Acknowledgements:

This is a non-profit piece of 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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The Education of Mycroft Holmes

Chapter One:

A Domestic Scene - The Accra Directive – A British Gentleman – After Dark –Spies Like Us – A Murder in London – The Professor Speaks – Bad Brother, Good Brother – A Balkan Connection – George – Another World – The Sensualist – A Friend is Needed.

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The light in the large kitchen was dim, but bright enough for him to see what he was doing. Softly whistling a few bars of Saint-Saëns' Dies Irae, Mycroft Holmes threw a handful of chopped basil into the skillet of simmering prawns. The resulting wisp of fragrance made him whistle a little louder. It had been a while since he had the luxury of cooking anything, let alone his Crevettes roses d'ail.

Opening the sleek steel refrigerator on the far side of the hob, he selected a white Bordeaux, comfortably chilled, and reminded himself of the Chateau. Pouring an apéritif, Mycroft closed his eyes momentarily as the crisp Haut-Brion melted across his palate and warmed his belly. Working long days and seemingly endless nights, it was easy to forget the simple delights of the table. Blessing his housekeeper for her prescience, Mycroft tore off a chunk of her freshly-made bread and dipped it into the pan's creamy sauce. His eyebrow twitched. If Sherlock saw him now, he'd never hear the end of his brother's scorn. His younger sibling derided any pedestrian need for planned sustenance in favour of a more aesthetic lifestyle consisting in the most part of caffeine and Asian takeaways. Ah well. To each their own.

Eschewing the formality of the dining table, Mycroft brought pan and glass to a granite-topped bar equipped with high, leather-clad chairs. Pulling the day's broadsheet into the light, he turned immediately to the world news section scanning the article headings for any mention of his most recent problem. Lifting his glass, the wine's discreet but irrepressible perfume almost distracted him from the minor paragraph well below the fold. "Industrialist Accused". Mycroft read the scant few lines with rising irritation. Could these people do nothing right? Refusing to have his much-anticipated dinner tainted by the follies of idiots and incompetents, he threw the paper aside and whisked a fork deftly from a drawer of its brethren to impale a prawn.

It was only later, lounging in his preferred chesterfield, when the glorious dissonance of Baroque was accompanied by the last of the bordeaux, that Mycroft made a small moue of frustration. Was he the only one who saw what was about to happen? Dominos rarely fell in isolation, and the stakes were terribly high. An entire functioning network, established over several long years, was suddenly in peril. Surely there were others among his echelon who had the facility to anticipate the obvious. Feeling every one of his forty-six years, Mycroft searched internally for the wherewithal to handle yet another crisis. Long-schooled in the high art of autonomous expediency, he had almost forgotten there were alternatives. But he was too old to change, and, in any case, if something worked, reform was scarcely necessary. Mycroft had told himself all these things for so many years that he barely recognised it as catechism. Pressing hands against his eyes to stem a growing ache, he accepted that he could do little more without sleep, although, much like Sherlock, he had long governed himself into an ability to remain wakeful and alert for extended periods. But tonight, he needed sleep if he were to tackle the Accra situation in the morning. Making a mental note of the time-difference between London and Ghana, Mycroft set his internal alarm for six in the morning.

Pale sunlight drew long fingers on dark linen as he stirred. Allowing himself a momentary laze before throwing back the duvet, Mycroft sighed as memory returned and he headed for the bathroom. The pristine vista of cool tile, glass and chrome did little to lift his mood. Brushing his teeth, he wondered if he needed to think about modernising the décor, perhaps add some colour. Yet why bother? This house had been his address and refuge for many years and alteration seemed both unnecessary and a waste of what brief time he had beyond the confines of his work. Always the work. Another connection he shared with Sherlock – it seemed they both had addictive personalities where their 'work' was involved. At least his brother had John Watson to knock some sense into him when required. Mycroft sometimes envied Sherlock that one simple advantage. Having someone sufficiently objective to offer clarity, yet close enough to lend genuine support, was indeed a beneficial arrangement, and one that Mycroft occasionally - occasionally - coveted.

