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 eighth 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 Cate and Mycroft: The Wedding

iii Mycroft Holmes: A Terminal Degree

iv Mycroft Holmes and the Trivium Protocol

v Mycroft Holmes in Excelsis

vi The Double-First of Mycroft Holmes

vii Mycroft Holmes: Master of Secrets

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The Sabbatical of Mycroft Holmes

Chapter One

Holly Daze – Exquisitely Snookered – The Dark of the Moon – Safe as Houses – La Ciel Claire – Leaving Home – A Formal Man – The Cornish House.

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"What's a holly daze, mummy?" Julius poked a chunk of ripe avocado and was impressed when his finger went right through the middle. It made eating the slippery stuff that much more simple if he could first impale it. He made a note to try this technique with other things. Jelly might be interesting. "Is there jelly for pudding?"

"Holly daze is when you eat ice-creams all the time," Blythe nodded knowledgeably as she crunched a stick of celery. "And you live in a strange house."

In the process of preparing a green salad to accompany dinner later, Cate smiled. Since the twins had started attending the University crèche each week for the few hours she was lecturing and working with students, they had picked up all sorts of new ideas.

She had been a little reluctant to bring them with her at first, given they were so much younger than the other children, but she needn't have worried. Not quite two years old, and both twins were perfectly able to handle a nursery-level conversation, no matter the content. In fact they were already using language and concepts far in advance of their ages and while it was wonderful to watch their minds unfurl like flower-petals, Cate didn't want them to be too adult too soon. It could make their lives very hard. She wanted them to have a childhood for as long as they could hang onto it.

"Do you mean 'holiday', sweetheart?" she handed Jules a cloth. "Wipe your hands, my love, and yes, there is jelly for pudding if you eat all your salad first."

Pleased at the thought of practicing his new technique, Jules wiped his hands roughly, scanning his plate to ensure nothing stood between him and dessert. "Is it orange jelly?" he wondered hopefully.

Whisking the plate away and giving him a small bowl of orange jelly and a spoon, Cate kissed the top of his head. "Orange jelly for my favourite boy," she smiled, turning to inspect the remains of her daughter's feast.

Far more fastidious than her brother, who tended to treat the ingestion of food as a boots-and-all experience, Blythe ate her food with an air of contemplative refinement, her skill with cutlery well in advance of her twin.

"Who told you about eating ice-cream on holiday and living in a strange house?" Cate adjusted the child's bib. "Does my best girl want some more salad or have you had enough?"

"Finished, mummy," Blythe lifted her hands in the air, though she kept hold of the celery. She like the being-eaten noises it made.

Nibbling a waving hand until her daughter giggled Cate set down another dish of jelly and waited for an answer to the first question, she knew it would be forthcoming; Blythe was as punctilious with her words as was her father. The similarity between the two of them was becoming clearer with every new development. She was not disappointed.

"Derek with the big hair said he wented to holly daze and he got to eat ice-cream every day, even for breakfast, an' his mummy and daddy made him sleep in a strange house for a long time," Blythe scooped some jelly with the celery.

"Did Derek tell you anything else about his holiday?" Cate reserved judgement on the breakfast story – Derek's mother was Head of Human Biology and unlikely to wire her child with such a sugar-rush quite so enthusiastically.

"He said he swimmed in the sea and it was full of fishes," Julius frowned as yet another piece of jelly refused to co-operate.

"Jules, eat your jelly with a spoon, please," Cate put the spoon in his hand. "And was there anything else Derek said?" she returned to the granite bench top to flip the lime-marinating Turbot she was going to grill for dinner.

"Sands cassels," Blythe sighed. "What's a sands cassels, mummy?"

"You know when you play in the sandbox with the other children and make shapes with the sand?" Cate checked to see the twins had eaten everything. "That's a sandcastle," she said. "You go to the beach to make sandcastles until the waves wash them away."

"What's waves, mummy?" Jules lifted two handfuls of jelly and looked at her.

###

He had arrived home just in time to have a goodnight cuddle from the children and offer a quick story about a magic computer which made everyone's problems go away, and it was time for lights-out.

