Previous part of Knight at the Museum.

***

Chapter 11: Teacher, Tailor, Soldier, Spy

“Oh, my!” Mycroft stood in the doorway of the bedroom, frozen to the spot. Greg turned from the full length mirror and saw him standing there.

“Oh, God,” Greg said on seeing Mycroft’s expression. “Please tell me this is okay. I wasn’t sure what to wear…”

“Gregory, you look...stunning.” The teacher was wearing a summer suit of pale natural linen, with a dark blue tie over a pale blue shirt. It fit him perfectly, and he looked completely at ease in it.

“Think you need your eyesight testing there, Myc.”

“My eyesight is in perfect shape, thank you,” Mycroft replied waspishly. “I think it is you who have a problem.”

Greg’s smile blossomed again. “What do I have a problem with?”

“The fact that anyone might find you good looking, not to mention stunning. Is it so hard to believe?”

“Come on, I’m not that attractive.”

“Well, you may find it hard to accept but in that suit you look...devastatingly attractive, Gregory. I applaud your tailor.”

“But I didn’t go to a tailor. I can’t afford that.” He sounded dubious. “I look that good? Seriously, Myc?”

“Seriously, Gregory. How can I ever compete?”

“Is it a competition?” Greg replied. “Besides, you look gorgeous, Mycroft. You always do. I mean, that suit...probably cost more than a quarter's rent on my flat...” The fine grey wool looked amazing on the man’s lean frame.

Mycroft snorted indelicately. “Oh please, I am not that well off.”

“What, you mean I haven’t bagged myself a wealthy partner? And here was I hoping to be a kept man.” He laughed at Mycroft’s scandalised expression and closed the distance between them. Mycroft tried to maintain a haughty attitude, but failed as he was dragged into a hug. Greg tried to be respectful of Mycroft’s suit, doing his best not to crease it. “Sorry, love,” Greg said, smirking, “but your face…” Mycroft grumped and pulled away. “Aw, don’t be like that,” Greg said fondly.

“I fail to see why not. I am insulted.” Mycroft huffed and straightened his tie. “You intended to become a kept man, Gregory? For me to shower you with gifts and attention…”

“Well, obviously,” Greg said, his grin widening. “I’m planning for my retirement here.”

“You are impossible,” Mycroft said, exasperated but amused. “A rogue.”

“And you like me like that.”

“God help me, I do.” Mycroft paused and stared at Greg as he stood there, so smart in his linen. “I…” Mycroft took a deep breath. He had known this man a week, and he was about to declare undying love for him… “I think…” I can’t...can I? Can I really be in love yet? Really? Mycroft schooled his expression into something less vulnerable. Caring is not an advantage. It gives one all kinds of trouble... Despite the fact that he found it almost impossible not to care, Mycroft disliked the vulnerability.

“It’s bad for you, you know?” Greg said gently.

“What?”

“Thinking. Can be bad for you.”

Mycroft huffed again. “Gregory, we had better finish getting ready. The taxi arrives in a few minutes.” The moment broken, to Mycroft’s relief, Greg smiled and nodded, grabbing his overcoat and shovelling his wallet into his pocket.

“Done,” he said. “You ready?”

“Yes.”

“Okay then, onward and upward, as they say.”

At that moment, a taxi’s horn sounded outside. With a final look at each other, they exited the room.

Later that evening, Greg was standing across the gallery, sipping a rather expensive prosecco and watching Mycroft from a distance as he moved between the guests at the reception. The man was an erudite and gracious host, chatting with everyone, smiling and genial. Greg admired his fortitude, given the number of guests and the noise they were creating. It was giving him a headache. He sipped the wine and tried to ignore the doubts in his mind. This whole business of a potential robbery, not to mention the mole in Mycroft’s staff, was bad enough, but add to those his impending meeting with Mycroft’s brother, not to mention having to return to school knowing that his boss was—or had been, at least—some kind of Dominatrix, it was almost too much… Bloody Hell, he thought, when did my life turn into this? Everything was somewhat surreal. He now had a partner who just happened to be a man, a man he was rapidly falling in love with. Love? Is it too early? How do I know it’s love, and not something else? It’s a long time since I even thought about love…

Greg tipped his glass up to drain it and nearly choked. He blinked, unable to process what he was seeing for a moment. A man had entered the room, a tall man who wore his dark evening suit like a second skin. Greg turned swiftly away, looking around for some escape. Mycroft saw Greg turn desperately around and make for the door and frowned slightly. Wondering what had spooked his partner, he disengaging politely from the elderly—and generous—lady patron he was talking to and headed unobtrusively in the direction Greg had gone. He passed Anthea on the way and murmured in her ear to cover for him for a few minutes. Mycroft went through the open door into the wide corridor beyond, past a few scattered guests who had spilled out of the room, making his way between cabinets of antique silver and 18th century glassware. Greg was nowhere to be seen. Mycroft wandered, trying not to draw attention to himself by hurrying. Suddenly his phone pinged in his pocket. He took it out and glanced at the caller display.

I’m with Elli. GL

Mycroft made sure he wasn’t followed as he went to where he knew Greg had hidden himself. He let himself through the rope barrier and into the gallery where the Pre Raphaelites were on display. Sure enough, he found Greg in front of the painting of Lizzie Siddal.

“Greg, what on earth…?”

“Mycroft, he’s here!” Greg turned to him quickly, urgency in every line of his body.

“Who?”

“The man who was with my boss, that’s who.”

“What, the man from the restaurant?”

“He just walked into the hall. Bold as brass, calm as you please. Mycroft, who is he?”

“I don’t know. Greg, calm down. This is most likely completely innocent…”

“Fuck that for a game of soldiers. Mycroft, if this is coincidence…?”

“Gregory, I believe I have already stated that the universe is rarely so lazy. However, we can ill afford to let the man know we are rattled. We should find out everything we can about him. I will engage him in conversation, and attempt to find out what he is calling himself. I can feign that I don’t recognise him, after all, we met once and then only briefly. I can act the bufflebrained academic when I wish to.”

“Fine then, but how about me? What do I do?”

“Don’t do anything. We met him once and then very briefly. Anybody might forget a face after just one brief meeting.”

“You’ve got a photographer taking shots of the event, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Any chance you can pose for a photo with him?”

“Your reasoning?”

“Send it to the police. Better than an e-fit, which is what we were going to do. Also see if he’s camera shy.”

“Very well. I shall see what I can do. I’ll have a word with Anthea too, see if she knows who he is. If he’s been invited, there is a guest list of everyone. If he’s someone’s plus one, she’ll find out who.”

“Good. Meanwhile I am going to keep out of the way.”

“Keep a low profile then. If he approaches, don’t avoid. Just feign familiarity, but don’t own up to where you know him from. As I said, feign a bad memory.”

“Okay, I can do that.”

Suddenly, Mycroft pulled Greg in for a kiss, but there was something off about it. Greg went with it though, humming in approval, giving out a little moan. When they broke, Mycroft’s eyes were on the door. “We were observed,” he said, voice low.

“Who by?”

“I’m not sure. I saw their reflection in the glass, then movement as they left. Could have been anyone.”

“How long were they…?”

“Again, I’m not sure…”

“Maybe a good idea to get back then, keep an eye on him, see who he talks to.”

“In case he makes contact, you mean?” Mycroft chuckled. “Good grief, Gregory, When did my life turn into a spy film?”

“Blame that brother of yours. He’s the one found all this out.”

“Maybe but I am not giving that man credit for more than he’s worth.” Mycroft took Greg’s hand and lead him out of the gallery. “Come on, Maigret, let’s return to the scene of the crime…”

John met them at the door. “Ah, Mycroft, there you are. There’s someone wants to see you.”

“Who, John?”

“He...er...he said he’d be in your office?”

“Seriously? Sherlock chooses this time to want to see me?”

“Yes, he arrived a few minutes ago, said he needed to speak to you urgently. I gave him the key code…”

“You did what?”

“It’s important, Mycroft. Very important. Go talk to him.”

“Did anybody see him arrive?”

“He was careful not to let too many people see him. He saw me and beckoned me over, asked me to find you. I’ve also got someone I need to keep an eye on here. Sherlock asked me to.”

“Who is it?” Greg asked. “Wouldn’t be an IC1 male, about 6 foot, mid forties, charcoal suit, purple tie, brown hair turning grey above his ears, side parting, sharp nose, dark eyes..." He paused for breath. "Would it?” John nodded, startled. “He’s the one we were talking about. Who has he spoken to so far?”

“He was chatting for quite a while to Janine earlier,” John replied. “They seemed pretty companionable. He's talked to plenty of others, although not for as long. Sherlock said he’d tracked the man here.”

“Did he give him a name?”

“Nope, not yet.”

“Well, come on, let’s find him. Mycroft, go talk to your brother.” Greg moved off, without watching to see if Mycroft went. The Museum Director spared Greg’s retreating back one last glance before he left the room.

Five minutes later Mycroft let himself into his office to see his brother lounging on one of the chairs, brandy glass in hand.

“Brother mine, you finally made it.” Sherlock raise his glass.

“Cut the facetious bullshit, Sherlock. I see you’ve been at my best brandy again.”

“Well, you were not here to entertain me, and I hope you noticed I was discreet enough not to crash your party.”

“Noted. Thank you. So you’re recruiting John into this now?”

“I trust him.”

“Bullshit again, Sherlock? You don’t trust anyone, and neither does he. He has trust issues, he told me so when I had a one-to-one with him when I first started work here.”

“I think you might find he's changed, and what’s more, I trust him with my life. However, now is not the time to discuss my private life…”

“Sherlock, at NO time do I need to discuss your private life. However I shall gather from that little tidbit that you and the good doctor are embarking upon a meaningful relationship? I commend you on your quick work. You only met him on Wednesday?"

"You can talk. We're Holmeses, Mycroft. You of all people should know how quickly we work."

Mycroft allowed himself a small smile. "Quick work indeed. However, John is one of my better employees, and what's more, his department is run with military precision. Break him, Sherlock, and you shall be dealing with me, so take great care."

"John is...not boring, in the least. While he may lack a certain creative imagination and his intellect is barely above that of a goldfish, John is an extraordinary conductor of light, and I consider him essential. Breaking him is not an option, despite your brotherly threats."

"Also not something I need to discuss right now. However, congratulations. Now that’s over, what have you to tell me that’s so important and urgent?”

“I tracked a man here tonight. He’s at your party, brother dear. Currently chatting like old friends to that receptionist girl of yours. The Irish one, what’s her name…?”

“Janine.”

“Janine, yes. More to her than meets the eye as well. The man’s name is Charles Augustus Milverton. He owns a gallery in Soho, and is currently the latest partner of one Irene Adler, AKA The Woman, AKA Sylvia Freeborn, AKA Katherine Harrington.”

“I recall she referred to him as Charles, but she didn’t introduce us.”

“Hm, well, Charles has an interesting history…”

“I’m sure. Better make this quick, Sherlock. I cannot be gone for long.”

“Shut up and listen then.”

000000000000000

John and Greg snagged drinks from a passing waiter and scanned the area, finally finding their eyes drawn by the lovely Janine chatting once again to the man they were looking for.

“Let me go interrupt,” John suggested. “He doesn’t know me. Maybe I can find out something useful.”

“Okay then, I’ll stay here...Oh, Mrs Hudson…”

Martha Hudson turned to find Greg staring at her. “What on earth is the matter, Greg?”

“You okay?”

“I’m fine, dear. What on earth is wrong?”

Greg hesitated but...he knew Martha Hudson, and what’s more, he trusted her. “It’s a long story…”

“I’ve got time, young man. This was set to become rather a boring night but I’ve got a feeling it’s going to change really soon. Let me get a refill, and then I’m all yours. You can tell me all about it...”

***

Chapter 12: Forging Ahead

Greg told Martha Hudson everything. Once he finished, he felt rather better. He hadn’t realized how much the whole affair had been bothering him. Mrs Hudson was staring at him contemplatively over the rim of her glass. He broke eye contact with her and glanced across the room seeing John still in conversation with their target. She followed his gaze.

“Is that the man?”

“Yes. My boss’... partner, I guess you could say.”

“Oh, I know who he is.”

“You do? How?”

“He’s one of our current supporters. Charles Milverton, that’s his name. Charles Augustus Milverton. Dodgy character too.”

“How long have you known him?”

“I know of him, I don’t know him, and he doesn’t know me from Adam. I’m not the kind of person to move in his sphere.” Martha took another sip of her drink and frowned. “The museum has some of his grandfather’s collection on permanent loan.”

“His grandfather’s collection?”

“Yes. George Milverton was an industrialist, made his money in ship building. He loved Ashton Parva though, it was his childhood home apparently. You could ask Molly more, she knows all about it. He collected some fine pieces by Lawrence Alma Tadema and John Ruskin. Beautiful watercolours. We have some prints in the shop.”

“And his grandson is who exactly? What does he do that he can afford to stump up money for this place?”

“He owns a gallery in Soho, some property in London, and promotes young artists who show promise; Turner Prize winners, that kind of thing. He’s a regular supporter of the museum, donates to its funding quite a lot. He’s considered a VIP around here, but he’s a pretentious twit.” She laughed. “Personally I think it’s a tax dodge, because he almost never visits. It’s no surprise that Mycroft doesn’t know him, Mr Holmes hasn’t been here long enough to be familiar with all the people who have supported us over the years and Mr Milverton is one of the more reclusive ones, despite being a pretentious know-it-all when you talk to him. Lady Smallwood over there, for instance, she’s donated far more than Charles Milverton ever has, she often visits the museum with friends in tow, and she’s very pleasant, always got a good word for the staff.”

“So why do you think he’s dodgy?”

“I don’t think, Greg, love, I know. It was all over the papers a few years ago, he was implicated in a forgery ring. Surprised you didn’t hear about it.”

“I was in homicide and serious crimes, Mrs Hudson, but not much fraud. Besides, we dealt with a lot of cases every year, there’s a lot of them I don’t remember much about.”

“Yes, well,” she said, looking him up and down as if she didn’t believe him. “He slid out of it, of course, like the slippery snake he is. He has some powerful friends, but he was guilty as sin if you ask me. Whole thing was rather a mess. My late husband, bless him, he knew Charlie-boy was in deeper than he was letting on. Terry knew one of the copyists in the ring…Oh, don’t look like that, Greg. My hubby was a bit fly himself, you know. How on earth do you think we could afford all those American holidays?” She chuckled. “Your face… Oh, cheer up, you look like your dog died. Your mum wasn’t above a bit of extra work either, if you know what I mean. Oh, nothing like that,” she said, elbowing him the ribs. “I meant cash in hand, you know? Off the books, spare cash, nothing that need be declared to the tax man. How else do you think she afforded you new shoes for school and still managed not to lose her benefits? Neither of us was that flush.”

“I just...don’t like to think of mum doing stuff like that, that’s all. Or you, come to that.”

“She was a good ‘un, your mum, and don’t you forget it. Always put you first, and never did anything that would hurt anybody else. Not to mention that my husband did a lot of things he never told me about. I only found out some of them after he died.”

“Yeah, well, I’m...I was...a policeman. Goes against the grain to think of you or my mum doing anything illegal…”

“You can put that notion right out of your head, Greg. Apart from fleecing the tax man of a few precious quid now and again, nothing your mum did was illegal. She worked every hour God sent, and what’s more, she did it for you.”

“Yeah, I know. Anyway… what happened with Charles whatsisname?”

“Well, the copyist…”

“Copyist?”

“Yes, dear. You’re only a Forger if you get caught. So the copyist Terry knew told him Charlie had cut a deal with the Fraud Squad to welch on the rest of the gang and keep his name out of it, but he didn’t know them all. Charles Milverton went to ground for a few years, but the next thing we know though, he’s opened a gallery in Soho, and he’s the art critic for two mainstream newspapers and he has columns in magazines, articles in journals, even a book or two.”

“So how did he come back from that? Must have had some backing?”

“Somebody with clout, if you ask me.” Mrs Hudson drained her glass

“Clout, Mrs Hudson?” Mycroft appeared by her side. “I hope you are not advocating violence to a former officer of the law.”

“Oh, Mycroft…” She swatted him on the arm, none too gently. “You startled me. I wasn’t suggesting anything of the sort. I was telling Greg about Mr Milverton over there.”

“Ah yes, Sherlock has just been telling me all about him. It seems Mr Milverton is something of an elusive character, not to mention a nefarious one, although it pains me to admit that I have been informed he is one of The Sherrinford’s best supporters.”

“What did your brother have to say?”

“Plenty. I think there is too much to think about tonight. We cannot do anything anyway, we have no proof. No connection to anything, least of all this supposed robbery. So, we wait, I am afraid. Now we have a name, though, we can talk to your friend at the Yard again and pass it along when his contact calls me. We’ve no longer any need for an E-fit, as you suggested. The only problem we now face is, as Sherlock says, we need them to make a mistake…”

“Mistake? What if they don’t make one?”