His mind already shuttling through a variety of data, he wondered, in passing if this current existence were to be his entire life. After the affaire with the Adler woman, he recalled advising Sherlock that nothing was permanent; nothing was safe, and it was better to avoid entanglements entirely than to reap the inevitably miserable harvest. In this, Mycroft's conviction had not changed, and he felt well-suited to a bachelor's lifestyle. Yet sometimes, in the hollow hours of the night, or in the dappled light of a Sunday afternoon, he wondered. But no: caring was never an advantage. Not to him.

And there was no time this morning to bemoan the absence of camaraderie. In the coming furore, he would have to rely, as always, upon his own wits and ingenuity.

Selecting his standard fare of an Anderson & Sheppard double pinstripe in a dark grey flannel, Mycroft twisted some heavy silver links through his cuffs and paired a tie of burgundy to a pocket square of mixed but similar hues. One needed to look sharp whenever international conflict was a possibility. As long as gentlemen dressed accordingly, it gave the British a belief that all would be well. Foolish, of course, but important in these dark days, to leverage whatever advantage might be obtained from even the smallest of things. By the time he had gathered up his briefcase and umbrella, the black Jaguar was waiting quietly in the morning mist, ready to ease him through the early city traffic.

###

They had come after dark. The wind dropped, so that even the normal sound of rustling tree-branches was absent in the moonless night. The noise from the soldiers in the next valley had echoed louder than before, and then the guns had flashed their message of death and hell arrived in Petranovka.

House after house became little more than flying shards of terror. Screams of people, hunted by lights and bullets blended with the scream of artillery: Leysa no longer cared. Everyone around her was dead. She wanted to wail in solovjina mova, she wanted to sit and rub ashes in her hair, but there was no time. They were coming.

And then she found the children.

A tiny whimper from Ionna, no more than three years in this world, and beside her, the baby brother that all had seen as the new growth of the family. He had been so welcomed. Now both were alone. Everyone was dead. Except for her. At sixteen, Leysa was the only adult left. Picking up the infant, taking the girl by the hand, she scuttled down into the pigs' cellar. Though noisome, it was built partly below ground – the only house in the village to have such a thing. Squatting in the mud and mire, next to the silent animals, Leysa Michelenko prayed to the Holy Mother to protect her.

###

His office was similar to a handful of others in one wing of a reasonably anonymous Portland stone building – itself, one of dozens scattered around Whitehall. Carpeted in dark wool and interspersed with heavy, brass-hung doors, the entire place spoke of serious people in serious dealings. Secret proceedings. Proceedings that might never be mentioned beyond these very solid walls. Mycroft's usual deprecation of his role as a 'minor' public official made light of his actual job, which, effectively, was to anticipate Things That Might Go Wrong. Anywhere. In anything connected to a British sovereign interest. And then, of course, the trick was to prevent such things happening. This task demanded an extraordinary dataset, analytical acumen, cold-blooded thinking, and, to put it in the vernacular, street-smarts. In addition to gladiatory chess skills, both he and Sherlock had inherited massive intellect and intelligence from their mother. Neither was sure where the ruthlessness came from, although the brothers privately believed their mother had a hand in that too.

There were only two phones on his desk, plus his personal Blackberry. His predecessor had maintained an entire phalanx of the things marshalled along the leading edge of a Victorian monstrosity more resembling an aircraft carrier than a desk, shouting the man's insecurities to any who cared to notice. Mycroft favoured a more minimalist approach, believing that less was indeed less. The fewer personal insights he offered the world, the fewer risks he ran. Thus his office was more space than content; more shadow than illuminate. It was simply a place to conduct private conversations: a locus of connectivity. Nothing more. No personal photographs, no favourite books or journals. He permitted a couple of glass lamps and a rather charming bonsai in a Delft bowl, but even they were more a nod to art than personal expression.

"Come in, Stenton," he said.

The door opened easily, admitting a fair-haired man wearing a slight smile.

"One day, Mycroft," he said, "one day, I'm going to work out how you manage to do that."

Mycroft's face was the image of innocence as he waved his younger colleague to a chair. Discerning who was about to knock at his office door was a simple matter of pressure and tread – it was child's play to memorise the usual suspects, as it were. The addition of a strategically located nanocam in the lintel, made the task even simpler. Mycroft adored the new technologies, although many of his compatriots still considered them outlandish toys, or worse, something the French might use.

