Chapter Ten

Incommunicado – An Early Departure – I Know Her – Instead of a Birth – A Born Copper – Don't Panic – Hurry – I Trust You – This Needs To End – Soon Be There – Accessory After the Fact – How Are You With Blood? – The Flower Lady – Daddy – Push – Nice Apgar – A Writer of Thrillers – Sixty Feet Down – No Laughing – Uncle Sherlock – Longer Than Stone.

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#

9.00 am.

Satisfied Cate was in dependable hands; Mycroft began the first of the day's several meetings pertaining to senior staffing levels in Her Majesty's Armed Forces. Under British constitutional law, the funding of the three armed services was at the whim of the Crown; in reality, it was at the whim of the British Parliament. In practice, however, such fiscal lifeblood ran through the hands of a very few, very senior and very discreet Civil Servants.

It was incredibly bureaucratic, of course, but Mycroft had always considered these discussions the price one paid for democracy and shouldered the burden when it was unavoidable.

Calling up comparative charts covering all three services and spread over the last three years, Mycroft raised his eyebrows at the select gathering.

"You take my point," he spoke softly. It wasn't a question.

"But in real terms …"

"In real terms, Sir Alastair," Mycroft silenced the old soldier with a measured look. "The levels are grossly skewed towards the less … active areas, and we must address this."

Several of the meeting's participants leaned back in their generously-padded chairs and folded their arms.

Mycroft sighed. It would be so simple to dispense entirely with this time-consuming form of debate, except the British Public tended to become nervous unless there was at least some nod towards consensus. Turning to his laptop, he pressed a key, recalling the argument to the screens in front of each of them. This was going to be a tedious waste of the morning and would pass swifter without interruption. He made a show of turning off his Blackberry and laying it down on the gleaming rosewood table; code, in these rarefied climes, for the most serious of discussions.

To an individual, everyone around the table followed suit. Nobody would leave this room now, until the debate was concluded.

"To recap …" Mycroft returned his attention to the first chart.

###

10.15 am.

"Are you sure?" John watched as Cate's eyes remained wide and inwardly-focused.

"John," she scowled. "I'm sure. Felt like the most surprising cramp in history," she added, clutching her lower belly. "Made me drop the damn teapot," she surveyed the scattered bits sadly. "I liked that teapot."

"I'm sure Mycroft will be happy to buy a new teapot for you," John took Cate's pulse. It was a little jumpy.

"Was that the first or have you had others this morning?"

"That was the first recognisable one," Cate leaned against the bench top. "But my back has been aching since last night and it's starting to drive me insane … it's like a deep, dull itch I can't reach."

"How long did it last?" John's fingers were still on her pulse, his eyes on his watch.

"About twenty seconds, but then it stopped," she shook her head. "And now I have to find another teapot."

John grinned. Trust Cate to underplay everything. "It might be best to make a move back to London, don't you think?"

"According to all the books, if this is the beginning, it's going to take hours, so I can at least have a cup of tea." Cate filled the kettle.

"Okay, tea sounds fine, but then I think we should curtail today's events and get you back to your doctor, just in case. Where are you arranged to deliver?"

"I'm not booked into Queen Charlotte's until the fifteenth of next month, so this is too early," Cate looked pleased as she located a teapot on a high shelf. "Can you reach that for me please?"

Bringing down the spare pot, John's forehead wrinkled.

"Four weeks early is not too early," he said. "Not with twins; I told you twins sometimes come sooner than anticipated. How are you planning to call Mycroft's car?" he asked. "Do you have the driver's number?"

Pausing in the act of opening the tea, Cate pursed her lips.

"Good point," she said. "I have no idea of the man's number. I shall have to call Mycroft, although," she said, turning to face the doctor. "I'd really rather not bother him until I know with some certainty what's happening."

"You don't want to bother him?" he smiled. "Bother? Really?"

"I'm not even sure I want him anywhere near the birth," Cate sighed. "He'll over-react, I know it."

"Mycroft, overreacting?" John laughed. "I doubt such a thing is possible within the known laws of Physics."

Raising her eyebrows at him, Cate shook her head. "You have no idea what he's like," she said. "He gets worked up if he thinks I'm even in moderate discomfort; he'll be quite unhinged if I'm in real pain."

John thought for a moment about an unhinged Mycroft Holmes. Nah. Never happen.

"That's something you can discuss with him," John poured boiling water into the teapot. "First we need to get you back to London."

"Then I suppose I'll have to call him … ah …" she hissed slightly, clutching her stomach again, compressing her lips until it was over.

"Ten-minutes apart and lasting thirty-seconds," he sounded fatalistic. "Looks like the real-deal to me," he said. "Phone him now."

Pulling out her mobile, Cate phoned, only to be advised that the owner of that particular number was unavailable and her already-logged call was being transferred to a secure message-bank. She was invited to leave a message.

