Third Encounter

by Rector

The continuance of Omegaverse. Is Mycroft finally being too clever?

1. Chapter 1 Mobilisation

The third story in the Encounter series.

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Mobilisation

The First Arrangement – A Meeting of Minds – Making Plans – The Trials of Greg Lestrade – A Conversation – Grace Glams Up – Marked for Death – Voyeur – Second Chance – It Begins – Set Up – Welcome Back – New Friends – Home Sweet Holmes – A Miscalculation?

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Astonishingly, it had taken him almost twelve weeks to prepare the various elements of his stratagem. Not the design of it, no; he had visualised his way through that in a matter of minutes, but the implementation of it had been far more complex and time consuming, involving, as these things inevitably did, other people. Quite a large number of other people in fact, who, despite their goodwill and purpose, seemed to drift relentlessly through his operations with all the dispatch and alacrity of somnolent koi.

His plan – The Plan – as were the vast majority of his strategies, was multifaceted, far-reaching and labyrinthine. There were several points of genesis, an imbroglio of disparate agencies, and more than a few key players who – if all went to plan – would never have the slightest clue they had ever been played.

But now both he and his plan had reached a point of no return; the brink of the precipice upon which he must choose to either step forward and risk everything for the cause, or retreat into shadow and ignominy. Once embarked upon this course of action, there would be no second chance, no way back across burned bridges, and the price of failure was terribly high. What he was planning to do carried great risk, both personal and professional, but victory, if he was successful ... when he was successful, offered a sublime triumph. His plan was perfect; he had reviewed its implementation until he could recount the anticipated progression of each stage almost minute-by-minute.

Besides, it was not as if he had any great choice in the matter. Recent events had made it clear that this was not only the option of greatest gain, but the only realistic choice available to him, no matter the potential for disaster.

And thus, the day for action had arrived.

Taking a slow, deep breath, Mycroft Holmes pulled out his Nokia and set his preparations in motion.

###

Gerald Palmer leaned back in his chair and looked at the woman sitting across the desk from him. "Are you sure?"

Grace Chandler meshed her fingers in her lap and nodded, noting his reserve. "Why? You don't think I should take the opportunity? It's not likely to happen again in London, you realise?"

"It's not the event that concerns me, Grace," Palmer tipped forward, resting both forearms on the desktop as he stared at her. "Though MI5 has something of a tough reputation in the public domain, you've been through a pretty harrowing and stressful time since you moved to Millbank, and I'd be less than perceptive or considerate if I waved you on without some word of caution. "Are you quite sure you have sufficient distance from Colin Ward's death to make an objective decision about this temporary secondment? It has, after all, only been a few months."

Three months, one week and four days. Not that she was counting.

"Gerald, this has nothing to do with what happened to the old Archives team, and everything to do with improving my ability to work at the very highest of levels," she said, a little impatiently.

The man meant well, she knew, but Grace felt as if she'd been deliberately wrapped up in cotton wool since March. Every time she'd had a problem to deal with since the awful events of her first week at MI5, someone had inexplicably been there to take the problem away. Every time she struggled with a task from lack of knowledge, someone had appeared with exactly the right information she needed. Whenever she was even on the edge of being stuck, somebody always seemed to be there to put their finger on the knot while she tied off the bow. Though she had no clue, other than outright coincidence, as to how this was happening, she had permitted it at first because it had been genuinely helpful, but of recent, such interventions had become increasingly irritating. She was beginning to feel as if someone was watching her and it was long past time to take the helm again.

"That this open practicum is even available is little short of a miracle; I still don't know what made the British agencies agree to co-operate, let alone invite the Americans to join in, but they did and they have, and to turn this opportunity down would be tantamount to malpractice," Grace folded her arms and raised her eyebrows. "Unless you have an exceptionally good reason for me not to do this, then I think a four-week secondment is no great problem. I can ensure all the newcomers to the department are fully briefed on what needs to be done; they are highly skilled and have settled in extremely well, so there's no great concern there," she paused. "Plus, it's not as if I'm going to be on the Moon, is it? I'm only going to be up at the MoD in Spring Gardens, which is what ... four minutes away by car?" Grace raised her eyebrows. "If needs be, I can call in here on the way home, but I'm sure the department will be fine, the work will be fine and I, most assuredly, will also be fine," she smiled at the Head of MI5. "And just think," she added. "Of all the secret things the others might be doing that I can poach and bring back here," she laughed lightly.

"Very well," Gerald Palmer was not a difficult man to work with despite the exigencies of his post. He trained his front-line people for hard and often dangerous work, and did the same for the administrative and backroom staff as far as he could. He had no desire to see someone as competent and clever as Chandler become disaffected with her role, and had taken every care to ensure her ordeal by fire had been ameliorated as far as might be possible. Nor did he wish to lose her services; already she had been able to identify several weaknesses in the data-storage and file-sharing operations, the resolution of one issue also resulting in a significant cost-saving. Who would have thought that printing documents in a sans-serif font in place of the usual Times Roman, might realise a projected saving of over £100,000 over two-years? Who would have imagined that they used so much printer ink? He had already implemented the printing protocol throughout the service. The less he spent on ink, the more he could spend on other, more critical, items.

Thus, if his Director of Archives said she wanted to take part in a temporary secondment involving the various branches of British and American national security to find out how each of them were preparing to manage their data repositories in the new century, who was he to say nay?

"When do you leave?" he asked.

"The whole affair begins formally next Monday afternoon, but we're all meeting for dinner on Sunday evening to get to know each other," she said. "You're paying for me to dine on good British fare at Five Fields in Chelsea," she grinned suddenly. "Something about wanting to give the Yanks a taste of proper British cooking."

Palmer's bark of laughter was vaguely cruel. "Don't tell me you're going to try and get them to eat Mother's 'Old Faithful's'?" he asked dubiously. "Boiled beef and carrots? Spotted Dick?" he shuddered and shook his head. "If there's any sudden chilling of détente, then I'll know exactly where to look for the cause."

"You underestimate British cooking," she smiled. "I'm sure we're all going to get along famously." Now that the final hurdle had been negotiated, Grace relaxed back in her chair and looked philosophical. "A group of total strangers from several different international security services, each wanting to know what the others are doing and how they're doing it in a seminar in the middle of London? What could possibly go wrong?"

###

"We have looked at everything that could go wrong down to the smallest detail," the leader of the group, known to everyone only as Mr Roberts, pulled at his lower lip between finger and thumb. "Is there anything at all we might have neglected? Anything that could turn sour on us? There's only going to be a single shot at this."

His lieutenant leaned as far back in his seat as possible, stretching his spine and pressing the heels of both hands against his eyes at the same time. He was tired; tired of sitting here going through the finest of details over and over again. Tired of double-guessing the things that might fail, and so incredibly ready to stop with the planning and just begin.

"There's nothing we've forgotten," he said wearily. "Since the very start, we've looked at each little detail and asked ourselves if this is the thing that could wreck the entire project, but there's nothing wrong with the plan," he said, rubbing his eyes again. "Nothing at all."

"Is the safe house still under surveillance?" Roberts was still worrying his lower lip. "I want to be absolutely sure that nobody is likely to be anywhere near the place while we are there."

"It's right out the back of beyond," the compact, mousey-haired second-in-command stood and stretched his arms high above his head. Jason Redcar had worked with this man for a long time; their joint histories travelling in parallel through some notable adventures. Now they were about to embark upon another undertaking, though this one was a little different from the usual fare and a lot more dangerous. And a great deal more lucrative.

"The only living things anywhere near the safe house are a bunch of sheep and maybe some badgers. The nearest human habitation is just over five miles away, and even that's nothing more than a small farmhouse, so far off the grid that it has a well and a generator, instead of mains water and power. There'll be nobody to disturb us once we're there, and you know it."

Roberts made a wry face, shrugging slightly. "I guess the fact that we're all going to be risking our lives is making me a little jumpy," he shrugged again. "There's a lot of things at stake, apart from the money."

"There's always some risk in these jobs," Redcar stood, hands on his hips. "But we can all retire with the takings from this little lark," he grinned. "What are you going to do with your cut?" He grinned. As if he didn't know.

Smiling faintly, Roberts looked out through the darkening windows into the early summer evening.

