Acknowledgements:

This is a non-profit homage based upon characterisations developed by Messrs. Moffat, Gatiss and Thompson for the BBC series Sherlock. The character of Mycroft has been brought to life through the acting skills of Mr. Gatiss. No transgression of copyright or licence is intended.

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Note:

This narrative is fifth in a series. Your enjoyment of this story will likely be enhanced if you read the first four in their chronological order:

The Education of Mycroft Holmes

Mycroft Holmes: A Terminal Degree

Mycroft Holmes and the Trivium Protocol

Mycroft Holmes in Excelsis

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The Double-First of Mycroft Holmes

Chapter One

An Annoyance of Headaches – Ennui – Alliances – The Talk – The Nature of a Problem – Persuasion – An Announcement – The Distant Crackle of Gunfire – Not Victorian England – The Right Hand of Mycroft Holmes.

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The headaches were small, incidental things at first, usually nothing a few minutes rest couldn't fix. Then they became a little more aggressive but an aspirin or two seemed to do the trick. It was probably overwork: the job was particularly demanding at the moment. In addition to her normal lecturing responsibilities, there were two additional PhD candidates to support through their first year; a big conference in Vienna a couple of months away, at which she was a keynote speaker; she had also started writing a new monograph; and on top of this she had been suckered into writing a postgraduate course on forensic novelisation: the transformation of living drama into fiction or magical realism. The only reason she'd agreed to that was that she now had a number of good, solid contacts and friends, in the police force. Cate had also read John's blog on numerous occasions, and was trying to think of a way in which she could persuade him into supplying details for the course's case-studies. She felt a little weary: too much to do and not nearly enough hours in the week.

Thus the headaches were a pain in more ways than one; they distracted her from whatever bit of her job was clamouring most loudly for her attention at the time, and the one thing Cate did not have time for, was an ongoing nuisance like this. She had never been overly keen on taking anything, ever, and knew she was fortunate not to need regular medication. So the headaches, when they kept returning, were, at first, an irritant, then an annoyance, until finally Cate thought she might have a word with the doctors at the University medical centre. Both the full-time doctors over there were old friends, and both owed her a favour or two. Cate decided she'd give one of them a call and have a chat.

Doctor Pilar Torres answered the internal phone call. "Hiya, Cate. Long time no hear; what's up?"

"Hello, Pilly," Cate smiled at the sound of her Chilean friend's voice. "I'm having headaches and it's beginning to get annoying."

"Headaches as in problems or as in headaches? You staring for hours at your computer-screen again?" Torres was an expert on the abuse to which academics commonly subjected their bodies. Too many deadlines, too much coffee, too little fresh-air, yet her friend would not normally call for anything minor, so Pilar was curious.

"As in pains in my head," Cate sighed. "And no more than usual," she added. "I take regular breaks, drink plenty of water and limit my caffeine," she added. "So I have no clue what the problem is."

"You still pretty active physically? Getting plenty of exercise?" Torres went through a mental checklist.

"Oh yes," in the privacy of her office, Cate's grin was shameless. Apart from her dancing and Hapkido, she was married to a man who viewed the physical side of their relationship as high art. Whatever was causing the headaches, it was unlikely to be a lack of exercise.

"Eating well? No problems anywhere else?"

"Like a horse and no; it's only the headaches, although I am feeling a bit tired with all the work on my desk, but then," Cate was philosophical. "Who isn't, these days?"

"Maybe you'd better pop over and I'll get some samples for testing, just to be on the safe side, hey? Can you come over now? It's nice and quiet."

"There in ten," Cate smiled down the phone as she hung up.

###

The man beside her was asleep and unlikely to provide any amusement for a while. She sighed. The more choice she had, the younger her lovers became, and yet they were barely adequate and with so little style. She sighed again, longing for the days when there was real ardour in her men, when love was measured in jewels and furs and fierce devotion and sometimes, in blood. Was she really getting old?

Slipping off the massive circular bed, she walked across to the great curved bank of mirrors behind her dressing-table. Allowing the sheer peignoir to drift from her shoulders to the floor, she stepped, naked, beyond the pooling silk and analysed herself in the mass of reflections. Adopting a variety of poses, she scrutinised every last curve, both convex and concave. The smoothness of her skin was next and the voluptuous slide of long, elegant muscle beneath. The bones of her face and neck and the way the lights caught and displayed their structure; the clarity of her wide grey eyes; the thoroughbred lines of her shoulders, arms and hands. Anything, in fact, that was of the physical. She smiled, pleased. Her skin was lightly golden and flawless. Any wrinkles were so fine as to be unnoticeable at this distance and in this light. Her hair was magnificent; a mane of darkly honeyed-gold that hung thickly over her shoulders without the slightest acknowledgement of grey.