"Hello, darling," Cate smiled as she said the words. "John and I are coming back to London earlier than planned; see you later, my love," she ended the call with a small sigh.

"His phone is off," she shrugged. "He's in a high-level meeting, in that case. And I don't have Anthea's new number yet," she paused. "We'll have to find another way. I know," she smiled, brightly. "I'll take the Bentley."

"You plan on driving back up to London while you're having contractions? Give me a break. Keys?" John poured her a small mug of tea as she dug the Bentley's keys out of her bag. "You drink this while I go get the car, and I'll meet you out front in five minutes."

"Yes, Doctor," Cate grinned, rolling her eyes.

"Better bring a load of towels with you," John added half-way through the door. "Just in case."

###

10.35 am.

That was interesting.

Sherlock brought his laptop down onto his knees checking the CCTV footage from above the main entrance to the Queen Charlotte's Hospital. He had been watching this source for several weeks now, intrigued by the extraordinarily dodgy characters that frequented the vicinity. Given though, that Wormwood Scrubs, one of Britain's most cherished correctional facilities was right next door, it wasn't all that surprising.

But it wasn't the colourful personalities that had caught his eye: no; it was the recurrent appearance of a woman. Vaguely familiar, with short, fair hair; hoodie, jeans. Nothing memorable, except to someone who was looking for the intentionally inconspicuous. This was the fourth time he'd seen her, watching the entrance of the hospital, taking note of people entering, movement of medical staff, vehicles, ambulances.

Manipulating the images, he sought a clear facial shot; anything with clarity. It was impossible to be sure; he needed access to Mycroft's face-recognition software. The woman could be Talina Sarkis.

The doorbell rang.

"Get that, would you?" he remained focused on the woman. The absence of movement in the room had him turn in irritation. Ah, yes. John had driven down to Deepdene with Cate for the day. He could ignore the ringing, but the visitor was refusing to do the decent thing and disappear. Running down, he flung open the door to be greeted by a smiling Lestrade.

"Back from the depths of darkest Clapham," he grinned, waving several manila folders. "Apparently you've been offending everyone down at the Yard again."

"Not I, Inspector," stamping back upstairs, Sherlock wanted to demand the folders immediately, but as they were clearly cold-cases, and the situation he was currently considering was somewhat more pressing, he restrained himself. "Must have been some other poor, bored unfortunate."

"Brought you a few unsolveds that might be peculiar enough even for your bizarre notions of interest," he said, sitting in John's chair. "Any chance of a cuppa?"

"Tea would be nice," Sherlock waved a hand over his shoulder as he manipulated the image on his laptop, zooming in and expanding the area of the woman's features where she'd been caught almost full-face in one shot.

Lestrade narrowed his eyes, peering. He sat forward, focusing.

"I know her," he nodded, looking thoughtful. "How do I know her?"

"You know this woman?" Sherlock swivelled the laptop to provide the clearest image. "How do you know her?"

"Her name is Anna … something," Greg knitted his brow, remembering. "Met her on a train leaving Budapest, back in June. Came all the way back to London with her."

"Fascinating though the story of your peregrinations though Europe might be at any other time, Inspector," Sherlock returned the computer to the table beside him. "I am far more interested right now in learning everything you know about this person," he added. "Can you recall her last name? Where she was going to stay? Anything about her? It's important."

"Why so?"

Sherlock told him.

###

10.36 am.

It hadn't been as difficult as Talina had imagined discovering where Cate Holmes was planning to deliver.

Knowing Mycroft would insist on his wife being under private care, and that, in this entire massive city, there was only one place where all the best medical advisors were based: Harley Street. It had been a relatively simple exercise for her to contact the receptionist in each maternal health specialist and say that she'd been advised to contact them by a dear friend. The name of her dear friend? Why, Cate Holmes, of course, the professor; wife of Mycroft Holmes. Sarkis had found Roget's office on the third call. Once that knowledge was in hand, a visit to the practice web-site told her everything else she needed to know, especially the hospital at which the obstetrician consulted. After that, it would simply be a matter of watching and waiting. She'd even been inside the hospital and had a long, detailed look around the place: the only cover she'd needed was a large bunch of flowers and a lost look.

Leaning back against a wall opposite the tall building, she watched cars and taxies and people as they ebbed and flowed around and through the entrance. She had stood in this spot so often in the last week she no longer paid attention to the CCTV cameras high up on the hospital's façade, not that knowledge of them would have made any difference.

Sarkis had decided to come here daily until she saw the focus of her obsession.

And then instead of a birth, there would be a death.

###

11.10 am.

Lestrade sat at his desk, fingers linked across his stomach, his mouth pursed in thought. It had been three months since they'd brought the old ladies back to London. Three months since that exhilarating, frustrating journey. There had been all manner of family celebrations at which, of course, his presence was demanded. He'd even tried more of the family vodka, though this time, he'd stopped at one. Julia had smiled; a friendly kind of smile.

