The Adventure of the Diamond Jubilee

"Mr. Holmes, it's the Jubilee weekend. Be jubilant." Anthea said, as she wound the striped silk of a handkerchief around her hand, and arranged the resulting rosette in her employer's breast pocket.

Mycroft, already painfully tired of the celebrations, eyed the red, white and blue addition to his ensemble with weary acceptance.

"How very…festive." He said, smiling sourly.

Anthea clucked her tongue, but ignored him, affixing his tie clip with practised fingers. Mycroft withstood her ministrations because it was comfortable and familiar to have her dress him, in spite of her sartorial whims. A permanent fixture of the inner sanctum of his office, Anthea consistently saw him at his most vulnerable, yet still looked at him as if he were carved from steel. So, in silent gratitude, he would always bow to her impulses. As she brushed stray hairs and the invisible residue of the city from his lapels, he allowed his eyes to close against the bleary tiredness that was clouding his vision.

"It's best to make the effort." She replied, reaching up to adjust his tie and pretending not to notice. Although it was a rebuke, as she was rapidly tiring of her employer's foul temper, it was delivered with a fond sort of frustration.

With a heavy sigh, he sat down in the chair behind his desk, and rubbed a hand over his face. He had been working for forty-eight hours now; a very long day, replete with tedious meetings, slow-witted bureaucrats, needless permits and mounds of paperwork. Once the Jubilee was over, and the planning committees had reeled in their bunting, he could get back to the aspects of his job that he loved – the power plays, the espionage, the subtle manipulation – but, until then, he would have to accept the boredom. But it was only Friday, and the end of the festivities seemed an awfully long way away. He felt Anthea's soft hand pet the back of his neck, as she read his expression. He looked up to meet her gaze.

"Don't worry, sir. There will be plenty of political intrigue waiting to keep you entertained next week. In the meantime, can I get you anything?" He blinked in surprise. She may not have been able to determine his thoughts as fast as a Holmes might have, but sometimes, when he looked at her, he did wonder if she was a little telepathic.

"Tea would be wonderful."

She nodded and left, and he allowed himself to close his eyes, grasping at the few moments of rest that this long day was permitting him. Barely moments later, he heard Anthea re-enter the room. She quietly set down his cup of tea, and slid two files across the desk to him. He opened his eyes and grasped them, smiling; she always knew how to distract him. He opened the first file with some reluctanance, as it was the most recent in a string of reports on the various terrorist organisations threatening the Jubilee celebrations. Mycroft lazily scanned the document, absorbing the contents as quickly and as easily as breathing, before pushing it aside. The second, however, was from Sherlock's surveillance team, and Mycroft picked it up a little more eagerly. His brother and John Watson were currently on a case, allegedly chasing vampires in Chichester. The document reported that the two of them were making progress with the case, Sherlock was reading Dracula to annoy John, and they were unlikely to be back in London for the Jubilee. Mycroft laughed quietly into his sleeve.

Anthea, busying herself with some filing, turned back towards the desk when she heard Mycroft's stifled laughter. As she did, she glanced up at the portrait of the monarch that hung behind Mycroft's desk. Like her employer, she also suppressed the urge to laugh. In spite of his complaints against the celebrations, he was always Queen and Country.

"It was my first week in the Service when I met her." Mycroft said, noticing where Anthea was looking.

Anthea stilled; he did not often talk about how he came to occupy a 'minor role' in the British government. She was told only what was necessary; everything else was classified, but that had not prevented her keen mind from deducing other fragments of his past. He worked with her every day and she was never quite able to hide her interest in him. She had already gleaned that his time in the Secret Service, although successful, was not happy. She presumed it had something to do with Sherlock; her presumptions, as ever, were correct.

"I never met the Queen when I was with MI6." She said carefully, turning back towards the filing cabinet and pretending to rifle through it. If she was hoping to hide her thoughts from him by hiding her face, Mycroft was not fooled. But he was patient and, with her, ever accommodating.

"I suppose it was a fortuitous misfortune that engineered our meeting." He replied cryptically.

"And one requiring talents quite beyond my skill set?" Anthea turned to look at him, with the shadow of a smile on her face.

"You do yourself a disservice, my dear. Although in this particular case, you are correct."

"And the details of this particular case are, I presume, highly classified?"

"Of course."

"I'll find out, you know."

"I expect nothing less."