“Then there is nothing we can do. Look, Greg, I know you want to help, but we can do nothing. There is frankly nothing to link Milverton or your boss to anything right now. They may be linked to each other, your boss might be a former Madam of a high class brothel, and Milverton may have been implicated in a fraud ring but either way, they have done nothing yet, nor are they wanted by the police for anything. Frustrating though it is, I am afraid there is nothing whatever we can do.”

“That’s not strictly true, brother dear.” They all spun round to find Sherlock standing behind them, eyes fairly boring into Greg as he stood there, leaving Greg feeling as though he had been assessed, weighed, measured, and well and truly found wanting. The tall, thin man with the messy dark hair and piercing aquamarine eyes paced closer and almost pinned Greg to the wall.

Greg forced a smile onto his face and stuck out a hand. “Sherlock Holmes? You must be Mycroft’s brother. I’m Greg Lestrade…”

“I know who you are. You are my brother’s paramour and I take a dim view of anyone foolish enough to think they might be of any consequence to him. Or to me…”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft tried to maintain a neutral face but he was struggling. “Please, not here, not now.” Mycroft’s voice was barely short of pleading.

“What, brother? Why not here and now? There is no good time to inform your paramour that he has made a gross mistake and should take himself back to wherever he came from and never lay eyes on you again? Or he will have me to deal with.” The glare took on a fierce defiance.

“Really?” Greg replied carefully, eyes narrowed.

Mycroft was aware that Greg had locked gazes with Sherlock and the two men were currently engaged in a battle of wills, neither giving ground. Mycroft was quietly impressed, but then, Greg was an ex-policeman with a policeman’s stamina for facing off aggressive felons. A quick glance around reassured Mycroft that nobody was actually watching them, despite the current situation, and the museum director breathed a quiet sigh of relief. He was about to request that they move to somewhere less conspicuous when Mrs Hudson took matters into her own hands. There was a simultaneous “Ow!” from two mouths and both men found one of their ears pinched by surprisingly strong fingers.

“Stop it, the both of you, right now!” the lady ordered, voice low but still fierce. “This is not fair on Mycroft, not one bit! If the two of you can’t behave like grown ups, so help me, I shall drag the pair of you out of here by your ears right in front of everyone!” She let go with a snap of her fingers and glared at them both. “I thought I’d taught you better, Greg,” she snapped, then fixed her glare on Sherlock. “You are not being fair to your brother, young man,” she declared. “He works hard, he tries hard, and this is an important event for us, and it’s not just his job on the line if we don’t suck up to our sponsors…”

“Sycophantic rubbish…”

“It is not rubbish, it is necessity. Sycophantic it may be but I dare say you would kiss someone’s ass if you needed something badly enough.” Sherlock couldn’t actually deny that, despite his obvious desire to refute the statement. “Now, are you two going to behave long enough to leave this room?” She received nods from both men, much to Mycroft’s amusement, although he kept it off his face. Mrs Hudson cast him a glance as she followed the two men out the door, rolling her eyes in exasperation. “Leave them to me,” she said. “You schmooze as long as you need to. I’ll take them to your office.”

Mycroft watched them go, then turned his attention to the people in the room. Lady Smallwood drifted toward him in a cloud of pastel chiffon and Clare De Lune. “Mycroft,” she purred. “Is everything alright? You seemed to be having words with that young man…”

“Alicia, hello,” Mycroft said warmly. “I’m afraid my brother decided to pay me a little visit. He can be quite a handful sometimes.”

“I see the redoubtable Mrs Hudson had it in hand, but tell me, Mycoft, who was the other gentleman? I saw you two together earlier. He’s quite the catch.”

“That,” Mycroft said softly, “is Gregory. He’s a teacher at Sherrinford Primary.”

“He looks just right for you, Mycroft.” The lady smiled indulgently. “Is he nice?”

Mycroft smiled. “Yes, Alicia, he is, very nice.”

“May one ask, are you two...together?”

“I hope so. Early days though.” Alicia’s smile was fond. "We are maintaining a low profile though."

The lady nodded, conspiratorially. “Understood. My lips are sealed. But let him take care of you, Mycroft,” she encouraged him. “You deserve it. Now, I need to talk to you about a donation. One of my investments matured and I would so like to gift something to the museum this year…”

***

Chapter 13: Showdown

Mrs Hudson lead the way briskly upstairs and across the gallery to the door that lead behind the scenes. Once through, she took them back to Mycroft’s office and closed the door behind them once they were into Anthea’s room.

“You two,” she said menacingly, “are going to settle your differences like grown ups and you are not allowed to ruin this event for anyone, you got that?”

“I wasn’t going to…”

“It wasn’t me…”

“Shut it!” the lady snapped as both men answered simultaneously. “Now take a deep breath, and go talk to each other. In there,” she added, pointing at the office door. “And do not come out until you’ve straightened things out between you.”

“Anyone would think I was six years old…” Sherlock began but Mrs Hudson held up a hand and interrupted sharply.

“I looked after him when he was six years old,” she said sharply, stabbing a finger at Greg. “Believe me, in some ways I don’t think much has changed. Get in there, the both of you, and make it quick. I don’t intend to be here all night.”

Sullenly, both men did as they were bid, and Sherlock took vicious delight in slamming the door behind them. For a long while the two men simply regarded each other from opposite sides of the room, Sherlock's narrowed eyes taking in every detail of the man who faced him defiantly, Greg's dark eyes giving nothing away. Eventually, Greg spoke if for no other reason than to break the ice and get things moving.

“So…” he said, but barely had the syllable left his mouth but Sherlock interrupted angrily.

“I will not be put off by some whey-faced old harridan with the mental age of ten…” The words were barely out of Sherlock’s mouth before he found himself pinned against the wall with an arm across his neck in a choke hold. Sherlock struggled but Greg was determined to put his point across.

“NEVER say anything bad about that woman again,” he growled dangerously, his voice little more than a husky growl. “You are not worthy of wiping her shoes! She’s a good lady, she’d do anything for anybody, and she cares about Mycroft, so you can stop it with the righteous behaviour. If you have a problem with my dating your brother, you can take it up with me, but you leave her out of it. If you have a problem, you can fuck off anyway!” He let the man go, anger seething through him. On top of everything else that was happening, it was a pity Sherlock just had to be a prick. “Why couldn’t Mycroft have a normal, loving brother instead of you, hm? What on earth did he do to deserve you?”

“Normal? Pfft! Normal doesn’t exist and caring isn’t an advantage, as you will find out, Lestrade. My brother doesn’t know how. He doesn’t appreciate loving...”

“I think you’ll find that’s not true.”

“What would you know?” Sherlock snapped back.

“Enough. I know enough. Mycroft is… old fashioned, yes, and a gentleman, and it suits me fine. You on the other hand…What’s your game? Jealous? Big brother not giving you enough attention?”

“Jealous? Of you? You’re deluded. I have nothing to be jealous about. Look at you. A pathetically lonely man, with no wife, no children, no money either. You’re a teacher, so you obviously failed at something in your life. My brother is rich, successful and academically brilliant, so why would he be interested in you? Look at you, an ex-policeman. What happened? You left the force because you suffered a failure…” Sherlock was suddenly in full deduction mode, eyes all over Greg as he stood there defensively. “So what was it? Kicked off for taking a bribe? No, no, not a bribe...Ah, you couldn’t take the stress could you? You were asked to leave…”

“Shut. The fuck. Up!” Greg’s hands had balled into fists.

“Or what? You’ll make me? Was that it, Greg? Did your aggression get the better of you? Hit someone too hard during an interview…?”

“For a detective, you are one dense tosser, you know that?”

“Enlighten me, Greg.”

“Why should I? I owe you nothing, you obnoxious piece of shit. Stop deluding yourself that you’re trying to protect him. I am not a threat to him, or to you either if you’d take a moment to actually think.”

“So when you inevitably break up with him, what happens then, hm?”

“Why would that be inevitable?”

“Because people like you are interested in my brother for one reason and one reason only.”

“Oh really? And now you are going to enlighten me?”

“Alright then if you insist on dragging this out. His money, Lestrade. You cannot tell me that holds no interest for you?”

“You think I’m a gold digger? Seriously?” Greg could not believe his ears. “Christ on a bike. What goes on in your funny little brain? You are wasting your intellect, you know that? Listening to Mycroft, you could be anything you set your mind to with your skillset, but no, you insist on trying to scare me away, by attacking my integrity and my honesty and my intelligence. Look at you. You’re so scared you might lose him, you scare away any man who is remotely interested in him. Give him a break, Sherlock. He’s lonely too, and I am not interested in his money, I want him for his body and his brain, simple as that. I don’t care if you don’t believe me, because truly, it is none of your business, but I’ll tell you something for nothing, if you continue this, you’ll lose him. You’ll push him away and you’ll have no one, you got me?”

A knock on the door interrupted them and John poked his head in. “You two finished?” he asked testily. “Everything is winding up downstairs.”

“Don’t look at me, John,” Greg replied. “This prick here insisted on giving me the third degree because he doesn’t believe I have the best interests of his brother at heart.”

“Not a surprise.” John sighed dramatically. “Sherlock, you really should stop this, you know. Mycroft is a big boy who can make his own choices.”

“Do you blame me?” Sherlock snapped. “This man’s current employer just happens to be an ex-dominatrix who ran a high class brothel and is now planning a heist on this very museum. I am not convinced he is not the contact I am looking for.”

“What? Are you serious?” Greg demanded.

“Sherlock, what on earth is going on here?” Mycroft appeared at the door, looking harassed. “Are you seriously suggesting Greg is complicit?”

“He has inveigled himself into your affections very neatly, brother, at a rather opportune time. After all, did I not suggest she needed someone on the inside?” Greg turned horrified eyes on Sherlock, and his face drained of colour.

“How...how dare you?” Greg was aware that his voice was shaking. “First you accuse me of taking bribes, then suggesting I need anger management...Where do you get off on this? Now you think I’m involved in this robbery somehow…”

“And why not? You turn up on the scene conveniently at the right time, you work for the person I believe to be behind the scheme, you worm your way into my brother’s affections and you obviously intend to get him to trust you and then to tell you all about the museum and when the exhibit is being delivered. Privileged information, Mr Lestrade. Valuable too. To the right bidder. What is she paying you, hm? Supplementing your meagre teachers’ wages, I’ll bet. I am sure your Met colleagues would love to hear about this, and I can imagine a prison sentence wouldn’t be good for even an ex-detective inspector…”

Speechless, Greg turned to Mycroft and his heart sank as he recognised the very thing he had hoped not to see in the man’s eyes. Doubt. Devastating and final. Panic welled up in him; choking, disabling panic that robbed him of any and all control over his situation. He hadn’t felt like this since… Suddenly the room was too hot, his chest felt constricted, his heart was hammering.

“I’m n.n.not… I c.c.couldn’t…” With one agonised look at Mycroft, Greg turned tail and fled the room. There was no reason for Mycroft not to believe his brother. It was too convenient, his appearance on the scene. Christ, back when he was a copper he would have had to consider the self same facts…

“Gregory, stop!” Mycroft called but Greg either couldn’t hear or had chosen not to. Horrified, Mycroft couldn’t make himself follow. “Sherlock!” Mycroft rounded on his brother. “Explain yourself.”

“I do not think there is anything to explain.”

“Oh, I think you’ll find there is,” John said carefully, “You’d better have proof, Sherlock.”

“Did you see him deny it?” Sherlock demanded.

“Sherlock, I cannot believe this of Gregory. Why on earth would he do this?”

“Money is a great motivator, brother.”

“Yes, it is…” Mycroft stared at the door, not certain what to do. “What did you say to him?”

“Yes, what did you say, Sherlock?” Mrs Hudson was blocking the doorway, her face thunderous. “Explain why Greg has just dashed past me like the devil was on his tail. He looks terrible. ”

“Merely that he is a failed policeman, which he is. I may have mentioned that he got kicked off the force because he could not take the pressure of the job and maybe, just maybe his aggression got the better of him. Those who can’t, teach,” Sherlock declared and looked at them each in turn. “I think he may be the contact we’re looking for.”

“Contact? Whose contact?” Mrs Hudson asked.

“The person behind the supposed robbery,” Mycroft explained. “Greg’s boss....”

“What? I don’t understand…”

“Sherlock accused Greg of being his boss’ accomplice,” Mycroft explained, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “He thinks Greg is only after my money.”

“WHAT?” In two strides, Martha Hudson crossed the office floor. Before anyone could stop her, she had drawn back a hand and slapped Sherlock hard across his cheek. He reeled back, shocked to silence.

“How dare you?” she snarled at him. Nobody dared move, as if scared to break the sideways shift reality seemed to have taken. It was like finding out your favourite granny was a spy, the change was so unexpected. “You know absolutely nothing, young man”, Mrs Hudson seethed. “You with your so-called amazing brain. You might be clever but you’ve no common sense. That man,” she pointed the way Greg had gone, “lost everything a few years ago. He had a lovely wife, and she was expecting their child, and then suddenly,” she snapped her fingers, “gone! Just like that. Overnight. She suffered pre-eclampsia and died on the operating table, and that poor little mite died with her. Greg went from a successful happy man to a broken wreck in no time flat. He lost everything he worked for, had a complete breakdown. Of course he left the police because he couldn’t stand the stress, he was suffering PTSD. He recovered, enough to retrain, to change his career to give him some peace. He’s a great teacher and a good man, so you can apologise to him, Sherlock Holmes. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. And if I hear you mutter that out-dated slur on teachers again, I’ll do more than slap you!”

“Why did he not tell me that then? He had ample opportunity to refute my claim, to say something,” Sherlock protested. “The fact remains that he did turn up somewhat conveniently, and he is in a prime position to receive sensitive information. I make no apologies for my supposition…” John’s angry huff silenced him. “What? Oh, I’ve disappointed you,” Sherlock said, thoughtfully. “Haven’t I? Tell me, John, could I have come to any other conclusion, based on the facts as I saw them?”

“Yes, no, I don’t know, maybe. The fact remains, Sherlock, you were a bit of an arse there…”

“A bit!” Mrs Hudson’s exclamation was incredulous.

“We need answers, John, and Gregory is...was a source of information.”

“And you were wrong about him, Sherlock. Wrong. Admit it. You were just...wrong. Lie to me if you must but don’t lie to yourself. If anybody wants me, I’m going to look for a drink.” John marched out the room, resorting to his military precision to order his thoughts.

Mycroft turned sadly to his brother. “And if Gregory will speak to me again after this, I will be very lucky. Another one bites the dust, Sherlock. I hope you are happy. Close the door when you leave, the other guests are almost gone. I need...I’m going home. And no, you are not to follow me.”

Mrs Hudson watched her boss leave the room, his whole demeanour defeated. “As I said, young man,” she said sadly, “you’ve no sense at all. Your brother works very hard, too hard, to make sure this museum is successful. He’s the youngest curator this place has ever had, you know. He’s got a lot to live up to. He’s not been here long and yet he’s done more in months than our previous curator did in years and we’re so much better off.”

“My brother suffers with sentiment…”

“Thank God one of you thinks straight then.”

“My thoughts entirely. I am above all that…”

“I wasn’t referring to you, young man. Look, love, your brother is lonely, and Greg would have been good for him. They were good for each other. I’ve not seen Greg smile like that since he lost Eleanor. For your sake, I hope they can make it up, because your brother cannot continue like this. For Heaven’s sake, do your research. Greg Lestrade was an exemplary officer, and a kind compassionate man. There is no way he can be in on this and there is no way he wants your brother’s money. Now go home, and think about what you’ve done. You’re supposed to be the Detective, so solve this. Find the real person behind it all. It isn’t Greg, I’d stake my life on it.”

“Let’s hope you’re not asked to do so then.”

000000000000000

The last guests had gone by the time Mycroft joined Anthea in the lobby. She looked at him sympathetically.

“Have you seen Gregory Lestrade?” he asked.

“I did, sir. He caught a cab.” She checked her watch. “Ten minutes ago, sir.”

“I see. I suppose I had better do the same then.”

“Sir? Is everything alright?”

Mycroft ran a hand through his hair. “No, Anthea, it is not. I have done Gregory a disservice and I am not proud of it. I am… I don’t know what to do about that.”

“Talk to him,” she said. “Nothing happens without good communication.”

“I am not sure he will want to talk to me though.”

“If you don’t ask, you won’t know, sir. Tonight went well, so I think we can relax for the rest of the weekend at least. Goodnight, sir,” she said with en encouraging smile. “Technical will clear things away. You get home, sir, and...good luck.”

0000000000000

Greg had flagged a cab down at the bottom of the museum steps. He was about to give his own address but then realised he had left the car at Mycroft’s place. He gave the cabbie the address and sat back, chewing his bottom lip and thinking hard. What now? He had no idea what to do. He had no defence against Sherlock’s accusations. The bastard was devastatingly convincing. How could he defend himself, other than to get Mycroft to talk to his colleagues at NSY? They would back him up on what had happened to him, on the truth of it all, but that lack of trust in Mycroft’s eyes had hurt. Still, on balance, Greg couldn’t find it in his heart to blame him. Mycroft was under a lot of pressure, he had a lot of responsibility on his shoulders. Greg slumped in morose silence in the back seat all the way to Mycroft’s house, paid the cabbie, and watched the tail lights bounce off down the street before it struck him, he had left his car keys in his overnight bag, in the bedroom. Oh, bloody great, now what…?

