Rectification

The Why – A Cover Story – As Long As It Takes – A Broken Confidence – Preparing for the Worst – Safe Harbour – Rocks – Three Days and Three Nights – A Matter of Geology – Lestrade – An Uneasy Sleep – Flight – Thirteen Rounds of Death – Rescue – Awakening – Rectification – Mummy.

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"As I suspected," Sherlock's voice held an undeniable hint of smug. "It's the same mud and, if my deductions are correct, the same car."

Greg Lestrade tapped the end of his pen thoughtfully on the top of his desk. "The same ..?"

"Yes. If I'm correct, and let's face it, I usually am, then this first exploded car is the light blue Toyota hired from the yard outside Gatwick Airport by one Jaysan Vallenda, which he then drove, directly or otherwise, to Oxford, where he, or an accomplice, blew it up."

"So this German acrobat, the same one that did the Holland Park bit of nonsense, is now involved in mainland terrorism and kidnap?" Lestrade bit the pen in an unconscious desire for a cigarette. "That's a bit of a stretch."

"Vallenda's little escapade in London with his British cousins was clearly a sideshow to the main event in Oxford; that of the planned abduction of ..." Sherlock paused, reflectively. "Who? I wonder."

"Not your brother, then?" John leaned forward in one of the Met's uncomfortable chairs resting his elbows across his knees. "Even though everything points to it being a pretty slick operation aimed very specifically at him and Grace Chandler? Nobody else was even hinted at, were they?"

Sherlock smiled faintly and shook his head. "Mycroft takes very great pains to ensure that few people outside his inner circle have the slightest clue who he is and what he does," the younger Holmes shook his head again, more emphatically. "There has been no sign whatsoever that this abduction was aimed at Mycroft for personal reasons, because very few people actually know him on a personal level, and those that do have no reason to involve kidnap," he paused again. "Murder, yes," he added, nodding this time. "I can easily see someone wanting to off my brother, but that would inevitably involve some form of hired assassin, and there'd be no need to wait for a visit to Oxford, were that the case. No, a quick bullet between the eyes outside the Diogenes would be all that was necessary, so not a personal vendetta, in that case, no ..."

Walking over to Lestrade's office window and staring down at the lower surrounding buildings, Sherlock seemed lost in thought.

"Couldn't be anything to do with Grace Chandler, then?" Greg sucked on his pen. "Not that there's much going on in her background either," he flipped open the slim folder bearing Grace's name. "Almost nothing on her at all," it was his turn to pause in thought. "Which, of itself it a little strange, actually."

"If my brother is interested in Doctor Chandler, and it seems he is, then I'm sure Mycroft would already have taken steps to render her official past as innocuous and sanitised as his own," Sherlock turned away from the window, his face creased in thought. "So if it's not Grace Chandler, and it's not my brother they were after, then who? If we knew that, we'd also have the why."

"Mycroft and Grace Chandler?" Greg's voice was distant. "Never thought I'd hear those two names connected," he said, blinking slowly. If it were true, then it explained a great deal, especially why he and Grace had found themselves suddenly out of touch. Greg recalled the day of Colin Ward's death and how he'd fallen asleep in her bed. They had shared a connection then, or at least, he thought they had. But what the elder Holmes wanted, he went after with some determination, it seemed. Not that Greg could fault the man for trying; Grace Chandler was definitely worth going after. He sighed inwardly. Neither of the Holmes' ever played by the rules. Bastards, both, but c'est la vie, and all that. "Seems impossible."

"Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth," Sherlock sounded arch. "But who would go to such extremes as to hire such a large group of malefactors, for there would have had to have been at least four or five, probably dressed as waiters," he paused, looking sideways at John. "Nobody notices a waiter."

Throwing his friend a scathing glance, John frowned. "You make it sound as if the whole thing was some really poor practical joke," he said. "If the kidnappers weren't after your brother and there's nothing to suggest that Grace Chandler was the target either, then why were they taken? Could such an organised abduction really have been so badly orchestrated?"

Swinging around to meet the blonde man's gaze, Sherlock seemed stunned with realisation. "Not a practical joke, John, and not poorly orchestrated," the tall man inhaled sharply. "Wrong place, wrong time, more likely."

"What was the wrong place?" Greg felt he was on the verge of losing the plot.

"Not what, who," Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "The reports all say that my brother and Doctor Chandler were in a remote part of the main college building, a small corridor in what used to be the servant's quarters, and that they were taken with minimal force, though there were some signs of a minor scuffle. If Mycroft were truly threatened, the scuffle would not have been minor."

"But he's not exactly the physical type, is he?" Lestrade frowned. "Old school desk-jockey; high up, I realise, and I know the man keeps himself in shape, but do you really think it'd be much of a problem to knock him out and drag him away? Really?"

"Precisely the image he's taken pains to create," Sherlock's smile flashed. "Why do you think he informs all and sundry that he's a 'minor government official'? If Parliament or the general public ever discovered just how multifarious a role he plays in British security, they'd slap him with a dozen ministerial inquiries into a dozen different quangos before the sun set. No," he lifted both eyebrows and exhaled. "This is something else, or I should say, someone else."

"Mistaken identity?" John raised his own eyebrows. "You think Mycroft and Grace Chandler were snatched by mistake?"

"Almost positive," Sherlock nibbled his lower lip. "Question is, of course, who?"

"It would have to have been someone who was known to be there last night," Lestrade went back to biting his pen. "But it was a reunion ball; almost anyone could have been there."

"Then it would have to have been someone who absolutely must have attended ..." Sherlock turned, frowning down at Greg's desk. "Didn't you say that there were also some awards being handed out last night?" he asked. "Some community-service thing?"

"Yep," Lestrade dug around under some sheets of paper before holding one of them up to the light, squinting as he read. "Says there were three awards given last night; all of them to do with community relations."

"Who were the recipients?" John asked.

"Better still," Sherlock suggested, "You have photographs; describe them."

Sighing, Greg did as he was bid. "Sir Malcolm Huttington; medium height, grey hair and looks one whisky away from a heart-attack."

"Next?" Sherlock's gaze was distant.

"Next up is Joshua Maalouf; very tall, skinny as a rake. Looks Mediterranean."

"African," Sherlock added, absently. "Next?"

"Last of all is Sir Anthony Kell," Lestrade stopped mid-breath as he looked at the man's photo.

Lifting his head, the younger Holmes was instantly alert. "Tall, dark-haired, decent dinner suit?"

Greg simply nodded. Nobody who knew Mycroft Holmes would consider the two men identical, but on a casual glance, or by description only; then yes. The two men might easily be mistaken one for the other. "You think that's it, then?" he asked. "They, whoever they are, were actually after Kell?"

"Is there a picture of Kell with his guest of last evening?" John sounded thoughtful.

Rummaging a little more in the small heap of papers, Greg pulled out a series of poor photos held together with a paperclip. Flicking through them, he pulled a sheet from the rest, looking at it judiciously before handing it to the younger men. "That explains the rest of it, I think."

The photo of two people was slightly blurred but good enough to show the image of Kell standing beside an attractive blonde woman in a green frock.

Sighing a little, Sherlock nodded slowly. "At least we know the why," he said. "Now we need to find the who."

###

As the chill muzzle of the gun pressed firmly into the skin over her breastbone, Grace felt everything in the world fall into slow-motion. If she looked hard enough, she would probably be able to see individual dust-motes tumbling through the air. She felt her heart thud heavily; an extended heartbeat that seemed to take three times its usual length. Her mouth was suddenly arid and every inch of her skin prickled.

And yet, she felt incredibly composed. Was this what happened when you thought you were about to die?

"If you are going to shoot me, then there's precious little I can do to stop you," she said, calmly, hardly believing her own words. "So if you are, then I have nothing more to say," Grace flicked her eyes up to meet those of the man threatening her life. "But if you're not, I'd really prefer it if you took that thing away from my chest," she added. "It's very uncomfortable."

Blinking, Roberts felt a slow smile crawl onto his face, the first time he had felt anything but anger since Jason had given him the impossible news that the couple in the bedroom were not the couple they were expecting.