And he'd not really had an opportunity to see much of her since. There'd been a couple of dinners, but then work got in the way, and then there was her job on the Special Projects Division which took both time and energy. Lestrade smiled unhopefully; she'd been right all along; it would never have worked between them.

Yet, whatever might have been, it was only fair he acquaint Julia with the reality of their linguistic saviour from Budapest.

"You're kidding?" she was shocked when he rang her. "Hang on," she said. I'm coming over."

Fourteen-minutes later, there was a brief knock on his office door before she walked straight in.

"I could have been in a very private meeting," he said, leaning back in his seat. "A confidential debriefing."

"You weren't," she said, folding her arms. "I asked Donovan."

Lestrade filled his eyes with her as she stood, hands in pockets, hair blown about her face.

"I've missed you, you know," he said, standing and walking around the front of his desk. "I still think about our trip," he added, sitting back on the edge. "Thought I'd be over it by now, but I miss it. I miss our dinners," he said making a face, a little self-conscious.

"I miss our evenings, too," Garret shrugged in her coat. "Things have gotten a bit busy."

Greg took a deep breath as he repeated Sherlock's explanation. "The woman on the train, Anna," he said. "She used us as a distraction through customs, so they wouldn't check her passport too closely," he said, standing and looking out of the window. "I guess they thought a couple of British DI's were enough of a character reference."

"I don't like that thought terribly much," Julia sounded unhappy as she stared at her shoes. "Though Cate Holmes is about as well-protected as anyone can be," she added. "Her husband seems to have a finger in every security pie known to man; her brother-in-law is some kind of genius-sleuth; then there's that doctor friend who's as handy with a weapon as he is with a thermometer … and then there's you," she said, looking up, a half-smile on her lips.

"I'm not one of Cate Holmes' protectors," Greg frowned.

"Yeah, you are," she smiled again. "You were at her wedding. You worry about her."

"Well, yeah, okay. Maybe," he said, finally. "What do you think about me?" he sounded diffident, uncertain.

"About you?" Garret raised her eyebrows.

"Yes. You've said what you think about everyone else," Greg was curious. "And that makes me wonder what you're thinking about me, I mean," he paused, standing. "All these months you've been saying we'd never work out, do you even have an opinion of me?"

Julia assessed his expression: she'd wondered if he'd ever want to know. She took a deep breath.

"You always try to manage everything by yourself, even when you can't," she began. "You deal honestly with people as well as trying to please them," she paced slowly in front of him. "You're a born Copper and yet you still want to see the world as an innocent place."

Turning his head to watch, he found it difficult to interpret her expression.

"You're a gentle man, but tough when you have to be," she added, staring out the window. "You're clever and fun and serious, even when you're worrying about doing your job properly. In effect, DI Lestrade," she summarised, turning her eyes back to his. "A complex interior, wrapped up in a handsome skin. A deeply attractive package," she stopped. "Is that what you wanted to know?"

Lestrade's face was blank, nothing to indicate what he might be feeling.

"You think I'm a deeply attractive package?" he asked eventually, turning towards her.

"Yes," she replied.

"You think I'm deeply attractive?" he straightened up into his official Detective Inspector look.

"Yes," she said again.

"You find me deeply attractive?" he stepped closer.

Julia's heart thudded. "Yes," she said.

"Deeply attractive?" another step. He was within arm's reach. His eyes glittered.

"Yes."

"Oh God," he sighed.

Leaning down, his eyes never leaving hers until she closed them, his kiss was as soft as an evening breeze.

###

11.12 am.

"Damn, these are obnoxious," Cate grimaced as another one hit. Not intolerably painful yet, but deep and intense enough to stop her breath.

They were on the A3 just outside of Surbiton when Cate's shocked "Oh," caught his attention.

"You okay?" John was focusing on moving into the right-hand lane, the faster to get into town.

"Good idea to bring the towels," she muttered, arranging them more comfortably beneath her. "How long before we get there?"

"About another twenty minutes before we hit London, and then the drive out to Shepherd's Bush … depends on the traffic."

"I'm not sure we have another twenty minutes, John," her voice was strained as she hissed, louder this time. "I'm going to try Mycroft again."

Taking a calming breath to steady her fingers, she dialled his number, quietly hoping he would be there this time. His number obstinately refused to co-operate, suggesting instead that she leave another message.

"Hello, darling," her words were a little forced. "Looks like both Mr Roget and I were overly-optimistic in our estimates. I think your children are planning to meet you sometime later today. John's taking me to the hospital as I speak. Everything's fine, don't worry. I'll see you later."

"I'll call forward and get an ambulance to meet us before we get to London." John touched the accelerator, already at the speed-limit.

"Good idea," Cate gritted her teeth, groaning now, as another contraction flared. "How come everyone's been telling me this should take hours and hours and now it's happening in minutes? This is not going to plan, John!"