Mycroft took the taxi that he had asked anthea to phone for, lost in his thoughts all the way back to his house. He expected Greg would have gone straight home. He knew he had probably sunk any chance he may have had with the man, that just for a moment he had let doubt and worry rule his heart, and Greg had seen. Just when the man had needed an advocate, Mycroft had let him down. He knew what he would find when he got home. Greg would be gone, and Mycroft would be spending Sunday alone again, most probably every day from there on would be spent alone.

Therefore the lone figure sitting on his doorstep was a surprise when Mycroft finally got home. He paid the cabbie and got out, seeing Greg sitting uncomfortably on the step, despite the warmth of the summer night. He got to his feet as Mycroft approached, looking decidedly embarrassed.

“Sorry,” he husked. “Left my keys in my bag, in the...um...in the bedroom…”

“Ah, I see.” Mycroft saw all too well. Greg had merely waited for him to return so he could claim his belongings and leave. He fished his keys out and opened the door, knowing without looking that Greg was following. In the hall, they stood uncertainly, neither knowing quite what to do.

“I’ll just…” Greg indicated up the stairs. “Shall I?”

“I...yes, fine…” Mycroft had no idea what else to say.

Greg paused on the stairs. “Mycroft…”

“Gregory, I’m sorry,” Mycroft blurted out. “I know you are not involved… It was unforgivable of me, to mistrust you like that. Sherlock...I tried to warn you about him…”

“What changed your mind about me? He made a compelling argument after all.” Greg was aware his voice was noticeably flinty but there was nothing he could do to soften it.

“Mrs Hudson, actually,” Mycroft explained. “She...she did what I should have done. Stuck up for you.”

“She did?”

“Quite vehemently, in fact. Told my brother in no uncertain terms what had befallen you to make you leave the police. Sherlock is...unreasonable when it comes to my partners. He is, as I warned you, overprotective and jealous. I am very sorry you were subjected to that. He had no right, but I should have stepped in, not allowed him to demolish you like that!” There was a moment’s silence.

“Apology accepted.” Mycroft looked up at Greg in surprise. “I mean, there was really no way for you to know if I was lying, was there? Sherlock, damn him, did draw a reasonable conclusion. I mean, I might be working with Irene, could have been the reason she took me on…”

“The idea is ludicrous, and you know it.”

“Yeah, well, as I said, I might have lied to you. Look, Mycroft, in my career I saw a lot of liars and they were far more creative and devious than me.”

“Even so, I am certain of your innocence in this matter.”

“Well, can’t be too careful. There are a lot of people willing to take advantage. I mean, I’m a gold digger who is after your fortune, you know? You should be vigilant.” Mycroft huffed a laugh, but sobered quickly. Grey blue eyes fixed their gaze to brown ones.

“I am sorry, Greg,” Mycroft began. “Truly…”

“I know. Look, your brother is convincing, and you were taken by surprise. I know you needed to process what he was saying. I don’t condemn you for that. Nice that Mrs H stuck up for me though.”

“She did, most fiercely. She even resorted to violence.”

“Violence?” Greg frowned. "Mrs H?"

“Struck my brother a rather fierce blow across the face for his presumption.”

“Did she indeed?” He grinned. “I remember how scary she was if I ever did anything wrong when she was looking after me.”

“I rather think that a box of nice chocolates ought to be winging its way to her very soon,” Mycroft suggested. “We shall return to London and get her some nice ones.”

“Mycroft…”

“Yes?”

“You said we.”

Greg watched Mycroft’s expression turn wary. “Was that...presumptuous of me?”

“Well, maybe, but...I don’t mind.” Mycroft heard Greg’s voice soften and his eyes lit with hope.

“Can I…?” Greg took a deep breath. “Would it still be okay...well, if I stay the night?”

“Oh, Gregory…”

“I mean, if it isn’t, that’s fine...it’s just...I drank a bit much and while I’m not over the limit, I am probably close, and I’m aware it’s late and...well, if you want I can take the couch.” Aware that he was babbling, Greg nevertheless found it hard to stop talking. Mycroft was staring at him oddly.

“There is no need for that, Greg, honestly. Of course you can stay. I...Can I offer you a nightcap then?”

“Yeah, sure. What you got?”

“Brandy, whisky, cocoa, tea…”

“Cocoa, please. Just the thing to settle the nerves. Been a bit of an upheaval after all. Come to that, are you okay?”

“Me? I am fine, now. Come through to the kitchen and I shall put the kettle on. You can tell me all about what Mrs Hudson was like when you were little.”

“Oh, that’s easy. She was a dancer…”

“A dancer?”

“For a club, in town. Discreet gentleman’s club it was, and no, I was never allowed in. Mum used to serve in the bar, waitressing. They both worked for the sweet factory in the packing department, but they made extra money two nights a week there. Somewhere I have a photo at home, of the two of them, mum in her rather short uniform, bouffant hair do, tray in hand, with Mrs H in her dance gear, standing next to her looking like a Las Vegas showgirl.”

“Does she know you have it?”

“Not sure, why?”

“It sounds like prime blackmail material…”

Greg grinned. “ You’d never survive the attempt,” Greg warned. “You’re a bad man, Holmes. A bad, bad man…”

***

Chapter 14: Apologies

Life was good, Greg thought, waking to sunlight streaming through the curtains. Dust motes danced in the knife of light as it sliced across the bed covers. He yawned and stretched and scratched his chin. Stubble rasped under his fingers. He needed a shower and a shave and coffee… A snuffle beside him made him turn and remember…

After their cocoa the previous night, Greg had been a little nervous. He really did not want to return home, but he wasn’t happy staying either. However, one thing had lead to another and they had spent a couple of hours just talking, sharing thoughts, and then Mycroft had shyly slipped a hand into his and lead the way upstairs. They hadn’t done anything more than strip and get into bed and slide close and wrap their arms about one another, settling for sleep quickly and comfortably. It had felt...nice, forgiving, grounding in a way that sex would never have done.

Mycroft was sprawled across his half of the bed, snoring lightly. Greg grinned and watched him for a moment, wondering. To have this every day? To wake up to this man in my life and in my bed… Can I do it all again? He wasn’t certain, knowing the devastating result when he had lost both Eleanor and Kitty, in one night… What will I do if I lose him as well? A small crass part of him suggested he wouldn’t have childbirth to blame if he did. He buried the thought, but the coping mechanism of black humour was familiar though, and almost comforting. Just have to deal with it when it happens, if it happens. His Gran’s voice came back to him, cross that bridge when you come to it, young man, and not before. It was no excuse not to enjoy what they had.

Mycroft woke to a cool bed and the window open, sunlight streaming into the room, a breeze billowing the muslin curtains in. The day was warm and dry and made more pleasant by the fact that Mycroft had spent the night in a way he had never believed would be possible. He could hear sounds from downstairs, sounds which told him Greg Lestrade had not just spent the night but had stayed too. While he lay there, there came a knock at the door. On a Sunday? He struggled to kick the covers off and grabbed a robe, when he heard the door being opened and voices… Oh, my God, Sherlock?

Greg was making coffee when he heard the knock on the door. It was Sunday, and he knew there was no post on a Sunday, but it might be a friend or neighbour of Mycroft’s and here he was in his jimjams… He padded to the door, peering out through the spy hole and blinked. Sherlock? Greg fumbled the keys from where they hung on a hook near the kitchen door and juggled them trying to find the right one.

“Damn it, Lestrade,” Sherlock said, testily, voice muffled by the heavy door. “It’s the brass one with a square top.”

Greg found the key and turned it, shot the bolts top and bottom, and finally opened the door to stare at Sherlock to find that the man looked distinctly harried. “Well? May I come in,” he demanded, “or shall we do this in full view of the neighbours?” “Do what? We about to have another shouting match?”

“I’ve had enough of those to last a lifetime, far too much…”

“Do come in then.” Greg stood away and the man slid by him, as if afraid to touch. “So to what do we owe the pleasure?” he asked, closing the door firmly behind them.

Mycroft got to the top of his stairs to see Sherlock enter, and froze, unsure what to do. So he waited, in order to see what his brother had to say.

“So to what do we owe the pleasure?” he heard Greg say.

“I’m sorry.”

What?

“What?” Greg said, as if he hadn’t heard properly.

“You heard me. Do I have to repeat myself?”

“You’re apologising?”

“Yes. I am sorry for wrongly accusing you of being complicit in the forthcoming robbery of The Sherrinford…”

“You Bastard,” Greg muttered, before flinging his arm around the man and dragging him into a rough hug. Sherlock startled, freezing in shock.

“What…?”

“I knew you were better than that, lad,” he said gently, letting the startled man go. “Apology accepted, for what it’s worth. Let me guess, Mrs H? John?”

“That’s hardly a guess, considering you are choosing both.”

“So?”

Sherlock huffed. “Both of them.” Greg laughed at the uncomfortable admission. “I suppose my brother is still in a post coital stupor upstairs?” Sherlock asked sullenly.

“Well, he’s still in bed, if that’s what you mean, but you have a lot to learn, sunshine.”

“I am reliably informed that make-up sex is common and efficacious in healing rifts…”

“As I said, much to learn, even if you are picking stuff up from John. All we did last night was talk, and he apologised. Told me about what Mrs H had said.”

“Said? That woman would have a creditable right hook if she ever chose to use it properly.”

“Yeah, heard about that too. She does have a creditable right hook, by the way. Just be thankful she chose not to use it.”

“My humiliation is absolute.”

“Nah, you did make a creditable conclusion, to my way of thinking. Given that you didn’t have all the data and wanted to scare me away from your big brother…”

“I did not want to...scare you away, as you put it. Not purposefully. I… I explained it to John and Mrs Hudson last night and they both suggested most forcefully that I speak to you. Today. Mycroft was very badly hurt when he was younger. I remember when it happened I nearly lost him…”

“Lost him? How?”

“He thinks I interfered, but I found something out about his partner at the time and...I couldn’t let him carry on…”

“Look, lad, come on through, let me get you a coffee and we can sit down in comfort while you tell me…” The two men disappeared into the kitchen and the voices died.

Mycroft crept downstairs, unwilling to reveal his presence when he felt he might be on the brink of learning something that Sherlock may be unwilling to divulge should he find out Mycroft was listening in. He knew the house enough to know the third step from the bottom creaked, so he avoided it and used the newel post to help him the rest of the way down. He slid around the corner carefully, aware that he was having to act the spy in his own home.

“So, what gives?” he heard Greg ask.

“My brother,” Sherlock began, “had ambitions for a very different career once upon a time.”

“What career?”

“Politics.”

“What happened then?”

“Byron did,” Sherlock replied, “and I am not referring to the poet.”

Mycroft had then to listen in silence as Sherlock told the whole sorry tale to the man of his dreams and cringed inwardly that this part of his life was being laid bare.…

000000000000000000

“Come on, pumpkin, we’re going to be late.” Mycroft watched his lover take the stairs two at a time and tried to follow quickly, but he never quite felt as agile as Byron despite being barely into his twenties and fresh out of university. Nor as cool, he reflected, watching the tall slim owner of his heart as he pressed the button on his key to unlock the doors of the Porsche sitting on the drive outside their flat. Byron Wenham-Whyte was, by nature, as flamboyant as his namesake, and almost as brazen, although he had copious amounts of charm and used it shamelessly.

“I wonder what you see in me sometimes, Snowy.”

“What? Pumpkin, you know I love you. Don’t start on that one again…”

There was the barest hint of irritation in the man’s voice as he dropped into the car and started the engine, but he shot Mycroft one of his trademark ‘Snowy’ Whyte smiles and Mycroft felt his heart flip and said no more. This was the weekend he was going to introduce his partner of ten months to his parents, and he was fizzing with anticipation.

Since coming out to them more than two years ago, and not being disowned or disinherited or anything remotely awful, Mycroft had been waiting to prove he could capture and keep a suitable partner. Mummy had insisted they meet, and this weekend father would be home as well. As equerry to Her Majesty, he was often at the Palace and often at inconvenient times.

They received Byron well, welcoming him to the household and treating him kindly, and Byron had fitted in well, charming both his parents with his old fashioned gentlemanly behaviour and erudite conversation.

Mycroft, however, had reckoned without his little brother’s interference. Sherlock had always been a difficult child, his IQ far above the other children at his local school. Mummy had taken to homeschooling him until he reached an age that necessitated socialising with others. Even so, he did not mix well, and often caused disruption. He was growing into a willful teenager with a sharp mind, given to manic bouts of energy and a gift for deduction that left most folks breathless and often somewhat pissed off to find their dirty laundry aired in public.

With the introduction of Byron, however, things went from bad to worse. Once the charming man arrived at the Holmes household, Sherlock took an immediate dislike to the man and went into an horrendous sulk. Moreover, he went out of his way to cause trouble. Over the next year, Mycroft ventured back home with his partner another half dozen times, only to suffer the slings and arrows of his little brother’s venomous tongue more often than not.

Mycroft was happy, though. He was in love, and his career in politics was just beginning, and things were good. Due to his father’s influence, he had secured a minor Civil Service position but there were good prospects of promotion and one or two people had their eye on the Holmes boy. Nobody cared about his orientation, provided he kept it behind closed doors. Eighteen months in to his new job, and the London Herald began to publish some disturbing leaks of information from the Palace.

“Mycroft?”

“Father, how are you?” His father did not phone as a rule, not unless there was something urgent to be dealt with. There was a pause.

“Mycroft, son, I need to ask you something.”

“What? What’s the matter?” His father sounded strained.

“You’ll have heard the Herald’s recent publication of...sensitive information?”

“Yes, father. Have you found the source?”

“I...I have to ask, Mycroft, you haven’t been approached by anyone, have you?”

“Approached? What do you mean?”

“Has anyone asked you for...details? Concerning the Palace?”

“What? No, of course not, besides, you know I would never… Why? Why on earth would you think I…?”

“Mycroft, I’m sorry, son, but the information the Herald printed was information I shared with you only last month and to my knowledge, I never told anybody else…”

“Who else knew? At the Palace?”

“Only a very few, and I am sorry but their veracity is not in question.”

“Oh…”

“Look, son, if you tell me you said nothing, then I believe you, but we have to be certain.”

“Honestly, father, I have never said anything to anybody.”

“Good enough for me.”

Except Byron, the unbidden thought came to mind. In love, and happy, Mycroft dismissed the thought as unworthy.

Mycroft was careful not to repeat anything his father said thereafter, but on their next visit, Mycroft was conscious of Byron’s accepted presence in his parents’ sitting room, listening and laughing as Father regaled them with yet another recent story from his work. Nothing too revealing, mind, his father wasn’t that incautious, but it was still told in confidence.

Yet in the weeks that followed, that particular story did not reach the headlines.

The clincher was a rather revealing expose on one of the younger royals. Mycroft knew nothing about that particular story, and knew his father had not shared it either. However, it threw their father’s reputation into doubt. Mycroft found himself being stared at when at work, and did not mistake the muttering going on behind his back. Everybody knew who his father was…

Sherlock was sulking again, it seemed. Of course it did not take long for Sherlock to openly accuse Byron of only being interested in Mycroft because of their father’s position. Mycroft had definitely had enough.

“That’s enough, Sherlock. You have no idea what you’re talking about. You are simply embarrassing yourself, not to mention me and our parents…”

“Shut up, Fatcroft! Just because you’re so besotted you can’t see what’s in front of your face.”

“I refuse to listen to any more of this. I am happy, Sherlock. Happy. Byron and I are buying a property together and we are partners. Stop trying to ruin everything for me.”

“So what happened?” Greg asked as Sherlock stopped and cocked his head slightly as if listening. “That can’t have been the end of it.”

“Oh, it wasn’t. Next thing we knew, Mycroft was...very upset and angry. Byron had left him. Well, moved out, taken everything with him and left a note that explained of an opportunity in America that had opened up. Of course he felt betrayed. Well, he was betrayed, obviously. What Mycroft never knew was that I was the one who betrayed him. He blamed me, of course, but for the wrong reasons.”

“You?”

“Yes. I found out that good old, romantic, loving Byron was the half-nephew of the Editor-in-Chief of the London Herald.”

“The tabloid that leaked the stuff about the Palace those years ago?”

“The same. He was feeding information to his uncle all the while he was with my brother. I presented my findings to father, and we agreed not to tell Mycroft. The damage was done though. Byron’s uncle was mysteriously fired from his position by the board of directors for the Herald Group of papers. Some people think he was paid off but I know differently.”

“Care to share then?”

“He was threatened with taking the fall in a massive lawsuit, and told to vanish before it splashed all over the news. The board told him they would ruin him if he didn’t just resign and move abroad. Byron disappeared into one of the USA’s vast litigation firms somewhere in California and rumour has it, his uncle went out there as well.”

“Earning vast amounts of money? Doesn’t seem fair.”