There had been a huge error along the way, and now there were two people of very little bargaining value in a room that was supposed to be holding the Chief of MI6, Sir Anthony Kell. The commission he'd accepted, the important and highly lucrative commission he'd accepted, specifically detailed that through Sir Anthony's ransom would come the revelation of those above him. Part of the deal, in fact, was to arrange to have the head of MI6's ransom negotiated by the shadowy figure who was Kell's indirect superior; someone at the Home Secretary's ministerial level, or possibly higher. That there was someone in this mysterious role was a given, those who had commissioned the snatch seemed extremely confident of their Intel. Part of Roberts' job was to bring the unknown shadow-power out into the light, but without Kell as bait ...

Yet if the blonde woman in front of him was important enough, the situation might be salvageable. "Then give me a name," he said. "Tell me who you are and why I should bother keeping either you or your pompous friend back there around for a second longer than I want to?"

Quickly realising that Mycroft's true position and role could not possibly be revealed, Grace saw they needed time to find a way out of this; time to let the people who would undoubtedly be searching to find a clue, any clue, to bring them here. Wherever here was. They needed time, and there was only one way she could think of keeping Mycroft safe and creating the necessary delay.

"You say you saw me in a photograph with both Gerald Palmer and Anthony Kell?" she asked in an understated, almost disinterested way. "Was it taken outside MI6?"

A hot surge of triumph rising in his chest, Roberts straightened up, lifting the gun away from her skin as he did so. He had been correct; the woman was someone important. Perhaps sufficiently important to repair some of the damage that had been done to the mission.

"Yes, MI6," he replied. "A few weeks ago. You and Palmer were walking in just as Sir Anthony was leaving. You all stopped for a friendly little chat." Roberts closed his eyes for a moment, recapturing the image in his head. "The three of you seemed very pally."

"There's a very good reason for us to be," Grace hesitated. The only time she'd been outside MI6 with both Kell and her boss was a few weeks before when she'd attended one of Sir Anthony's briefings before the secondment proper began. Whatever lie she chose to tell now, there would be no going back from it. She had one opportunity to do this right. Lifting her eyes to the man standing in front of her, she sighed as if capitulating.

"My name is Grace Chandler," she paused. "Anthony Kell is going to retire soon and I'm his replacement," she added. "Nobody knows yet except for Palmer, the Home Secretary and a select few on high-level government committees."

A second surge of success followed the first, as Roberts realised the incredible good fortune that had just landed in his lap. Not even Kell, but his successor! Though Sir Anthony was a vital figure in the shrouded world of British espionage, how much more important was the new M? The éminence grise he had been paid to find must know all about this succession plan.

He looked at the attractive blonde in front of him. He needed to confirm her story somehow; a second mistake would not be tolerated.

"The man you're with," he tipped his head, indicating the far bedroom. "Who is he?"

Already prepared for the question, Grace blinked slowly. "Michael?" she asked casually, as if surprised. "Michael Croft is a ... friend," she said, delicately. "He's a minor government official, but a most pleasant ... companion."

Roberts allowed his eyebrows to rise. If the woman was who she said, then giving up her friend as a hostage to fortune was unwise.

Grace smiled coolly. "I know exactly what you're thinking," she said. "That you can now use Michael against me in some way, but I assure you that, while he's a lovely man, I have known other lovely men. Mr Croft is a cog in the government machine, far better in bed than he is in government administration and if I had to choose between him and my new job ..." she shrugged lightly, a small moue of admission pursing her lips.

"Does he know about your role?" Roberts met the eyes of his lieutenant, Jason Redcar, still standing behind the woman's chair.

Grace laughed softly. "Michael? Do you really imagine for a moment I'd tell a temporary lover anything about me at all?" she shook her head. "Michael thinks I work in the archives at MI5," she said. "It's a cover story that enables me to go wherever I want without people feeling the need to ask me why," she stopped. "So now you know," she said, flatly. "I have some value, but only enough to use as a go-between. If you want to detain either Michael or me, it would be a small blip in the general scheme of things, and another successor can always be found for Kell."

Maintaining eye-contact with the man holding the pistol, Grace new she was taking a real risk. If she claimed that she and Mycroft were worthless, their captors might just take her word, and they would both be very quickly dead. Yes if she made too big a deal of their importance, she had no doubt that torture would just as quickly be the result if these people felt it would help them get what they wanted. Whatever that was.

Though she could only see his eyes through the balaclava-mask that he wore, those eyes were dark and forthright. They belonged to a man who would lose little sleep over their deaths. She hoped her risk was worth the possible cost.

"So you see," she added, "whatever it was you expected to get out of all this, I think you've either miscalculated and picked the wrong people, or there's something else going on that I don't know about," she said. "Care to tell me which one it is?"

Though he made no outward sign, Roberts saw the woman was telling the truth. The indifferent tone in her voice when she spoke of the man in the other room; the unadorned way in which she described her cover story in MI5, even the unexpected calmness in the face of possible death. She could very well be exactly what she claimed to be. He would have to check.

He would also have to check with the man in the other room to ensure he was what she claimed. One mistake had already happened in this operation, and he could not afford a second.

"You wanted tea?" he stood back. "Help yourself; use the bottled water. I'm going to have a chat with your friend, see if you really are who you say."

Grace felt her heart thud hard inside her chest. If Mycroft wasn't on the ball, then the whole subterfuge would be in tatters in moments. As she stood by the sink, pouring a large bottle of water into the steel kettle, she looked around for anything that might be used as a weapon. A knife, scissors ... anything.

The tall man had followed his boss half-way down the passage, standing equidistant between the far bedroom and the tiny kitchen, but his attention was on the bedroom door which the older man had just entered.

If she were lucky, he'd be distracted for a few seconds at least.

In the top drawer beside the sink was a rusting old breadknife. It was too big to hide anywhere on her person; the dress she was wearing was not intended to act as concealment for large knives.

Lighting the gas with a match from a new box, she noticed there were several boxes of them stacked up to one side. Surely they'd not miss one ... With infinite care, Grace tucked a box down the front of the dress where it nestled flatly between her breasts. As long as she didn't actually jump up and down, no-one would even know it was there.

Waiting for the kettle to boil, she rummaged again in the little drawer. There had to be something ... her fingertips reaching to the very back of the space, Grace felt a rough edge catch at her skin. Pausing, she scrabbled around a little more carefully, locating the thin piece of cold metal and drawing it out into the light.

The blade of a broken knife. Small, and without a handle, she tested the edge with her thumb. It was still sharp. Carefully, she added it to the matchbox, laying it flat against her skin. Any overly-quick movement and she'd likely stab herself.

The kettle boiled and she looked around for mugs, finding only large disposable paper cups and t-bags. Adding sugar to the swiftly made tea, she walked back towards the bedroom.

She'd soon know if Mycroft had been able to pick up on the clues she'd given to the man with the dark eyes.

###

He had been peering out through the tiny window, his hands resting on the wall at either side of the bars. There was little to see except mile after mile of sloping rough pasture, interspersed with irregular gatherings of dark trees and cropped short by the occasional sheep. There were no houses or buildings that he could see; no sound of engines, cars or heavy machinery. Thus this cottage was not part of a larger farm complex, nor was it near a main highway or beneath any major flight-path. The absence of even the most rudimentary form of road or track, argued that this was indeed a very remote place, built for the high-summer accommodation of seasonal farm labourers and farm stock management most probably. There would be little likelihood of accidental discovery, in that case.

His mind returned to Grace. It had been almost ten minutes since she'd left the room. Where was she? It would hardly take anyone more than a few minutes at best to make use of the facilities, and he very much doubted this shack was equipped with anything so modern as a hot shower. So where was she? Had she already fallen foul of their captors?

Attempting to refocus his thoughts, Mycroft analysed what he already knew of the two men, though he assumed there would be others; other accomplices would take turns watching them.

