Chapter Ten:

Lestrade – Cate – John – Sherlock – Stenton – Mycroft – The Sound of a Gun – A Sitting Duck – Death-Trap – Now You Lose Everything – The Distant Sound of Thunder – People Will Think We're Related – Immediately Means Now – Sixty Percent Higher – A Matter of Expediency – The Minor Things – Twelve Reasons – Swahili Love Song.

#

#

Greg Lestrade answered his mobile. Mycroft.

"Yes?"

"Stenton is alive, Inspector," the words harsh with unspoken consequence. "You will have the address momentarily."

"And?" Not sure he wanted to, Lestrade asked anyway.

"He has Cate."

"Right." Lestrade got the message.

###

Cate surfaced slowly. She felt dizzy and sick. Her head pounded and her mouth felt like she'd eaten mouldy bread. She was sitting on something hard and cold: chilly, like stone, but flatter, like the floor of a house. The cold seeped into her bones and she wanted somewhere to lie and sleep.

"Wake up," a vaguely remembered voice. She opened her eyes a fraction. "Wake UP!" a stinging slap shocked her closer to alertness. She remembered.

"Okay, okay," she muttered thickly. "Awake, here. What do you want?"

"I want you to sing for me," Stenton smiled.

"Bloody maniac," Cate briefly closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall for support.

Pulling a small Taser from his pocket, Stenton waved it in her face. "Want me to use this?" he giggled. Cate closed her eyes again.

"Sing," the man snarled, grabbing her jacket and slamming her head against the concrete. Cate shrieked as the side of her face seared in pain. Something trickled down her cheek.

"Mycroft," the only word she could think through the hurt.

###

"It was traced to the corner of Denby and Wallace Streets," Mycroft snapped. "It's the site of an old hospital due for demolition this afternoon. I'm having the demolition company contacted as we speak. The police are enroute."

"Sherlock and I can get there faster," John sounded soldierly. "What do you want us to do if we find Stenton? Kill him?"

Mycroft's voice was savage. "You don't kill a rabid dog, John," his words pitiless. "You put it down."

"Understood."

###

Sherlock and John left the cab back at the main road and ran towards the demolition site's main gate. An old hospital of no more than eight levels, the building had already received the attention of industrial scavengers. It was skeletal and ready to fall. The high, barb-wired security fence was too lofty to scale, and, as the explosive charges had already been emplaced, and the detonators connected and deployed, a live security detail, with dogs, was holding the place secure until the actual detonation.

"It's too big. Once we're inside, we're going to have to split up," Sherlock was watching for any sign of the guards as he attended to the gate's several massive padlocks and chains. The leashed dogs would be with them, but he wanted to get into the building unseen and unreported. Stenton was in there somewhere, and Cate was with him. Hopefully, she was still alive. Sherlock wanted no warning to be given.

Levering the gate open just enough to slide through, they pushed it closed behind them and ran swiftly across to the gaping maw of the old entrance.

"I'll go left," John nodded. "See you at the top."

"Do you have your gun?"

Tapping the side of his jacket, John smiled grimly. They headed off through the jumbled of jagged concrete and dangling yellow cables.

There was an hour left until the scheduled detonation.

###

Michael Stenton watched as Cate once again regained consciousness. The bruise on the side of her face was bloodied and already darkening. She looked awkward with her hands bound, but she was also silent. He didn't want her silent. He wanted to hear her scream before she died.

And she was going to die. If he was feeling generous, maybe he'd nick one of her arteries long enough before the big bang so that she'd be barely aware of the crushing tons of fragmented concrete and steel. Or maybe not. The idea, after all, was to make Holmes pay. And if Mycroft was untouchable, then eradicating his woman as painfully as possible was at least a first instalment.

Walking over to Cate, he squatted in front of her, forcing her face up with the barrel of his gun. He wanted to see the fear in her eyes. He wanted to have her beg. He pulled out his phone and called a number.

"Ah, hello again, Mycroft!" Stenton was pleased to continue his taunts. "I have someone here who wants to talk to you." He held the phone out to her. "Tell Mycroft if he gives himself up, I'll let you go," he instructed.

