Acknowledgements:

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

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Note:

This narrative is sixth in a series. Your enjoyment of this story will likely be enhanced if you read the sequence in chronological order:

i The Education of Mycroft Holmes

ii Mycroft Holmes: A Terminal Degree

iii Mycroft Holmes and the Trivium Protocol

iv Mycroft Holmes in Excelsis

v The Double-First of Mycroft Holmes

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Mycroft Holmes: Master of Secrets

Chapter One

Once Upon a Time – An Honest Man – A Master of Spies – The Plot Thickens – The Story of Hydrogen – Beyond the Pale – Traitor.

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'It was too late. As he looked back, he saw Williams cut the last link in the coupling, allowing the carriage to part company from the rest of the train. Inertia kept the coach steady for a handful of seconds before surrendering to gravity. Grandhi felt the rise of uncontrolled speed through the soles of his boots as he headed back down towards the bridge and the gorge; a visceral and ancient fear choked the breath in his throat.

His last cogent thought was that they'd never find his body, or the code.

He was almost right.'

Cate added the final full-stop and sat back, pleased. That was nearly three-thousand words today; not bad, considering. At this rate, she'd be close to finishing the novel in a matter of weeks. It was rather exciting.

Hearing the front-door close, she smiled and stretched. The twins had been fed and were having their evening bath from Nora and then they'd head to bed, hopefully to sleep the night through, although that was a matter increasingly subject to change lately. Perhaps because the nights had been so unseasonably warm of recent. Walking into the kitchen from her desk in the rear lounge, Cate poured two glasses of a chilled Margaret River Semillon blanc. Sipping hers, she held up the other glass as Mycroft walked in from the hallway.

"I see you've been practicing your telepathy again," he smiled, taking the hock glass and putting it down on the stone countertop. "Darling," he wrapped her into a gentle embrace, his lips brushing hers. "How goes the writing?"

"I finished another chapter, which makes me feel appallingly smug," she grinned. "I was just about to go up and tuck them in," she added, raising her eyes to the ceiling. "Or do you want to do it while I get dinner?"

"I'll go," Mycroft smiled again. After a day pouring oil, almost literally, on the troubled waters of an off-shore international border-dispute, the notion of being welcomed by two small children was a pleasant one. He headed up to the nursery.

"Oh, hello, Mr Mycroft," Nora was helping Jules put his feet into his pyjamas. "They'll soon be ready for their bedtime story."

Looking for his daughter, Mycroft observed a small, quilt-covered lump in her cot. Ah. Clearly a cunning ploy to remain unobserved, he nodded sagely.

"Have you seen Blythe?" he asked Nora in a wondering tone. "I can't see her anywhere and I have such an interesting bedtime story."

The quilt twitched.

"Is it a story about very good children going to sleep?" Mrs Compton kept a straight face.

"Much better than that, Nanny Nora," he watched the lump wriggle. "It's about Accountants."

Julius, now standing, was hanging onto the rails of his cot. Even at his tender age, he showed signs of being a thoughtful individual; Mycroft stroked the child's dark hair. "Would you like to hear a story about Accountants?"

Staring up at his father, Julius smiled suddenly, grinning with nearly a full set of milk teeth. Lifting his arms for a cuddle, he waited to be picked up which he invariably was, his father utterly defenceless in the face of such transparent affection.

Holding his son high up against his chest. Mycroft inhaled the scent of clean child and closed his eyes as two small hands rested on his face.

"Antant?" Julius leaned back to peer into his father's eyes, the boy's hazel gaze wide and curious.

"Accountants, yes, my darling," Mycroft kissed his boy's soft cheek before laying him back down in the warm cot.

Unable to maintain her invisibility any longer, Blythe pulled the quilt down and grinned happily. "Adda," she crooned, also wanting to be cuddled.

Still experiencing disbelief that he was in any measure responsible for these small creatures, he scooped her up, growling against her rounded tummy. Squealing in delight, Blythe covered his eyes with her fingers. "Bly go'," she chortled.