The tall man, no matter that his English was very good, was clearly of German, and specifically East German extraction. Though tall, the black clothes he wore did little to disguise the well-toned musculature of both his arms and legs. Tall and very strong, then. It was the odd-shaped calluses on both palms that told of the man's history in either yachting or gymnastics. That the skin on the backs of his hands was pale decried the former and argued the latter. It also fitted in the accent. But again, why was an East-German gymnast involved with a criminal operation of such magnitude on this side of the Channel? It had to be a very highly paying contract.

And the other man, the leader; shorter, older, less physically athletic, yet still fit and strong. His language suggested a good education; definitely British, with the faintest hint of a very good education. Eaton? Harrow? That the man had also served briefly in the armed forces was clear by his form of command and the fact he was used to others obeying. Had he been cashiered for some delinquency? Possibly a dishonourable discharge? There was no hint of any far-east connection, but it was safe to conjecture the man had served in the middle-east before returning home. Given his age which, judging by his nails, was between forty-five and fifty, he had most likely turned to crime sometime in the last five years; he could not have gained serious command experience were he younger. That he was able to attract such a commission as this suggested his operational reputation was well-established, though he was still capable of making mistakes.

Mentally reviewing all the major gangs and criminal cartels known to have been operating within the United Kingdom for the last five years, Mycroft turned to face the door as the bolt rattled. His breath caught. Grace?

It wasn't and his heart seemed to slow. Where was she? What had happened?

"Don't worry, Mr Croft," the man he'd designated Leader stepped further into the small bedroom, leaving the door ajar, but his tall and athletic lieutenant was no doubt just outside. "The lady is making tea."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed fractionally. Croft? Leader's voice was full of confidence; he thought he knew something. What had Grace said? That his surname was Croft?

"And who are you?" he demanded, lending a slight uncertainty to the words; just enough to continue the conversation without committing himself to anything.

"It is Michael Croft, isn't it?" Leader folded his arms. "And you work for the British government as ..." he paused, tilting his head as if recalling something. "Ah yes; as a cog in the government machine," he added, a growing disdain in his tone.

"How do you know these things?" Mycroft drew himself up to his full height, looking down his patrician nose at the shorter man.

Though his face was still completely covered, it would have been obvious to anyone in the vicinity that there was a smile beneath the mask.

"Your lady-friend saw reason and told us everything," Leader said. "Told me all about you, for a start."

Hence the Michael Croft, Mycroft realised. And the government cog. So, Grace had told them that he was someone other than who he was; that he played a minor role in governmental administration. There was a message here; she was obviously keeping everything as anonymous as possible and at a very low key.

"Where is she?" he demanded again. "I insist you tell me the whereabouts of my companion."

"Grace Chandler, you mean?" Leader smiled again, his body-language telling Mycroft everything he needed to know. The man was enjoying this little display of superiority, something he didn't get an opportunity to do very often, it appeared. Grace had given Leader her real name ...

Blinking rapidly, as if shocked, Mycroft swallowed visibly. "Where is she?" he asked, his voice softening, unsure. Worried.

"Don't fret," Leader moved back to disdainful. "I wouldn't dream of damaging anyone in her position," he said. "Besides," he added. "I need to get Sir Anthony Kell's attention, and your friend looks like being my best bet."

There was the sound of footsteps outside the door as Leader turned, waiting to see who was coming in.

Grace walked around the solid door, her hands full with two cups of tea. She stopped, short, as she saw she had walked into the middle of a conversation.

Mycroft observed how tense she was. She would be wondering if he'd been able to follow her cues; wondering if I've kept to her script, Mycroft thought. He smiled, thankful to see her back and unharmed.

"Might I use the facilities as well, in that case?" he asked, allowing his face to lighten a little. He needed to scout the dwelling; there might be weaknesses in the abductors' arrangements, or perhaps a way to signal for help. Possibly even some technology that might be put to good use.

Rolling his eyes in mild frustration, Roberts nodded. If it ensured willing co-operation and a swift conclusion to this semi-debacle, he would not begrudge his guests access to the amenities, such as they were. Besides, he could always revoke such privileges if they became less than helpful.

"Just tell me one thing first, Mr Croft," Roberts held up his hand. "Tell me what the lady does for a living?"

Mycroft held himself still. This was clearly a trap. Grace had obviously said something to Leader that the man felt able to use as proof of good faith. But what would Grace have said? It was too risky to speculate.

"Perhaps you could be more specific?" Mycroft frowned briefly and looked unsure.

"It's not a difficult question, Croft," Leader smiled congenially. "Just tell me what your lovely companion does to earn her daily bread."

"The truth, Michael," Grace handed him one of the teas as she sat back down on the bed. "There's no point prevaricating."

"But ... but ..." blinking rapidly, Mycroft stalled. He needed to be absolutely sure.

"He's seen me in a photo with Gerald Palmer," Grace lifted her eyebrows and sighed. "They already know what I do."

Gerald Palmer's name was a solid hint.

"At MI5?" Mycroft asked, keeping his gaze on Leader, but his peripheral vision was excellent. He caught Grace's slow blink.

"Quickly now, Croft; it's not rocket science."

So the man was not without flaws, Mycroft confirmed his earlier suspicions. Not only did Leader allow underlings to make decisions beyond their capacity, but the man was also short on patience. Interesting. "Doctor Chandler works as an Archivist for MI5," he announced, lifting his chin and narrowing his eyes once more. "It is a highly responsible post."

"More than you'll ever know," Roberts laughed; the woman had been telling the truth after all; she hadn't told Croft what she really was. Not only did she not trust her lover with her real position, but he didn't seem the type of man who'd be up to much in bed either; far too pompous and uptight. Still, there no accounting for taste. He turned and winked at the woman. Let her explain her way out of this one, the traitorous bitch.

"And now I'm going to go and have a little chat with your real employer, Doctor Chandler," he laughed again, soft and mocking. "You may be valuable enough to trade."

"And what are we supposed to do in the meantime?" Grace stood, one hand on her throat. " There is ... medication I need to take on a regular basis."

"Will you die without it?" Roberts pulled up short. It would mean further trouble if his only bargaining point snuffed it before any deal was made for Kell's shadow-boss.

Grace shook her head. "It's for my ... anaemia," she said, eventually. "I get very anaemic."

"Then you'll just have to wear it for a while," Roberts was prepared to go so far to make his hostages comfortable, but no further. "You still want to use the bathroom?" he asked, turning to Mycroft.

"But what do we do in the meantime?" Grace continued. "You expect us to simply sit here and wait?"

"That's exactly what I expect you to do," Roberts walked closer to her, his dark eyes wide and growing angry. "For as long as it takes."

###

"Vallenda's hired car had to have travelled to at least one of these particular areas," Sherlock stood in front of the assembled Scotland yard detectives, his finger stabbing at four completely separate areas on the British national map. "Somewhere near the great Delabole Quarry in Cornwall ... stab, Swithland in Leicestershire ... stab, Skiddaw in Cumbria ... stab, or Gwynedd in Wales," he scowled. "It has been almost a week since my brother and Doctor Chandler were taken," he added. "Every hour now counts in the search," he added, looking grim.

"Right, Sherlock, thank you," taking the younger Holmes' place at the front of the room. Greg nodded affably around the gathered specialists. "In conjunction with SOEC Division, the Homicide and Serious Crimes Command are now acting, in association with MI5, under the direct auspices of the Home Office," he said.

There were a number of raised eyebrows and more than a few muttered comments from the assembled officers. Such an arrangement was highly unusual; there must be something very big in the wind.

"Yeah, yeah, alright," he saw the exchanged looks and lifted a hand. "You can chew the situation over later, but right now, we're splitting into four sections, each group to cover one of the four areas identified by Mr Holmes here," he added. "It's been six days since the victims were forcibly removed from Balliol College in Oxford, and we've had two contacts from the kidnappers; one with their confirmation that Mycroft Holmes and Grace Chandler were being held, and the second with a proof of life tape that you'll all have heard at least once by now. Unfortunately," Greg turned a sideways glance towards Sherlock, "none of us have been able to narrow the search area down any more than this, so let's recap what we do know," he paused, putting up a series of PowerPoint slides.