Cate stared at the man, then closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall. "Go to hell," she muttered.

Raising the gun, Stenton raked it brutally across her face, causing her involuntary cry.

"Tell Mycroft he can still save you," the gun was ready for another strike. Cate knew he was going to kill her.

"Go to hell you bastard," she spat, lifting her arms in defence.

Stenton shook his head, a cruel smile on his face. Cocking the gun, he shot her.

###

When he heard Stenton's voice on his phone, Mycroft knew what help he could summon was already on the way. He would be there himself in less than fifteen minutes. If he could keep the man distracted long enough …

And then the words Stenton was saying became clear. He heard him instructing Cate to say what she'd never say; he heard her response and her cry; he listened in awful disbelief as Stenton repeated the instruction and then … Cate's furious retort and the sound of gunfire.

His phone went dead and Mycroft felt himself grow cold. So very cold.

###

The gunshot echoed round and around the empty hallways and corridors of the condemned building. Though at different points, both John and Sherlock began to converge on the sound. Sherlock hoped the gunshot did not mean what he anticipated. He already knew how Cate's death would affect Mycroft.

Running swiftly and silently, the two men converged on the seventh floor. Sherlock arrived first, slowing his headlong dash as he saw Stenton ahead. It was too late to attempt concealment: he had been seen. He hoped John would have better luck.

"And the younger Holmes! Welcome!" Stenton beckoned him closer. With the briefest of glances, Sherlock saw Cate huddled in a corner. She looked beaten and blood-spattered, but alive; a gunshot to the upper arm. Painful, but not immediately life-threatening. Though not prone to mawkish feelings of sentiment, Sherlock felt vaguely pleased by this.

"So, Stenton," he said, hands in pockets, a nonchalant expression on his face. "See you prefer the ones who can't fight back," his look was pitying.

"Don't even try to get me angry, Sherlock Holmes," Stenton waved his gun. "Now that I have the both of you, Mycroft will understand the real meaning of suffering."

"Oh, dear God," Sherlock was nothing if not scornful. "Can you actually hear yourself?" he asked. "You sound like something out of a B-grade 1940's Hollywood horror film," he sighed. "Pathetic."

Stenton raised his gun. "Don't push your luck, Holmes," he said. "I've got your brother's girlfriend, and now I've got you too," Stenton smiled again. "I'm going to kill the both of you, and we'll see how Mycroft feels about that."

"My brother asked me to come here," Sherlock said. "He is fully aware of your violent proclivities. Do you really imagine he hasn't foreseen every possible outcome of this scenario?"

Stenton hesitated. It was what Mycroft Holmes would do. He'd have little compunction about sending anyone to their death if he felt it was necessary. But still: he had them and Mycroft did not. And now they would both die.

At that second, John's announced arrival bounced off the bare concrete walls and echoed through the space. "Put the gun down, Stenton," his voice was steady. "Or I will shoot you."

Stenton pointed the gun directly at Sherlock's heart. "Not before I kill at least one of them," he retorted. "And right now, Mycroft's brother is a sitting duck."

"Shoot him, John." Sherlock's voice was detached.

As Stenton realised his play was being called, he began to squeeze the pistol's trigger. In the briefest of spaces between commission and completion, Sherlock had thrown himself to one side, away from the impending shot. Turning next to Cate, Stenton was about to fire when a round from John's Browning took him in the side. He fell.

Kicking Stenton's gun away, John's next thought was to see to Cate. He checked her wounds and pulled her jacket open to see where Stenton's bullet had struck.

Sherlock turned to see if the man was dead yet, only to discover a patch of blood and little else.

"Which way did he go?"

"Dunno," John still focused on Cate. She seemed very groggy, concussed by the look of it. "Didn't see him move."

"Here, let me," Sherlock stepped in and lifted Cate into his arms. "You scout ahead to make sure we have no surprises from Mycroft's unpleasant associate, and I'll get the Professor out of here."

"Right." John said, gun in hand, he backtracked. He quite hoped they'd meet Stenton.