"You know exactly what I'm going to do with it," he said, pulling out his wallet and removing a small coloured photograph. It was a picture of a sleek white sailing craft, her double masts tall and elegant in the sunlight. "The Sea Cloud," he added. "With the payoff from this little jaunt, she'll finally be mine. What about you?" he asked. "Still planning on getting that mansion in Mexico?"

"Oh yes," his lieutenant nodded slowly, his eyes distant. "Once this is all over, and I've taken care of a little family business, then Queretaro, here I come."

"Once this is all over," Roberts sounded thoughtful.

"Yeah, once we've got the man at the top," Jason Redcar grinned afresh.

###

Greg Lestrade dumped his suitcase on the floor of his office and closed his eyes briefly, as he sighed in unqualified relief. For the last umpteen weeks, he'd been running around like a blue-arsed fly, seemingly flavour-of-the-month with a variety of departments.

First he'd been dragged up to the Northern borderlands to give a series of talks to new recruits after which he'd been sucked into sitting on an interview panel for the entire North-east England intake. Not only had the panel extended his work commitments, but it had kept him away from London for another week. He just made it back to his house in time to water his one plant and put the kettle on, when he received a cry for help from an old friend on the Specialist Crime and Operations Directorate; the Assistant Commissioner had asked for a senior officer from the Serious Crimes Unit to be seconded to the Organised Crime team who happened to be looking into a series of gang-related kidnappings and death-threats. Having tried to form an association with this particular team for some time, Greg could hardly refuse, but only had barely enough time to empty his case of worn clothes and repack it with fresh gear before he was out the door again, this time to Birmingham.

That little jaunt had lasted nearly a month; the team to which he'd been attached had made some enormous inroads into the pack-minded criminals of the Midlands, but it meant he'd been living out of hotels now for almost six weeks in a row, and Lestrade realised that even he could get a little fed-up with hot and cold running room-service and televised American football games on demand.

Lying back against a pile of heaped-up pillows in his latest hotel room and watching the evening news as he munched his way through a bowl of stuffed olives before what would undoubtedly be another gourmet dinner, Greg found his thoughts wandering back to the woman he'd barely begun to get to know. It was as plain as the nose on his face that Grace Chandler was something special, and it made him grind his teeth in frustration at the thought that they'd hardly had the time to share more than a cup of tea before he'd been hauled off on one thing after the next, ever since.

If he were a suspicious man, he'd think there was something odd about it, but the problems coming his way were all so genuine and unplannable, that he shook his head, amused by his own imaginings.

He'd returned from Brum and had flung a load of laundry in the wash when his mobile had buzzed at him across the kitchen counter. Giving the device a narrow-eyed glare, Lestrade answered the call, only to be advised that he'd been appointed emergency understudy to the international liaison officer between Interpol and the Met.

"That's fine," he nodded as he spoke. "Understudies don't need to do much, do they?"

He had been less happy upon receiving the information that the primary liaison had suddenly come down with a severe case of shingles and that he, as official understudy, emergency or otherwise, was now up for the gig.

"But I've only just got back into town!" he waved his free hand wildly in the air. "I've not been home in weeks," he almost yelled. "I've got no more clean shirts left!"

It did him little good. There was a ticket being couriered his way for a flight to Lyon that evening. He had sufficient time to dry his washing and get to Gatwick, but nothing else. He would be met at the Lyon–Saint Exupéry Airport and taken thence to a very nice hotel so that he could make a start fresh in the morning.

They would even arrange for additional fresh shirts to be waiting for him in his room if he so desired and was prepared to leave the choice of said clothing up to the purchaser.

No, he didn't desire, but there was no point arguing the toss, especially as it seemed the very reason he'd been selected was his recent experiences with organised crime and gang-management, the exact work he'd been doing in Birmingham. Sighing, he'd thrown his clean wet clothes in the dryer, watered his poor plant again and dug out a new tube of toothpaste. He'd just zipped up his case again when the courier arrived at his door.

France, he had to admit, had been lovely in the Spring.

Despite his Sixth-form French, his European colleagues had been refreshingly helpful and pleased, it seemed, to be helped. The city, with its red-tiled roofs and large, many-windowed imperial era buildings, was a delight and the food ... ah, god, the food. He had eaten more cheese and fish during his stay there than he had in the last six months. Just as well they had him racing around otherwise it wouldn't be clean shirts he'd run out of, but shirts that still fitted.

But all good things, as they say, and Greg had, after been waved off the tarmac at Lyon–Saint Exupéry, headed back to London. He had already put in for a few days leave, just so he could focus on getting his life back into some sort of routine after all the haring around he'd been doing. It would be so good just to sleep in his own bed for a change.

Arriving back in London, he saw that the City was headed well towards early Summer, the trees especially, looked as fresh and green as he could recall seeing them. Clearly one benefit of being away for so long, was that he was able to see things he might never have otherwise noticed.

After calling Donovan at the yard, checking that everything was as it should be and assuring her he'd pop in for a chat before he took his leave, his phone rang in his pocket. Assuming it was his sergeant ringing back with a problem or a question, Greg answered easily enough, a light smile on his face now that his mad travels were finally all over and done.

The smile faded in disbelief as the voice at the other end advised him that – very sorry and all that – but could he please drag his weary carcass over to Guernsey in the Channel Islands where his reputation in organised crime was by now preceding him. Apparently, the tax-haven status of the islands had generally attracted the wrong sort of tourists in to the island, and in St Peter Port in particular.

"You've got to be bloody kidding," he cried. "I step in through my front door for the first time in weeks, and you expect me to drop everything, again, and go charging off into the wilds of some French island to help them with their imported European gangs?"

There was a pause as another person took up the call and spoke.

Unconsciously, Lestrade felt himself straightening as the dulcet tones of Deputy Commissioner Jackson thanked him for his dedication to both the job and to the force. "I need more like you, Inspector," Jackson said quietly, handing the phone back to the original caller.

And so it came to pass that Greg found himself once again on a small aeroplane, crossing the English Channel and coming to a bit of a jerky halt as his eight-seater de Havilland slowed to a jumpy taxi outside the main terminal building.

As promised, there was a car waiting for him, taking him directly to the latest in a long line of hotels, where he immediately stashed his gear and headed down to find the hotel bar. Fortunately, the place was relatively empty at this late hour. The beer was cold, there was a bowl of peanuts and West Ham was on the box. Life wasn't perfect, but it could be worse.

That thought stayed with him through the whole of the next two weeks. He was done and finished here after ten days, but then Hurricane Brenda decided to wrap the entire French coast in her reckless arms and the whole island was socked in for over a week.

Things could be worse, he reminded himself. Much, much worse.

When the storm eventually relented to the point where small aircraft were permitted to take to the skies, Greg looked at the calendar and realised that, other than the odd day or two in between mad dashes, he'd been away from London for almost exactly three months. It was now the beginning of June and he'd missed an entire London season. The thought made him vaguely sad; Spring was always one of his favourite times in the great City; everything crisp and clean-smelling.

Oh well. At least he could take those days leave he'd had waiting for him. He might be able, finally, to make some time to be with Grace; he'd sent her the odd email, telling her where he was and explaining, the best way he knew how, why he hadn't followed up with her. Even though she'd not replied, he hoped she'd be understanding about the whole thing. Maybe it could be something they'd laugh about over that dinner they never got to have.

Dinner with Grace.

Now that was something to look forward to. Lestrade grinned as his plane started its descent into the early evening skies around Gatwick.

Grabbing a cab, he realised his grin was growing wider by the minute as all the local sights were refreshed in his mind. Everything looked a bit different; green and lush, though that was perhaps a trick of the fading light.

Being a Sunday, other than essential duty staff, the Yard would be almost deserted, but he had so many bits of paper and official documentation, Greg decided to go there first and dump everything; he could call back in in the morning and sort it out before he headed off on leave. Deciding to give Grace a call while he was there, he rang her number, only to discover that for some inexplicable reason, his signal wasn't getting through. There had to be some technical glitch blocking reception of his call. Strange.

After dumping his suitcase on the floor of his office and sighing an enormous sigh, he flicked on his computer to have a quick look at any urgent emails waiting for him. There were only a few; he'd been pretty good keeping up with his paperwork on the computer they'd let him use in Guernsey. In fact, there was only very recent one that caught his eye, and he smiled as he tabbed it open. A message from Grace.