Michael Stenton had worked in his office for more than seven years. Over this time, Mycroft had been steadily preparing the man for higher things. He was very nearly ready; it lacked only the proper opportunity.

"Did you see this, Michael?" he asked, handing the folded paper over.

"Yes. Damnable luck."

"Luck, damnable or otherwise, had nothing to do with it," Mycroft countered. "It's sheer negligence on the part of our friends across the pond."

Working closely with the security services of every NATO signatory had advantages and disadvantages. While most members shared a common view of security objectives, each of them had quite distinct ideas on their achievement. Despite multiple assurances of every kind, vested interests kept getting in the way of any real progress. And now it had come home to roost. The entire undertaking was a colossal debacle, and part of the mess was heading his way. Mycroft was perturbed by the fact that one of his intermediaries, a wealthy businessman, had been detained in the Ghanaian capital, ostensibly under the purview of the Americans. It was a particularly aggravating event, and one that Langley should have been equally keen to avoid. If neither position or money or the Americans could protect his people, then there was little else that could. Of course, there was always the option of commissioning physical force via quasi-military specialists, but Mycroft felt this lacked panache and bordered on the excessive. The CIA had been particularly keen upon the industrialist's involvement and Mycroft, given the incredibly untroubled manner in which the man had been neutralised and detained, suspected an agenda at least four levels deep. Rank ineptitude was possibly the least of the issues he'd have to deal with.

"Odd, the Americans didn't hold up their end of the operation." Stenton frowned. "I thought they were the ones most interested in securing the route?"

"In hindsight, I believe our colonial colleagues lacked the slightest intention to do so," Mycroft shook his head. "And now it will be left to us to secure the man's release, amidst what will undoubtedly be a media circus, probably arranged by Langley," he made a face. "Emergency protocols require such tedious amounts of paperwork."

"But what have they to gain?" Stenton said. "Surely it's as much in their interests to have this thing kept under wraps, as it is ours?"

Mycroft pursed his lips, about to analogise CIA operations with left- and right-hands not knowing what was happening to the other, when the nearest phone rang.

"Yes," he said, listening "I'll be there directly."

Turning to his colleague, Mycroft gave a thin smile. "Our friend will have to cool his heels in gaol a little longer," he said. "Scotland Yard may have accidently landed on the London end of our Balkan connection." Another of Sherlock's investigations had come to a head, it seemed, and it gave Mycroft an idea. Perhaps he might yet be able to salvage something for his unfortunate go-between in Accra.

###

New Scotland Yard was a large post-war building comprised of high steel, concrete, and acres of flat glass. Monotonous and functional, but to every villain around the globe it represented the heart of the London Metropolitan Police Service. Few criminals entered without experiencing a slight quiver of apprehension. Not even the innocent were immune.

Mycroft strode in as if he owned the place, his level-Ultra clearance removing instantly every obstacle between the building's entrance and the interview suites on the fourth floor. Scanning faces and listening, he paused briefly before heading directly towards the sound of a raised voice. He knew precisely what, and who, to expect.

"Where is she?" Sherlock demanded, in full spate. "I need data!"

"She's two rooms down, you loud git," Detective Inspector Lestrade fended off the younger Holmes' impatience. "She's giving her statement now, and if you can tone it down," he lowered his voice, meaningfully, "If you tone it down, then maybe you can have a brief word with her when we've got what we need."

Sherlock threw the detective inspector a peeved look "If you recall, Inspector," he retorted, "you were the one who invited an opinion on the nature of the Armenian Chef's murder, yet now you deny me the opportunity to access critical information." Shoving both hands deep into his coat pockets, Sherlock stalked over to the window to stare moodily at everything and nothing.

Mycroft shook his head a little. His brother was a dichotomy of uncontrollable brilliance. If only he could master his emotions and harness all that energy, who knew how high he might rise. But no: Sherlock was a flame that burned brightly or not at all. Smoothing all expression from his face, Mycroft stepped into the room.

