth Howells, smiled. "Don't tell me you hadn't thought about it?" she said.

Giving a little shrug, Cate smiled back. "I have had one or two things on my plate recently," she laughed. "Haven't really had an opportunity to come back to earth yet."

Catherine Adin, or rather, Adin-Holmes as she now signed, was still finding her feet in the rather rarefied world of marriage to Mycroft Holmes, eldest scion of a British family distinguished by a tradition of service to the Crown.

Everything was still a little new; a little strange. And rather wonderful. The relationship between them had happened despite themselves, it seemed, amid murders and a level of cloak-and-dagger behaviour that claimed several lives and risked many more. That was in the recent past: the present was a little calmer, although, living with a man like Mycroft, calm was never going to be the easiest word to accommodate. There were many, far more appropriate ones: delightful; exciting; romantic; infuriating. Cate smiled again as her mind wandered …

"And take that silly grin off your face before you meet the Vice Chancellor," Ruth sighed. "Or he'll think his jokes are funny and we'll never get any business finished."

###

As the weather was forecast fine for the weekend, they had driven down to Deepdene for a few days. The Holmes country residence in Surrey was an Edwardian house set in several acres of lush landscape, and Cate had fallen in love with it before she had realised she had also fallen for Mycroft. She adored the place and used any pretext to spend time here.

It was early: the dawn light was still pink. Waking, Cate looked at Mycroft and saw he was still asleep. He must have been tired as he was almost always the one who woke first. Scooting over in the big bed, Cate rested her head against his bare chest, taking pleasure in the warm feel of his skin, the softness of his relaxed muscles, his scent. She enjoyed these moments of being close and stretched herself down along the length of the man who held the key to her happiness. Closing her eyes, Cate felt herself relaxing back into a drowsy slumber just as a warm hand brushed up her side to her neck.

"Good morning, my love," a soft rumble in his chest as Mycroft hooked his arm behind her back and pressed her close, his mouth following the line of her jaw to beneath her ear. Sensation zipped down her back to her toes and Cate couldn't help the small frisson that juddered through her. She felt the mouth on her skin smile. He thoroughly enjoyed that she had no authority over her body's responses to him. She groaned softly. "Unfair."

"Don't be cross, Cate," his voice was happy as he grazed her throat with his lips. "You love me."

And she did. Every time he said it, her stomach gave a little shimmy of unadulterated pleasure. Sliding her arms around his neck, Cate pulled herself even closer, resting her cheek against a roughness of unshaven skin.

"You are a damnable man," she whispered. "And I am mad for you."

"I am your damnable husband," Mycroft murmured, pressing her back against the pillows, blue eyes alight with appreciation and satisfaction. "And I fully intend to exploit your madness," he said, finding her mouth and kissing her deeper into the soft bedding.

###

Apparently, they were expecting a visitor. A professional visitor, not a guest. Unusual for anyone to come here other than for social reasons, but Cate was fully aware that in Mycroft's work, sometimes discretion was the most important part of any meeting.

"Want me to disappear into the garden?" she asked at breakfast, pouring more tea.

Sitting, relaxed in the morning sun, Mycroft turned and shook his head. "This visit is as much in your interest as mine," he said. "More, actually."

"Who is it?"

"My solicitor."

"Your legal advisor is coming to see you here?"

"Yes."

Cate looked curious. "Why is a visit from your solicitor more in my interest than yours?" she asked, puzzled.

"Mycroft smiled loftily. "Wait and see."

"You know I dislike not knowing things," Cate aimed for indignant. "It vexes me."

Lowering his newspaper, Mycroft was patient. "Just some things you need to know now that we are legally together," he said.

"Thank you." Cate's intense curiosity was barely placated. She considered Mycroft's explanation and formulated a possible reason behind the meeting. If it was for what she imagined, it might be advisable for her to do a little work. Just in case.

"When are we to expect said visitor?" she asked.

"Oh, any time after ten, or so," Mycroft looked at her. "Why?"

"Then I have time for a little research before he," she looked inquiring, "or she, arrives."

"He." Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "A quite handsome and young 'he', in fact."

"Interesting method for selecting your legal representative," Cate grinned. "I'd prefer mine to be as old and wrinkled as possible."