After a day dealing with the exigencies of domestic and international posturing on the matter of asylum-seekers, Mycroft felt drained to the point of enervation and envied the twins' ability to simply close their eyes and sleep. He ambled slowly down to the kitchen where Cate was about to serve dinner. She took one look at his tired face and walked over, hugging him to her as her fingers rubbed between his shoulders.

"Want me to give you a massage later?" she said smiling. "Or are you too exhausted?"

It was a tempting thought: one of Cate's massages usually left him unravelled and on the brink of sleep. And he could use a decent night's sleep after the last few days, Christ, the last few months. It had been one thing after the other without remit or pause and, loath though he was to admit it, Mycroft Holmes was bone-weary.

Watching the tightness at the corners of his mouth and the less than brilliant sparkle of his eyes, it was painfully obvious to Cate that he was functioning on the last of his reserves. "Why don't we have an early night, darling?" she handed him an opened bottle of white burgundy and nodded at the glassware as she went to serve the food.

Though the meal was delicious, he lacked appetite and Mycroft felt his conversation to be on the dull side of average throughout dinner. It was impossible to hope Cate had missed it.

Nor had she.

"You have been working too hard and for too long," she observed, broodingly. "What would your department do if you were hit by a bus and ended up in a coma for six-months?"

Wondering for a moment if this were a covert warning of some kind, Mycroft lifted a searching and somewhat exasperated gaze to hers.

"I have no idea what might be done as the situation has never before arisen," he replied mildly, tasting his wine. It was good wine but he had no palate for it tonight. He returned the glass to the table virtually untouched, a small frown between his eyes.

Reaching a decision, Cate carefully laid down her silverware, rested her chin on her very deliberately linked fingers, took a deep breath and engaged him with a most specific look.

Mycroft recognised this stance: it usually indicated a battlefront was about to be opened. He watched Cate's face. Any moment now …

"Julius asked me what waves were, this evening," she began. "Another child at the crèche had been on holiday with his parents and had been telling the children all sorts of exotic tales including the requirement that one's holiday be spent in a strange house and of the provision of ice-cream for breakfast."

Mycroft smiled. "For breakfast?"

"I think it would benefit the children to spend time at the seaside this summer," she added. "The fresh air and sunshine will be good for them and they'll learn all sorts of new things as well as have fun playing."

"This summer?" Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Not a good time, Cate," he started to demur, shaking his head slowly. "There's the NATO summit at the end of the month, and then there's all the ancillary talks which inevitably spring forth from actionable items identified within the summit itself, after which …"

"My love, you have perfectly competent staff," Cate sipped her wine. "Let them earn their pay for a while without you."

"The children are still very young," he said. "Next summer will be fine for them, surely?"

"Next summer, in addition to this summer, would be fine, but not instead of," Cate held his gaze. "You're prevaricating and it won't do, I'm afraid, my darling," she sighed. "However, if you truly are determined not to leave London, even for a few weeks, then I shall move to Plan B."

Cate looked directly into his eyes. She smiled.

He knew that smile. It rarely boded well for the recipient.

"And what would Plan B involve?" Mycroft linked his fingers in the mirror-image of hers, his expression equally intent, a strange little curve to his mouth.

"I shall rent a holiday cottage someone on the coast and take the children and Nora away for the summer," she said, lifting her eyebrows. "The University break is almost upon me, and this gives me three months of good solid writing-time before I have to back in London to teach, so I think I'll take the children and Nora and my laptop and spend that time somewhere specifically seaside-ish. I can write while the children play and learn about waves and beaches and the seaside."

"For three months?" Mycroft paused, taken aback; she could not be serious. "You'd take the children away for three entire months?" he sat back in his seat, the light of sudden contest in his eyes. "And Nora?"

"By the sound of everything you just told me, you're going to be far too busy with all these summits and conferences and talks to even notice our absence," Cate looked suspiciously virtuous. "We'd be back before you knew it," she paused, thinking. "You might consider staying at the Diogenes the whole summer and not have to think about cooking or anything," she added. "You could even return to working fourteen-hour days for the interim," she lifted her eyebrows. "Just think how much work you would be able to get done without us there to distract you."