"Good morning, Inspector," he nodded briskly at Lestrade and, observing his brother's flatmate and erstwhile accomplice in the corner, "John."

"Mycroft," John acknowledged.

Lestrade winced internally. Great. Now he had both Holmes' in the same room. Clearly the Gods felt his life was insufficiently screwed up today.

"Your call mentioned Toska," Mycroft frowned at the tall, silver-haired Londoner. "Who is 'She'," he asked for the sake of clarity. "And why is this person the subject of my brother's current tirade?"

"Beginning a sentence with a conjunction bodes ill for this conversation," Sherlock muttered, giving the Starbucks across the road a particularly malevolent scowl.

"Sherlock, just wait a few minutes and you can talk to the woman," John said reasonably. "There's no point making her any more upset than she probably already is. Not everyone considers violent death a spectator sport."

Sherlock sighed theatrically and squinted down at a teenager on the pavement drinking coffee. Even at this distance it was plain that the boy was unlikely to pass his Geography examination set for that afternoon. No-one carrying those books, drinking that amount of caffeine and staring at the notes he had undoubtedly just photographed in the coffee shop, had academic success written anywhere in their near future.

"She," Lestrade looked at Mycroft and tipped his head towards the other room, "is an eye-witness to what was a rather nasty spot of murder. It seems our friend Toska had an unfortunate encounter with some acquaintances from back home, and She," he added, "saw the whole thing."

"Toska is dead?" Mycroft looked decidedly put out.

"Very," Sherlock noted, helpfully.

"Then in the interests of national security, I must speak with this person immediately," Mycroft stated flatly. There was a scoffing noise from the vicinity of the window as Sherlock swivelled on his heel.

"Exactly my point!" he lifted his hands in disgust. "Instead of which, I am standing here, twiddling my thumbs while the witness forgets everything she might have remembered."

"You never twiddle your thumbs, Sherlock," said John. "Stop exaggerating".

The door opened and a young WPC walked in clutching a sheaf of closely-typed sheets. "The witness' statement, Sir," she said, offering the papers to Lestrade.

"Finally!" Sherlock raced out of the room before anyone had time to react. Launching himself from the corner, John was close behind, hopefully in time to save the witness from an alarming confrontation of the Sherlock kind. Mycroft and Lestrade followed at a more prudent pace.

The office two-doors down was open. Inside, a woman stood, staring down at the same Starbucks that had distracted Sherlock scant moments before. Her head ached. She had trawled her way through dozens of faces, though it hadn't helped her feel any better. She had given a brutally detailed statement, but that hadn't helped either. Hearing swift footsteps, she turned and waited. Into the room rushed a tall man swirled inside a dark greatcoat. His face was pale, but it burned with intent. Stopping only when he was close enough to count her freckles, he loomed.

"How much can you remember?" Sherlock demanded, his ice-blue eyes strafing her face for information.

"You're not a police-officer," she said, unfazed by the stand-over tactics. Another person entered the room, and she turned to observe a shorter, blonde man wearing a more pragmatic expression. "Though you might be," she nodded at John.

"Might be what?" he asked, lost.

"A policeman," she nodded back at Sherlock. "This one isn't."

Placing his hands on her shoulders, Sherlock brought his eyes to within inches of hers

"Tell me what you remember about the attack," he demanded forcefully. John cringed. Sherlock could not keep doing this.

It had not been a good morning. A meeting at the university had been cancelled without notice, and she had already postponed a fight with her solicitor over an irritating lease issue. Then it had rained, and the new shoes she thought to wear only in her office had started to rub. On top of this, just when she really needed a cab, the entire London fleet became immediately noticeable by its absence. Deciding to walk until the nearest taxi-rank, she managed to get well-and-truly lost, ending up in a sordid little back alley somewhere between hell and nowhere. Then, of course, she had been privy to a gruesome murder and the apparently endless police procedures apropos to such a crime. All up, not the best of days thus far. And now this tall man was shouting at her.

Enough.

"If you don't release me immediately," her words were low with anger, "I will lay charges against you of assault, police harassment and the unlawful seizure." Almost immediately, the long-fingered hands lay a fraction less heavy.

Good.

