Chapter Ten

The Flying Squad – "I have a knife" – Armed and Ready – Anathema – Goodbye, My Love – A Mad Bitch – A Very Nasty Fall – Not For Cuddling – Escape to Brussels – Gratitude – I Intend To Watch – A Scoundrel – Say Goodbye to England – What Did I Do? – Breakfast in Bed – Not Always in Public.

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It was fortunate the roads were more-or-less empty at this early hour of the morning, as the sight of six of the Met's silver BMWs clad in their usual retroreflective livery flying along Abingdon Street towards Lambeth Bridge, might have attracted an inconvenient crowd.

Following immediately behind the lead car, D.I. Garret was already confirming the arrival of the Counter-terrorism team, advising them of the high risk of biological military hardware being on-scene and ensuring the presence of Type One Hazmat suits. Just in case.

She had also ordered the closing of the bridge and road blocks and detours to be set up at either end, making sure that while nobody now could get in, it was also sure that absolutely nobody was able to get out, either.

As the lead car, an armed response vehicle, braked hard, its occupants piled out swiftly, weapons hugged tight against their bodies until needed.

Garret was on the ground in the next second and commanded the situation from the moment she stepped onto the pavement.

"Do we have the bolt-cutters?" she was already thinking of alternatives in case they didn't.

"Two in the last response-car," a voice whispered. "I'll get them."

"With me," beckoning to the armed officers as she jogged around the parked vehicles, Garret found herself at the steel gate Sherlock had been trying to very hard to breach for the last forty-eight hours. Sending him a mental apology, she was not in the least surprised when one of the armed response team indicated it was already open. "Inside, then," Julie nodded. "Quickly."

On silent, rubber-soled shoes, the police descended into the black depths beneath the Lambeth Bridge obolisque.

###

Greg knew he didn't have long. No matter how hard Sherlock was trying to keep him above the surface of the dark water, the tide was coming in too fast and the chain on his wrist was simply too short. Nearly every wave now washed over his face and he had to fight desperately for breath with each second. Though he knew it was all going to be over in the next few minutes, a part of him refused to admit defeat, gasping for each breath of air, no matter how faint it was or how difficult to find.

"I can get you out of this, Inspector," Sherlock gasped as well, as small waves lapped against his mouth. "You don't have to die here tonight."

"Now you fucking tell me, you prat," Lestrade coughed and wheezed as the water went up his nose. "How?"

"I have a knife," the younger Holmes spat water away. "I can cut your hand off."

Lestrade's heart faltered. The chain was on his right wrist. He was right-handed. He'd no longer be able to do the things he'd spent a lifetime doing. Assuming he lived; he'd be invalided out of the Force, a wreck. He'd be less than he was. Jesus bloody Christ.

"Do it," he said. "Do it now."

###

Reaching the inner iron door, Garret sent the armed officers through first, following immediately after they advised the area was clear. Stepping into the light she raised her eyebrows at the drying trail of blood painted along the floor at her feet.

There was a man groaning on the floor at the other end of the room near what looked like a second exit. After checking the man for weapons and injuries, the officers, all with weapons levelled to a ready-stance, moved cautiously but unwaveringly onwards.

###

John had dived down to see if he could pull the chain away from the chair to which Mycroft was attached, or in some way break the chair, but it was no good. Everything was heavy-grade steel and needed more than bare hands to affect it.

"The police are coming with bolt-cutters," he said. "I'll go get one – bring it back fast." He gasped, swimming away quickly.

"You realise we are going to have a very long and detailed conversation about this when we get home," Mycroft was still able to tread water, but he felt an increasing tug of the steel manacle on his wrist with every wave now, though he hoped Cate hadn't noticed. He had to get her to leave. The idea of her being next to him, unable to do anything except watch him drown, was anathema. He had already decided upon a course of action.

"My love," Cate kept her hand under his chin as she clung to him in the freezing water, a small barrier against the spray flying up against his face. "You may howl at me, beat me with a stick and divorce me, if that's what you want to do," she choked against a surge. "But you can't make me leave you here."

She was well aware that there was no more give in the chain that held him down. She could feel it in the way Mycroft's body had ceased lifting and dropping with the rising tide: now he simply hung vertically in the water. Every time he fought for breath, so did she; if he died, her heart would die with him.

###

Standing unseen in the darkest of shadows at the far end of the passageway beyond the now-open watertight door, the man Lestrade had named Happy was in turmoil.

He had spent most of his life, as a child, a teenager and since, as an adult, playing hide-and-seek with the authorities. He'd been in jail, or incarceration of some kind for more years than he'd been out of it. He'd done bad things; some of them really bad things, but he'd never hurt anyone smaller than himself, and he'd never been called coward. Yet that was what his brain was screaming at him right now. Coward! Murderer!

No matter what he had been paid to do, no matter what consequences he might have to endure as a result of this, his conscience apparently was not going to allow him to let these men die.