"We know they were taken out of Oxford in the back of a large van belonging to a local catering company. The company has been checked and been found negligent in the monitoring of its vehicles, but nothing more. Two of the company's vans were stolen on the evening of the Balliol Ball, the business manager only reporting the theft to local Oxford police the following day. As you all know by now, both vans were found empty and abandoned in an old shoe factory on the outskirts of Banbury, though both vehicles had been thoroughly cleaned and were of little help to us in forensics."

Turning to look at the younger Holmes with something of an apologetic expression, Greg continued the unhappy exegesis of the police operation thus far.

"Given that Banbury is located directly on the M40, we have, as yet, been unable to either identify or trace the vehicles the kidnappers used to transfer the victims once the catering vans had been abandoned. There was a partial fresh print of one tyre, but upon investigation, it was shown that the tyre-tread was a generic Dunlop brand, and not of any specific car manufacturers', so we've nothing to go on there. Having said that, we can assume the new vehicles would have to be relatively large in order to accommodate at least two or three kidnappers plus Holmes and Chandler who may or may not have been rendered unconscious by this time, so it's possible we're going to be looking for either other vans or at the very least, a large estate or four-wheel drive."

Sherlock, arms folded tightly across his chest, muttering inaudibly.

Taking a deep breath, Lestrade ignored him, refocusing his attention back on the group. "So there's going to be four squads," he said. Each one will take one of the four areas where at least one of the kidnappers appears to have driven at least once in the weeks prior to the abduction. Forensic tests have analysed certain materials found on the remain of the first of the two exploded cars used as a diversion during the ball. These tests confirm that the car had previously been driven in an area containing both coniferous and deciduous woodland, blue stone and green slate, and it's the slate that's the most useful in the search," he added, flicking to a new slide showing a map of the country.

"These are the four areas containing green slate," Greg faced the screen, pointing out the Peak District, the forest parks of North Wales, the west coast of Cornwall south of Bude and way up the top in Cumbria. If we assume that there is a link between the exploding car and the kidnappers, then it's a reasonable possibility that our two hostages are being held in one of these areas," he paused, a slightly haggard cast to his features. "As we all know, the longer a victim remains in the hands of the kidnappers, the less likely they are to return unharmed. Both MI6 and MI5 are pooling both their resources and personnel in order to locate these two people, but in the meantime, it may just be solid police-work that gets us there in time."

As the larger assembly broke away into four smaller squads, Anthea, leaning back in a remote corner, listening, saw that John was reviewing something on his phone, while Sherlock was over at the far side of the room, talking, somewhat heatedly, with several senior detectives.

"Doctor Watson."

John looked around to see Mycroft's assistant at his shoulder. He smiled, uncertainly. This woman was not always good news.

"There's something you need to know about Grace Chandler," she said. "It may become important in the near future."

"Something that needs a doctor?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Possibly," she nodded, passing him a slim box, small enough to fit in his hand. He read the name of the contents on the front. Xarione.

"This is a biological suppressant," he said, meeting her gaze. "A reliable one. People only use this for good reason," he added, pausing reflectively. "Does Grace Chandler have good reason?"

Inhaling, Anthea nodded silently. "If she's off them for more than a few days apparently, nature reasserts itself and she becomes ... vulnerable," she said. "The only reason I'm breaking a confidence and telling you is because you're a doctor and you may need to be there to help her deal with ... whatever she has to deal with."

"Omega?" John slipped the box into his jacket pocket.

Anthea nodded again. "And if she's with Mr Holmes ..."

"Who, other than Sherlock, is one of the biggest, pain-in-the-arse Alpha's I've ever met," John closed his eyes, understanding. Grace's position would be even worse if there were more than one Alpha in the area when she entered her heat phase. God knows what might end up happening.

He realised Grace Chandler was probably terrified.

###

It had been over a week now since they had been brought to this place, Grace calculated as she woke up earlier than usual; nine days, in fact. Counting back the mornings to the very first time Mycroft had heard the sound of birds and nothing else, yes; nine days. Nine days of anxiety and worry and fear of what might happen, especially of what might happen if their abductors ever discovered who the man sleeping next to her really was. Something that she would not let happen; Mycroft Holmes was far too valuable to risk, and she had done everything in her power to minimise the possibility of his discovery.

Of course, he hadn't been too taken with the idea.

"If they ever find out you are the man behind the British security services, then Christ knows what they'll do to make you talk, or give them whatever they want," Grace hissed as they had lain, face-to-face on the small bed, the coarse blanket up to their eyes. The sliding panel in the door was temporarily closed. "So just shut up for once, and let me be the important one; they'll never think of thinking about you if they're fixated on thinking about me."

"Now, you're the one who's being ridiculous," Mycroft stared into shade-darkened grey eyes barely ten inches from his own. "I cannot and will not permit you to risk yourself on my behalf. You must think me some sort of unconscionable brute to imagine I'd consider such a strategy, even for a moment."

"Mycroft, listen," Grace pleaded. "In the first instance, nothing is going to happen to me," she said. "As soon as they can arrange some deal with Sir Anthony, they'll end up getting caught, somehow, and we'll be out of here in a jiffy," she sighed. "Your brother is obviously going to be all over this, which means it's only going to be a matter of him tracking us down to wherever this place is," she sighed. "We have to be patient."

There was silence between them.

"Can you afford to be patient?" Mycroft held her gaze, not wanting to sound alarmist, but knowing one of them would have to mention the elephant in the room.

Of course, she knew immediately what he meant.

Closing her eyes, Grace leaned her head down against his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his skin through the rough cotton of the t-shirt he was now wearing.

It had become clear early on that if their 'stay' were to be an extended one, then they would need at least one change of clothing is things were to remain civilised. After a few days, of making do as best they could, a plain white plastic bag containing two grey t-shirts, and two pairs of grey track pants. Not the most elegant of attire, but better than nothing and at least they were soft and warm. The look on Mycroft's face when she'd told him to take off his clothes.

"I have no desire to disrobe under these circumstances," he murmured, lifting his chin and staring down at her through half-lidded eyes.

"And I have no desire to share a bed with a smelly man," she countered. "I shall find some way of washing our current clothing so that at least we might maintain a semblance of civility," Grace paused, smiling tightly. "Or would you prefer to sleep on the floor?"

She had won, of course, stripping off herself, donning the new clothes without the slightest hesitation. She had smiled at his long-suffering sigh as he bent down to untie his shoes. While he changed, Grace banged on the inside of their door, something she was getting used to doing by now. She had persuaded their captors to allow her to wash, as best she could, their under things, Mycroft's socks and shirt, so at least they could stay relatively fresh in their habits, hanging the damp clothing up on the wall-hooks in their room to dry.

And the t-shirts weren't all that bad, as she now acknowledged as she curled closer into Mycroft's body heat and comforting embrace. His arm slipped naturally over her waist, bringing her closer, but there was no mood of playfulness now. It was more about comfort and shared warmth than anything else.

"No, I don't suppose I can afford patience," Grace muffled the words against his chest, knowing what was going to be happening to her in the next few days, knowing how it was going to affect both of them and realising, in the cold and awful light of day, that there was nothing either of them could do about it. "Without my suppressants, there's no way for me to prevent it," she muttered, feeling awful. "There's no way out of it."

She sounded so close to despair, that Mycroft only held her tighter to him, feeling an overwhelming need to keep her safe and out of danger. In a few days, if Grace went into an unsuppressed heat phase, it would provoke an answering response in him and in any other Alpha in the vicinity. He was fairly sure he could control his own behaviour, but had no idea how any of their captors might react. Or how Grace herself might behave. This was all uncharted territory.

Nor did he feel it politic to advise her that, despite her best efforts to keep herself scentless, he had already detected a marked change in the heady bloom of her skin which had nothing to do with their primitive ablution facilities, and everything to do with her biology. Her new fragrance was sweet and musky and he found himself looking for it every time she was in his arms. Despite himself, he was drawn to her now more than ever.

