Chapter Ten

Not Over Yet – An Unexpected Passenger – Unparalleled Blackmail – The Return – You Took Too Much – Always – A Present of the Present – The Fortitude of Saints – The Trivium Protocol.

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"What do you mean, 'isn't over'?" Erik asked. "If everyone has stopped chasing Medina and she can stay, then what's the problem?"

Cate shook her head, looking at Lestrade. "Who gave you this information?"

The Inspector seemed puzzled. "Got a direct call from my Super," he said. "Telling me the arrest warrant had been withdrawn, that all other interested parties were no longer interested, and that the girl could stay as her visa had been renewed."

"And do the police have the authority to reactivate an international student visa?" Cate's eyes were wide with anger.

Lestrade thought. Nope: not usually something the police did. Ah.

"I see Mycroft's hand in this," Cate took a deep breath. "But until Medina is once again my student, then this is not over."

"So what are we going to do now?" Medina was confused.

"You," Cate looked at the girl. "Are going to accompany Erik who is taking you to meet his mother, aren't you Erik?"

"I am?" the young man's eyebrows met his hairline. He checked Cate's expression. "Apparently, I am," he smiled at Medina. "You'll like her."

"And what are you planning?" the Inspector was beginning to experience a sense of disquiet. He had seen the Professor when she was angry. She tended to do things.

"I'm going to see my chief," nodding, Cate took another deep breath and stood up from the bench. "Would it be possible," she asked Lestrade, "considering all the fuss the police have made hunting us, for you to drop these two off at Erik's place?"

Greg nodded slowly. "Not a problem," he said. "Sure you don't want to be taken home first?" Lestrade felt he at least had to try.

"I'm going to grab a cab and have a little chat with my VC first," Cate looked purposeful.

Giving Medina a hug, she smiled again. "I'll be seeing you soon," she said. "Don't worry; everything's going to work itself out."

Turning to the lanky ex-blonde, she looked at him critically. "Your roots are showing," she hugged him too. "Take care of Medina and get her to see her father if you can."

"Will do, Prof," the boy frowned. "You sure you don't need any help? I mean," he said self-consciously. "We're a team now."

"This is something I have to do alone, I think," she said. "Hopefully, I'll see you on campus again very soon."

Feeling an odd lump in her throat, Cate strode off along the platform towards the exit, almost running in her haste to get this entire situation over and done with. There were cabs everywhere as she reached the kerb, raising her hand in a hail.

As one pulled in for her, Cate opened the back door and stepped in, just as a second body stepped in behind her, claiming the adjacent seat.

"Sherlock?"

"Whatever you're about to do, it's probably a bad idea and you shouldn't do it,' he said, giving her an ambiguous look.

"Where to, Miss?" the Cabbie wanted to know.

"University College in Gower Street, please," Cate twisted in her seat to stare at her brother-in-law.

"You have no idea what I'm going to do," she frowned. "And even if it were a bad idea, it's my bad idea, not yours."

"You weren't going to see Mycroft?"

"No," Cate shook her head. "Going to see my employer and persuade him to take Medina and Erik back as students and let me keep my job."

"So you're not planning mariticide?"

"You want to know if I'm thinking of murdering Mycroft?"

"I mean," Sherlock was reflective. "You'd probably be fully within your rights, and even the greenest of newly-qualified barristers would be able to argue a pretty watertight case of justifiable homicide, but on the whole, I'd rather you didn't."

"You are such a ninny, Sherlock," Cate poked him in the shoulder, grinning.

"So," he confirmed, "not murder, then?"

"Not murder," she shook her head.

Sherlock nodded, satisfied. "Apparently James Norling is conscious," he changed the subject. "He's crediting John with saving all of us, which is good news for John."

"How so?"

"Long story, but let's just say a debt has been paid."

"I like it when things are concluded properly," Cate mused. "Let's hope the boss does too."

"And your boss would be ..?"

The VC," Cate narrowed her eyes. "Charles Shelsher."

"Shelsher?" Sherlock made a face. "Career administrator? Then the man's a born bureaucrat; anything that smacks remotely of trouble, he'll want to disown."