Suddenly, an unfamiliar trilling pierced the office's quiet stillness. In an instant, he and Anthea both realised the ringing was coming from the red, emergency telephone that sat on Mycroft's desk. He reached out a hand to answer it, but hesitated. That phone had been on this desk since the Cuban missile crisis – before this office belonged to Mycroft, before Mycroft had even been born. Over the course of his long career, it had only rung once before. They exchanged a glance. Taking a breath, Mycroft seized the receiver and brought it to his ear.

"Holmes." He said, summoning all the authority and steel he could into his voice, uncertain what would greet him from the other end of the line. Immediately, the tired man who had been sipping delicately at piping hot tea was gone. In his place was the most dangerous man in London.

Anthea, who had lowered herself into a chair, watched Mycroft's expression soften and relax, as far as his expression ever did. The caller was friend, not foe, then.

"I see…yes…yes, of course. Most disquieting…We'll be with you shortly…Of course. Thank you, your Majesty."

Mycroft replaced the receiver and leaned back in his chair, tenting his fingers beneath his nose. Gone was the heavy-eyed weariness, the slump in his shoulders, the exhausted sighs. A good mystery, it seemed, was as invigorating as eight hours sleep.

"Well, how coincidental." He said, eyes gleaming.

Mycroft Holmes, the man with a gaze like vivisection and a mind that could unravel any enigma, was alert, poised and ready for battle. Anthea smiled.

Although the car seemed unnecessary, given Whitehall's proximity to the Mall, Mycroft was not one to willingly walk anywhere.

Upon their arrival, Harry, the equerry, greeted them warmly and showed them to the private sitting rooms. Anthea followed, falling a step behind the men, in deference to the traditional setting. However, when Harry hinted that she may wish to wait outside, she breezed into the room as if he had not spoken. For her, there were never any locked doors.

"Ah, my dear Mycroft." The small, iron-haired lady smiled, regarding him over the top of her spectacles. The table in front of her was laid for tea, and she was already carefully adding milk to a second cup.

"Your Majesty." Mycroft replied, bowing stiffly.

Although Mycroft tried not to overthink it, the Queen reminded him more than a little of his mother. In spite of their frail outwards appearance, those women always retained complete control of any room, any conversation, any situation. Like Mummy Holmes, Her Majesty possessed a composed and serene nobility, an unshakeable sense of propriety, as well as a surprisingly quick wit and a withering sense of humour. Mycroft had, for a long time, tried to ignore the similarities between his regal mother and the British monarch, supposing that he must be imagining it. However, when the occasion arose to introduce his brother to the Queen, Sherlock had agreed with Mycroft's assessment and promptly left the room in a fit of pique. That Christmas, when Mummy had reluctantly donned her paper party crown, it had taken all the brothers' resolve not to break down laughing. Needless to say, Christmas crackers were no longer customary at the Holmes' dining table.

"Ah, and your assistant. How charming. I do wish you would tell me your name."

"Today, I think it should be Regina, your Majesty." The woman in question replied, as she curtseyed with surprising grace.

"An eminently suitable soubriquet." Her Majesty said, setting a third teacup in its saucer to accommodate 'Regina'.

The Queen smiled faintly, and indicated that Mycroft should sit next to her. He supposed the resemblance between the monarch and his mother was rather helped along by the way she treated him as though he were her favoured son. Although Mycroft understood the compulsion; of her two actual sons, one made biscuits and the other made trouble.

"My dear." The Queen said to Anthea as she settled herself into a chair, "You best make some notes."

Anthea gave a curt nod and pulled her Blackberry from her pocket, manicured fingers flying across the keys.

"Now then, Mycroft. I fear the celebrations for my Diamond Jubilee are being threatened – "

"I can assure you, ma'am, that security is well taken care of."

"I trust in your abilities, Mycroft." The Queen smiled patiently, sipping delicately at her tea, "But this, ah, development was rather unexpected."

"Oh?" Mycroft paused in his movements, rim of his teacup brushing against his lower lip. His unearthly stillness emphasised the brightening alertness in his eyes. "Please, enlighten me."

"Someone is trying to blackmail me."

"A foolish endeavour, ma'am, surely?"

"One would think so…and yet…" Her Majesty produced a brown paper envelope, from which she extracted a letter, which she then handed to Mycroft.

If Mycroft had been expecting a series of mismatched letters cut from the newspaper, he didn't let his surprise show, and instead immediately began analysing the article in his hand. The letter was written in an elegant script and detailed certain transgressions of a teenage princess in the 1940s. The paper was heavy and expensive, the calligraphy was practised. It was signed "C.A.M." The information must have been leaked by a palace aide; there was enough veracity in it to be extremely damaging to the monarchy should the contents reach the public. Certainly the Jubilee celebrations would be marred, and it would be all the more disreputable members of the press would write about for months. Mycroft read the letter again, slowly and carefully, doing his utmost not to appear shocked. When he sensed Anthea, attention diverted from her Blackberry, craning her neck to make out the words, he sent her a meaningful glare and handed the letter back to the Queen.