"Blythe goes to sleep soon," kissing her gently; Mycroft returned his daughter to her bed and pulled a chair over to his usual place between the two cots.

Looking at both of his children with a serious expression, Mycroft began his story.

"Once upon a time, there were three very wicked Accountants," he said. "One worked for a leading international hedge fund, the second was a senior acquisitions manager in a major British bank, and the third, the most foolish of them all, worked in the Disbursements section of the Department of Defence …"

Slicing mushrooms, Cate smiled. Everything was so perfect right now, it couldn't possibly last. The children were blossoming daily, although they'd recently started having the oddest conversations in the middle of the night; Mycroft was as happy and cheerful as she'd ever known him, and she … well, her situation was undecided.

In addition to maternity-leave, Cate had decided to use up the substantial amount of holidays she had accrued over the last eight years. It meant that she could be away from her office for a year before she was forced to clarify the direction of her future. The year was practically up: it was the twins' first birthday in couple of weeks.

Mycroft, of course, was delighted she had delayed a return to formal work, and had done everything possible to dissuade her from considering any return at all, although he had to be subtle: undue emphasis risked resistance. It had become something of a challenge, one which he handled vigilantly; each day an incremental opportunity to have Cate happily engaged at home. It was a low-key but highly clandestine action on his part and he counted coup every time she took pleasure in being away from the campus: a tenuous game of chess, every move laden with exquisite strata. He was actually quite enjoying such a test of his ingenuity.

It had become clear to Cate very early on that Mycroft wanted her take an extended absence from the University; it was something he had been advocating since their wedding. In turn, she made it perfectly clear that it was her choice to be at home with the children this first year, but after that time, she would decide her future and, regardless of direction, she expected his total support. In the meantime, she observed his delicate manoeuvring with quiet amusement.

He had smiled when she announced her plans.

"If there is anything you need, my darling," Mycroft pressed her palm to his chest. "Just say. You know I have only your wellbeing at heart."

Cate smiled too: everything Mycroft said had at least two interpretations. But he always stood by his word and, though they might disagree on a mutual definition of wellbeing, he valued her happiness more than she did.

Which was why, when she announced she was taking a full year away from the University, she also declared her intention to write a spy-novel.

The twins were sitting in their high-chairs; Jules had taken an interest in solid foods at an early age and now joined her for creamy porridge every morning. Blythe's appetite was more fickle, and all she wanted at the moment were carrots. As long as it looked like carrot, she would eat it, a fact that had led Mrs Compton to a number of interesting culinary experiments. The child adored pureed carrots and a whole one to chew on. Ah, Cate thought, giving her daughter another sweet root to gnaw. The joys of teething.

Mycroft had just sat down to breakfast when she told him her ambition.

"Spies? Really?"

"I am motivated by your work," Cate was thoughtful as she drizzled honey on her own porridge. "I have a tremendous urge to expose the machinations of the British security services, their illicit subterfuges and mysterious intrigues."

Mycroft subdued a smile. Nothing Cate might write would come anywhere close to the bizarre reality that was British and indeed, international, security these days. It would be interesting to see what her creative mind invented.

"You have my wholehearted support, my love," he smiled, crunching toast. "Am I to be permitted a preview?"

"If you're incredibly sweet to me and promise not to scoff, I might be amenable to a preview," Cate sipped tea. "And of course," she added meaningfully. "If you care to drop the odd hint or two, then I'd be much happier writing an accurate narrative than thinking about returning to the University," she added, innocently, her eyes widening as he met her gaze. "You might even consider introducing me to a spy."

"I am but a humble Civil Servant," Mycroft gave her a level look. "My work is entirely devoid of the stuff of espionage novels."

"Of course it is, darling," her amusement unchecked, Cate poured more tea, turning to Blythe as the child heaved a loud sigh.

"What's the matter, sweetheart?" Cate checked the carrot was still in play.

Blythe frowned seriously, looking between both adults and took a big breath.

"Want tea," she said, pointing at her mother's cup. "Mumma please."