His right hand was clenched tight. Opening it, he stared down at the key he'd lifted from Surly's pocket; it was the one that opened all the shackles. Taking a deep breath, he knew what he had to do next.

Stepping out of the shadow, he kicked his trainers off and dropped his jacket, almost bumping into a shorter blonde man running up out of the water.

"Who the hell are you?" the blonde asked, sounding and looking like military.

"I'm one of the bad guys," Happy scanned the dark water in the room. "But I got a key," he added, holding it up for John to see. "It'll unlock all their chains."

"Then give it to me ..." John was about ready to grab it, when the man rushed passed him, diving at speed into the water. With powerful strokes, Happy was almost at Mycroft's side, before he was headed off.

"No," Mycroft shook his head, waving him towards the policeman. "Lestrade first."

Staring at her husband with an agonised expression, Cate said nothing, but tried to lift his chin fractionally higher as the water rose another inch.

Nodding, the man powered himself the several meters away until he was alongside the silver-haired policeman and Sherlock. Lestrade's face was now almost completely submerged with every lap of water. There was the glint of steel in Sherlock's hand.

"Give me a second," Happy gasped, taking a huge breath and duck-diving beneath the surface.

Fumbling his way down Lestrade's body, he located the shackle and fumbled the key into the lock with clumsy, numbed fingers. He felt it click and open, releasing the captive.

With a gasp of success, Lestrade surged up above the surface, dragging in massive lungfuls of air, as his body responded wildly, gloriously able to breathe.

Turning back the way he'd come, Happy made it to Mycroft's side within seconds. Repeating the exercise, he dived down into the pitch-black water, fumbling for the man's wrist and locating the keyhole.

But the icy chill of the rising water acted first on the extremities, and the man's fingers were already deadened with cold. As he aimed the slim steel key by sense of touch alone, it skidded off the wrist-shackle and out of his fingers, plummeting down through the murky water to the dark stone floor beyond. There would be no chance of locating it in time to free Mycroft now.

Surfacing, he looked across at Cate; his eyes went wide with horror. "The key's lost," he gasped.

Her chest seized in icy realisation; she wanted to scream; to scream and rant at the unfairness of everything.

"Cate, you must go now," Mycroft coughed as water again brushed over his face. "You can't stay here, I can't bear it."

If there was one thing that might have made her change her mind, it was this. That Mycroft's suffering would be made worse by her presence, not lessened.

Unable any longer to maintain a semblance of stoicism, Cate's tears mingled unseen with the salted water of the river. "I won't leave you," she cried. "I can't."

"Goodbye, my love," Mycroft sighed, putting his final plan into action. Taking a last breath, he slipped beneath the surface of the water.

###

Stepping further into the stone room, Julia observed what was clearly the aftermath of a fight involving several people. Apart from the blood on the floor and bloody fingerprints on the walls and table, there were overturned chairs and a few broken items.

At the far end of the room, the groaning man had clearly been involved in the recent skirmish. The way he lay, half-propped up against the cold stone wall spoke volumes. He was also making his plight known very loudly, demanding morphine in one breath and threatening terrible revenge with the next.

"Ambulances on their way, Ma'am," Donovan murmured. "This is one of the men we've identified carrying Mycroft Holmes from the Bedford: got his face as clear as anything in the moonlight."

Nodding, Garret went down on one knee in front of the injured man.

"Been in a bit of a fight, eh?" she said. "Where are the others?"

"Won the fight," Surly paused his groaning to stare up at the D.I. with malice in his eyes. "Then that mad bitch attacked me," he muttered. "Unprovoked attack," he said. "I got witnesses to prove it."

"And which mad bitch would this be?" Garret was puzzled. To her knowledge, the only two people involved in the kidnapping had been this man and another male accomplice. There had been a female associate as well?

"Dunno who she is," he snapped. "But she came in with two guys and was asking about Holmes and when I told her he was dead, she went fucking mental and crippled me," his voice was savage. "I'll have the law on her, I will," he lapsed back to his groaning.

Mycroft Holmes was dead?

There was only one woman Garret knew about who might have any real interest in the welfare of Mycroft Holmes ... but ... that would be impossible. Standing but continuing to stare down at the injured man, Julia heard voices shouting at the far exit of the room.

Following the noise, she found herself at the top of another narrow flight of steps – the shouting was coming from down here.

About to investigate, the Inspector paused as an officer carrying bolt-cutters flew past her down the steps, almost immediately followed by a stretcher-bearing paramedic team muttering balefully about Victorian staircase design. There was a lot of noise and the sound of footsteps and bodies shuffling around at the base of the stairs.

Garret looked down into the darkness and waited to see who was going to come up.

Collin Hamran was the first.

###

Cate froze as Mycroft vanished under the water.