Talina Sarkis was an unquestionable testament to the beautician's science and she knew it. A superbly beautiful woman with everything, it seemed, she could possibly want, apart from one important thing. She was bored. She hated boredom with a passion, but she knew a way to relieve it, a way out of this suffocating ennui. She needed a distraction: something dangerous and risky; something that would make her blood run faster.

A name and a face arrived in her thoughts. Such an old name, a name she hadn't thought about for years. Sat at her dressing table, she pulled open a small drawer. Inside were a number of flat jewellery boxes. Opening one in particular, she saw a collection of rings and digging through, she found one that was rather plain; gold, without attempt at decoration or embellishment. It was a wedding-ring and it had been hers. It was half of a pair.

The name in her head was responsible for its twin. Perhaps it was time for them to be reunited.

There was only one way to accomplish this.

She would have to start a war.

###

Seated at his moderate but well-appointed desk in his moderate but well-appointed office in an anonymous building in Whitehall, Mycroft Holmes skimmed through a thick sheaf of print-outs pertaining to political traffic around Eastern Europe. Notices of new alliances, of local followings; of the removal of the old guard through power-play or death; the rise of young Turks and the development of new terrors. Europe was a capricious chessboard, and he kept an eye on all the key pieces. One never knew when a king might be checked.

"Anthea," he knew his assistant would be considering leaving for the evening. "First thing in the morning could you track down Interior Minister Datshi Tsiklauri in Tbilisi, for me please? Something's going on along the border near Alaverdi, and I want to know what it is."

"Would you like me to arrange a meeting with Mr Tsiklauri?"

"Only if he has definite information," Mycroft recalled how the man loved to talk. "If so, fit him into a secure video-conference sometime tomorrow afternoon: immediately prior to my chat with the PM, might be prudent."

"Anything else you need, Sir?" her voice, coolly efficient, held the merest hint of haste. Ah. One of her suitors was waiting. The newest of the three she was currently dangling on various strings, given the slight impatience. An artist, this new one, they would naturally be attending the opening of the Bauhaus exhibit at the Tate Modern.

Nothing more, thank you," Mycroft smiled faintly. "Enjoy Gropius," he said, flicking the intercom closed.

The Jaguar did well in the evening's traffic, enabling him to walk through the door of the townhouse a little after six-thirty.

Throwing his keys into a Georgian silver fruit-dish, Mycroft hung his coat and slid his umbrella into an old seventy-five millimetre brass shell-casing by the door.

Music was playing, a nostalgic piece of violin and cello in minor keys.

Cate was home and in a romantic mood. He smiled. He had brought flowers and she would be pleased. He enjoyed pleasing her; it made his life breath-takingly interesting. Walking into the kitchen, the place was redolent with garlic and rosemary and mint, as she basted a thick piece of lamb before sliding it back into the oven. He had spotted roasting potatoes too.

"Dinner in about forty-five minutes, my love," she smiled up at him, her expression brightening even more when she saw the bouquet of Gardenia in his hand. "How lovely," she buried her face into the creamy-white blossoms, inhaling deeply.

Lifting her hand to the side of his face, she drew him down into a kiss. "I love you even when you don't bring me flowers," she murmured.

Sliding his arms around her waist, he pulled her gently closer.

"And how do you feel about me when I do?" he nibbled the lobe of her ear.

"Like this," she whispered, parting his lips with her own, Cate kissed him slowly and meticulously, until his head swam with the sensation of her.

"Better stop," his voice was husky. "Or dinner will be late again."

"We have forty-five minutes," Cate was still grazing his lips with her own. "I'll set the timer."

"Damn the timer," Mycroft pulled her tighter, claiming her mouth and making her shiver with desire as he groaned softly into her.

Dinner was only a little late.

###

It had been several weeks since she'd last seen him, but then he'd invited her for a drink, which had turned into a dinner, which had ended up back at a pub. Then he called her again the following week, and again two weeks later. Each time they'd met up somewhere nothing special; had something fairly ordinary to eat and drink, had a few incidental laughs. No big deal.

