Acknowledgements:

This is a 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.

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Note:

This narrative is fourth in a series. Your enjoyment of this story will likely be enhanced if you read the others in their chronological order:

(i) The Education of Mycroft Holmes

(ii) Mycroft Holmes: A Terminal Degree

(iii) Mycroft Holmes and the Trivium Protocol

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Mycroft Holmes in Excelsis

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Chapter One

Shall They Die? – Ancient Pagan Rituals – A Rhetorical Question – Something Welsh – A Virtuous Woman – The Madding Crowd – Mycroft's Savoir Faire – Here By teatime – Good Old Chloroform.

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It was nearly Christmas. The sky beyond this room was dark and cold. The room itself was chill and unwelcoming. A tall, very well-dressed man dusted off the seat with his handkerchief before risking his exquisite Savile Row tailoring to the vagaries of cheap office furniture. Waiting until he sat, two others, clearly lieutenants, also sat, folding their arms in silence.

Before them on the table, were three, A4-sized black-and-white photographs, all pictures of men, all of whom were currently living in London. The question that was also on the table, asked whether these three men were going to have to die.

It was a serious question. The men in the photos were almost guaranteed to provide the greatest disturbance to the plan. It might be simpler in the long run, if these individuals were to meet with a swift and accidental death somewhere in their daily routine. It would not be impossible for clever minds to manufacture such an opportunity, and the people asking this question were indeed quite clever.

The problem, however, was that each of the three men in the photographs were special in their own particular area, and any inexplicable death, no matter how cogent, no matter how transparently accidental, would be accepted without serious investigation. The men sitting at the table did not welcome the idea of serious investigation. Their entire plan relied upon there being an absence of it, in fact.

Thus the question remained. What to do with these three potential problems? Kill them now and risk massive inquiry? Let them be and risk unacceptable interference?

"Why don't we put them somewhere safe until the job's done," one of the lieutenants asked. "And then decide? We can kill them then, if we want to, or let them go," he added. "It won't make much difference what happens to them once the job's finished."

"But if we take them," the other observed, "we'll have the police and security services and God know who else, chasing around trying to find them."

"Yeah but," the first deputy argued. "If we put them somewhere quiet, we can decide what to do when it suits us, rather than having to deal with problems we can't fix if they're dead."

"And what do we do about the police in the interim?" his colleague asked. "You know there'll be security people all over the damn shop the instant one of these three turns up missing."

"Once we have them safely stashed, if the powers-that-be start getting too close, we could always tell the police to back off or we'll top 'em one at a time and dump the bodies somewhere public."

There was a thoughtful pause in the conversation.

Their Principal, who had not yet shared his thoughts, rested a hand on the table, fingertips brushing the edge of the photographs.

"I think," he said, carefully. "That we do not kill them immediately, but that we take them somewhere very quiet where it will be extremely difficult for anyone to find them, and very dangerous for anyone who does."

"And what do we do with the police searches in the meantime?" his assistant queried. "How are we going to be able to follow the plan with half of London breathing down our necks?"

The tall man smiled faintly. "You have heard the expression 'a wild goose-chase'?" he said. Both deputies nodded. "Because that is what we will create to keep the security services and the police occupied." Sitting back in the rough wooden chair, the man in the suit folded his own arms and smiled grimly. "They can chase themselves into an utter fit if that is their choice," he said. "It will make little difference in the end."

"So you want us to take these three but not kill them?"

The Principal thought for a moment before nodding. "Once we have them, we can dispose of them whenever it suits us," he said.

"And where do you propose we keep them hidden that's quiet and hard to find?" the other lieutenant leaned forward on the table. "With the number of people who are going to be tracking them down, wherever we put them will have to be impossible to find by accident."

The tall man smiled yet again. "The River," he said. "We take them to the river."

Comprehension dawning, both the man's seconds nodded understanding. He was right. Nobody would find them there.