"Comes from a long line of old and wrinkled advisors," Mycroft looked amused.

"So," Cate was intrigued. "You want me to meet this young and handsome legal-eagle," she paused. "Tired of me already?"

Meeting her teasing smile, Mycroft put his newspaper down and walked over to her chair. Pulling her upright, he held her against him. "Do you really want to know how tired I am of you," he asked in a deceptively quiet voice.

"Are you tired of me?" Cate slid her arms up his back.

"Completely tired," he said, kissing her. "Utterly and completely," he said, drawing her into his embrace and into a kiss that Cate could feel tingling in the arches of her feet.

"I have work to do," Cate husked.

"Are you sure?" Mycroft kept his arms tight around her, his eyes suggestive.

"If this visit you're choosing not to tell me about is about what I think it may be about, then I have some information to find," she breathed into his shirt, then grinned wickedly against him. "And maybe later we can discuss how tired of me you are."

"Bargain," Mycroft pressed his lips against the side of her neck. Marrying Cate had been one of the most intelligent and sensible things he had ever done, and this morning's meeting would only emphasise his belief.

Booting up her laptop, Cate hit the Stock Exchange pages, moving rapidly into the Dow Jones blue chip listings. Jotting down a few numbers, she cursed her numeric inability as she struggled to calculate averages and point-values. It would likely take Mycroft only a few seconds to do this, but she didn't want to involve him. Not yet. He may well have information for her, but, Cate thought, she might have one or two surprises for him.

Fortunately, she managed to marshal all her facts and figures in time to hear the crunch of gravel as a car pulled to a halt in the drive. Slipping a folded sheet of numbers and names into her jeans pocket, she went to get the tea things ready before greeting Mycroft's guest.

Simon Melnick was indeed both young and very pleasing to the eye. Of middle height, he had Hollywood good-looks and a charming smile. Shaking his hand, Cate threw a mischievous glance at Mycroft's forbearing expression.

"Please," he said. "Call me Simon," as he followed them into the Study. "May I ..?" he indicated Mycroft's desk.

"Of course," Mycroft waved him on. "Help yourself."

Pulling a pile of documents and several large folios from his briefcase, the young and handsome Simon arranged the papers to suit his plan, and looked at Mycroft.

Mycroft reached for Cate's hand and brought her over to sit beside him on the chesterfield, his face unreadable. Cate had the oddest sense of boding.

"How do you prefer to be called?" Simon looked at her with a slight smile. "Professor Adin? Mrs Holmes?"

Cate smiled back. "How about Cate?" she suggested, "Although if you wish to be formal, I'm experimenting with Catherine Adin-Holmes."

"Cate, then," his smile returned. "Your husband has asked me to speak to you about your Trust and inheritance," he began, picking up the first pile of documents.

Turning to Mycroft, Cate frowned. Trust and inheritance? What was going on?

Mycroft's expression was carefully neutral, and thus immediately suspect. Cate raised her eyebrows and stared at him accusingly. "We are full partners in this marriage," he said. "And these are some things you need to know about the arrangement," he added, squeezing her fingers. As she maintained her stare, Mycroft lifted his hand and tilted her face gently back towards the young solicitor.

"First," Melnick said, raising a thick sheaf of what looked like deeds. "Property. Apart from the London townhouse and this beautiful Surrey property," Simon looked around and smiled, "then there are, of course, the commercial office buildings at Canary Wharf, the new warehouses at Heathrow and the land in Cornwall."

Cate barely breathed. She had no idea she had married into wealth. Not really. It was a little shocking.

"Next," Simon continued, "there is the rather extensive collection of jewellery established by your husband's deceased mother, pictures of which may be seen in this…" he stepped over with the first of the folios. Cate flipped it open randomly to see a spectacularly detailed photograph of a pair of glorious emerald earrings. The book was filled with such photos; each one of magnificent gemstones and jewellery-maker's art.

The young solicitor coughed politely to catch her attention, apparently there was more. Cate cleared her throat and took a deep breath. What next?

"Then we come to the stock portfolio," Simon handed over a second, slimmer, binder, whose pages offered serried lines of corporate names, industry, product, market-value and current share-price. Cate's mind reeled.

"In addition, there are substantial investments in art, antiques and sundry items as well as a robust cash reserve and your own allowance."