###

A swarm of Met squad cars, the Special Firearms Unit and Mycroft's Jaguar arrived virtually simultaneously.

"Halt the demolition," Mycroft instructed. "There are still people in there."

Lestrade strode up. "Anything new?"

"Michael Stenton," Mycroft nodded sourly. "The man I'd been grooming as my second for several years, who clearly felt it was several years too long."

"And?"

"Cate, and now Sherlock and John are in there too," Mycroft ran a hand over his face and looked incredibly drained. "I want them all out immediately." He stared at the crumbling structure, rigged to blow. "It's a death-trap."

###

Stenton was bleeding badly. Watson's bullet was still inside him and he felt a curious and spreading chill; blood leaking out of him with every step. Plainly, he didn't have long. But still time enough to leave a suitable farewell gift.

Staggering to the main junction of cables in the centre of the floor, Stenton prepared to blow everything to hell. If the top two floors went, the rest would follow. Simple mechanics. And he knew exactly how to set off the top two floors. Dropping to his knees, Stenton fished the junction box from his pocket. It took only two wires: one in, one out, to set up a basic firing circuit. All it needed was an electronic spark. He extracted the Taser, connecting its battery to the junction box. Even though this had not ended the way he had planned, he commiserated himself with the fact that Mycroft would lose everything. Everything.

He pressed the firing button.

###

They had almost made it. At breakneck speed, Sherlock had run behind John with a semi-conscious Cate in his arms. John was able to run faster and had reached the main entrance first.

"The Cavalry's arrived," he stepped outside and waved.

There was a distant sound of … thunder?

The top of the building exploded.

Instant chaos, as vast slabs of steel-barred concrete came flying off in all directions. John was thrown some distance by the shock wave, but he was still able to turn and see, still several yards inside, his best friend and the woman he was holding vanish into a whirling cloud of debris and airborne death.

With an increasing rumble and roar, the remainder of the building began a series of uncontrolled explosion and collapse as an erratic domino effect set off the remaining charges.

Managing to half-crawl, half-fall away from the worst of the blast, John crouched on the bare, muddy ground and watched, his own danger unheeded, as the old hospital claimed another two souls.

###

Mycroft's anxiety lifted the second he saw John Watson come running out of the entrance. Turning back, John had shouted something to – Sherlock? – inside, and then the world had turned ballistic.

In what was a mere moment, the top floor and then the rest of the building had detonated. Great shards of concrete; pillars of flame and a pyroclastic bloom enveloped the entire structure. It took only seconds.

When the noise stopped and the air partly cleared, Mycroft could just make out John's figure kneeling in the mud a matter of feet away from the nearest wedge of debris. Reaching his side, Mycroft asked the unaskable question. "Sherlock? Cate?"

Turning, the horror in John's eyes said what there was to say. Mycroft felt his spine being wrenched out as if by some giant hand. His spine and his heart.

###

Two hours later, they found what was left of Stenton's body beneath a large chunk of unbroken wall. He was crushed and bloody, and had clearly still been alive when the explosion occurred. His death barely registered with either Mycroft or John who were both leaning against the Jaguar, neither of them yet prepared to accept … the other.

Lestrade walked over, the drag in his step shouting his disbelief the situation was even possible.

"The emergency crews say they'll probably be working through the night," he said. "There's not much point staying here – they'll call you as soon as they … have news."

Mycroft didn't look up. "I shall stay," his words were flat, toneless.

John nodded agreement. "Me too."

Another two hours passed as the afternoon sun began to drop. John and Mycroft stood by the car, silent and unmoving.

A dog barked.

Lost in a private nightmare, Mycroft caught the sound only in the most peripheral of senses. He lifted his head. The dog barked again

Shouting. He heard shouting. Placing a hand on John's arm, Mycroft moved for the first time in an age. The searchers had found … something.

"John," Mycroft's voice was cracked and parched.

"I heard," John sounded even worse.

More shouting. Louder barking. The shouting sounded … celebratory?

"John," Mycroft began walking towards the noise.