"In which case, I'm going to have to be brilliantly diplomatic and convincing, aren't I?"

Turning to look at her, Sherlock snickered. "Brilliantly diplomatic?"

"I'm better at it than you are," Cate was miffed.

"Barely," he critiqued. "You need my assistance."

"Do I?" Cate lifted her eyebrows.

"Indeed," Sherlock cleared his throat. "Between us, we should be able to muster a reasonably judicious argument."

"I warn you now, Sherlock," Cate sounded deadly serious. "If you get me fired, I'm going to come and clean your flat every day until I get another job," she said, meeting his eyes. "Every single day."

"You wouldn't."

"Freezer, fridge, under the sink," she nodded. "Everything," she added. "Could take me months to find another job. Who knows what I might have thrown out in the interim?"

"You've been around Mycroft too long," Sherlock threw her a cool glance.

Cate patted the back of his hand. "Brother, dear," she said, smiling out of the window.

The VC was in his study – he usually was this time of day – when Cate and Sherlock walked into the outer office.

"Hello, Annie, any chance I might speak with Charles, please?" Cate stood patiently with her hands in her coat pockets while Sherlock indulged his omnipresent curiosity by peering at everything.

Returning, the Secretary looked uncomfortable. "Sorry, Professor Adin-Holmes," she said. "I'm afraid the Vice-Chancellor's dreadfully busy at the moment and isn't seeing anyone."

"Nonsense," Sherlock huffed past the young woman, striding towards the inner sanctum.

"Remember, Sherlock," Cate hissed, following. "Months."

"Good afternoon, Vice-Chancellor," Sherlock swept in, offering his hand. "So pleased to finally meet you – my sister-in-law's been telling me all sorts of incredible things about your work."

Caught reading the Telegraph, Charles Shelsher stood uncertainly, shaking the outstretched hand, noticing Cate as she strolled in behind Sherlock's whirlwind.

"Sister-in-law?" Shelsher was hesitant.

"Mycroft's brother, Sherlock," Cate smiled, taking a seat. "Hello, Charles."

Dropping back into his own chair, the VC took a supportive breath. Not sufficient that his old room-mate from Oxford should bring government pressure to bear, but now his – clearly younger – brother as well? Judas Priest.

"I've already done precisely as Mycroft stipulated," Shelsher said. "As you already know, the student Medina al Badour, is gone, her enrolment rescinded and her visa revoked."

"There's been a change of plan," Cate leaned her elbows on the front of her VC's desk. "Medina is being permitted to stay in Britain, and you promised you'd reconsider her enrolment if this should ever happen."

"But … ah … it's all getting a bit messy now," the VC floundered. "Should the press ever get to hear of any of this, the university would be in a very delicate situation. Best not to, I think. Under the circumstances."

A smile formed on Sherlock's mouth. "You think that's all the press will get to hear?" he asked. "What about your affaire with the secretary?" he looked pointedly towards the outer-office. "Annie, isn't it?"

"Affaire?" Cate was wary. Sherlock's idea of judicious was … unconventional.

"What affaire?" Charles sat bolt upright. "There's been nothing of the sort, you have my word."

"Ah, Vice-Chancellor," Sherlock plonked himself in the other chair before the VC's desk. "But where there's smoke …"

"And then there's the fraud," Quick on the uptake, Cate cheerfully joined in. "All those alumni donations vanishing, just like that," she tutted slowly, shaking her head. "Charles. How could you?"

"This is blackmail!" The Vice-Chancellor was turning pink.

"Unparalleled," Sherlock was quite cheerful.

"Did we mention the drug-parties in the Senior Commons ..?" Cate linked her fingers.

"Drugs?" Sherlock sounded surprised. "I heard they were orgies."

"Oh damn you, very well!" Shelsher slammed his hand onto the desk. "The girl may return as a student if she wants to do so."

"And the boy, Erik Norling?"

"Yes, yes," Charles admitted defeat. "Him as well."

"And Cate stays on as a Professor?" Sherlock wanted to be quite clear.

"Yes, of course, anything she wants."

Looking at his sister-in-law, Sherlock was deadpan. "Is there anything else you want?" he asked. "Now would seem to be an expedient time to ask."