The next week, he'd asked her to go to the pictures with him. She'd said yes, except it was a horror film which scared the bejesus out of her.

It took them both several minutes to realise she'd grabbed his hand. It took them another few minutes to realise he hadn't let go.

So; here they were. In a perfectly ordinary restaurant, doing what hundreds of thousands of people were doing all over the country, having dinner out. Except this time, they were having The Talk.

"Soccer, West Ham, actually," Lestrade laughed.

"Rugby Union, All Blacks and Reeboks," Garret lifted her eyebrows.

"Beer and occasionally a half-decent Scotch," Greg smiled faintly.

"Red wine and Vodka; the good stuff for preference," Julia sat back in her seat, nibbling a breadstick.

"David Attenborough documentaries and B-grade science-fiction films," his eyebrow twitched just a little.

"World news and vampire flicks," her mouth curved slightly.

"What," he narrowed his eyes, uncertain. "Not those awful …"

"Yes, exactly those," she remained straightfaced. "I'm a hopeless romantic."

"Jeez," he sucked in a deep breath and looked faintly agonised. "I thought bad science fiction was going to be hard to top."

They both paused, sipping their respective drinks.

"You know, without the smallest shadow of any doubt whatsoever, that this is not going to work, don't you?" Julia Garret pointed the breadstick at him.

"Of course it's not going to work," Leaning forward onto the table; Greg Lestrade raised his eyebrows and nodded. "It hasn't got a chance in hell of working."

"I mean," Garret ticked off the points on her fingers. "We're both D.I.s, which means we both work appalling hours under unbelievable levels of stress in order to meet unrealistic deadlines."

"And don't forget the paperwork," Lestrade shook his head. "Endless, bloody paperwork."

"Plus either of us could be transferred to the far corners of the country at almost any time," Julia nodded philosophically.

"If we put in for it," Greg frowned. "Only if we wanted a transfer."

"But it could happen," Garret shook her head again.

"Speaking hypothetically, yes, it could," Lestrade liked the way her eyelids blinked so slowly when she was thinking. It was alluring, hypnotic, almost.

"And we're completely different kinds of people," Julia looked up into a pair of fascinating hazel eyes and felt her breath stall for a moment. They were so like her own yet completely different. "Nothing in common between us."

"Not a thing," Greg agreed, cheerfully.

"So what are we doing here?" Julia smiled when she noticed a small tuft of his hair move every time his raised his eyebrows.

The light in this place makes her look exotic, he thought. Such high cheek-bones.

"Dunno what you're doing here," Lestrade laughed as he sipped his beer. "But I'm having dinner with a gorgeous bird who doesn't mind that I'm a copper."

Julia sat back in her chair again, her eyes evaluating the tall Londoner.

"You know I said ages ago your attempts at charm were awful?" she said.

"Yeah," Greg grinned again.

"You're improving, but it's still not going to work," she smiled, slowly biting the end off her breadstick.

###

There was a voicemail message from Pilar Torres on her office phone. She noticed her two computer screens had been moved from their normal places. IT had probably been in here messing around again. She wished they'd tell her about these visits in advance.

"Morning, Pilly," Cate was still shrugging out of her coat as she held the phone to her ear. "What can I do for you?"

"Hello, Cate. Are you free sometime this morning? I'd like to have a talk."

The faintest of prickles washed across Cate's skin. It was unlike Pilar to be quite so inexpressive.

"Something wrong?"

"It's not really something I can discuss on the phone, so best you come over here as soon as you can."

"How about right now?" Cate stood back up.

"Perfect," the doctor was giving nothing away. "See you in a few."

Sliding her coat back on, Cate frowned. It had to be something to do with the tests. It sounded urgent. Whatever it was, it didn't bode well.

It took less than ten-minutes to reach the University Medical Centre in Gower Street.

"Sit down, Cate," Pilar took her own seat behind the desk. "Thanks for getting here so early."

"You sounded as if this was important, urgent even."

"In some ways it is," the doctor took a deep breath.

"Do you know what's giving me the headaches?" Cate was starting to feel a pulse of alarm. Pilar did not look relaxed.

"Yes, we do, but that's not the problem."

There was a problem.

"Then what is it?"

Doctor Torres told her.

###

The conversation with Tsiklauri had been inconclusive, yet the man had hinted at certain disturbing activities just over the Georgian border, in the hinterland of Armenian Akhtala. He had used the phrase agitated warlords twice and the word provoked in several contexts. What was happening in the far northern reaches of Armenia to upset the locals? Who or what was provoking whom?

