This is the result of a thrown gauntlet to make an unscientific concept (Omegaverse) realistic. As always, thanks and acknowledgement to Messrs. Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss and Thompson.

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The Encounter

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An Inauspicious Beginning

Rafe Erwood is Dead – Melodramatics – Watching Grace Chandler – Making Friends – Tequila and Togetherness – An Island Dream – Omega Revealed – Escape into Danger – Tracked – Transgression, Retribution and Adjournment.

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"Tell me how you knew him," the stranger slid an eight-by-six, black-and-white photo across the table, his eyes gauging her every reaction from the depth of her breathing to the number of times she blinked. He watched as the fine hairs on her arms lifted imperceptibly.

Of medium height, average build and with immaculately cut ash-blonde hair already tending to grey, he watched the woman as she absorbed the contents of the image in her hand.

The subject in the photograph was one of her old Cambridge professors, Ralph Erwood, who had seen her through the final efforts of her doctorate. They had kept in touch for a number of years after she'd left Clare College, casual letters, the odd invitation up to High tea, but the emails gradually petered out, as these things do. She hadn't heard from Ralph in ... what? Two years, now.

"Rafe supervised the last year of my PhD," she said, picking the photo up between finger and thumb, scanning the half-smile on the professor's face. He had been a pleasant man; a little driven at times, but not overly difficult as a mentor. "He was good to work with, knowledgeable, helpful, lent me piles of his own books; always kept his sense of humour even when I had a minor meltdown about three months from the end," she shook her head as her lips curved in the same half-smile as the photograph. "Why?"

Wait ... knew?

"He's dead," the man across the table read the question from her thoughts. "Victim of a hit-and-run last Friday evening."

Oh God.

"That's awful," she frowned in immediate empathy. "Did you find whoever did it?"

"Rafe?" clearly answering questions wasn't the stranger's thing.

"It's Welsh; it's how he pronounced it," she was still focused on the horror of the hit-and-run, her thoughts miles away. But why was she here answering questions?

"Your name was on the back of an old playbill in his pocket," the man read her mind again.

"I have no idea why that would be," she said, looking up into a dark-blue stare. "I haven't seen Rafe for ages; haven't had an email from him in years."

"Why would Professor Erwood maintain a relationship with you ..." the man checked a notation in the file beside the photograph. "For some twelve years after you completed your studies with him? Isn't that excessive for an academic relationship between teacher and pupil?" he tilted his head slightly forward, his face blank but his tone marginally curious.

She smiled. "I take it you've not completed a doctorate, Mr ...?"

"Holmes," he blinked slowly. "Mycroft Holmes."

"A conventional doctorate of any kind, Mr Holmes?"

Another slow blink.

"Because if you had," she paused, meeting his eyes again. "Then you'd know how close the supervisor – candidate relationship can be."

"And just how close were you to Rafe Erwood?" Holmes rested both elbows on the table between them, his fingers meshed as he fixed her with a deliberate look. "Student? Disciple? Lover?"

He was being deliberately provocative but two could play at the not answering questions game, she realised, blinking as slowly as he had.

"Why the interest?" she leaned back. "Rafe was very quiet, the thoughtful type; calm and kind. An old-fashioned kind of Brit; a dependable Beta. I liked him a lot."

Returning the photograph to the file, Holmes looked down at the table as if collecting his thoughts. "The man you knew as Rafe Erwood was neither British nor a Beta," he paused. "Nor was he particularly kind, as it happens."

The words punched the air between them, not quite reality but alarming, nonetheless.

She felt her body straighten unconsciously in her seat, her shoulders pushing back as she raised her face towards her interrogator. "Rafe, not British? Not a ... but that's impossible. I worked closely with the man for over a year; I've had dinner with him, been to parties with him ..." she found she too was staring down, eyes unfocused. "We drank wine together ... I would have known. There would have been something," her lungs were curiously empty of air and her voice faded. It was all quite mad. They must have Rafe confused with another. This Holmes person had got it wrong. Maybe it wasn't even Rafe who had been in the hit-and-run ...

"I'm very much afraid, Doctor Chandler, that there is no error; that the man you knew as Rafe Erwood, was rather one Vasily Orlov; a Russian spy, an Alpha and a brutal killer," Holmes rested both hands flat on the table in front of him as he held her still-unconvinced gaze.

"Rafe couldn't possibly have been an Alpha without me knowing about it," Grace Chandler was adamant. He'd been British to the core; he even spoke Welsh and knew the middle verse to the national anthem. She'd seen the man at his best and at his worst and not once, not once, had he shown a single Alpha trait. Rafe had been a clever, intellectual, caring Beta, a gentle man.

"Additionally," Holmes sounded speculative. "The very fact that you find Orlov's status worthy of mention suggests you yourself are not Beta," he looked at her sideways, one eyebrow lifted.

"Something which is absolutely none of your business," Grace scowled, mostly at herself for opening this particular door.

A person's status had been considered entirely private and confidential for decades; since the mid nineteen-forties, in fact, when the newly formed United Nations laid down laws for all member-nations regarding the sanctity of individual human rights. These rights applied to not only the ninety-eight percent of the human race who were natural-born Betas, but also to those belonging to the remaining groups which composed the balance of the species; Omegas and Alphas.

Omegas, the creators and visionaries, and Alphas, fighters and leaders. An autochthonic mutation for which there were few practical theories and even fewer scientific explanations. It just happened: the human race evolving to produce what it needed, apparently.

Yet for every thousand capita of the average Beta population, there might be only one or two children who, at puberty, developed the additional and frequently troublesome senses and abilities of the Alpha or Omega. The children usually needed special support, sometimes even special care and training; medication or even therapy was sometimes required to help the young ones through the time of change until they could master the unfamiliar and confronting abilities. It was the families who had to deal with their frighteningly rapid intellectual and sexual maturation. It could be a costly and intimidating experience for both the children and those close to them; many Alphas, in particular, were hounded and bullied by older children, even by their own siblings and often became solitary and withdrawn. It made great sense to keep the status of such children undisclosed as far as possible. Given the rarity of the mutation, a family might only ever see such a child every few generations.

Nor could such births be planned or predicted, though several scandalous eugenics programs over the years had certainly attempted it. Having an Alpha or an Omega as a parent could not guarantee the same status in a child; not even if both parents were from these groups might children be certain of realising such traits, although national archive records indicated a higher incidence of status-inheritance in those offspring where Alpha and Omega had been paired as parents.

And now, of course, there were so many bizarre urban legends and myths about each group that even post-adolescence, relatively few individuals actually wanted their status publically known. For most, the issue of status was kept as private as their income-level. Other than a small number of intrinsic distinctions; greater strength, aggression and strategic ability in the Alpha, a higher density of synaptic connections, artistic talents and linguistic skills in the Omega, there was nothing that marked either group as physically different. Both groups possessed above average IQs. Status information was recorded nowhere except in medical records, in case the individual was diagnosed with a condition that might be exacerbated by the mutation but such data was not needed elsewhere, not even on a marriage licence. Most Omegas and Alphas kept their heads down and simply got on with their lives, doing whatever it was they were good at, just like everybody else.

Naturally, there were always some who felt differently. Big business, politics and the armed services offered a natural haven to many Alphas who embraced the few opportunities most suited to their inherent inclinations. Both genders of Alpha usually did superbly well in pressurised, high-ranking roles, jobs for which their temperament was an inalienable match. Revealing one's Alpha-status during a promotion interview in these fields rarely hurt.

Likewise, some of the greatest artists and free-thinkers were also happy to reveal their Omega origins, perhaps because such creative, philosophical individuals cared very little for the opinions of others. The entertainment industry was thronged with a wide range of characters from both groups; many celebrated actors and musicians of both genders actively exploiting their Alpha or Omega stage-presence; the ability to generate millions of screaming fans not unpleasant to them in the least.

And even though both Alphas and Omegas were comparatively rare, given the current British population of nearly sixty-four million, it meant there were well over a million of them in the general population, a not-insignificant demographic.

But when a complete stranger suggested, out of the blue, that you were anything other than normal, it was perfectly acceptable to take offence.

Grace Chandler was therefore offended.

"I have no idea what you have to do with Rafe Erwood," she said icily. "But if you have any more specific questions to ask about him, then please ask," she sat back and folded her arms, an expression of mild annoyance across her features. "Otherwise, I think I'd rather like to leave. I've done nothing wrong. I don't know anything about Rafe other than the things I've already mentioned, and until you find something with which to charge me or keep me in this horrible place," she looked around at the small, windowless room. "Then I'd like to go."

The man, Holmes, said nothing, though his eyes narrowed briefly. "You haven't answered my question," he said.

"Was there, in fact, a question to answer?" Grace felt herself tense with what might have been anger, though of late, she rarely gave into such reactions. "You made an impolite observation which I've chosen to ignore," she stood, picking up her jacket and sliding her bag onto her shoulder. "Are we done?"

She was innocent of any deliberate conspiracy, he was confident of that, though there was always the possibility she might know things of which she was, as yet, unaware. There was also something about her which gave him pause. He wondered what it was.