"Don't panic, everything's going to be fine, I promise," John was already on the hands-free to the London Ambulance Service, giving his GP registration number and arranging to meet up with a vehicle at the nearest convenient place: the car park of a Golf Club in Richmond. They asked if the call was urgent.

He stole a look at Cate's face; she was concentrating entirely upon the car's dashboard, focused, intent and very quiet. A bead of sweat clung to her brow.

"Yes," he said. "It is."

They gave him an ETA of seven minutes.

He put his foot down.

###

11.20 am.

Fortunately, they had bowed to the inevitable before he'd had to resort to anything more forceful than reason, and he switched his Blackberry back on.

There was the usual bank of messages, their caller IDs rendering them less than critical. Then he saw two messages with Cate's number and he paused in mid-stride.

Listening to the first message, a small frown creased his forehead. Listening to the second, his expression became fixed as a pulse of alarm shot through him. Noting the time of the second call, some eight minutes earlier, he hit reply and waited for her to respond.

There was nothing. He cancelled the call and rang her number direct. Voicemail. Flicking to John's number he called the doctor, only to be shunted through to a medical message-bank. He took a deep breath.

Reaching the privacy of his office, he rang Roget's clinic, only to be advised the obstetrician was already attending a delivery at Queen Charlotte's. Now actively concerned, Mycroft summoned Anthea and explained the situation in terse, abbreviated terms. Calling for his car, he decided to go directly to the hospital, asking Anthea to make several calls and relay the information to him enroute. At this time of day, it would take twenty-minutes to reach Queen Charlotte's Hospital.

He told his driver to hurry.

###

11.22 am.

By the time the Bentley pulled into the Golf-club car park, Cate was having fairly powerful contractions every five minutes, and it was all she could do to focus on breathing through them: talking was not an option.

Getting her out of the car and into the ambulance had been an effort, but at least inside she could relax and lie down or sit as she preferred.

His phone rang. He ignored it.

"Cate," John held her hands as she concentrated on another spasm. "The paramedics can help you now, or I can," he said. "We're going to get you to the hospital in a very short time, but we need to check everything is going according to plan, and you have to decide what you prefer."

Growling with effort, her forehead liberally beaded with sweat, Cate sucked in a hard breath.

"I trust you, John," she groaned. "Tell me what to do."

"Right, then," he turned to the nearest paramedic. "I need clean hands," he said.

"I think we can fix you up there, Doctor," the woman-driver grinned, holding up an industrial-sized container of antibacterial hand gel. "Be our guest."

Turning back to Cate, he looked confident. "Lie back and relax as much as you can," he smiled. "Let's see what the young Holmes' are up to, shall we?"

The ambulance started to move. They were ten minutes away from the Queen Charlotte.

###

11.24 am.

Sherlock was on his way to the hospital when Anthea rang him. As she explained the situation, he decided against telling her about the presence of the Sarkis woman outside the building. Instead, he called his brother.

"Sherlock? This isn't a good time," Mycroft sounded singularly tense.

"It's Cate, obviously."

"Yes. By the sounds of it, she's gone into early labour and she and John are going directly to the hospital. I'm heading there too."

"Talina Sarkis is waiting outside," Sherlock said. "You should send the police, or some of your security goons."

"Sarkis? Are you sure?" Mycroft was suddenly very cold.

"Fairly sure. Lestrade confirmed she's a woman he met on a train in Budapest in June, who came to the UK calling herself Anna."

"Where are you?"

"I'm heading to the hospital," Sherlock looked out of the cab's window. "I plan on finding her for you."

"Do whatever has to be done, brother. This needs to end now."

Mycroft bit his lip in unaccustomed frustration. The Jaguar was snarled in lunchtime traffic and going nowhere. Damn it all. He should have called a helicopter instead. Hang on, Cate.

His hand tightening into a fist, he counted the seconds as the car inched forward.

Oh, God. Cate.

###

11.26 am.

The ambulance was stuck in lunchtime traffic and going nowhere. Less than a mile from the hospital and they'd ground to a total halt.

"Tell them to please get a bloody move on, John," Cate gritted her teeth as another eye-watering peak of pain knifed through her, the light summer dress now plastered to her body as sweat ran into her eyes. He wiped her face with a damped cloth.

"They're doing the best they can," he said, holding her hand. "Breathe now," he said. "Breathe deep and slow. Soon be there."

He wished he had something more than an ordinary stethoscope to listen to the foetal heartbeats; the last thing he wanted to deal with now was a distressed baby. He'd have to do an emergency caesarean right here in the back of the ambulance.

John took a very deep breath. This had never happened in Afghanistan.

###

11.27 am.

Anthea's call reached him in his office. Julia was still staring, bemused, into his eyes.

"I better take this," he mumbled, not looking away. "It might be … someone."

"Better get it, then," she smiled. "It might be someone important."

"I'll get it then," Lestrade leaned forward and kissed her again; a silly smile on his face.