Running a mental audit of assets in the area, Mycroft recalled a certain provincial journalist who might be persuaded to remember a certain favour once provided by the British Crown – a small matter of an alibi during some highly unorthodox anti-Soviet reportage back in the early nineties.

"See if we still have contact details for Ara Chakarian, would you?" he asked, knowing his assistant's facility for names would provide her with the necessary entrée.

Within a matter of minutes, Anthea had him connected on a secure line.

"Mr Chakarian, how pleasant to speak with you again," Mycroft was urbanity itself. "I trust you are quite well?"

"Professor Chakarian, now, Mr Holmes," the man said. "I teach at the University of Yerevan these days and I am very well, thank you."

"And do you recall the giddy excitement of life before the academy?" the elder Holmes toyed with the plain gold ring on his right hand. "Of life as an anonymous author, perhaps?

There was a brief silence at the other end of the phone.

"My memory is as good as yours, Mr Holmes, although my imagination appears lacking. Why are we having this conversation?"

Mycroft informed him.

The professor wasn't being asked to do so much, not really. Just keep his ear to the ground and perhaps do a little extra-curricular investigative work, just to keep his hand in, of course. The value of contemporary experience in the field could never be underestimated.

###

Cate found herself back in her office. She had no idea how she had arrived here; or by which route. She sat at her desk, still in her overcoat, her mind reeling.

Her heart was beating as hard as it had when Pilar first explained her medical condition. She had no idea, not an inkling: she had felt entirely fine, no discomfort, no illness. But that's how it went, she supposed. You woke up one day and … there you were.

Feeling slightly nauseous – shock, she realised – Cate knew she would do no work today.

"Natalie, I'm not feeling very well and I'm going home," she advised the general Admin for the department. "If anyone needs me, get them to send an email please."

Locking her office door, Cate wandered aimlessly down to street-level and stood by the kerb, not even thinking about hailing a cab. She just stood there.

A cab pulled in on the off-chance she wanted one.

Giving the address, Cate sat back against the firm cushioning of the wide back seat, her body now hyper-aware of every little bounce and shake. The smell of the wind, of car-fumes, of the inside of the cab. Her skin felt the tiniest of breezes and she observed the near-invisible lines of dried rain along the side window nearest her. Details flailed at her consciousness. Her mother used to say that people who were old enough to understand, never forgot where they were, or what they were doing, at the time Kennedy's assassination was announced: she knew now what her mother had meant. Minutia of an entire morning was being written irrevocably into her memory in astonishing depth and dimension.

Her Samsung rang: of course, it would have to be Mycroft. Before she'd even begun to get her thoughts together, she needed to be able to hide them from her husband. Cate wasn't ready to deal with him yet: she had to get some shape to her own thinking first.

"Hello, Darling," the words rang oddly even in her own ears.

"What's the matter?" His voice was immediately probing. "Something's wrong, what is it?"

She should have known better than to imagine deception was possible.

"I'm not feeling well and I'm going home," she answered truthfully.

"Do you need a doctor?" Mycroft sounded concerned.

Of course, he'd never known her to be sick before. It wasn't something she did very often.

"No, darling, I shall have a lie-down and maybe a nap. I'll be fine."

"Do you want me to come home?"

Definitely not.

"There's no need, my love," she swallowed against a suddenly pounding heart. The desire to beg him to rush home and hold her tight was almost unbearable. "See you later." She ended the call with relief.

Stepping out, she handed the cabbie several notes without looking at them, but as he didn't quibble, they must have been enough.

Closing the front-door behind her, Cate draped her coat haphazardly over the stair newel-post, dropping her briefcase unthinkingly. Her throat was as dry as the Sahara and she found herself in the kitchen looking at the big steel refrigerator, wondering what she was supposed to do next.

Remembering how to open the door, she dug out a chilled bottle of effervescent water, gulping it direct without bothering with a glass: the icy bubbles slaked some of the dryness from her throat. She coughed as it went down too fast. Carrying the bottle, she went and sat at the kitchen table, sitting and staring at nothing.

Which is how Mycroft found her when the Jaguar dropped him off not quite ten minutes later.

"I knew there was something wrong," he said, pulling the gloves from his fingers, laying them and his coat on the granite bench top. "Up to bed," he nodded. "I shall have a doctor here within fifteen minutes."