“Wherever they are, they’re off the radar, no concern of anyones. Mycroft...my brother took the break up very hard. He gave up his career in politics and went back to university to study history.”

“Why did he do that?”

“Father leaned on him a little, suggested it might not be the best career for someone of Mycroft’s sensibilities. He persuaded Mycroft’s bosses to suggest the same. My brother has a phenomenal mind for organisation and a deep love of history, but politics would eventually have chewed him up and spat him out as a used up husk before his thirtieth birthday.”

“Why not tell him the truth then?”

“The opportunity never arose. Why not just let him believe he had been betrayed? My brother was carrying enough guilt without loading the fact that he had chosen someone who could have proved very dangerous had their liaison continued.”

“And I bet you were a dick to him, weren’t you?”

“I am not proud of the fact that I was...a little vindictive. My brother has a very big heart, Greg, and that makes him vulnerable. He forgave me after a while, even though we come into conflict often and more than we should. I do try to look out for him, but sometimes not in the right way. I have scared off more than one potential partner, but I do wonder how much good they were if I could manage to do so.”

“That depends on how you did it, Sunshine. However, ex-copper, me. Made of sterner stuff. I meant what I said though. If you keep doing it, you’ll lose him. Once and for all.”

“Do I need to?” Sherlock smiled and drained his mug. “I think you aren’t going anywhere.”

“Yeah, but it’s got a lot to do with him, though, don’t you think? Listen, mate. If this doesn’t work out between us—and you have to leave things to run their proper course, in future, remember—just don’t do it again. Okay?”

“I shall of course take your suggestion under advisement.”

“Course you will, you tosser. Little brothers never learn.”

“Neither do big brothers, it seems.” Sherlock reached to shake his hand. “I do appreciate your care of him, you know.”

“Yeah, well, big step for me too. However, it’s worth it. He’s worth it.”

“Yes, he is.”

Greg saw Sherlock to the door. “How’d you get here?”

“I borrowed a car…”

“Please tell me, you did not nick a car to come here.”

“Of course not. Mr Chattergee in the shop below my flat allowed me to use it. I cited family emergency, but I wasn’t really lying. It’s a little...ostentatious, but it does the job.” He cast eyes across to a large silver merc parked by the kerb.

“You any further forward with the robbery then?”

“No. However, Milverton is elusive. I am going to consult with the Baker Street Irregulars when I return.”

“Who the hell are they?”

“My informants. London’s homeless. Surprisingly observant, and mostly unobserved. I have them working surveillance at present. Any moves and I shall know first.”

“Well then, good luck with that. Hopefully we’re seeing someone from the Flying Squad this week.”

“What interest do the Sweeny have?”

“No idea yet. Waiting for Ron Barker to get in touch.” There seemed little left to say, so the two men shook hands. “Take care, Sherlock,” Greg offered.

“Give my best to my brother.”

Greg watched him go, then turned to the living room door. “You can come out now.”

“I won’t ask how you knew.” Mycroft emerged from the room.

“I’m an ex-copper, you daft git. Not much gets past me. How long though?”

“You don’t know? I thought you said not much gets past you?”

“Well, I’d have to guess from the beginning. I thought I saw a flicker in the sunlight in the hall after we went into the kitchen. Dismissed it until I saw Sherlock cock his head to listen. Then I guessed he’d heard something.”

“I heard most of it.”

“Was it news to you?”

“About the truth of who Byron was, yes. I never knew that part. I know more than Sherlock thinks though. I know father decided I shouldn’t head into politics as a career. He and I had a very lengthy talk on the matter. After Byron… let’s just say I was...very unhappy.”

“I can appreciate that one. Feels like your world has been ripped to shreds, yeah?”

“Yes. Like I was worthless in every sense. It took me years to find my equilibrium again. Now...I suppose he saved father as well as myself. There was more than just my injured pride at stake.”

“Don’t start feeling guilty, or angry at them for not telling you. Water under the bridge, Myc. Sounds like that Byron bloke was a bastard. I am so sorry you experienced that.”

“Yes, well, life’s rich tapestry and all that.” Mycroft sighed. “One lives and learns, doesn’t one?”

“Yes, one does. Now, come and get some coffee and let’s talk some more.”

“Talk? What about?”

“Us, Myc. About us.”

***

Chapter 15: Taking The Bait

In the end, Mycroft and Greg finally rolled out of bed in time for a late lunch and then went for a long walk. Greg’s hand stole down Mycroft’s arm as they walked, lacing their fingers together. As they walked, they talked; they discussed cultural appropriation, favourite authors, bees, medieval recipes involving honey, Chopin piano concertos, musical theatre. Conversation was easy, interesting, challenging too, and Greg loved it all. They also tried to express their feelings, although neither man seemed able to completely put into words his hopes for the future. Mycroft tried his best, but he was unfamiliar with trying to put his feelings into words. They did seem to arrive at a mutually satisfying conclusion that neither envisioned himself ending up as a lonely (and quite possibly grumpy) old man. They agreed that they would both rather spend the rest of their days in mutual good company. If that good company was Mycroft, Greg knew he would be more than happy.

They went home in time for an early dinner which Mycroft insisted he cook, and then Greg departed for home. They both had work the following day, Mycroft had a very packed schedule in the run up to the new exhibition, and they both needed to accomplish all the domestic stuff that had been sidelined by the weekend’s events. Greg had to sort his clothes for the week, and possibly put his washer on, as well as check his briefcase and make sure his lesson plans were organised.

Home, however, was empty. It was far too quiet. Greg went about doing his laundry, and laying his suit out ready for the morrow, but he realised he had forgotten to finish his lesson plans and was then up until after eleven completing them all, the whir of his washer a background counterpoint to his scribbling notes and tapping keys. He could print it all tomorrow off the school printer, so simply finishing the content was all he had to do. Even so, it took him a while. A text arrived as he was deep into typing it all out on his laptop.

I Hope I don’t wake you, Gregory, just wanted to thank you for today. MH

Greg smiled and texted back quickly. Thank you too. You didn’t wake me, I’m still up.

Should you not be resting? You have school tomorrow. MH

Forgot my damned lesson plans. Got to have them done for tomorrow.

Ah, sorry for that. I hope you manage to complete your work before too long. You need your sleep. Goodnight, Gregory. All my love. MH

All my love? Greg smiled, suddenly happy beyond words. All mine too, GH, he wrote.

He fell asleep about midnight, and woke up at six with his alarm, feeling groggy and tired but still happy. When he got to work that morning though, the school was quiet, and he realised he was the first in for once. He made tracks to the staffroom and made himself coffee, then retreated to his classroom and managed to get things sorted for the day ahead. He printed off his lesson plans and filed them in his work folder, just as Mary called a greeting as she passed the door. She poked her head in to ask about his weekend, and they shared a few words before the day began. Rhiannon arrived in a rush, apologising for getting stuck in traffic. Then the children started to arrive and before long the day was in full swing, and all thoughts of Mycroft and the museum went to the back of his mind.

The days blended into one another, the week rushing by. For Mycroft it meant consultations on the IT components of the exhibition with Jim and Seb, closely followed by a discussion with Terry concerning changes in the placement of the exhibition cases. Technical had realised the floor wasn’t level in certain places which meant either modifications to the cases or repositioning them through the room. They arrived at a compromise, modifying some, moving others. Mycroft also insisted on a complete review of all the security arrangements until the Head of his Museum Attendants was sick of talking about it.

“Seriously, Mr Holmes, we are doing everything we’ve been asked to do. There is nothing more we can do,” he tried to reassure.

“The local police have been informed?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve consulted with them, personally. They have been here and advised on the most effective methods of deterring thieves and we are doing all of it. CCTV has been upgraded, and Mr Moran has made sure everything is working properly. The museum we are borrowing from is quite happy with our arrangements. We meet their standards or we’d never have got permission to loan in the first place...as I am sure you’re aware, sir.”

Mycroft sighed, tried to rein in his racing thoughts and thanked the man, finally allowing him to leave. He picked up the phone and called his brother.

“Mycroft, you know I prefer to text.” Sherlock’s reply was acerbic.

“Any news?”

“Good God, this is really getting to you, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is. I believe you when you say it is going to happen, so tell me, what do we do?”

“I am afraid there is nothing new yet. Nobody is moving. It’s quite annoying.”

“My condolences that the criminals are not cooperating.”

Mycroft just about heard the eye roll down the phone line. “When I have anything worthwhile, I will be in touch. Security measures have been improved, I take it?”

“As...far as possible, yes.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then, shall I?”

“We can do nothing more. We are doing more than the museum requires to lend this material to us, so we technically should not worry. Should anything happen to the...objects, the insurance will cover us.”

“But your reputation would still suffer.”

“Sherlock, I don’t care about my bloody reputation. I care about the...objects, falling into the wrong hands, possibly being damaged in the process, and being removed from circulation. They should be shared, enjoyed, respected even, used to educate, not adorning some billionaire’s wall for their sole pleasure, having been stolen to order.”

On Wednesday, Greg stayed late, doing his best to catch up with everything before heading home. He had some art materials to order, some of the kids’ pictures to mount, and templates to make for some masks the children were going to make for a play they were writing. It would be part of the end of term fete for the school’s hundredth anniversary.

“Alright, Mr Lestrade?” He looked up to see Sid, the caretaker, peeking in the door.

“As right as can be, Sid. What’s up?”

“Nearly half past, Mr Lestrade. Can I ask when you’re plannin’ on headin’ ‘ome?”

“Half past? Jesus, so it is. Sorry, Sid. Didn’t mean to stop you locking up.”

“No, no, not a worry. Just wonderin’. Herself is still here too, and there’s no chuckin’ ‘er out.” He gave a lopsided grin, showing gap teeth.

“I should be done in a half hour, Sid. Don’t want to spend all my life here.”

Sid chuckled. “Me neither. Don’t work too hard, son.”

“Nah, no fear of that. Need to get gone soon anyway. Don’t want to run into the boss…”

“I’ll clear up here, you know. You just get yourself ‘ome.”

“Thanks, Sid. I won’t be long.”

The caretaker ambled off, keys jingling. Greg sighed. He was up to his eyes in cutting shapes out of card and he was only half done. He was just finishing the mask shapes and was clearing up the bits of dropped card when he heard voices in the corridor. One was unmistakably Irene’s, the other...familiar but he couldn’t place it. “...shouldn’t visit here. I have told you before.”

Damn it, Greg thought. I have no wish to get caught by that woman right now. He left everything on the table and moved across to the corner of the room that was away from the door. Anyone passing would not automatically see him there.

“I apologise but this is important, Ms Free…”

“DO NOT call me that!” Well, that sounded angry. Greg wondered who the man was to have caused her such irritation. “You never use that name. Not here, not anywhere. Understand me?” There was a pause and then “Stop fucking snivelling and follow me now. I don’t need you to be seen.” The voices were clear through his open door. They must be close. Damn, the door is open...

“But Ms Adler, there have been developments. Milverton wants to bring things forward…”

“Forward? What on earth for?”

“He has a plan he thinks you should listen to. It may make things easier for us.”

Greg heard a very put upon and irritated sigh. “I suppose I should hear him out. I’ll text him. What else?”

“You may find this less palatable, Ms Adler.” There was a pause. “Holmes knows.”

The footsteps stopped. Greg resisted the urge to move as he might be seen… Very quietly, he dropped to all fours and crept under one of the tables, fairly sure he was out of the direct line of sight should anyone peer in. It was cramped but bearable.

“Holmes doesn’t know. Nobody knows.” Irene dismissed the notion.

“He does, I can assure you. I am in touch with...an associate of his. Someone who has his ear.”

“Someone he pays, you mean?”

“One of his informants. I pay her more.”

Informants? Mycroft had informants? Wait, what? Greg frowned in confusion. Hang on, maybe they were referring to Sherlock, not Mycroft. What does he call them? The Baker Street Boys...no, Irregulars. Baker Street Irregulars. At that moment, no doubt encouraged by the wind through the window he had left open, some of the papers on his desk tipped onto the floor, taking a pair of scissors with them. Greg froze.

“Shh!” He heard the imperious command and then steps approached and the door squeaked as it was eased further open. He did not see her looking into the room but stayed where he was, breathing as softly as possible, willing his heart rate to quieten. He knew he needed to get out of there fast. He could see her feet, and beyond, the feet of the man with her. Brogues, scuffed brown ones, with grey tweed trousers, old fashioned turn ups along the hem. He saw her feet move away and resisted the urge to sigh in relief. “I heard something,” she explained. “I thought there may have been someone in the room. Seems I was mistaken. Someone left a window open, it blew some papers onto the floor. Now, you were saying…?”

“I pay her more than he does,” the man said. “She told me that Holmes’ brother has a….” The voices drew further away, but Greg did not emerge until the footsteps had died away completely and he could no longer hear the voices.

He scrambled out of hiding, and made for the desk, then paused. No, no cleaning. He hadn’t quite finished. If he tidied and she had occasion to glance in here again, well, she would know he had either been there or been around. Leaving it like this, he could always say he had left without finishing up, responding to a family emergency… or something. He grabbed his briefcase from behind the desk, she wouldn’t have been able to see it from the door, and grabbed his coat from behind the door, leaving the opposite way from the direction they had gone in. The car park was in front of the school, and Adler’s office was at the rear. With luck, he’d get away without being seen...

“Greg, hold up!”

“Shit!” He nearly had a heart attack as mary caught him up from the other direction.

“What? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Shut up. Do you need a lift?”

“Yeah, sure…”

“Just shut it until we get out of here, okay?”

“You’re avoiding her, aren’t you?”

“Too bloody right. If she sees me tonight, I am toast.”

“What did you do?” she asked as they got in the car and Greg started the engine. He drove out the drive and away, turning left up the road. “Thought you lived the other way?”

“I do. Scenic route.”

“Greg, we’re out of there. Slow down, and calm down. Now what the fuck is wrong?”

“You are not going to believe this.”

Over drinks at a pub on the edge of the ridge of hills looking over the town, somewhere Irene would likely not be caught in a million years, he told her. I all came spilling out, like water from a burst dam; the potential heist, the person with Irene, Milverton…

“It’s a mess,” he finished, downing the remains of his pint. “Nobody has the first idea what to do.”

“Greg,” she said, looking at him strangely.

“What?”

“Things are about to get weirder.”

“Oh? How on earth might they do that?”

“Here.” Mary reached into her inside pocket of her jacket and produced a familiar wallet.

“Bloody. Fucking. Hell. No.” Mary Rosamund Morstan, he read. Detective Sergeant. Across the top was printed Metropolitan Police. “Since when?”

“1998,” she grinned. “I’m risking a huge amount even telling you, never mind the risk I am going to take by bringing you into this. You’re an ex-copper, though, and I can see this going pear-shaped if you are kept in the dark. If my superiors knew…”

“You’d be for the bloody high jump,” he said, raising his glass.

“Yeah, most likely.”

“So...what the fuck is going on?”

“What you’ve told me is pretty much what we know already. We know Adler, AKA Sylvia Freeborn, AKA Katherine Harrington. She was a madam for a high class Brothel ten years ago, involved in blackmailing a member of the Royals, but it was all swept under the carpet, and Freeborn disappeared. Now she’s popped up again and she’s calling herself Irene Adler. She’s a fraudster, a blackmailer and she’s been associated with the Mafia, among other things, whom we suspect were responsible for giving her a new identity after the last fiasco. Her partner…”

“Milverton?”

“Yeah, he’s a slippery one, too. We knew all about his fraudulent goings on but he got away too. Well, this time we are going to nail them, but not unless you can keep our nose out of it all and let me do my job.”

“So you’re, what, fraud squad? Flying Squad?”

“The Sweeny? No, love,” she grinned. “Not exactly Fraud either. Counter Terrorism, actually. This is a joint operation and it’s taken a huge amount of time to put together.”

“Since when did Counter Terrorism become interested in fraud and art crime?”

“Antiquities crime. Not art. The Sherrinford is playing host to a valuable piece of historical work, the Abottsfield Venus. It’s only small, but it’s gold, it’s Roman, it’s very valuable, like $5million valuable, and it’s being stolen to order, we think.”

“Hang on, you haven’t said why on earth CTC is interested in antiquities crime.”

“When it raises money to fund terrorism, it is. Milverton isn’t his real name. It’s Rostov, Alexei Rostov, and he’s been a thorn in our side a bit too long…”

“This is bollocks, Mary…”

She nodded. “I know it sounds wild, and I know, I am supposed to be undercover. You are about to blow that wide open, Greg, both with what you know and who you know. When Sherlock Holmes gets his nose into a case, then everybody best look out. He drives Dimmock wild sometimes. This could impair any success we might have. Look, I don’t want to fight you over this, but I am not about to let this go.”

“So you want me to keep quiet.”

“So I can make sure this investigation runs to its close. I want her arrested, and charged with something that will stick. There are people other than us interested in her so our case with CPS needs to be fucking watertight. Christ, I really am taking a massive risk bringing you in on this, but I don’t want you hurt.”

“Thanks, I think.”

“Greg…”

“I know, I know, it’s just...frustrating. I need to do something.”