"Allowance?" Cate choked, returning to stare at Mycroft. "I have an allowance? Since when do I have an allowance?"

"Since the day of your marriage to Mycroft Holmes," the young man smiled. "Although I see you've not availed yourself of the facility as of this moment," he added. "It is quite substantial," he said, handing over a third, even slimmer, binder. It showed only a few pages of bank account transactions, with, to Cate's eye, a large sum of money being deposited into the account on the first of each month. The balance, as Simon had suggested, was indeed substantial.

Feeling the need to clear her head, Cate stood and walked around to the window, looking out into the Italianate garden beyond. She took several deep breaths.

Turning, she looked from the smiling solicitor to the impenetrable gaze of the man she married. The man who had never mentioned anything about any of this before. Very well then, two could play at this game.

"Mr Melnick," she asked formally. "Would it create a conflict of interest for you to manage my financial affairs as well as those of my husband?" she asked.

Simon looked uncertain, glancing at Mycroft before replying. "I would not be able to represent both of you should there be a dispute," he said, but other than that, there is no legal impediment for me, or indeed, anyone in my company to represent you both if that is your wish."

"Good," Cate nodded. "Then please take this as a formal invitation to act on my behalf in all my financial dealings from this point on," he said, taking the folded sheet out from her pocket and passing it to the young man. "I desire these items to be assessed as part of the Holmes estate."

"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer one of my colleagues?" he said, unfolding the sheet. "You don't know anything about me."

"The fact that Mycroft has chosen you to advise him, tells me all I need to know," Cate smiled. "In his dealings with people, he is rarely wrong." Looking over at Mycroft. "And he described you so very well," she added, innocently.

Mycroft's expression became even more inscrutable. His eyes narrowed slightly.

Simon was silent, reading down the clear lines of writing. He looked up, frowning, at Mycroft.

Cate folded her arms and also looked at Mycroft. "Full partners," she said quietly.

Mycroft stared from Cate to Simon and back to Cate: this was not how he had expected the meeting to go. She was up to something. He frowned.

"Are these figures accurate?" Simon went to Cate, pointing to some numbers.

"Checked them this morning," she said, "although my numeric skills are not the best, so I'd like someone who can actually count to go over them for me please."

"What is going on?" Mycroft sounded mildly frustrated. "Cate?"

"What is going on, my love," Cate came over to sit beside him again and took his hand. "Is that I now have a new solicitor, and it's the same nice young man who advises you," she smiled. "Such a sensible idea."

"And with what is Mr Melnick to assist you?"

Cate leaned back against the thick cushions. "Simon? Would you enlighten my husband, please?"

Perching on the corner of Mycroft's desk, Melnick straightened out the sheet of paper, and took a breath.

"Well," he began. "There are apparently two apartments in Mayfair, both now leased to the Danish Embassy for Consular personnel; then there is a small development of fully-leased artisan dwellings in Barnsbury as well as adjacent commercial premises, also currently under full lease." Mycroft seemed taken aback.

Simon paused, pointing to a word. "Is that...?" he asked, Cate looked and nodded.

"Then there is the stock portfolio of …" he stopped and looked at Cate. "How on earth did you manage to access these, " he asked. "They haven't been on the market since …"

"1987," Cate offered. "I was fifteen and bought a small initial block of shares with the money I made during a holiday job, and then I kept taking every stock-option I could."

"But they're …"

"Yes," Cate grinned. "They are."

"For twenty-five years?" Simon shook his head, stunned.

"Although," Cate conceded, "in all fairness, they've only being doing spectacularly well for the last ten or so."

Simon cleared his throat and took another deep breath. He continued. "In addition to an impressive blue-chip portfolio," he paused, reading, "there is a collection of provenanced first-editions and a corpus of authenticated Lalique objet, currently on exhibit at the British Museum." Simon grinned up at Cate, before pulling out a pen to scribble some rapid calculations on the back of the paper.

"If these figures are even close to correct," he paused again, looking at Cate and then Mycroft. "Then your wife, Mycroft, brings just over five million Sterling of her own investments into the family capital."

Mycroft stood. He looked disobliging. "No," he said.

Cate looked up at him. "You don't really have a say in this, darling."