"There's no need for a doctor," she inhaled slowly.

"I beg to differ, my love," Mycroft sat opposite, examining her face. She was pale and her eyes were overly bright. "Are you feverish? Are you in pain?"

"Mycroft, I don't need a doctor," Cate dropped her head into her hands. She hadn't wanted it to be this way; she had hoped to work out an easier way of telling him than this. There was no way to prepare him; he would react badly.

"I've just been to a doctor," she added.

She sensed his breathing slow, felt him sit slowly upright as he stared at her.

"Why have you seen a doctor?" he asked, quietly. "And why am I only finding this out now?"

"I've been getting headaches and they wanted to run some tests," she said.

"Headaches? And you didn't think to mention this to me?"

"They weren't that bad."

"Bad enough though, that you felt the need to seek a medical opinion?"

True. Maybe she should have said something.

Lifting her eyes to his, Cate saw he wasn't cross, but neither was he exactly happy. He looked troubled.

"They found the headaches were due to the refresh-rate on my new computer monitors being incorrectly aligned or some such technical issue," she added, pausing, trying to find another way to say what couldn't be avoided now.

"IT fixed the monitors," she paused. "But the tests found … something else … and that's what I saw the doctor about this morning."

Mycroft inhaled softly. "What have they found, Cate?" his voice was tightly controlled, his heart-rate accelerating as her expression grew increasingly conflicted. Something was very wrong: she was going to say something unthinkable.

Cate closed her eyes. This was not the way to tell him. Breathing deeply, she searched for a different avenue, but there was no way around it.

Taking another gulp of water and feeling her throat tighten to the point where, if she didn't say something now, she might not be able to say anything at all; Cate closed her eyes again and inhaled slowly.

"Mycroft, I'm pregnant."

There. It was said. Hardly daring to breathe at all now, she looked into his face, scanning for whatever expression was going to form, for whatever thoughts might be going through his mind, but all she saw was absolute stillness. No sudden tension, no frown, no smile, either. The most minute widening of his eyes, but that was all. He was completely impassive, completely silent.

The silence grew.

Her stomach sank into an icy pit and she felt sick. She had been right. This was the worst way for him to receive the information. He would have no interest in a child; he'd regard one as an imposition. She should have found a way to break it to him less directly.

Mycroft was utterly immobilised: couldn't move, couldn't breathe.

Expecting Cate to say something entirely different, something terrifying, he felt instead an immense pressure coiling itself around his internal organs, forcing the air from his lungs and the blood from his brain. He couldn't think, not even his senses were working since all he could hear was Cate's voice telling him she was going to have a child. Their child. His child.

He had long ago accepted a solitary existence, but then he had met this incredible, exasperating, singular woman, who, despite all logic and sense, had agreed to share her life with him and in doing so, had radicalised his world. And now she was offering him a future he had ceased to consider realistically possible. There was to be a child. His child. My child.

His head was spinning; there was a vast blank space instead of words. He should breathe.

"Say something, please," Cate looked down at her hands, "before I burst into tears and embarrass us both."

He stood so suddenly, his chair rocked and fell. He was around the table, had pulled her gently upright and into his arms before she realised what he was doing, her entire body, from knees to forehead, pressed against Savile Row's finest. Wrapped comprehensively in the cocoon of his arms, unable even to move her head, she felt the vibrations through his chest more than heard the low pitch of his voice as his face pressed into her hair.

"My darling Cate," he murmured, his voice gravelly. "My darling girl; you clever, clever thing, my love, Catie my darling, how wonderful, incredible, my sweet, sweet Catie …"

Holding her away to find her lips, his mouth was soft in a kiss so unbearably tender Cate felt she would weep from it. He folded her up in his arms and simply held her tight; motionless against him.

"Overall, I prefer breathing, if possible," she muffled against his shoulder.

Releasing her instantly, he moved his hands to hold the sides of her head, his eyes, absurdly blue, were riveted to her face, searching Cate's expression for more information.

"You feel genuinely happy about this? You don't mind at all?" she whispered, laying her hands over his she stared back into the brilliance of his gaze. She needed to be sure.

He straightened abruptly, bewildered, as if the question were a non-sequitur.

"Don't mind? Don't mind? My darling heart, I'm … stunned beyond words … I …" his voice trailed away as he saw her expression. "Don't tell me you imagined for even an instant I'd be anything less than thrilled?"