"With every hour, the police will be narrowing their search," he breathed against her ear. "And even with my brother's undoubted histrionics, they will have their best people on this, I'm sure of it," he murmured. "I cannot believe it will take them much longer to find us, no matter how remote and hidden we are," he said. "You have to try and maintain your calm, no matter what."

Try and maintain her calm. Only an Alpha could say something so irritating, Grace realised, biting her lip in faint horror as she recognised the shortening of her temper as a sign of the oncoming storm. She wanted to run away and hide, she wanted to scream at the unfairness of everything and she feared she might weep from the fear of what was about to happen. Grace knew her cycle well enough and she knew she might have one or two days at best before her system went haywire.

"I'll do my best," she had mumbled against his chest, breathing him in. The very male condition of him acted as an anchor, enabling her to relinquish, for a moment, her fears.

If the worst came to the worst, she'd ask their captor, the one Mycroft called Leader, if she could stay outside in the open air. She couldn't go anywhere, but at least she'd be able to suffer with a degree of privacy. Almost anything was preferable to what she knew was likely to happen.

Feeling drowsy again in the early morning light, she closed her eyes and pressed closer to Mycroft in his continued sleep, his embrace tightening without conscious awareness as he breathed in the fragrance of her hair, newly washed with soap as Grace sensed the onset of heat that had little to do with his proximity.

And she dreamed an old dream.

She was standing in the bow of a sailing ship in the middle of the sea; she could hear the rigging creak and felt the sway of the deck shifting beneath her feet as the dark blue waves slapped the hull. The day was fading into gloom, not evening, but the dark of a storm, and the colour of the ocean was the colour of the angry sky. Clouds rushed past in great scads of grey smoke. The entire scene was one of haste: haste to leave the wild water, haste to escape, haste to seek refuge. But there was nowhere to run, the storm was almost upon her, and there was no shelter in sight.

And then there was.

Out of the gloomy and bruised storm clouds, a sudden island, a place of tall, dark trees; sharp mountains and barren, rocky coves. As the first spike of lightening slashed down through to the ocean's surface, the ship coasted easily into a large cove, coming to an unhurried rest in a gentle lagoon, where golden sunlight and soft sea-breezes quietened the sails and brought her to safe harbour.

Grace slept, a smile on her lips.

###

"And if it's not Cornwall or the Peak District, at least we've narrowed down the search-area a bit," John rubbed his eyes, shadowed and bleary from too little sleep, too frequently broken. It had been ten days now, ten long and arduous days since Mycroft Holmes and Grace Chandler had been taken from Oxford.

Their abductors were being very clever, fully aware that none of this would ever reach the papers or television news; there was something far too important about this particular situation to ever risk letting reporters have it. A standard D-Notice had been issued at the very outset of the investigation and so far, nobody had dared breach the provisions of the order.

The most recent proof-of-life had been received only the day before, when a note was left under the windshield wiper of an MI6 employee at Vauxhall Cross. Written in Grace's own hand, the note confirmed that she and her companion were safe, adding the headline of a national paper into the note with the day's date. As of yesterday at least, it seemed they were both still alive and hopefully in a reasonable condition. But nobody had seen the message being delivered or the messenger who left it.

"But no time, John," Sherlock paced the large and currently empty situation room, blind to the masses of papers on the desks, the stack of empty coffee cups in overflowing bins, and the stale whiff of sweat. "Those who took them must know that every day now increased the danger of their capture. This increases the danger to my brother and Grace Chandler, and all I have been able to do is identify some crushed stone in mud taken from a car tyre!" Kicking a chair away in a pique of rage, the younger Holmes leant over a table, supporting himself with both arms outstretched. His breathing was harsh and laboured.

"Then do something else!" John stood, the fingers of one hand raking through his short hair. "Use that almighty brain of yours and work it out! It can't be that difficult to tell one bit of rock from another, for God's sake!"

Sherlock's breathing stilled and his body stiffened. "Say that again," the words were soft.

"What? That you need to use your brain to work it out?" John held his breath, recognising this as one of his friend's aha moments.

"The other bit," Sherlock stood slowly, like an old man.

"Do something else?" John stared at the man in front of him, willing him to have an idea.

"The other other bit," Sherlock waved his hand. "About the rock."

"That it can't be too difficult to tell one rock apart from another rock?" John frowned. He had definitely said that, though he wasn't entirely sure what it was he had said.

"Brilliant! John, you're a genius!" the younger Holmes grinned like a maniac, pulling out his phone and making a very important call.

###

It was just after midday on the tenth day of their unlawful imprisonment that Grace felt the first clear flickers of heat appear. Dreading this moment, she felt her skin tingle in shock now that it was actually upon her. She could already feel the skin of her neck and throat begin to smoulder as a languorous tremble shuddered its way through her body. Unable to do anything else, she walked over to the farthest corner of their cramped quarters and huddled down on the cold stone floor, arms wrapped around her head.

Mycroft tensed, his eyes following her movement. He had been aware of Grace's growing disquiet for some time now and was unsurprised that the inevitable had happened.

"I'll ask them if you can be left alone in here," he stood, not daring to approach her; the scent of her warming flesh already causing his heart to pump harder, a low thrum of want in his veins. Any notion that he might be able to control himself beside her, lying beside her at night, was clearly a foolish one. He should have known better; should have remembered the effort it had taken him to pull away from her the first time this had happened, more than two years before. If he'd imagined himself strong enough to rise above such a biological compulsion, he'd already been proven wrong. Every minute he stayed in here, beside her, added to the danger that either he, or, perhaps even worse, that Grace, would succumb. He had to get out and quickly. He banged on the door.

The panel slid open, the dark eyes of the taller lieutenant peering through.

"What now?"

"The lady is unwell and needs to be by herself," he said. "Please allow me to provide her with some privacy."

"What's the matter with her?" the man stared at Grace curled into the corner.

There was little point lying; the truth would be evident to anyone who cared to observe.

"Doctor Chandler is an Omega," he stated calmly. "She is at a critical point in her biological cycle."

"For how long?" the tall man in the mask demanded, staring harder.

"A few days at most," Mycroft realised he was starting to breathe through his mouth and closed it firmly. Almost immediately, the scent of Omega hit him and his focus began to crumble. "It would be civilised to afford her some privacy," he murmured, observing, with some relief, that the man was a Beta.

The tall man laughed, shaking his head. "Nowhere else for you to go," he grinned nastily. "Looks like you and the lady are just going to have to make the best of it," he added, sliding the panel closed with a horrible finality.

"I'm sorry, Mycroft," Grace experienced a wave of embarrassment as she heard the conversation. This was an untenable situation, but there was nothing, it seemed she could do. "Perhaps if I tried to persuade them," she muttered, standing slowly, avoiding his eyes.

As she walked passed him towards the door, Mycroft found his eyes closing as a waft of compelling fragrance clawed at his attention. His hand caught her upper arm, swinging her around.

"Don't apologise," he said, turning so that she rested against his chest, his arms holding her safe. "This situation is not of your making, and I'll not allow you to suffer for it," he said, resting his face in her hair. "No matter what happens, you are not to worry; we'll manage to find a way through this, I promise."

Leaning into his tall frame, Grace felt some of her anxiety ease as he supported her body with his own. A new wash of heat crawled up her neck and over her face at his proximity and she sighed unsteadily. No matter what Mycroft said, it wasn't going to be as simple as he might think.

She wanted nothing more than to feel his cool flesh next to hers, absorbing the heat and tempering the fire that was already rising inside.

And there would be three days of this. Three days and three nights.

###

It was already dark when they stepped out of the Natural History Museum on Cromwell Road, Sherlock shuffled through several of the coloured images in his hand, raising them as he hailed a cab and simultaneously pulled out his Nokia.

"So that's it, then?" John waited until the taxi pulled to a halt before climbing in. "It really was that easy."