Was she prevaricating? Misleading him? Lying? Mycroft Holmes didn't imagine for a moment that her lies – if she was lying – were premeditated; the way her autonomous reactions revealed her thoughts negated that as a serious possibility.

He wondered if it was her frankness that set him back; most people who came in here, under these conditions, lacked the self-confidence and personal assurance to maintain such savoir-faire under questioning, which made this sense of something all the more provoking.

If Grace Chandler wasn't a Beta, then what was she? He had no clear idea why he wanted to know, or even what bearing it might have on the current investigation, but the knowledge felt important. Her medical records could be on his desk within ten minutes, but he found himself impatient for the information.

She stood, silent, waiting for him.

He rose to his feet, his eyes not leaving her face. "You may go, but I ask you to stay in London for the near future in case there are further questions," he paused, diffidently. "If you wouldn't mind?"

Perfectly ready to tell the man to go to hell, his last words took some of the wind from her sails. Grace had no idea what was going on, other than she had been pretty much forced to come along to this godforsaken place to be grilled by this strange man. She didn't much like it.

But.

If what he said was true ... if Rafe really was ... although she could hardly credit even the possibility of it ... a spy, then she could understand both the questioning and this Holmes person's attitude. If he were a spy-catcher then he'd need to be suspicious of everything, she supposed. If it were her job, would she be any different?

"As you probably already know, I curate the special collection at the Temple Archives in Essex Street," she said, meeting his eyes. "It's a private foundation funded between the London Law Chambers and Bar Council, and I'm there every weekday between ten and five," she paused, assessing him objectively for the first time since she'd arrived. Tall, stylish; gravitas of a Supreme Court judge. "If you have any further questions for me, please ask them in a civilised manner in the normal way," she looked pointedly at the door. "May I go now?"

Holmes repressed a smile; it was as if his old Oxford tutor was speaking.

Walking across, he looked at her once again before depressing the handle and pulling it open.

"Please understand this is nothing personal," he said, offering his hand. "I will be in touch if I need further details. In the interim, please treat this conversation as confidential."

Still not terribly happy, she shook his hand, surprised as he drew it up to his mouth, brushing her skin momentarily with his lips before pressing his nose against her inner wrist and inhaling.

Scenting! He was scenting her! As if this were some childish playground game!

Wrenching her arm away, Grace glared, allowing anger to cloud her normally placid grey eyes to a stormy darkness. "You odious man," she hissed, marching through the door without a backwards glance.

Watching as she stormed off, Mycroft Holmes was tantalised. Other than a lightly floral fragrance, he had been able to discern nothing whatever of the signature essences usually associated with Alpha or Omega. Even more interesting was the observation that he couldn't smell anything at all. Grace Chandler had no personal scent whatsoever, not even that of a Beta. She was on a suppressant of some kind and now he found himself exceedingly curious as to why.

Exiting the large, anonymous Portland stone building on Millbank, Grace was still furious and threw her hand out imperiously for a cab. In a matter of seconds, a ubiquitous black shape drew into the kerb, the driver waiting until she was comfortably seated.

"Twenty, Essex Street, please," she inhaled slowly, attempting to rid herself of this sudden and uncommon level of anger. She almost never lost it like this, but that man had not only crossed one line too many, but had seemed utterly unconcerned about it. Vile creature.

Crossing Lambeth Bridge, the cab ended going up Blackfriars Road before re-crossing the river and bearing left towards the Temple Gardens and her destination.

Paying the driver and walking through the dark double-doors in the centre of the pristine cream neoclassical frontage, Grace felt herself relaxing as the bouquet of lavender floor wax, expensive aftershave and old books greeted her. This place was more like home than home and as she made her way to her cramped office to the rear of the first floor, the anger finally abated, leaving her vaguely fatigued and desperate for a drink of something hot and energising.

She picked up the phone on her desk and keyed a local number.

"Allan," the male voice was pleasingly deep.

"I'm in need of caffeine," she said. "Want to buy me a coffee?"

A brief pause. "Of course," he was smiling; she could hear it. Robert Allan had been courting her for several months now and was always pleased when she made time for him during the work-day. "See you in the Edgar in ten minutes?"

"Perfect," Grace sat back in her uncomfortable, squeaky chair and thought about the morning's conversation. Other than the fact she had met an unpleasant man, the main thing that occupied her thoughts was the death of her old supervisor. Could Rafe Erwood really have been a Russian spy? It seemed impossibly incongruous.

There was only one urgent message in her email inbox and her phone message-bank; the same message, in fact. Reading the email, her heart sank. The Ripoll Transcript she'd been chasing for almost a year had been removed from the upcoming Sotheby's Bond Street auction without explanation, just when she finally had a real chance to grab it for the collection at a reasonable price. It was the hand-scribed proceedings of the very last autos-da-fé of the Catholic Church, in Spain, in 1826. The Vatican, with all its vast wealth, tended to snap these things up as soon as the merest whiff of one appeared in a sales catalogue. But this one she really wanted and had gone all-out in order to secure it for the Black Books collection: an exclusive portfolio of legal records that spanned centuries. A friend in Sotheby's had given her a head's up that the parchment would be included in the next week's catalogue; it was all very low-key and interest, apparently, was minimal. Il Testimonio de Cayetano Ripoll was looking good for acquisition.

And now she had two messages saying it had been withdrawn. Bugger.

After a swift check to ensure there was nothing time-critical, five minutes later she grabbed her bag and made her way out into the narrow street where virtually everybody on the pavement had some connections to the Royal Courts of Justice. Barristers, Plaintiffs and Defendants. Well-known Judges strolled these streets around Middle and Inner Temple, rubbing shoulders with Clerks and clients, Silks and solicitors, victims and villains. The British Law scene was nothing if not egalitarian.

Crossing to the far side of the street, it took Grace less than two minutes to reach the Edgar Wallace, the nearest pub and, since the demise of nearby Fleet Street, one which catered almost wholly to the legal profession. This was important in a number of different ways.

The first was that you never knew whom you might meet inside the pub, but whoever it was; they would be involved with the legal system in some way. This was a given, and it meant you had to be careful what you said and to whom. It also meant that regardless of time of day or night, there would almost always be several small coteries hunched over one of the round tables, sharing strong liquor and sad stories: it was the lot of legal professionals; the one that got away the usual cause for such enclaves. Finally, you could be sure of hearing all the latest gossip, and legal gossip was always the best.

Heading to their usual table in a corner, Grace waved at Janice behind the bar and held up two fingers. "Due caffè espresso, per favore," she called, waving again as the Italian barista nodded. Coffee was on the way.

In less than a minute, an immaculately-suited male scootched into the corner beside her, leaning in for a light kiss.

"Hello, darling," Robert Allan smiled.

A pleasant man; kind, thoughtful, usually generous and always willing to please, Grace realised he was probably going to propose soon. Their relationship had always been more of a friendship than a mad passion, but they dealt well together and they knew mostly the same people. There was no effort to being with Robert; things just happened easily and logically. If he asked her to marry him, she'd more than likely say yes.

"How is my favourite bibliophile this fine morning?"

Leaning away as the coffees arrived, Grace heaved something of a sigh. Repellent though he might be, the Holmes man had asked her to keep the morning's discussion confidential, and if there was the slightest chance he was correct and Rafe actually was a ... then she'd better not mention it. That only left her with one bit of news.

"Sotheby's have withdrawn the Ripoll parchment from next week's auction," she said, a little glumly. "I've been chasing it for a year, ever since I knew it might be up for sale. It's a spectacular document and would add real depth to the European collection."

"What did Sotheby's expect it to realise?" Robert stirred sugar into his very small cup of coffee.

"About twenty thousand, give or take," Grace inhaled the fragrant steam. "Nothing at all, really, in the scheme of things, and I've barely used half of this year's new acquisition budget, so no problem there, either."

"Weren't the valuers due in last week for the new insurance premiums?" his speciality was business law and such things as insurances and ownership were important in his world.

Grace shrugged. The monetary value of these wonderful documents was almost the last thing she thought about when she acquired them for the Law collection. These fragments were artefacts of history unbound; argument and antiquity melded together in the crucible heat of human trial ... the very thought of what the collection represented in human terms made her heart beat a little harder. And she was the guardian. Insurance was important for the stakeholders; there was, after all, a great deal of money invested in the archives, but for her, the stories themselves were the critical worth.

"Sorry," she smiled over the top of her cup. "Caught me wandering off," Grace laughed. "Yes; the Lloyds people came back last week with the archive's new appraisal; it's rather impressive."

"And?"Robert grinned. "Don't tease."

"It's worth over three mil now," Grace looked into her empty cup. "From virtually nothing to three million in two years, is not bad, though I say it myself."

Her companion whistled softly. "I'd call that something worthy of a celebration," he smiled again. "Dinner tonight at Medlar?" his smile lingered. It was one of her favourite eateries.

"You spoil me," she met his eyes. Pale blue eyes, clear and honest and decent. "Yes," she said, suddenly reckless. "Yes."

Her tone was oddly emphatic, and he frowned a little. "Yes to what?" he asked, wondering if he'd missed something.