He stared into calm brown eyes. "No," he repeated. "I don't want you to commit your own assets like this," he shook his head. "No."

Cate stood, staring back at the man to whom she had committed everything else. "Full partners," she reminded him, softly, "or nothing."

Rigid and authoritative, Mycroft looked at her detachedly. He folded his arms.

Bracing both hands on her hips, Cate glared straight back. Neither of them blinked.

A faint cough from the desk suggested that Simon was still an interested spectator.

Mycroft felt himself beginning to be out-manoeuvred. He searched Cate's resolute face only to find himself assailed with an abrupt and pulsating desire to pull her into his arms and kiss her until she was breathless: incoherent; to drag her down to the floor and pin her beneath him, kissing her until the only sounds she could make would be gasps of pleasure. His heart sprinted at the thought.

Looking across at Simon for support, Mycroft met an amused face above a pair of folded arms. "I think you may be trumped, Mycroft," Melnick shook his head, vastly entertained. It was rare to see Holmes the elder off-balance.

Waiting for Mycroft to see sense, Cate watched his eyes darken as he assessed her. His assured self-control made her stomach clench and her breathing shallow with longing. The urge to annihilate such composure with a touch was very nearly overwhelming.

"My love, you are hoist with your own petard," Cate moved towards him, sliding her arms around his middle and resting her chin on his chest. "Don't be cross, Mycroft" she repeated his words from earlier, tightening her grip.

"Very well," he muttered accommodatingly, curving his arm around the small of her back. "You win this one."

Turning to face his – and now Cate's – solicitor, "Double Cate's allowance, please Simon."

"Darling I have no need of an allowance in the first place," Cate protested. "I have my own income from the university."

Mycroft ignored her. "And create a separate annuity of," he paused, looking down at Cate's frowning face. "Let's say ten thousand, shall we?"

"Now you're just being silly," she muttered, poking him ungently in the side

"You're quite right my love," Mycroft looked pleased. "We'll make it twenty-five thousand."

As she was about to object again, he smiled cheerfully. "Want to try for fifty thousand?" he was being abominably sincere.

"Remind me why I married you," Cate gritted her teeth.

Melnick had gathered all his notes and papers back into the briefcase. "I shall be in touch with documentation and for signatures in the near future," he said, heading towards the door. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Catherine Adin-Holmes," he added, shaking her hand and smiling broadly at Mycroft. "I look forward to any future encounters."

Closing the main entrance door after Simon had walked out to his car, Cate rounded on Mycroft, only to be stopped by the peculiar expression on his face.

"You have no idea how entirely you take my breath away," he said, looking almost rueful, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

All the things she'd been about to say died instantly. He had such an effect on her. "Mycroft," she murmured, her hands flat against his chest. "Everything I have, that I am, is yours. Everything."

He closed his eyes and sighed heavily. "You undo me," he murmured. His eyes snapped open "It's witchcraft." He accused. "You really are a witch."

"Professor Witch," Cate grinned, then squealed as he pulled her into his arms, growling imprecations in her ear.

Outside in his car, about to pull away, Simon Melnick heard a faint shriek of laughter, and he smiled and shook his head. Newlyweds.

###

Back in town, after dinner; Cate selected Pärt's Silentium, and poured them both a cognac.

"I have something I'd like to discuss," she said, as Mycroft accepted the glass.

Slightly surprised at Cate's formality, Mycroft looked at her and waited.

"The university has offered me a Deanship," she said. "Of Humanities."

Mycroft's first impulse was to be delighted for her, but something advised him to hold his counsel. "And is there a problem with that?" he asked.

Coming to sit close beside him, as if proximity enabled her to speak more easily, Cate picked up his hand, rubbing her fingertips gently over his knuckles and between his long bones. Her thumb stroked the lines of his palm.

"It would give me a bit more of a say in the actual running of the university itself, and I'd be able to better represent all the students who are currently excluded through academic protocols and the wretched fee-structures that we all have to have these days," she said. "It also means I'd have a louder voice in the direction the university takes in the future, especially in the Arts and Humanities sector." Cate brought Mycroft's hand to her lips.

"It's quite a salary-hike too, although," she said, "that's the least important thing."

"If it enables you to do more for the students, and if that's what you really want, then there seems to be little obstruction to you taking the role," he caressed the fingers encircling his hand. "Or is there more?"