"Phillip knows, of course. He's not without his, ah, lapses in judgement." Her Majesty smiled slightly, "No, it's the press that I am worried about. The tabloids would certainly seize upon this. Especially given the timing."

"I understand. Leave this with me." Mycroft said, his sombre tone belied by the energetic light behind his eyes. Anthea couldn't mask her smile; every Holmes loved a challenge.

"I do not wish to question your sensibilities, Mycroft, but I do not want your brother involved in this." The Queen said sternly.

"Naturally not, ma'am. Sherlock is otherwise occupied at the moment, and furthermore, this is quite beyond his expertise. This is not a mystery to be solved." Mycroft finished off his tea, placing the cup back on the tray with a flourish, indicating he was ready to leave.

"Oh?" Her Majesty arched an eyebrow.

"Indeed," Mycroft said, rising and brushing the creases from his trousers, "I know exactly who sent the letter, and exactly how to stop him."

"Then I leave this in your hands, Mycroft." The Queen nodded graciously, and dismissed them.

"Sir, the name?"

Upon their return to the car, Mycroft had given his driver an address in Richmond and instructed Anthea to send for their backup team. After delivering his orders, he had sunk back into his seat and shut his eyes.

When it came to deep thought, Anthea had learned early on that the Holmes brothers were polar opposites. Where the younger of the two was all frenetic energy, pacing and waving his hands whilst throwing out deductions, by contrast, Mycroft slipped into stasis, becoming entirely motionless whilst his mind galloped. It seemed that the energy from his body was transduced to his brain. Even his breathing slowed. And, while Sherlock would run through every room of his mind palace, searching for the lost scrap of information, when Mycroft delved into his own mind he was opening a set of metaphorical flood gates, and allowing the rush of information to drench him.

Anthea hated to interrupt him when he was in this state, but the house Mycroft had directed them to was coming into view and she still lacked the necessary information. And Anthea hated not having all the answers more than she hated interrupting her employer's reverie.

"Sir?"

"Mmm?" he opened his eyes and turned to look at her.

"I'm going to need to you give me the name. Who is C.A.M.?"

"Charles Augustus Milverton." Mycroft said, with a sneer, "A repulsive man of no value or appeal. And, more, a thoroughly wasted intellect. And I do despise misused potential. But he is exceedingly rich. If one could buy esteem, he would. Instead, he has been approximating it by paying his way into all the London clubs. The Carlton, The Reform, even The Athenaeum have all fallen under his reptilian influence."

"Not the Diogenes?"

"No." Mycroft practically grinned, "He presented himself, of course. I sent him away with a flea in his ear."

"Wish I'd been there for that." Anthea giggled, "Where was I?"

"It was last Wednesday, so I believe you were busy placating the Prime Minister after we had the nuclear codes changed."

"Oh yes. Thank you for that." She said, rolling her eyes, "So, what's your plan for dealing with this, um, gentleman?"

"Your favourite sort of plan, my dear. All guns blazing."

"It took you twenty minutes to think of that?"

"I was hoping to think of something with a little more finesse. But Mr. Milverton is not a man who inspires elegant solutions. He truly is the worst man in London."

"Good thing I'm armed, then."

"Are you ever not?"

The car pulled up alongside a beautiful town house, and Mycroft stepped out of the car without preamble, hooking his umbrella over his arm. Anthea followed, and they approached the front door. The property was enviable, with arched doorways, a well-maintained garden, and it overlooked the Green. Even Mycroft's immense wealth did not extend to this level of opulence. But Mycroft was neither intimidated nor impressed, and rang the doorbell.

"Yes?" A small man in his late fifties opened the door. Although portly and balding, he had those bright, lively eyes that were indicative of a high level intelligence. His suit was of an expensive, blue linen, evidently tailored on Savile Row, and he wore a pair of round, gold-framed glasses. The whole effect was rather blemished, however, by the slight sheen to the fabric of his suit and his choice of a lurid, green tie.

"Ah, Mr. Milverton." Mycroft smiled murderously, "Good afternoon. I'm glad to see you don't employ a maid. This makes things much easier."