This was not happening; this could not be happening, no no no NO … NO …

Taking a breath, she ducked down, searching the murky water. All she could think of was to be with him for as long as she was able, although she wasn't sure what her brain meant by that. Cate began to pull herself downwards when she was dragged forcibly aside by John as he and another man with large steel-cutters swam powerfully down towards Mycroft in the blackening depths. She surfaced, gasping, waiting …

In what seemed like ages, but was probably little more than several seconds, the rescuers whooshed to the surface, bearing Mycroft's limp form between them. Dragging him relentlessly towards the door, John had him out of the water and laid out on the stone floor, pumping the Thames from his lungs even before the other man helped her wade up the last few feet of shallower water.

Now that Hamran had been taken care of, and Lestrade already wrapped in a bright orange cover, Cate was the last to be pulled through the watertight door before it was sealed fast against the rising tide already spilling over the sill into the passageway beyond. Someone threw a blanket around her shoulders, but the only thing in her mind was lying on the floor in front of her.

"He's alright, Cate," John had dragged Mycroft's coat and jacket off and was wrapping him in a blanket. "He's breathing and he'll be okay."

Dropping to her knees, she grasped one of Mycroft's icy hands between her own; rubbing the long thin fingers as if that alone would rouse him.

"Got to get him to the ambulance now, Miss."

"I go where he goes," she stood, following behind as they finagled the stretcher up the narrow steps and out into the upper room.

D.I. Garret moved out of the way to let the Paramedics through, but stepped back to the middle of the room to watch as a second team loaded Surly onto a wheeled-stretcher.

"It was her," he screamed, cowering as best he could and stabbing a finger at Cate. "That's the mad cow what done me over, and those two," he said, pointing at Sherlock and John, "saw it all."

"I need to be with my husband," Cate met Julia's eyes. "Please don't keep me here."

"I only have one question needing an answer and then you can go," the Inspector looked fatigued. "This man," she tipped her head at Surly. "Claims you attacked him without provocation and that he has witnesses to the event," Julia sighed. "Is there any substance to this allegation, Professor Holmes?"

Cate's thoughts were elsewhere and she nodded jerkily. "He told me Mycroft was dead," she said, about to admit that yes, in fact, she was responsible for the injuries, when she felt Sherlock's hand on her shoulder.

"The man fell, Inspector," he said. "Slippery stone floor, you know how it is."

Garret kept her face straight. The floor up here was as dry as chalk.

John nodded. "A very nasty fall," he added. "Potentially very dangerous."

The D.I. raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips. That was two lies. She looked to the tall, silver-haired man. Would there be a nice round number?

Lestrade rested his hand lightly on Cate's other shoulder. "Possibly several falls," he agreed, before holding out the hand to Garret. "D.I. Lestrade," he offered. "I hear you've been trying to track me down."

Then it was true, Julia realised. Cate had attacked the man, but without witnesses willing to testify, nothing would come of the allegation. The man had just told Cate her husband had been murdered … Raising both her eyebrows but otherwise managing to keep an impassive face, Garret nodded at them all, turning back to a frowning, uncertain Cate. The Inspector smiled faintly.

"I think you should go and be with your husband, now, Mrs Holmes," she said quietly. There's nothing to keep you here for, is there?" At the question, Garret stared point-blank at Sherlock, John and Lestrade.

Not a blink between them. Despite herself, she was impressed.

"Where are they taking them?" Lestrade wanted to know. "St Thomas'?"

"You know this area well, Inspector," Julia smiled.

"I was born here," Lestrade shivered as the lack of food, cold, wet clothing and anxiety of the last few days began to catch up with him.

"I'm bloody famished," he said. "Fancy finding an all-night chippy and telling me what's been going on around here since Christmas Eve?"

Julia hesitated. There were still things to follow up, phone calls to make, people to upset and of course, the inevitable paperwork. Apparently, Lestrade was a mind-reader.

"Once I've had something to eat and a few hours kip," he said, "I can help."

"If this is your attempt at charm," Garret was unyielding. "It's awful. Okay, where to?"

"There's a nice clean little place down the back of my flat," he said. "Which means I can get some dry clothes on the way."

###

They had found her something dry to wear at the hospital, although the best they could manage was a set of cotton surgical scrubs. Comfortable and enveloping, not even Mycroft could disapprove.

The noises around her ceased to register a long time ago. Cate could only think about him waking up. It was all she wanted, all she could hope for. Everything else paled beside this necessity; everything else was distant and unreal.

His skin was pallid; smooth and clear in his sleep. They'd taken the oxygen mask off him an hour before, and now all he had was a translucent nasal cannula blowing almost pure oxygen into his lungs.

She was desperately tired. It was nearly eight in the morning and though it had only been about twenty-four hours since she'd last slept, the events of the last day and night had drained her of every drop of resilience and energy. Emotionally, physically and in every meaningful way, she had nothing left, no reserves at all. Her exhaustion made it increasingly difficult to stay awake, and all she wanted to do was crawl into the bed of the man beside her and sleep for a million years.