“Look, we know about the planned robbery. Adler and Milverton are planning to lift the Venus when it arrives, but they have people they’ve recruited to carry it out. We want Adler and Milverton too, and for that to happen...." She shrugged. "Look, you understand this kind of thing, you know how much work goes into it, how long it takes, and I’m pretty sure you’re not going to ruin it. You’re an ex-copper, Greg…”

Greg sighed. “I know. I know. I’m not going to ruin it for you. You need to catch them at it, and then you’ll offer them a deal to dob Adler and Milverton in?”

“They’re tools, Greg. They’ll talk. As long as they think they're facing anti-terror charges rather than simply art theft, and you keep going as though everything was normal, we can see this to it’s close. Oh, and don't tell Holmes."

"Which one?"

"Both of them. You cannot let them in on this. I've already risked a lot by letting you in. I dunno, try to deflect Sherlock and just tell his brother your contacts at the Met have told you to drop it, and we'll have to carry on from here. We don’t let her, or anyone else for that matter, suspect anything. I hope you’re up to the task.”

“So do I.”

00000000000000

“Did he believe you?”

“Yes, Ms Adler.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oh, he’s taken the bait, Ms Adler. Hook, line and sinker. I convinced him to back off.”

“And you trust him?”

“Not in the least, but I understand people like him. He’ll obey the rules if he thinks its the right thing to do, and he does.”

***

Chapter 16: Pretending Everything is Fine.

“What do you mean, they’ve told you to drop it?”

“That’s what they said,” Greg told Mycroft on the phone that evening. “They said to drop it, and hinted that there’s something going on, most probably an operation of some kind. Just...I don’t know any more. That’s all they said.”

“Good God, Greg, the Ve...the object, arrives next week…”

“Yes, I know, but...what else could I do?” Greg hated this. He hated effectively lying to Mycroft, but he had no idea what else to do. He knew the value of silence and cooperation on these cases, because otherwise something would go wrong and the criminals would get off on a technicality. It had happened to him a few times; arrest the thieves, build a watertight case, and then the bastards would hire good lawyers who would find a loophole and bang went months of work until catching them red-handed was the only way they couldn’t wriggle out of it. He sighed. “Look, we’ll have to trust that the police know what they’re doing?”

“I don’t know, Greg. I mean, if they were concerned, would they not be approaching me, as museum Director? I mean, it is technically my responsibility, my exhibition...If they suspected a major theft...well, why am I not being consulted? Why is the British Museum not being consulted?”

“Maybe they have been, and possibly you will too, there’s best part of a fortnight to go. If not, it’s because of the sensitive nature of the operation. Look, it was hinted that they’re not after the thieves, they’re after their bosses, ie: Alder and Milverton. They cannot do that unless they manage to get the thieves to confess. Believe me, it’s difficult enough in the first place to catch the ones who plan the damn crimes.”

“I am not convinced.”

“Didn’t think you would be. Look, leave it until the end of this week, then I’ll have a word with a colleague and check it out. How would that be?”

Mycroft sighed. “Very well, but…”

“But?”

“I fear Sherlock will be harder to convince.”

Sherlock… Greg paused. What did that man say to Adler? One of Sherlock’s informants was being paid more by him? Oh, God. Now what do I do? Tell him? Will that blow everything? He took a breath. “Look, just tell him…” What? “Tell him what I told you, that my police contacts have suggested we back off.”

“I shall try but I am not wholly convinced he will listen.”

“Then just tell him if he blows this, he’ll probably never find work with the Met again.”

0000000000

“Okay, Stephen, stop that right now!” Greg snapped. Stephen looked unmoved and pouted, dramatically, having been caught pulling Jessica’s plaits. Greg tried not to laugh but Stephen reminded him so strongly of Sherlock it was hard to keep a straight face. “Please do not do that to Jess. Sit down here, now, so I can keep an eye on you. Now, everybody, give me some doing words...Yes, Sally.”

“Walking,” she said primly.

“Good. Yes, Daniel?”

“Running.”

“Right. Harry.”

“Fishing.”

“Nice one. Maria?”

“Dressing?”

“Yes. well done.”

“Farting,” Josh said. The entire class shrieked with laughter. Greg rolled his eyes. This is my life, he thought momentarily, making a valiant attempt not to laugh again. He allowed himself a small smile. That lad’s timing was perfect.

“You’re not wrong, Josh, but put your hand up to answer. Now, any more?” He pointed to David who was waving his hand around to be noticed. “Alright, David, I can see you perfectly well, I don’t need semaphore.”

“What’s semaphore, sir?”

“Signalling with flags. Just put your hand in the air, there’s no need to wave it about as if you were drowning. So, what’s your suggestion?”

“Snoring, sir?”

“Yes, that’s good. Okay then, doing words are known as verbs. Verbs describe doing or being…” Greg went to the white board and wrote a few more words, carrying on with his lesson, trying not to get distracted with thoughts about the impending robbery and everything Mary had confided in him.

Somehow he made it through the day but he avoided Mary as much as possible. He shunned the staffroom for the next few days until James came to see what was happening. He leaned in at the door as Greg was sitting going through his reports.

“Greg? You alright, my man?” Greg looked up, seeing James standing there holding two mugs that steamed. “Brought you coffee. Why are you avoiding us?”

“I’m not.”

“Like Hell.”

Greg sighed, standing up and unkinking his spine. He fixed James with a look and shook his head. “Where’s Mary?”

“Not around. Why?”

“Just...it’s complicated.”

“Christ, you’re not having an affair, are you? She’s married.”

“Fuck no…” Greg muttered, voice low. “Look…” Greg went to the door and looked out, then shut the classroom door on them both. He took the mug Sholto offered and sat down again. He was silent for a moment as he wondered about trusting James. The man had always been friendly, helpful and supportive. “It’s nothing, honestly.”

“Come on, Greg. This is me, remember?”

“I’m not allowed to say.”

“Not allowed? What the Fuck, Greg?”

“Look, there’s something going on, and I can’t say anything. Police matter.”

“Police? How?”

“It’s to do with the museum…”

“Okay. Need to know, hm?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Very well then, I can appreciate that, but what has it got to do with Mary?”

“Um...can’t say, sorry. Maybe nothing.”

“You’re talking riddles.”

“Yeah, I know, I’m sorry. This is...big, James. I can’t jeopardise the operation.”

“Operation? Christ. You back on the force then?”

“No, just...managed to get caught up in something, that’s all.”

“Which somehow involves the delightful Ms Morstan.”

“James…Don’t say anything to her, okay?”

“Alright, I’m not stupid. I was a soldier. I can appreciate when I need to keep my nose out of it, but take care, Greg. I am here if you need help.”

“I know, James, and thanks. I just...keeping myself out of it for now. Just...letting things go as I’ve been told to.” The bell rang for afternoon lessons. “Thanks for the coffee.” James stood up and smiled, giving him a wave as he walked out the door. Greg sighed and let his shoulders slump. Defeated, he turned to face his pupils’ return, watching them tumble over and around each other as they jostled to get to their seats.

Greg went about the rest of his week in a daze, until Friday, wondering more than once exactly he was going to do about all this mess. He was gathering his things in preparation for going home when, through his window, he spotted his boss talking to someone. As she moved aside, he could see that the person she was talking to was Mary. He watched as the two women walked across the yard. As they did so, they both glanced toward his room, then looked away, continuing to talk as they walked toward the building. Greg felt fairly sure that they were too far away to see he was looking back at them, the angle of the windows and the reflected light enough to obscure him, but the gesture struck him as off, as though they were talking about him. He stuffed the last few papers into his briefcase, told himself not to be paranoid, and finally went home.

Later that evening his phone buzzed with a text. Glancing at it, he could see it was from Mycroft. Guilt flooded through him, and he put the phone back down, unable to formulate a reply to the man. What can I say? Perplexed, Greg picked up the phone again and looked at the text.

Was hoping I could see you this weekend, MH

Greg sighed. He wanted to see Mycroft. They had something good brewing, and it was not something he wanted to let slide. However, he felt bad about what was happening and it robbed him of what to do or say. He picked up the phone and sent off a quick text, apologising but citing his heavy workload. He hoped Mycroft would understand.

Sorry to rain on your parade, but I’ve got too much paperwork this weekend. Can we organise for later in the week? GL

It didn’t take long before a reply buzzed.

Sorry to hear you are snowed under. Take care not to work too hard. Busy this week because of exhibition. Will be in touch. MH

Bloody buggering Hell, Greg thought. That sounded like a brush off. To be expected, however. He sighed, frustrated. The weekend loomed before him and for the first time in a long while, Greg found that he wasn’t looking forward to it.

***

Chapter 17: Signs and Tangents

“What do you mean, back off?”

“Exactly that, Sherlock. There is some kind of police operation going on and Greg has been ordered to back down, and thus so have we. How can I put it more plainly?”

“Rubbish, Mycroft. There is no police operation.”

“How do you know?”

“Because Dimmock says there isn’t.”

“Dimmock may not know. It might be a different department…He might be lying.”

“I concede that it is possible he does not know, but word gets around. Besides, he tells me he has enquired, on the grounds that there may be a possible conflict of interest. He tells me there is no police involvement in anything to do with The Sherrinford. He was not dissembling, either. I can tell if that man is lying. He is terrible at it. Besides, something is going on, even if Scotland Yard are oblivious to it. One of my informants is on the take…”

“On the take? From whom?”

“I suspected she was getting money from someone other than me when I noticed her clothing.”

“Clothing?”

“Yes, clothing. She started wearing brands. A few new specifically-branded items that would normally be way out of her league.”

“Shoplifting, Sherlock? I imagine it is not out of the ordinary for your...contacts.”

“Firstly, my contacts are not criminals…”

“Pft.” Mycroft was dismissive.

Sherlock took a deep breath. “I would ask you not to be so...judgemental. Yes, some of my people have a past. That’s why I try to employ them, to keep them off the streets. However, this one has always been an outlier, never mixes with the others. The rest have formed a family of sorts, they call themselves the Baker Street Irregulars. Their name, not mine. They look after each other, they work for me, I pay them, they split the money and help support each other. So far, they have remained on the right side of the law, and it stays that way or I refuse to keep employing them. She is, however, not a part of that. By her own choice, she stays away. I always end up paying her separately, assuming she does what I want correctly. Recently, she has rather alarmingly upgraded her clothing. So I’ve had one of the others watching her. She doesn’t shoplift, she is buying her clothes, with a rather alarming amount of cash. I had someone tail her and report to me who she was meeting and when. Not long after I would meet to garner information from her, she would meet up with another man who paid her what appeared to be large amounts of cash in an envelope. So I set her up.”

“How?”

“I asked her to get me some information, nothing hard, just some surveillance on someone, and I paid her. Then I changed my appearance and tailed her. Saw her meeting a man, who passed her an envelope. It was full of cash, she opened it to check and I could see the notes. All twenties. Enough for a couple of hundred. The first time I was too far away to hear what they said. The following meeting I had a disguise that got me close enough to hear. She was giving him information on me, Mycroft. She was asking me questions when we met, and I answered with things I felt were true enough but innocuous enough not to be too revealing or damaging. Sure enough, she was relaying those answers. He’s a small man in tweeds, balding, in his forties…I think he has some connection to the university. I tailed him back there. He is recognised by the porter on the main gate and he seems to be living in halls, so they know him, he is obviously well established there.”

“Tweeds, did you say?” Mycroft frowned. “How tall was he?”

“About five six, looks quite old fashioned. His trousers have turn-ups, for God’s sake.”

“Turn-ups...Sherlock, I know who he is. His name is Culverton Smith…”

“Culverton Smith?” Mycroft heard furious tapping as Sherlock accessed his computer.

“He’s a professor of archaeology at the university,” Mycroft said. “He asked to access our collections for his PhD but I am reliably informed he is unlikely to be completing it. He apparently comes every year, applies for any job the museum has going, but never gets anywhere. Apparently my predecessor refused to entertain the notion of employing him. He is rather camp, but innocuous enough. Mrs Hudson told me all about him. He always says he is studying for his PhD but it never happens. It all sounded rather pathetic.”

“Mycroft, how much access does he have to the museum?”

“Access? Well, as much as any volunteer, really. He has the access code to the staff area door, he can use the kitchen and the staffroom and our library. Beyond that, he has to sign in and out, but he pretty much can come and go as he pleases.”

“So he can talk to people, he can see how you work behind the scenes…”

“Yes, I dare say.”

“Then I think,” Sherlock said smugly, “we might have your mole.”

0000000000000

Oh, God, what the Hell was I drinking last night… Greg opened bleary eyes onto an unfamiliar room. Christ, did I go home with someone…? Try as he might, he could not remember. Looking around him, he could see that the curtains were drawn, but there was daylight filtering through. Otherwise the room was almost empty. Apart from the bed he was lying on, there was no other furniture. The door was closed and he could hear no other sounds… What the fuck? Greg tried to clear the fuzz in his head. He had a fierce headache, which made concentration difficult, but his police training was kicking back in… Wrong, wrong, wrong… He tried to sit up but his wrist caught on something. Looking down, he found he wasn’t on a bed, he was lying on a mattress, handcuffed to the base of a radiator that was sitting against the wall.

000000000000000

Saturday morning had arrived in sullen mood, and neither Greg nor the weather seemed to be feeling very chipper. Grey clouds hung over his part of the world and threatened rain. After a brief trip to the bathroom, Greg decided to go back to bed. The weather conditions had made themselves known with a hefty gust of rain-laden air through the half-open bathroom window and Greg gave it up as a bad job. He went back to bed armed with a tray laid with hot cocoa, the morning paper, and toast. He planned on a little more sleep before facing a day filled with completing pupil assessments, marking work, and mounting pictures for the classroom wall…Greg had found himself smiling. Instead of being called out at godforsaken times for investigations and leg work, house-to-house, interviews, arrests, he was giving up his weekend for what amounted to deskwork. It was almost a luxury, although part of him still resented giving up even a small portion of his weekend. He knew he was avoiding working at school though, minimising his chances of crossing paths with Irene. That was bad, really…

Greg’s phone rang as he was working his way through the toast. Noting it was a restricted number registering on the end, he reluctantly answered it, not wanting to get dragged into a call from someone selling something.

“Lestrade?” he said cautiously.

“Former DS Greg Lestrade?” the cheerful male voice replied. “It’s Ron Barker, DI, Fraud Squad. Dave asked me to call you. Dave Bradstreet?”

“Oh, right, yeah. Thanks for calling.”

“He said you’d been talking about the threat of a theft from a museum?”

“Yeah, we had a tip off…” Greg went on to outline the information Sherlock had come to them with, but kept it simple. “Thing is, though, I’ve already been approached by someone else from the Met, and they tactfully suggested I back off, that there’s another operation already going ahead…”

“Really? Dave suggested this was about someone called Milverton? Charles Milverton?”

“Yes, that’s him. Look, Ron, I don’t want to be rude but...if this is someone else’s collar…”

Ron chuckled. “Yeah, I know, but Dave told me it was concerning theft from a museum, which is antiquities or art theft. I took the liberty of enquiring about it from the horse’s mouth, as it were, but the Art Theft Squad came up blank. Nobody’s heard anything.”

“What, nothing at all?”

“Nope. Nothing. The most they know is Milverton is on their books as a person of interest, like he is on ours, because he got nicked a while back for being part of a fraud ring. I remember him, cool as a cucumber, grassed up the rest of the gang in exchange for immunity without a qualm.” That confirmed the facts Mrs Hudson had supplied him with. “One step out of line,” Ron added, “and we’d be ready to nick him all over again. However, at the moment, he’s clean. Runs a gallery in Soho and it’s absolutely above board. Art Theft also know that The Sherrinford museum is receiving a small gold figurine known as the Abbotsfield Venus next week, in preparation for it’s display in a new exhibition concerning the Roman history in your neck of the woods. It’s an important piece apparently, quite rare, but the British Museum is happy with the security arrangements and it’s not excessively valuable...”

“That’s not what I was told. Is five mil not valuable?”

“How much? Who told you that?” Barker snorted a laugh down the phone. “Rare that Art Theft don’t know what they’re talking about and according to them it’s only worth around 300k. It’s enough, but not that valuable in the grand scheme of things. Not when you realise they can be dealing with thefts and fraud in terms of millions, not thousands. Look, forgive my asking but exactly who told you about this, Greg? Who is this police contact of yours? The one told you about the op?”

It was Greg’s turn to pause. He would be getting Mary into a world of trouble if he told them her name. Bringing in a civilian, even an ex-copper, into an operation like this would earn her a reprimand at the very least. “Look, Ron, I’m not certain I should say. I could be getting...this person into deep shit for telling me…”

“Yeah, well, maybe deep shit is deserved. Officers are not allowed to talk about ongoing investigations with anyone not directly involved, unless it directly concerns enquiries, as you well know. Are you sure this person is legit?”

“Showed me a warrant card I would swear was real. Look, could we meet?” Greg asked. “I’d rather not do this over the phone…”

“When can you get here?”

“This evening? I can get a train up, get there for about sixish. Would it be okay if I bring Mycroft Holmes with me? He’s the museum director. It concerns him directly anyway.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. Can you make it after six though? Got a late meeting.”