"Everything to be put in writing, with the relevant details sent to each student by close of business today," she looked thoughtful.

"Anything else?" the VC sat back in his deep leather chair, an expression of bemusement on his face.

"Not a thing, thank you, Charles," Cate smiled, standing. "I'll see you next week. I'll even buy you a coffee."

"Anything you buy me will probably prove too rich for my blood," he sighed, not entirely unhappily. It would be good to have things back to normal. "Until next week, my dear Cate."

Outside the office, Sherlock looked at her knowingly.

"You're going to take the students elsewhere, aren't you?" he said.

"As soon as I can arrange places for them," she said. "Together, at the Sorbonne, if they want to go."

"If they want to go?" Sherlock was puzzled.

Turning to the tall man beside her, Cate found herself smiling at him for the same reason she sometimes smiled at Mycroft. "They will be able to make their own choices now," she looked pleased. "It's their life."

"And what of your choices and your life?"

Cate took a really deep breath. "Now I can go home," she said.

Sherlock said nothing, but the faint smile on his face was rather telling.

###

Even though the hour was relatively early, it was well into dusk, nearly dark, when she arrived at the townhouse with the stuff from the flat in Islington.

The act of unlocking the front door and walking into the diffuse gleam of the kitchen felt oddly foreign, almost as if she were entering somebody else's house. Flicking on the light, Cate thought about making some tea, and headed towards the kettle, stopping short when she realised she was not alone.

Mycroft leaned casually in the doorway of the drawing-room, one hand holding a drink, the other lodged indifferently in a trouser pocket. Looking at her, he sipped from the crystal tumbler but said nothing. There was something of an atmosphere.

"Hello," Cate paused, awkward, feeling almost a stranger. "I wasn't expecting to see you until later."

"That much is obvious," his voice was cool, unsympathetic; his tone vaguely acidic.

"Now that the … problem has been resolved," Cate continued, "I thought perhaps it was the right time to discuss our situation."

"Did you now?" Mycroft threw back the rest of his Scotch, placing the empty tumbler carefully on the granite bench top, his movements so precise and economic, Cate wondered momentarily if he were drunk. Whatever he was, judging by the taut line of his face, it wasn't happy. Maybe tomorrow would be a better time to talk: perhaps the light of day might make this easier.

"Shall I come back in the morning?" she asked, wearily. "I'm in no mood to fight."

"No need," Mycroft had both hands in his pockets now as he walked closer. "One way or another, this won't take long. We may as well have it out tonight."

Steeling herself, Cate faced him squarely. "What won't take long?"

Pausing, Mycroft stared down at the polished toe of his shoe before lifting his gaze to hers, his eyes an unfathomable blue smoulder. He took a quick breath.

"You left me," he said, quietly. "You left me and went away." The accusation hung icily between them.

"You made it clear I was an obstacle to your work," Cate lifted her chin and met his fixed stare. She was not about to lie down and claim mea culpa.

"You left me," Mycroft's voice dropped softly into dangerous territory. "Without telling me when, or if, you were coming back."

Swallowing against the sudden lump in her throat, Cate felt the sting of injustice. "You had no thought for anything but your bloody rules," she objected, heatedly. "You wouldn't accept I might have a valid argument."

"You left me," his voice was distant. "Without anything."

"What anything?" Cate frowned, uncertain.

Mycroft inhaled slowly, the smell of her skin was tantalizing. His blood warmed at her nearness. The need to hold her was a physical force.

"You took everything," he murmured, his eyes drifting over her face, her mouth. "Everything was gone: your thoughts in my head, your voice … different things, gone."

"You didn't want to listen to me." Cate was indignant. "You didn't want me."

"Didn't want you?" Mycroft's rejection was harsh, his gaze uncompromising. "How the hell did you arrive at that conclusion?"

Closing her eyes, Cate calmed her breathing.

"You treated me as part of the problem," she made her own accusation. "You behaved unspeakably when I questioned your directives."

"It was dangerous, Cate," he shook his head, approaching real anger. "I couldn't tolerate the thought of you in trouble, or worse." Leaning his head back on his shoulders, he groaned in frustration. "Both MI5 and the bin Khalid cohort were playing a lethal game and you chose to walk right into the middle." His eyes fixed on hers. "What did you expect me to do? Wave you merrily onwards?"