Blinking hard to keep awake as she held his warming hand, Cate jumped at the sound of his voice.

"Did you actually invite me to beat you with a stick?" he gravelled, his words slow and a little rough.

Thank God. Cate's heart thumped with unutterable relief as she brought Mycroft's hand to her face. "Hello, darling," she whispered, brushing his skin with her cheek. "Welcome back."

"My love," he murmured, tiredly. "Why are you over there when I am over here?"

She almost smiled. "You're in hospital," she said. "The beds are designed for your physical well-being, rather than for cuddling."

"I shall have to do something about that," he muttered. "My physical well-being includes having you in my arms, so arrange it, please," his eyes flickered closed and his voice trailed to a whisper.

"You'll have to scoot back a little in that case," Cate's lips twitched as he edged to the furthest side of the tight-fitting sheets.

Lifting the nearest covers, she wriggled her way in beside him, sighing as the warmth of his body met her own.

Without thought, she lifted her head as his arm slid around her and she found herself lying easily against him. The regular beat of his heart and the gentle rise-and-fall of his chest were too much. In the time it took her to realise Mycroft was truly alright, she was dead to the world.

Curling around her, Mycroft groaned quietly as Cate's warmth and softness relaxed his aching body to the point of ease, and he too, slept.

Mycroft's personal doctor had abandoned his breakfast, making his way directly to the private rooms of St Thomas' as soon as he had been advised of the situation. Stepping into the room, ready with a civilised greeting and assurances of an immediate transfer to a more discreet medical facility, he stopped short, a smile curling his mouth at the unprecedented sight of Mycroft Holmes, bastion and unsung defender of the British People, fast asleep, wrapped around his wife.

###

Garret answered her mobile phone and nodded in relief.

As soon as the tide had dropped sufficiently, the lethal canisters had been taken quietly and carefully away. With the greatest speed and a minimum of fuss and under the cover story of a sewer gas-leak, the road-blocks and police presence were easily explained, as the super-deadly containers had been removed from their subterranean bolthole. A brilliant yellow plastic tent shrouded the gateway in the Lambeth Bridge obolisque as each cylinder of death was lifted, tenderly, like a baby, into a specially-fitted van, then whisked away to be properly dealt with this time. The road-blocks had just now been removed, hence the call.

Returning to the screen, she read from a print-out. "Sir Samuel Kinlan," she said, looking up at the magnified facial-image on the wall. "Europarl lobbyist, establishment mouthpiece for the far right, suspected links with half-a-dozen Nationalist and neo-fascist groups, several of which are on Interpol's Black list," she paused, an aggrieved expression on her face. "And a right bastard, by all accounts."

"This was taken when, exactly?" Sherlock steepled his fingers as he slouched in the chair in Lestrade's office.

"CCTV observed him exiting the Lambeth Bridge vault approximately thirty minutes before we arrived," she said. "He got into a waiting Mercedes, the ownership of which has been traced to a shell company and which is being investigated further as we speak, and was last seen heading up Millbank towards Whitehall." Garret frowned. She could have used Lestrade's local knowledge about now.

Despite protests to the contrary, the Inspector had been told he needed several days recuperation and was to go home. After a significant amount of arguing and pleading, Julia had eventually agreed to meet him later for a pizza in order to keep him in the loop. Lestrade maintained he was fit and able to continue at his desk.

"Do not," she had said, "attempt to bullshit a bullshitter."

Lestrade had the grace to look mildly sheepish. "I hate not knowing what's going on. Drives me nuts."

"I know the feeling," Garret smiled. "See you at seven."

The desk-phone rang. Listening, Garret screwed up her face in annoyance.

"Rats," she said. "Kinlan's just been waved through at Gatwick on a diplomatic passport to Brussels," the Inspector sighed fatalistically. "I don't think we'll be seeing him for a while."

"You know," Sherlock brooded. "I'm not so sure." He reached for his Blackberry.

###

The new kitchen floor at 221B was remarkably similar to the old floor, save that this one was of industrial-grade, non-toxic vinyl tile. At least there were no acid stains, Mycroft raised his eyebrows. Or bullet holes … for the moment.

"You didn't ask me here to show me your lovely new kitchen floor, did you?" he asked as Sherlock handed him a cup and saucer. "It's very pretty."

"Thank you," Sherlock was perfectly earnest. "The proud father is over there," he said, nodding at his flatmate.

John sighed. "Just because you can't be arsed to keep this flat in a sanitary condition," he muttered. "Doesn't mean I have to put up with it." The blonde man turned to their visitor. "How's Cate?"