“NSY at 6.30 then?”

“Okay, sure. I should have something by then. I should know whether there’s an operation going down, even if I can’t tell you the details. See you then.”

Greg phoned Mycroft as soon as the call to Ron Barker ended only to have the call go almost straight to voicemail. “Mycroft, it’s Greg. Got a call from Ron Barker at the Met. Intending to go see him this evening. If you’re free I’d appreciate you coming along. Got questions need answering. Call me back, please?”

After he terminated the call, Greg checked the time. It was nearly lunchtime. As he had some shopping to do, and lunch to find, Greg decided to go to the store and grab a quick lunch out at the pub. He quickly dialed James Sholto and grabbed his coat as he waited for the call to connect.

“Terribly sorry, but I really can’t reach the phone right now to answer your no doubt very important call. Leave your name and contact details and I give you my word that I will endeavour to get back to you as soon as time allows. Toodle pip.”

“Not you as well,” Greg muttered, staring at the phone with a disbelieving frown. The beep sounded and he hurriedly left a message before it could switch off.

“James, it’s Greg. Look, can you remember when Mary started work for the school? Only the Met have been in touch and something feels off. Gimme a call when you get this, yeah? Need a couple of questions answered. Thanks.” Pocketting his phone, Greg headed for the door. He was getting ready to leave when someone knocked. Frowning, he peered through the peephole to see Mary standing there. What the hell…? He fumbled the latch and opened the door.

0000000000000

Greg was not sure how much time passed before his head finally began to clear. There was no way he could free himself, despite trying to flex his wrist. He knew cuffs were supposed to be difficult to get out of, and these were no different. He dozed off, too tired to think, and when he woke again the light had begun to fade. There was still no sound from the house around him. He tried to think back, to remember what had happened. Things were still hazy, and Greg knew he was drugged, not pissed. This was definitely not as a result of drinking too much… Mary, he thought. Mary called by… Jesus… They had been talking and she had been excited about something…

0000000000000

“Mary? What are you doing here?”

“Celebrating,” she said, pushing past him.

“Celebrating? What on earth…?”

“Share a beer with me? I’ve been promoted!” She was dancing on the balls of her feet, face split by a grin.

“Promoted?”

“Yeah, I am officially Detective Inspector as of yesterday… Don’t look like that. I’m under cover and you’re the only one who knows! I can’t share it with anyone else…”

Greg sighed. “Can’t you share it with your husband?”

”Not married,” she said. “That was part of my cover. It explains if I get seen with my guv’nor.”

“You know, you’re in for it if they find out you told me…”

“Bugger that. They’ll give me a slap on the wrist, if they do anything at all, but it’s not like I told just anybody. You’re an ex-copper, Greg. You’re still part of the fold.”

Greg puffed out his cheeks and shook his head. “You are playing with fire.”

“I am making sure this operation does not go tits up,” she said, tapping him on the chest. “Now, this Sherlock guy you know. I also came to ask if you know how much he knows? You were tipped off by him, weren’t you? Dimmock works with him sometimes…Said he’s a right prick…”

“He’s...complex. And yes, he was the one who found out.”

“Share a beer with me, at least? You got an opener?”

“Yeah, somewhere. Look I was just about to go out, I need shopping.” He rummaged in the kitchen drawer and passed her the bottle opener.

“Great, I’ll come with you. We can talk in the car…but first, let’s drink a toast. May the Force be with us…”

Greg sighed and allowed a smile, despite his suspicions. “Okay then, one beer, and then we have to get gone. I’ve got a ton of marking to get through.”

0000000000000

Greg lay back with a groan. The last thing he recalled was tipping back the beer bottle and toasting her success. Mary. How the fuck did I fall for that one? She must have slipped something into the bottle, drugged him. Why? Greg wondered whether they probably thought he was getting too close… Now what? He couldn’t stay here… He patted his pockets but there was nothing in them. That would have been too easy. He wondered what they were planning on doing with him. If they had meant to kill him, they would have done it already. Unless… if they think I’m some use before… He sighed again. Well, no good worrying about it until something happened. There was still no sound, no movement, nothing. He had no idea where he was. The house looked empty but he couldn’t go on the appearance of one room. Although the place sounded too empty.

0000000000000

Mycroft spent the morning at the museum. One of the people loaning them items for the exhibition, a private collector, had requested a meeting but had not been able to come during the week due to his job so Mycroft had arranged to meet with him at the weekend. He had taken the man to lunch to discuss details but realised he had left his phone at home only when he looked for it to add the man’s number to his contacts. He returned home late on Saturday afternoon finding his phone on the hall table. Sighing with frustration, he had accessed his messages to find one was from Greg. He carried the phone through to the kitchen, intent on putting the kettle on, and hit speaker as he did so. Greg’s familiar voice filled the kitchen. “Mycroft, it’s Greg. Got a call from Ron Barker at the Met. Intending to go see him this evening. If you’re free I’d appreciate you coming along. Got questions need answering. Call me back, please?”

“Damn,” Mycroft muttered, checking his watch. It was three thirty. Maybe not too late. He found greg’s number on his contacts and listened as the call went to voicemail. Damn…

“Greg, it’s Mycroft. Sorry I missed your call. I had to go into work this morning but I forgot my phone, so I didn’t get your message until now. If you haven’t gone yet, I would like to accompany you to London…” Mycroft paused. “I too have questions. Sherlock is adamant there is no operation going on. I...need some answers too. Please call me, even if I’ve missed meeting up with you. I can text you my questions, if you wish.” Mycroft killed the call and stood in his kitchen uncertainly. He was not sure that he hadn’t been a bit brusk with his reply to Greg’s text about being too busy for a date this weekend. Of course he would be busy. Most teachers were these days. He made tea and took it out onto his veranda.

When eight o’clock came and went, Mycroft texted Greg to check if he got the message. Darkness fell and Greg had still not called back. Mycroft toyed with calling again, in case the message had been missed. Nine o’clock came and went. He wondered what had happened. He finally picked up his phone and called his brother.

“You’re worried. What’s wrong? You never call me this late.”

“I’m not sure anything is wrong. Greg has not been in touch. I had a message when I returned from the museum today. I had to go in and meet with someone who could not see me during the week because of his work, so I arranged a meeting this morning. I forgot my phone and when I got home at around 3.30pm I found a message from Greg. He was going to see someone at the Met this evening, but it’s after nine…”

“And you expected him to call to update you? It is entirely typical he would do so. Whoever it is, is it not possible that he might have gone to the pub with the man? Isn’t that was police officers tend to do?”

“Entirely possible. However, something does not feel right…”

There was silence for a while. “Brother, mine,” Sherlock said. “I suggest you get some rest, call him tomorrow. If he does not reply, then we can go to his abode. I presume you know where he lives?”

“Above the shops on the High Street, in a flat there.”

“Then I suggest we call in the morning.”

“Sherlock…I wish to go now.”

“I understand, but it would be somewhat preemptive tonight.”

“You don’t suppose…”

“I suppose nothing until I have more data. Shroedinger’s cat, Mycroft. Everything is possible until the observer observes the outcome. I shall meet you tomorrow, and we shall investigate then.”

00000000000000

Greg was getting hungry and thirsty. As the next day dawned, nothing had happened during the night, and nothing continued to happen. Still there was no sound, no movement, no nothing. He was starting to shift from worried to angry. What if they were simply just going to leave him there, and nobody would find him until he had starved to death, or dehydrated. He tested the radiator and wobbled it. Maybe he could break it off its pipes… he couldn’t sit there and do nothing. So he started to pull, to rock the heavy iron thing and try to break it off the wall. The way the cuff had been fastened meant he wouldn’t be able to free himself from the actual radiator but he could always carry it with him, get out of a window, get the neighbours to call the police…

000000000000

There was nobody answering the door when Mycroft and Sherlock met at Greg’s flat the following morning. Without preamble, Sherlock went to work and picked the lock. Tentatively, Mycroft followed his brother into the flat but all the rooms were empty. The bed was cold.

“Maybe he stayed with someone else?” Mycroft murmured, trying to keep both worry and disappointment out of his voice.

“His keys and wallet are not here,” Sherlock said. “Neither is his phone. It doesn’t look like he has taken any clothing with him, although if he has gone for the weekend, he may not have taken much…”

“That does not fit with his message. He said he was going to visit with DI Barker at the Met yesterday. His schoolwork is here, and by the look he hasn’t done any of it. Gregory is conscientious enough to finish it all before school begins again on Monday. He would not simply leave it like this. I find it very doubtful he would stay away when there is this much work to do.”

"His car is still here..." Sherlock said. "That's his, isn't it?" He pointed down through the rear window, indicating the BMW parked in its slot behind the building.

"If he was going to London, he may not have taken his car. He could have easily taken a taxi to the station and gone by train. That's how we went the last time."

“Well, we can confirm if he got there.” Sherlock took out his phone and scrolled down his contacts. “Hello, Detective Inspector Dimmock…” There was a pause and the voice at the other end of the phone sounded resigned even though Mycroft could not make out words. “I need a contact number from you... Yes...DI Ron Barker, Fraud Squad….yes, it is for a case…Dimmock, would I ask you for something if it was irrelevant?” There was a longer pause. “I suspect someone has gone missing, that’s why. I need to contact Barker to find out if he met with this person yesterday… Yes, I...yes, thank you,” Sherlock said. “I would appreciate it if you could impress upon him the urgency of this call…Damn the man,” he muttered. “He rang off on me.”

“What is he going to do?”

“He’s calling Barker for us. He refused to pass on his number.”

“Not a surprise, hardly. Privacy issues, as always.” Mycroft watched Sherlock prowl the flat over the next few minutes, examining things, sniffing the air… “I wonder…” Mycroft began but was interrupted by Sherlock’s phone ringing.

“Yes?” There was a pause as Sherlock listened. “Thank you for calling so quickly. Yes, I gather you were meeting with former DI Lestrade yesterday? Greg Lestrade. Yes, I was wondering if he made that meeting with you?" There was a short pause. "He didn’t?” Sherlock sighed. “He’s missing, that’s why. I’m at his flat now. There’s nobody here. Nothing looks to have been disturbed. I suggest he was not expecting to go anywhere, his teaching work has not been completed and he is nothing if not diligent where his work is concerned. There are no signs of a struggle either. No, I did not break in! I am with my brother, Mycroft. He...has a key. He and Greg are...friends…” Sherlock blagged breezily. “Yes, it does mean that the door was locked…Look, if he didn’t make your meeting, I suggest foul play. He called and left a message with my brother to the effect that he was going to see you, and would my brother come with him?” Mycroft listened to Sherlock explaining about his morning meeting and forgetting his phone, not getting Greg’s message until after 3pm. There was another pause as Barker replied to Sherlock’s comments. “Probably tied in with the potential theft, yes. Of course it’s real. I can give you all the details…” Sherlock listened intently to what Barker had to say, then rang off. “Apparently, Greg told him he had been asked to back off by someone from the Met, but he failed to say who. Art Theft have not heard anything concerning a potential heist and as far as he can find out, nobody has a police operation ongoing concerning The Sherinnford. He says he checked with everyone, but there is nothing. He is fairly sure there is nothing covert either. So…”

“What does that mean?”

“Whoever Greg’s supposed police contact is, they are probably fraudulent. He has been conned into believing that whoever this person is, he or she is a legitimate officer…”

“So where is he?”

“I have no idea,” Sherlock said, his voice hardening. “Barker said he would contact his superiors and see what might be done. That will take forever… If they have taken Greg, and for my mind that is the most likely, they’ll have placed him somewhere secure…”

“We are dangerously close to the delivery of the Venus. I am thinking they are responsible for this, that they have taken him, probably because we were getting too close.”

“I know. However, they have not yet come for either of us...possibly because it would be too dangerous. I doubt Greg has been harmed. They probably intend to use him as leverage over your cooperation in the heist.”

”You think they will contact me?”

”Almost certainly now. However, we can preempt this, but…”

”Sherlock, a police operation will risk harm to Gregory…”

”I know, brother, but there is another path we can pursue…”

000000000000

Greg rocked the radiator hard and felt the clunk as it gave way, spewing water out across the floor. He didn’t care. He worked on the other end, using its weight to twist it free from the wall, although being attached to it made this awkward. He hefted the thing into his arms and went to the window. He was on the first floor, looking down on an ordinary street. It was anonymous, lined with trees and cars, it could have been anywhere. Greg went to the door with the intent to get out as fast as he could, to go ask the neighbours to call the police.... His heart nearly stopped as the door suddenly opened wide of its own accord. Mary was standing there, her face an implacable mask, and worse, she had a gun in her hand, its muzzle trained unwaveringly on him.

***

Chapter 18: Between a Rock and a Hard Place.

“Mary? What the Hell is going on?” Greg braced the radiator against his chest and briefly considered using it as a weapon but Mary stiffened and changed the angle of her aim. “You fucking drugged me?”

”Get back in there,” she ordered, stepping back out of range. “If you are thinking what I think you’re thinking, you can get that idea out of your head right now. Step back and sit down or I will shoot you, most probably in the leg. Which need I say would be rather painful and possibly fatal. The boss wants to have a little chat.”

“Does she now? What could she possibly have to say that I would want to listen to?”

“Oh, I think you’ll want to listen to this, pet.” Irene said, drifting into the room from behind Mary. Where Mary was poised for the attack, Irene was relaxed indifference. She leaned against the wall and regarded him through lowered lashes.

“Think again,” Greg almost spat at her. She smiled, pouting.

“Oh, my dear Greg, you really should be more open minded. I have a proposition for you that I know you won’t be able to refuse. I have lots of people working for me, and Mary here is one of the best, aren’t you, Poppet?” Mary barely acknowledged the complement. “If you don’t do exactly as I say, well...that friend of yours...What’s his name again? Mycroft, wasn’t it? Well, your little Mycroft will find himself on the receiving end of one of Mary’s bullets. Did I tell you she’s very good? Former special forces. She has an amazing skill set, and I do so appreciate amazing skill sets. However, don’t let that stop you...if you’re determined…” She hesitated for a moment, raising an eyebrow, watching him intently. “Thought as much,” she continued with a smile, when he didn’t move. “I have a proposition for you that will result in you both being alive after all of this is over. Isn’t that what you want?”

“Just stop it, Princess,” Greg snapped. “I’m a copper, remember? I’m used to dealing with this kind of thing...and its aftermath. When you’re done, you’ll kill us both, because you’ll just be tying up loose ends. I might not have seen this coming, but I’m not naive.”

“Oh, no need to be so dramatic, Greg. When we are done, we’re leaving the country. We have a destination in mind that nobody will locate. Enough money, name changes, sympathetic government…” She smiled. “I think we can be a bit magnanimous with those who help us…”

“I am not helping you. Whatever you end up forcing me to do will be done under duress, not because I want to…”

“Oh, I beg to differ. You’ll want to do this,” she said, her demeanour changing. “Because if you don’t, I shall ensure that your lovely Mr Holmes will suffer, and suffer severely. I might even let Charles have him. He’s worse than me. No morals at all. Now let’s be honest about this. Mycroft Holmes is going to suffer anyway; him and his brother. They’re old adversaries of mine and I owe them a fall. However, there is a way you can minimise that suffering. You are stuck between the Devil and the deep blue sea, pet. Between a rock and a hard place. I’m going to let you choose between the lesser of two evils.” Greg stayed silent, waiting, stubbornly refusing to be goaded into speaking. “You were getting too close, you see, you and that good-for-nothing pretty boy who calls himself a detective. However, it all works out for us in the end. You can still be useful. Now listen carefully and I will outline my plan. I so hate repeating myself so please pay attention. Then I am going to leave you to think about it for a while. Once you have considered, you will agree, or I shall simply have Mary remove any and all obstacles in our way….”

0000000000

“At least this door is latched,” Mycroft said, as they stepped out. “If the police find out I don’t have a key, they might start asking awkward questions.” Sherlock shrugged.

“I think breaking and entering are the least of our problems, Mycroft,” he suggested. After the phone call to Barker, Mycroft had suggested they vacate Greg’s flat at their earliest opportunity.

“So now what? What is our next move?”

“We wait,” Sherlock said.

“You expect them to contact us,” Mycroft suggested, glancing at his brother.

“They will. Probably they will make him do it, ask you to meet him, or some such. Probably at the museum, where they will coerce you into handing over the Venus in exchange for him.”

“That would seem the most sense. Although, are you telling me that they won’t expect us to be fully cognisant of what they are doing?”

“I do not think that the Venus is the issue here, Mycroft.”

“Then what the Blue Blazes is it about, Sherlock? What on earth is going on in your head that you would even consider that?”

“I think this is about us, Mycroft. You and I, and her, The Woman. I think she’s out for revenge.”

“Revenge?”

“Yes. Revenge. The dish that is supposedly best served cold and all that crap. Revenge. Against us. I need to contact father…”

000000000

“Holmes,” Mycroft said on answering his landline later that evening. Sherlock had disappeared off to talk to John and Mycroft had retreated home to wait. The phone ringing jarred his nerves in the quiet of the evening.