Standing as straight as possible, Professor Catherine Adin shook herself free of the man's unwelcome grasp and continued to stare right back into his narrowing eyes. A veteran of endless battles ad prælium, Cate recognised a provocative stance when one was in her face, and she was not in any mood for such shenanigans. What she really wanted was a hot cup of tea and a chance to take her shoes off.

His usual shock-tactics being less than effective, Sherlock reconsidered. Annoying that his first approach didn't work, but something would. He observed.

Five feet six tall. Natural brunette. Rigid stance, almost on tip-toe – common threat-response – made her appear taller. Bit under nine stone. Athletic build. Fair skin with residual ephelis, likely Celtic heritage. Slightly rounded shoulders and smooth, unblemished hands said desk-work, not physical labour. Left-handed. Late thirties or very early forties with fine lines beginning to appear around the orbicularis oculi, the worry-line above her brow and the one paler strand in the dark hair directly above right eye, suggested forty-one. Hair cut neatly at shoulder-length; brows naturally shaped above hazel-flecked brown eyes. London-dweller, with untanned skin and Tissot watch (vintage, left wrist) suggested preference for function over form. Watch most likely inherited (maternal Aunt) as everything else relatively modern. No rings. Expensive but unfussy platinum earrings (pierced). Matching neck-chain, co-ordinated and unspoken avant. Classic, very good quality day-wear; too informal for the City or Inns of Court, but overly conservative for Arts and too idiosyncratic for service industries. Thoughtful choices of someone used to considering options. Clothes neither new nor old apart from the shoes (Italian), which, lacking wear creases, probably new and still stiff. Likely rubbing in damp weather. Educated, well-read, great diction. So, desk-job; something requiring personal style, tendency towards intellectualism, teacher. Expensive jewellery and clothes for a teacher, so something more. University lecturer? Used to arguments and decisive, more likely senior academic – Professor. Nearest campus to crime scene, University College in Gower Street. Slight speculation, but large English department there. Current Head of English department …

"How is Professor Fullan, these days?" Sherlock asked chattily, throwing himself into the nearest seat.

In three seconds, the situation had travelled from incipient thuggery to tea at the Dorchester. Cate was bemused. Sighting down her nose at the irritating coat-wearer, she was considering her next words, as two more people entered the room.

Both male. Tall. One obviously at home in these offices, the other looking somewhat above it. Beginning to feel outnumbered, she stepped back, away from the closeness of these men.

Lestrade moved between her and Sherlock, his expression according the younger Homes a wordless but eloquent warning. Sherlock lifted a brow. Lestrade being protective?

"This is Professor Catherine Adin," the Inspector introduced Cate. "Our witness to the Toska murder."

Mycroft stepped forward and pulled out a seat. "Please sit," he suggested. "You must be tired after all that walking." Sherlock gave him a hint of veiled smile. Bad brother, Good brother? Cate sat. Her feet thanked her but she still felt uneasy.

That these strangers seemed to know so much about her was an unsettling sensation. And she was positive she hadn't mentioned her job. How did they know John Fullan?

"How do you know about …" she lifted a hand in query.

"He does that," Lestrade nodded at Sherlock. "Knows things."

"But he won't be doing it any more for a while," John arched an eyebrow in Sherlock's direction. "Will you," not a question. Sherlock looked pained.

"How are you feeling?" John, in doctor-mode, looked at her. "No after-effects? Seeing something like that can be pretty unnerving."

"I'm perfectly alright," she answered honestly, "Although if someone were to suggest a cup of tea, I'd probably feel even better."

Lestrade shouted for tea.

The elder Holmes smiled faintly. "Perhaps it would help if you knew who we all are and why we want to speak with you," he said. "My name is Mycroft Holmes," he began. "I represent a government interest in the deceased party," he paused. "I'm sorry you have become embroiled in a most unpleasant situation."

Sherlock and John exchanged a knowing look. Mycroft being nice was instantly suspect. Or was he being devious? Devious seemed more likely. Sherlock examined his brother with a critical eye. Odd.

"This is my brother, Sherlock," Mycroft gestured, "and his associate, Dr John Watson. They are assisting the police with the investigation."

"And we've met," Lestrade took one of the other chairs.