"I cannot believe it took me so long to think of it," Sherlock struck his knee with a clenched fist. "My brother wasn't joking when he said one's mental faculties faded with middle-age, as I am clearly on the cusp of my own antiquity," he growled, waiting to be connected to Lestrade.

"Finally!" he snapped as the Met Officer answered his call. "Having an early nap, were we?"

There was a faint murmur at the far end of the call.

"No matter, Lestrade," the younger Holmes cut him short. "Tell your superiors the search can be narrowed down to an area around Pentrefoelas in North Wales," he said. "On the edge of Gwydyr Forest Park in Conwy," he added. "The particular slate I found in the mud on the tyre has been verified by geological experts and can only originate from that particular area. I am texting you the co-ordinates. John and I will arrange transport to get us there as quickly as possible. Hurry."

Ending the call, Sherlock immediately sent a text to the same number, along with an image of the physical locale he'd taken from a large-scale Ordnance Survey photograph inside the Geological Museum. It showed a wild place of empty hillsides and the occasional stand of dark, coniferous trees. Beyond the small village, there was little to see except rough pasture and one or two isolated huts high up in the lonely hills.

A perfect place to keep hostages.

Even before the cab reached Baker Street, Sherlock was ringing a second number.

"John and I need an urgent ride to North Wales," he instructed. "I'm convinced my brother and Grace Chandler are being held captive in the area around a small village on the A5 near Betws-y-Coed. I've alerted the police, but it's going to take too long to reach by car, so a helicopter is indicated. Make sure the pilot is a Beta; I want no Alphas anywhere near the place, do you understand? It would be dangerous for them."

Apparently his message was very clearly understood. "Where?" he asked in response to a query, "We're currently in a cab."

Listening intently, Sherlock nodded before tapping the driver on the shoulder. "London City Airport," he directed. "Fast."

###

Greg stood behind his desk, phone-in-hand, an intent expression on his face.

"Pentrefoelas in North Wales," he nodded. "On the edge of some sodding great National park," he added. "Christ knows how we're going to find anyone up there, but I've never known Sherlock Holmes be wrong about something like this."

Lestrade paused, a frown gathering between his eyes. "No, no," he shook his head now, disagreeing violently with whomever was on the other end of the call. "There's no way you're keeping me out of this after everything I've been through on it so far!" he was almost yelling. "If anyone's going to be in on the kill, it's going to be me!"

There was more murmuring in his ear and he relaxed slightly.

"Well, alright, then," he inhaled briefly. "Where and when?"

###

Mycroft held himself very still, unwilling to disturb the sleeping woman lying beside him. It had taken Grace much longer than usual to ease into sleep; her breathing far more rapid than normal, her body-temperature warmer even than his own. It was as if she were feverish without illness. For she was far from ill.

As this first day of her crisis had settled in upon her, the surging, animalistic part of his mind had felt the amplification of his own desire as his enhanced biology responded to the call of her strange new physicality; of the increasing need to be close to her; to hold, to touch. His fingertips longed to feel the smoothness of her skin. The other, still vaguely rational part of his brain had observed the mounting lustre of her eyes, of the flush of brightness in her face, the sudden change in her demeanour from uncomfortable and withdrawn to vivacious high spirits. It was as if she had taken some kind of drug, the difference was so marked. And with each added rush of hormones to her system, Grace had become more exultant and alive, as if her true self was, for once, visible to the naked eye.

"I could fall in love with you again, you know," she was lying on the bed, one arm tucked behind her head, the other outstretched, fingers pointing towards the low ceiling as if to caress the rough whitewash. "It wouldn't take much."

While his heart leaped at the words, Mycroft knew it was not really Grace who was speaking but her Omega instincts. The instinct to find a mate while she was at her most fertile, to find a man to help her ride out the tempest of her own physiology.

"You are not yourself," he murmured, his voice low and alien even to his own ears. "You will not remember any of this in a few days."

"Yes, I will," Grace sighed gustily. "I fell in love with you back in Cambridge and I never really stopped, though I did a pretty good job of convincing myself otherwise," she said. "And then when I saw you again at Millbank ..." she giggled. "When I barged right into you ..." she sighed again. "It was as if there had been no distance between us at all ... no time between us," she groaned, rolling over and curling up into a ball. "I ache, Mycroft," she whispered. "I ache."

Clamping his jaw tight, the elder Holmes had sat in the corner of the room where she had previously stayed; as far away from the bed as he could possibly manage. Not that it made any difference. But at least if he stayed over here in the corner, he maintained the illusion of control.

Lowering his head to the arms crossed over his knees, Mycroft inhaled slowly and deeply, aware of all the pheromones in the small, enclosed space, aware of the effect of they were having not only on his mind but on his body and, most importantly, on his self-restraint. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to cross the room to where she lay, to fold her body within his and to kiss her into madness. He would not be gentle, but then, he knew that gentle was not what Grace desired. Her body longed for a mate who could meet her primal desires and burn with the same ancient fires in which she now seethed.

Pressing his forehead harder against the bridge of his arms, he had gritted his teeth and breathed softly.

Part of his enhanced Alpha senses heard the remote engine of an aircraft passing overhead, the first time he'd heard anything other than sounds from within the cottage itself. Some northbound pilot had clearly wandered off the prescribed commercial flight-corridor. He blinked, returning to his current version of purgatory.

And now it had been a full day and he feared he was going slightly mad.

"Mycroft ..." Grace moaned in her sleep, her fingers reaching out for his arm, his chest.

Grinding his teeth together, he swung his legs off the bed and retreated to the far corner of the room again. Even if he had to lie here on the cold, hard floor, rather that, than he succumb and give his inner beast unwarranted licence.

On the bed, Grace shifted restlessly, her body turning over and back as she looked for an unlikely peace.

###

The same small, black helicopter as before was waiting for them, rotors already at a lazy rotation as they clambered into the passenger space and belted in.

"Flight-time of just under the hour," one of the co-pilots yelled back over his shoulder as he wound the engine up towards full flying speed. "Do you know your precise landing location yet?"

"Not yet," Sherlock yelled back. "But I may have something for you before we get there."

The sky was full-dark now, and the lights of the great City glared beneath them as the aircraft headed north and west as fast as could be managed. It was only minutes before they left the huge glow behind, crossing over large stretches of invisible farmland, framed by the trail of car-lights on the roads bisecting the dark spaces. Oxfordshire vanished under their flight, followed by closely by Warwickshire and the border of Shropshire was right behind them.

In less than the predicted time, the small and near-invisible helicopter was swiftly approaching the tiny village of Pentrefoelas, seen only by a close-knit gathering of lights on the ground.

"Where do you want me to land?" the pilot shouted again.

"I don't know yet," Sherlock yelled back. "Can you hover around for a while?"

"Can do," the pilot nodded emphatically, turning to check his fuel gauge. "But not for long!"

###

Still in the corner of the room, Mycroft heard the sound of a second aircraft, a helicopter. Lifting his head he listened harder, aware suddenly that this was perhaps not, after all, a pilot's mistake.

In an instant, he crossed the room, pulling out the box of matches Grace had liberated. Looking for something to use as a flare, he saw the towel she'd taken to wearing as a shawl. Heading over to the small window, he used the heel of his shoe to crack a corner of the glass, pushing it away and creating a wider gap with the broken knife.

As soon as he felt the breeze of cold night air, he lit the corner of the thick material, his fingers clumsy and slow with haste.

The cloth glowed and then faded as the small flame disappeared.

Cursing, then clamping his jaw tight, Mycroft realised he would only have the one chance to do this before their captors discovered his emergency flare.

He lit four matches together this time and held them close to the thick cloth. Their combined heat causing the fabric to ignite and burn as he thrust it out of the window and into the dark night.

###

"There!" John pointed downwards at a patch of lonely hillside far above the village where, for an instant, he'd seen a tiny flicker of light. "Look," he shouted over the noise of the engine. "Look!"

Craning his head to peer out of John's window, Sherlock saw nothing but black space.

"There's nothing … wait …"

Another flicker of light, clear, at the height they were hovering, as something burning. The leaping flames caught even the pilot's eye. "There?" he shouted.