Reading swiftly through the few lines of text, Greg felt the smile fade from his face. After all this time away, after hoping they could finally get to have that meal he'd promised, together with a chance to get to know each other just that little bit better, she was off on some secondment? It had started today? A Sunday?

Slumping down in his creaky old chair, Lestrade took a deep breath and held it. For some reason at the moment, he seemed doomed to incredible bad luck, especially with his love-life, such as it was. Not that he could blame anyone but himself for the weird and unsociable hours, or the running around from pillar to post, especially these last few weeks. But still.

Rattling off a couple of answering lines to the effect that he'd be waiting to take her to dinner when she was free, he locked the papers in his drawer, grabbed his case and headed out the door, hailing a cab as soon as he reached the street.

The sky was dark now; the shine had gone off his return a little. Unlocking the old painted door to his home, he flicked on the lights and walked into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

His plant was dead.

Greg sighed.

###

Taking up his phone and after introducing himself, his authority, and the purpose of the call, Mycroft Holmes was charm itself as he spoke with the current Master of Oxford's Balloil College. Enlightening the senior administrator of his old Alma Mater in the ways of the world and the nature of the beast, Mycroft assured the man there was really no cause for concern. Some of the things the Master might possibly feel the need to be concerned about included a number of activities planned to take place at his college in the not too distant future, to which, in addition, there would be certain activities of an unplanned nature. Both sets of events would be allowed to proceed as the situation unfolded, although there was a small element of risk to persons of a nervous disposition who might, unwittingly, become entangled in unpredictable consequences of the unforeseen events. While the risk inherent in these undisclosed complications would be almost completely mitigated by a substantial presence of British security representatives, it would be judicious to ensure, if at all possible, that anyone of a particularly or potentially delicate nature could be elsewhere, especially when a very specific unscheduled activity took place, involving an undetermined number of individuals who may or may not be pleased to leave the planned events in a spirit of calm good humour. It might be wise therefore, to assume the worst and obtain the absence of those deemed sensitive to upset, from one event in particular, details of which would be communicated closer to the time in question. Hence this conversation, which had not actually taken place, but which was to express a desire that all sensitive personnel remain markedly absent from this most delicate of events at a time yet to be confirmed.

Was that all nicely clear, Master? It was? Good.

###

It was really only when she was getting her clothes ready for the secondment project's inaugural dinner that Grace Chandler realised she hadn't heard from either Greg Lestrade or ... Him for an oddly long space of time. That she'd been deeply involved in the rebuilding of her Archive team ever since ... ever since the original team had been disbanded, she'd still had some private time to herself. It was strange that Greg, especially, hadn't tried to get in touch with her; had he been waiting for her to take the initiative? He had sounded so keen before, but that had been weeks and weeks ago. Had he been as busy as she? Maybe he was waiting for her to get all the bad memories out of her system before starting afresh. But still, there hadn't even been an email or a phone call. It was odd, if nothing else.

Deciding to see if there was still any interest there, or if she had been imagining the whole thing, she sat down at her computer and sent a brief message to his account at the Yard, saying that she was going to be away from her office for a while, involved as she now was in a temporary secondment which began today, or rather, tonight. Sending it off without another thought, Grace returned to her bedroom where two very smart dresses were laid out on her bed.

The mid-blue, a much-prized Versace, made her eyes look like the sky, an effect she quite liked; grey eyes were okay, but boring, after a while. The only thing was the blue dress was on the short side for a professional business-dinner.

Then there was the navy one; a plain and rather severe outfit, it had the most wonderful neckline and made her skin glow. But it was long-sleeved and felt a bit too uptight for a friendly and casual get-to-know-you, dinner. All her other frocks were either just a bit too party-ish, or definitely designed for the work environment, neither of which she wanted. But it was too late now to go and find something new.

Poking her head inside the wide sliding doors of her wardrobe, Grace wondered if there was anything else she'd missed, when she saw the satin petticoat. Worn only for a fancy-dress party, it was in one of her favourite colours, a deep, smoky sea-green. In a moment of sheer madness, she wriggled it on, then pulled the mid-blue dress down on top.

The light bounce of the gathered satin hung about three inches below the hem of the blue dress, which now swirled to accommodate the extra bulk of the underskirt. All she needed to do was add some dangly silver earrings, her silver and somewhat masculine watch, a nice bright lipstick, and voila! Grace even managed to dig out a pair of low-heeled blue suede courts, a little dusty, but nothing a good brushing couldn't fix.

Twirling in the mirror, she grinned at herself. Green and blue, one of her favourite combos. And now she was off on the start of another adventure at one of the nicest restaurants in town.

Dipping back into the wardrobe, she pulled out a light, silky green cardigan and slung it around her shoulders. Dropping her keys, phone, bankcard and lipstick in a small silver clutch, she whistled softly as she made her way downstairs and out towards the main road where the taxis ran thick and fast. In moments, she was ensconced in a comfortable black cab and off to meet her new, albeit temporary colleagues.

If Greg Lestrade wasn't interested, maybe there'd be someone there tonight who was.

###

"Bored, bored, bored, bored, bored," Sherlock lay on his back, stretched out along the settee, staring at the ceiling and making it fairly clear that his current state of ennui was, if not actively fatal, then it was, at the very least, insufferable.

"Plenty here in the weekend papers," John muttered from behind a flying butress of broadsheet. "Plenty of mysterious crimes going begging this weekend."

"There's nothing mysterious about any of it," the younger Holmes seemed barely to have the energy to wave a limp hand feebly through the air. "It's all too predictably mundane and ordinary and boring," he muttered, lapsing into pained silence.

"A missing racehorse taken from its stable sometime during the night?" John wasn't prepared to give up quite so easily.

"Insurance fraud," Sherlock sighed.

"Then what about the wedding dress turning up on a scarecrow in Somerset with no sign of the bride-to-be?"

"She changed her mind about the wedding and decided to embark instead upon a life of petty crime among the tourist-rich enclaves of the South-west," the dark-haired man groaned softly as his brain threatened to implode.

"Really?" John dropped the paper down into his lap. "How d'you reckon that, then? There's been nothing in any of the other papers about it, I checked."

"Argh," Sherlock threw himself upright, fingers clutched in his hair. "I don't know and frankly, don't care what happened to the stupid woman who bequeathed her impossible gown to something far more fitting. Maybe she ran off with the Best man. Maybe aliens took pity on the rest of us and lifted her clean from the surface of the planet. I don't know and care even less for the knowledge even if it existed," he rolled back onto the settee, folding his arms over his face, blotting out the world.

An old hand at flatmate wrangling, John took no notice but continued to peruse the day's news. A small filler caught his eye. Now... that was interesting.

"Hmm ..."

"Hmm, what?" Sherlock unwrapped one arm and peered from the shadows at John's face.

"Nothing," the blonde man shook his head decisively. "At least, nothing that you'd be interested in," he added.

"You said 'hmm' in a highly suggestive tone," the younger Holmes unwrapped the other arm from his face in order to scowl properly. "The barest minimum of good manners demands you elucidate."

Grinning behind the paper, John cleared his throat as he read out the brief piece.

"Strange occurrence late yesterday afternoon in Holland Park. Home-owners, husband and wife Nick and Josie Vallenda, were surprised when they returned home yesterday evening to find their large, detached home had been the target of a burglary in which nothing had been stolen. A small wreath of flowers had been placed on the mantelpiece. There was no report of vandalism. Neither Mr or Mrs Vallenda were able to assist police with further details."

There was a dead silence. John lowered the paper fractionally, squinting over the top to see if Sherlock had finally lapsed into a coma of terminal proportions.

"Did it say what kind of flowers were in the wreath?" the younger Holmes had swung himself into a sitting position, his brows furrowed.

Checking the tiny insert of print, John shook his head. "Nothing else here about it," he said. "Holland Park is full of those dirty great big double-fronted houses, isn't it?" he screwed up his eyes. "Those places have to be worth an absolute mint," he added. "Even the flats in that part of London go for millions, these days."

"Did the paper say which end of Holland Park the break-in took place?" Sherlock was being curiously calm about the whole thing. "Was there a house number?"

"Mmm ... nope; nothing here that says specifically what part of Holland Park it was," John laid the folded broadsheet across his lap. "Why? Thinking of going over there for a chat about the flowers?"