"You refused to even let me speak," she looked away. "You gave me no choice of action."

"So you left?" now he really was angry. "You simply fled without explanation?"

"I did not flee!" Cate shouted. "I helped!"

It was Mycroft's turn to look sceptical. "How did you help?"

"I forced the issue and made things happen," Cate retorted. "You couldn't see beyond your damn protocols, but there were two young people I was not about to watch become collateral damage in your political brinkmanship!"

"So you left me?" His voice had softened to an unbearable degree: her stomach twisted at the hurt in it.

"I didn't leave you," Cate insisted. "I got out of your way."

"You weren't here," Mycroft was vehement. "You weren't here, Cate, with me."

"You wouldn't let me do anything," she choked. "I had to take myself out of your way."

It was beyond endurance. Fixing his gaze on a distant point, Mycroft breathed hard trying to ease the constriction of his chest. Silence ticked away the seconds.

"In that case," he said finally, his words clipped, austere. "You took too much." Relaxing the tension in his shoulders and drawing a long breath, Mycroft lifted a finger, moving a wave of dark hair away from her face. "You took something that wasn't yours."

Her anger sheared by the unexpected caress, Cate's troubled eyes fixed on his. "What did I take?"

Hearing the raw uncertainty of the question, Mycroft wrestled the words out.

"You took my heart," his voice so low it was barely heard. Sliding both hands into her hair, he lifted her face to his. "You took my heart, Catie Holmes, and I find I am still in need of it …"

Anything else was lost as Cate launched herself into his arms, pulling herself against him in a fierce passion, her eyes bright. Instantly, he wrapped himself around her so tight, too tight, the pressure making her gasp.

"Don't do that again." His voice rough against her skin. "No more of this, Catie…" he cradled her head, keeping her close to him, his self-control fading as he claimed her lips. Oh God. That she might not have returned. Unable to help himself, Mycroft's fingers stroked her hair, her face, holding her still while he kissed her into dizziness, the feel of his hands and his soft groan of need making her cling to him, unsteady on her feet.

Unwilling to tear himself away from her mouth, Mycroft knew there was yet more to be said, but tomorrow would be soon enough. Cate was here; she was safe. She was his. She was still his. After the inexpressible emptiness of recent days, he luxuriated in the feel of her, spontaneous and vibrant, against him. Eventually burying his face in her hair, Mycroft was content to exist in the moment, his arms full of Cate, rocking her slowly, breathing her in. He didn't want to move, didn't want this sensation to stop.

Shakily, Cate looked up at him. "If we're going to be here all night, shall I make some tea?"

Her eyes were dark with emotion. Mycroft smiled and shook his head.

Finding her hand, he led her to the quiet shadows of their bedroom. Though she had been gone only a matter of days, there was a piquant unfamiliarity between them. Undressing each other with ardent kisses and caresses, his fingers reminded themselves of the satin of her skin, his hunger building exponentially as she moved into his hands, craving his touch. Pulling her down beside him on the bed, he held her close, staring through the darkness into the glitter of her eyes, her lips parted and waiting, the heat of her breath on his face. He could feel her shaking; feel the maddening burn of her skin against his, the soft curve of her breasts against the plane of his chest. She was ultimately desirable; infinitely needed. He had never wanted her more.

The round silkiness of her shoulder beguiled him. He bit it slowly, gently, hearing her shuddering intake of breath as she tensed beneath him. Fighting an almost predatory impulse to simply take, Mycroft stroked his fingers down the tender flesh of her neck, along the inside of her arm; he kissed the fragile skin of her wrist, feeling her pulse leap beneath his lips.

"Tell me," he said softly, "that you love me."

Sliding fingers through his hair, directing his face back to hers, Cate's eyes stared up in the darkness.

"I have never loved any man except you," she was breathless. "You are my life."

Closing his eyes as her words seared through him, he swallowed past dryness. He could feel a heartbeat thundering between them but if it were his or Cate's he couldn't say.

"Tell me," he said, his mouth grazing her throat, "that you want me."