"Who do we snatch first?"

Spreading the three images out before him, the man in the immaculate suit inspected each one in turn.

"I have no preference," he said. "I'll leave the strategy to you. As long as the approach is effective and leaves no trail, it doesn't matter which of these becomes our first guest."

The more experienced of the two deputies bit his lip, broodingly. The three men in the photos were each important in their own way, each a specialist.

The first was Collin Hamran, a senior microbiologist from the military science centre at Porton Down, a specialist in both chemical and biological weapons research. Hamran knew too much and could say too much, but he probably wouldn't put up much of a struggle. The second was a well-known landmark in the London Metropolitan Police Force, one Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. The Inspector knew the city like the back of his hand and had his official fingers in so many little local pies; his presence in the capital was virtually ubiquitous. He would be difficult to target, but vital to stop. He knew too much about one very particular area of London and had to be silenced.

The third was a tall, dark-haired man who, evident by his manner of dress, also favoured the bespoke refinements of Savile Row. A Civil Servant by all accounts, yet he was the most dangerous of the three. Not a specialist in the conventional sense of individual field or discipline; no. His speciality was generalisation of the highest degree, and he knew too much about everything. His name was Mycroft Holmes.

###

It was nearly Christmas. The sky beyond this room was dark and cold, but inside … Cate was still packing things into bags when Mycroft finally arrived home after an exceptionally tedious meeting with the MoD. It had been almost a duplicate the meeting he'd attended at the same time last year, with similar problems and complaints on both sides. He felt mildly frustrated, vaguely weary and hoped that the country, and indeed, the rest of the world, might consider behaving itself for the next couple of weeks so that he could relax a little.

Stepping into the entrance-hall of his home and shrugging out of the heavy winter coat, he caught the fragrance of evergreen and spices and cooking. He smiled, amused. This was his and Cate's first Christmas together, and every day for the last week, he'd arrived home to find yet another part of the house transmogrified into something magical; a place of old-world Christmases that Dickens himself might recognise. Apparently, his wife adored the less-commercial traditions of the season and had spent the last few days literally decking the halls. Looking around tonight, he observed that the balusters and rail of the staircase were now garlanded with perfectly formed swags of aromatic evergreen foliage held back by splendid bows of rich scarlet and gold ribbon, each bow adorned with a gathering of tiny clove-studded orange pomanders and graceful curls of ivy. The entire house was redolent with delicious scents, agreeable colour and a pleasing air of celebration. To his very great surprise, Mycroft found he was rather enjoying it all.

Walking along the hall towards the kitchen, he patted his pocket, remembering the small piece of flora he'd liberated from a public display. Uncertain as to Cate's precise activities, he followed a delectable smell to a rack of newly baked mince tarts, the rich aroma playing havoc with his budding hunger. His stomach grumbled. The sweet-spice fragrance was incredibly enticing. He was only human.

"I've cooked a ham for dinner," Cate's voice had a smile in it. "And if you have two of those, you aren't going to want to eat anything," she laughed as she entered the kitchen. "But one wouldn't hurt."

"Darling," he was as happy as he could remember being at this time of year. Turning to look at her properly, he saw Cate was as festive as the season, wrapped in a dark red knitted dress, the high rolled collar standing open and away from the fine skin of her throat, its soft weave gently hugging her curves. She had an open book in her hand, but Mycroft found his thoughts were not immediately concerned with her choice of reading material.

"Listen to this," she smiled walking over to him, laying a gentle palm flat against his chest as she read. "…You are whatever a moon has always meant, and whatever a sun will always sing, is you," she sighed, closing the book. "Isn't that just the most delectable thing?"

"Delectable," he muttered, taking in the shining sweep of her hair and the curve of her mouth, and was momentarily torn between devouring a mince tart or devouring his wife. He felt the twig in his hand and smiled, twirling it between his fingers above Cate's head.

"Mistletoe?" her eyebrows lifted in amusement.