"John," Sherlock leaned forward and looked very serious. "If my suspicions are correct, someone in that house has been marked for death."

"Seriously?" John looked momentarily sceptical. "Then we have to let them know."

"And we would, if we had the address," Sherlock pressed the edge of his steepled fingers against his mouth. "I need to get that house-number as quickly as possible."

"Call Greg Lestrade, he should at least be able to get you the number, and you know he'll do anything to keep the body-count down."

"He's out of the country, I've already tried innumerable times," Sherlock stood suddenly, snatching up the paper and looking for the by-line. There was no name attached to the piece, but the paper was a large and well known in the City.

"Phone, John," Sherlock stared down at the paper held in one hand, holding out the other with the palm upturned.

"And where's yours?" John sighed, handing over his mobile.

"I'm chilling the battery in the fridge," Sherlock said absently as he keyed in the paper's main switchboard number.

"Crime desk, please," he said as the call was answered. "Yeah, 'ello? Who am I speaking to?" Sherlock's voice went from educated drawl to snipped Cockney in a flat second. "Oh, it's you," he sounded slightly mollified. "Look mate," he said. "I been waiting here wiv my camera for bleedin' ages; I was supposed to get a phone call to tell me which 'ouse to cover. Whaddya mean, which 'ouse? The one wot got broke into in Holland Park; someone called me out an' arsked for a photo, but never told me wot the number was."

There was a pause at the other end.

"Yeah," Sherlock straightened. "That'll do, ta, mate," he finished, ending the call and rounding on his flatmate with a happy little grin. "Number nineteen, John. Nineteen, Holland Park. Let's go!"

###

Mycroft Holmes didn't consider himself in the least voyeuristic; his role required that, on occasion, he needed the most appropriate tools in order to get the job done. And if this meant he had to resort to a somewhat heavier-than-usual coverage of the CCTV cameras, then so be it. Though he had people for this sort of thing, in this instance, he was happy to take a more hands-on stance.

Sitting at his desk, his eyes scanned the several wide screens now positioned in a grid across one wall of his office. Each screen featured a different view, and his eyes roved between them, waiting for a very specific sequence of actions to take place.

One screen showed the exterior street-view of a very well-known restaurant in Chelsea. The Five Fields was high up on the list of anyone who considered themselves knowledgeable in the gourmet world of London eateries. It was difficult enough to book a table for two on their busier nights, and to secure a table for five, was nigh impossible.

But not entirely impossible.

Resting back in his chair, Mycroft waited and watched as the pre-theatre dinner-crowd arrived, ate and departed. He saw cabs come and go; limousines pull in and pull away. There were several very recognisable faces; people who might prefer not to be noticed by the general public, people who might be considered famous, or, in the case of at least one politician he'd watched sidle in through the open doors, notoriety would seem a more likely option.

But he was watching for none of the famous or infamous. Rather, his gaze sought out a small and highly select group who were to dine at Five Fields this evening, and for one individual in particular.

A chauffeured Mercedes pulled to a halt at the kerb, the driver immediately moving to open the rear passenger door. The man who stepped forth from the shiny black car was immediately recognisable as Sir Anthony Kell; suave and handsome with a distinctly military bearing. A widower who had spent his entire adult life in defence of the Realm. Ex-Army Major, Alpha and current Chief of the British Secret Service, more commonly known as MI6. In some respects, Kell was very similar to Mycroft himself and the elder Holmes knew he was one of the men he was going to have to keep a careful eye on. Kell's presence in the group was an essential part of The Plan.

Expecting the Mercedes to pull away, Mycroft was slightly surprised to see a second man exit the car, instantly identified as one Paul Chen Bai Wu, recently appointed Deputy Director of GCHQ Records in Cheltenham.

How intriguing that two of Britain's most powerful and influential security agencies should be travelling together to what was clearly a social, and somewhat public, event. Obviously, they had been together before and decided to share transport to the restaurant, though why Wu would have any interest in a gathering of British and American Archival Management experts was a matter of quite some interest. As Kell's organisation was the nominal host of the international enclave, his presence was socially requisite, at least tonight. But Paul Wu? His being there was curious; Wu had not been included in the original group invitation, and Mycroft wondered how he had managed to gain entree.

The British-born eldest son of a famously solid Chinese Diplomatic family, Wu was Beta, slim, dark and delicate of feature. A noted intellectual and, oddly enough for someone in his job, a forceful peace-advocate, his public profile gaining immense support upon the publication on social media of arrest photos taken during a CND protest against Thatcher's Polaris in the late eighties. In regards to his plan, Wu would be something of an unknown quantity and Mycroft felt his mouth flattening into a tight line of displeasure. The carefully-planned table of five had unexpectedly become a table of six.

As both men entered the low-profile and unpretentious restaurant, Mycroft's eyes moved across to a second screen, two screens, in fact, each view focused on a very particular table off to the left of the main restaurant space. Close to one of the external walls, the table had seating for six, although it was presently unoccupied.

Kell and Wu headed across to the bar where they accepted drinks and continued with a conversation that they had begun, no doubt, in the car that brought them here.

Not for the first time, Mycroft found the lack of audio in these situations a critical disadvantage and resolved to get his technical people onto a satisfactory resolution at the earliest opportunity.

In the meantime, however, he would have to make do, but he tapped out a message to Translation to have a lip-reader transcribe the Kell-Wu discussion as far as might be possible.

Mycroft's gaze was diverted to the original screen, where a second vehicle, this time a London cab, drew into the kerb.

A blonde man of medium height stepped out, holding the door open for a second passenger, a woman, with long dark hair and spectacles.

The man was, of course, Doctor Harrison Carter, ex-Emeritus Professor of Cryptography Studies at UC Berkeley and current Head of National Archives for the CIA in Langley, Virginia. With his carefully styled hair, gleaming white teeth and immaculate dark grey Brookes Brother suit, Carter, another Beta, embodied more than a hint of old Hollywood glamour, as his female companion no doubt appreciated. A clever, thoughtful man, reputed to be a ladies' man too, he had a series of failed marriages behind him, which begged the question of whether instinct was stronger than intellect.

The woman just now exiting the cab was equally esteemed in the elevated field of Data Management, managing, as she did, a major international unit whose task was, essentially, to maintain the security of any national or federal information that was entrusted to their care.

Doctor Zita Loretto, a distinctive Alpha female, with an original doctorate in the preservation of ancient documents, had moved into mainstream data-management with a vengeance, writing her own classification software to meet some very specific and particular needs. It was said that this woman was going places within the US Federal law enforcement agencies, especially in the FBI, where she was presently a rising star. Loretto was dressed very plainly, almost severely, in fact, as if she cared nothing for the external, or perhaps cared too much and wanted to play the fact down.

Both of them entered the restaurant, just as a second cab arrived, the door opening to disclose a fair-skinned blonde woman, dressed in a smart, yet clearly relaxed manner, the bright blue of her outfit setting off the fairness of her short hair in the early evening streetlights. She looked young and lithe and lovely.

Though Mycroft had thought himself prepared, and despite him taking a slow breath, the sight of Grace Chandler as she crossed the pavement between kerb and restaurant entrance made his throat tighten and his heart speed. Over the last three months, and difficult though it had been, he'd deliberately maintained as complete an absence from her person as he could possibly manage, ensuring there was no communication or interaction between them whatsoever. It had been distinctly uncomfortable, but while there was still a faint possibility that his feelings for the Omega might have begun to wane in that time, it was imperative to test the hypothesis, but if his entire body responded like this after only one glance ...

Mycroft sighed softly. It was as well he had taken steps to ensure Doctor Chandler's continued single status in that case. He had not sought a rival in the good inspector, and it was in no-one's interest to create competition when it was avoidable.

Taking a deeper breath, Mycroft sat back in his seat, moving his attention once more to the two inner camera-views as a waiter escorted Grace to the communal table, somewhat out of the way of the usual crowd of diners.

Kell and Wu were standing, shaking hands with their smiling American guests, indicating that they should choose one of the empty seats. Loretto took a chair backing up against the solid wall behind her, just as Sir Anthony took the one at her left, his view of the open restaurant as broad and unrestricted as hers.