A smile curling her mouth, Cate looked at Mycroft who seemed equally surprised. The twins had been speaking nonsense-words to each other since they were six-months old, occasionally with a recognisable word thrown in. Jules had caught her unawares a few weeks earlier by calling her Meema, but neither had yet constructed a coherent sentence. It would have to be Blythe, of course, the most demanding and talkative of the pair.

"You want some tea, darling?" Mycroft leaned forward to meet his daughter's hopeful sapphire gaze.

Meeting her father's inquiring look, Blythe nodded slowly. "Adda," she lifted her eyebrows and looked suddenly so much like Sherlock that Cate laughed. Mycroft shook his head, captivated. "Then you shall have some, my clever girl," he said, reaching for the child's plastic cup and the teapot. Ensuring his daughter could see every move, he made a great show of pouring several drops of tea into the lukewarm milk.

"Is that enough, do you think?" he replaced the teapot.

Frowning again in thought, Blythe nodded, reaching for the cup and sipping the resultant brew with great enjoyment.

"Looks like the British tea-industry is safe for another generation," Cate grinned. "I shall have to see what else our daughter might want to talk about today."

Mycroft smiled quietly and counted another small victory.

###

He had cause to recall that conversation this morning, as he sat, assessing the dour facial-expression of the Chief of MI6. They were in a very private room in a very private building; a building that lacked designation on any Whitehall map. Both men naturally assumed every word they said would be recorded for posterity by the opposition.

"I am perfectly serious, Holmes," Davis Morgan linked his fingers across his chest. "The documents cite your name in several areas, and these are very delicate documents."

"May I see them?" Mycroft half-smiled. It would not be the first time someone had attempted to take his authority in vain.

"Afraid not, at least, not yet," Morgan shrugged slightly. "Protocol says we are still to prove the documents' illegitimacy," he looked fractionally pained. "Or otherwise," he added, softly.

"And where, did you say," Mycroft poured two cups of tea. "These papers were discovered?"

"I don't think I actually did say, did I?" Morgan added two sugars to his cup and stirred slowly. "However, for the sake of argument, let's imagine they were located in the safe of an extremely wealthy Italian with ambitions to national power."

"Not the type of individual much given to sharing secrets with MI6 operatives, one might assume," Mycroft decided to forgo a biscuit. "However did you persuade him?"

"The gentleman in question is not yet aware we have, ah, access to these papers," Morgan smiled again. "Our operatives are highly trained, after all."

Refraining from comment, Mycroft met the man's gaze.

"And you are telling me this now, why?" he asked, curiously. Though all the security services were nominally part of the same landscape, it was a very large landscape, with exceptionally poor visibility in parts.

"If the papers are accurate, I'm giving you time to put your affairs in order," Morgan sniffed. "You have a wife and young children," he said. "I'm not a monster. There are things you will want to do."

"The papers are false," Mycroft replaced his teacup. "What I want is for my people to have sight of these documents before the end of the day so that we may pursue our own investigation."

"Can't do it, old chap," Morgan finished his tea. "Eyes only, and all that."

Pursing his lips, Mycroft frowned.

It was entirely within his remit to demand the documents and he would have them within the hour. However, that would mean revealing more of his authority than he preferred. Irritating, but it might be advantageous in the long run to follow the inter-service protocols, after all; he had designed most of them himself. Besides, he was genuinely curious as to the true genesis of these papers, whatever they were.

"Unless your findings are corroborated by an external party, any results are questionable," he mused. "If you prefer not to allow uncontrolled access beyond your department, send them over with an escort: witnesses to integrity, as it were."

"You'd agree to a chaperone?"

"Since there is nothing to hide, you may send whomsoever you wish; I will ensure they are given free-rein."

"The bold words of an honest man," Morgan linked his fingers again. "Or the lies of a clever one," he smiled faintly.

Lifting his eyebrows, Mycroft finished his tea.

###

"But you see," Cate said later as they were getting ready for bed. "I don't think real spies would be anything like they are in conventional narratives."