Cate moaned as her body trembled a response. He smiled, his lips following the line of her jaw to the sweet place beneath her ear.

"Tell me," he repeated, his mouth irresistible, exacting.

"Yes," Cate struggled to speak, pleading, urgent. "I want you. Now. Always ... Please Mycroft ..."

Finally bringing his mouth to hers, he felt an engulfing wave of desire seize him as her fingers tangled into his hair, pulling him close. Closer.

"Always," the word was a moan as her body arched to meet him.

###

Waking in the early daylight against the soft warmth of his chest, Cate stretched luxuriantly, only to feel his arms tighten around her, his fingers pressing against the naked skin of her back and shoulders. She smiled, sliding a hand up to his neck.

"Time we got up?"

"No," Mycroft's voice above her head was quiet and somewhat gravelly. "I prefer we stay here."

"I see." Cate smiled again. "Have you considered the practical issues?"

"Such as?"

"Such as I need to go to the bathroom," she tilted her head and kissed his throat.

"Two minutes," he proposed, his voice business-like. "After which time, I shall institute a nationwide search and rescue."

Smiling and shaking her head, Cate slid out of bed and went into the ensuite. Cleaning her teeth she felt delectably languid. Last night had been pretty amazing. Noticing a series of small bruises on her thigh, Cate touched them with fingertips, realising that was exactly their cause. Lifting her eyebrows in the mirror, she grinned knowingly. Mycroft had been rather keen.

"You're late," Mycroft voiced mild disapproval as he pulled her back against him.

"I'm not exactly wearing a watch," Cate snuggled close. "Besides," she said. "You have yet to tell me why we're not getting up."

"I merely wish to maximise our time together, and so we stay here. Together. All day," he announced.

Grinning against his skin, Cate thought aloud. "So, nothing to eat or cups of tea, or anything of that nature?" she asked artlessly.

His fingers, currently drawing arabesques on the back of her neck, paused.

"You may have uncovered the one fatal weakness in my fiendish plan to keep you to myself for an entire day," Mycroft rested his chin on the top of her head and sighed.

Wriggling away until her face was level with his, Cate looked across from her pillow into calm blue eyes. "Idiot."

"My love," his voice was incredibly gentle. Cate felt her toes curl.

"Anyway," she added, "tomorrow is the seventeenth."

"Yes?"

"Your birthday."

Mycroft paused, thinking. The seventeenth was indeed his birthday. He'd never before had anyone who'd thought of reminding him.

"And why is the date of note?" he asked.

"Apart from being your birthday?" Cate smiled into his eyes. Typical Mycroft.

"Apart from that, yes."

"I have a present for you," she grinned. "Or perhaps I should say the present is my present for you."

Several ideas, instantly dismissed, flew through his thoughts. Only one notion lodged in his brain, but it would be … impossible. He needed more information.

Grinning madly, Cate was delighted she had stumped him. "Check your schedule."

Fishing for his Blackberry, Mycroft flicked to the day's planner, normally filled with meetings and time-zone designated conference calls.

The entire day was blank. Not a single appointment. Had the device malfunctioned? Checking his appointments of yesterday and then forwarding to the eighteenth, he saw each section brim-full. No error, then.

"How did you do this?" he had to know. It was impossible for anyone to do this.

"Like it?" Cate gazed into his eyes. "It was the only thing of which you never seem to have enough."

"And how," he demanded, his eyes intense. "Was this miracle achieved?"

"I can't tell you," shaking her head, Cate grinned again. "I don't want anyone to get into trouble."

"You bribed my staff?"

"It was hardly bribery, Mycroft," Cate smiled. "I merely inquired if, short of any overt declarations of war or global extinction event, your schedule might possibly be kept clear for the day, and it seems it has."

"You've given me a day." He was nonplussed. "I feel suddenly like a schoolboy skipping Euclid."

"A day of freedom," she smiled again. "Impossible to wrap, though."

"I've never been given anything this useful before," he said, resting his face inches away from hers on the pillow. "How fortuitous," his eyes glinted.

"Do you like it?" her voice was hopeful.

"I love it," Mycroft smiled. "I love you for thinking of it." He blinked. "I love you."