The phone continued to ring.

You going to get that?" Julia stroked a finger across his mouth, entirely caught up in how soft his lips felt."

"Yeah, I'll … get it, then," he breathed her in: flowers and sunshine. He felt ridiculously pleased with himself.

The phone kept ringing.

Pulling himself together, Greg smiled as he answered in a particularly professional manner.

Wasting no time, Anthea told him what seemed to be happening at the Queen Charlotte, and asked if he'd be interested in helping correct the situation where two London DI's had become accessory to an illegal entry into Britain.

"We're on our way right now," he threw the phone down and grabbed Julia's elbow.

"Come on," he nodded. "Time to save the world."

###

11.35 am.

Talina watched interestedly, as a London ambulance screeched to a halt in the broad porticoed entrance. A swarm of medical staff helped pull a wheeled-stretcher out of the vehicle on which was a blanketed form. Walking right beside the stretcher … was the blonde doctor …. she remembered his name. John

And if he were in an ambulance at a maternity hospital, there was a very good chance he was there to accompany … ah.

Sarkis nodded in satisfaction. All the hours and days of waiting had paid off.

Crossing the road, she headed into the hospital.

###

11.45 am.

The Jaguar zoomed out of traffic and into the entrance of the hospital, where Mycroft flung himself out of the car and through the large doors. A senior nurse was waiting for him. He made a note to buy Anthea orchids.

"Mr Holmes?" the woman sounded competent. "I'm Sister Akello Nicholls. Your wife arrived approximately ten minutes ago and she's gone directly to Delivery Suite Three on the fifth floor. Doctor Watson is with her. We contacted Mr Roget, who, fortunately, was already in the hospital and he's now with her too. To my knowledge, neither your wife nor the babies are in distress and she has opted for a natural birth, although Mr Roget has offered her a caesarean."

The barrage of data was strangely calming, and Mycroft found himself breathing a little more slowly.

"Would you like to join your wife?"

Without conscious thought, he found himself nodding. Of course he wanted to be with Cate.

"How are you with blood, Mr Holmes?" Nicholls indicated to the nearest lift.

"Blood?"

"Your wife's blood, to be precise," she lifted her eyebrows. "Not every husband can tolerate the sight of his partner in childbirth, and the last thing we need in the delivery room is a fainty man." Akello Nicholls smiled knowingly. "However," she added. "You don't look like the fainty sort."

Delivering a calculatedly icy stare, Mycroft frowned at the short woman. "Sister Nicholls, I have never fainted in my life, I will not do so today."

"Very well, then, Mr Holmes," she nodded. "Let's get you gowned up."

###

11.50 am.

Standing outside the hospital, Sherlock looked across the road, to a spot directly opposite the two CCTV cameras. He nodded. That was where she'd been waiting. Her efforts had paid off and now it was time to make up for his carelessness in Vienna. Stepping into the hospital he located a Security Officer.

"Have you seen this woman in the last fifteen minutes?" he demanded, putting the grainy photo of Sarkis right in his line-of-vision. "It's extremely important."

"And you would be Mr Holmes, I take it?" the man nodded. "Had a call from Management not two minutes ago telling me to assist you in any way possible, but no," he added. "Not seen this woman come in here today. We could ask Elsie," he suggested.

Elsie ran the flower shop right in the main foyer.

"Yeah, she came in a few days ago, bought a dozen long-stemmed pinks," she nodded. "She came by a few minutes ago," she added. "Didn't buy anything this time though."

"Which way did she go?"

"Up the stairs," the woman pointed to her right.

"Thank you," Sherlock was already running at speed up the marble stairway.

###

11.52 am.

Pulling up outside the Queen Charlotte in a Met car, Lestrade and Garret waved their identification at the Security officer.

"Looking for this woman," Greg offered his copy of the Sarkis photo.

"Yeah, you and that other bloke what was just here."

"What other bloke?" Greg had to ask, but he knew.

"Name of Holmes," the man pointed up the stairs. "Ran up them not five minutes ago."

"Come on," Lestrade made for the stairs. "Hopefully, we're in time to stop a murder."

"Whose murder?" Garret was right behind him running up the stairs.

"Good question."

###

11.54 am.

"Cate, listen to me," Roget was gowned and gloved. "You've come through the first two stages of labour much, much faster than anyone expected, which is wonderful news for you and the babies, and you're already almost fully dilated, but you can't push until I tell you to push, okay?"

"Don't talk to me about not bloody pushing," Cate ground her teeth as another wave of pain swept through her. "It's all I can do to breathe, let alone push."

Roget smiled, nodding at John. "Thank you Doctor Watson," he said. "I think we can take things from here, why don't you go and have a cup of tea?"

"Are you alright with me going, Cate?" John was unwilling to leave her alone without a friendly face.

A side-door opened, and a begowned Mycroft was ushered in by a short nursing Sister.

"Found him," she walked to Cate. "I brought you something you might find helpful," she smiled.