Lying with his hands beneath his head and his eyes closed, Mycroft was contemplating sleep. It had been a long few days and he was more than usually tired. However, the conversation piqued his interest. If she were really to write a novel, he couldn't help but feel curious. Exactly what did Cate have in mind?

Opening his eyes, he watched her shimmy into a silk nightgown, the fine fabric clinging everywhere it touched. She had regained her pre-baby contours within a few months, although at the time, she'd complained her shape had, annoyingly, changed.

"Your waist is an inch narrower," Mycroft noted, objectively. "Your hips are an inch wider and your breasts …"

Narrowing her eyes, Cate waited. "What's wrong with my breasts?" she gave him a faintly ominous look.

"Absolutely nothing at all," he murmured appreciatively. "They're magnificent."

Reserving judgement, she ended up buying new garments to fit her still-slender, but fractionally curvier form, one of which adorned her this evening. The slinky blue one. He rather liked the slinky blue one.

"How are the narratives wrong?" he watched her brush her hair and slip into bed, leaning back against the cool pillows as she stared up at the ceiling, thinking.

"What's a real spy like?" she asked, turning towards him and leaning on her side. He noted the tactile velvetiness of her skin and the slow rise and fall of her … magnificence. Despite the tiredness, Mycroft felt a pulse of interest. It was impossible to avoid.

"They would be background, wouldn't they?" Cate met his eyes. "If I were a spy, the very last thing I'd need was to be noticed or remarked upon by anyone. I'd cultivate a wallpaper-personality; one people would forget the second after they saw me."

Assessing his wife's thoughtful expression, he agreed with her silently. Of course, she was quite right. No spy worthy of the job could afford to be memorable either in appearance or deed. If she were going to write a realistic novel, he realised he would have to read it very carefully indeed.

"And then," she lay back, her mind already flying off in different directions. "I'd be interested to know what kind of a person it would take to direct a spy," she said, thoughtfully. "If a spy has to be clever and self-reliant and brave and daring, then the person to whom they reported would have to be fairly intriguing," she mused, staring up at their bedroom's ornate ceiling frieze. "One would have to be a formidable person to be in charge of spies,' she said. "What do they call that job?" crinkling her forehead, Cate half-turned to him, still thinking.

"Control," Mycroft uttered, a half-second before he bit his tongue, but she seemed not to have noticed. He exhaled quietly: he was more tired than he realised.

"Yes," Cate was staring up at the ceiling again. "Someone to control them," she said, musing. "Someone very clever; a strategist, with a global perception and a vast ruthlessness. Someone incredibly daring in their own right, but more in the way of masterminding the perfect plan, who might never be openly acknowledged for their role," she sighed. "Someone," she smiled engagingly, turning back to stare into his deep blue eyes. "Just like you, my darling husband," she rested on her elbow, her gaze wide and examining.

Mycroft was caught. He would never lie to her, yet he felt unable to be openly truthful.

"You imagine me a Spymaster?" he smiled, his eyes crinkling in good humour. "I'm incredibly flattered."

Cate was staring at him candidly, as if something in his tone or expression had added fuel to her suspicion.

"Yes," she said. "I could see you as a Master of spies," she nodded, thoughtfully.

Mycroft realised his only way out of this would be to have her change the subject.

"You'd probably make a successful spy, you realise?" he said, turning the conversation. "You have the skills."

"Do I?" Cate smiled, immediately fascinated, neglecting to ask how he might know this.

Mycroft rolled over on his side to face her, his fingertips stroking her upper arm.

"You're intelligent, clever, self-reliant, creative and daring," he smiled. "What else do you need to be a spy?"

"Motivation?" Cate wriggled closer so his fingers could reach more of her.

"Spies must have all sorts of reasons," Mycroft inhaled the faint scent of her perfume, a tantalising fragrance on the edge of his awareness. An image of his wife as a real spy suddenly crossed his thoughts. Cate did indeed have the requisite skills, although she was far too far from being bland to make that approach work for her; no. She'd have to go the opposite way entirely and become so bold that she rose above suspicion for the very reason she would be too obvious. She would have to become a public-figure, such as an acknowledged artist or musician, or academic, or … writer.