Sliding an arm around her back, Mycroft closed the gap between them. "Victorian Christmas tradition," he murmured. "Ancient pagan ritual," he leaned down to kiss her soundly. In addition to his heart, Cate increasingly occupied his senses, and, encased as she was in his arms, the epicurean bouquet of cinnamon and spice added to her own perfume to send him lightheaded. Sighing, he lingered with her mouth, his desire for food beginning to give way to a hunger for something decidedly less culinary.

Still in his arms, Cate pushed herself away, half-breathless and smiling. "We haven't eaten, I haven't finished packing, and we planned to leave first thing in the morning, remember?"

Nibbling her neck, Mycroft sighed again. It was true. They had decided to spend the Christmas holiday at Deepdene, away from the bright lights and never-ending sound of eight million other people. After an eventful, and, some might say dramatic, year, this holiday was to be a few days of peace and quiet: somewhere they could be together in private. The thought of having Cate all to himself in the country evoked a small throb of anticipation.

"Is there much more to pack?"

Shaking her head, Cate slid her arms around his waist. "Not much more," she said. "I should have everything ready fairly quickly after dinner."

"Then I suggest we dine sooner rather than later," he smiled, his arms rested on her shoulders, his fingers in her hair. "There are a number of other pagan rituals you might find of interest."

"You know the Welsh were Pagans and Druids," Cate leaned against his chest, smiling up at him.

"Yes, I did," he managed to sound only mildly superior.

"These interesting rituals of yours?" she lifted a single eyebrow.

"Yes?"

"We invented them."

###

It was nearly Christmas. The sky beyond this room was dark and cold, and inside the flat, it wasn't exactly full of the warmth of human cheer.

"What is this?"

"What is what?" Sherlock turned his head slightly towards the sound of John's voice.

"This stuff," John said, eyeing some flat shards of thin kitchen floor-tile. "Under the fridge."

"Oh that," the younger Holmes was dismissive. "I think it's asbestos. Try not to breathe near it."

"Asbestos?" John's voice climbed. "What's it doing under our fridge?"

"It wouldn't fit under the sink and it's illegal to put it out in the rubbish."

"You're kidding … right?" Sherlock's flatmate walked into his line of vision. "Tell me you didn't just put a pile of biologically hazardous material right underneath the place we keep our food."

"I'm assuming that's a rhetorical question?" Sherlock closed his eyes and folded his arms.

"We have asbestos in this flat?"

Opening his eyes in order to roll them, Sherlock sighed. "Yes, John," he humoured his friend. "There is asbestos in this flat."

"Does Mrs Hudson know?"

"Probably," Sherlock closed his eyes again. "She's got it in her flat too. The entire house is riddled with the stuff."

"Then it has to be taken care of," John stamped towards the door. "Before it takes care of us."

###

Ticking off the final point of a list of requests, Nora Compton had been at Deepdene for the last two days, ensuring everything was as Cate had desired. The house had been aired; fires were laid in every fireplace, ready, save for a match; the pantry was stocked with all the food and various other comestibles that Cate could think they might possibly want. A huge load of cut logs had arrived yesterday and been stacked along the external kitchen wall and the wine cellar had been re-stocked with all their current favourites. A great bank of greenery and flowers was being delivered first thing in the morning, together with a ten-foot high specimen of Abies procera, all the way from the foothills of Snowdon – despite the extravagance, Cate had carefully ensured that something Welsh would be involved in her first Christmas at this country house.

Smiling to herself, the Holmes' old nanny made up the four-poster in the master bedroom; many had been the time she'd done this for the Sir Jocelyn and Elinor, and now the house was in the care of their eldest son and Miss Cate. Stretching her back, Nora wondered momentarily if there would be another generation of the family. Mr Mycroft should have children, she thought. Families needed a future as well as a history. She wondered how Cate felt about a family; she was a career woman, a Professor, no less. It would be hard to give all that up. Nora sighed. It had all been so much simpler in her time.

