The Exhibition -An Ex Files Special

Author's note: this four chapter fic will make more sense if you have read my story The Shooting Party first, so you can understand who the OC people are and their relationship with the Holmes brothers. In my stories, Mycroft found more than a goldfish. I owe the prompt for this to my friend, ThessalyMc, who is more than a 'colleague' now.

Exhibition /ˌeksɪˈbɪʃ(ə)n/ Part One

Noun.

1. A public display of works of art or items of interest, held in an art gallery or museum.

2. A display or demonstration of a skill, aptitude, quality or emotion.

"You don't have to come. Really. I will understand if it is too painful for you. And I will explain it to her, so you don't have to."

Caroline's words were designed to be comforting and reassuring. He knew that on an intellectual level. But every time she raised this particular topic, he felt a horrible emotional discomfort, a clash of guilt and responsibility. Of all the people he had to keep in the dark, she was the only one that he had to really struggle over- the urge to tell her was so strong. As a result, he had simply not been willing to talk to her about it- not at all, lest he be tempted to give into his weaknesses. As the months had gone by, she had realised that he would not talk about it, and she stopped raising it. Not ever. So, the subject of Sherlock's death had become a mutually reinforced 'no fly zone'.

She was sitting across from him in the living room of the South Eaton Place townhouse. The two of them had just entertained the German ambassador and a number of British ministers to a dinner party. It had been an exercise in diplomatic communication; messages exchanged behind the cloak of civility and conviviality. Mycroft excelled at it, but he had been grateful for her assistance. Events like these went more smoothly when the host had a companion every bit as competent as he was at managing conversations delicately. The presence of wives, girlfriends and significant others made the evening go more swiftly- and successfully. Mycroft was reminded yet again of what a social asset the widowed Lady Caroline Herbert, Countess of Pembroke, would be for him.

There had been a quiet period in the immediate aftermath of Sherlock's exposure as a fake and the subsequent media frenzy about his suicide. Social contacts avoided him, and he had some sympathy. The whole debacle was something of an elephant at the dinner party table. He'd been happy enough to lay low for a while, until memories faded a bit. Proprieties had to be observed.

Mycroft suspected a certain royal hand behind his rehabilitation. Somewhere after the six month anniversary, invitations started to re-appear in his post. That made it easier for his work-related social gatherings like this one to take place without fear of his invited guests having to invent excuses.

Tonight's guests were gone, and it was late. Across from him with her high heels off and her feet tucked up on the chair, Caroline was a slim late thirties blonde woman with the unusual combination of intelligence and elegance. She was dressed in an understated black Alexander McQueen gown. He knew without asking that she'd chosen the British designer label to convey a subtle patriotic message. Looking at him now, her blue eyes were conveying gentle sympathy, but also a bit of concern.

Always so perceptive. Mycroft knew that she would be reading his discomfort, and be misunderstanding it. That was inevitable, given the fact that she didn't know what he knew and therefore believed that Sherlock's suicide was real. How many times over the intervening months had he wondered what her reaction would be, if and when she found out the truth? The lie was so fundamental that he wondered if she would ever be able to forgive him. It was one of the reasons he had delayed making any decision at all about a marriage offer. Until he knew for certain, until Sherlock was either back home safe or confirmed dead by MI6, he had to keep his relationship with Caroline in this strange limbo. As he watched her sit back in the silk upholstered Louis XVIth chair and raise her brandy balloon to take a tentative sip, he stifled again the urge to tell her.

How long would she wait for him? Other far more eligible bachelors than he were paying court to her. Yet another reason why I want this escapade of Sherlock's to end soon. He looked down again at the stiff invitation card, which he had been turning over and over, unconsciously communicating his discomfort at its message.

Lord Mycroft Holmes, Viscount Sherringford

Is invited to attend the private opening of

A photography exhibition by

Ara Herbert

Atlas Gallery, 49 Dorset Street, Marylebone, London, W1U 7NF

17 March 2013 8.30pm til late

The Honourable Lady Arabella Victoria Sophia Herbert, the Countess of Pembroke's only daughter and heir to one of the largest and oldest estates in the UK, had broken with her family's Oxbridge tradition, choosing instead to go to the University of Westminster. Her mother tried to enlist Mycroft's aid in trying to dissuade her from pursuing the BA (Hons) in Photography. "Ara needs some male stability. Try to talk some sense into her."

He'd had no more influence than she had. Mycroft sometimes wondered if Ara had talked to Sherlock about her decision. Caroline had tried to limit their contact before her daughter went to university, but the headstrong Ara was perfectly capable of disregarding everyone's advice if it suited her. There was something rebellious in both their characters that drew her to Sherlock. She had taken the news of his suicide badly, according to Caroline, choosing to go to New York for an internship immediately after the end of her last term, and therefore missing Sherlock's funeral. She'd been there for more than eighteen months, and was flying back just for this exhibition and a few weeks' holiday.