Mycroft looked afflicted. Cate was being altogether unreasonable despite her logic. The thought now of living alone for three weeks would be disagreeable enough, but three months? Not have the children to talk with at night and watch play at the weekends? Not have Cate's laughter in his head or her warmth beside him at night? Lifting his gaze back to hers, he saw she was unwavering. There was once a time when living alone in a silent house had been his norm, but then she had come along and changed everything. He sighed. She had him neatly snookered and she knew it.

"What are you really proposing?" he asked, sipping the chilled wine and relaxing suddenly as he saw the humour of the situation. Oddly, the wine seemed to have improved.

Grinning as she saw he seemed disinclined to put up too much of a struggle, Cate leaned forward, her face full of ideas. "I rent a holiday cottage somewhere on the coast and we all, you, me, the children and Nora, spend a month by the sea," she argued her case. "I realise you can't possibly be incommunicado for that length of time, so I will ensure that wherever we go has the appropriate technology in place so that you may video-conference if you absolutely must, but darling," Cate reached across the table and took his fingers in hers. "You need a break too."

"Where did you have in mind to stay?" leaning forward as well, Mycroft met her eyes glinting with the sense of victory.

"Not sure, but Cornwall or Devon is usually a good bet for reasonable, beachy weather, and it would be more convenient for you if we rented a house rather than stay in an hotel."

That Cate mentioned Cornwall reminded him. An idea occurred.

"Cornwall, eh?" he nodded to himself. "Are you considering anywhere specific, or just somewhere on the coast?"

The tone of his voice had changed, as if he were asking another question but not outright. He was about to make a suggestion, she realised; possibly a counter-suggestion to hers.

"Why do you ask?" Cate's tone was guarded. He was not about to manipulate his way out of the situation, she was resolved.

"I ask, because we have a minor property and some land in Cornwall," he nodded, thinking. "Close to Land's End," he added. "There's an old house and a small, private cove and something of a garden," he said. "We have the mineral-rights on the adjacent land, for the old tin mines, though they've been defunct for decades. I think the Trust managers try to have the house rented out to overseas visitors for the summer through the Cornish Heritage Association."

"We own a property in Cornwall?" Cate sat bolt upright, reaching for her wine. "How did I not know about this?"

"I believe I had mentioned some time ago that we had property in the South-West," he said. "But I may thoughtlessly have neglected to give you details," it was Mycroft's turn to smile. "Would that be suitable for your proposed sabbatical, do you think, my love?" he asked, a single raised eyebrow expressing his growing amusement.

"Is it big enough for us all?" Cate wondered. A lot of these old places were miners' cottages with two bedrooms at most. Camping out was fun, but not with two hyper-curious toddlers, a workaholic-perfectionist husband and a nanny.

"Large enough," Mycroft looked into his memory. "It used to be a Mine-owner's manor; there's several old pitheads in the locale. The house should be more than sufficient for our needs."

"Then the only thing that needs to be settled is when we can go," Cate added a little more wine to his glass as he resumed eating.

Really, he thought; the fish was rather good.

"I genuinely need to be present at the NATO summit," he pressed a napkin to his lips. "But that's in two weeks' time and has an anticipated duration of four days," he sat back, a philosophical note in his voice. "I would also need to ensure the Cornish house is available and appropriately equipped to meet my communication and security requirements, but if you are determined to force me away from my desk …"

"I am entirely determined, my love," Cate smiled.

"Then how does immediately following the summit, say around the first week in July, suit your plans?" Mycroft paused, thinking. "This would give me time to ensure the property is installed with the necessary technology," he blinked, reflectively. He hadn't taken a holiday in ... longer than he cared to remember. Years. It might even be enjoyable. There were several historical analyses he had been meaning to read for some while now, even, perhaps, an autobiography or two … to watch the children at play … the likelihood of a bikini-clad wife … His expression grew lighter.

"That suits me perfectly," Cate was already thinking ahead. There was one more week before the semester concluded, but as she had no exams to mark or other tasks to finish with her students, she would be a completely free agent within a few days. She was fairly sure Nora would be happy to come with them, although Cate wanted to give the older woman the opportunity to go and have a holiday away from the Holmes household if she preferred. The twins were too young yet to have any school requirements to meet, and as long as she could prise Mycroft out of Whitehall, she was sure he'd be fine once she got him down to Cornwall.