"I wouldn't have time to teach," Cate's voice went flat. "And I'd have to travel overseas several times a year."

Ah. Mycroft saw the reason for her hesitation. Teaching was a core pleasure for her, and the reason Cate was even at the university in the first place. To have to give that up would be hard.

"Then decline the offer and stay as you are; do what you clearly love doing," he suggested.

Cate turned to him, her face troubled. "This is my dilemma," she said. "It's rare for a Dean's post to come up at all, and most of the other incumbents are men," she paused. "If I refuse this opportunity, then it will likely go to a male candidate, and I'm not helping improve the gender-ratio at the senior levels if that happens." Frowning. "It's all getting political."

"When was this offer made?" Mycroft was curious.

"The day before we went down to Deepdene." Cate sighed. "I wanted to mull over it as long as I could before saying anything."

Mycroft felt her occupational struggle was clearly not that distressing, as he had noticed no sign of preoccupation on her part. Or else she was becoming more adept at disguising her internal state. If so, he wasn't sure if that was entirely a good thing. He rather enjoyed Cate's emotional transparency.

"It seems you have a fairly clear choice between doing something you enjoy, or participating in a more executive role, which," Mycroft paused, "may end up being something else you can enjoy."

"It also requires me to travel," Cate looked into his eyes. "I'd be away several times a year at symposiums and for university business."

"For how long?"

"Not sure, but probably at least a week or so each time."

"Not unlike your current travel for conferences?"

"True," Cate nodded. She shook her head. "I just can't seem to make a clear choice."

Mycroft looked meditative. "There is of course," he offered diffidently, "an alternative you haven't considered."

"What alternative?"

Mycroft wrapped her hand in his own and pressed it against his face, inhaling her perfume and individual scent. He looked directly into her eyes.

"Stop working for the university completely," he said, a small smile on his lips. "Do whatever it is you really want to do – paint, write." Another smile. "Learn to play the violin, properly."

Sitting upright, Cate stared at him in something approaching shock. The notion of not actually working had never entered her sphere of consciousness. Not work?

"But … that …" her words struggled and stopped.

"Or if that idea lacks a certain charm, then buy and manage, or start, a business," Mycroft suggested.

Cate was still bolt upright as a dozen new ideas careened through her thoughts. She stared at him, her eyes unfocused and distant.

"However," Mycroft spoke reflectively, nodding, "I quite like the thought of my wife being free to do as she pleases, rather than having to accede to the demands of the university," he drew a finger delicately down her face. "To anyone's demands other than mine, in fact," he murmured, a new light in his eyes.

Cate surfaced from her wanderings at his deliberate and obvious tone. "You are a very bad man, Mycroft Holmes," she laughed at his shameless expression.

He smiled. "So what are you going to do?"

"I'm going to see if I can negotiate an Acting position of four months."

"An excellent compromise."

"And then I'm going to have another chat with you."

"You have my entire support in whatever you choose to do." Mycroft still had hold of Cate's fingers.

"Now tell me more about these demands of yours," Cate stroked his ear. "What might they involve?"

Mycroft was amused. "Availability," he said.

"Availability for what?" Cate's voice dropped to an absorbed whisper.

"Dinner," he said, carelessly. "Concerts; The Old Vic; Glyndebourne; Ascot in June; Scotland in August, Courchevel for the snow."

"Only that?" Cate raised her eyebrows and smiled.

"And for one other thing," his eyes focused on hers again.

"What one other thing?" Cate felt herself snared in deep blue reflections.

"For this." Mycroft's hand curved around the back of her head, pulling her unexpectedly close, her soft gasp making their kiss all the more delicious. Winding herself around him, Cate fell naturally into his arms. "For lots of this," he muttered, his fingers straying to the buttons of her silk shirt, his mouth finding the sweet places of her throat.

A distinct quiver trembled through Cate's entire frame eliciting her soft groan.

Instantly stirred, Mycroft knew he did not want to lose this. Not one bit of it.

###

"Agreed, then," the VC was not usually this accepting, but he saw little harm in delaying a decision by a few months – the wheels of academe turned ever slow. "You can start by taking over Jonathan's spot on the EARMA conference in Bilbao next month," he turned to Ruth Howells, "Which is when?" he asked.