The thought of Cate as a spy … as an intelligence agent … as one of his agents … Mycroft felt a sudden heat in his belly at the notion of Cate working for him, living dangerously for him.

She lay there, watching his eyes. He was looking at her suddenly so very seriously. Where the idea of a spy-story had come from, she had no idea. It was simply in her head one morning when she awoke. Perhaps she'd had a dream about a dashing man with a gun in one hand and a gorgeous woman in the other. Perhaps she'd remembered the look on Mycroft's face when the BBC news announced a bombing in some far-away or not-so far-away, town. Maybe it was because she wondered if her husband was more closely involved in British security than he admitted. Whatever the inspiration, Cate only knew she had an overwhelming urge to write fiction for the first time in her life, and that she wanted to write about spies.

"Will it be a romance?" Mycroft asked, eventually, lifting a hand to stroke her collarbone.

"As in a romanticisation of reality?" Cate smiled, blinking slowly. "I suppose so," she said. "I have no plans to write for a Nobel."

"Will it be autobiographical?" Mycroft followed the line of her jaw with a fingertip. "I've heard authors often do this when they write something new."

"You think I might write myself into my own narrative as a spy?" Cate arched her eyebrows. Now there was a thought. "I could," she looked back at the ceiling. "It might be exciting to be a spy."

Exciting indeed.

"A beautiful female agent, trained for espionage and secret operations?" Mycroft was smiling now as his fingers trailed over her throat. The pulse beneath her skin enticed and created a matching throb in his own body.

"No real spy would be beautiful," Cate shook her head, thinking. "Which is fine, as I'd be quite drab and ordinary and act like something else entirely."

She was circling back to a reality he wanted to avoid.

"You'd be a wonderful agent," Mycroft brushed her wrist with his lips. "Resourceful, educated, sirenic …"

"Sirenic?" Cate smiled as his touch gave her goosebumps.

Imagining his wife as a spy took on an entirely different aspect as he saw her in a more seductive, dynamic role; someone whose job it was to complete their mission, no matter the cost. The thought of being ensnared and seduced by her was unexpectedly arousing.

"Mmm," he smiled, his imagination supplying all manner of titillating images. "Catherine the spy, acquiring the secrets of neo-empire," the idea of her in floating silks, with a Beretta strapped to her inner thigh, adding to his fantasy.

"Will your story be romantic?" he asked, sliding his arm around her waist, thoughts of her as an agent sent to tempt him; acquire his secrets, becoming a provoking fancy.

Smiling, Cate half-closed her eyes as he leaned in, pulling her closer to his chest.

"You mean will it have lots of sex in it?" she stretched herself up into his arms, rubbing her nose against the soft skin of his throat. "I expect so," she murmured, pressing tiny kisses underneath his jaw. "Can't really have celibate spies, can you?" she breathed, groaning in pleasure as his warm hands pressed against the curve of her back, moulding her to his body.

"Not if they're British," Mycroft found her mouth and teased with light kisses that sent signals of pleasure all the way through her. It was difficult to think about writing plots when one's husband was preventing rational thought.

"You don't really want to talk about spy stories right now, do you?" Cate closed her eyes and slid her arms around his neck, meeting his kisses with her own.

"Not really," he agreed, taking her mouth until she was breathless and lost in him.

###

And so she began. Setting the whole thing up as an academic exercise, Cate wasn't sure of the best way to go about writing a novel, but decided to treat it just like any other writing project. This meant she needed an objective, a structure and data. There was a ghost of a plot already in her mind, but to put it into the flesh would require hard facts and information.