"Yes to everything," Grace brushed his lips with her own. "I have to go and find out what I can about the Ripoll transcript," she said. "They might tell me if it's up for private sale."

"I have a briefing with a Hong Kong firm this afternoon," Robert helped her up. "Pick you up at seven?"

Grace was still smiling as she walked along the street towards the Archives and paid little attention to the sleek black Jaguar that drew to a silent halt at the kerb. The kerbside rear door opened.

"Get in the car, please, Doctor Chandler," the voice was horribly familiar.

Peering into the roomy interior, she felt her stomach sink. "When you said you might have further questions, I didn't realise you meant to ask them today," she said, an acidic edge to her words.

"There have been developments, please, Doctor Chandler; get in the car."

"What developments?" Grace was damned if she'd be at this man's beck and call.

Holmes sighed in exasperation. "There's been another death, now will you get in the car?"

"Who was it this time?" she asked settling into the soft leather, still not convinced of the need to speak to him so soon.

"Another student at the university," Holmes tapped an umbrella ferule on the glass privacy screen and the car pulled gently away.

"Hey, wait!" Grace quickly fastened the seatbelt around her. "You said to get in the car; there was nothing about going anywhere."

"Merely ensuring I have your complete attention, Doctor," Holmes eyes flickered over her face. "How long have you known Robert Allan?" he said, a cool blue gaze watching her response.

"How is that any of your business?" Grace felt a recurrence of her earlier irritation. "I thought this was all about Rafe Erwood?"

"Not anymore," Holmes met and held her eyes with his own. "Allan?"

"Robert is in international business law," she said, grudgingly. "I met him more than a year ago at a Law Council dinner, if you really must know."

"I really must," he sounded officious. "And are you planning to marry him?"

"Stop the car," Grace began to unbuckle. "Stop the car; I refuse to dignify this interrogation with any further response," she said, her hand on the door. "Stop the car now, please."

"And if I don't?" the expression on Holme's face was equal parts wariness and amusement.

"Then I'll jump." The road was busy and the car was crawling. "We're not doing more than ten miles an hour," she said. "Last chance," Grace clicked the door open, holding it closed with both hands.

"Such melodramatics, Doctor Chandler," he tapped the screen again and the Jaguar drew gently into the nearest kerb. "Before you make good your escape, know that your life may be in danger," Holmes said nothing else, just sat and looked at her.

The fact that he was letting her leave enabled Grace to stay. She closed the door and relaxed her grip on the handle. "How do you know that?"

"The student who died was one of Erwood's PhDs, close to the time you were at Cambridge," Holmes handed her a small photograph. A blonde woman; it was nobody she knew. "She had recently returned for further qualifications and had been seen talking with Erwood."

Grace shook her head uncertain of what to say.

"This is the third death we are now able to connect to your old supervisor and there is good reason to believe whoever targeted him, has widened their parameters," he paused. "You may be in danger."

It was all a bit much to take in; she stared down at her hands. "Even if that were true," she said slowly. "How is this information going to help me?"

"We are arranging security cover for those individuals deemed at risk," he frowned a little. "It means having someone stay with you for a while."

"In my flat?" Grace wasn't remotely enthused by the idea. "For how long?"

Holmes was silent, but his gaze was eloquent. "A few days, perhaps."

"Is this absolutely necessary?" she was deadly serious now. "Do you honestly consider me to be at risk?"

"In truth, I'm not sure, but I'd prefer to err on the side of caution."

"And caution will last for how long?

"Until I'm sure we have encompassed the full nature of the situation and neutralised the danger."

Grace wasn't sure she wanted to know what neutralised meant, at least, not the way he meant it. "So, I'm looking at ... a few days, weeks ... what?"

"Possibly weeks, but more realistically, days," Holmes pulled a silver fob-watch from a waistcoat pocket. "She'll be waiting for you at your flat as of now," he added, a faint smile to his mouth.

"Who will?"

"Your temporary security; it'll require no special effort on your part. Just imagine you've got a distant relative in the spare ... room for a little while," the faint smile seemed more pronounced.

"You know about my spare room?" Grace felt her head spin. Who was this guy?

"And it would be best if you were to stay away from your workplace for a few days as well," he added, nodding. "You're too easy a target on the street."

"I cannot possibly stay away from work right now," Grace scowled. "I have far too many pressing matters on my plate to simply cut and run."

"Already taken care of, Doctor Chandler," and somehow she knew the faint smile on his face was a genuine one. "Your employers have been advised that you have decided to rush to the continent to secure a particularly rare specimen for your beloved collection," he lifted his eyebrows. "Nobody was the least surprised, I might add."

"I have a dinner engagement this evening," she protested.

"With Allan? Not a good idea; I think you'll need to postpone. I'm sure you will be able to make it up to the gentleman at some later date." There was no hint of mockery on his face.

"I thought that was what security was for?"

"Bit unfair to her to make such an easy target of yourself, don't you think?" Holmes smiled again, but this time it was official and polite. "Best not," he said, as if that were that.

"I haven't even agreed to accept your ... security person," Grace felt the situation was getting away from her.

"Ah," Holmes looked at his watch again, lifting his eyebrows regretfully. "On that matter, my assistant is probably securing the premises as we speak," he paused. "Apologies."

"Your ... this woman is in my flat?"

His eyebrows resumed their normal location. "We would have reached there before such an event had you not required me to stop the car."

"Arghhh," Grace clenched her fists. "And what if I were to tell you to go directly to hell and to take your security person with you?" she demanded, the light of battle in her eyes. "You have no right to do any of this."

"Then to ensure your safety, I will simply have you taken into police custody whereupon you would spend the necessary amount of time in some dreary little motel off the M25," he sighed gustily. "Can we please stop this futile argument as I have every right to take any step I deem necessary to safeguard national security."

"I can't believe this is happening to me," Grace found she was relaxing back against the back of the seat, her head spinning.

Holmes tapped the glass screen and the car pulled out into traffic once again, heading down the Embankment towards Waterloo Bridge.

Leaning her head in her hand, Grace was reduced to staring out of the window as the Jaguar cruised over the bridge and turned into Stamford ... she knew the route well, she walked it every day to work. The remainder of the journey to her house passed in the deepest of silences.

As the car was gliding to a perfect halt outside of a large converted warehouse in Duchy Street, Holmes cleared his throat. "Understand, Doctor Chandler, this is to make certain of your personal safety while this situation remains extant," he said. "Regardless of your belief, I do not wish to make your life miserable, but to protect it."

"Given that I apparently have absolutely no say in any of this, I have no idea why you bother to share your reasons with me," Grace was detached and impassive, her face cool and composed. "Nor am I the least interested in hearing them. Goodbye, Mr Holmes," she clicked the door open and slipped out before there was any opportunity for a response.

###

Watching Grace Chandler slide from the car and cross the pavement to her door gave him a strange sensation in the pit of his stomach. She was angry, yes; frustrated and irritated that she was being manipulated against her will. But there was still something about her that niggled at him; like an itch deep inside he could neither identify nor reach.

The woman's private records had been of little help. Adopted at an early age, everything his people could put together on her was patchy at best. Even her medical records seemed to be blank before the age of sixteen when she had a horse-riding accident requiring spinal surgery. At that point her blood-group was recorded as O-negative, a fact which comprised virtually the entirety of her records, with nothing else that might be considered unusual or even different. There was no note anywhere of childhood illness, of any of the usual vaccinations or examinations common to small children. Nor was there any note of her status, whether it be Beta, Alpha or Omega. Only the hospitalisation as a teenager and then nothing for years, until serious influenza four years ago saw her leave a job in the arts restoration industry and work freelance in the antiquities acquisition field before accepting her current role at the Law Archives. Other than that, the good doctor was effectively anonymous; a blank page and Mycroft Holmes neither valued nor trusted blank pages.

Nor did he believe them.

Grace Chandler was the epicentre of too many questions and he was going to find the answers to each and every one with, or without her co-operation.

###

The main ground-floor foyer was empty. Walking up the couple of flights of stairs to her entranceway and pulling the key from her bag, Grace saw the door to her flat was still locked, but that meant nothing if someone was already on the inside. Unlocking everything and walking to the centre of the wide entry hall, she dropped her bag onto an old writing desk standing incongruously in the middle of the open space.

"Okay, where are you?"

There was nothing but silence for a couple of seconds, before Grace made out the quiet footfalls of a woman's shoes on the recycled hardwood floor. In another moment, a tall, slender brunette appeared from around one of the heavy supporting pillars.

"Hi," she nodded. "Call me Anthea."

Grace folded her arms. "I'm not happy you're here," she said. "This is against my will."

"It's not exactly my preference, either," the brunette made a face. "The state of this place."

"What do you mean, 'state'?" Grace frowned, looking around this part of the warehouse conversion. "This is a design in progress; I don't have time to work on it every day."

"You've started so many things and finished hardly any of them," Holmes's assistant shook her head. "The name's Anthea, by the way. I've checked everything; you're not bugged."