"Seriously," John continued, "are you feeling Okay? Not shaky or nauseous at all?"

"I am a little familiar with the sensation of shock, Dr. Watson," Cate said with a rueful smile, "and I'm fine, really, but thank you for your concern."

Leaning half across the small table, Sherlock resumed his staring. "How much do you remember of the attack?" he repeated more quietly in deference to a look from John.

"All of it," Cate nodded, mostly to herself. "I doubt it'll leave me in a hurry."

"All of it?" Sherlock was sceptical. "Even what was said?"

"They spoke in Albanian," Cate said, "Not English."

"How do you know it was Albanian?" Lestrade asked.

"Because I speak Albanian," Cate shrugged. "Not that the killer was using complex words," she added. "Mostly threats."

"Can you take us through the event again?" Mycroft was maintaining his niceness for some reason.

"I've already given a statement …" Cate looked unhappy. "Must I?"

"Sometimes it helps to clarify small details … so, if you can," he said, softly. Mycroft had little desire to cause this woman further distress, but she seemed composed enough, and besides, he needed to know anything that might provide insight during the current problem. Any connection might be important.

Closing her eyes with a slight sigh, Cate reiterated everything that she had seen and heard and experienced in that lonely, sad little alley where she had been hidden by a large waste container. Her account was direct and visceral. She sipped cold tea and remembered all the blood.

"And then," she hesitated at a particularly dark image, "… and then he severed the man's right index finger with the knife," Cate exhaled hard. "He was already dead by that time, but there was clearly reasoning behind the act."

"Confirmation of identity, of course," Sherlock steepled his fingers. "But why all the vicious mutilations?" he mused.

"Transparently, a message to others." Mycroft suspected he knew who some of those others were. And also what they might be likely to do when they received the message. He had better get Stenton working on his industrialist's release before the entire house of cards came down.

"So where did you learn Albanian?" Lestrade was curious.

"Initially, from books," Cate smiled. "But then with assistance from a … colleague." The way she said colleague suggested there might have been more to the arrangement than vocabulary.

Mycroft stood. "If the police have completed their initial discussions with you, Professor Adin, might I offer you a lift home? My car is outside."

Reluctant to accept anything from these people, yet with her feet still tender, and feeling a growing exhaustion, Cate nodded her thanks.

Lestrade shrugged, and then agreed. "As long as we can reach you during the day, there's no need to keep you hanging around here right now," he said. "I think we have what we need to begin with, but please keep yourself available and remain in London until advised otherwise, Okay?"

"Here's my card," Cate held out a small rectangle which Mycroft intercepted, briefly glancing at the details, before handing it onto Lestrade. "I can be contacted at the University or at home. My mobile's on there too."

"Shall we?" Cate followed Mycroft's gesture through the door and towards the lifts. Truth be told, she was starting to feel a little wobbly around the knees. Arriving at the bank of lift doors, Cate raised a palm to a suddenly clammy forehead. There was a faint roaring in her ears.

Immediately, a steadying hand was at her elbow.

"Take a deep breath," Mycroft advised evenly, as Cate leaned against the wall, "and again." He watched the Professor gradually regain her equilibrium as her pallor returned to normal. She felt very light as he supported her, though he could feel firm muscle through her sleeve. Hopefully, her emotional state would be equally as resilient.

The roaring faded slowly and Cate straightened up. She took another deep breath and rested her hand on the Government Man's arm. The trembles had mostly gone, and now she just felt embarrassed.

"Thank you," she said. "that was unexpected."

"Do you think you can make it to street level?"

She wrinkled her nose. "Yes, of course," she said. "Sorry. Don't do this as a rule."

Mycroft waved the apology aside. "Hardly surprising," he said, "given the experience." Extracting a Blackberry from his inner pocket, "Anthea," he spoke quietly. "Deal with the Defence committee people for me, would you? I am detained."

Assisting Cate into the back of the Jaguar, Mycroft turned to her with a questioning look. "Where should we take you?"

"I'm in Hertford Street," she said, giving the exact address. "Not far from Green Park station."

