The corridors of power are empty. At that time of the day only a crisis of international urgency would cause someone to be walking them. Or some matter of great personal concern.
Or both, of course.
There is no one else in the building. No one except the echoes of its previous custodians. The ones that came before and kept the trappings of power and the sanctity of the sceptred isle safe.
Careful hands.
That was why they chose him in the first place. Because he was a safe pair of hands. Because they were all afraid of him. Of what he might do, or could do if he wasn't on their side.
Because he was every last criminal, revolutionary, terrorist and traitor's nemesis. Because he wouldn't flinch from the truth and its outcome. Because he would keep them all safe.
Because he was cold.
They said he had never loved. And they were right. Almost.
His shoes, with their delicate, hand crafted leather soles are not made for walking around the city, so they walk along the corridors instead. Stone, carpet, floorboard underfoot hardly registering his tread. For such a big man he should make more noise but his progress is near silent. Like a ghost. A shadow.
A lonely shadow.
They were surprised when it happened. The safe hands it seemed had dropped the ball. Unthinkable that suddenly the unshakable cornerstone, the last, highest, only form of defence of the realm was human. Flawed and cracked and damaged like everyone else. They had soon shook the idea from their heads, laughing nervously. Hoping that the man who could hear what you were thinking had not been listening in.
No he hadn't dropped the ball. He'd let it fall. He had made no attempt to catch it. That was why they had chosen him. Ruthless. He'd send his own brother to the gallows if England commanded it. And he had done.
In some ways it was a victory. Of sorts.
He flicks a small piece of lint from the shoulder of his jacket, checks the nails of his left hand, checks the time on his pocket watch before looking out of the window at the large clock face. Big Ben was running two minutes fast! He'd get someone to alter it tomorrow.
He taesk a deep breath and pushes open the door.
"Four and a half pounds? The diet's going well I see." The shadows speak to him.
"Seven pounds actually, I'm wearing two undershirts. One of them is bulletproof." He answers, but he doesn't smile.
Once upon a time there was a man called Mycroft who ran the world. No one knew of course. They just thought he was a lonely man who never loved anything, or anyone. And they were all afraid of him. And they all thought he was cold and that he didn't care. But Mycroft did love one thing. One thing more than anything else in the world. And he loved it so much that he was prepared to let everyone think the worst of him in order to protect it. He would let people whisper behind his back or shout to his face or scream down the telephone drunkenly that he was a murderer. And that was fine. And he would never tell anyone of his love.
No one could ever know how much he loved his little brother.
The shadows moved and turned into flesh and blood, standing in front of him. His hair cut short, dyed a different colour, the clothes strange, the disguise perfect. Unless you noticed everything. Standing before him. His brother. His only love. His only true care in the world.
"Is it time?"
"Yes Mycroft. It's time for Sherlock Holmes to return."