Wu and Carter had remained standing, clearly discussing a point of the restaurant's architecture as Carter pointed upwards to the unremarkable ceiling, just as Grace was shown to the table.

A waiter opened a bottle of very good champagne and began to pour glasses of the bubbly wine as an aperitif.

Mycroft felt an uncomfortable grip of tension begin to make itself known as the three men already at the table turned to greet her, their body-language making it clear she was a very welcome addition to the group, polite smiles abounded.

There was even some light laughter.

He frowned.

As Grace rested her hand on the top of the one chair with its back to the door, Mycroft sighed resignedly at her trusting choice of seating. Only an innocent would choose that chair, he thought. Or someone who was determined not to allow the ubiquitous paranoia of the national security realm dictate their social behaviour.

But there was still an empty seat to her right, between Grace on the one side and Harrison Carter on the other; still one last player to arrive before the group was complete and The Plan moved into the next phase.

As he returned his gaze to the exterior of the restaurant, Mycroft blinked slowly as a very tasteful, dark-blue Jaguar Cabriolet drew to an perfect halt directly outside and parked in a space that had only moments before been filled by a small Audi; other traffic and pedestrians parting like the Red Sea to allow the vehicle's passage.

A man emerged, sleek, like the car; brown-haired, brown-eyed, the golden boy of MI6 and master of the most hush-hush and restricted of all archives in the British Isles; David Abram's smile was as glossy as everything else.

In his mid-thirties, a man of impeccable family, education and money, Abrams was not only one of the most well-known Omega males in London, but was currently unattached and had been for some time. Rumour had it that his sexuality was on the fluid side, but no matter how hard the tabloids pried, there had been no trace of scandal uncovered.

Mycroft looked sage. Either the man had been incredibly fortunate, or there really was nothing to be unearthed, but he doubted it; nobody like Abrams reached such a position without something in their past they'd prefer to keep quiet.

Strolling up to the table of five, he looked down at the only remaining chair, his eyes travelling naturally to the other members of the party. Everyone else he knew or had at least met briefly before, but on observing the beautiful blonde woman to his left, his face lit up with a sincere smile. Taking the only empty chair, Abrams nodded amiably around, but his attention turned, quite naturally, to the beautiful woman at his left.

"You have to be Doctor Chandler, the newly christened doyen of MI5?" he asked smiling all the while as he reached for her hand, holding it slightly longer than good form required.

"If you're asking if my name is Grace Chandler, and if I'm working for Gerald Palmer at Millbank, then the answer is yes," Grace smiled back, removing her hand before linking her fingers together on the table. "Though whether I shall ever be a doyen remains to be seen," she added in a friendly way.

"You're being far too modest," Abrams sat, leaning towards her at his side, his natural charm on full-throttle, his gaze taking in the fairness of her hair, the clear depth of her grey eyes and the vibrancy of her expression; he very much appreciated the fairer sex and this newcomer to the world of everything secret was indeed a stunner of the first water.

It was at that precise moment that David Abrams decided he was going to get to know Grace Chandler the Beautiful, a great deal better. His smile grew. "I'm going to be your newest best friend," he said, a smug look of satisfaction on his face.

Meeting the eyes of the American woman at her left, Grace caught an amused raised eyebrow. "Is he always this enthusiastic?" she asked.

Leaning forward and lifting her fingers across the table, the American spoke very softly as she shook the British woman's hand. "Hi; my name is Zita Loretto and I live in Washington, which means I get to see David only once in a blue moon," the dark-haired woman smiled. "Having said that," Loretto added, knowing full well that Abrams could hear every word she said. "The only time I've seen him this keen was when he discovered several unknown letters addressed to Kim Philby sitting in the back of an old file," she said, tilting her head and sharing a teasing glance with the handsome MI6 Archivist.

"And thank you, Zita," Abrams turned his gaze back across to meet the scrutiny of the other men at the table. "Gentlemen," he said, raising his crystal coupe to the rest of them in a toast. "To the Ladies. May all our secrets be in such safe hands."

There was a faint murmuring as Kell and Carter repeated the toast, though Wu remained silent and suddenly watchful. It was unlike Abrams to be quite this effusive at a first meeting. Perhaps there was more going on here than was apparent? Were MI6 and MI5 up to something? Was it something that GCHQ needed to know about? He watched Sir Anthony from the corner of his eye.

Replacing his glass, David Abrams was suddenly all over the restaurant menu. "This place does a wonderful steak and kidney pudding," he grinned at the Americans. "Everyone should try it if you haven't been here before," he added, turning to Grace. "Full of proteins and iron to keep up your energy levels," he winked, grinning again.

Though he could not hear the words, Mycroft would lay good odds that he had construed almost the precise content of the discussion based on nothing more than a knowledge of the participants, the scenario and a detailed reading of their body-language.

His expression turned dark.

###

It was near-dark by the time Sherlock and John reached their goal, although there was just sufficient light for them both to see the enormity of the house and its detached relation from its neighbours on either side. Including the basement, each of these massive houses possessed five floors, with big, double-fronted bow windows on both the ground and first floors. There was a tiny window with a Juliet balcony in the centre of the third floor, and the attic spaces above. The entire place well-lit from the road and there were alarms everywhere. This was not the kind of place an amateur would pick on which to practice their burglary skills.

"Hate to think what this would go for, these days," John was scanning the place for any obvious signs of forced entry or recent external damage to door or windows. There was none.

"You're looking at the wrong things, John," Sherlock muttered over his shoulder as he stalked up the short path to the front door and pressed heavily on the bell, the cream painted house, just like all its brethren, glowing in the early summer evening.

The door was opened by a petite young woman, light-haired, light-eyed. She was immediately uneasy at their presence.

"Are you the police, again?" she asked. "I've told you everything I know at least three times."

"Not the police, Ms Vallenda," Sherlock smiled faintly. "My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my colleague, Doctor John Watson. We both know exactly what has happened here, and exactly why you don't want the police involved," he stopped, raising his eyebrows. "Might we come in?"

"What do you mean, exactly what happened here?" the woman stood her ground, regardless that Sherlock towered over her like some dark messenger of doom.

"Josie, isn't it?" Sherlock smiled fleetingly. "Your husband's family is in the circus, I believe?" he sighed, waiting for the woman's realisation that this conversation was far better entertained in private.

"Then you'd better come in," she said slowly, opening the black-painted double front door and beckoning them through into a spacious and well-appointed front lounge. Looking about them, John saw that the place had been done up quite nicely; new paint at the windows, expensive wallpaper and carpets everywhere. Even the furniture looked relatively new and probably pricy. The lounge seemed untouched; a place for guests that never came. The bright yellow chintz of the soft furnishings seemed barely touched by age or wear. There had been a lot of money spent on and in this house. A great deal of it.

"Nick," she called to her husband along the wide, tiled passageway. "This one knows about the circus."

Waiting until both the Vallendas were looking at him with unconcealed concern, Sherlock nodded at the raft of old family photographs that almost covered the entirety of one wall.

"You both come from circus-people," he observed.

John immediately focused on the larger, easier to see pictures. Indeed, each one showed two or more people in a large tent or hanging from rope-ladders, some in old-fashioned costumes. He peered closer. There was a distinct familial resemblance between the faces in most of the photographs.

"My father's family are originally from Germany," Nick Vallenda agreed cautiously. There was the slightest hint of a European accent in his voice. "They have been in the circus for many years. I met Josie there."

"The Flying Vallendas?" John lifted his eyebrows and smiled. "Then I've seen some of your family perform," John looked impressed. "Pretty daring stuff, most of it."

"Josie and I have no connection to the circus anymore," Nick slid a protective arm around his wife's shoulders. "We are nothing to do with that side of the family anymore."

"And yet this break-in that clearly wasn't a break-in, was equally clearly very much to do with the circus," Sherlock shoved both hands in his pockets as he began looking around the place, assessing the building's structure and dimensions. There were new locks on the windows and the glass itself sparkled.

Josie Vallenda looked very nervous. "Nothing was taken," she blurted out. "We told the police it was probably a prank."

"A prankster that breaks in to a well-guarded house in broad daylight?" he asked, sceptically. "A house that, even to the most ambitious of thieves would have offered a significant challenge, not the least being that their every action would have been visible from the street, and this is a fairly busy thoroughfare during the day. So how was it done? And why? That would seem to be the critical question of the moment. Why was it done?"