Mycroft was mildly impressed. Not exactly the best Mayfair had to offer, but not bad on an academic's pay. Cate saw his expression and felt an odd need to explain. But there was no reason to provide such private information, she realised, giving herself a mental shake. Must be the shock.

The car drew up alongside a bijou 1930s edifice. Art Deco at its finest.

"Used to be an hotel," Cate waved generally. "One of the few beautiful buildings to make it through the war unscathed. I have an apartment on the third floor."

Mycroft's driver opened Cate's door, and she stepped out, pleased. Rarely did she have the luxury of a chauffeured lift home. Turning to thank Mycroft for his thoughtfulness, Cate discovered him standing on the pavement beside her.

"I'd feel better knowing you got home safely," he said, walking towards the building's entrance.

"There's a security guard," Cate pointed inside, "I'm sure I'll be fine."

"Even so." Mycroft held the heavy door open for her.

Giving him an old-fashioned look, Cate called an hello to George as she walked past.

"Hello, Dr. Cate," the security guard nodded back. Mycroft noted with approval that George took a good long look at him and made no attempt to hide it. Clearly a conscientious man. Ex-military. Boxed at school. Currently unmarried but with adult children. Golfer, prone to slicing.

"Are you really going to escort me to my door?" Cate turned by the gate of the lift.

Mycroft just smiled and gestured her into the confined space. They travelled upward in silence, then walked down a short, beautifully carpeted marble hallway.

"This is me," Cate indicated a polished burl-walnut door. Again, Mycroft smiled pacifically and said nothing.

When he made no comment, Cate gave him a questioning look. What a strange man. After his kindness, she couldn't very well disappear inside and shut the door in his face.

"Would you like some tea?" she asked, almost laughing. His smile grew.

Cate flicked on a light-switch as they stepped through the door and Mycroft's powers of observation went into overdrive. Through the door was a different world.

A circular vestibule, he saw, with an immaculately tessellated black and ivory floor, in a room about sixteen feet in diameter. Lined from top to bottom with curved Japanned shelves that hugged the walls, the room was the Bodleian in miniature. The shelves were packed solid: every last horizontal surface stacked with an eclectic fusion of literatures. English language classics entwined with philosophical masters: Plato's Apologia and Brecht's St Joan of the Stockyards arranged themselves languidly beside Galileo's Dialogues and a bound set of Tesla's articles on High Frequency Phenomena. Poetry from every quarter of the globe enfolded the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius and the Historiae of Tacitus; Shakespeare's sonnets dallied with robots and Hobbits, and there were imposing columns of non-fiction, including, Mycroft was intrigued to note, a small group of engineering and mechanical texts. Books of history, science, psychology and art massed together in intimate companionship. One entire shelf, running fully around the room near the ceiling, was devoted solely to dictionaries and grammars in more languages than Mycroft could count in such a brief survey. In between the throng of books, downlights picked out and exhibited a few choice items: a delicate Chinese pot that was surely Qingbai; a signed photograph of Edison; a worn Steiff teddy bear; a small group of hand-bound leather journals. The colours. The scents. The mysteries. It was as if he'd stepped into some magical land of epistemology. He felt his skin tingle. Oh, for five minutes in this room.

Cate misread his stunned expression.

"Yes," she mumbled. "Bit of a mess out here. I keep intending to clear it up but time is rarely my friend these days."

"For the sake of civilisation, Professor Adin," Mycroft said gravely, "please, never change any of this." He ran a fingertip along a leather spine. "This is beautiful." Mycroft's smile was so beatific that Cate felt herself beginning to like this government representative.

"Well, come on through," she grinned. "It's not as bad inside."

Avoiding a rosewood pedestal table that supported a vase of cut gardenia and several unopened bills, Mycroft passed through an open archway leading to the rest of the flat.

Three shallow steps down, Cate opened her hands, gesturing around. "Chez Moi. Make yourself comfortable. I'll put the kettle on."

