Prologue

The air in the underground room is stifling, almost foetid. A fluorescent tube in the ceiling flickers intermittently.

Mycroft Holmes discreetly eases a finger between his shirt collar and his neck, frowning slightly as the damp material pulls away from his skin with a greater degree of reluctance than he is expecting. He makes a note to speak to his housekeeper about the amount of starch she is using. Forcing the frown from his face, he turns his attention once again to the man who is speaking: barrel-shaped, ageing, balding, perspiring, and boring. He has been holding forth for over an hour and Mycroft feels that he is not only rapidly losing the thread of the argument but also the will to live.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Mycroft also notices he is also losing the feeling in his backside. He shifts in the seat, hoping that the movement doesn't attract the attention of anyone else around the table. As he settles again he notices that the inner surface of the plastic cup of water on the table in front of him has developed a layer of bubbles.

He scribbles a few lines on the pad of paper in front of him: dry-cleaning, scotch, milk, umbrella, notebook, ink, Sherlock... this last he underlines with some force, the scratching of the pen nib briefly turning a head or two. He smiles tightly and pretends to look interested. In truth, he is merely biding his time until he is asked for an opinion which he fully expects to be as soon as the Permanent Secretary sits down.

As the man finally lowers himself into his chair, Mycroft leans forward, coughing politely.

"So, of the three available options," the Permanent Secretary says tiredly, "it has been decided, by a majority vote, to approve the first. Mycroft, your objections have been duly noted."

Mycroft's eyes widen. "Duly noted?" he repeats incredulously. "May I remind you that you invited me here specifically to play the role of Devil's Advocate? Now you tell me that my objections are simply to be duly noted? I'm afraid that's unacceptable."

"Duly noted, Mycroft," the Secretary says again, not looking up, sliding the numerous documents he has been referring into a leather attaché case, before glancing at the sea of expressionless faces. "If there is nothing else..."

Mycroft slaps his palm hard on the table, snapping at the man. "Simply because there are 'no strings attached' does not make it ri..." - he checks himself but too late - "appropriate."

The Permanent Secretary leans forward on his arms and gazes across the table. His rheumy eyes are red-rimmed, his face blotchy. "Now, Mycroft," he says condescendingly, "you of all people should surely be aware that we do not have the luxury of waiting until an appropriate solution presents itself."

"I am aware of your constraints," Mycroft says pointedly, "and I would remind you that such limitations do not apply to my department."

"Your department has no legal jurisdiction in this matter."

Mycroft smiles at this. "So why am I here?"

"In the interests of balance, merely your presence was necessary. Your objections have been noted as a... let's call it a gesture of good will."

Mycroft bristles, but says nothing. He knows enough to know when he is beaten. Sighing, he sinks back into his chair, mutely acknowledging that he has been bested in this particular battle. He makes a mental note to concentrate on the next one while he gathers together his papers, all his cogent arguments for naught.

The Permanent Secretary stands up. "So, the CGS will be contacted as soon as possible," he announces, to no-one in particular, although a smartly dressed young man with a goatee who has been taking the minutes scribbles in a notepad. "Option one, as agreed."

Mycroft remains seated as the others drift away. In the empty room, he lifts his face to the ceiling and frowns at the flickering light. "Option one," he says softly. "May God have mercy on your soul."