Cornwall! The last time they'd been down that way was when she and Mycroft had driven to meet her sister just prior to the wedding. She wondered how Neve and the tribe were; she hadn't heard much, except from the odd phone conversation and a series of irregular emails from Lily and Rose at university in Reading. If the house Mycroft had forgotten to tell her about wasn't too far away, she'd have to take the twins to meet their aunt and any of their cousins still at home. It would be good for the two families to establish a connection: Cate didn't want Blythe and Julius growing up with the same emotional distance from family that she'd experienced.

Now all she wanted to know was where exactly was this secretive little west-country hideaway Mycroft had neglected to tell her about? As soon as she had a location, she was going to see what the internet had to say. If the Cornish Heritage people were involved, it was probably going to be some ancient monastery-type place and that would not do whatsoever. Cate wanted a holiday by the beach, with sun and sand and swimming and the occasional ice-cream and all the things that went with a holiday, including, if possible, room-service.

It was now her avowed intention to let the children make sandcastles and play in the water as long as they wanted, and to get her stylish husband out of Savile Row and into a pair of board-shorts.

She tried to imagine Mycroft with a tan. His bare shoulders and arms golden-brown and freckled … his eyes, ocean-blue in a smiling, sun-touched face … warm and relaxed and happy and all hers ... A tightness grew in her stomach as she as she turned to look at him again, a slow grin curving her mouth.

This was going to be fun.

###

They always waited until the dark of the moon, these days. Too many chances of being caught; too many nosey parkers ready to dial 999 the minute they thought something was a bit fishy. But this run should be a doddle: they'd done it several times before, and this place was so far out of the way, there'd be nobody around to see them. And even if they were spotted, what could anyone say? A lorry seen driving down a lane towards the coast. Big deal.

The driver checked swiftly over his shoulder to see that the tarpaulin was still battened tight down over the load; it wouldn't do to have any of the cargo come loose. He hated to think what the consequences might be; the police would be all over it in a flat second. So, drive carefully, but not look as if he were driving carefully. That was the way.

Changing down a gear as he came to a small hill, the vehicle's engine growled with effort, struggling with the uneven track and the heavy load. It left deep ruts in the soft grassy track, ill-designed to cope with more than the occasional crop of riders or coastal-walkers.

There was a flashed light up ahead. Thank God; this trip seemed to have taken forever. They would soon have to stop using this particular spot or suspicions would be raised.

Reaching the end of his journey, the driver braked just as another man flashed the torch up and into the cabin, blinding him for a second.

"Hey! Watch it, mate," he grunted. "I need to see what I'm doing, y'know."

"Yeah, sorry. Hands a bit nervous. I was sure I heard voices not long ago."

"Voices? Not coppers?"

"Nah. Sounded like kids, but still. I don't want anyone turning up here until we're well gone."

"Right. Let's get this over with and get out of here."

It was only a matter of minutes to reverse the lorry around and back it up, right up to the edge. With the flick of a switch and the press of a button, the back of the truck began to tilt upwards, allowing the now-unfastened cargo to slide freely towards the dropping edge of the tray. A rough metallic scraping turned to soft thuds as the first of the containers slid off the end of the increasingly elevated bed. The thuds stopped for a moment, then other sounds, louder sounds, angrier, as metal struck stone and earth and, eventually, the noise of things reaching the bottom of a very deep hole. There was more noise as the remaining containers slid free from the bed of the lorry, flying downwards to meet up with the others in the pit. It was done. The lorry was once again free of its terrifying load.

"Time we wuz gone," the driver waited until the man with the torch jumped into the passenger's seat before he engaged a forward gear and pulled away, back through the hush of the night.

###

"And what of the new security protocols?" Mycroft was at the desk in his office, his face thoughtful as he waited for Alex Beaumont, his new and recently-appointed Head of Security, to bring him up-to-date with technological upgrading of the Cornish House. Beaumont, an American, had worked on the house-security details of a number of VIPs in the States, as well as on the security-teams of several high-profile politicians. He had been lured to the UK by the opportunity to spread his wings and review security for some of Britain's less expendable individuals. His foreign birth disadvantaged him slightly in competition for posts within the British security agencies, but Mycroft had directed the preparation of a contract as soon as he'd seen Beaumont's CV. After only one conversation, the refined young ex-US Government employee had shaken Mycroft's hand and the rest, as they say, was history.