First things first, in that case: a list of things she needed to know: places, locations; activities; technical data and a cast: she spent the entire morning in happy planning, arriving with surprise at lunchtime, with a reasonably comprehensive plan and outline. Now she needed to populate her creative landscape with believable people. One of the central characters was to be a shadowy entity who pulled strings unseen and had enormous power at their fingertips. Smilingly, she thought she might base that particular persona on Mycroft. He'd find it amusing, no doubt.

###

Nora being away for the day, Cate was in the process of giving the twins their lunch, when he called.

"Darling, Sherlock will likely appear to collect the box of old documents sitting on my desk, make sure that's all he takes, would you?"

"He's coming today?" Cate fed Blythe some carrot-and-mashed potato.

"Should be there within the hour, my love. How are the children?"

Sitting in their high-chairs, Julius was examining a piece of banana with an intensity that made her smile. His little face was frowning in concentration: God knows what he was looking at. Blythe had moved onto carrot-coloured custard and mashed banana. By all appearances, she was perfectly happy.

"Lunching," Cate smiled as she wiped her son's sticky fingers. "With great enthusiasm."

"I almost envy you," she could hear the smile in his voice as he pictured the domestic scene.

"We need more carrots," Cate grinned as her daughter ploughed through her orange'd dessert.

"Kiss them for me," and he was gone.

In the process of cleaning them up prior to their afternoon story and nap, the doorbell rang. Leaving them surrounded by toys on a sheepskin rug in the lounge, Cate ran to the front door, beckoned Sherlock in and ran back. The twins were already walking and if left alone, would wander quite happily around the house until discovered. Wanting to ensure their nap took place as planned; Cate preferred no wandering, just yet.

"Come into the lounge and I'll get you the box," she called to him over her shoulder, waving him through the door.

Stepping inside, Sherlock was the immediate focus of two pairs of eyes as the twins swivelled to see with whom their mother was conversing.

"Unca," Julius beamed, as Sherlock looked down, still somewhat unsure what to do with the children. The fact that they seemed to like him for no discernible or quantifiable reason had him at a loss.

"Hello, Jules," he replied, taking a seat on the sofa and watching as his young nephew pushed upright and plodded over to stand by his uncle's leg.

"Unca," the child looked grave. "Stawee."

Blythe felt it was important to assert her desires too and, clambering up, laid a small book reverently on Sherlock's knee. "Stor-ee?"

Both children fixed him with an optimistic gaze.

"You want me to read you a story?" he looked between a pair of calm hazel-green eyes and piercing blue ones. There were two identical nods.

"From this?" Sherlock picked up the slim book and examined the cover on which danced an anatomically-incorrect elephant dressed in a feathered hat. The nods were repeated.

Flipping through the few pages, he shook his head, unimpressed.

"This isn't the kind of story that will do you any good at all," he said. "I'll tell you a much better story about atomic numbers, how would that be?"

Lifting her eyebrows, Blythe looked doubtful. In her estimation, Nellie the Elephant was a classic and not something with which to trifle. However, Unca Shok had good stories too. It was a difficult decision, but, after sharing a weighty glance with Jules, she nodded their joint agreement. They would risk the temporary departure of Nellie on the grounds that Unca's stories were usually acceptable. Her expression made it clear, however, that such latitude should not be assumed for the future.

"Are you going to stand or do you want to sit somewhere?" Sherlock frowned, ignorant as to story-telling protocols in this particular room. The twins appeared to have the most geographically subjective story-telling preferences: it required an encyclopaedic understanding of each room's narrativic delivery predilections to keep them happy.

Julius looked at the rug then back at Sherlock.

"Fine," Sherlock sighed briefly before sliding off the sofa and sitting cross-legged on the floor. They joined him immediately, expressions alert and interested. Pulling out his Blackberry, Sherlock called up an image of the Periodic Table.

"The universe we live in contains a large number of different elements," he began, turning the device around so that each child could see the entirety of the table in all its colourful glory. "Elements are things we need to exist, and each element has a name and a number," he continued, expanding one small square at the top left-hand corner of the diagram. "This one," he said, pointing, "is called Hydrogen, and it carries the number One, the lightest of all atomic weights."