"As close as you can!"

John pulled the Browning from his pocket and checked the magazine. It was full; thirteen rounds of death for anyone who needed it.

###

The flare had been seen! Mycroft felt a surge of adrenalin clear his head of the fog that had filled it all day. Swiftly moving towards the bed, he shook Grace by the shoulder; she needed to be awake for this. If he had heard the helicopter, then so would those who had abducted them. The first thing the men would do would be to secure their hostages.

He wasn't going to let that happen.

"Grace, wake up!" he shook her again, but all she did was roll away from him, groaning softly as her body fought an internal battle.

He couldn't wait; he needed the bed.

Wrapping her up in the coarse blanket, Mycroft laid her carefully on the floor in the corner opposite the door. A second later, he was dragging the solid and very heavy wooden bed across the door opening, leaning it hard over the door itself, adding the mattress as well to the pile. Thankful for the additional strength his Alpha nature accorded him, he piled the chest of drawers on top, small though they were, wedging them in front of the makeshift barricade. It wouldn't stop Leader or his men for long, but it might just stop them long enough.

###

"Where are they now?" Captain Jonathan Hissock checked his watch, peering over the shoulders of the two pilots controlling the large Westland Wessex helicopter. "Are they still on your dash?"

"Right there, sir," one pointed to a radar panel on the lit control panel beside him. In the total dark of the cabin, it was easy to see. "Looks like they're heading towards that small cabin near the top of the hill."

"Is that a flare?" Hissock's eyes were as sharp as any of the fourteen men behind him, each of them a highly-trained and very keen volunteer of Her Majesty's Special Air Service.

"Looks like it is, sir," the chief pilot nodded. "Want us to put you down?"

"On the roof, lieutenant," Captain Jonathan grinned; white teeth gleaming in the shadows. "On the bloody roof."

###

That their pilot had managed to find a semi-level stretch of pasture was an amazing feat in itself, in such darkness. Knowing their approach must have been heard by now, Sherlock and John threw themselves into the cold night air, bending low and running directly towards the small cottage. The smell of burning cloth lay acrid on the still night air.

But it wasn't the whiff of scorched cloth that made them stop and look up; it was the overpowering sound of a far larger aircraft, hovering almost directly above the building, and the dark lines suddenly snaking down from the sky.

In the next moment, each line was heavy with men dressed in night-combat gear as they shimmied down the black ropes and swarmed over and around the small dwelling. In a matter of seconds, the place was entirely and silently surrounded, as several of the men approached the only visible entrance.

Not bothering to demand entry, one of them simply kicked the door in, thrusting his semi-automatic inside.

There were several shouts, a single shot, and several even louder shouts, before all three men crowded inside, their combined bulk blocking out what little light emanated from the building.

John pocketed his gun, straightening up and scanning the activities with an appreciative eye. "They've done that a few times, I'd say," he murmured.

Though he said nothing, Sherlock felt an odd sense of dread begin to lift. There was nothing left for him to do now; whatever had been Grace Chandler's and his brother's fate, it was beyond his ability to affect. He inhaled slowly. They would soon find out.

"Holmes?" one of the men from the Wessex approached. "Was told to look out for a tall chap in a long coat," he assessed Sherlock. "That's you, I take it?"

"Indeed, Captain," the younger Holmes nodded, recognising the darkened wings of the sacred ibis on the man's shoulder patch "22 SAS regiment?"

"Captain Hissock," the man shook Sherlock's outstretched hand. "I am informed your brother is inside the building, demanding to speak with you and a Doctor Watson," he paused, turning to stare at John. "Which would be you, I'm thinking," he added.

"It would," John agreed. "I think there might be a medical issue inside," he said. "I'm free to attend them?"

"Be our guest," Hissock waved them both on. "The danger has been neutralised, as you can see."

And indeed they could see, as three men, two of medium height and one somewhat taller were dragged across the hillside with their hands behind their heads.

Pausing, Sherlock stared at the tallest of the three. "Denken Sie daran, den Zirkus?" grinning happily as the man whipped around to stare at their backs, Sherlock walked towards the cabin.

"Don't tell me that was ..." John jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

"You don't really need me to tell you anything, John, do you?"

"No, but I bloody do," Greg Lestrade appeared out of the dark. "I hitched a ride with these mad sods," he said, nodding at the rest of the men in black. "Scared the bejesus out of me when they said I'd have to drop down the rope. The bastards."

There was a quiet laugh from one of the nearby soldiers before everything went quiet as they entered the cottage.

"Mycroft" Sherlock shouted.

"Here," his brother's voice was weary but clear.

As he closed in on the sound of his brother's voice, Sherlock suddenly stopped short, his nostrils flaring. "I'd better stay out here, John," he said. "You go in; my brother doesn't need me as much as he needs you right now."

Entering a room the end of the short passage, John finally saw the elder Holmes sitting on the floor in the corner with Grace Chandler, wrapped in a blanket. She seemed insensible.

"It's too late for suppressants, Doctor," Mycroft wasted no time with pleasantries. "She needs to be somewhere safe and private now as this thing runs its course."

"No disagreement here," John took the blonde woman's pulse. It was racing.

Grace stirred feebly. "Take me home, Mycroft," she whispered. "Please take me home."

###

She barely recalled anything of the journey away from the cottage, aware only that at one point she was being carried into the cold darkness. Then there was a lot of heavy engine-noise and the feeling of arms holding her tight.

She was so hot ... she burned.

Nor was she aware that the small helicopter that had brought her back to London was actually touching down in the middle of a wide City street in a rather exclusive suburb, temporarily and specifically closed for that precise purpose. The arms tightened around her, lifting her closer to a body as familiar now as her own.

The next thing she knew, there were lights, low and infrequent, as she was carried through more darkened rooms and finally into a huge bathroom.

"Hot," she moaned. "Hot ... burning ..."

"It will soon be over, my darling, just a little longer," Mycroft's voice was rough yet curiously gentle.

Laying her down against one of the cool, tiled walls, he turned the shower on to a lukewarm rain which soaked them both, clothes and all.

"I'll go and find some fresh clothing ..." he began to stand.

"Don't leave me again," she whispered, her hand reaching out for him. "You've left me twice before, please ... not again."

Closing his eyes, Mycroft took a deep breath before turning back to the woman whose hand rested at his ankle. She was right. He could not possibly leave her a third time.

Kneeling down beside her, his fingers curved around the fine bones of her face, bringing her closer. "Then I'll stay," his voice almost breaking as he gathered her again into his arms as the warm water flowed from their skin and hair.

Shedding their clothing, they lay for a while in the cleansing rain, finding soap and foam to rid their skin of the recent past.

Opening her eyes wide as she watched him carefully washing her hands, Grace smiled though her senses were swimming. "I think I've had enough showering for now," she whispered. "Are there towels?"

Pulling her carefully to her feet, Mycroft smiled too, reaching around with a huge wrap of the softest fabric as he brought her close to his chest and found her mouth with his own.

"Are you quite sure?" he managed, knowing that his restraint was down to the barest knife-edge. If he weakened now, there could be no turning back.

Reaching up for him, Grace said nothing. There was no need; she had never been so sure of anything in her life.

###

Blinking her eyes open, the first thing she realised was that this was not her own bedroom. Levering herself up on both elbows, Grace gazed around, feeling groggy with sleep and … she moved experimentally. Her entire body ached. She frowned, piecing together the events of the last few days.

A great black pit seemed to open up beneath her as her memory traced the sequence of activities since her heat began at least three days ago in a small room in some miserable little hut … Allowing herself to collapse back onto the bed, she covered her face with both hands, groaning as she finally realised the truth.

Impossible. This couldn't have happened.

But it had.

There was no way she would have forced herself on him … would she?

Yet she had.

And now, unwilling to embarrass her in the cool light of day, he'd left her alone so that she could leave quietly and without further fuss.

Oh, God.