"We told the police we didn't know anything about it," Nick Vallenda tightened his arm around an increasingly anxious Josie. "There's nothing more we can say about it."

"Ah, but we're not the police," Sherlock grinned. "And we can both tell when someone is lying to us from a mile off, can't we, John?"

"A mile off, easily," the blonde man shrugged as he watched the couple. "Sorry."

"So if you don't want us to go to the police and tell them what we know ..."

"No! I don't want the police involved in this anymore than they already are!" Josie Vallenda lifted a hand and looked terrified. "Please."

"Then tell us everything about it, including the smallest detail," Sherlock plonked himself comfortably down in the nearest over-padded armchair and linked his fingers across his lap.

"Tea would be nice, too," he added.

Sighing with relief, the woman ran off towards the kitchen, leaving her husband to deal with the two strangers who knew far too much.

Taking a very deep breath and exhaling loudly, Nick Vallenda dropped into another of the armchairs.

"How much do you know?" he asked.

"Everything but the details," Sherlock nodded at John who looked solemn and nodded back.

"The wreath, for instance," John lifted his eyebrows. "Tell us more about that."

"Yes, where is it?" Sherlock frowned. "There was no report of the police taking it; they probably only wanted photographs of the thing. You must still have it, although given its source, you probably wouldn't want it to stay inside the house ... can you retrieve it from the bin?"

Josie Vallenda appeared in the doorway, a large shape encased in a black bin-liner in her hand. "I expected you'd want to see it," she murmured, handing it over before disappearing back into the kitchen where the clanking of china grew dangerously loud.

Nick rubbed a hand over his face. "It's not a very nice thing to find inside your house, Mr Holmes," he said. "Not a nice thing at all."

Unwrapping the thin black plastic, Sherlock was able to reveal a circular floral wreath, about twenty inches in diameter, with a central gap that was approximately eight inches across. The ring was heavy in his hands as the floral tribute was indeed fresh; probably made earlier that very day, or no more than the day before. There was no sign of any of the greenery dying or wilting and, other than the rough handling it had received being pushed inside the plastic bag, the thing looked in almost perfect condition. Sherlock flipped the thing over in his hands several times, but there was no card or indication of its maker.

Predominantly of white lilies and dark strings of ivy woven into a circlet, there were also sprigs of a coniferous plant, though exactly what it was, John had no clue.

"Yew, John," Sherlock rubbed the tips of the spiky greens between his fingertips and smelled the resultant residue. "In many cultures a symbol of death and rebirth, a second chance, if you will," he added, looking up from the wreath into the troubled blue eyes of Nick Vallenda.

"What second chance?" he asked, softly.

"No idea what you're talking about," their host sat stiffly in his chair, his face closed and unhelpful.

Sherlock sighed.

"Mr Vallenda," he began. "A burglar who is not a burglar broke into your well-guarded and quite fortified house in the middle of the day, at a time when you were not at home, taking nothing but leaving this," he lifted the wreath in one hand. "The intruder did not enter through any of the usual channels but instead managed to gain ingress through a single, small window high up in the third floor by the simple ruse of being a window-cleaner on a ladder. That particular window is far too high for the majority of people to consider safe, and the individual who broke in left no marks or evidence for the police to notice or document. That he or she then left a symbolic threat that also offered a message of possible redemption combined with the fact that neither you nor your wife want any outsider to have anything to do with this suggest that not only did you already know how this intrusion was accomplished, but also a reasonably good idea who did it," he paused. "This was very likely a member of your extended acrobatic family, Mr Vallenda," he added, sitting back into his chair and steepling his fingers.

"And so I'll ask you again," Sherlock's voice was still soft. "What second chance?"

###

Of course, Grace had heard of these people before; knew them by reputation and name, if nothing else. She had even attended one of Sir Anthony Kell's briefings a few weeks before, but she had stayed at the rear of the large room and realised he probably hadn't seen her. He certainly made no sign that she was recognised.

Paul Wu was looking at her oddly, as if he imagined something was going on between her and the overly charming man to her right. Grace had never met Wu before, though his reputation was one of cold calculation and stereotypical inscrutability, which she thought, was probably overkill; people didn't get to be deputy directors of any of the security agencies these days if they could be so easily put into a box. Maybe he'd just had a bad day.

Smiling at the waiter who took her menu choices, and waiting as David Abrams poured her another glass of champagne, Grace cast her attention across the table to her left as Zita Loretto and Sir Anthony were talking; heads close together. They were obviously well-known to one-another and probably quite good friends, judging by the familiarity with which they spoke, and their side-by-side closeness. Grace experienced something of a small shock when she observed Zita stroke an index-finger down the side of Kell's hand. The blatantly intimate gesture stopped almost as soon as it started, and Grace immediately looked away. But it was obvious something had been, or was, going on between them.

Feeling momentarily uncomfortable, as if she'd witnessed something she shouldn't, Grace turned her attention, a little more brightly than perhaps she might have otherwise done, towards the two men to her right. Both Harrison Carter and David Abrams were leaning back in their chairs, reminiscing about previous MI5 Archive personnel in a mildly amusing sort of way.

"And then there was … what was his name …" Carter frowned down into his glass. "That man with the different coloured eyes ..."

"Oh yes," Abrams laughed. "I'd forgotten him." He turned to Grace. "Apologies, Doctor Chandler," he grinned. "We've been trying to work out the last time Gerald Palmer was ever so fortunate as to find senior staff that was both expert and normal," he paused. "You realise, of course, that MI5 has a reputation for recruiting both sly foxes and lame ducks?"

Feeling the conversation was edging towards the inappropriate, Grace smiled diplomatically. "I'm sure the same might be said for all our organisations," she said. "The lure of great secrecy attracts all sorts of strange and absurd people," she added, staring guilelessly at them both over her glass of bubbles.

Harrison laughed. "Ouch."

"So how are you finding the old place down at Millbank," Abrams obvious decided to change tack as he put down his glass and leaned closer. Grace found the man a little too effusive for her taste and leaned slightly away.

"Don't mind David," the American beside him laughed again. "He's just genetically programmed to fall over himself every time he meets a clever woman."

"Especially if she knows anything about lyophilisation or orthochromatic emulsions," Abrams murmured, rolling his eyes jokingly. "I am sorry if I've been staring, but I just can't get over old Gerald actually recruiting someone who not only knows their stuff, but who looks so … so …" he waved a hand at her.

"So?" Grace couldn't help but laugh at his outrageous flirting. "Does that line really work on women you meet these days, Mr Abrams?"

"Oh, please, David," he looked sad.

"Only if you call me Grace," she laughed again, shaking his hand formally, before reaching across to shake Carter's hand too. She couldn't quite reach far enough to offer her hand to Paul, but going by the politely cool nod he gave her, the man probably didn't shake anyone's hand.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," Sir Anthony lifted his voice a fraction to be heard over the growing sound of chatter and noise in the main body of the restaurant.

"Thank you for making yourself available for dinner tonight, I know private time is something precious to all of us, therefore your being here is a good indication of the seriousness which all of you will be bringing to our discussions over the next few weeks. I'm sure we'll all find this a productive and immensely useful project, and I, for one, look forward to advising the Home Secretary of the innumerable cost-savings we've been able to implement following this unique think-tank approach to Data Management in the major Western security agencies," Kell sipped from a glass of water.

"We begin tomorrow in Spring Gardens, and by now you should all have received your individual portfolios of material on which you will be expected to work both individually and as a team; each of you playing to your own strengths as well as the overarching strengths of this amazing and unprecedented gathering of experts. May I wish you all the most profitable of ventures."

Lifting his champagne glass, Sir Anthony smiled around the table as they all drank the toast.

"Since you start at nine o'clock in the morning, and as we are on the public purse, we had better not linger too late here this evening," he joked dryly as the entrees began to arrive.

###

Mycroft felt calmer as he sipped a cup of tea. He knew precisely what to expect in theory, though the actual implementation of this early stage of The Plan was already more difficult than he had imagined. And yet, the plan, or at least this part of the plan, was itself incredibly clear-cut.

This part of the plan was to test the hypothesis that he and Grace Chandler had reached some form of … unintentional attachment. Reluctant to use the word bond, despite the fact that it seemed to be a medical opinion mot du jour in virtually every text or opinion he had consulted. But he would not use it, not yet.