"She's a little … preoccupied," Mycroft frowned slightly. "And I am reminded to thank you for your … assistance in that black hell-hole," he said, a tightness forming in his belly and around his eyes. "Had you not … had you and Sherlock been … if Cate …" he inhaled gustily. "Thank you."

"Not at all," John smiled as he took a biscuit from a nearby plate. "No need to get gushy."

"If there's any practical way in which I might express my thanks ..?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

"Do you imagine for one second that either Sherlock or I would accept anything?" John was mildly scandalised.

"Let's not be premature about this, John," Sherlock also reached for a biscuit. "There may be an occasion for my brother to be even more grateful, especially if we save his life a second time."

A second time? What was this?

"Do tell, Sherlock," Mycroft's eyes narrowed as he continued to sip his Earl Grey.

Sherlock told.

Their tea was quite cold by the time he finished. Mycroft sighed. He had hoped the police would have been able to close this matter, but apparently not. There was still work to do.

He stood. "I must decide which one, of all the options available, is least hazardous," he said.

Sherlock noted his brother was careful not to say 'least hazardous for Cate' but though unspoken, her name was there.

Making his way to the door of the flat, Mycroft turned suddenly to John.

"You know, Doctor," he murmured. "Regardless of whether you will accept my gratitude or not," he paused. "You have it, and it may take whatever future shape you desire."

It was in the Jaguar on the way back to the townhouse that Mycroft decided on the most effective strategy to handle this new tangle. It would be risky, but then, all the alternatives were risky.

As they were already planning to return to Deepdene, then that was the option he would take. Mycroft believed it to be the most likely to succeed, although Cate's involvement might be a wild card. He needed one more conversation, to be quite sure. Lifting his phone, he called Russia.

###

It was still possible, if one knew the right people and had sufficient funds, to travel privately from the Continent to Britain without recourse to British Customs or immigration niceties. Samuel Kinlan had both, and touched down in a small, private jet at Wisley Airfield near Dorking, just after midnight. He was met by a dark Mercedes and two tall, light-haired young men, one slightly darker than the other. Both men appeared older than their years; their expression too emotionless for such youthful eyes. Though neither of them was over thirty, both were competent and experienced killers. They came highly recommended.

"You know your target?" Kinlan wanted to be certain.

"We have him," the darker-haired one nodded.

"How will you do it?"

"Better, perhaps, you do not know," the other responded. The slightest trace of a north-European accent.

"Quite," Kinlan smiled ruefully. "One forgets there are still professionals in the world."

"You should not be here," the first one observed. "You should be seen by many people as far away as possible."

"Everyone thinks me in Brussels," Kinlan smiled mockingly. "To all intents and purposes, I have not re-entered this country."

"Still," the other added. "It is unnecessarily dangerous."

"Possibly," Kinlan scowled, "But you forget one thing."

"The darker of the two men lifted an eyebrow. "And what is that?"

"I intend to watch."

###

Outside, the sky beyond this room was dark and cold, the full-moon almost at its highest arc of the month, but inside …

Throwing another log onto an already well-heaped fire, Cate stretched back along the sofa, her head resting on a cushion at Mycroft's side, her eyes focused on her laptop's scrolling screen. There was a gin-and-tonic on the floor within easy reach of her hand. She felt almost relaxed.

Mycroft had expressed an interest in the documents collated from the Holmes lineage research and Cate thought it amusing to recount some of the histories. One or two of them had been eyebrow-raising.

Example one: the Honourable Gervaise Vernet Holmes, sometime Mayor of Oakhampton, had turned out to be the leader of a gang of Wreckers, bringing ships to grief on the Devonshire rocks in order to plunder their bounty. He died, gruesomely, on the gibbet at Mary Tavy. Example two: Lady Caroline de Pruys, neé Caroline Perll Holmes, who, when courted by a Dutch merchant, wedded him, bedded him, buried him, then married her eldest step-son. There was even a portrait. The Lady Caroline looked terrifying: all wig and bosom.

"And then there was a Methodist Bishop, Hiram Zachariah Holmes, in Philadelphia, 1866," Cate read. "Oh."

Pausing from a particularly mendacious cryptic clue in the Guardian's crossword involving two reversals and a double-definition, Mycroft looked up. "Oh?"

"Apparently His Grace, Hiram Zachariah, was laicised by ecclesiastical due process following an unfortunate romp with the wife of one of his Deacons," he could hear amusement in her voice.

"Unfortunate?"

"His defrocking was posthumous," she said. "The Deacon had been a sharpshooter during the Civil War."

"Typical Colonial," Mycroft sighed.

"Typical Holmes, you mean," Cate sighed too. "Judging by the litany of fleshly sins uncovered during the research for your family tree, I'd say quite half of your ancestors were political scoundrels, obsessed with the getting of power, while the other half were profligate philanderers, determined to bed their way to a fortune."