"Mr. Holmes." Milverton's eyebrows shot up in surprise, "I would ask to what I owed the pleasure, but I think I already know." He stood aside to let them both in, "And as to the maid, I don't employ any staff. I find they do have a tendency to try to compromise their betters. How do you think I got that information out of the palace?"

"Yes, I had rather reached that conclusion." Mycroft said, entering the house.

"My, my, who is this?" Milverton said, as Anthea followed her employer in, eyes scraping down her form in a way that made her lip curl.

"My assistant and bodyguard." Mycroft said venomously, "I would advise you to refocus your attention on the matter in hand."

"Ah….yes…of course. This way, please." Milverton cleared his throat and showed them into an expansive living room. "Please sit down."

"Thank you, I prefer to stand." Mycroft said, positioning himself by the window.

"Now, I am assuming that Her Majesty has empowered you to make some sort of deal with me. I hope you know I'm looking for a seven figure sum."

"Mr. Milverton, I fear you are going to be disappointed."

"Oh, really? Well, you're not about to arrest me for treason. I am sure you are aware that I am well-placed to contact the Press Association from prison, should this be necessary. And, in light of my information, any resulting trial would be farcical. I rather think your only option is to meet my terms and pay me."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes.

"But perhaps we could reach an accord?" Milverton continued, "I had been hoping to find material that might compromise you, if we're being frank."

"By all means hope, Mr. Milverton. I think you will find my position quite impervious."

"And what of your friends and relations?" he stole a sideways glance at Anthea lingering in such a way that had her fingers twitching for her gun, "Is your pretty assistant quite so invulnerable? And, I hear that your baby brother is a reformed junkie. What might little Sherlock have done when he was in need of a fix, hmm? All these little things must be taken into consideration, Mr. Holmes."

Anthea had never seen Mycroft's smile more dangerous.

Milverton moved closer, brushing a hand against the expensive wool of Mycroft's suit jacket. He moved to whisper something in his ear but, within the blink of an eye, the handle of Mycroft's umbrella had shot up into Milverton's jaw. Surprised, and bleeding from his lip, he stumbled backwards, giving Mycroft enough time to get a firm grasp on the umbrella handle and swing it hard into Milverton's face. His glasses broken and askew upon his heavily bleeding nose, the odious little man collapsed on the floor.

"I'm not sure we really needed the boys in the end." Anthea smirked, as their clean up team moved in. Mycroft noticed that she had pulled her gun, and wondered when that had happened.

"No, I suppose not. But that couldn't have been predicted." Mycroft said, straightening his tie.

He crossed the room to the bureau, extracting all of Milverton's papers. Names of aristocrats, members of parliament and even the odd television presenter caught his eye. He idly thought to scan them for more familiar names, but pushed down the impulse.

"Burn these." He said to one of his boys, "And then search the house. Burn anything that could be used for malicious purposes. Burn the whole house if necessary. If so much as a scrap of information makes it out of here, I will be very displeased." The man gave a nod and, accepting the papers, moved towards the fireplace.

"What do you want us to do with him, sir?" One of his other men said. They had handcuffed and blindfolded a groaning, whimpering Milverton.

"Have him put somewhere very small, deep underground, and lit only by florescent lights." Mycroft said, "I don't ever want to hear the name Charles Augustus Milverton again. Let us free the world of a poisonous thing."

Although they had been invited to the Royal reception at the palace, Mycroft was too exhausted by the whole affair to even consider it and Anthea's last encounter with Prince Phillip was too fresh in her mind to attempt the visit alone.

Instead, the two of them were sat in Mycroft's lounge in his flat on Pall Mall, watching the Royal Family waving from the Palace balcony on the evening news. Mycroft was being very liberal with the Cognac, on account of a job well done.

"I feel as though I could sleep for a week." Mycroft sighed, leaning backwards into the chesterfield.

"You should. I've lost track of the last time you got a full night's sleep." Anthea said, draining her glass. Mycroft promptly refilled it. "This is excellent brandy. How expensive is this stuff anyway?"

"I can afford it. And how long have you been keeping track of my sleep cycles?"

"A while. Someone needed to." Anthea shrugged, and refused to say any more.

"Have you figured out how I befriended the Queen, yet?" Mycroft smiled at her over the rim of his glass.

"No." she said, bristling, "…But I have a theory. I'll need to double check some dates at the office tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? It's a Bank Holiday."

She smiled, before producing two small union flags from nowhere, and handed one to Mycroft. He blinked, but took it and gave it a half-hearted wave.

"It had nothing to do with flags, if that's what you're inferring."

"Sir, we saved the Jubilee. Be jubilant."