And so, before he was able to proceed with the next component of his scheme, Mycroft felt it incumbent upon himself to provide Grace with a variety of potential suitors with whom she might form a more civilised connection.

The American Beta, Harrison Carter; handsome, erudite, learned and an expert in the same field as she, the man's noted good looks and charm, combined with his mental attributes and currently single status made him an eminently suitable partner. The same could be said for David Abrams, though he was slightly on the florid side and Grace's preferences appeared to be in somewhat less obvious. But still; who could be sure about these things? The Omega would be able to provide her with all the things she enjoyed; he was young and dashing and all the things that Mycroft felt he himself was not. Abrams would be a good foil for her.

The British-born Chinese, Paul Chen Bai Wu, though an intensely private man, was devoted in many ways to the same principles as Grace herself held in esteem. His private love was the restoration and curation ancient Asian documents, spending months at a time in desert caves and the dungeons of old imperial palaces hunting down hidden archives and dusty private collections. Such excitement would, Mycroft felt, appeal to the more adventurous aspect of her personality. It was also known that Paul Wu's rather wealthy family were pressing the Beta to marry, an added incentive if one were required, for the man to look upon Grace with an eye to a potential mate.

Then there was the woman, Zita Loretto, Alpha. Alpha and bisexual. A brilliant and creative mind, Loretto seemed to offer a combination of brains, adventure and charm. Though there was no indication that Grace had ever felt any inclination to seek the affection of her own sex, Mycroft was being nothing if not thorough.

And finally, of course, there was Sir Anthony Kell himself. Alpha, highly intelligent and more or less ruthless, depending on the situation at hand. The man came from an old family, had been without a close female companion following the death of his first and only wife some several years since, and had a known preference for blondes. Kell was the closest analogue to himself that Mycroft could find, in terms of age and background, there were many similarities between them. That Kell reported indirectly to Mycroft's position was neither here nor there.

Mycroft sighed and frowned. He had set this part of the plan in motion because he wanted to be sure, absolutely and uncontestably sure before he took this any further, that Grace Chandler would have every last opportunity to prove the medical experts wrong, to show him, once and for all that there was no attraction or connection or … bond between them. He did not have the luxury of time on his side and so had elected a hothouse environment as a proving ground. Whatever came of this, he had taken pains to ensure Grace would never know she had been royally set up. Now all he had to do was wait and see.

Well, there was one other thing he had to do.

Mycroft lifted his phone once again.

###

It was a fine night and Sherlock wanted to walk for a while as the thoughts mulled around in his head. Since there was nothing for John to rush home for, he was happy to go along for the stroll.

"A warning, then?" he asked. "Whoever broke in left the wreath as a warning?"

"Obviously a warning, John," Sherlock stalked forward. "And equally obvious is the intruder."

"You reckon it had to be one of the family back in Germany?"

"Who else? This alleged window-cleaner is beyond farcical. It was obviously a ruse to enable him to get close to the house. Who looks at a window cleaner?"

"But why would anyone go to such lengths to leave a message like that?" John shook his head. "Why not just stick a note through the letterbox; a good old poison-pen letter?"

"Part of the weight of the message lies within an aura of fear and superstition, of which there are a great many in any industry involving the old Romany families," Sherlock slowed to a gentler pace beside his blogger. "The message was obviously a warning for the Vallendas to do something they have not done, or to cease doing something against the family's wishes."

"Yeah, but all they could tell us was that there was a bit of a problem with the marriage; that they didn't get the right permission before they went off and tied the knot," John shrugged. "Most people wouldn't have even bothered to get married as far as I can see; they'd have just run off together."

"John," Sherlock stopped and turned to face his flatmate. "Are you seriously telling me you noticed nothing about that house?"

"It was a big house?" John lifted his eyebrows. "Must have cost them a fair bit."

"And not only the purchase price, which had to have been in the multiple millions in this part of London," Sherlock resumed his slow lope. "But the interior decor and furnishings; the running costs? By the calluses on his hands and the scuff on his right shoe, Nick Vallenda is holding down a job as a driver for a haulage company in the Home Counties, while Josie is little more than an administrative clerk in a legal office. How then, could either of them have found such a fortune as would be necessary to pay for and maintain a house in Holland Park?" Sherlock smiled fleetingly. "No, John," he shook his head again. "There's a lot more here than meets the eye, and I fully believe the leaving of the wreath to be as clear a death-threat as it's possible to make."

"You really think they're in danger?" John looked uncertain. "Shouldn't we let the police know?"

"And who would they believe?" the younger Holmes made a face. "The Vallendas or us? If they tell the police there's no threat, why would anyone listen to either of us?"

"Well, we both know one copper who'd listen, especially if there's a chance to prevent a death or deaths," John stared ahead. "You going to phone him or shall I?"

As Sherlock turned to look at his flatmate, John saw the mobile was already at his ear. "I hope he wasn't planning on an early night."

Lestrade answered after the first couple of rings.

"Thought it was too bloody good to be true," the Londoner's voice was clear. "Just back in after months away, and the first call I get turns out to be you."

"You've been away?"

The heavy silence of disbelief echoed loud from the other end of the conversation, followed by a short sigh. "So, what do you want, now that you've got me?" Greg Lestrade didn't sound exactly in a good mood.

"Want to stop a double murder?" Sherlock asked. "Want to solve an impossible crime?"

There was another heavy silence.

"Where are you?" Greg asked reluctantly.

"The young end of Holland Park," Sherlock looked at John. "If you're at home, John and I could be there in less than ten minutes at this time on a Sunday."

"I might be doing something," Lestrade demurred. "I might be heading out on a date."

"Inspector ..." Sherlock grinned wolfishly.

"Yeah, yeah, alright. Come on round then. I'll put the kettle on."

Replacing the phone in his pocket, the tall, dark-haired man looked around at the cars in the street.

A black cab hove into view and stopped.

"I don't know how you do it," John shook his head wonderingly as they both climbed in.

###

So this was what it felt like to be the new kid on the block, Grace realised, as she answered yet another question from the group of people with whom she was going to be working for the next month. It was a strange feeling to be the centre of attention like this, but she realised that everyone at the table must have known each other for a fair old while, and she, well she was the newcomer. Hardly surprising then, especially in a world of secrets and unspoken knowledge, that the entire party seemed to find her fascinating. But enough was enough.

"I believe I've provided sufficient insight into my character and circumstances for one evening," she said, lightly. "I think it time someone else did the talking."

"And what would you like to know?" David Abrams grinned widely as he relaxed back in his chair. Dinner had been superb and the conversation hadn't lagged for a moment. There had been quite the party atmosphere. "How about where all the bodies are buried?"

There was a subtle cough from the far end of the table and Abrams turned to meet the eyes of his Director. Lifting a single eyebrow, the younger man held Sir Anthony's calm gaze. Grace had the feeling there was an entire conversation taking place under her nose, and she had absolutely no idea what was being said.

His mouth curving slightly, Abrams lifted a brandy snifter to his lips. "Perhaps not, then," he murmured. "Fancy a lift home when we're done here?" he asked, turning to look at Grace speculatively. "The Jag's just outside."

Having realised almost from the off that David Abrams was something of a Lothario, Grace managed to keep her face expressionless, although she was casting about for a way to turn him down in front of his friends and colleagues without making it obvious she was turning him down.

There was a slightly awkward silence.

"Doctor Chandler has already agreed to share a taxi with me as we are travelling in the same direction," Paul Wu's cultivated tones cut into the conversation. "If you had been listening, David, instead of preening like a peacock in front of Grace and Zita, you would have heard us making the arrangement."

"You were talking about Shang Dynasty oracle bones," Abrams sounded faintly sulky.

"And Boris Dynasty London cabs," Paul Wu stood, smiling faintly. "I think it is time those of us who live south of the river depart before we turn into pumpkins."

"Or rats," Abrams smiled easily back.

"Well, I'm certainly ready to go," Grace stood too, nodding at the nominal host of the evening. "My thanks for such a wonderful and entertaining dinner, Sir Anthony," she said. "I have learned a number of interesting things already and look forward to the revelation of further tantalising secrets," she blinked sideways at David Abrams before returning her gaze to the senior man.