A wash of pleasure followed his words, and Cate lay back, pleased. Examining his features in detail, she lifted a hand to stroke the skin of his face, running fingertips along the thin line across his high forehead and the deeper one between his eyes. Her first thought was that, for a profoundly intellectual man, Mycroft was remarkably sensual; his approach to matters of the flesh both ardent and intuitive. He relished the sense of touch. The second thought was that he frowned too much. He helped carry a monarchy on his shoulders, and there was a price.

Moving closer, she pushed him gently backwards, the better to see him. Stroking the length of his eyebrows with a fingertip, Cate felt the hard direction of their growth and noticed one or two lighter hairs. Blonde or grey? She smiled, trying to imagine him older. His eyes were ultramarine and the cobalts of dusk, blended with the ocean. She felt the electricity of Mycroft's gaze: the intensity of those brilliantine depths was indescribable, like staring into the sun.

Tenderly closing his eyelids with the lightest of touches, she smiled at his sudden intake of breath. Exploring the soft skin around his eyes, Cate noted the increase of laughter-lines. It would be nice to imagine she might have had something to do with the happier ones. The thought arose that she might also be responsible for some of the less pleasant ones, too. She didn't much care for that idea.

Though Mycroft's face owed more to his father than did Sherlock's, the long lines and elegant planes made him a handsome man. His skin was just beginning to have that slight scratchiness of unshaven male, which, combined with the rumple of his hair left him appealingly uncivilized. Drawing her fingertips to the side of his face, Cate stroked along the crest of his right ear. It was surprisingly delicate, but, like the man, understated. And then there was his mouth. Moving unconsciously closer, Cate focused her entire attention on Mycroft's mouth, running a single finger along the line of his upper lip, feeling the contrast between its firm shape and softness. His bottom lip was dryer but still soft. Why did people imagine men's lips to be hard? Mycroft's were incredibly pliable and quite delicious. Yet his mouth was the most severe part of his face, Cate realised. It had hard lines, which was strange since, whatever else this man might be; she had never known him to be deliberately cruel. Imperious, intimidating, even ruthless, yes, but never cruel. The lines of his mouth fascinated her. Leaning closer still, Cate brushed her own lips over their surface and was taken by the impulse to kiss him to a frenzy, the rush of desire made her head spin.

As he saw Cate focus on his face, Mycroft felt himself grow warm. His observation of her study, and of the manifest thoughts behind each of her evaluations, took him to a place of heady and unexpected sensation. He watched each inference cross her face and experienced a growing surge of yearning at the seriousness and gravity of her deliberations. When she closed his eyelids with a soft touch, a pulse throbbed from his chest to all points south, dragging at his breath. At the slightest caress of his ear, lush tingles flickered down his neck. Eyes blinking open in surprise, Mycroft followed Cate's focus intently, watching her face as her fingertip stroked the febrile skin of his lips. When she hovered just above him, her breath barely felt, sudden lust made his brain fizz. How was she so calm? All he could think of was unravelling her. A saint's fortitude would barely keep him sane … Augustine, Daniel, James ...

But her consideration of him was, at least temporarily, over. Cate lay back against her pillows looking flushed, her eyes bright. Mycroft realised it was his turn. Turning back on his side, he trailed his fingers along her jaw. She dazzled him. Sweeping the hair away from her face, he allowed his fingertips to rest on the smooth expanse above Cate's eyes. Faint grooves in the fairness of her skin indicated the desire and ability to argue, and the slightly deeper line above her left eye painted a clear image of scepticism. She had tweaked that eyebrow at him more than a few times. Her hairline was delicately peaked, reminding him of Papety's classical renditions and her skin was of porcelain purity, so smooth, she felt like warm cream. Leaning closer, Mycroft caught the faintest scent of gardenia; her favourite flower. He focused on breathing calmly, stoically resisting the impulse to devour her.