Smoothing down the crisp linen and adding another silk eiderdown for comfort, the older woman smiled again, slipping two dried ears of corn into a deep fold of the bed's overhead canopy. It never hurt to help things along a little.

###

The drive down to the Surrey house was uneventful, although the weather had turned very cold.

"Might we have snow, do you think?" Her fingers curled within Mycroft's on the seat between them, Cate stared out at the bare trees and the rough, ragged hedgerows. There was a curious yellow tint to the light, the kind her grandmother used to call a 'snow sky'. The idea of being at Deepdene with Mycroft over a snowy Christmas made her smile: it would be too romantic for words.

"The forecast was for a dusting above eight-hundred feet," Mycroft searched the heavens. "But nothing this far down."

Discovering she had more faith in her grandmother's weather-eye than that of the Met Office, Cate said nothing. A snowy visitation would be perfect. Surreptitiously, she crossed the fingers of her other hand.

Pulling up in the gravelled forecourt of the Edwardian house, Mycroft urged her swiftly inside while his driver brought their bags. The house was warm and inviting; Mrs Compton had done them proud.

"Come in, my dears," the woman was already there for them, taking their coats and ushering them both into the fire-lit drawing-room. With the pallid light beyond the mullioned windows and the warm red-gold of the log fire inside, the room had an old-world feel to it, as if candles and oil-lamps were more in keeping with the mood than modern electricity. Rather than having the ceiling chandeliers on, Cate opted instead for switching on several occasional lamps, the overlapping pools of yellow radiance adding somehow to the sense of warmth and snugness of the room.

"Everything's been arranged as you asked, Miss Cate," Nora Compton smiled, pleased. The greenery arrived only half-an-hour before you, but the tree's not due until this afternoon."

"Tree?" Mycroft lifted his eyebrows, also smiling. "We're having a tree?"

"Wouldn't really be a proper Christmas without one, darling," Cate grinned. "And this one is about perfect." Looking around, she saw exactly the right location for her perfect tree: far enough from the fire to keep it moist and alive, but not so far away as to lose its impact. "Over there," I think," she said, nodding towards a nicely open spot half-way between a large window and a bookcase.

Mycroft and Mrs Compton exchanged glances.

"What?" Cate saw the look. "Something wrong?"

"Not at all, my love," Mycroft walked over and tucked a vagabond lock of hair behind her ear. "That's precisely the place we always used to have the tree." He looked down, happy she was here. Cate's smile seemed to hold his gaze. He felt warm. He was content. Her eyes seemed over-large in the half-dusk of the room, pulling him in closer …

Mrs Compton coughed lightly. "I'll just go and make you a nice pot of tea," she said, bustling off, out of the way.

Laughing quietly, Cate held his fingers against the side of her face. "Did we just embarrass Nora?" she asked, smiling.

Leaning down to press a gentle kiss to her mouth, Mycroft rested his head against hers. "I believe she considers discretion a worthy virtue,' he murmured, the intimacy pleasing him.

With a sound half way between a sigh and a groan, Cate slid her arms inside his jacket and hugged him tight. "I am so very much in love with you," she mumbled into his waistcoat. "I have a feeling Nora is going to have to be incredibly virtuous."

"Darling," Mycroft wrapped his long arms around Cate's shoulders, holding her against him. The moment was very peaceful and still, brushed by the softest of emotions.

"Do you think there might still be some tree decorations up in the attic?" Cate wondered aloud. "It would be nice to use ornaments you remember from your childhood."

"Unless they were thrown away," Mycroft spoke above her head, "there should be several large boxes of the things."

"Shall we go and investigate?" she smiled.

Mycroft would have preferred to sit in front of the fire with her in his arms, but there would be time enough for the things he wanted. A brief recce of the attic would take little effort and keep Cate happy.

"Tea first?"