From out among the orange and yellow high-vis jackets, a tall dark figure plodded slowly forward, coated in powdery dust and smeared with blood. In his arms he cradled another form: limp, but not lifeless.

Dear God. Mycroft was as close to tears as he had ever been in his adult life. He strode across the flattened expanse of clay and, using one hand to help support Cate, he gripped Sherlock's shoulder tightly with the other. The hand shook.

"Steady on, Mycroft," Sherlock muttered feebly. "People will think we're related."

The paramedics lifted Cate carefully away, taking her to one ambulance and Sherlock and John to another. Mycroft was torn.

"Go to Cate," Sherlock waved him away. "I have a doctor to look after me, don't forget."

"We'll speak later," Mycroft spun on his heel and barely avoided breaking into a run.

One of the Paramedics barred his progress. "Husband," he snapped, manoeuvring deftly into the ambulance.

Cate was a mess. Barely conscious, her face was badly bruised, with dried blood in her hair and down her neck; blood from a deep cut over the right eye glued it shut; her arm was livid with a gunshot wound and she, like Sherlock, was coated entirely in grey dust.

"Mycroft," she mumbled, fingers reaching out. "Where's Sherlock? Is he alright? Is John safe?"

"Everyone is safe, darling Cate," he caught her hand tight, as he instructed the Paramedic driver that both Cate and his brother were to be taken to University College Hospital. The ambulances were to have the benefit of a police escort. The police would use their sirens. They were to go immediately. Immediately meant now.

Looking into the man's eyes, the Paramedic decided questions could wait: he lifted his radio-mike.

###

He had ensured they would be in adjacent private rooms, the easier to see either. Sherlock was only going to stay in overnight, a promise extracted through guile and coercion: Lestrade refused to allow Sherlock anywhere near another case-file until the doctors gave him the all-clear from concussion.

"No discussion, Sherlock," the tall policeman was adamant. "We've been down this road before, and this time," Lestrade smiled at the reversal of fortunes, "this time you'll have to wait for me."

"Insufferable," the younger Holmes closed his eyes in preparation for a massive sulk. Mycroft entered just at the Inspector was leaving.

"How are you?" he inquired of his brother. "The doctors seem to think there is nothing terribly amiss, however," he added as Sherlock brightened, assuming he could abscond. "They want to have you here for observation overnight."

"I am perfectly well, Mycroft," Sherlock folded his arms. "I would have thought the least you might do after John and I saved the day, was to avoid unnecessary red-tape. I do not require a nanny."

"You may do precisely as you please," Mycroft was complacent, "first thing in the morning."

Sherlock considered his options. Mycroft seemed determined, although there were always ways around even the worst of his dictats. Dealing with a thundering headache caused by a flying chunk of masonry, Sherlock's heart wasn't in an argument. He just wanted the throbbing pain to desist. "Stairwell," he muttered.

Mycroft nodded. "Basement car park?"

Rubbing his temple, Sherlock nodded. "The place was built when sixty percent higher concrete density was still used," he paused, thinking. "How's Cate?"

"Unconscious," Mycroft frowned. "She's had enough morphine to sink the Bismarck."

"And you are holding up?" Sherlock analysed his sibling's expression. Meeting Sherlock's eyes, Mycroft saw his brother knew exactly how he was.

"Apart from dealing with Stenton," he said, "I want to thank you for saving Cate's life," he added, carefully. "Had she … had anything happened to her, I'm not sure what I would have done."

This was new territory for both of them. Neither man accustomed to acknowledging, let alone discussing personal sensitivities. Mycroft felt he had no real choice now: once he had taken the plunge into transparency with Cate, it seemed both derisible and false to cling to a lack of the same with his brother. Sherlock might not be comfortable with it, but that was another issue.

"I am in love with her," Mycroft spoke softly.

"I know," Sherlock's reply was equally quiet.

###

"And how are you feeling now, Mrs Holmes?" the nurse drew back the curtains and opened the blinds sufficiently to see by.

Cate levered herself awkwardly up the bed. Her right arm was bandaged up to her chest, and the slightest movement of her head made it pound. Wait a minute …

"Mrs Holmes?" she squinted blearily in the daylight.