"Which is a huge relief to me as you might imagine, Anthea," Grace sighed. Sarcasm was silly. Taking a deep breath, she adopted a philosophical expression. "I suppose if you have to stay for a while, we may as well be civilised about it. Would you like some tea?" Grace was already moving towards the kitchen area.

Area, rather than actual kitchen, since there really was no actual kitchen just yet. This flat was the result of a mad investment two years before when she had bought into a large warehouse conversion project on the South Bank in Barge House Street, spitting distance from the Thames and right across the river from the Temple Gardens. The National Theatre was literally down one end of the road and Shakespeare's Globe at the other. She was now the proud owner of half the top-floor of an old bonded warehouse, a large, three-story building, midway between Waterloo and Blackfriars bridges. It had emptied her savings, her current account and sent two of her prized first editions to auction, leaving her with little more than an enormous open space and a fabulous view, but at least it was her space, with high ceilings and absolute freedom. Every scrap of money she had earned since, as well as the occasional bonus from the Law Archives, was spent in tackling another part of the apartment.

The first post-purchase cost had been to contract an architect to design the perfect dwelling that would encompass her preferences, her way of life and her books. Once that had been satisfactorily completed, every bit of spare cash went towards making the dream a reality.

The main bathroom had been the first thing; a glorious creation of dark grey slate, streaked with lines of rust and ochre, teamed with tiny gleaming aged copper tiles. All the porcelain amenities had been cast in dark shades of evening, with everything else in white glass and verdigrised copper fittings. Some of her friends hated it on sight, said it was too masculine, too industrial, but she loved it from the moment she'd seen the massive slabs of stone waiting to be cut. It was a cool and luxurious place, and she relished every square inch of it.

The bedroom had been next, a large, but odd-shaped room curved around one entire corner of the top floor. A window that wrapped around and over the space like a cave, but a cave of glass, through which you could see the stars. The hassle to get the necessary permissions and then to arrange removal of part of the building's roof and the installation of the replacement glass ceiling had cost her over fifteen thousand pounds. The bedroom walls were of a thunderous dark blue, with a thick carpet the colour of storm clouds. The sombre tones of the space were cleverly highlighted with flashes of brushed aluminium in the handles and light-fittings. Lying in bed always made Grace feel she was in the eye of a storm and she slept in the utter peace of that silence.

She had run out of money at that point, living a building-site and having to endure six-months of boiled eggs or beans-on-toast before she could pull sufficient cash together to pay for the materials and workmanship of her book room.

Although to call it a room was perhaps a misnomer. A double-height, circular hub, built in the centre of the apartment with a glazed oculus in the roof, illuminating a grand chamber made entirely out of bookshelves, with an archway opening into every living space. A slender steel ladder hung on a rail which circumferenced the room just above the arches. The rest of the flat would be built around the curved bookshelves, already half-filled with her own private collection. Furnished as her study, an antique, leather-topped oak desk took a big chunk of floor-space, an elegant and deep-buttoned dark red leather chaise-longue waited in the opposite half of the room. This was the heart of her flat and she came here to work, to read and to think, finding the atmosphere intrinsically creative and restorative.

An expensive-looking black computer-monitor and wireless keyboard stood in central splendour on the desk, the computer itself taking up the space of inside several drawers on the right-hand side, although the modification had been done so well, the average visitor would never know a powerful computer was hidden inside the desk itself. Three books lived on the desk and nowhere else: the Oxford English Reference dictionary, Roget's Thesaurus and the complete works of Shakespeare. Though each of the copies were old and more than a little battered, Grace was comforted by their nearness. They had been books people had given her at meaningful moments in her life and she still used them regularly.

In the months since she had finished her book room, there had been sufficient money available to design and order a bespoke kitchen and relevant appliances, but cash ran out before she had time to pay contractors to install any of it. Large, polythene-wrapped packages stood gathering dust in the designated space. The only thing she had as a kitchen was an old table with an electrical outlet hanging from the ceiling attached to which was an electric kettle, a toaster and a single hotplate. A tiny bar-fridge stood against the wall next to an old sink with a tap for cold water, all very basic; the only hot water in the apartment was in the bathroom.

The other things she was waiting to finish was the main living space, the dining area and the spare bedroom. Grace had put together a rough but functioning second bedroom when an old friend from Cambridge had stayed with her several months before, but it was fairly basic. There was a bed, a bureau and a rack for hanging stuff, and that was pretty much that. There was a new stockpile of cash in her bank now of around eighteen grand; it would get the kitchen, laundry and drying terrace finished, and maybe even enable her to make a start on the living area. At the moment, however, everything was still a bit rough.

And now Holmes had landed her with call-me-Anthea. Well, the woman would just have to lump it if she didn't like it.

"Actually," the very attractive brunette relaxed her shoulders. "I would kill for a cup of tea; the boss has had me on the go since dawn and my feet are complaining," she added.

"Then go and grab a seat in the ... lounge, and I'll bring it in and we can discuss how this situation is going to work," Grace filled the kettle and dug out the teapot from one of the many boxes which comprised her kitchen.

In reality, the lounge was no more than chalked lines across wide wooden floorboards giving an approximation of eventual dimensions. Within the outline were two disreputable armchairs, an offcut piece of plywood across two piles of old Yellow Pages for a coffee table and a wobbly standard lamp rescued from a skip.

But the china was Minton and the tea was Earl Grey.

Leaning back in her chair, sipping from her cup, Grace fixed the interloper with an analytical gaze. "Am I allowed to go out?" she said. "I have a date tonight."

Anthea shrugged and looked pained. "Probably not a good idea," she said. "We could stay in and start putting your kitchen together, if you like?"

"I'd rather go and have dinner with a very nice man in a very good restaurant," Grace was not about to surrender quite so easily.

Anthea sighed. "Robert Allan has already been given your apologies and thinks you are now halfway to Madrid," she said brightly. "We could start on your kitchen and then order a takeaway," she added, picking up her Nokia and searching the screen. "There's a really good Mexican place not far from here."

Grace wasn't sure whether to feel annoyed or amused. "You any good with power tools?" she asked warily.

"I am a demon with a Black and Decker," Anthea grinned. "How about we see what we can accomplish and then get some Mexican and a bottle of tequila?"

It was hard not to be infected by such enthusiasm, especially if any alternative was on the moot side and Grace shook her head, smiling. "You know how to show a girl a good time," she laughed. "Okay, call-me-Anthea," she said. "It's far too early for dinner, so what say we change into something more comfortable and you try and convince me you know one end of a lithium driver from the other?"

Clinking her cup carefully to Grace's, Holmes' assistant nodded. "Sounds like a plan," she smiled, looking around the place assessingly. "What are you going to do in here?"

Grace had the blueprint of the design etched on her brain and could see the finished room in front of her eyes. She grinned. "Internal walls with windows in them," she said. "Lots of light going through into the rest of the flat ... you want to see the architect's plans ..?"

Over and hour and a second pot of tea later, Anthea sat back looking impressed. Grace still wasn't sure if this was a genuine expression or simply something she was assuming as part of her babysitting role, but their discussion had been interesting.

"You should have these blueprints framed," she said, waving a finger at the plans laid out across the makeshift coffee table. "Hang them somewhere very visible," she added. "They're brilliant."

Grace stood. "I think it's time I introduced you to two of my friends," she said. "You brought jeans with you?"

A quizzical look on her face, Anthea nodded.

"My friends, power drill and orbital sander will be in the kitchen when you're ready," Grace smiled, heading into her bedroom to dig out her oldest work-pants and a t-shirt. Things were about to get dirty.

###

It was already dark outside, although the City lights never really dimmed that much and the view had gradually changed from the bright river front, to the dusky glow of evening, before the true dark and night-lights of London.

Anthea had at least one broken nail, while Grace had a bruised shin, but the difference they had managed to accomplish in a few hours of solid work was remarkable. Instead of dusty, plastic-swathed bundles, there was now a great deal more clear space since all the kitchen base-units had been assembled and placed approximately in situ. Even the pre-cut dark-green granite bench tops had been wrangled into position, accounting for the broken nail and the banged leg; but they were all up where they were meant to be.

It was astonishing. Grace knew she could never have done this by herself, and had never thought of asking Robert for his assistance, but that they had been able to do this between them was testimony to both the excellent quality of the fitted cabinetry and the determination of two people who had a reasonable idea of what needed to be done and how to do it. Of course, the entire thing would have to be properly fixed in place by the experts who had the ability to gets things down to millimetres, and for the electrician and gas-installer and plumber to do the necessary with the utilities, but it already looked like a kitchen was supposed to look.

Unable to take her eyes off any of it, Grace stood in the middle beside the central island and hugged her arms around herself. "I'm a little in shock," she murmured, as Anthea returned from the bathroom. "I can't believe we just did this."

"Well, you've got about fifteen minutes to get over it and get cleaned up," she said. "Dinner's on its way."

"I don't have any tequila in the place," Grace looked awkward. "I'll have to nip out and get some."

"Already organised," Anthea grinned widely. "And all courtesy of Mr Holmes and all we need to do is drink the stuff."

"I don't have much ice, either," Grace felt embarrassed. Her little fridge was not really up to a lot of catering.