"The third week, I believe," Ruth grinned at Cate and squeezed her arm. It was great to have another woman at Dean's level: at least now she wouldn't necessarily always be in the minority at the Executive meetings.

The VC nodded. "So," he summarised. "You'll take an acting role from now until November, and then we'll see about confirming the appointment?"

Cate shook his hand. "I look forward to tackling some new challenges," she smiled.

"We have the Alumni Black Tie Gala before you go to Spain," Ruth reminded her. "You can bring that new husband of yours along so we can all see for ourselves the reason for your goofy smiles."

Wondering if Mycroft could make such an event, Cate smiled happily. She agreed with Ruth's observation: goofy indeed.

###

"Are you quite sure you won't be bored?" Cate asked. "It's going to be all nerdy theoretical academics and terribly earnest doctoral candidates."

"It can't possibly be worse than a government bash," Mycroft muttered, putting a final flourish to his black tie, flicking an invisible mote of dust from his dinner jacket. "And unlike my dear brother," he said turning to watch Cate finish dressing, "I am aware of the need for certain social niceties."

"On your own head be it then," Cate walked over, turning her back. "Zip me up please, darling."

Her outfit was a fairly clinging black sheath dress with only the flimsiest of silk items beneath, and suddenly Mycroft was wondering if either of them needed to attend. The tantalising curves of her back draped smoothly in dark silk compelled his touch.

"Are you sure you want to go?" he asked, running sensitive fingers from her neck to the base of her spine, instigating one of Cate's whole-body shivers.

"Behave," she breathed. "I have to go – it's part of my new job."

Pressing a kiss to her neck, Mycroft slowly fastened the dress closed. "No matter," he spoke against her skin. "There's always later."

Turning, Cate touched his face, she seemed a little breathless. "Perhaps I can leave early," she murmured, her eyes flickering across his features, his mouth.

Her closeness seemed to tempt him even closer, and Mycroft found himself leaning forward.

"Oh no you don't," Cate stepped back, a knowing look on her face. "If you start kissing me now, we won't leave this room."

Sighing his disappointment, Mycroft opened the jewel-case Cate had chosen for the evening. Diamond earrings.

"Only earrings?" he inquired. "Nothing more?"

Cate smiled. "More than these would be overkill," she said. "Look." Clipping each piece in place, she turned. "Voilà."

Mycroft had to admit she was right. The stark contrast between the deceptively plain dress, her smooth exposed skin and the glittering white sparkles at her ears and on her ring finger, were the only adornments she required. His chest tightened. She made him feel things he had thought he might never feel. There were no words for this. Cupping the side of her face he pressed a delicate kiss to her lips. "You amaze me constantly," he whispered. "I adore you."

Cate ached. No other description would fit the state Mycroft's words and caress created in her. If he touched her again she wouldn't be responsible for her actions. "Time we left," she breathed deep and picked up a silk wrap, arraying it around her shoulders.

The Jaguar was waiting, sweeping them away to the North Cloisters in Gower Street where the entire exterior of the Wilkins Building, a massive, white neo-classical enclave, had been taken over with festoons of glowing lights, clusters of enormous white Chinese lanterns, and seemingly, dozens of young people in waiters' livery. As per custom, guests were in black or white, and a string quartet played Bach in the portico as people stepped from their cars. The evening was fine; there were stars just beginning to glimmer in the darkening sky, and Cate felt all was at peace in her world.

Mycroft, though not entirely enchanted by the notion of mingling with several hundred strangers, nevertheless was accustomed to events of State and Government, which meant he had learned to smile, and suffer in relative silence. In any case, this evening was important for Cate.

Escorting her through the entrance, Mycroft handed Cate's wrap to a server, before taking her hand and strolling through swathes of fairy-lights and garlands of flowers. It was all a little magical.

"Here we go," Cate muttered as they approached a group of senior-looking people. "The VC and entourage," she whispered, a slight smile on her lips.

"Good evening, Charles," Cate held out her hand to a tall, heavily-built man in his late sixties. "I'd like you to meet my husband, Mycroft Holmes," she smiled unreservedly. "Mycroft, this is Charles Shelsher, our Vice-Chancellor."