"Your husband has been in and out of here a dozen times since you were admitted," the nurse began taking her observations.

"Husband?"

The nurse looked concerned. "Your husband. Tall, dark and handsome?"

"My husband?"

Giving Cate an odd look, she checked temperature, blood-pressure. Noting medication intake and instructions as well as fluid balance, the nurse looked at her again.

"What year is this?"

"2012."

"Where are you?"

Cate tried to shrug then wished she hadn't. Everything hurt. "I have no idea other than probably London," she said sluggishly. "Where am I?"

"In your own university hospital," Mycroft swept into the room and over to her side. Gently taking her free hand, he pressed a light kiss to the palm. "How are you feeling, my darling?"

The nurse smiled at them both. "This husband," she pointed her pen at Mycroft.

"Oh, this husband," Cate nodded fractionally. "I lose track." She held onto him as the nurse completed her obs and left them alone.

"Husband?" It ached too much to smile.

"A matter of expediency," Mycroft perched carefully on the side of the bed. "Documents to sign, admissions to complete, paperwork …"

"Ah," Cate sighed and lay back. "Expediency."

He cleared his throat. "And to all intents and purposes, I am acting as your husband in common law," he added, "so there's no real issue to answer, is there?"

Closing her eyes, Cate felt a great weariness creep over her. "I don't mind you being my husband," she mumbled drowsily.

Mycroft saw Cate had drifted back into sleep. With her level of concussion, blood-loss and inevitable shock, he'd been advised this would likely be a result. Sleep was good. Sleep healed. He could look at her bruises and lacerations now without visibly wincing, but it was difficult to see her so injured and not be able to do anything. Every time she flinched, so did he. Husband indeed.

When Cate awoke the next time, she thought at first she was in a flower shop – the perfume of Gardenia was all around her. Peering across the dimmed room, she counted no less than three vases of her favourite blooms. Smiling, she slept again.

She dreamed of Deepdene in the summer. Picnics and Edwardian dresses and croquet hoops. She dreamed of Mycroft. His way of looking at life, of looking at her. His eyes. His kisses. She slept on.

It was bright daylight the next time she woke. Afternoon sun streamed between the semi-closed louvres at each window. Blinking without discomfort, Cate touched her face with cautious fingertips: sore but not unbearably so. An improvement, then.

Her stomach realised she was awake and told her she was starving.

"Back with me?" Mycroft's gravelly voice issued from the far corner of the room. Turning her head, Cate saw that he'd been asleep in a large upholstered chair.

"How long have you been here?" Cate paused. "How long have I been here?"

He sat and stretched, rubbing the back of his neck. "You've been asleep for three days."

"Don't tell me you've been in that chair for three days," she was dismayed. Mycroft smiled for the first time since the explosion: that sounded almost normal.

The same nurse returned. She looked pleased at Cate's enlivened state. "This man has refused to leave your side," she looked approving. "How caring he is."

Torn between a massive urge to eat something and an urgent desire to know what was happening, Cate found she was smiling. "Yes," she nodded, looking directly at Mycroft. "He's a wonderful husband."

He didn't even blink.

Cate's stomach announced it was still waiting. "Um, I'm quite hungry," she said. "Is there a chance I could get something to eat?"

"Of course," the nurse handing over a menu. "Chose whatever you want and it'll be brought up." Cate silently thanked the private medical system.

"Mycroft," the print swam in and out of focus. "Could you order me something light please? Seems I'm not up to reading yet."

In moments, he had arranged a meal. He sat on the bed and held her hand again. Just having this small level of touch after nothing for nearly a week felt wonderful.

"How is everything?" Cate rubbed her eyes and realised a shower was going to be essential sooner rather than later. She experimented with her bandaged arm; it felt better. Perhaps she could take the bandages off.

"Everything is fine," Mycroft watched Cate assimilate her situation. Head, face, arm: all the connected bits between. "Are you in pain?"