"When I say that everything is organised," Anthea looked forbearing. "I really do mean everything," she lifted her eyebrows. "Now are you going to have first crack at that decadent cavern of extravagance and luxury you call a bathroom, or am I?"

Laughing, Grace felt the least she could do was offer her guest dibs on the shower. "You go first," she said, "and I'll get your bed ready so we don't have to think about it later; I've a feeling I shall be sleeping very well tonight."

The young man with a cardboard box containing a large bag of crushed ice; a really good bottle of golden tequila, together with limes and other clinking things, arrived barely minutes ahead of the second young man who brought two large plastic bags full of spicy delights.

"There is no way we're going to get through all of this, you realise," Grace brought out plates, quietly thrilled with the realisation she'd soon be able to use the new dishwasher that had stood idle for over three months.

Rinsing out a large glass jug, Anthea was in the process of measuring appropriate amounts of tequila, triple-sec and fresh-squeezed lime juice, stirring the entire concoction with a large wooden spoon which she then licked. "Just checking," she laughed at Grace's amused face.

Whoever said that hunger makes the best sauce wasn't wrong. Despite the quantity of food, a very substantial dent was established, washed down by several large glasses of the tequila cocktail within a relatively short space of time.

It was only when she was more or less sated, that Grace brought the conversation around to the reality of the situation.

"You do this a lot?" she asked. "Babysitting problems like me?"

Leaning back and taking another sip of her drink, Anthea shook her head. "This is only the second time he's asked me to do it," she said, not bothering to explain he.

"What did he tell you about me?" Grace dipped a corn chip in the guacamole and crunched. "Did he say anything?"

"Only that you might be important in helping solve a mystery," she said, sitting up and helping herself to a forkful of rice. "And that ..."

"What?" Grace turned to the brunette. "And that ... what?"

"Squinting in thought, Anthea lifted her eyebrows momentarily. "And that you were a bit of a mystery in your own right and for me to make friends."

"Holmes told you to make friends with me?" Grace felt she ought to be shocked or at least a little angry, but she wasn't, not really. She had half expected something along these lines. "Is that his usual style?"

"Depends," Anthea poured them both some more of the cocktail. "Depends on what he's trying to achieve."

"And what is he trying to achieve in this instance?" Grace swirled her drink, watching the slices of lime circle the glass.

"There's definitely a security problem and he wants you safe," Anthea bit her lower lip. "But as to the other, I'm really not sure," she said. "You're not the love child of some foreign oligarch, by any chance?"

Leaning her head back against the chair, Grace laughed, genuinely tickled. "Not that I know of," she admitted. "And you making friends with me is supposed to do what ... get me to spill the beans?"

"Usually," Anthea looked sadly at the empty jug. "I think we need more alcohol."

"I don' need alcohol to answer questions," Grace realised she'd slurred a word. "No more for me; I shall probably sleep in with a headache in any case," she added.

"Such a lightweight," Anthea grinned. "Go to bed and I'll have everything cleaned up in the morning for you."

Grace smiled happily. "I wish I had more friends like you, in that case," she acknowledged. "You know where everything is now, probably better than I do," she paused. "Make yourself at home," Grace stood, swaying slightly. Whatever Anthea was here for, she didn't really care much about it tonight. Tonight, she had the beginnings of a real kitchen and she was happy. After cleaning her teeth, she crawled into bed and was asleep in less than a minute.

###

And she dreamed

She dreamed she was standing in the bow of an old sailing ship in the middle of the sea; she could hear the creaking of the rigging and feel the sway of the deck shifting beneath her feet as the dark blue waves chopped all around the hull. The day was waning into darkness, not evening, but a storm, and the colour of the ocean was the colour of the angry sky. Clouds rushed across the sky in great scads of grey smoke. The entire scene was one of haste: haste to leave the wild water, haste to escape, haste to seek shelter.

But there was nowhere to run, the storm was almost upon the ship, and there was no shelter in sight.

And then there was. Out of the gloomy and bruised storm clouds, a sudden island, a place of tall, dark trees; sharp mountains and barren, rocky coves. Just as the first spear of white lightening slashed down through to the ocean's surface, the ship coasted easily into the largest cove, coming to a slow rest in a gentle lagoon where everything was golden sunlight and soft sea-breezes.

Grace slept, a smile on her lips.

###

Her head was thumping as she woke and tried to move, the cool smoothness of the pillow rough against her face when she opened her eyes to the late morning sunlight pouring through the ceiling of her bedroom. She had left the blinds open last night and closed her eyes quickly as they squinted in the shock of light.

Grace rolled onto her back, blinking. Her face felt dry, her hair was all over the place and her mouth tasted of tequila. She was thirsty and could probably use a couple of aspirin. Her head was really thumping; the sensation of noise almost a tangible thing.

Sitting up slowly in bed, rubbing her face with both hands, Grace realised the banging wasn't only inside her head, but sounded as if it were coming from elsewhere in the flat. Dragging on an old brocade robe of indeterminate origins, she stepped outside her room and headed for the din.

It was coming from the kitchen.

There was an awful lot of it coming from the kitchen, as she stopped, rendered speechless by the scene which greeted her.

"About time, Ms Lightweight," Anthea turned and found a mug, pouring a quantity of black, scented coffee that made the whole effort of getting up worthwhile. Grace was certain her usual coffee didn't smell this good.

Still uncertain what to say, or even if anything should be said in case she frightened off the small crew of tradespeople-fairies currently working minor magic in the kitchen.

And it actually was a kitchen.

All the cabinets were in their correct places, secured and fixed, the mottled green granite tops likewise secured and temporarily covered with thick cardboard.

There was a man on his back beneath the brand new sink unit, doing something creative with copper piping; another man was on a stepladder, threading thick white electrical cable down the back of the wall units; since when did she have wall units? Or walls? The newly emplaced gas hob and electric oven were the focus of a woman in overalls bearing the name of a major gas appliance manufacturer, who seemed to be checking the level of the hob and testing gas-flow.

There were walls, there were appliances and there were things that worked. This was most bizarre. She turned back to Anthea and lifted both hands, almost spilling the coffee.

"Told you I would have everything cleaned up for you in the morning," she laughed, leaning back against one of the new partitions and grinning delightedly.

"I thought you meant the dishes," Grace watched, fascinated by the sheer quantity of expertise currently being exhibited. "I'm somewhat stunned."

"Excellent," Anthea seemed satisfied. "Stunned means you're unlikely to be problematic later."

"What's happening later?" Grace watched the plumber do something ingenious with a compact gas-torch.

"You're cooking dinner," Anthea laughed.

"Without ingredients?" Grace looked deeply sceptical.

Moving aside, Anthea waved at the box of goodies behind her. "All yours," she was unbearably smug.

A wide smile settling across her face, Grace suddenly realised that Anthea had done exactly as Holmes had directed. It was a disconcerting comprehension and her smile faded.

"What?" Anthea saw the change. "What's the matter?"

"Is this you making friends?" Grace returned her mug on the bench top. "You're very good at it."

The brunette turned to watch the workers for a few moments. "It was," she said slowly. "And now it isn't," she turned back to meet Grace's eyes. "Do you believe me?"

"Maybe," it was difficult to say more. "I'm going in the shower."

It was only when Grace was in the bathroom that she realised the spare box of suppressants she always kept in the cabinet was, in fact, empty. She'd been so busy this last week with the Ripoll transcript, she'd entirely forgotten to get a fresh supply. Meaning to have picked up another box yesterday, events had overtaken her. Not that it was a big deal; she had the initial prescription from a dependable doctor whom she had trusted with her privacy for quite some time now. It wasn't even a problem getting them anymore, although the ones she preferred were from Denmark and a little more costly than the local stuff. Grace valued her privacy and anonymity and, in her current role, it was something she had absolutely no intention of losing.

Dressing in clean jeans and a faded old t-shirt, she returned to the kitchen where the worker-elves had temporarily departed. "I have to go to the chemist's," she said. "I need to pick up a prescription."

"I'll have someone collect it for you," Anthea held out her hand for the script, but Grace had no intention of letting anyone else in on this particular bit of knowledge; least of all someone like Mycroft Holmes.

"I prefer to do this myself, thank you," she smiled faintly. "The one I go to isn't far. You can come with me if you're that paranoid."

Anthea frowned, shaking her head slowly. "You don't understand," she said, leading Grace away from the kitchen; she had no wish for their conversation to be overheard. "You can't leave this place; not for something like that, at least."

"You mean I'm effectively a prisoner in my own flat?" Grace felt her anger begin to resurface.

"Please?" Anthea touched her elbow. "I know it's all a bit draconian, but there's a genuine reason for it, I promise. If the medication is urgent, please let me have someone pick it up for you."

Waiting until the wash of outrage faded, Grace heaved a short breath. "I need these pills, but I don't want anyone else involved with them," she said. "I suppose if I'm not actually able to go anywhere, I can do without them for a few days ..." Grace paused, thinking. "But if you really are going to be a friend, then you're going to have to answer me one very personal question."

Anthea met her gaze, a wary light in her eyes. "Okay," she nodded. "Ask me."