Flinging back the bedclothes, Grace lifted herself gingerly from the rumpled bedding, searching for something to cover her nakedness. There was a small suitcase on an ottoman at the foot of the bed; it looked strangely familiar. Opening it, she saw it was the one she'd taken up to Oxford for the weekend celebration, and contained everything she needed.

Hoping that she was alone in the house which, she supposed belonged to Mycroft … she groaned again … Dressing swiftly, she pulled on jeans and a shirt while finding her purse and keys with a real sigh of relief. At least she could make her own way home now without having to call for his help.

Grabbing her case, she padded down the thickly carpeted stairs, making her way to what would logically be the front door. There was a large hallway and indeed, a rather grand entrance and she paused, waiting.

The rest of the house was silent, and Grace had no idea why she was hesitating. What was she waiting for? There was obviously nobody here but herself.

Pulling the door open, she stepped through, closing it firmly behind her as she descended a brief flight of broad limestone steps to pavement level. Waiting at the kerb's edge, she sighed again with relief as the familiar shape of a London cab drove her way. Seconds later, she was headed for the other side of the river and a sanctuary of her own.

She had already decided what she had to do now that Mycroft had made it perfectly clear he wanted no part of her. She would leave London, travel, perhaps. Maybe work overseas for a while until she managed to pull her life back into some useful shape.

Either way, her resignation would be on Gerald Palmer's desk by the end of the day.

###

Putting her apartment up for lease had not been as traumatic as she had imagined it would be. Nor had the inevitable discussion with MI5's Chief. In fact, everything had gone surprisingly smoothly. Grace felt the weight of her mobile phone in her pocket, but it was there more from custom than use: she'd kept the thing turned off for the last few days; too much the coward to face Mycroft again in any shape or form.

It was late as she cleared the few things that remained on her desk in the Archive Office. She felt terribly sad that things had come to this, but she had little choice. There was no way she could stay now and further embarrass them both.

She heard the far door open and close; one of the cleaners, probably.

Mycroft walked in, straight up to the front of her desk where she stood, cutting her off from an easy escape. Their eyes met as his chin lifted slightly, assessingly.

Oh God.

Though she wanted nothing more than to crawl away, Grace waited for him. The situation was entirely in his hands. He had come to her office to speak to her, though she wasn't exactly sure why. She had learned not to attempt guessing when it came to either of the Holmes brothers.

"You know, of course, why I'm here," he pursed his mouth, looking thoughtful.

"Actually, no," she maintained the eye-contact. Regardless of how much justification he might have, Mycroft Holmes was not about to intimidate her in her own bloody office. "Though since you're here in person, I assume the reason has some importance for you."

Drawing in a slow breath, Mycroft nodded judiciously. "You might say that," he nodded fractionally. "Some importance, yes."

He moved forward slowly, more of a sway than a step.

"I realise we are at something of an impasse," he said. "A position which is neither productive nor ultimately desirable," he paused, his eyes hooded and guarded. "I have come to rectify the situation."

"Oh yes?" Grace folded her arms. "And how do you propose to do that?" her sense of shame dwindled under his portentous pontificating. If he wanted a willing audience for his blazing intellectual repartee, he could go elsewhere.

"Yes," he nodded again, the dark blue of his eyes not leaving hers. "I have decided to take unilateral action, in fact."

"Really?" Grace raised her eyebrows in faintly disguised scepticism. "Not going to have one of your people go off and fix it for you?" her tone was vaguely mocking and suddenly, she didn't give a damn.

"You are one of my people," he said quietly.

"Only in the most technical of senses, and only until I leave this office tonight."

Mycroft rocked back on his heels as he absorbed the information. "You genuinely plan on leaving?"

"As you just now said," Grace managed a smile, though she felt like dying inside. "This situation is neither productive nor desirable. I've delivered my resignation; I'm leaving tonight."

His mouth pursed again as he nodded slowly. "That," he said, "would be acceptable."

Grace managed to hold his gaze even though her throat constricted of its own accord. He couldn't wait for her to be gone.

"Then you may consider the matter closed," she muttered. "I'll be out of your hair in the very near future," she said, silently vowing to be gone from this place, gone from his sight within the next thirty minutes.

"You misunderstand," the faintest flicker of a smile curved the corner of his mouth. "You may leave this position, but you cannot leave me."

Grace felt her brain swirl. His words made no sense.

"I have no idea what you mean, but it makes no difference," Grace paused, pressing a hand to her eyes. "Now, if that's all?"

"I'm afraid it's very far from all," Mycroft's smile grew calculating as he stepped forward again, more of a step than a sway.

She realised he was suddenly a lot closer than he had been. Grace took a step back to maintain her distance.

Mycroft stepped forward again. And again.

Grace felt the rear wall of her office against her back; there was nowhere else she could go.

"You aren't going to intimidate me, you know," she lifted her eyes to his in an obstinate determination not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her discomforted.

"I have no desire to intimidate you," he blinked like a snake. "Quite the opposite."

He looked down into her tensed face and seemed to reach a decision.

Leaning forward and tilting his head, he pressed his mouth to hers; dry and soft and without demand.

Sucking in a charged breath, Grace laid her palms against his chest and held him off as he assessed her again.

"That isn't going to change anything," she swallowed hard.

The look on his face was clinical. "No," he smiled softly. "It isn't, is it?" and leaned down again, kissing her harder, one hand sliding up to hold her face gentle and tender as his mouth prised her lips apart and sought the warmth inside, the faintest of groans rumbled in his chest.

Putting some real effort into pushing him away, Grace felt him lean back in, the entire bulk of his weight against her shaking arms. She doubted she could hold him like this for long.

"You can't do this to me again," she breathed, half angry, partly with herself. "You broke my heart."

"I am a beast below contempt," he whispered, leaning harder against her already bowing arms. "I don't deserve the smallest part of your affection, although I feel compelled to observe that you were the one who ran away from me this time."

"No, you don't," Grace felt him closing in on her, his bodyweight too much to hold. "You don't deserve me at all and I didn't run away," she paused, considering. Well, actually, she had, but that was neither here nor there.

"Then tell me to go away," he whispered again as he found her mouth once more, his hand sliding behind her head, lifting her away from the wall. "Tell me to go now, and I will, I promise."

"I should," Grace shivered as his arms closed around her, the heat and scent of him filling her head with sensation and longing. Her stomach cramped with the intensity of it.

"You should," he agreed, bringing her tighter to his chest in order to kiss her more thoroughly. Without conscious thought, she tipped her face up to his, sliding her arms around his neck.

"Christ, Grace," he groaned again, the depth of it shaking his entire body. "Tell me to stay or tell me to go," he grated. "I can't stay on the edge anymore."

"Do you love me?" her words were sighed little motes of sound, barely there, but enough.

"To my last breath," Mycroft gave up on holding himself in check, his arms becoming bands of steel as he clasped her to him, taking her mouth in a kiss that stole the air from her lungs.

###

"Sherlock, you really are the most appalling child," his mother hissed down the phone, although there was no need. She was alone in her kitchen staring out of the big garden window, watching her eldest son talk quietly with his lovely blonde companion down by the garden gate.

"Grace Chandler is utterly charming and gorgeous to boot," she added. "Why you never bothered to inform me of either of these details makes me wonder about your vaunted observational ability," she muttered, staring avidly as Mycroft reached for his guest's hand, raising her fingers to his lips.

"Oh, God," Violet Holmes was suddenly stricken into silence. It looked very much as if her eldest was making a very serious request.

There was a dry muttering on the phone.

"Now stop that," the Holmes matriarch commanded. "If your brother has finally found someone he truly wants …"

She watched as Mycroft took the woman in his arms.

"Someone he truly wants …" Violet had never found cause before now to be tearful over the more rational and intellectual of her two boys, but at this moment, her eyes felt suspiciously damp.

Observing Mycroft embrace Grace in a most intimate and affectionate manner, Violet turned away. Some moments were best unseen.

She wondered what one wore to a late Summer wedding.

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THE END

Thank you to everyone who has read, enjoyed and commented on this story and the series as a whole. It has been fun to write.

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