"Mostly stiff and sore," she said, flexing her arm. "Although this is a little unpleasant." The drip in the back of her hand was annoying. "And this is coming out right away," she prodded the cannula dubiously.

"I feel the medical staff may know a little more about your condition than you do," his expression suggested her opinion was several degrees south of indispensable.

"Mycroft, I am seriously hungry, in dire need of a bath and have slept for a million years," she managed to push herself upright. "Yet I find my brain is working perfectly well. I am quite able to decide what to do."

Mycroft shook his head, a strange smile on his lips. "I had this conversation with Sherlock a few days ago," he leaned close, his words soft. "He did exactly as he was told."

Cate looked into eyes as implacable as a glacier.

"Brute."

"My love," Mycroft held her hand, feeling a great deal happier.

Smiling, Cate lay back. Too weary to argue properly. There were worse places she could have been.

###

It was a conversation unable to be conducted on the phone. Asking Sherlock to meet him at home, Mycroft felt marginally unsettled.

Standing in the kitchen of the town-house, Sherlock noticed the minor things. A small volume of Fanthorpe poems; two knives in juxtaposed slots; the erratic spacing of bar-stools; a single dried Gardenia petal on the windowsill: a faint trace of the flower's perfume lingering in the air. Cate had become a part of Mycroft's life, and, despite the odd private qualm, Sherlock had to admit his sibling was the better for it. Her presence had mediated Mycroft's less delightful qualities without subduing any of his abilities: she disorganised him just enough for balance. Sherlock found he was incongruously pleased with his brother's relationship.

Mycroft knew himself to be irrevocably bound to Cate Adin: emotionally; by infinite desire, and with a strength of need that would break bones. His life was changing because of her. Had already changed. Everything that existed between them went far beyond his ability to control or even channel, and Mycroft felt both the exhilaration of optimism and the bite of uncertainty. The notion of being without her was now so alien; he could not imagine such a reality. He knew what he wanted to do, what he had little choice in pursuing, but could think of no direct method. It was … complex. Mycroft took in a deep breath. There were things Sherlock should be told. Or, being Sherlock, perhaps didn't need to be told.

He turned to his brother and began to say them anyway.

The first time Mycroft paused for breath, Sherlock suggested a plan.

###

Cate stood by the conservatory entrance at the rear of Mycroft's home, watching as the brothers emerged from the kitchen. She wondered what her future was going to be like now that it included them. Smiling, Cate, found it difficult to remember her life as it was before they had met: Mycroft was as much a part of her now as breathing. In the weeks since the explosion, some things just didn't seem as important as they once had. Perhaps it was time, after all.

Sherlock and Mycroft walked past her to stand next to John in the warm light of the big rear windows.

"There only remains the small issue of convincing Cate to be my wife," Mycroft looked mildly concerned, yet not so much that it affected his ability to speak clearly.

"You want her to marry you?" Sherlock looked at him sideways, and added, in similarly carrying tones, "Are you sure?"

"It seems I am captivated and only marriage will do," Mycroft sounded remarkably unworried. "I am unsure however, as to the best course of action."

John turned, frowning.

"Hello?" Cate was intrigued. "Why am I suddenly invisible?"

"Will an on-going absence of her as your spouse impact negatively upon your role as HRM's government omniscient?"

Mycroft examined the toes of his shoes. "I fear it may," he said, gloomily.

"Then you must take steps to ensure she marries you," Sherlock looked his brother in the eye. "Before she receives a better offer."

John was lost. "Who should marry whom?" he asked.

"Cate should marry Mycroft," Sherlock nodded, "It seems the appropriate thing to do, although I worry for her mental health should she accept him."

"… and evidently mute," Cate stood in front of them, apparently unnoticed. "What game is this?"

"I have proposed on two separate occasions," Mycroft ignored Cate completely and spoke over her head to Sherlock. "She declined both."

"You asked Cate to marry you?" John was catching up. "That's pretty, er, and she turned you down? Twice? Well …"

"I can think of eleven distinct reasons why the Professor should agree to marry you," Sherlock paused, "twelve."