Mycroft shook his head, smiling down at her "I could never be a philanderer,"

Sitting up, Cate turned her head to meet his eyes. "Then are you a scoundrel?" she asked, a curious look on her face.

Frowning, he rationalised the possibilities. "I quite like the idea of being a scoundrel," he mused. "It allows for all manner of appalling self-interest, while leaving the possibility of redemptive behaviour entirely open to circumstance."

"Did I marry a scoundrel?" Cate twisted around on the sofa beside him, a hand on his knee, a lost look on her face. She seemed distracted.

It made his heart ache.

"Cate," he said. "There is obviously something we need to discuss …"

The sound of breaking glass interrupted his sentence.

Her eyes grew wide. She was about to leap off the sofa to investigate, when his hand wrapped around her wrist, holding her still.

"Don't move, my love," Mycroft's voice was quiet and calm. "Be my brave Cate just a little longer."

There was the strangest sensation in her chest, as if she were falling.

Something was wrong and he knew what it was and he hadn't told her …

"Have you been a scoundrel all along, Mycroft?" her words were barely audible as she stilled under his grasp.

It was no surprise at all when two sets of footsteps sounded down the hall and walked into the drawing room.

"Mr Holmes?" a soft European voice inquired. "I think you are indeed Mycroft Holmes."

Cate turned her head. A young man, scarcely older than some of her students, stood at the doorway, a thin, elegant gun in his hand.

"I am Mycroft Holmes."

"And this is your lovely wife," a tall, dark-haired man attired in the best of Savile Row swept into the drawing-room, peeling off his gloves as he did so. "I've been waiting such a long time for an introduction."

Mycroft stood; composed, entirely calm.

"My wife, Cate," he said, squeezing her fingers.

He wanted her to play along … why?

"Samuel Kinlan," the well-dressed intruder gathered her hand into his. "Delighted to make your acquaintance."

His touch offended her. Cate found herself wondering quite dispassionately what the consequences might be if she broke this man's neck.

Extracting her fingers from his hand, she stepped closer to Mycroft.

"And what are you?" Cate asked him over her shoulder. "Thief, traitor or murderer?"

Kinlan drew himself up, a coldness on his face.

"Just like your husband," he spat. "Ill-considered. I had thought to spare you, but I see now I was being naïve."

"My wife has no part in our business," Mycroft drew Cate beside him. "Allow her to leave unharmed and you may do as you wish with me."

"Now you're being naïve," Kinlan snapped, turning away from them. "Do what you've been paid to do," he snarled at the nearer of his hired killers.

"As you wish," the man lifted his pistol to Mycroft's head.

"Not tonight, bucko," John stepped into the room, his Browning levelled and steady. Sherlock followed behind, prodding the second assassin in front of him with Mycroft's Glock.

"The police are on their way," John nodded almost cheerily. "Are you both okay?"

"Perfectly fine, Doctor Watson," Mycroft pulled his phone out of his jacket and pressed a key. His call was connected instantly.

"You may collect the package now," he said.

"Package?" Cate's head was spinning.

"Just a little longer, darling," Mycroft murmured, wrapping a steadying arm around her shoulders. "And then we'll finally be done with this mess."

The back door in kitchen door opened and closed. Again, there was the sound of approaching footsteps.

Peter Menshikov strolled into the drawing-room as if he'd been here a hundred times. "Mycroft, tovarish," he said, clapping Mycroft on the arm. "And the heavenly Ekaterina," he kissed her cheek gently before holding her away to scan her face and frowning at her pallor. "Leave this man who risks your life and come away with me," he suggested, not entirely in joke. "I will never put you in danger," he scowled over her head at Mycroft, a pointed expression on his aristocratic features.

The elder Holmes lifted an eyebrow.

Cate shook her head, her thoughts all over the place. Menshikov sighed and shrugged, before turning to gaze at the enraged Kinlan.

"Sir Samuel," the Russian looked cheerful. "You and I are going to take a little trip in your nice private jet."

"You can't do that," Kinlan blustered. "I won't go."

"You are not really here, Sir Samuel," Menshikov's smile turned suddenly chilly. "I can do whatever I want." Bowing to Cate, the Russian nodded to Mycroft. "I will take my leave now," Menshikov's smile as ferocious as the gun suddenly in his hand. "Say goodbye to England," he said, poking the muzzle into Kinlan's shoulder.

###

After the police had left, taking Sherlock and John back to London with the two hired killers, Cate held, as Mycroft tacked, several layers of thick plastic and card over the broken windowpane. No draft would find its way through before a glazier repaired the damage.

Watching his wife, Mycroft felt an unusual concern. Something was very wrong; had been wrong since they left St Thomas' and if Cate wasn't going to raise it, then he would.

Returning to the drawing-room, he poured an armagnac and sat her in an overstuffed Chesterfield before perching on the low table in front of her. His expression was searching as he watched her taste the spirit, waiting until she met his eyes.