Taking another deep breath, Grace held it for a second. "Are you an Alpha?"

The abrupt widening of the brunette's eyes was as effective as a polygraph. She inhaled to speak, but stopped and paused as the question sank in. There was only one reason a woman would ask if someone staying in her house was an Alpha. The fact that Grace had admitted to needing prescription medication merely confirmed it.

Nodding in sudden understanding, Anthea smiled gently. "I am a Beta," she said, lifting out a hand but not touching. "All Mr Holmes' staff are Betas, he won't have Omegas or Alphas on staff; considers them a liability," she added. "I can get the medication for you within thirty minutes."

Grace shook her head. "The dispensing chemist is a friend of mine and at my request has maintained a special, off-the-books, supply for a long time," she said. "I'm not going to get him into trouble because of me, and I don't want anyone else to know about this," she paused meaningfully. "Do you understand how important this is to me?"

Anthea held her breath again for a few seconds as insight arrived. Grace Chandler was an unregistered Omega. The fact wasn't in her medical files or anywhere else; nobody knew about it except the chemist and probably some dim and distant GP out in the wilds. It wasn't an illegal state of affairs, but it was odd. "Why?" she asked.

Grace leaned back against the wall, a faintly embittered cast to her face. "Do you have any idea how many Alphas there are in the law industry?" she asked. "On both sides of the legal fence? How many Alpha barristers and judges and police there are, not to mention the villains themselves?" Grace sighed. "They're everywhere. Can you even begin to imagine the situation I'd be in if I wasn't on some very good suppressants? If I didn't keep my status as secret as the confessional?"

"You shouldn't have told me," Anthea said. "I can't promise to keep your confidence."

"You didn't give me much of a choice," Grace was mildly indignant. "If I told you about the medication and the chemist, you'd have known. If I hadn't said anything and let nature take its course, you'd eventually have known. If I forced the issue and made a fuss, you'd have worked it out," she shrugged. "What other choice did you give me?"

It was true.

"How long do you need to be ... away from people?" Anthea realised there wasn't any way to ask the question without being unbelievably crass. It was one of the by-products of the genetic mutation, fortunate or unfortunate depending upon one's perspective. Omegas experienced an intimidating fertility cycle considered disruptive by some and bloody inconvenient by almost everyone else, including themselves. For a few days every month, the Omega endured something schoolboys around the world sniggeringly called a heat, as if it were more pornography than biology. In the male, it resulted in a hiked libido which eventually synched with their partner's own cycle, while the female Omega became exceptionally fertile just prior to ovulation. It was nature's way of ensuring the mutation continued, but the big pharmas made a killing out of expensive suppressants that reduced the signs and symptoms in both genders. Unsuppressed, the Omega's cycle triggered an automatic and often acute physiologic response in any Alpha who got too close. To most Alphas, such an inadvertent reaction was an embarrassing and unwelcome event and unpartnered Alphas in particular, had a very difficult time of it.

"Before the pheromones fade and I get back to normal, you mean?" Grace exhaled gustily. "Usually a couple of days, give or take," she said. "Not that a Beta would be able to detect them, but it's not called a heat for nothing," she added matter-of-factly. "I get quite warm in the middle of it all," she sounded pragmatic. "Any Alpha within twenty feet of me is almost certain to take notice," Grace raked fingers through her sleek blonde bob. "And I probably would let them," she added quietly. "It's not something I'm particularly happy about, and it's one of the reasons most of us say nothing about it to anyone unless we're considering a romantic relationship."

"And the reason you use good-quality suppressants in your job with all those Alphas around," Anthea nodded in understanding. "But if you're going to stay in your flat for the next few days, does it matter? I can still get you a refill of whatever it is you use, no questions asked."

"Can you do that?" Grace was impressed, despite herself. "I use Xarione," she said. "My friendly chemist imports it for me."

"Not a problem," Anthea picked up her phone about to make a call, when Grace stopped her.

"Will Holmes find out?"

Anthea looked thoughtful. "If he asks, I'll have to tell him."

"Then leave it," Grace shook her head. "I'd rather nobody knew about this. My privacy is very important to me; I don't want this getting out."

"If he asks, I'll have no choice," Anthea sounded troubled.

"Why would he have any reason to ask?" Grace was speculative. "If I'm not going anywhere and this whole security thing is going to be over in a few days anyway, why would he have need to ask about anything?"

"True," Anthea pursed her mouth. "In which case, let's hope there's no reason for you to leave the apartment or for my boss to ask personal questions, though please say if you change your mind and want me to get them for you, okay?"

Not entirely happy with the situation, but unwilling to risk her hard won privacy, Grace sighed and nodded. This wretched situation with Rafe Erwood was nothing at all to do with her and yet she was the one having to compromise her behaviour.

"This really is in your best interests, you know," Anthea shrugged, clearly reading her mind. "Mr Holmes was very specific that you should be looked after."

"Really?" Grace was puzzled. "Any particular reason why?"

"Only that he thinks you may know something without realising you know something," Anthea shrugged again. "He's a brilliant man and I've learned not to question his arrangements because he's inevitably right in whatever he does," she smiled. "It's a bit spooky at times, actually."

Grace looked down at her hands, contemplating her situation. It was what it was.

But at least she had a kitchen now. The banging and thumping had at least stopped. "Have they finished, do you think?" she asked. "It's gone very quiet in there."

"I suggest a quick recce," Anthea walked around the newly erected walls and stared. Grace followed and did exactly the same.

Oh.

"Do you think it all works?" Grace traced fingertips across the shining stone work bench towards the polished steel gas hob. There was not a hint of dust or grime anywhere. The entire place gleamed. But did it work?

"Can you cook?" Anthea grinned.

###

She was in her circular study, checking over the trade news for any new document auctions on the horizon, when an email popped into her work account. Flicking over to it in case it was important, Grace held her breath and read it twice to be sure she'd got it right.

The current owner of the Ripoll Transcript was interested in making a deal off the books, but it had to be fast and it had to be cash.

They wanted twenty grand by the end of the day.

I can't get twenty thousand pounds by close of business, Grace typed. An organisation such as the Law Archives doesn't operate on a cash basis. Will you take a cheque?

No cheque; cash only by tonight or the document went on flight BA0283 to the USA.

Thinking desperately, Grace realised she could get her hands on some of the cash; not all, but it might be enough. I can get you eighteen thousand tonight and put the other two directly in your account tomorrow or the following day if you leave me your bank details, she said, crossing the fingers of both hands that it would be enough. There was a long silence at the other end.

Okay, but cash by seven-thirty tonight. Meet me on the Embankment by Cleopatra's Needle with the money, it was the last email response.

She had to have that document. She had tracked it for over a year and then waited to buy it, but it had been snatched away. Now there was another chance and however difficult, she had to have it. Anthea would understand; she might even help.

About to go into the lounge where her bodyguard had been watching an old black-and-white film, Grace met her coming out. Anthea's face was hard, unsmiling as ended a call.

"There's been another death," she said sourly. "This time it was the manager of a local Cambridge bookshop which Erwood frequented," she added. "All of this has something to do with the university, which makes you the next probable target," Anthea pressed a fast-dial key and muttered something into the phone. "I'm arranging additional security for the building tonight."

Shit. Grace realised that in a matter of minutes, there would be no chance for her to get out and go to the ATM to withdraw the cash. If she was going to do this, she had to go now.

"That makes sense," she tried to sound relaxed. "I'm just going to finish off my work in here and then I'll get dinner ready," she smiled. "Won't be long."

"I'm double-locking the front door," Anthea stalked into the other room with a determined expression on her face.

In the next instant, Grace had grabbed her bag and headed into her bedroom. Sliding a dark jacket around her shoulders, she quietly unbolted the section of the wrap-around window that led onto the roof terrace and around to the fire-escape. In only seconds, she had sprinted down the sections of steel ladders and was only feet above the road at the far side of the building. Sliding herself over the edge, she held on with her fingers and allowed her body to hang for a moment. She let go and ... dropped.

About three feet.

Hitting the road on her toes, Grace knew exactly how far it was to the nearest NatWest ATM and she took off around the front of the wharves. She could be there in less than two minutes.

Fortunately, there was neither a crowd nor a queue at this time. Looking around to ensure she wasn't being watched, Grace walked up to the machine and opened her account, typing in the amount of five-thousand pounds. No ATM would give more than that in one go, so she'd have to make four withdrawals to get all eighteen grand out. Fortunately, she'd previously arranged for a maximum of twenty-thousand per day withdrawal for when she was buying stuff for the flat.

In less than five minutes, she had a very fat pile of £50 notes in her hand. Stuffing them deep into a pocket, she looked around for a cab. As always when you wanted one in a hurry, there were never any to be found.

If she walked quickly, she could be there in less than thirty minutes. Grace checked her watch; it was only just after six. Plenty of time in that case. Checking over her shoulder in case Anthea had somehow managed to trail her, she took a deep breath and headed for Waterloo Bridge.

###

Mycroft Holmes ended the call with a particular expression of dissatisfaction on his face. He couldn't fault Anthea's handling of the situation; she couldn't ride herd on the woman every second, although he could have wished his assistant had requested additional support before the realisation that Grace Chandler not only could, but actually had made a break for freedom.