"I realise what you're doing, you know," Cate was suddenly meditative. "And it isn't going to work."

"Did you try bribery?" Sherlock suggested.

"Thought of it, tried it, discarded it," Mycroft answered. "Bribery is ineffective when the individual lacks a sense of covetousness."

"You offered her money?" John looked unsure. "Is that even legal?"

"Nothing as crass as filthy lucre, John," Mycroft looked superior. "Jewels, property, position. None of it worked."

"But it was a nice try," Cate admitted, folding her arms, almost managing to remain straight-faced. "Twelve?"

"Argumentative, though," Sherlock reflected. "Difficult to live with, I'd imagine."

Giving Sherlock a deeply sardonic look, Mycroft sighed. "Difficult to live without, actually." He sounded fatalistic. "Once one has adjusted one's horizons, it becomes an integral element of life."

"You could always try kidnapping," John felt it was time to contribute. "You've done it with just about everyone else."

"Kidnapping?" Cate turned on Mycroft. "Is this something you might care to discuss?"

"Kidnapping is such a short-term measure," he wriggled his fingers in distaste. "So inconvenient."

"You share a number of interests," Sherlock turned to Cate, counting on his fingers. "Since you enjoy the culinary arts and Mycroft enjoys eating, it seems a perfect match."

"I am not marrying anyone because they like my cooking," Cate scowled. "This is not 1950."

"How about a threat?" John asked. "You could give her an ultimatum of you or gaol-time."

"I fear John, that the lady would opt for incarceration were I to attempt such a coup."

"Then, of course, there is the fact that whenever Mycroft needs a private translator, you would be perfect for the role, especially as one spouse cannot be forced to give testimony against the other in a court of law." Sherlock held up a second finger.

"Or blackmail," John nodded sagely. "Blackmail's a professional way to go as long as you can find something that does the job, of course."

"It was certainly a consideration at one point, "Mycroft shook his head forlornly, "but when there is nothing worthy of extortion, the idea is moot. Better offer from whom?"

"That's only two," Cate was keeping score.

"Greg Lestrade smiles at her an awful lot." John said. "He's a good bloke. He and Cate would do well together."

"John, I think you're rather missing the point of this exercise," Sherlock muttered.

"Really?" John looked arch.

"The Inspector smiles at you?" Mycroft looked at Cate thoughtfully. His eyes narrowed. "Not sure I like that."

"Greg Lestrade is a most pleasant person," Cate agreed. "Ethical."

"Three: between you, there is a library worthy of serious perusal, and it would be very useful for me if your sources were to be combined."

"Is that supposed to be a pro or a con?" Cate felt delirious.

"I could always have him transferred somewhere beyond the Capital," Mycroft mused. "Greenland, perhaps."

"Leave the man alone," Cate struggled not to laugh. "Greenland."

"Then that only really leaves brute force," John shrugged. "You can borrow my gun if you like."

Mycroft fought down a smile. "Loaded, I assume?"

"There really are a significant number of valid reasons for you to marry my brother, you know," Sherlock looked at Cate and heaved a theatrical sigh. "But the real justification lies in the fact that you are currently holding each other's hands."

Cate and Mycroft looked down simultaneously. Ah.

"I will marry Mycroft because I have decided I want to marry him, and not because of any of this other silliness," Cate said. "So you can stop right now."

Mycroft looked tentative. He coughed. "Did you just agree to marry me?"

Cate reviewed her words. "I believe I did," she said.

"Do you want to marry me?" Mycroft lifted her hand slowly to his lips, his eyes flickering across her face. "A thousand thousand years?"

Cate was light-headed. "In how many languages would you like me to say 'yes'?"

"One would be sufficient," Mycroft's finger stroked the small scar above her brow.

"Then, Yes," she was serene. "Marry me."

Mycroft's hand tightened around hers as he turned to Sherlock and John. "Apparently we have a happy announcement," he smiled whimsically, unable for the life of him to avoid it.

"Sister-in-law, Cate." Sherlock raised both eyebrows and kissed her cheek.

"Oh Lord," Cate realised, "Brother-in-law, Sherlock."