It was a large, high-ceilinged, open-style apartment occupying one full quarter of the third floor, with most of the windows facing towards Curzon Gate and Hyde Park. It would be worth a pretty penny. An L-shaped balcony clad the exterior walls, and inside…

The Professor was making tea in the kitchen: an open stretch of glossily tactile wood, discrete cabinetry and steel appliances that ran down a full third of the longest wall. Repeating the curves of the entranceway, it was a half-circle, blunted horns of dark green granite curving into the interior of the apartment's main volume. A circular, dark-red Jarrah dining table sat between the kitchen area and the main space, which cohered to the opposite long wall. An unlit open fire stood ready to do service, serving as the focus of two extraordinarily large and weathered nut-brown leather sofas, adorned with bright Kilim cushions. Beneath a scattering of Kirman rugs, a parquet floor glowed rust-gold.

A large modern desk stood off to one side at the far end of this long living area, cluttered with a contemporary detritus of CDs and memory sticks, but even these fought for space with small piles of books and papers. A svelte black computer perched in the middle of the chaos. Mounted on the wall above the desk was a collection of stringed musical instruments: several Spanish guitars of venerable ancestry; two nondescript violins; a viola and a cased-cello, which was leaning against the back of the desk. Next to it, an open music-stand cradled some sheet music and a closed violin case. There were a number of large oils and acrylics on the walls, most of them modern, but none of the colours or moods clashed. Everything added to the whole effect of sophisticated ease. An iconoclastic backcloth for … what, Mycroft wondered.

Walking over with a tray carrying the tea-things, Cate set it down on a low table in front of the sofas. "Please sit," she said, finally kicking off her shoes with relief. Pouring tea, Cate nodded towards the tray. "You can try milk or lemon in this," she suggested, "but I think you'll find it pleasant as it is."

Taking the proffered Minton, Mycroft allowed the fragrant steam to tell its secrets. An Earl Grey with fresh mint. Interesting combination. It tasted rather good.

"You home says provocative things about you," Mycroft volunteered.

Cate curled her legs up on the sofa and sipped her tea. "Really? And are you going to say something astonishing as did your brother?" she said, eyeing him cautiously. Cate wasn't sure how well she'd deal with any further astonishments today.

"Please forgive Sherlock," Mycroft looked not the least contrite. "A great mind, but sadly unskilled in the social graces."

Cate nodded, understanding. "So, what kind of provocative things is my furniture saying?," she asked.

"Pick something, and I'll tell you," Mycroft relaxed back against yielding cushions.

"How about these?" Cate teased, patting the sofa she was on. "Are they being indiscreet?"

"They say that you are a sensualist, craving comfort, almost to the point of hedonism; that you value substance over appearance; that you are by nature a Contrarian, and that, despite your desire for sophistication and polite society, you harbour a deep and abiding love of the traditional." Mycroft raised his eyebrows and sipped his tea with a delicate manner.

Cate sat very still, preferring not to spill the hot liquid. Nothing he had said was news to her, but she'd never had anyone – not anyone, not even her mother – say these things so matter-of-factly. It was a little confronting, but in an hypnotising, snake-charmer kind of way. Looking across at the tall man in the Savile Row suit, Cate decided he was nice. His brother and the murder notwithstanding.

"Sensualist?" her eyes danced.

"The texture of these old sofas is akin to velvet," Mycroft explained, touching the soft leather with his fingertips. "You like the feel of them against your skin," he added. "You probably sleep on them occasionally," he paused, taking another sip of tea. "Naked."

Cate managed not to choke, instead laughing outright as she replaced her cup on the table in front of her. "That's too close for comfort," she made a face of mock embarrassment. "Not sure I want to hear anything else about myself today. Had enough insight for a while," she stopped smiling suddenly and paled again. Mycroft realised immediately that the horror of that morning was beginning to sink in. The Professor should not be left alone. Not today. Not tonight.

"Can you stay with someone?" he asked gently. "Relative or friend?"

Cate inhaled sharply, pulling herself together. "I'm really alright," she shook her head at such silliness. "Just not used to such intense images in my head," she offered apologetically. Mycroft stifled a retort. It was so terribly British to be embarrassed by normal fears. He understood all too well.

"Still," he frowned, "best not to be alone for a while."

"I'll call a friend to come and stay with me tonight," Cate nodded to herself. "Perhaps you're right, although I don't think I'll be sleeping much."

Mycroft felt happier when she said that. He was sure it was happier.