Clapping him on the shoulder, John nodded. "Over to you, Daddy," his grin wide, the tone of his voice saying it all as he left the delivery room.

"I'll speak with you later, Doctor Watson," Mycroft took in the entire scene. He went directly to Cate's side, grasping her hand and staring into her eyes, helpless.

"I'm here, my love," he murmured softly. "I'm sorry to be late, but you rather took me by surprise."

"Your children are the most impatient little sods …" her words ended in an abrupt gasp as she rode another peak of pain.

"I believe we've had this discussion before, my darling, darling Catie," Mycroft stretched his already-numb fingers as her grasp relaxed. "My half is probably waiting until all the fuss has died down before it makes an appearance."

"I don't care whose bloody half brought this on, I just wish they'd get a bloody move on and be done with this …" arching her back almost off the bed, Cate clenched her teeth and moaned through closed lips.

###

11.55 am.

Sarkis knew where the delivery suites were. All she had to do was wait for Mycroft or the blonde doctor and she'd find the woman. And shortly after she found the woman, the woman would be dead. Simple.

That her scheme was already doomed to fail made no difference to Talina's mad compulsion. She would continue with her plan until something stopped her.

Sarkis smiled again. Nothing was going to stop her now.

She pulled the small Beretta from her pocket.

###

11.57 am.

The large sign on the wall announced that the main delivery suites were on this floor. He'd skipped the floors below him, convinced Sarkis would be up here, looking for Cate's room. God knows what Sarkis would try and do if she located his sister-in-law. He'd have to make sure he got there before she did.

###

11.59 am.

Mycroft was sweating. Not that it was particularly hot, but the sight of Cate in what was clearly the most acute of agonies had him very much below par.

"Can nothing be done for her pain, Roget?" he snapped.

"Do you want pain-relief now, Cate?" the obstetrician was happy to oblige. "I can still arrange a variety of options that would make this much more comfortable for you."

"You said it would slow everything down … don't want that … didn't want it when I came in, don't want it now," Cate twisted as yet another contraction wracked her body. "I'm just never having sex ever again, Mycroft Holmes."

Roget smiled. He'd heard it all before.

"You're nearly there, Cate," he spoke quietly now. "Nearly ready to push soon."

"Give me this, my love, allow me to help you now," Mycroft turned to face her, his voice rough with worry, his eyes storm-blue and overwhelmed. "Let me share this, please."

About to tell him to go straight to hell with his fucking sharing, the longest spasm yet stretched her body and she felt tears flow down her face.

"Now, Cate," Roget instructed. "Push now."

"At me, my lovely girl, at me," Mycroft locked his eyes to hers. Gripping his fingers as if he were a lifeline, Cate pushed.

###

12.00 pm.

They were walking down the corridor between widely-spaced closed doors, each one bearing the words Delivery Suite and a number. Sherlock was standing outside Room Three.

"What are you doing here, Inspector? DI. Garret?" the younger Holmes frowned slightly. "Has Sarkis been apprehended?"

"Not yet," Greg looked around. "We helped the woman mask her tracks coming over, and there's an element of affront attached to that idea. We'd like to rectify the situation."

"She's after Cate, or Mycroft or both of them," Sherlock inhaled sharply. "She's quite mad, of course."

There was a scuffle and the noise of a falling body as a door opened and slammed shut at the far end of the passageway by the toilets.

"Stop her!" John was in a tangled heap of surgical gown, half-way into the Men's lavatories. "It's Sarkis!"

Sherlock, and Lestrade following immediately after, chased at speed.

Pulling himself upright, John winced and favoured his left hand. There was a jagged cut in the flesh of his palm and blood running down to his elbow. "She's carrying something metallic," he muttered. "Feels like a weapon but I just caught an edge of it."

"You're in the right place for it, Doctor," Garret looked around. "Let's find you a doctor," she joked.

"Funny," John winced again as he entered the nearest room in search of sterile absorbent materials.

###

12.01 pm.

Blythe Adin Holmes was weighed and wrapped in the softest of covers.

"Eight on the Apgar," the Midwife said. "Nice Apgar."

###

12.02 pm.

Panting, Talina hid inside a cleaner's cupboard, trying to calm her breathing in case they heard. Why couldn't she finish what she started? Why was Mycroft's brother here and that other man, the silver-haired one. He was the one on the train. How come he was here?

Belatedly, she vaguely recalled him telling her he was in the police. Of course.

It would be almost impossible to get past the both of them. Perhaps she needed to find another way to get to Mycroft's wife. Maybe it might be even better to get her and the children too.

Talina smiled an awful smile.

In the meantime, she needed not to be found.

Stepping out of the cupboard, she saw a half-glassed door at the far end of the corridor bearing the logo Stairs. A way out.

She was ten yards away from the door when Sherlock stepped into the passageway and shouted for her to stop.