Beaumont scanned down a list of details on an iPad. "In addition to the standard surveillance tech, I've had a couple of our engineers install an extended perimeter camera at the main gate and the beach gate, as well as half-a-dozen satellite image-trackers along the stream, which will operate twenty-four-seven. We've improved the back-to-base alarm, and included a new Wi-Fi signal direct to security here; this covers not only the house, but any forcible entry via the doors, windows or any of the gates, as well as the roof – we've installed the appropriate pressure-sensors in the frames and structure where normal use wouldn't trigger them, but which as points of leverage would," he added. "There's also pressure-pads at various in-ground locations."

"And at night?" Mycroft looked pained at Beaumont's 'twenty-four- seven' epithet, but realised one must accept certain sacrifices in the service of one's country. He made a mental note to have one or two people suggest appropriate English alternatives without hurting the man's feelings: Americans were proud of their language, and he had no wish to lose his department such an excellent comptroller of security by offending his sensibilities.

"At night all cameras go infra-red, and as they're already cloud-linked, you can view the feed though any uplink portal such as a smartphone or a web-browser, anywhere you like," he smiled, his straight, white teeth a vivid contrast against dark skin. Brushing a wrinkle down the sleeve of his Brooks Brothers suit, he paused. "Do you want me to look at anything else?" Two months ago, Beaumont would have considered such levels of security excessive for anyone below a Head of State, but threats against British interests were becoming too specific to take any chances and Holmes would have been shielded from risk whether he had requested it or not. Queen Elizabeth's government clearly had plans for Mr Holmes that did not include early retirement, of any description.

"In addition to passive surveillance, I am considering the efficacy of these," Mycroft handed the expert a sheet of paper. It took Alex a moment to realise what he was reading, but then comprehension arrived. His lifted his eyebrows.

"You serious?" he asked, redirecting his gaze. "This is maybe something the Marine Corps might use," he said. "Mind telling me why you think this might be helpful?"

Mycroft crossed his legs and looked thoughtful, tapping his lower lip. "I am mindful of our little Algerian problem," he said. "If nothing else, we might consider this a realistic trial," he added, meeting Beaumont's questioning expression. "We know of the approximate area under investigation. The range of this … device lends itself to the location, and as I will be there to monitor its performance and assess its physical practicality, there is good reason to implement this trial for the sake of data-gathering, if nothing else."

"Next you'll be telling me you've thought about getting your kids microchipped in case they go wandering off and getting into trouble," Beaumont grinned, his smile muting immediately as he saw Mycroft lifted eyebrows.

"I would never consider such treatment appropriate for a child, especially of such tender years," the elder Holmes frowned slightly, narrowing his eyes in consideration. "My wife, however …"

###

The ship was more of a boat, really, its profile lying very low to the water. Every sharp line and edge along the gunwales had been wrapped in an odd amalgam of long strips of old rubber and dense latex, painted all over with a matt black rubberised paint, as was the wheelhouse and the superstructure, such as it was. This bizarre, uneven covering absorbed almost all of the current standard detection methods: radar, sonar, infra-red. The entire boat was virtually invisible at night to any form of observation. It was a smuggler's vessel and rarely came out during the day, preferring instead to lie up somewhere discreet. The only thing about this craft that had anything to do with the sunlight was its name.

Which might make one wonder exactly why La Ciel Claire, old, rat-infested and creaky as she might seem, was maintained in peak sailing condition. Rough on the surface, yes, but beneath her scarred wooden deck throbbed a pair of extremely powerful D13-Volvo-Pentas, diesel flowing through them smoothly and very quietly, thanks to the excessive amount of sound reduction technology thoughtfully installed by her current owners.

To make room for these engines meant that there wasn't a huge amount of space left over for other things such as cabins or places to sleep, or even basic privacy for the twenty passengers huddled silently on-deck in old blankets, but the trip from St Mary's, the largest of the Scilly islands, wasn't a long voyage by sailing standards. A few hours in the open on a warm night and The Clear Sky would have reached her destination, a secluded cove on the Penwith Peninsular. Cornwall.