Nor could Anthea offer any immediate reason for the woman's escape bid, until she entered Chandler's study and looked at the recent emails still visible on her computer.

"Based on her last emails, she's meeting someone at the Obelisk at seven-thirty tonight to buy something called the Ripoll Transcript," Anthea felt thwarted that Grace had managed to evade her custody like this. The only slight mitigation was that this particular document, Anthea looked again at the name, seemed fairly important: it must be for her charge to leave the safety of the apartment even after being told she might be the next target.

And they knew where to start looking; without a boat, there were only two ways to get to that section of the Embankment from South Bank and she had requested CCTV surveillance on both routes. It would be only minutes, perhaps even seconds, and Grace Chandler would be pinpointed and brought back into safety.

As expected, within moments the blonde woman had been spotted and a car sent to intercept her.

###

Walking quickly, but not so fast as to attract undue attention, Grace kept her head down as she crossed Waterloo Bridge, turning to her right and heading down some stone steps in order to achieve the Victoria Embankment with its avenue of Plane trees. Heading to her left, she strode out along the pedestrian walkway below the level of the road; the only other people she saw were either tourists out to make the most of a late sunny afternoon, or some locals using one of Boris's free bikes to avoid the traffic.

Grace checked her watch. It was almost quarter to seven; she had another forty-five minutes to kill. Realising that Anthea would have missed her by now, she wondered how long it would take for the woman to check on her open email account. Grace had no desire for her babysitter to get into trouble, but she would probably never get another chance at the Transcript. Whatever the fallout from this, if she came away with the Ripoll document in her hands, it would have been worth it.

Finding a shaded part of the low stone wall on the river side of the Embankment walkway, Grace tucked herself away and started counting the minutes, the solid wad of banknotes heavy in her jacket pocket. Imagining what kind of presentation format she'd use when the document was finally hers to display, she found time was passing faster than she imagined. The next time she checked the radium dial of her watch, it was already seven-fifteen. Time for her to make a move. The owner of the Transcript might be already there and waiting.

Standing, about to head along to the stone steps on this side of the needle, Grace heard quiet footsteps and a familiar voice.

"Well, that was a damn silly thing to go and do," Anthea walked over, her hands in her coat pockets. "Do you have any idea what kind of a fuss your little escapade has caused?" the brunette sounded decidedly unimpressed.

"Sorry," Grace lifted both hands in apology. "But you have no idea just how important this thing is; I've been chasing it for more than a year and I may never get another opportunity to buy it for the collection."

"And you don't think it even slightly remarkable that this paper was offered to you at the same moment that you became the next potential target of whoever killed Erwood?" Anthea was looking around, checking the faces and body-language of even the most distant tourists.

Grace paused in thought. Actually, no, she hadn't made any such a connection. Probably all foolishness, in any case. How would anyone except the document's owner know how to contact her, know her private email address?

With the same telepathy displayed by her boss, Anthea frowned, her right hand clutching something heavy in the pocket of her coat. "Of course these people can find out how to get to you," she muttered, a new anxiety creasing her forehead. "It's why they're so bloody dangerous," she looked around, hunting for potential aggressors. Anthea paused as she observed two men in jeans and hoodies heading their way. There was something not right about them ...

It was a perfectly warm evening and yet their hoods were up, concealing their faces.

"Quick!" Anthea grabbed Grace's wrist, dragging her towards the steps leading up to street-level. "To the car, fast!"

Almost immediately, there was a series of odd sounds which, though she had never heard them in real life before, Grace knew were shots from a silenced pistol. By the number of shots, probably two pistols. The hooded men were trying to kill them.

Her heart pounding in her throat, she crouched down, scurrying towards the long stone steps at the base of the obelisk, not stopping to look back until she had reached the cover of one of the thick granite pillars beneath one of the sphinxes. The sound of shots still echoed around the stone pathway, but they were fewer now.

Daring to risk a quick look, Grace saw that one of them men was lying face-down on the stone walkway, while the other had disappeared from sight. Anthea was down on one knee, both arms outstretched, holding a pistol of her own. There was a stripe of red across the top of one sleeve. She had been hit.

"Jesus!" Grace was already on her way back down the steps before Anthea shook her head.

"The car!" she shouted, racing up the steps towards the Embankment, grabbing at Grace's nearest arm as she did, reaching the top of the steps and the stationery black Jaguar in only seconds. "Go!" she directed the driver as they piled into the back seat.

Right next to Mycroft Holmes who regarded them both with an expression of black wrath, even as the car swerved rapidly away from the kerb, heading back towards Waterloo Bridge.

"What on earth possessed you?" the demand was icy cold as he stared at Grace.

Meeting his eyes for a second, she caught the full blast of his anger before she deliberately turned back to Anthea who was staring out of the window, probably in case the second attacker reappeared. There was a dark, saturated patch on her upper right arm.

"Slip your arm out," she instructed, lifting the jacket carefully. "You may need stitches; let me see."

"It's only superficial," Anthea's eyes maintained their watchful alert.

"She's hurt, she needs to have this looked at by a doctor," Grace turned back to Holmes. "I had no intention of getting anyone hurt," she defended herself. "Nobody was supposed to know where I had gone."

"Except the very people who wanted you captured or dead," Holmes was acidic in his anger. "For a supposedly intelligent individual, you've acted with unconscionable stupidity," he snarled. "You almost lost your own life and that of my very valuable assistant," he forced his eyes to the handle of the umbrella clasped between tensed fingers, his mouth a thin line of fury. "What the bloody hell do you think I had you confined to your apartment for in the first place? Christ above, woman!"

The dark red stain on Anthea's arm made her feel awful. Despite the fact that her incarceration had been imposed, Grace supposed she hadn't really believed it was necessary before now.

"I'm so very sorry," she said as Anthea finally turned away from the window, a wash of heat colouring her cheeks as she caught the brunette's gaze. "Are you sure you don't need a hospital?"

"As soon as we have conveyed Doctor Chandler back to her apartment, you shall go to the clinic," Holmes advised his employee, returning his phone in an inner pocket. "Arrangements have been made for replacements to remain in Barge House street for as long as it takes us to sweep up this vexing operation," his sigh was suggestive of long-suffering nobility.

Grace felt her head spin, a strange giddiness that might be shock, she realised, her face still warm from her shame at someone getting hurt because of her. She was silent for the few remaining minutes of the journey.

Driving along Barge House street, the Jaguar slowed as it approached the old warehouse until the driver tapped his earpiece and held briefly held up two fingers before clenching his fist for all in the back to see. It was all clear and both replacements had reported in accordingly.

"I'm sorry," Grace met Anthea's eyes as she stepped out of the car. "Dragging you into my problem was a thoughtless thing to do, and I feel terrible you've been hurt as a result," she paused. "I still owe you a dinner in my new kitchen," she said, lifting her eyebrows. "If you are willing to trust my cooking?"

"Will there be tequila?"

"There could certainly be tequila," Grace, smiled as a wave of warm relief made her skin tingle. "Or whatever else you might prefer."

"Then I'll be in touch," Anthea grinned a little. "Don't bother about this," she nodded down to the slowly expanding red patch. "They always look worse than they are."

"When you have quite finished your gratuitous farewells, might I suggest that we remove ourselves from the possible temptation of snipers and get the hell inside the building?" Holmes growled the last few words, his fingers clamping around Grace's upper arm, virtually dragging her through the door.

"Later, then," she called, as Anthea climbed back into the car.

His fingers were too tight and his grasp was uncomfortable. As soon as they had moved within the foyer of the building, Grace pulled her arm free, a fierce look in her eyes. "I don't need to be bullied," she snapped.

"Apparently you do," Holmes's voice dropped to a dangerous quiet. "There will be no more foolishness."

"And you are not my gaoler," Grace felt her face warm again, but this time with anger, as she stormed up the stairs to her front door, unlocking and throwing it open, too angry to care what the two waiting men decided to do. Come in, stay outside; she didn't much care, her newfound anger carrying her through the entire apartment to her bedroom. She marched in and slammed the door. Holmes could rot in hell for all she cared, throwing off her jacket and opening a window. She felt hot; her anger was clearly deeper than she imagined. Sucking down several deep breaths of cool air, Grace felt her temper abate somewhat, but that man ...

Finally, her composure returned and she opened the door, heading to the kitchen. Few things could not be helped by a cup of tea. Getting the kettle going and sorting out tea cups, she went in search of Holmes.

She found him in the book room, sitting on the chaise, his hands resting on the handle of his umbrella, staring around at the tall curve of shelves and the clever way everything had been hung together in the centre of the flat.

"You have a virtuoso architect," he offered, quietly. "This is sensational."

His tone was so sincere, and the expression on his face so entirely without malice that she felt her annoyance thaw. The design really was amazing and Holmes's recognition of it put them on the same side of an agreement for once.

"It is, isn't it?" Grace sighed a little, her smile inevitable as she looked around the room. It was just as she had wanted it to be.