“Mr Holmes, how nice to speak to you.”

“I’m afraid I cannot say the same...Ms Freeborn, wasn’t it?”

“So glad you remembered my name. Now, let me be brief. We currently have a guest staying with us. Your friend, Mr Lestrade. Do nothing until you hear from us again, or you know what will happen. Please don’t be tedious and contact the police, not unless you want me to post him back to you in pieces…”

Mycroft sighed. “I think we’re all grown ups here, Ms Freeborn…”

“Quite possibly you might think the grown up thing to do is call the police. Inadvisable, Mr Holmes.”

“You cannot possibly think I will do nothing.”

“Oh yes, I can. I will hurt him, Mycroft. If you do anything,” she said, her voice cold, “and I mean anything to scupper my plans, I will cripple him. Do you understand me? I will render him useless to you. Useless, in all ways possible.”

Mycroft listened with growing dread that they had severely underestimated The Woman, and her ambition. He began to believe that Greg was certainly in danger. There was an underlying threat in her voice, the voice of a woman who had been backed into a corner…

0000000000

“You want me to what?”

“I am not in the habit of repeating myself.”

“You want me to lie to Mycroft and make him believe that I’m in on this? That I’m working with you? No, absolutely not. Shoot me now…”

“I’m not doing the shooting. She is,” Irene said, glancing at Mary. “And she won’t be shooting you. If you don’t comply, then she’ll shoot your boyfriend. Not to kill. With luck she’ll put him in a wheelchair. At worst, he’ll die, and it’s probably preferable to the life he’d live as a paraplegic. I’m happy to make sure he’ll be unable to fuck you, at any rate. Either way, I get my revenge.” Her expression grew dark.

Greg felt himself go cold. “This isn’t about the Venus, is it? It’s not about a heist...It’s about them, isn’t it? About Mycroft…”

“Oh, I remember him and his brother very well,” she said sourly. “That evening in the restaurant, he thought I didn’t remember, but I’m a very, very good actress, Greg. That family…” She hissed like an angry cat, mouth twisting in an ugly line. “I had a very good career. I had a name, a reputation, and they ruined me.”

“Just hang on a minute. You intended to fuck over the Royals. You were the one holding people to ransom. The Holmes brothers stopped you, but you still got off scot free....”

“I never held anyone to ransom!” she snapped, her composure slipping momentarily. “I held information, that was all. A safety net, in case anybody tried anything. In my position it was only sense to build up a shield of some sort. I was safe, and so their secrets would have been, but no, that wasn’t enough. Sherlock Bloody Holmes and his interfering brother just had to stick their noses in, didn’t they? They just had to close me down. Well, I got away, but I had to spend thousands on a new identity, and forging documents isn’t cheap. I used up most of the favours I was owed and now your precious boyfriend and his brother owe me. This little plan of mine is going to make me enough to retire on, it’s going to make me some new friends, and get me my revenge at the same time.”

“You know that the figure is only worth three hundred thousand, don’t you? Hardly enough to retire on.” Greg caught himself. Since when had three hundred thousand been an only?

She looked at him as if he were stupid. “To the right bidder, it’s worth millions, Greg. Besides, I’m doing it as a favour for a friend. I deliver this, and my future is assured. Now be a good boy and do as you are told and both you and your boyfriend might just escape this with your extremities still working. If you fuck this over, you will both of you suffer, I promise you, he’ll hurt far more that simply finding out you were involved....” She turned and stalked out, leaving Mary staring at him. There was an awkward pause.

”You’re working with her…” Greg accused, and shook his head, disappointed. “You lied to me. You’re not police.”

”If you mean Irene, then yes, I am working for her,” she replied, but held a finger to her lips for a moment. She turned, watching the door. They could both hear the receding footsteps as Irene went down the stairs. “but honestly?” Mary lowered her voice to a whisper. “Frankly, I think she’s a talentless cow, and a bitch to boot. I have a career and it’s already been put on hold long enough.”

“Career? What as? An impersonator?”

Mary grinned. “Suppose you could call it the location and delivery of people of interest…”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means that if anyone expresses an interest in someone, I find them that person and deliver them on a plate, for the right price…”

“Deliver them? You mean, hand them over to...whoever is looking for them?”

“Yup. Spot on. I don’t do assassinations, too messy, and despite what she told you, I’m not that good a shot. Then there’s the mess over hiding the body, setting up the shot, all kinds of crap. Despite being able to put one in you quite accurately if you try anything, I’m not a sniper. No, I deliver goods. Set people up, help them meet, make sure people are...handed over to whoever pays.”

“Fucking Hell, blood money? So if the Mafia are hunting someone, they pay you?”

“Basically, yes. But, if there’s something else to deliver too, I can do that as well. This time it’s the Venus. Sure it’s not worth much in itself, but to a collector…Irene wasn’t wrong about that. The right person will pay to own something they want. Add that to my people-finding fee and this will have been a very lucrative job.”

“So what, who have you been paid to find?”

“Ah, Greg you make a better teacher than a copper. Them of course, Irene and Charles Bloody Milverton, the Russians want them, quite a lot if the fee is anything to go by…”

“So, what? When this is over you’ll kill me, and anyone else in the way.”

“Darling, I am not going to kill you. You are too useful, at the moment. I’m asking you to play along, just for now. Make her think you’re capitulating, and I can get you out of here, hopefully alive with your fella and a long retirement to look forward to. If you don’t comply, then it’s been nice knowing you, but I will not let you fuck this up. Okay, so I lied. I’m not a copper, but I am unofficial judge and jury on them, and I can get you out of this.”

Greg frowned, and sat still while she detached him from the radiator. “And why should I trust you?”

“I think it’s got something to do with being between a rock and a hard place. You don’t have a lot of choice, let’s face it.”

“Okay. Say I play along. One thing.”

“What?”

“Whatever happens, protect Mycroft. I don’t really care what happens to me. I died three years ago, Mary. Okay, so I might have found someone to love, but...Ellie was my life, and when I lost her, and our kid...If I die, honestly, I won’t be unhappy about it. However, Myc doesn’t deserve this. Please?” Mary regarded him with curiosity.

“Christ, you’re serious,” she said.

“Deadly. No pun intended.” He watched her regard him, obviously thinking hard.

“I can’t promise anything, you know I can’t. However… I like you, Greg. You’re a good guy, more’s the pity, so I’ll do my best, can’t promise more.”

“Thank you.”

“You shouldn’t trust me, you know?”

“What happened to the rock and a hard place?” He grinned.

For a moment, Mary looked troubled. “I don’t keep my promises.”

“Mary.” He fixed her with a meaningful look. “None of us is perfect.”

***

Chapter 19: Betrayal

They left Greg alone in the room to think about what had been said. The evening shadows lengthened and the light faded, leaving him in concealing gloom. There was a guard on the door, and with nothing else to do, Greg sat glowering at the wall. Some time later that evening, once full dark had fallen, Mary came back with fish and chips for them all. She released him from the handcuffs (she may have released him from the radiator but she had left the cuffs on for security) and took him downstairs into the kitchen where the guard was already sitting at the table scarfing down his fish like he was on the verge of starvation. Mary made coffee for them all and the guard took himself off to the living room where there was a small television. Pretty soon the sounds of some inane chat show could be heard, and over it, the man’s laughter at the stupidity. Greg took his time with his food, staying quiet.

“She doesn’t completely trust me, you know?” Mary murmured conspiratorially.

“Is that why I’m not alone with you? She’s left her hired help to make sure things go according to plan?”

“That meathead. Hired help is right. He’s nobody. A thug. I could easily take him out if he causes a problem and what’s more, he knows it. He won’t blab anything. He’s not paid to report a problem, only deal with what he’s told to.”

“If you’re sure.”

“Nothing in this life is sure, Greg, but I am sure about what I would do to that moron if he says anything to Irene and what’s more, so is he.”

“Well, if we don’t speak, then he won’t have anything to say, will he?”

“True, but not how I envisioned this evening going.” She looked at him from under lowered brows.

“If you think I might be interested…” Greg shuddered, “...or is that another condition of my escape?”

She laughed. “It wouldn’t be, believe me. I’m gay, Greg. Not interested, although I can appreciate what he sees in you.”

Greg huffed a short humourless laugh. “Thanks, I think. So, not married as well?”

“Cover story. I’m not attached, it’s better that way. Single, free…”

“Lonely…”

“Shut up, Greg. Stop trying to analyse me. You won’t succeed.”

“Budgies do that a lot…”

She frowned. “What?”

“Suck seed…”

Mary huffed an exasperated laugh. “God, you are impossible…” She shook her head. “Won’t work, you know. I am not your friend, Greg.”

“That much I do know, but a laugh never hurts…”

“Unless you get kicked in the nuts.”

“Okay, I’ll shut up.”

“Look, luv, don’t be under any illusions, I need you as my safety net. After dear Charles and Irene think they’ve got away with it, I will deliver both her and that back-stabbing SOB she’s currently toying with to the people who want them. Buddy-boy caused the people I have a contract with some trouble awhile ago, and Irene...well, she’s got one too many of their people over a barrel with all the personal information that she has on them. They want the threat neutralized.”

“Who are they?”

“Ah, no, you do not need that information, Greg. Even if I could give you specifics, which I’m actually not sure I could do. I get paid. I don’t ask searching questions.”

“Mary, this is crazy. This is just not real life…”

“Is this just fantasy…?” she crooned, “Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality…” She laughed again and punched his shoulder. “Oh, Greg, come on, you were the one saying we needed a laugh. This is very real, babe. It’s my job. I go undercover to find these people, and things, that other people want, but cannot use a lawful way to get. Simple as that. You are collateral damage, my Plan B, if you like. Things go pear-shaped, you’re my hostage.”

“Thanks. How do you even get a job like that? Can’t imagine there are many adverts...”

“That was frighteningly easy, actually. I grew up on the streets, joined the army, passed their tests, got noticed, did a couple of tours, ended up working special ops, yada, yada. There are quite a few of us, actually. I left the ranks a few years ago, got into security work, and then I took a job for someone who...well, let’s just say there was stuff going on that paid very well indeed. Much better that the army did anyway, or private security for that matter. I found out pretty fast that my skill set is ideally suited to this type of work. Now I have contacts. Mine got in touch with hers, word was passed that someone with my skill set was required for a job, and so she gave me the teaching job in the school, and that was it. Did some teaching assistant work when I was in my late teens, blagged the rest with Google. It got me by… Got the job in October half term, after Moaning Minny left. Minny Halifax was my predecessor. Irene bullied her out of the job…”

“Same reason Louise left?”

“Yup, neat isn’t it. Frankly though, Louise was a shit teacher. She deserved to get the boot.”

“Nobody deserves to be bullied,” Greg snapped.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Heard it before. Stuck record… Look, I let Irene do all the work, and then I walk off with the proceeds. That’s as far as it goes, I don’t care what happens to anyone else. I told you before, I am not altruistic, I am out for me, numero uno, period.”

“What I don’t get is you’ve been passing yourself off as a teacher for what, six months? Seven? Why? How come nobody’s found you out?”

“Because I have qualifications on file, I obey the rules and I do teach the kids, it’s just something I find easy. Kids are like little adults before they get fucked up with rules or too much overthinking. Find the thing they want and bribe them with it. Motivation, Greg. Find the button and press, hard. Besides, this contract was set up almost a year ago, sometimes I have to plan long term. It’s worth my while, Greg. Monetarily, of course, not to mention the boost to my professional rep. I needed to get close to her, so I put the word out I was looking for work, my fixer contacted hers, and Bob’s your uncle.”

“So, you got a job working for her doing what, exactly?”

“Teaching, Greg.” Mary grinned. “Well, maybe a few other things that required...professional help; messenger work, courier duties, that kind of thing. She was reconstructing her life, and she was making plans, courting Milverton as well, and Culverton Smith, although he never realised she was playing him. Means to an end, both of them. Wouldn’t be surprised if she was planning to throw them both out of the plane over the Atlantic.” For a moment, Mary was lost in thought, then she reached for her coffee cup and drained it. “When Milverton found out about the British Museum lending something to the Sherrinford, he came to her with the information, and Culverton Smith backed it up with what he found out all about the new exhibition and this little gold Venus… Of course when Irene learned Mycroft Holmes was the new Director, well, she went for it. Couldn’t miss that opportunity, right on her doorstep? Good God, for her, she thought Christmas had come. Steal the Venus, discredit Holmes in the process, make her enemy suffer, live on the proceeds… Irene knew things were getting a little warm, for both of them. They’re planning this to be their last job before they disappear, off to South America probably. They’ll flee the scene. Charlie is still into flogging fakes, although he's had to be a bit more careful about it, seeing as how they're onto him. Offshore accounts, proxies, that kind of thing. They'll head for anonymity in Rio or some such… The Venus is wanted by a client in one of the big drug cartels. I should think she’s planning to take it with her all sewn up in the lining of a handbag.”

“This is seriously fucked up.”

“I know,” she chuckled. “Good, isn’t it? Now, listen. You are going to be a good boy and stay here until we’re ready. Don’t worry, I’m sure arrangements can be made to find a substitute teacher. We know you’re off sick.” She grinned. “I’ll tell Sholto not to worry. They deliver the venus on Tuesday, and Irene will use you as leverage to get Holmes to meet us at the museum.”

“You cannot possibly get away with this…” Greg shook his head. “Let me go, I can persuade the police I was kidnapped. You can still deliver the goods…”

“No, Greg. Sorry. Not in my plans. I still need the Venus as well. Look, we can and will pull this off, but you will do as you’re told. I help you, and you’re going to help me.”

0000000000

Mycroft called in sick on the Monday. He wasn’t needed for the arrival of the Venus and he felt it best to stay away. He wasn’t sure he could keep up the pretence. The Exhibition Officer, the Head of Conservation and the Head of Security would all be present the following day, despite it feeling as though he was chickening out of it. God only knew what was happening to Greg. The plan was to place the thing in the hidden safe in Mycroft’s office, and only two people knew the combination to that; himself and his Head of Security. They would text him when it was received and done. It would be installed in its case the following day, which would make it that much harder to steal.

Sherlock found his brother wearing a hole in the carpet with his pacing the floor when he called later that afternoon.

“I went to the Museum but they said you called in sick. What’s the matter?”

“She called me, yesterday evening,” Mycroft admitted.

“Oh. Why didn’t you call me?”

“I did, Sherlock, but your phone went to voicemail.”

“You could have left a message.”

“I did not think that wise.”

Sherlock huffed. “What did she say?”

“Just that they had a guest, and I should do nothing or he will suffer.”

“Standard enough. She’s just keeping you in line.”

“I know. I…We should involve the police. This is kidnapping and theft...”

“We tried to involve the police…”

“But not with anything concrete. This...goes against my conscience…”

“He’ll be alright, Mycroft. They cannot afford not to have your cooperation. Did you speak to him?”

“No.”

“Damn, should have asked for confirmation that he was alive.”

“Sherlock!”

“What? You should have. Shows them you’re not a pushover.” Mycroft glowered. “They’ll call again. Do it then,” Sherlock added, sitting down.

“Are you expecting something?”

“I was hoping for tea, but if you’re averse, I can make my own.”

“Why are you here?”

“I have spoken to father.”

“And?”

“He promised to talk to one of his contacts at MI6.”

It was Mycroft’s turn to huff. “They’re slower than the police...”

“We can but see. She’s a person of interest. The Venus arrives tomorrow and it will most likely happen then. They’ll have a schedule to keep, they’ll leave the country as quickly as possible afterward.”

“And anything the security services do may compromise Gregory’s safety.”

“Yes, well…Let’s hope for the best, shall we? I’m away then.”

“Not stopping for that tea?”

“No, remembered something. Tell me when they call. Laters...”

00000000000

“Mycroft…”

Mycroft realised he was holding the phone as though it would explode. “Gregory?” Mycroft tried to keep his voice level. Part of him was relieved that Greg was talking to him, that he was alive. Part of him was terrified this would all go wrong. “Are you...alright? They haven’t… haven’t hurt you?”

“I’m fine, it’s fine...I...um...look, can we…? I mean, I need to meet you…”

“You do?”

“Yes. I need you to…Look, I need to meet you at the museum, tonight.”

“Gregory…”

“That’s quite enough now.” Irene had taken the phone. “Now you know he’s alright, and he’ll stay that way as long as you comply, you can meet us at the museum, Mr holmes. On the dot of eight please.”

“Very well. The Museum is, however, rather a large place. I shall need to meet you in the staff car park, at the rear…”

“Mr Holmes,” Irene said warningly, “I rather think…”

“Look, do you wish to get in or not?” Mycroft asked. “The only door accessible after hours is the staff entrance, where the main alarm system is located. The item you want is still in store, behind the scenes, so unless you wish to alert the local constabulary to your presence, you have no requirement to access the rest of the property. However, if you want to make a grand entrance, far be it from me to place a damper on your plans. Otherwise, I shall meet with you at the rear of the property, accessed via the yard between the museum and the park. At eight. As you requested.” There was a pause.