They had travelled on a similar vessel from Saint-Pol-de-Léon the previous night; a small town just beyond Morlaix on the Normandy coast of France, landing in the dark on a coastal property on the Isles of Scilly and hiding out in an old barn during daylight hours. Then the Captain and his minimal crew met them after sunset at a tiny beach of pebbles, escorting them onto his oddly-clad boat before shoving off and heading swiftly and almost silently towards mainland Britain. For the peddlers of such human cargo, the trip netted multiple thousands of Euros. For the men, cold, hungry and exhausted, it was the chance of a new life. Despite the discomfort of their voyage and the hardship of their seemingly endless journey, there were no complaints.

Nimble, despite its ungainly appearance, La Ciel Claire found her unerring way into a shallow-beached inlet, allowing the gently rounded hull to ground deeply into the giving sand.

"Everybody off, quickly," Captain Luc Bisset's harsh whisper had everyone up and moving, dark shadows against a fractionally lighter backdrop of cliffside and sandy shore. "Il y aura un camion, there will be a truck waiting to take you to the nearest city," his voice carried to every ear, despite its low tone. "Do as you have been told and do not stay together or you will be caught and sent back to your country," he hissed. "The British police do not like illegal immigrants," Bisset hammered his words home. "So do not get caught or you will never be able to make it back here again. Bon chances," he nodded, pointing the way to a narrow path that snaked up the side of the cliff.

Waiting for a few moments as his First mate stood beside him, Bisset shook his head, shrugging. The illegals' troubles were not his problem now.

"Do you think any of them will make it beyond the weekend?" Yves Joubert, First Mate of La Ciel Claire, navigator of illegal harbours and general all-round enforcer, watched as their recent cargo scrambled up the side of the hill in the dark of the night.

"I neither know nor care," Bisset pulled out a thick wad of compressed Euro notes. "Your cut," he said, pressing the pile into Joubert's open hand.

"One day, one of them will inform on us," Joubert, thug though he was, was not without sufficient wisdom to understand the risk he was running. People-smuggling was considered a heinous traffic across Europe. But the rewards to the operators were staggering.

"Nobody will inform on us," Bisset met the other man's eyes in the dark. "What do they know of us? Nothing. They don't even know where they have been staying the last three nights and they have only seen us in the dark, pah," he shrugged again. "There is nothing they can say that would lose me any sleep."

Joubert wasn't so sure. One of the men who boarded at St Mary's looked vaguely familiar, almost as if he'd been on board The Clear Sky before. It was impossible, of course – who would make the attempt twice? Who among those men could even afford to make all the payments twice? It was an expensive business, exporting yourself, these days. Shaking the idea from his thoughts, Joubert prepared to ready the boat for the return trip to the isles of Scilly. They would berth the boat in a very private little anchorage, and rest for a while before making their next trip the following night. They would then have to return to France, being unable to operate until the next moonless night in July.

As La Ciel Clair backed her way carefully and slowly out of the sheltered inlet, one of her recent passengers paused half-way up the steep slope and turned to watch the vessel depart. Fishing in an inner pocket of his worn and faded jacket, he produced a small, very clever and very expensive camera. It wasn't the sort of camera usually associated with penniless illegal immigrants. It wasn't even the sort associated with the wealthy, legal kind.

After taking a series of shots, the man nodded to himself, replaced the camera in the safety of his coat and turned around to head up the hill. He knew the way this time.

###

It was all becoming too much to handle. He thought he'd be able to deal with the pressure of his family to conform, but it was a horrible joke and he knew it; it simply wasn't in him to do what they all expected. Rubbing a hand over the dampness of his cheek, Tomas Adin took a very deep breath and stood, pulling the rucksack over a shoulder. He had left the note where his mother couldn't help but see it in the morning, although he wouldn't be around to see her reaction. At barely fifteen, the youngest of the Adin clan had had enough and was about to leave home.

Taking one last look around the only real place of privacy he'd ever known, Tomas made up his mind and opened his bedroom window. There was a convenient and very sturdy beech tree. He used it.

###

Everything was set.

Nora, of course, had agreed to accompany the family to the holiday house; the tone of her voice suggesting a mild affront that Cate had even needed to ask.