#

#

# Almost The End #

#

#

After deciding what she wanted to move in to Mycroft's town-house, Cate ended up taking over the second lounge at the rear of the house. It held her sofas, her desk and most of her art. Her books and collection of objet were combined with his in the main area at the front. The result was eclectic, but strangely satisfying. Sherlock had approved. Oddly, Mycroft seemed to prefer this room now of all those in the house.

Sunday afternoon. Cate was working at her desk near the back windows, enjoying the warmth of the sun. She felt comfortable in this place. Her place, now.

Mycroft, in casual wear and a cashmere pullover, was stretched out on one of Cate's big sofas reading the paper. Throwing a pile of documents into her bag, she sighed loudly. "Finished."

"Finished with what?" he asked, enmired in international politics.

"Assessing a bunch of PhD proposals," she said, turning to look at him.

"And were they any good?" he asked.

Cate was impressed. Not only was Mycroft digesting detailed information which he would later deride as unmitigated tosh, but was also thinking about being here with her, and maintaining an ability to ask sensible questions about what she was doing.

"One was about a giant squid attacking Crete," she said, testing the notion. "And another discussed using cyanuric acid in an attempt to deal with East Anglia."

The paper lowered slowly to reveal a particularly sceptical expression. "I hardly think cyanuric acid would be successful," he said mildly.

Grinning, Cate walked over. "Budge in," she said, wriggling until she was lying alongside him. Resting her head on his chest, she closed her eyes and enjoyed the moment. Mycroft moved his arm to encircle her shoulders and continued to assault the political columns.

It was all very peaceful and domestic.

Cate looked at Mycroft's face as he read, observing the tiny lines tighten and relax as he saw something especially inane. She felt extremely comfortable.

"Mimi kulipa kuacha kusoma," she murmured "Au kwa matumizi mengine, naweza kupata kitu cha kusoma," she added in a beguiling voice, advising him that if he was going to keep reading then she'd find a book as well.

"And this would be ..?" Mycroft paused his scan of voting reform in Uzbekistan.

"Swahili," Cate snuggled closer. "Je, una nguruwe?"

"Are you planning to continue this monologue while I read?' he asked.

"It's entirely possible," she replied. "Mimi kama watu ambao nguruwe."

Then I may as well appreciate the experience," he said, bringing the paper down around them like a tent. "Continue."

Cate struggled to keep a straight face.

"Mbwa wangu ina kiroboto wote na mange," her words were soft. Apparently her dog was doubly unfortunate, having both fleas and mange. "Lakini yeye ni mbwa nzuri."

Sitting up and looking deep into Mycroft's eyes, she advised him that, despite his misfortune, her dog was a good dog. Cate sighed, stoking along Mycroft's jaw. "Je, una mbwa?" She asked slowly, lacing every syllable with molten desire and wondering if he too had a dog. He cleared his throat and looked at her more intently.

"Would you like me to translate?" She asked, breathing deeply to avoid laughing.

"That would be most helpful," Mycroft's lips were almost touching her neck as the circle of his arms closed a little tighter.

Cate rested her head against his. In the sultriest of voices she inquired whether he was a good pig-keeper as she found pig management an extremely attractive skill.

Beneath her, Cate felt Mycroft's body lurch with silent laughter.

In chocolate velvet tones, Cate further advised him that pig-keeping was a mark of intelligence as pigs were sensible creatures, not usually taken with idiots and fools.

"You are trying to seduce me with a discussion of porcine husbandry in Swahili?" he asked, amused disbelief on his face.

"Absolutely," Cate murmured against his ear, smiling as his breath caught. "Is it working?"

Pinning her slowly beneath his chest, he kissed her in English.

#

#

# The End #

#

NEW STORY ... Mycroft Holmes: A Terminal Degree

A romance. What is it like to be married to Mycroft Holmes? Romantic interludes, action, adventure, Chess, and unspeakably fiendish goings-on. A Cate and Mycroft story.

#

Thank you to everyone who has read, enjoyed and reviewed this story. You are very kind and your comments are most appreciated.

#