Wondering how on earth they would fit lunch, or anything else, into the day, Cate gazed at the 'pot of tea' Nora left for them on a side-table. Apart from the actual tea things, there was a plate of mince pies, another plate of tiny smoked salmon sandwiches and yet another plate of layered chocolate cake oozing a rum-cream filling and icing. If they ate all of this, they'd be stocked up for the week.

Sitting beside her on a sofa, and helping himself to a sandwich, Mycroft looked happy as she poured the tea.

"I hope you're feeling energetic," Cate raised her eyebrows. "Or your tailor will have to ease your waistbands by the New Year."

Giving his wife a lofty smile. "I feel certain there will be opportunities to burn off an excessive calorific intake," he said, mildly.

"Chopping logs, clearing the drive if it snows, long treks through the fields, those sorts of things?" Cate asked, artlessly.

Taking a bite of mince-pie, Mycroft shook his head. "No," he admitted, still smiling. "None of those commendable activities had even crossed my mind."

"You are wearing a deeply louche expression," Cate sipped her tea. "I suspect your thinking is limited to a fairly specific pursuit."

Finishing the sweet pastry, Mycroft's smile became expressive. "My love," he rested a hand on her fingers.

Observing the faintest residue of sugar on his lower lip, Cate leaned over and delicately sucked it away.

In that moment, between one heartbeat and the next, Mycroft's breathing stopped and his brain ceased to function. His only awareness was of Cate. Instantly, he craved her. On the sofa, on the rug beside the fire, he didn't care. Nor did the knowledge that it was mid-morning, that they were both fully-clothed or that Mrs Compton might walk in at any moment make the slightest difference. Nothing was of consequence save this inexpressible want of her. His chest thudded, his lungs failed and the entire measure of his blood seemed to course directly to his groin.

"What's the matter?" Cate watched her husband pale slightly.

Catching a thread of air, Mycroft struggled for breath. Sweet Christ. "You have no idea what you do to me," he managed, his eyes momentarily vague, blinking, as reason returned.

"Try some tea," she suggested, handing him his cup and grinning. "And think higher thoughts."

Taking a deep breath, Mycroft nodded to himself. "Attics," he said.

"Attics?"

"I've just remembered where the cases of decorations should be," he said. "Shall we attempt to unearth them?"

Finishing her tea, Cate stood, turning towards the door as Mycroft's arm snaked around her waist and brought her back to him. He rested his face in the softness of her hair. "You," he muttered. "Are my higher thoughts."

"Foolish man," she smiled against his neck.

###

"It's going to take them how long?" Sherlock was incensed. To have the asbestos-laden floor tiles removed from the entire kitchen area required a specialist hazmat contractor, but not only that, the whole property, all four floors and the small attic-space, had to be sealed and inspected to ensure that no other source of the stuff was likely to remain and cause future problems. This was scheduled to take at least three complete days. Additionally, since the Christmas holiday was almost on top on them, only a few of these specialist companies were still open, and every one was operating on a skeleton staff. Sherlock had just been advised that the job might not be finished this side of the twenty-fifth. So sorry, and all that, the contractor shrugged.

"Which means we have to put up with a madding crowd of boot-stomping roustabouts echoing through the house for three days?" Sherlock was leaning towards a sulk of massive proportions.

"Sorry mate," the contractor shrugged again. "You can't stay here during the inspection. The entire house has to be sealed off and closed until we can give you the all-clear."

"What?" Standing to his tallest, Sherlock peered down at the shorter man, almost daring him to say another word.

"Calm down," John handed him a mug of tea. "It's got to be done and that's all there is to it," he said. "Then we can come back and everything will be safe and we won't die of some horrible lung-related disease in twenty years' time."

"We are being evicted from our own home in the coldest part of the year, and all you can say is 'calm down'?" Throwing himself into his favourite chair, Sherlock ignored the offering of tea and almost pouted. "I'm not going to an hotel," he muttered balefully. "Stayed in one over Christmas once," he said. "Hateful experience."