"Quite honestly, I wasn't sure," Cate leaned against him as relief left her dizzy. "You've never expressed a desire for children, and we haven't really discussed the issue, so I thought, that, well …"

"I didn't know if we could," Mycroft's voice was low, understated, as he laid his head against hers. "I would never want you to think our marriage was anything less than complete."

"Well, we can and we have and it always has been." Cate sounded very matter-of-fact.

"And how do you feel about it?" Mycroft examined her face warily.

"It hasn't quite sunk in yet," she admitted. "I'm having to rethink everything."

That was understandable: in that respect, they were in the same boat.

"When is it … the … our … child due … expected … when?" The idea was still too strange to fit to words.

"My body has never run on what you'd call a predictable schedule," Cate wrinkled her nose and shrugged. "So actually, I'm not entirely sure," she rested her face against his waistcoat. "My best guess is sometime in September."

Holding her close again, he smiled against her ear. "So it was … Christmas?"

"All that romantic snow," Cate closed her eyes and wallowed in the assuring sensation of his embrace. "The doctor I saw at the University clinic wants me to arrange a time soon for an ultrasound and the usual tests to ensure the baby is healthy."

"You plan on using the University services for your antenatal support?" Mycroft frowned a little, not terribly impressed with the idea. He didn't want Cate to have to wait on the over-stretched services of a semi-public medical utility.

Guiding her into the rear lounge, to one of the big sofas, he held his wife's hand, stroking the soft skin. His expression held nothing but concern.

"I'd be more comfortable if you would consult a private specialist. I can have all the required visits arranged for you by tomorrow."

"I'm actually quite happy using the medical centre," Cate shook her head, her words sincere. "They're very good."

Mycroft sighed inwardly. Cate was infernally determined to resist anything that smacked of making a fuss. They had had this discussion before. His fingertips following the fine lace of veins on the back of her hand, Mycroft looked into her eyes. Now that his brain cells had had time to regroup, he was not about to give this argument up.

"I realise you are the one carrying this child and, at best, all I am able to do is wait in the wings," he said softly. "But please allow me to help. Even if all I can do is arrange your medical appointments, let me do that small thing."

Cate pressed her lips together. She really didn't want a lot of bother made. She was having a baby; despite feeling a bit wobbly right now, she wasn't ill or an invalid and there wasn't anything remotely wrong with her. Women did this by the tens-of-thousands every day. She was as fit and healthy as she could possibly be; as long as there were no specific problems with the child, she saw little need to behave in any way out of the ordinary. There was absolutely nothing lacking in the services of the University's medical centre; she and the baby would be fine. She would politely decline Mycroft's offer.

His eyes were still astonishingly blue. "Please, Catherine."

Her refusal faded ab initio. He hadn't called her Catherine since the wedding. Mycroft was fighting dirty.

"You're not going to let this go, are you?" she asked, a resigned smile arriving on her face.

Holding her knuckles to his lips, he looked up at her, his face alight with unrestrained affection. Lifting his eyebrows, he shook his head slowly.

"You'd be quite willing to make my life unbearable until I agreed, wouldn't you?"

Mycroft frowned, a fingertip tracing the faint blue line of a vein on her hand. "Not unbearable, my love," he murmured. "Difficult, certainly."

Her smile grew. "And there is absolutely no possible way in which I might convince you otherwise?"

"None whatsoever," he reached for her other hand, holding them between his own and looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"Then if it's so very important to you," she was unable to resist his mock-seriousness. "Go ahead and arrange anything you want to arrange," she smiled, lifting her shoulders in acquiescence. "This baby is as much yours to look after as it is mine."

"Whatever I want to arrange?" Still holding her fingers, his voice took on a mildly calculating note.

"Yes," Cate sighed extravagantly, relief at his response to the news making her reckless. "Whatever you want," she said. "I have a feeling I'll be nibbled to death by your requests otherwise, so I may as well let you get it all off your chest while you have a reasonable excuse to do so."

"Darling." Mycroft was delighted; he hadn't expected carte blanche.

He would have to work quickly.

###

The distant crackle of automatic gunfire suggested the boys were playing again.

It had taken nearly two weeks, but, by careful effort, she had managed to reignite an old local disagreement between two of the area's oldest families. Ancient accusations had turned into contemporary ones; old enmities had become new again. Grievances swooped and flew about the place like crows; looking for victims, waiting for carrion. Quiet voices had grown louder: much louder, loud enough, in fact, to be heard a very long way away.