Cate's brows were as soft as everything else about her, the fine, dark curves like mink beneath the stroke of his thumb. He stared down into her eyes; two lucent mirrors of chestnut-brown flecked with amber and green, banded in jade: an unmistakable Celtic heritage. As his focus lingered, her pupils suddenly bloomed outwards like ink in water, the sight making his breath falter and his heart pound. He swallowed convulsively; Magnus, Peter, Joan …

Cate's eyelids were as fragile as cobweb and Mycroft used lips instead of fingers to close them. She moaned faintly, stiffening at the touch. He smiled; such physical candour was nigh irresistible and his body twisted with the want of her. Following the map Cate had drawn, Mycroft turned his attention to her ears: almost transparent, fine, elegant structures of sensitive flesh. Lowering his head, he tugged a lobe between his teeth, eliciting another delicious shudder. Spreading a palm over the bones of her face, Cate's skin was so fine it lay like silk beneath his fingers, the clear line of her jaw an invitation to the velvet of her neck and throat. And her mouth. Ah God; her mouth.

Still tender from his kisses of last night, Cate's lips were blush-pink. Slightly parted and wildly seductive, Mycroft stroked the ball of his thumb along their softness, the lower one yielding utterly even to that slight pressure. His breath left him entirely. It was more than he could bear. Cradling her head in his hand, and wrapping her back into his arms, he abandoned all virtuous thought.

#

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# Almost the End #

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Smiling like a besotted teen, Cate sat at the kitchen table sipping tea, trying not to stare at him staring at her. For something to do, she replaced her cup, and caught Mycroft's hand, turning the long fingers over, inspecting the palm with close attention.

"Interesting," she murmured.

"Interesting?" He sounded carefree, his light smile apparently a permanent thing.

Cate looked closer, her fingertips flattening his hand against the table. "According to these lines," she said, peering. "You are very caring person, and delight in taking old ladies across the road."

"Whether they want to go or no," Mycroft admitted.

"And," Cate ignored the interruption. "You were once a nautical man, visiting strange and exotic places, meeting strange and exotic women."

"Does it mention strange and exotic governments?" he asked, curiously. "Or even mildly unusual ones?"

"No," Cate shook her head. "Just places and women," she looked up. "Anything you'd care to tell me about these places?"

"Wouldn't you rather know about the women?" His voice held quiet laughter.

"Not really interested in your other women," she rose above such a blatant attempt at distraction. "Additionally," she added, pointing to a particular line, "this tells me you once scandalised polite society by impersonating the Archbishop of Canterbury at Royal Ascot."

"Lambeth is decent palace, why not?"

"Really?" Cate paused, considering. "I'd have thought Wells was more you."

"Lambeth is slightly more High-Church," Mycroft was vaguely approving. "I prefer religion of the old-fashioned variety." He sipped his tea. "Nice view of the Thames."

"Hmm." Cate continued exploring the topography of his hand.

"Anything there about my romantic attachments?" he asked, casually.

Nodding, Cate sighed. "You'll have three wives," she said. "All brilliant and sophisticated, the last of which will be the love of your life," lifting her eyes to his, she frowned. "So what did you do with the first two?"

Laughing, he claimed her fingers. "My turn, I believe." Facing her palm up, Mycroft looked intrigued. "Ahah."

"Ahah, what?"

"I see many things," he murmured cryptically. "Strange things."

She rolled her eyes. Even her feeble attempt had been better than this.

"I see a man," he said, intent on the details of her palm. "This man is absurdly in love with you," his eyes flicked to Cate's and back to her hand. "Though he doesn't think you quite understand his situation," he added.

"This man," she aimed for humour. "I take it I know him? I'd feel awkward not knowing someone who was absurdly in love with me."

"You do know him," Mycroft nodded slowly, his expression earnest. "But you clearly don't know him well enough or you'd realise he cannot tolerate the idea of you being risked in any way." He looked into her eyes. "He can't bear it, Cate," his voice was suddenly quiet and serious.

"This man," she spoke slowly, meeting Mycroft's gaze. "Does he love me for what I am or for what he thinks I am?"

"He's been head over heels in love with you for some time," Mycroft smiled down at her fingers. "I think he knows what you are."

"But you see," Cate placed her other hand on his, "I don't think he grasps what that statement actually means," she said, softly.

"And it means, what, precisely?" Raising both her hands, he kissed the palms of each, sending little shudders to all points of her compass.