"Well, we can't go to Harry's," John said. "She's not speaking to me at the moment and besides," he paused. "Her place isn't really big enough."

"What's Mrs Hudson going to do?"

"She's off to stay with her sister in Bournemouth or Eastbourne or somewhere windswept like that," John looked unimpressed.

"There's always Mycroft's," Sherlock peered sideways to gauge John's expression.

"You think we should ask your brother if we can crash at his and Cate's place?" John's eyebrows approached orbital insertion.

"He's got a big enough house," Sherlock pursed his lips. "I doubt Cate would mind. She likes me."

"Yeah, well," John acknowledged, "Cate's alright," he paused. "But staying with Mycroft … at Christmas?"

"We can't afford to rent another flat for a week, can we?" the younger Holmes sounded hopeful.

"Not a chance," John shook his head. "Unless you've suddenly inherited a significant amount of liquid cash?"

"Blast." Sherlock folded his knees to his chest and frowned. "Mycroft it is, then." Sighing, he picked up his phone.

###

Mycroft was thankful the attics at Deepdene were relatively clean as he and Cate dug into several tall stacks of cardboard boxes and old tea-chests. His wife took on the attributes of a wolfhound when she was on the trail of something she wanted. Watching her dive so enthusiastically into the endless collected relics of the Family Holmes made him smile and stand well back.

"Were they in boxes or chests?" Cate asked, her eyes scanning for anything marked with words or signs of festive décor.

"Large cardboard boxes, I believe," Mycroft could picture them in his mind's eye. "I think one of them had a logo featuring fruit or some such thing."

"Fruit, as in faded blue bananas?"

"Blue bananas might be exactly right," Mycroft squinted at the spot where Cate was looking.

"Can you come and hold this one up for me so I can get at the banana box, please?"

The cardboard boxes at the top were virtually weightless, filled as they were with hats and other empty boxes. Mycroft leaned his long arms up against them to either side of her head as Cate burrowed underneath, tugging at a box that indeed had a blue banana logo.

"Not so sure this is the best way of getting that particular one out," he murmured, sensing the ones on top begin to move a little too freely.

"Nearly got it," Cate's voice was half-muffled as she finally removed a large box cheerfully inscribed with a hand of pale indigo bananas. As she stood and turned, the boxes all around decided they abhorred a vacuum and collapsed, almost gracefully, around them.

Wrapping his arms around his wife's head and shoulders, Mycroft took the worst of the avalanche on his back, not that there was any real weight involved; just a lot of noisy tumbling cardboard.

When all movement had ceased, they found they were sitting on the floor, leaning against the rear wall surrounded by large brown cubes. There also appeared to have been an explosion of hats. And masses and masses of thick golden tinsel. It was like being in a small cave as chinks of light illuminated lines of dusty air. A cave of hats and gold sparkle.

"Next time," Mycroft announced to nobody in particular. "We shall do it my way."

Combing hair out of her eyes, Cate grinned. "Oh, come on," she exclaimed, kneeling. "That was fun." Reaching over, she found an old, red fez. Putting it on her head, she grinned down at him, the faded tassel swung jauntily above her right eye.

"I may wear this the entire time we're here," she smiled, happily.

"Not the entire time, I hope," Mycroft pushed the old hat to one side as he slid his fingers through her hair, kissing her laughing mouth until he felt Cate shiver and begin kissing him back. Her arms slid around his neck as she pressed closer, her soft sigh of pleasure sending his pulse racing through the gears while his fingers sought the hem of her top and the warmth of her body.

Cate's skin was welcoming and incredibly soft, her muscles flickering a response as his fingers travelled lightly over her belly and around her back. Resting fingertips along her spine, he brought her down to him as he relaxed against the wall. The sensation was incredible. The floor was hard and the position was awkward, but the feeling of her so unexpectedly close was exhilarating; the erotic combination of intimacy in a semi-public place and the imperative of physical need had Mycroft in flames.