The two men assessed one another: both used to authority, both completely at home in any corridor of power.

"Charles," Mycroft smiled briefly, shaking the man's hand. "Thought you were still in gaol?"

"Mycroft, you rogue," Shelsher grinned back. "So it was one of mine who finally broke you to the saddle, hmm?"

Cate stood transfixed. "You know each other?"

Mycroft turned, smiling. "I've known Charles since Oxford," he said, turning back to the VC. "I hear they've enclosed the Magdalen bridge? Hardly sporting."

"Don't get me started on the 'old' days," Shelsher shook his head. "You'll both join me later for supper?"

Raising his eyebrows at Cate, who nodded, still in shock. "Happy to," Mycroft said. "But first I hope to be introduced to a few of Cate's friends. Until later."

Lifting a couple of champagne flutes from a passing tray, Mycroft handed one to Cate who stood, bemused. "You never told me you knew my boss," she said.

Mycroft looked reflective. "I don't think you actually asked," he said ingenuously, sipping the fizz and watching passers-by.

Cate faked a scowl. "Would it be easier for me to assume you know everyone in London rather than the opposite?" she grumbled.

"Probably," Mycroft laughed shortly. "Certainly anyone in a position to cause trouble."

"Is Charles Shelsher a troublemaker?" she asked, interested.

"Do you really want to gossip about your VC?" Mycroft was amused.

"Damn right, I do," Cate nodded. "Begin when ready."

"Who's this?" he indicated a small group of people gesturing and waving their hands as if measuring the air.

"Earth Sciences," Cate laughed. "Most likely discussing the next big British earthquake," she smiled at her husband. "It's something of a grail-quest for the entire department."

"And what about these three?" Mycroft looked across at two men and a woman clearly arguing about something dear to them all.

"That's Rhonda McQuillan, Professor of Women's Studies," Cate nodded as the woman spotted her and waved. "And it looks like she's having a little disagreement with … oh." As the two men turned to see at whom Professor McQuillan was waving, Cate identified them as Dr Gene Romero of American Literature and … Dr David Swift of literary ancestor notoriety. Cate hadn't expected to see David here. She hadn't expected to see him alone anywhere, in fact. She wondered if this might be a little awkward.

Hearing the slight inflexion in her observation, Mycroft looked at the three people walking towards them with greater consideration. Something about at least one of them had surprised his wife, and he was mildly curious.

"Cate," Rhonda McQuillan swept her into a big hug. "Many congratulations, my dear," she boomed in her big Irish voice. "Just heard the news the other day: about bloody time they put a woman in the Cock-pit."

"Rhonda," Cate hugged her friend back. "Please meet my husband, Mycroft Holmes." Turning to Mycroft, Cate laughed. "This is one of my most insane friends, Ronnie McQuillan, who can drink any man under the table and then write a superbly insightful, not to mention grammatical, analysis of the event."

Smiling genially, Mycroft shook hands. "Always delighted to meet Cate's friends," he murmured, "the Cock-pit?"

"Something of an in-joke," Professor McQuillan observed. "Nearly all senior executive positions are still held by men, thus the Senior Council earned a certain nomenclature …" The entendre was proudly singular.

Mycroft blinked and offered a faint smile. "And what would the name be if staffed predominantly by women?" he asked, engaged.

McQuillan laughed. "It would be called 'efficient'," she crowed.

Entertained, Mycroft smiled openly, then turned to greet the two men.

"And this is Gene Romero, a guru of American Lit," Cate smiled, "and David Swift, our resident expert in eighteenth-century British writings."

Romero, a dark, Italian-looking bear of a man, grinned at them both. "Heard about the wedding," he said. "Congratulations, Mr Holmes, on capturing the fair Cate," his grin became wider. "Whatever you are comes to you," he announced.

Mycroft smiled. "Emerson?"

Romero laughed. "You know the American poets, Mr Holmes?"

"Please, Mycroft," he nodded affably.

"We are all happy for Cate's good fortune: in both her private and public lives," David Swift looked Mycroft directly in the eyes and spoke quietly. Something in the man's tone set his senses on the edge of alert.

"On the contrary, Dr Swift," Mycroft's words were as smooth as warm honey. "It is I who had the greatest of good fortune when Cate agreed to be my wife."