Mycroft had arranged to have the Bentley off-roader brought up from Deepdene as this was going to be large enough for all the bags and luxurious enough for everything else. He quite fancied the idea of driving himself for a change, advising his usual team of drivers to make the most of his period of absence as he anticipated a significant volume of movement around London upon his return. Cate reminded him that, technically, the car was hers, but she would permit him to drive it down as long as she could drive it back up. After a brief debate, settled only by the flip of a coin, Mycroft agreed to drive down to Taunton, after which Cate could take over. He suspected her of manipulating the toss.

Their luggage carried a selection of clothing for them all, incorporating, after a judicious shopping expedition, a bag of various beachwear and sunscreens for everyone. Everything else was light and casual, although Cate noted with some concern that Mycroft had opted to include two suits.

"You actually think you're going to have an opportunity to wear not one, but two suits at a beach house in Cornwall?" she smiled, amused.

"A Gentleman is never without a suit," Mycroft looked down into a pair of laughing brown eyes, her teasing making him feel fortunate yet again for such affection. Since she had forced his hand into making the best of this unanticipated holiday, he had discovered he was quite looking forward to a hiatus of informality. There were different theatres, however, of informality. "One never knows when circumstance may demand it," he leaned against her, arms folding around her shoulders as he brushed her lips with his own. "I've never made love to you in Cornwall," he whispered, smiling as her heart thudded hard enough to feel in his own chest.

"And you think one of your Savile Row creations will assist your efforts in that area, do you, Mr Holmes?" Cate sniggered as she held herself away from him, enjoying the pleasure in his face.

"I know how much you like getting me out of my suits," he pulled her back, sighing into her hair. "It's worth wearing one for that alone."

"Then perhaps you should bring three," she breathed, sliding her arms around his neck and finding his mouth with her own. His embrace grew tighter.

A squeal of indignant outrage came from the twins' room.

"Blythe," Mycroft relaxed his hold, a rueful expression on his face.

"Blythe," Cate nodded, smiling as she pulled him by the hand towards the sound of disquiet. "Jules is probably sitting on one of her toys; you know how he enjoys irritating her."

"Just like his mother," Mycroft wrapped a long arm around her.

"I do not enjoy irritating you," Cate raised her eyebrows. "I find it only mildly entertaining."

"I love you," Mycroft squeezed her against his side.

###

Nearly six hours after they had left the city, it was near-dark by the time the Bentley turned off the B3306 and onto the Old Foundry Road, more of a track, really, and intermittently paved. Continuing along to the very end, Cate manoeuvred the sizable vehicle along the narrow lane as Mycroft pulled out his Blackberry on which he conducted several functions. Suddenly, from out of the darkening haze ahead, a swathe of light cut through the shadows: they had arrived.

Pulling the car into a hard-tamped circular driveway, Cate grinned through the car windows at the charming sight, even at this late hour.

A dark-granite building, square and solid, with large bay windows, a porch-covered door and ivy crawling up towards the slate-tiled roof. Light blazed from every ground-floor aspect, as well as several downlights at the main gate and from the corners of the roof, ensuring the entire façade of the building was illuminated. Surrounded by a slightly wild-looking garden and trees, she could see little further than the house itself, but there'd be plenty of time for exploring over the next few days.

The twins were sound asleep in the back seat with Nora, making no sound as Cate handed Jules to Mycroft and clasped Blythe to her own shoulder; they would put the children to bed first and see about the bags later.

The warm summer air was strongly perfumed with flowers and the nearness of the sea. Cate drew a deep breath and felt wonderful. And hungry.

"If you can see to the children Miss Cate," Nora fussed with a large cooler bag she'd packed just before they'd left London. "I have a lovely supper for us all in here."
"There should be supplies laid in for us," Mycroft nodded at the house. "Though a sensible idea not to worry about anything major for dinner tonight, I agree."

Cate didn't care either way. She had brought the children for a summer holiday at the beach, and there would be sandcastles and ice-creams and kite-flying and swimming and anything else she could arrange. She looked around the Cornish house and was delighted with its external ambiance. What would it be like on the inside? As they passed beneath the tiled porch and into the house proper, she watched and waited as Mycroft and Nora stepped carefully through the entrance.

Interestingly, she was not the only one watching.

Or waiting.