"Eydowjin," Jules mimicked. "Hydownjen?"

Blythe shook her head, impatiently. "Hidoogen," she announced confidently. "Un."

"One," Sherlock held up a single digit. "One."

"Un," Blythe nodded in agreement. She'd already said that. "Un."

"On," Jules held up a finger, checking it was the same finger as Sherlock's.

"Very good," Sherlock leaned back against the sofa, explaining that, as it was the most abundant chemical element in the universe it was inside everything from small children to ancient stars and was first noted by a scientist called Boyle in 1671 …"

Standing in the doorway, Cate shook her head in amusement. Sherlock might insist he had nothing in common with the children, but he had them hanging on his every word, especially when he showed them pictures on his phone, the perfect size for small fingers.

Placing the box of papers on the hall table, she returned to the lounge and sat on the recently abandoned sofa, watching the three of them chatter about chemical compounds.

"And when two hydrogen molecules combine with one oxygen molecule," Sherlock found the structure of a water molecule. "We have water," he said. "Which makes your bath every night," he added, somehow conjuring up a picture of two small children sharing a bath.

Thrilled with the images and the new words, even though they had no real idea what had been discussed, the twins were happy. It had been a good story and they both liked the new pictures very much.

Blythe yawned. "Hidogen," she nodded sleepily.

"Oh oh, nap-time," Cate scooped Julius up from the floor. "Get Blythe, would you, Sherlock, please?" she asked, already out of the door, heading for the children's room.

"Your mother seems insistent that you sleep," he spoke softly, lifting his niece in one arm and following her mother up the stairs. In the nursery, Cate had lowered the blinds and deposited Jules in his cot. His eyes were already closed.

Laying Blythe down in her bed, Sherlock removed her shoes and covered her with the light quilt. Wriggling a little, she was asleep almost before he stepped back to the door.

"I'm afraid you may have earned yourself a job for life, telling them stories like that," Cate grinned. "Nellie the elephant simply cannot compete with the atomic weight of hydrogen and the wonders of a smartphone. You have been warned."

"They seemed to find it interesting," he raised his eyebrows. "And at least it's the truth."

Walking back downstairs, Cate grinned even more.

"Sherlock, they're babies, they don't care whether it's the truth or not, as long as it's an interesting story, told well, and you, my dear Brother-in-law, are a natural."

###

Apparently, his department was so beyond the pale, Morgan had felt it prudent to send two chaperones with the documents: one, a woman, clearly one of his protégé high-flyers. The other, a man; administrative assistance by the look of it as he unzipped a couple of black bags disgorging a laptop and cables.

"Anywhere I can plug this lot in?" he asked, quietly, not wanting to get in the woman's way.

"Over there," Anthea nodded at an empty desk by the wall in the main Ops area. "Need anything else?"

"Thanks, no," he shook his head. "Not just yet."

"My Director doesn't trust you, Mr Holmes," the woman shook Mycroft's hand. "He seems to think you're up to something."

"It's his job to think that about everyone," Mycroft smiled politely. "May I see the documents?"

"Here?" the woman looked around. The room wasn't even secure.

"I trust my people, Ms ..?"

"Croft," she said. "Laura." The woman waited, as if for some remark or comment, but none was forthcoming.

"Then, Ms Croft," Mycroft lifted his eyebrows fractionally. "Please know that in this department, staff are accorded a high level of responsibility without constant internal oversight, and besides," he added, walking across to a large central table. "Who has time to watch everything?" That he knew precisely what each member of his staff was doing at any given moment in the office was neither here nor there. He didn't need to watch them because he knew.

"That is a most … enlightened philosophy, Mr Holmes," she smiled a little, placing a slim briefcase on the table and flicking open the combination lock.

Laying a series of signed letters out along the table, Croft gestured with her fingers.

"The originals, as you requested," she offered.

Leaning over them, observing the smallest of details, Mycroft could already see why Morgan assumed these were genuine. Not only on his department's paper, but printed on a machine standing not ten yards away and signed …

Standing stiffly upright, his eyes were narrowed and thoughtful.