“Very well, Mr Holmes. Alone, no tricks.”

“I suppose it is no good requesting that you do not hurt Gregory…”

“Come alone, Mr Holmes. Eight o’clock. Precisely.”

0000000000

His footsteps across the empty car park at the back of the Museum sounded loud in the evening quiet. This part of the place was hidden away behind a high Victorian brick wall. In the old days it had been the tradesman’s entrance, for deliveries and other things that should be kept behind the scenes and out of sight of visitors. The coal sheds and outdoor staff toilets, long since demolished, had occupied the back wall. It was now the staff car park, but still allowed access to the boiler room in the basement. Mycroft stood for a moment looking about him. He had closed, but not locked, the heavy wooden gates behind him. So far, everything was quiet. As requested, he had called Sherlock and left a message concerning the arrangements. The call had gone straight to voicemail, so Mycroft had no idea if his brother had even received the message.

The church clock began to strike the hour as he went to the door and put his key in the lock, turned it, and opened the door expecting the alarm to buzz impatiently at him. He was used to turning up after hours; something forgotten, work he preferred to do in the environs of his office, research for a few hours when he could be assured of peace and quiet. The staff area had an alarm separate from the main museum, for various reasons. Conservation could carry out work independently of the rest of the place being closed, Mrs Hudson could stock-take her stores until late evening to her heart's content. While the main museum had a twenty four hour guard, as long as nobody breached the internal staff door, which was securely locked once the museum closed, the backstage area could be accessed from outside while maintaining security across the rest of the premises. However, tonight...someone was working late. The Staff alarm was not set. There was no beep when he opened the door. So...who on earth…? Mycroft had no time to contemplate.

“Mr Holmes,” the silky voice said behind him. She stood there, dressed all in black, looking like she was ready for a night on the town. Like the proverbial Morrigan, his mind supplied. Battle Crow. Actually, on balance, The Morrigan had more honour…

“Ms Adler, or should that be Ms Freeborn?”

“Doesn’t matter,” she said, carelessly. “Neither is the real one, so… to business. You know why I’m here.”

“Yes, I do. We can either stand on the threshold, or step inside like civilised people and talk in my office?”

“Very well. In you come, boys,” she called. Two men walked in behind them, taking up defensive positions on either side of the door. Her heavies. They were dressed forgettably; jeans and t-shirts, although the jackets were an obvious necessity to hide firearms. “I have someone else who you’ve been dying to see…” She stood back and Culverton Smith stepped inside. Mycroft frowned.

“You?” he said.

“Yes. Me. Surprised, Mr Holmes? It’s about time I was recognised for something. Years, I’ve been coming here, years! Your predecessor ignored my talents. The university ignores my talents. I finally found someone who doesn’t.” He stepped aside, moving around them to head for the inner door. “Don’t worry,” he trilled. “I know the code.” Mycroft wasn’t watching him. A shadow had filled the door, and Mycroft was flooded with relief.

“Gregory?” Just the sight of him was a balm.

“Hello, Mycroft.” Mycroft paused at the odd tone in Gregory’s voice. He sounded strained.

“Gregory? What’s wrong? Have they hurt you?”

“I’m fine, Mycroft.” Greg kept his voice level, impassive, cold. “You remember Sherlock once accused me of being your mole?” He asked, almost conversationally.

“I...yes...but…” Mycroft stuttered to a stop at the hard look in Gregory’s eyes. “Gregory?”

“Sorry, Mycroft. Seems he was right.”

***

Chapter 20: Revenge

“No…” Mycroft glanced from Gregory to Irene and back, noting the smirk of satisfaction on her face.

“Makes quite a good accomplice, your boyfriend. Sorry, Mycroft. Greg was very...forthcoming about the details here. He managed to fool you, at any rate. Gave us all the information we needed. He’s a very...loyal...employee.”

“How long…?”

“Since the beginning.” Greg’s voice was hard, unemotional. “Convenient really. Coming here, meeting you. Working for Irene is...interesting, to say the least.” The sincerity in Greg’s voice went straight to Mycroft’s heart. A chill went down his back. He swallowed, his throat dry. Could it be…? Sherlock had been very convincing… He felt sick. He dredged his memory, looking for evidence in Greg’s behaviour that would refute the claim, but his mind was a fog of doubt and stress...

“Come on, guys,” Mary said, pushing past Greg. Mycroft did not miss that they were not treating the man like a prisoner. He was not bound in any way. Mary removed her Glock from its holster in the small of her back and motioned with it. Mycroft eyed the gun in her hand and frowned. “Move,” she suggested. “Let’s not draw undue attention to ourselves, hm? Let’s get in and shut the door…”

Upstairs Mycroft fell heavily into the chair behind his desk. Part of him was thankful they hadn’t met anyone on the way. He still had no idea who was there, who had not put the alarm on, or who had taken it off. Irene, Greg, Mary and Smith all filed in behind him. Of Milverton there was no sign. Mycroft was still trying to get his head around Greg being part of all this. Something in him said it was wrong, a trick, but Greg had seemed so very hard, so truthful…

“So…” Mycroft began, breaking the silence. “You want the Venus?”

“Yes, I do. However, first, I want something else.”

“Oh?”

“Where’s that annoying brother of yours?”

“Sherlock? I...I have no idea. I am not his keeper…”

“That’s a laugh. Without you, Sherlock Holmes would have been dead years ago. Not his keeper, eh? Well, someone has to make sure he behaves himself. He’s a loose canon, Mycroft. A drug user, brushes with the law… tut, tut. What would the Queen say?”

“The Queen has always been gracefully sympathetic. She is somewhat used to wayward family members by now…” Irene’s eyebrows rose but she didn’t rise to the bait.

“Smith?” she called.

“Yes, Ms Freeborn?” Culverton Smith hastened to obey.

She glanced at her watch. “Go tell my men to expect us in around ten minutes, and get them to contact Charles. Have him bring the car around to the back gates. Thule Street. Go.” The man hurried off through the door. Once he had disappeared, she turned back to Mycroft. “Tiresome little man but useful. Like so many of my people.” She sighed. “Mycroft, Mycroft, Mycroft, I owe you a fall, you and your brother. It’s a pity he isn’t around. You could call him for me, ask him to join the party...”

“Do you honestly wish me to? I would have thought time was of the essence for you?”

“Yeees,” she drawled. “Pity really. I’ll just have to make do with you then. Sorry, Mycroft, but you’ll just have to suffer for both of you.”

“So what exactly do you want, apart from the Venus, that is?”

“Oh, that’s easy. I want to watch you squirm, Mycroft Holmes.”

“To...I’m sorry, what?”

“Squirm, like a worm on my hook.” She giggled. “I gather you’ve done some squirming already... on a bigger hook, if you catch my drift?” She glanced at Greg. “You went all the way with him, didn’t you?” she said suggestively. Greg nodded. “What was he like, hm? So responsive in your hands...Likes a firm touch, didn’t you say?” Greg fixed his eyes on her impassively. He nodded. Mycroft looked stricken. Irene looked at Mycroft with a greedy intensity. “And now you know Greggy there is not what he seems. Such a pity, hm? You had something good going there. You know he told me all about what you like… Said you were...pretty…under those suits of yours.”

Mycroft opened his mouth but no sound emerged. He looked at Greg, to find he was staring stonily back. “G.G.Greg…? Why?”

For a moment, it looked like Greg was not going to answer. Then he spoke, his voice soft and strained. “Like I told you, when I left the force, I had nothing. Like Smith there. Nobody wanted to listen. So I retrained, and Irene...she gave me a job when nobody else would. She took a chance on a rookie teacher. Why do that, eh? So I...owe her…” He shrugged, turned away. “It was good, Mycroft. But it’s over. I’ve nothing more to say to you.” He walked to the door. Mary followed him.

“B.b.but…” Mycroft stuttered. “How?” He couldn’t get his brain to work, to refute what was happening. “I mean, you were so shocked when I told you who Irene was…? How could you…?”

“I’m a better actor than I thought I was, I guess. Come on, Myc. I couldn’t not react...That would have looked suspicious. Anyway, doesn’t really matter now, I guess.” He turned his back. “Goodbye, Mycroft.” Mycroft could only watch as Greg disappeared through the door.

Irene stepped between them, blocking Mycroft’s view. “Oo, look at you. Hurts, doesn’t it, being betrayed?” She studied Mycroft like a cat with a mouse. She was watching his reaction. “Believe it now? Of course you want it to be a lie. However, it’s not. Get used to it. Now, there’s something else I want…” Mycroft turned his gaze on her. “An apology. For what you and your little brother did to me. The damage you did…” she snarled. “Mycroft Holmes, your bloody family… Why couldn’t you have left me alone?”

“You threatened one of the Royal Family,” Mycroft said softly, with a patience he did not feel.

“I did no such thing! Those photos were safe. I would never have blackmailed anyone. Those photos were my security and you... you and your father and your brother, you took that all away from me!”

“My father did what he was instructed to do, which was to find you and those photos, destroy them and bring you down. Which my brother managed to do. With my help. I am sorry if you consider that to be unacceptable.”

“Unacceptable?” She snarled. “Oh, Mycroft, it was far, far more than simply unacceptable…”

“Ma’am, this is not accomplishing our objective…” Mary interjected from the doorway. “The plane? We have a schedule to keep. ” she prompted.

For a moment it looked as if Irene was going to argue, but she mastered herself and glared at Mycroft. “Unfortunately, my associate is right. We have a schedule to keep. So, to business…”

“No.”

“What?”

“No, Ms Freeborn, or Adler, or whatever else you choose to call yourself. I am not about to let you do this.” Mycroft stood, squaring his shoulders. “You have managed to exact your revenge. I fell for the man who now stands exposed as your informant. Gregory…” he was aware his voice was tight with pain, and he turned his eyes on the door, but Greg had gone. He focused his gaze back on Irene. “Be assured that you have taken my world away from me, dragged the proverbial rug clean out from under my feet, and now you have no other leverage…”

“Mycroft, you will unlock your safe and hand the Venus to me, now. Otherwise…”

“Otherwise what? You’ll shoot me? Have Mary shoot me? That will accomplish nothing. Culverton Smith does not know the combination to the safe, nor its whereabouts, and nor does Gregory...”

Irene stared at him, gaze steady. “If you do not comply, I will have him shot.”

“Pardon?”

“I will execute Gregory Lestrade.”

“But…”

“He’s expendable, Mycroft, just like all my staff. What? He betrayed you. Doesn’t he deserve to die?” She cocked her head on one side and pouted. “Ah, no, you see, you silly man, you still have feelings for him. You still love him. Don’t you? So if you don’t comply, he dies. Mary?”

“Boss?”

“Shoot Lestrade, now!”

Mary frowned, but raised the weapon, clicked off the safety and aimed it through the door.

“Mr Holmes is being uncooperative,” Irene said. “Shoot him somewhere disabling to begin with…” Mary lowered the gun a little.

“No!” Mycroft burst out. “Alright… I’ll help you...”

“Are you going to hand over the Venus?” Irene demanded.

“Yes, yes, I will. Just...don’t. Don’t hurt him because of me.”

“Oblige me then.”

Mycroft got up on shaking legs, doing his best not to let it show. He went to the painting across the room, hanging on the end wall of his office. He tugged it back, revealing a panel in the wall. “I want your assurance, you’ll not harm Gregory…”

“Right now, you’ve got no other choice, Mycroft. If you don’t, I will have her kill him.”

He turned to the panel and slid it away, revealing a safe set into the wall. Resolutely, he pressed the code into the keypad on the door. There was a soft click, and the door opened. He lifted out a box with the British Museum logo emblazoned on the side, lifting the lid to check the contents. Inside was a smaller box, and he lifted the lid on that and pushed the soft packing to the side, taking his own first, and possibly only, look at the little Venus. Nestled in her plain archival storage, a marked contrast to the pure gold of her face, Mycroft saw the beauty, the timelessness of her.

Mycroft had never been interested in obeying the dictates of a Higher Power, unless it was his own. He wasn’t even sure that he believed in anything of a spiritual nature. However, he did not miss the irony of the fact that Venus was herself Goddess of Love, a love in his case that seemed destined to escape him. To save Gregory, he thought, I do this to save the memory of what we had. Despite it being a lie, what I believed it to be still has worth. For a time, we were in love…I was in love...

He turned, offering the box to Irene. She took it and stared at the contents, unmoved. She was simply checking the contents, making sure everything was correct. To her, it was nothing more than a commodity, something to be bought and sold, something to buy her favours and freedom. She looked up and met his eyes. She smiled. “Kill him anyway,” she said. Irene relished the horror that washed over Mycroft’s face as Mary lifted the gun, and fired.

000000000000

Twenty Minutes Earlier...

“Oh, for God’s sake, John…”

“What? I’m sorry we haven’t all got an eidetic memory!” John was scrolling through his phone looking for the note he had made of the Museum alarm code. Sherlock was on pins behind him. “Will you be still? I’m going as fast as I can. Ah, there it is. God!” He unlocked the door of the staff entrance and dashed to the panel, but no answering beeps met his ears. He halted, puzzled. “That’s odd.”

“What is? John…?”

“The alarm isn’t on. Someone’s already here.”

“What?”

“I said…”

“I heard you, but who?”

“How do I know, you Berk? I’m not psychic. Maybe they’re already here,” he mused.

“Doubtful,” Sherlock said. “They’ve not left anyone on guard. Besides, Irene is nothing if not punctual.”

“Come on, there’s a staff fire board with our names on. Whoever still has their name tag in there has probably not left.” He punched in the code on the lock to let them through inner door. The name board yielded three names, and John frowned. “Well, Molly’s not here, I saw her go and she lives ages away. Never comes back at this time.”

“Left her keys or something?”

“If she had, she’d not bother signing in again. After hours, we don’t bother, specially if we’re in and out to collect something we forgot. More likely she forgot to sign out, she’s always doing that.”

“Who’s Anderson?”

“That’s more likely. He’s Head of Conservation…”

“The obnoxious one with the greasy hair…”

“You met him then?”

“Briefly. Enough to form an opinion.”

“Oh, Good God, Mrs Hudson might still be here…”

“Hudders will be alright.”

“Sherlock, she’s in her sixties!”

“And?”

“She’s close to retirement…”

“And? John, she was married to a career criminal. I think she’s tougher than you realise…”

“Shh…”

“What?”

“Church clock, it’s striking the quarter hour. If they’re not already here, Mycroft will be arriving soon and so will they. Get that outer door closed. Here, lock it behind us.” He tossed Sherlock the key. “You know where the staff kitchen is?”

“Yes, I think so. Beyond my brother’s office? On the left,” Sherlock replied, locking the outer door as John held the inner one open for him.

“Yes, well, opposite it is Mrs Hudson’s office. Her name is on the door. If she’s here, that’s where she’ll be. Go find her and explain the situation, then stay there. Wait for me. Understood?”

“John, why are you being so insistent that I find Mrs hudson?”

“Because you don’t know where Anderson hangs out. You’d get lost. This place is a rabbit warren. I’m going to go tell him to stay put, and I’ll meet you at Mrs Hudson’s in a few, okay? With luck there’ll be time before they get here.”

“Wait, how will you get to us without them seeing you?”

“They’ll come in this way, because it’s the only way in after hours. I told you that. What I didn’t tell you is there’s another set of stairs at the far end of this corridor. I’ll come up that way. Now go.” Sherlock nodded and watched John hurry off, along the ground floor corridor, then he made his way up the stairs.

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Greg didn’t know how long he could hold it together. If he didn’t, Irene had promised to maim Mycroft badly enough for the man to suffer permanent damage for the rest of his days. If pushed, he didn’t trust that Mary wouldn’t do as instructed. He also didn’t trust that Irene wouldn’t do it herself. She might also be armed although he hadn’t seen a gun on her yet. He played along, made his voice cold, tried to act hard-hearted. It looked like he might have succeeded, but Mycroft had to go ask him why. He walked into Anthea’s office, unable to look the man in the face any more. Despite the possibility that he could make things up with Mycroft later, if they survived, the pain he was causing now was...hard. It hurt to do it. Lesser of two evils was right, but they had to get out of this alive first. All else was unimportant, a means to an end. He was aware that Mary had partially followed him, her face a mask. When he heard Irene order her to shoot him, Greg turned, watched as mary brought the weapon up. “Remember,” he murmured. “Please...whatever you do, just protect him?” Mary gave nothing away, but it was obvious that Irene could still see her, could still note her reactions. Resigned to it, Greg’s regret was that his last words to Mycroft had been hurtful. Ultimately, he had been doing his best to save the man more pain, but still. He could only hope that Mycroft would come to learn that Greg’s intentions had been for the best of reasons.

He heard Mycroft give in, and it broke his heart. After all that the man had been told, he still loved Greg enough to capitulate to protect him. There was a quiet moment, and then he went cold as he heard Irene repeat her order. Grimly, Greg watched as Mary raised the gun again.

***

Next part of Knight at the Museum.

• Main Sherlock Holmes Slash page
• The new stories
• Holmes/Watson stories
• Other m/m pairings & threesomes
• Gen stories