Unwilling to defer this even for the time it would take to reach their bedroom, he held her tighter and kissed her hard as Cate breathed his name and moulded herself along the length of his body, curving her form to his. For Mycroft to be so heedless of time and place was exciting and she pressed closer in his arms until all she could think of was how much she wanted him, right here and now.

Seeing her so undone by the situation fuelled his own desire until his kisses grew slow and heavy and she was shaking under his every caress, no matter how light or fleeting. He could feel her heartbeat accelerate beneath his fingers …

His Blackberry rang.

They ignored it.

It rang again.

They ignored it again, knowing it would go to voicemail.

It rang one more time, for some reason not going to voicemail.

Cate pulled away in frustration, groaning loudly, then laughed at the fine irony of the situation. Swearing quietly, Mycroft wasn't entirely up to seeing the humour, but summoned enough savoir faire to answer the call in a moderate tone of voice.

"Yes, Sherlock," Mycroft laid his head on Cate's shoulder, allowing the tension to ease from his body. "No," he said. "I'm with Cate." There was a pause. "Yes, a little inconvenient," he said, feeling her bite into the tweed of his jacket in order to stay silent. "We're at Deepdene." He listened. He sighed. "Hold on," he said, pressing the phone to his lapel.

"Sherlock and John have to leave Baker Street for several days and they want to know if they might stay at the townhouse," he said. "How do you feel about that?"

"Of course they can stay at the townhouse if they want to and if you're happy with the idea," Cate took a breath and was immediately serious. "But if they have to leave their flat, why don't they come and stay here at Deepdene and have Christmas with us?"

Pushing himself more upright, Mycroft gazed at his wife. "Are you sure?" he asked, slowly. "This is Sherlock we're discussing."

"I like your brother," Cate also sat herself up straighter, combing back her hair and adjusting her clothes. "And I like John," she added. "I think it would be lovely to have them both here if they're willing to come down for a few days."

Relaying the message, Mycroft's free hand stroked the back of Cate's head, appreciating the smooth silk flowing between his fingers as she leaned into him like a cat, enjoying the touch.

"They're arguing now," Mycroft sighed; he knew precisely what was being said. "Sherlock won't want to come down because he'll imagine us asking him to do all sorts of things he won't want to do. John will want to come down because he'll consider it rude to refuse your invitation. Sherlock will then feel awkward because if John accepts and he does not, he'll think we'll despise him, and since, despite anything he might suggest to the contrary, he rather likes you, I can only assume he'll try and avoid that particular fate."

"Oh, good grief," Cate held out her hand. "May I speak to them please?"

Handing his wife the phone, Mycroft waited to see how she'd achieve her goal. He smiled. This might be amusing.

"Hello, John? Can you put this on loudspeaker, please?"

Raising her eyebrows, Cate looked into her husband's steady blue gaze and wondered, in passing, if she could find him a tie of exactly that shade.

"Sherlock," she said. "You don't have to come to Deepdene if the idea makes you feel uncomfortable. I know how frightening the thought of being with other people can be for you. You can stay at the townhouse; the emergency key is clipped inside a small plastic envelope stuck flat against the outer right-hand corner of the large gate leading to the courtyard. Just peel the entire envelope off, I can put it back later. There's plenty of food and drink and all sorts of stuff in the freezer. Please help yourself to absolutely anything you feel like, and don't worry about cleaning up. Two of the guest rooms are already made up, so you and John can take one apiece and relax there as long as you wish."

Cate paused, smiling a little as she stroked Mycroft's eyebrow with a fingertip.

"John, please don't feel you have to come down here and help me with the tree decorations or making log fires or play old board-games, because I know exactly how difficult it is to get a Holmes to do anything that makes them uncomfortable," she paused again. "Please accept our hospitality for as long as it suits you to, and think nothing more of it. 'Bye, Boys."