The signatures were his, yet they could not possibly be his: he had not signed these papers. Something was very wrong here and that he could not immediately locate the flaw in the situation was discomforting. With a moue of irritation, he stepped back, nodding to two of his staffers who were waiting for the invitation.

In seconds they had the papers laid out above a light-panel running along the length of the table, each page lit from beneath, revealing every detail, every mark, fingerprint; every scrap of information. The typeface and fonts were compared to similar pieces of writing, even samples of Mycroft's handwriting and signature were over- and underlaid, digitised and sent to the main wall-screen, where different samples were checked, rechecked and counter-checked against one another.

Mycroft waited, already aware of the result.

"Sir," Johns, the older and more experienced of the Forensic Graphologists, was distinctly uneasy. "I am unable to prove you did not write and sign these letters," he frowned. "I'm very sorry, sir," he added. "I'd like to run more tests in the lab."

"Nothing out of my sight," Croft shook her head decisively. "It was agreed that everything was to be done in plain sight."

"It was," Mycroft nodded, calmly. "And it has been." He drew a long breath. "Apparently, I wrote these letters," he murmured. "But how did they make it happen, I wonder?"

"I must report these results to my Director, of course, Mr Holmes," even Croft herself seemed uncomfortable. Looking back over her shoulder, she nodded to the man who had accompanied her. He tapped briefly at the keyboard of his laptop.

"Of course," Mycroft nodded abstractedly, his thoughts miles away. "No doubt I will be hearing from him."

###

Cate frowned when the front door finally opened and closed; Mycroft was never usually this late without calling and letting her know not to hold dinner. The twins were already asleep, but not before they had asked her for another story about the naughty Antants.

Waiting in the kitchen, she watched as he walked in, even his step suggesting his preoccupation. It was immediately clear that something fairly momentous was occupying his thoughts.

"What is it, darling?" she reached out to touch his arm. His eyes met hers in the most peculiar way, as if he had done something terribly wrong. "Whatever's the matter?" Cate's heart began to thump as he stood there, taking her expression in, his mind elsewhere.

"You will need to prepare youself, my love," he smiled gently. "I may have to be away for a little while."

"Away? Prepare myself? What's going on, Mycroft? Prepare for what?"

"I'm sorry I wasn't able to give you more warning, but in truth, I have had little enough myself."

"Mycroft, you're speaking in riddles," Cate was starting to feel a strange alarm. Something unpleasant was happening but she had no clear indication of what.

The front doorbell rang.

"Get that, will you, my sweet?" Mycroft went to the bottles of spirits in one corner of the kitchen and poured himself a small Ardbeg. He sniffed it appreciatively.

Shaking her head in complete confusion, Cate opened the door to see two large men in, despite the warm weather, dark overcoats. Their faces were empty of expression and sent a chill through her.

"Yes?" she asked, her voice wanting to whisper for some reason.

"Mrs Holmes?" the nearest man nodded. "We'd like to speak with your husband if we may, please."

"And just who are you who wish to speak with my husband?" Cate wasn't about to let anyone in. Especially not when they looked the way these two did.

Reaching into an inner pocket, the first man extracted a small leather wallet which he flipped open. "MI5, Mrs Holmes, and we really do need to speak with your husband now, if you please."

"Let them in Cate," Mycroft's voice came from behind her. "There's no point conducting this conversation on the street."

"What conversation?" Cate was now almost at panic-level. Something dreadful was about to happen and she still had no idea what it was.

Taking her hand in his, Mycroft smiled softly. "Remember, my love," he spoke quietly. "I have never lied to you nor shall I ever," raising her hand to his lips; he pressed a kiss to her skin.

The MI5 man coughed, diplomatically.

"Mycroft Holmes," he said. "You're under arrest."

"On what grounds?" Mycroft's fingers squeezed her hand.

"On grounds of treason against the Crown, Mr Holmes," the man's expression was flat. "It appears you're a traitor."