The police had already thrown up their hands in disgust and either stayed out of it all, or had gone looking for military support.

If the army were involved, then national government was involved, and if the news had gone national, its internationalisation was ensured and a matter only of social media and time.

And once this thing reached the BBC, she would have achieved her goal. There were risks, of course, but then, that was part of the attraction. Always had been.

It would be very soon now.

Rolling the gold band around the ring-finger of her right hand, Talina smiled.

###

"And when will you inform the University that you're resigning?" They were in the kitchen where Mycroft was standing, shelling peas for dinner while Cate kept him company. He insisted that if she wasn't going to lie down, then she could at least sit down and take some tea. "I assume they'll expect a period of notice?"

"Resign?" Cate put her cup back in the saucer. "Why on earth would I resign from the University?"

Placing a half-emptied pod carefully onto the chopping-board, Mycroft leaned both sets of knuckles on the benchtop as he fixed his wife with look which suggested her question contained little sense and even less merit. He took a slow, deep breath.

"Are you seriously considering remaining at work?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Of course I am," Cate shook her head in bafflement. "Why would you imagine otherwise?"

Mycroft was silent. While it was just he and Cate fending for themselves, then her working had some logic: he knew she would become bored and restless very quickly without intellectual stimulation. But that was obviously no longer the case.

Cate needed to take care of herself for the baby's sake – he was able to think those words now without losing the thread of his thoughts – and would clearly not be available to work after the child arrived.

"I'm not sure I want you to do that," he deliberately maintained eye-contact, confident she would see sense. "I'd really prefer you to stop work now that we have a child … our child, my child … to think about." His heart was beginning to accustom itself to the notion that he was to be a father: it had pounded only a little harder that time.

She looked at him, her face showing a clear struggle with her feelings.

Mycroft realised that to relinquish the academy would be hard for her; he could respect that. He hoped she wouldn't be overly upset by the thought of leaving; that she wasn't going to …

Laugh. She was laughing. Quite vigorously. Cate looked at his mystified expression and laughed even more, her face turning faintly pink with the intensity of it.

"My darling Mycroft," she sucked in the first of several deep breaths, grinning helplessly. "This is not Victorian England where I plan on retiring to the privacy of a decently darkened room and stay there, only to emerge several months hence with a swaddled infant."

Lifting both eyebrows this time, he pursed his lips. "You intend to continue working?"

"Darling, of course I intend to continue working," she stood, walked around to his side and sliding her arms about his waist.

"I am perfectly fine now that the headaches are explained," she rested her face against his chest. "I promise to take every care, and that I will stop work the moment I need to do so," she looked up into his face. "I honestly promise."

Still not entirely happy with the idea, Mycroft looked down into a pair of dancing brown eyes.

"You will at least suspend your Hapkido and that mad, frenetic freeform you call dancing?" he asked. "Please tell me you had planned to do that?"

Walking back in her seat, Cate made a face.

"I suppose I shall have to," she said, unenthusiastic about the idea even though it really was the only thing to do. "But I don't feel at my best without some form of exercise," she added. "I could take up swimming, but the University pool is always packed, and the nearest public pool is too far away," she sighed. "There's always the Serpentine, I suppose."

"You are not going to use a public pool," Mycroft folded his arms now, his expression fairly definite. "Nor are you going anywhere near the Serpentine."

"Without exercise, I shall turn into a cetacean," she muttered, balefully. "A particularly fat one."

Mycroft smiled. The idea of Cate being anything other than her slim, agile self was difficult to grasp and farcical to imagine. "I believe we might be able to find some accommodation there," he smiled even more as an idea presented itself.

After all, he reasoned, she had given him carte blanche.

###

Just after dawn on the fourth day of the local conflict, the Armenian Army arrived in Akhtala.

At first, it was a matter of truck-engines and loud shouting. People were tired of one army after another rolling into the area, and they let their displeasure be known.

The first death didn't occur until two days later, but by then, it was far too late to try and keep the event quiet.

It was all over the regional and National news. Watching her satellite-transmission television, Talina Sarkis smiled as she saw CNN news report of the sudden and unexpected unrest in a hitherto quiet and rural area of the Caucasian mountains.

Good. It was good. He would be unable to resist, now. She would have him soon.

She rolled the wedding-ring around her finger again.

Its twin sat on the right hand of Mycroft Holmes, and she would have him soon.