"I apologise for my earlier outburst," Holmes continued. "I am not usually so belligerent in my approach," he added. "But there is something about this situation which has had me on edge since yesterday morning."

"Do you know who is after me?" Grace took the seat behind the desk. For a moment it was as if she were interviewing him. Her mouth curved slightly at the image.

"I have a reasonably clear idea, " he nodded. "Orlov's masters sent him into Britain as a sleeper," he said. "The problem was, he went native; became more British than the British, in fact," Holmes relaxed back in the chaise. "Now that he's dead, I suspect the Russians believe he has left something incriminating behind, most likely something to do with his work at Cambridge, papers of something of that ilk."

"But then why would those men come after me?" Grace frowned. "I don't have any of Erwood's papers," she shook her head, her fingers tracing the spines of the books resting on the desktop. Grace was positive she had nothing in her possession that might be even remotely connected to her college days. The only link had been her name on the back of the program in his pocket when he died. The playbill ...

"What play was it?" she wondered. "The program in his pocket with my name on?"

"The Tempest, at the Old Vic," Holmes sounded fatigued. "We checked everything very thoroughly," he said. "Neither you nor Erwood had anything to do with either the play or the theatre."

Oh God. The books.

"Would it have to be papers the Russians were looking for?" she asked, breathless as the idea exploded in her mind.

"Could be anything, but papers of some sort seem the most likely," Holmes rubbed a hand over his face, his usually saturnine good looks suddenly a little wearied. Until he caught the tone in her voice.

"What?" he said. "You've thought of something, what is it?"

Grace could almost feel the ridges of her fingertip as she stroked it against the spine of the thick book resting beside her computer monitor. One of three books she had been given, she had always treated this one with great reverence and affection.

The Shakespeare. It had been a gift, after all.

A gift from Rafe Erwood.

A great wave of heat flooded her body as the knowledge became clear, she could feel her skin tingling with it. She lifted her eyes and met his.

And frowned.

Holmes was staring at her as if she had just grown a pair of antenna and turned green, his eyes widening even as she watched. It was almost as if she was turning into some sort of alien creature right in front of him and she smiled uncertainly, puzzled. The focus of his observation was becoming almost uncomfortable as she felt another wave of heat wash across her skin and she realised that the stress and shock of events had triggered her cycle. She hadn't been feeling hot because she was upset, but because she was going into ... oh, no ...

She stood, abruptly, stepping back. "I have to go," almost stuttering in her haste. "I need to be alone, I need ..."

He had risen smoothly to his feet as well, his eyes fixed on hers, a light flush to his pale skin. The scent of his aftershave, a rich woody, musky trace that caught at her awareness and tantalised. It was the most delectable fragrance, it called to her to come closer, to taste, to experience a far more intimate awareness of it. There were only a few feet between them in the room.

And suddenly, Grace realised why Holmes employed only Beta staff, why he would tolerate no Omegas or Alphas in his department, why he considered them a liability.

Mycroft Holmes was an Alpha.

An unpartnered Alpha currently standing right beside an unpartnered Omega already in the first throes of the heat phase. The knowledge alone made her head spin even more than before; she had never been in such a precarious situation in her life.

"I have to go," she whispered, her words fading almost before they were said.

His eyes were darker now; an autonomous response that had him moving towards the desk, still studying her. "You have thought of something to do with Erwood," his words were spoken more slowly than usual, as if there was a struggle to get them out. "What was it?"

Swallowing hard and trying to breathe any air that wasn't full of Alpha, Grace forced herself to think clearly. Her fingers caressed the dark blue leather cover of the book on her desk. "This was his," she said, tapping the hard cover. "He made a gift of it to me when I completed my PhD," she added. "I thought it was nothing more than a congratulations present."

Blinking very deliberately, Holmes lowered his gaze to the heavy tome lying on the desk. The Complete Works of Shakespeare was about as British as it was possible for any writer to be.

"No wonder his masters believed he had gone native," Holmes picked up the book in careful hands, opening the volume and allowing a band of the smooth pages to slide across his fingertips. He returned his eyes to hers. "I will need to take this away for examination," he said, softly.

"That's probably a very good idea," Grace was breathing through her mouth as far as she could; anything to avoid drowning in the invisible whirlpool that was Mycroft Holmes. Perhaps she could make it to her bedroom now while he was thinking about the book and what might be inside it. She stepped away from the desk only to realise that Holmes had anticipated her move and was already standing by the archway, his focus unwavering, his eyes, more black now, than blue.

He knew he should take the book and go; leave this place and this woman to the care of his people. His experts in weapons and killing. He should not stand here, wallowing in the most incredible perfume he had ever encountered, a perfume that had already wrapped itself around his thoughts and his senses. He was drunk with it; blind and dumb and utterly overwhelmed with the unspeakable desire for it, to be closer to it. And Grace Chandler was simply standing there, waiting for him to move, to take the one last step.

Mycroft Holmes felt his body sway a little as he noted her unfocused eyes, the warm blush to her cheeks, the soft swelling of her lips. It was only a matter of inches ...

Two shots rang out in quick succession. Not the discreetly silenced versions of earlier, down by the Embankment, but violent explosions of gunfire. They sounded horrifyingly close.

Jerking himself upright, he blinked rapidly as the situation became clear. "Go to your room and lock the door," he directed in a low, urgent voice. "Put something in front of it and if anyone tries to break through, get out and go down the fire escape as you did before," he was unsmiling and serious. "Go."

Looking into his grave face, Grace felt, for the first time, a feeling of camaraderie. It warmed her like a sudden taste of brandy. She smiled faintly. "Take care," she said, heading back towards her bedroom. There was no lock on the door she could use, but there was a tall-backed wooden chair which she managed to wedge solidly beneath the handle, its feet digging deep into the heavy pile of the carpet.

Leaning against the wall, Grace took several deep breaths, holding her face in her hands, feeling a dampness on her skin for which she had no explanation.

Two more shots rang out, and then another. There were several shouts and the banging of what must have been the front door. Another shout, another shot ... and everything fell silent.

Grace held her breath, stepping away from the door, waiting for footsteps. The window was open, but if she had to make a run for it, there would be very little time to get clear. She found herself rising onto her toes, preparing for flight.

"Grace? It's all clear. My people have them," Mycroft Holmes stood on the other side of the closed door. She was safe.

"Is it all over?" she asked, her throat dry and husky. "Is it done?"

"It's done. We know these people and we know who controls them. I have already arranged for the principals to be ... collected."

Feeling a shudder of relief unwind through her body, Grace pulled the chair away from the door, leaning against it and breathing hard. She knew he was right on the other side; his scent already pervasive and intoxicating.

"Are you going to open the door?" his voice was uncertain; subdued, as if a great measure of control was involved.

"I don't think I should, do you?" she spoke against the smooth wood, her eyes closed, her heart beating so hard that she knew for sure he must be able to hear it.

There was a long pause. "No. I don't think you should," he agreed, finally. "I'll leave my people here until I am certain any possible threat is over," he added. "Goodbye, Doctor Chandler."

He had made it three paces away before he heard the door click open. With a rough inhale, he paused, looking down at the shiny toe of his shoe.

"Are you really going?" Grace stood in the doorway of her bedroom as he turned, her face glowing and her eyes extraordinarily bright. The space between them was redolent with her fragrance and he knew he was lost.

His eyes narrowed as he walked back, taking in the way her body anticipated his presence, his height; the way she instinctively curved towards him. Everything about Grace Chandler was summoning him, persuading him to stay.

As she looked up into a pair of blue eyes hooded now, and as dark as the storm clouds of her dream, Grace wanted nothing more than to feel his cool fingers smoothing down her overheated flesh, to have him draw her tight against him; for his kisses to free her from any fading notion of sanity.

Sliding the fingers of his right hand beneath the soft curve of her hair, he pulled her unresisting body against him, desire roaring in his ears.

"Omega," he whispered, his lips brushing hers.

"Alpha," she acknowledged, her hands resting against the solid plane of his chest as she lifted her face.

Their lips met softly at first, more a signal of intent than anything more passionate, but Holmes felt the frayed remnants of his control vanish like morning mist in the hot sun as his arms slipped around her body and he drew her even closer. Her soft, shocked moan of need driving all thoughts of restraint from his mind.

Running his lips down the side of her neck, his hands were already prising open the buttons of her top, his eager, hungry mouth seeking the hidden places where her perfume was rich and potent.

Lying in his arms, Grace knew that she wanted this, wanted whatever what about to happen and that she would give this man whatever was in her power to give him. She was Omega and this was her strength. "Yes," she groaned, feeling the firestorm blaze between them.

And then, inexplicably, she was alone and he was standing several feet away, his face flushed and strained with a devastating want.

"Not this way," he straightened his shoulders slowly, agonisingly, his breathing forced and harsh. "Not by accident, like savages."

Grace felt herself grow dizzy, but she realised she was smiling. Whatever happened here and now, she knew she had reached beyond the cool façade into the heart of the man. She knew when he thought of her, and he would think of her, that he would remember this.

"Run away then, Alpha," she smiled again before stepping back into her bedroom and closing the door as the heat rose around her and she burned with possibility.