She accelerated, running towards the door at top speed.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade appeared further down the corridor, he followed, running.

###

12.03 pm.

Julius Morgan Holmes cried lustily as the nurse wiped his face with a damp cotton swab.

"Julius John Holmes," Cate breathed. "After his Godfather-to-be."

Mycroft leaned close, holding her against his chest, his heart thundering against his ribs, his throat drier than all the Saharan sands.

"Whatever you desire, my love," he whispered. "J.J. Holmes?"

"He'll be a writer, with that name," Cate closed her eyes as her body began to ease. "Thrillers."

###

12.03 pm.

Slamming the glassed-door open, Sarkis charged into the stairwell, looking back over her shoulder, heedless in her headlong flight.

The rail caught her at waist-height; she was travelling too fast to stop and careened over the top, managing to catch the base of a baluster one-handed above the abyss. She screamed.

They were five floors up.

"Give me your hand!" Sherlock reached down to grab Talina's wrist. "Take my hand and I'll pull you up."

Lestrade appeared. "Fucking hell," he grimaced, reaching another arm down to grab the woman's flailing hand. "Don't struggle, just give us your hand," he instructed roughly.

Flinching away from both of them, Talina's tenuous grip loosened. She felt her fingers slipping.

She screamed again as she felt the cold steel slide from her grasp.

"Grab my hand!" Sherlock stretched even further down, but it was too late.

Her fingers scrabbling madly as gravity pulled them free, Sarkis plummeted down between the long flights of concrete stairs.

She was oddly silent all the way down, scant seconds, until she hit the cold marble floor sixty-feet below, with a dull and terrible sound.

Lestrade closed his eyes and leaned his head down on the rail. He felt slightly nauseous.

"We have no proof at all now," he muttered. "It's all circumstantial."

"She dropped this, Inspector," Sherlock held up a long-bladed chef's knife. He held it by the tip of the blade and omitted to say where she'd dropped it.

"There are fingerprints all over the handle," he observed, tilting the knife in the dim light of the stairwell. "Hers, of course."

"Helpful," Lestrade dug a large plastic evidence bag out of a pocket, wrapping the handle cautiously and with delicate care.

###

It was over.

All the months of waiting and planning, finished. Cate was light-headed with indescribable relief, the recent pain and anxiety were nothing in the larger picture. Sitting up in a lovely clean, cool bed, freshly washed and changed into something light and soft against her skin, she felt genuine euphoria. It was done. She'd done it. It was over.

Looking across the room, she caught herself grinning yet again at the sight of Mycroft leaning over the double-crib and staring endlessly at the twins, his eyes switching from one to the other and back, cataloguing every infinitesimal detail. The microscopic fingernails; the exquisite eyelashes, the tiny rosebud mouths. He was mesmerized, the tip of his index-finger stroked Blythe's dainty, elfin ear.

He was already in love with his children and she adored him for it.

Both twins had fed and immediately gone to sleep, their tiny forms already losing some of the heavy pink shock of birth. Each infant had an abundance of dark hair: Blythe looked like a Mohican; Julius wore the same quiff as his father. Their eyes were closed now, but Mycroft had seen them open: the brightest and darkest of blues, they made him ache with some indefinable feeling.

And so he stared, entranced by Cate's gift. He straightened up and sighed quietly, walking back to his wife, he lifted her hand.

"How do you feel now, you marvellous creature?" he smiled, pressing her palm against his cheek as he kissed her forehead. He sat wearily in a bedside chair. "If I'm fatigued, you must be exhausted."

Closing her eyes in a sleepy blink, Cate drifted in the moment. "Tired, yes," she admitted. "Sore. It feels like I've been wrestling with elephants."

"Roget wants to keep you in for a couple of days," Mycroft rubbed his face with his hands. "Is that going to be long enough?"

"I'm not ill, my love," Cate gave him a fond look. "I could be back at work next week."

Mycroft's head lifted and turned before his brain had actively processed the statement. His stare was so extremely objectionable, she laughed, then clutched her stomach in sudden discomfort. "No making me laugh," she pleaded. "Not yet."

"Tell me that was said in jest," he was calm and perfectly ready to quash any ridiculous notion she might care to voice.

"It was," Cate admitted. "And I apologise, but your expression was priceless," she winced, biting her lip to stop further laughter.

"I have an overwhelming desire to make you a gift of something," he said, suddenly serious, inspecting her hand, pressing her fingers to his lips. "I want to give you something enormously significant and meaningful, but I can't think yet what would be even remotely sufficient," he pondered. "A tropical island? Aston-Martin? The Crown Jewels? Tell me what you would like, my love, and you shall have it."

"Silly man," Cate lay back against the pillows. "As if I needed anything."

"Not the point," he said. "I wish to give you something," he kissed her hand again. "But what?"

"There is one thing you can do for me, if you like," Cate looked interested.

"Name it," Mycroft wanted it to be big and expensive and difficult.