"Tell me, Cate," he said, softly. "Tell me now."

She swallowed. "Tell you what?"

"Evasion?"

She stared into her glass. "I don't know what you mean," she said, listlessly.

"And now a lie?"

Lifting her head, Cate was caught in the deep blue of his gaze. She inhaled slowly.

"There is nothing I … wish to say."

Mycroft pursed his lips and looked sceptical. "And yet there are clearly things that need to be said."

She sighed heavily. "Mycroft, please, just leave this."

Then he had been right. He placed his palms on the arms of her chair.

"Not until you have told what is making you so dreadfully unhappy, my love," he moved to capture her hands, but she shrugged him off.

"There is … nothing …" she sounded uneasy, on edge.

"Darling, tell me," he demanded. "Is it me? Is it something I've done?' Mycroft racked his brain for an explanation to the misery she'd been trying so hard to hide since returning from the hospital; any clue would help.

Cate's face was frozen, her jaw clenched violently against any involuntary sign that might give her away. She daren't speak; once started she might not be able to stop. Her throat spasmed in anguish.

That he was making her even more wretched was unbearable, but he had to find the key to her distress.

"Have I hurt you?" he asked quietly. "Have I done something that makes you unhappy?"

Cate bit her lip as the pressure built inside.

"Please, no more," she strangled the words out. Mycroft hated himself for it, but he had to know.

"What did I do to make you so afraid, my darling Catie?" his words were as soft as an evening breeze.

It was too much. Choking back a sob, she tried to stand to get away, to be away from him, but he stood too, pulling her against him, holding her so very tight.

"Catie, my love," his voice was raw. "What did I do?"

She couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't hold it in any longer.

"You were going to die," she wailed into his chest. "Those men took you and you were going to die, in that place, in the water, in the dark," she clung to him with fingers that left bruises. "You were going to leave me," her tears came in great gasps, fast and hot and from deep inside. "I was never going to hear your voice again, or see you smile at me and I was never going to be happy again ever because you would be dead … if you died, I wanted to die too."

Cate was rigid with pain; seemingly not flesh and blood at all, but a thing of stone and grief in his arms. Huge shudders ripped through her. She'd kept the horror and fear at bay since the van had dragged him away from their house, away from her, but nothing could make the terrible events fade from her memory.

As if an immense internal spring was uncoiling, she wept in great ragged heaves as all the hours of suffering purged themselves slowly from her body.

Mycroft hung on grimly in helpless dismay, his heart pounding as he waited for Cate's emotional torrent to run its course and subside. Acknowledging himself as an imbecile, he realised he should have thought of this; he should have known. Sherlock was not the only Holmes to have difficulty anticipating emotion.

"Darling, darling Catie," he whispered. "It's all over now. I'm not going to leave you, my love," he wrapped her even closer. "I'd never leave you, my heart, don't be frightened for me anymore."

As the race of her tears slowed and her breathing moderated, Cate was gradually being overcome with fatigue. "I must lie down," she whispered, wobbling to the nearest sofa.

Dragging a heavy woollen throw from a pile on a window seat, Mycroft put a cushion under her head and wrapped her in the thick material, wondering if a doctor should be called.

"Cold," she mumbled, shivering.

In seconds he was stretched out on the sofa beside her and had wrapped Cate up in him as well.

About to ask her how she felt, Mycroft realised she was already asleep.

###

When Cate awoke, she was in their bed, still fully-dressed and still ensconced in the wool blanket, buried under several additional quilts and eiderdowns. Mycroft was nowhere around. At some point during the night, he must have carried her, wrap and all, upstairs.

She was still weary but she was warm, and there was a lightness inside her. She stretched experimentally and though stiff, felt reasonably normal, just tired. Her face was grimy. Cate wondered exactly how horrible she looked.

Debating whether to drag herself to the bathroom, there was the sound of footsteps on the staircase. In another moment, Mycroft walked into the bedroom in his robe, carrying a large and well-laden tray.

"Breakfast in bed I thought, as it's New Year's Eve," he smiled carefully, watching her eyes.

Cate breathed deeply, waiting for the inevitable wave of anxiety that had greeted her each morning for the last few days, only to find it gone. She smiled tentatively.

"How are you feeling, love of my life, darling of my heart?" Mycroft placed the tray at the bottom of the bed and sat beside her, his fingers linking into hers. He looked uncertain. "Could you manage to eat something? I brought a little breakfast."

Cate assessed the state of her stomach: she hadn't been hungry since the Embassy party and realised she was ravenous.

"I'm starving," she said, coughing at the rawness of her throat. "Tea, please," she coughed again, sipping the hot liquid which soothed as much as it burned.

The efficacy of tea never failed, and Cate felt herself revive as the warmth travelled through her.