Cate couldn't be positive, but she fancied there was a faint emphasis on the word 'my'. Looking down at the floor, she sighed inwardly. She was never going to be able to keep anything from Mycroft.

"And now Cate is to be the new Dean of Humanities," Swift's voice was equally agreeable. Of a similar height to Mycroft, their eyes met without hindrance.

"Indeed," Mycroft smiled. "The best man won there, too," he raised his brows the merest fraction as he sipped champagne.

Swift's expression darkened. "If you'll excuse me," he muttered. "I have guests to meet," he spun on his heel, walking away with little grace.

Her eyes wide and with an ecstatic beam of approval all over her face, Ronnie McQuillan clapped Mycroft on the arm. "Delectable," she sniggered. "I can see why Cate fell for you." Turning to her literary colleague, "Come away, Yank, and let me teach you something about whisky."

Waiting until her friends were beyond earshot, Mycroft looked down at Cate's face. "So," he said. "How long has it been since you and Swift were lovers?"

Taking a slow breath, Cate sipped from her own glass. "David and I were finished more than three years ago," she said. "Although sometimes I'm not sure he ever accepted that fact."

"He'll bloody well accept it now," Mycroft sounded ominous. "He's envious of you."

"He was a candidate for Dean," Cate frowned. "I don't think he's happy I got the job."

"Man's a fool," Mycroft finished the fizz. "He let you go – that tells me a great deal," he paused. "If he gives you any problems in the future let me know, would you?"

Cate looked guarded. "And what?" she asked, "will you do if he does?

Mycroft smiled brightly. "We'll probably have a little chat."

Resolving never to mention any problematic colleagues to Mycroft for any reason short of an outbreak of war, Cate laced her fingers though his and pulled him towards the garden. "Come outside with me," she said. "It's too lovely an evening to be in here all the time."

Stepping out onto the marble-paved terrace, the fragrance of scented shrubs mingled with a whiff of smoke from the charcoal braziers on the main steps. Even in the heart of a city the size of London, with more than eight million people existing all around them, Mycroft felt a stillness and a calm he hadn't experienced for a long time. "Are you cold?" he asked, as Cate leaned against him.

"Not in the least," she murmured. "I'm perfect."

He smiled. "Yes," he agreed.

"I meant …"

"I know what you meant," he wrapped an arm around her. "And I still agree." Mycroft's fingertips ghosted over the velvet of her skin as an enormous feeling of wellbeing settled in him. This was what people needed in their lives: moments like this. He felt on the edge of emotion. Sherlock would have scorned.

"I have my first overseas executive engagement next month," Cate slid an arm around his waist and hugged him tight. "Bilbao," she added.

"When is it?"

"The fifteenth."

###

The arsenal of firepower the group had amassed was impressive by anyone's standards. Piled randomly on the large steel bench, the eclectic melange of old and new armament shared an important commonality: they all worked and they could all destroy. Which was entirely the point. The pungent fragrance of gun-oil sat heavily in the room.

"Do we have an idea of numbers of people attending the conference? Alazne Bidarte lit yet another cigarette.

Nere Treto, waved the stink of smoke from her face. "Our source says in the region of a couple of hundred in the general conference, and around twenty or so in the senior colloquium."

"We need to ensure nothing fouls this up – we only have the one shot at doing this," Alazne picked a shred of tobacco from his lip. "Although I cannot imagine what problems a bunch of academics would give us," he laughed shortly. "Ancient greybeards and desiccated spinsters."

Treto was not so confident. "All clever people," she suggested. "Whatever their ages."

Alazne just shrugged. "We'll see," he said, dismissing the issue.

"As we expected, the conference is going to be at the Sondika Hotel, near the main airport." Nere looked contemplative. "There should be no trouble leaving the area once the First Minister has given us what we want – we need only include a fuelled plane in the list and we can be away within minutes."

Bidarte threw his half-smoked cigarette to the floor, stamping it dead as he walked over to the bench. Selecting a clean-looking SIG, he released the chamber mechanism and felt the weight. The gun had a nice, solid feel. He stared across the bench: there was more than enough for everyone. He smiled.

"Has the date been confirmed?" Bidarte lit another cigarette.

"Yes," Nere Treto, moving away from the fouled air. "The fifteenth."