She told him.

He sighed. It wasn't quite what he'd had in mind.

###

"No thank you," Sherlock was polite, but firm. "I have no desire to …"

"Oh, shut up, you oaf," John swung around and deposited Blythe in his arms before anyone realised what was happening.

Sherlock froze; his entire body static, even his breathing halted at the sensation of the small, warm creature in his arms, staring up at him. For a second, nobody moved, then Blythe started to frown, staring uncertainly at his uneasy expression, her lower lip forming a faint pout.

"Do not cry, niece," Sherlock looked down at her with a strange curiosity; she was unexpectedly solid for such a diminutive frame. "I am unable to offer sustenance or extended comfort, although I am able to hold you safely for quite a long time."

Listening to his deep voice, Blythe watched his eyes, able now to focus on basic movement and even if she couldn't comprehend the meaning of the words, she decided against crying. These were pleasing sounds. She wanted more. She gurgled.

"That child is such a trollop," Cate was disgusted. "Cries her head off when I'm around, but the second one of the Holmes men talks to her, she's all smiles."

"Clearly, you do not yet understand the function of the male voice," Sherlock began a scientific exegesis as Cate turned to look at Mycroft, a huge grin on her face.

"Sherlock, Blythe likes you," Mycroft was relaxed with Julius, asleep in the crook of his arm.

"Does she? Why?" the younger Holmes was puzzled.

"I have no idea; there are no reliable tests as yet for infantile intelligence. Blythe may be deficient in some fundamental way," Mycroft blinked and smiled as Cate looked vaguely horrified.

"Then your daughter exhibits great perspicacity and character," Sherlock watched a tiny hand catch the tip of his finger. "I shall endeavour to keep her happy for as long as possible," he stared down into barely-focused blue eyes "Do you like the sound of my voice, niece?"

"Perhaps she might like a new toy?" Cate suggested, bringing out two old teddy-bears.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows, curious as to Sherlock's reaction. He had collected them from the toy hospital at Cate's request and, he conceded, they were looking much better than when they were admitted. Dougal seemed almost jaunty.

His eyes moving from the tiny infant in his arms to the dark-brown teddy bear, Sherlock experienced a momentarily odd sensation. His old companion.

"Bru," he looked calm. "It's been a long time."

"Bru? Cate held the reincarnated teddy; its dark fur glossy, both eyes a brilliant blue.

Still holding Blythe close to his shirtfront, Sherlock leaned down to Cate's ear.

"Bruder," he whispered.

Bruder. Brother.

Sherlock had named his bear for Mycroft.

For a second, her throat tightened and she felt her eyes sting. "If you're agreeable, we shall give this one to Blythe, and Julius may have Dougal," she managed.

Sherlock paused, looking down at his niece. He was entirely agreeable.

#

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# Almost the end #

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The first time she avoided him, Mycroft thought nothing of it; Cate was forever moving from one place to the next, these days.

The second time, as he tried to brush a hand along her neck and she slipped away, he found it curious.

The next time, he stopped and waited for her to pass him in the kitchen, but she veered at the last second. She seemed averse to his touch. Odd.

The fourth time was in the children's room, as she finished feeding Julius and was laying him down to sleep. Walking quietly to her side, she slipped away from him with raised eyebrows and headed out of the room without a word.

He had been waiting for something like this; he smiled, faintly tantalised.

When both of the children were asleep; when everything that needed to be done had been done; when the light was fading from the summer sky, he walked into their bedroom as she was folding towels.

"So many things to do," Cate smiled, ready to slip by him again.

Mycroft's hand shot out, palm flat against the wall, preventing her from getting past.

"I think not," his voice was deliberate as he braced himself, wondering what she would do next.

"You can't simply keep me here," Cate watched his expression. It had been weeks since the birth, and he still seemed hesitant to touch her more than casually. Clearly, he needed motivation.

"I believe I can," Mycroft smiled down at his wife, leaning into her space until there was nowhere for her to look except up at him.

"You can't stop me like this," she protested breathlessly, her heart racing. It had been too long. "It's harassment or something," her voice caught. "Probably."

Leaning even closer, Mycroft's mouth found hers and his kiss was monumental: longer than stone, more compelling than gravity. His hands wound themselves around her head as the thrill of holding her near reignited banked passions.

"Oh Lord, Catie," he groaned, pulling her even closer, his arms binding her to his chest as his mouth caressed hers, her extended moan setting him aflame. Filling his hand with the heavy silk of her hair he sighed her name, lost in the feel of her.

"You still want an old married lady?" she whispered, smiling as she felt his heart pound in his chest.

"Only the one," he murmured.

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THE END

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NEW STORY ... Mycroft Holmes: Master of Secrets

A romance. Treason, treachery and the Tower of London. Scandalous political intrigue and Spies.

A Cate and Mycroft story.

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

Your comments are wonderfully gratifying and always appreciated.

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