Ending the call, Cate checked her watch. "Ten pounds on John calling back within five minutes," she grinned, daring Mycroft to disagree.

"This is a previously unseen aspect of your character," Mycroft looked reflective. "That was devious, manipulative and deeply questionable."

"Standard teaching strategy," Cate straightened her husband's tie. "Implicit permission to fail often allows the student to relax and focus more readily on alternatives." She noticed he hadn't taken her wager, though.

"You suggested Sherlock might be frightened of people."

"Not actual people, my darling," Cate looked mischievous. "Only the idea of being with them," she lifted her eyebrows. "And, since your brother will almost certainly never admit to an inability of any sort, then his inclination will be to disprove my statement. That thought, combined with my other suggestion that we won't think any less of him if he decides not to come down, should tip the balance just enough so that when John applies a little more pressure, Sherlock will fold like a house of cards."

Mycroft blinked slowly. "The tree-decorating and the log fires and games," he shook his head, smiling. "All things John would probably appreciate."

Eyes wide and artless, Cate was at her most innocent. "Really?" she said. "I had no idea."

"And is it difficult to get a Holmes to do anything?" Mycroft's eyes held hers as he trailed a finger across her lips.

"John doesn't have my advantages," holding his hand to her mouth, she kissed each digit, an innocuous expression on her face. "This floor is awfully hard," she murmured, meeting his gaze.

"It is, a little," Mycroft agreed, placidly.

"I'm sure there are more comfortable places to sit and talk," she added.

"In a house of this size, I would anticipate there being many such places," he smiled.

"Shall we go and find one?"

"Somewhere comfortable and quiet?" he asked, one eyebrow lifted.

His Blackberry rang.

Mycroft listened, and then responded briefly, a faint smile crossing his face.

"John?"

"John," he nodded. "They'll be at the station by teatime."

Cate looked thoughtful. "Comfortable, quiet and with no telephones."

Mycroft smiled.

###

Collin Hamran was taking his mother's Pomeranian for its pre-bedtime walk before it became too dark to see, or too cold to be out. Both he and the dog were breathing out huffs of steamy air as they approached the entrance steps to his mother's London terrace. The curtains were well-drawn, but the glow of light from within offered a welcome warmth. He would go in and make them both a rum-toddy before watching some fatuous quiz-show or American sit-com and then having an early night.

Hamran sighed, finally starting to relax after the two-hour drive from the lab to London – not usually a stressful journey, the pre-Christmas exodus was well under way and he disliked dealing with such heavy traffic. He was more comfortable with quiet centrifuges and racks of clinking test-tubes.

In the very act of unlocking the front door to the Fulham house, the scientist sensed, rather than heard that someone was walking up behind him.

Turning to see who it was and find out what they wanted at this time of night, he felt himself thrust hard back against the door as a great wad of cloth was clamped over his face. A sweet, suffocating smell filled his mouth and lungs as he struggled, helplessly held by two, much larger men.

"That's right, me old mucker," he caught the words vaguely. "Nice deep breaths and we'll soon have you away." Collin Hamran heard nothing thereafter and was completely unconscious in less than ten seconds. His attackers smiled: whatever else science had come up with; it took a lot to beat good old chloroform.

Dragging the insentient scientist quietly down the steps to the waiting Bedford, they slid the side-door closed and were about to make off into the chill London night, when they saw the animal.

The old dog sat on the front-door step whimpering and looking pathetic. Unable to let the animal freeze, one went back and banged on the front door, retreating swiftly back to the van. In the rear view mirror, they saw Hamran's old mother look out at their vanishing tail-lights.

Stage One was almost complete. The Microbiologist would cause them no problems now. They would take him to a place most people in London didn't even know existed, and when he was safely tucked away, they'd be coming back for the next name on the list.

Holmes.