"It means, my love," Cate's voice was so gentle he had to strain to hear. "That I am the sum of my parts; good, bad and indifferent, including the irrational, silly and dangerous bits."

There was a pause. "I don't think he'd be entirely happy with that notion," Mycroft held her hands between his, searching her face for understanding.

"Then he'll have to get used to it," she looked sad. "Or he'll end up being hurt, and I couldn't bear that."

Pressing her fingers to his mouth, Mycroft considered. Other than Sherlock, he'd never been so deeply connected to another person. That Cate was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, and had done so, exceptionally well in fact, for her entire life prior to marrying him, made no difference. Since he'd fallen in love with her, he'd experienced an increasing and overriding need to keep her safe – that this also protected his own happiness was not entirely incidental – but the thought of her in danger in any way, made him feel ill. Yet it was quite clear his desire to protect was never going to sit easily with Cate's appetite for risk. There had to be a middle ground. He solved byzantine problems every day and there must be a way to facilitate agreement between them. An idea occurred. Unusual in this instance perhaps, but if it were to work …

"Is there a potential compromise here?" he asked, carefully.

"What kind of compromise?"

That which may be thought.

"Can we agree on acceptable risk-bearing activities that may reasonably co-exist with us both?"

Cate narrowed her eyes: this was Mycroft-speak. Care was warranted. "Such as?"

That which may be said.

"You will not, knowingly," Mycroft's voice switched instantly to the imperative, his voice deliberate, precise. "Knowingly, go anywhere near lethal violence or lethally violent people." He was adamant. "If you somehow find yourself in any such situation," he paused, thinking, "and God knows you seem to all the time, then you will leave. Immediately and without discussion."

"What if I can't leave?" Cate thought of Bilbao.

That which may be done.

"Then you will do your utmost, your absolute utmost, Cate, to steer clear of trouble, including the avoidance of any antagonisation of bad people." Mycroft was thinking of al Badour.

"What about such things as martial arts, or if I wanted to learn how to shoot, or climb Everest?

All else was detail.

Less than joyful, Mycroft looked at her assessingly. Everest? Dear Christ. He exhaled.

"I can probably deal with your irresponsible attitude to personal danger and the incomprehensible desire to wreak physical havoc upon yourself," he muttered with bad grace. "But I reserve the right to complain about it." Lifting her hand, he inspected the knuckles she'd hurt the first time she'd tried the kyuk pha. While there was no longer anything visible, he remembered his feelings from the night of their argument. He squeezed her fingers.

"As long as you don't necessarily expect me to act upon your complaints, that's fine." Cate shrugged. "Your nagging, I can handle."

"I do not nag," Mycroft looked appalled.

"You certainly do," Cate scoffed. "You have a gift for it." Pushing the lock of hair back from his forehead, she grinned. "I now have immense sympathy for Sherlock."

"Do we have an agreement?" still stroking her knuckles, he looked at her from under his brows.

A Protocol.

"You want me to avoid people and things I know to be lethally violent, you're also asking me not to make any bad situation worse, but you're okay with me being involved in activities which may be dangerous?"

Of three parts. The Trivium.

Mycroft considered. While imperfect, it was at least a basis of agreement which might later be amended. Possibly extended. "Yes," he said.

"Then what am I to do with you?" Cate smiled innocently. "You have to be one of the most dangerous people I'll ever meet."

Mycroft scowled. Unfortunately, she was correct. Caught in his own scheme, he'd have to extemporise.

"I don't count," assuming a righteous expression, his words were quietly confident. "I'm your husband."

"How can you not count?" Cate was laughing. "You're lethally violent, admit it."

"Not to you," his virtuous look slipped into something more comfortable. "Although I confess to dangerous feelings where you're concerned."

"I rather like that idea," she looked at him. "How dangerous?"

Mycroft stood, smiling. He held out a hand. "Apparently I have an entire day to show you."

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THE END

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NEW STORY … Mycroft Holmes in Excelsis

A romance. Christmas, biological warfare, kidnapping, family secrets and a Tango. A Cate and Mycroft story.

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My thanks to everyone who read and enjoyed and reviewed this story. It's very kind of you, and fully appreciated.

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