"I have to wash my face. Back in a second," she said, easing out of bed and into the bathroom. Her eyelids looked a little pink and tender, but other than that, she seemed remarkably normal. Feeling much fresher when she crawled back under the covers, she saw what Mycroft called a 'little' breakfast included eggs, bacon, toast, strawberries, honey, a large pot of tea, and just-squeezed orange.

"I'll never be able to make a dent in this," she looked back at him, only to find her breath catching at his expression. Doting. His look was doting.

"You have no idea how adorable you are when you're hungry," Mycroft poured her a glass of orange. "Drink this," he said. "You need to regain your energy." He knew they needed to talk about last night, but they also needed distance, some perspective, before that discussion.

Cate smiled. "I need energy?"

Meeting her eyes, he lifted his eyebrows, a speculative look on his face. "Oh yes," his eyes were very blue as he fed her a strawberry. "Are you sure you're feeling better?"

"Much," Cate slid beneath the quilts. "As a doctor, I think peace and quiet is ordered."

"So, Doctor," Mycroft smiled, sliding next to her on the bed. "What is your medical opinion of our situation and what regimen do you suggest we follow?" there was amusement in his voice.

Cate adopted a thoughtful expression. "I think fresh air and good food and lots of rest," she said, knowledgably. "I should also be with a competent professional at all times in case I suffer a relapse."

"A relapsed upset?" Mycroft tried hard to look solemn.

"Indeed," she was very serious. "One cannot be too careful in the avoidance of such things, thus I will need a qualified and experienced assistant to administer help at the appropriate times."

"Such as?"

Shrugging, Cate looked earnest. "In the shower, for instance," she nodded sagely. "Many incidences of relapse in the shower or bath, I shouldn't be alone at those times for a while."

"You make a strong case, Doctor," his voice dropped half-an-octave as his fingers caressed the hair back from her face. "What else do you recommend?"

"Bed-rest," she sighed, half-closing her eyes as Mycroft's arms wrapped around her. "Lots of bed-rest."

"And do you need qualified and experienced assistance with that too?" he dropped the other half of the octave, his lips at her ear while his fingers stroked her neck and throat.

"Oh God, yes," she groaned, pulling him down to her.

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# Almost the end #

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It was already growing dark.

"I think we should get up and dress, you know," Cate stretched, catlike, under the covers as Mycroft lay back, hands beneath his head.

"Why?" he felt outrageously lazy.

"Because it's our first New Year's Eve and we should celebrate it in style," she blinked slowly, almost willing to be convinced to stay in bed.

"We can celebrate in style right here," he murmured. Reaching over, he rested his chin on the top of her head, his fingers stroking soft circles on her shoulder.

"I want champagne and music and candles," she was in the mood to be demanding. "And I want to kiss you precisely at midnight as the New Year arrives."

Mycroft sighed. After a day of demonstrating to Cate, quite thoroughly and leaving no room for any doubt that she need fear for his continued vitality, he felt gratifyingly indolent. Smiling in the growing darkness of the bedroom, he recognised that breakfast in bed had been a stroke of brilliance. He would remember it for the future.

This further reminded him of … yes. Perfect.

"Very well," he smiled even more. "Would you like me to scrub your back again?"

###

Drying her hair after their extended shower, Cate was about to slide into jeans and a sweatshirt when she saw a familiar casing laid out upon the bed. Unzipping it revealed the dark red dress she had worn to the Embassy party. Mycroft walked back into the bedroom already tying a bow around the collar of a crisp white shirt.

She smiled in delight.

"You're a genius," she grinned up at him.

"I am," he nodded, smiling, his eyes widening as she wriggled into the gown exactly as she was. Seeing Cate nude was a sensual pleasure, but knowing she was naked under a few strips of fabric was both arousing and seductive. Mycroft took a deep breath: he needed to pace himself with greater care lest his enthusiasm for his wife bring about the very thing that she feared.

Lowering the lights in the dining-room, he opened a bottle of Krug and poured two flutes. Stepping into the next room, he selected the exact music that had been in his head for days, and set the CD to play.

The tapping of Cate's shoes into the room coincided with the rise of the music. Turning, Mycroft saw that she had applied cosmetics and perfume: her jewels shone in the subtle lighting. She looked edible. Despite the activities of the day, he felt himself unequivocally roused. He handed her a glass.

"You tango?" he asked, looking down at the gleaming darkness of her eyes. "You must."

"I tango," she laughed, "although I didn't know you did."

"There are a number of things I will never do in public, my love," he said, smoothing his fingers over her arm and neck, sliding down the bareness of her spine, curving over her hip.

She smiled.

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THE END

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NEW STORY ... The Double-First of Mycroft Holmes

A romance. Secrets, suspicion and seduction. An old love-affair, an old war and a new life.

A Cate and Mycroft story.

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Thank you to everyone who has read, enjoyed and reviewed this story.

You are incredibly generous and your comments are quite thrilling.

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