The Chief of MI6 remained seated at the head of the table, brandy glass in his hand as he watched Gerald Palmer's latest acquisition make an adroit escape from the rather juvenile blandishments of his Director of Records. Not only had she kept everyone fended off throughout the entirety of the meal, but she had apparently managed to get the introverted Paul Wu on side. No mean achievement by anyone's standard. Nor did the – decidedly attractive – newcomer seem to have any idea of the stir she was going to produce; being an outsider was cause enough, but she was already unsettling the ranks in other ways that had nothing to do with the task ahead.

Meeting her eyes, Kell's official smile was practiced and easy. "I'm sure we are all going to get to know one another a great deal better over the next few weeks," he said, saluting her unhurriedly with his glass. "Until tomorrow."

Even though she had several glasses of champagne inside her, Grace was still sufficiently alert to detect an underlying timbre in the man's voice. It caught at her attention and for a second, her eyes sharpened their focus as she really looked at MI6's Chief. There was an answering glint in his eyes that seemed oddly familiar.

She blinked. It had been a diverting evening and she was looking forward to the proper beginning of the project in the morning. Everything else could wait.

"Goodnight, then," she smiled again, collecting her bag and wrap, joining Paul who was already waiting outside on the pavement.

"I hope you didn't mind my stepping in like that?" the Deputy-head of GCHQ lit a cigarette with a slim lighter. "David Abrams can be somewhat overwhelming at times."

"If he brings the same passion to his work, then his reputation for brilliance and determination is deserved," Grace laughed lightly. "But thank you for giving me an easy and diplomatic way out," she added. "Do you really live south of the Thames?"

"Near the Elephant and Castle," the man smiled. "Drives my mother insane."

"Oh? How so?" Grace walked alongside as they wandered down the pavement in search of a waiting cab.

"My mother is a delightful woman and has lived in the UK and Europe for more years than anyone can remember," Paul Wu sucked in a breath of smoke. "She's British to all intent and purposes in every respect, bar one," he looked wearily fatalistic.

"That being?" Grace was intrigued.

"She is insanely desperate for me to marry and produce a male grandchild for the family," Paul shook his head and sighed deeply. "She's become so obsessed with the notion that I had to leave and find my own place, and I just grabbed the first flat I could afford."

Grace nodded in sympathy. She knew all about the London property market. "Do your parents live in town?"

"Oh, god yes," Paul took another swift inhale of smoke. "They're got an enormous great mausoleum in Kensington, of which they use only part," he shook his head. She keeps asking me if I've met anyone nice recently. Last year she tried to talk me into an arranged relationship."

"And have you?" Grace asked. "Met anyone nice?"

Seeing an empty cab ahead, Wu lifted his hand in a hail. The cab flicked its taken light on for them.

"Not that I haven't met some very pleasant women," Paul held the rear door open for her as she climbed in. "But I'm simply not the right sort for marriage," he said, taking the seat beside her. "On the one hand, I'm neck-deep in things I can't ever talk about for three-quarters of the year, and when I'm not up to my eyes in the Official Secrets Act, then I'm off on expeditions and hunts in old ruins; what kind of wife would want a husband that does those sort of things?"

Grace laughed. "The sort of wife that would want to come with you, of course," she smiled. "Don't tell me you haven't met a single female on your travels who likes the same things as you do? Who enjoys all the digging around in caves and in the back of ancient, cobweb-ridden collections?" she laughed again. "I won't believe it."

Giving the driver her address, Grace sat back in the seat and waited for her companion to come up with a response.

"Well," he paused, thinking. "There have been one or two friends who might not hate such a lifestyle, although it is asking a lot of a woman to rough it, trailing around the edge of the Gobi desert in the heat of Summer looking for hillside caves, don't you think?"

"And are those friends of yours of the female persuasion?" Grace already knew the answer.

"Well … yes. One or two," Paul looked at her strangely. "But neither of them would want me for a husband, surely?"

"Why ever not?" Grace narrowed her eyes as she looked at him. "Are they already married? Gay? Have you been horrible to them in any way?"

The idea of being deliberately horrible to a friend was offensive, and he frowned. "No, of course not," Paul looked at her again. "It's just that I never would have … never thought that they would …" his words tailed off into silence.

"It's entirely your choice, of course," Grace leaned back and closed her eyes for a moment. "But if the only reason you're off marriage is because you think you'll never find the right kind of woman, then you're looking in the wrong places."

"Mother wants me to marry a Chinese woman," he muttered as an afterthought.

Grace coughed to hide a snort of laughter. "You're on your own there, I'm afraid," she sighed. "Only you can decide how much your mother is going to control your choices, and by the looks of things, you've already made up your mind on that score, too."

Their cab crossed Westminster Bridge and headed across Southbank towards Stamford Road.

"You live around here?" Paul sounded a little bit impressed.

"I managed to buy half a floor of an old Bonded warehouse and it's taken me years of work and all my savings to do the conversion, but yeah," she smiled. "It's wonderfully handy for everything, and it's all mine, so I can't complain."

"I should say not," Wu looked around as the cab pulled into Barge House Street.

"Want to come in for a coffee?" Grace checked her watch. "It's still fairly early."

An uncertain smile dawned on her cab-sharing companion's features. "Are you sure you don't mind?" he asked. "Women don't usually ask me in for coffee."

"Oh, you poor man, come on in. You can tell me more about your dragon of a mother."

With a happy expression, Paul Wu paid off the cabbie and followed his newest colleague into the foyer of the old building.

###

"You've done this place up really well," John looked around him. Lestrade's little house-in-the-wall was not so little after all now that several of the internal walls had been taken down. In fact, the whole place seemed very open and comfortable. "Ta," he added, taking the mug of tea Greg handed him.

"So tell me all about this double-murder you think I can prevent," he said, putting a second mug down on the coffee table beside Sherlock and taking a seat in the only other leather armchair.

"Married, ex-circus acrobats under threat of death if they don't stop doing something they've been doing," Sherlock lay back and stared up at the ceiling in thought.

"Under threat of death from who?" Lestrade sipped his tea.

"Whom, Inspector," the younger Holmes leaned forward again. "From other circus acrobats, obviously."

"Obviously," Greg wrinkled his forehead and turned to John for help.

"Couple in Holland Park had their house broken into today, but nothing was taken, instead, whoever did it left this behind on the mantelpiece," John handed over his phone with a photo of the floral wreath.

"You'll note the use of Yew, Inspector," Sherlock muttered.

"Yew?" Greg mouthed the word at John who grinned and, after enlarging the picture significantly, pointed out several of the coniferous spiky bits.

"Ah yes, Yew," Lestrade nodded portentously. "Of course."

John choked on his mouthful of tea and Sherlock looked peeved. "You'll not be quite so facile when you have another two corpses to explain," he objected.

"All very true, Sherlock," Greg realised the dark-haired man was entirely serious. "Why don't you tell me everything about the situation?"

Taking a sip of his tea, Sherlock did exactly that.

###

At home now for the night, Mycroft tapped his laptop awake and retook his seat, setting the small tray down beside him. A side plate of dry crackers and Stilton, with a glass of decent burgundy was all the dinner he was going to get, so he might as well dine in comfort.

Opening the surveillance input at the point where he'd left off earlier in the evening. The dinner at Five Fields had been drawing to an end, and he wanted to see how it all ended. He caught up with the various camera feeds just as Grace and Paul Wu walked out of shot.

Damnation.

Debating whether to watch the rest of the dinner party break up, or attempt to follow Grace to her home, he dithered for a moment, before returning to the CCTV feed from opposite her building in Barge House Street.

Within a couple of minutes, a cab slowed to a halt, and he watched Grace step out. He smiled. She looked happy, as if the evening had been a success.

Mycroft felt a sensation of something resembling pleasure waft over him.

The sensation vanished in the next instant as he watched, disbelievingly, as Paul Wu clambered out through the open cab door and onto the pavement behind her. The smile on the man's face as he paid off the driver, was plain to see. Mycroft felt his stomach tense involuntarily as he saw the GCHQ Deputy Director of Records follow Grace into the building.

He hadn't realised he was standing until the back of his legs bumped against the chair. He sat slowly, a horrible chill creeping through him, any hunger he might have been experiencing, vanishing in the uproar of his thoughts.

Oh God. What had he done?