He made his decision. "Of course I will attend the exhibition. It would be churlish of me to decline. You must be proud of her achievements."

"My pride in her will not be affected by your decision to stay away. And Ara probably invited you more out of curiosity about our relationship than any other reason." This was said in a very matter-of-fact tone. Caroline knew as well as he did that Ara and he had not spoken more than a few times since she left England.

He smiled. "Then the curiosity is mutual. I am interested to know whether her time in New York has helped her."

"There is no need to meet at the gallery for that; let me set up a dinner when she's home properly."

"No, it's alright. Really."

She wasn't convinced. "Don't make the decision without thinking about it. I haven't seen the final selection she's made, but you know that lots of them will be the crime scene work she did for her major project."

"Have you seen those photos then?" He put the question to her mildly, curious to know to what extent Ara had been willing to share her work.

"No, she's always been cagey about showing me anything- probably because she still thinks I don't approve of her taking up photography. This will be the first time. That alone speaks volumes about her confidence now. But I have to warn you, I know that Sherlock will be in some of them, perhaps even a lot of them. And, of course, there will probably be that portrait of him for Country Life. She's still proud of that."

He let a tiny smile form. "Does she know, I wonder, that he agreed to have that taken only to irritate me?"

She matched his smile. "They shared that in common. Both like to pull our tails." Then the smile faded.

He realised that she was still having trouble using the past tense when referring to Sherlock. He understood the feeling, only in a different way. He had to be so careful- to the point where he reminded himself every day that Sherlock was as good as dead; the odds of him returning safely had been very long at the beginning, and were growing longer with each passing day. The thought made him close his eyes in a reflex and take a deep breath.

Once he was able to continue, it was with the rather sensible comment, "Well, at least the announcement of the Public Inquiry should stimulate curiosity in Arabella's exhibition. He won't be thought of as a pariah for much longer. That should help sell some photos, I suppose."

He could see curiosity blossom in her mind. Even so, it was very delicately voiced when she asked "Whose idea was it to push for the public discussion now?"

He shook his head. "I'm not at liberty to say; it wasn't mine. My motives would be suspect. But despite the inevitable re-hashing of some things I would prefer not to re-live, I am glad it is going ahead. He deserves that, at least."

She nodded. "About time that the truth came out. Both the police and the press have so much to answer for."

Mycroft knew that Caroline was convinced that Sherlock had been driven to take his own life by the press coverage about his supposed frauds. He could not forget the first evening, after Sherlock's suicide hit the news. She had telephoned from Wiltshire, but he had told his butler that he would take no calls, not even hers. Two and a half hours later, she had turned up on the doorstep in Mayfair, and his housekeeper had let her in, despite his orders that he was not to be disturbed. She had tried to offer sympathy, to console him, but he'd thanked her for her kindness and said nothing more. He had sat there in his chair in the library, silent but dry-eyed. He had never felt so miserable, helpless and angry at one and the same time. He didn't trust himself to speak. How dare you do this to me, Sherlock?

Mycroft had no real choice but to lie to Caroline to protect his brother's secret- or risk losing his job, his vocation in life, if anyone found out he told her the truth. Despite arguing vehemently against the entire scheme, Mycroft had been out-manoeuvred, and Sherlock's audacious plan left him no choice but to lie. Twenty months later, it still rankled.

He decided to lighten the mood, lest she be able to detect too much of his still smouldering resentment. "I assume you've forgiven her for her choice of career then? Enough to accept the invitation yourself."

That earned him the smile he wanted. "Of course. She's always been pig-headed and stubborn. Ever since she was a ten month baby, she's wanted things her own way. I can't argue anymore. She's grown up so fast, and I have come to realise even more how precious every moment with her is to me."

Mycroft knew that Caroline had been aghast at Ara's choice of subject matter for the final project. The two weeks that she spent with the Metropolitan Police's Murder Investigation Team was hardly the sort of photography that her mother wanted her to pursue. There had been arguments about it. Caroline had tried to bribe and cajole Ara into taking an internship at one of the fashion houses. "It's great money, and you will be able to establish your credentials with future patrons wanting portraits."

To suggest fashion as an alternative was nothing short of a criminal offense in Ara's eyes. Caroline recounted her reaction to Mycroft, getting the tone of outrage just right: "I'm not some bloody paparazzi or stooge playing up to supermodels' egos, mum. The very idea of selling out like that is positively disgusting." He had tried to console Caroline- and then made absolutely sure that DI Lestrade knew just what would happen to him should a single blonde hair of Ara's be damaged while she was on work placement with the Met.

As with most things, Ara got her way. And the Major Project had gotten her top marks, then the New York internship at Magnum and now this exhibition. All her own work- Caroline had washed her hands of the whole business, and not pulled a single string to help. Perhaps because of that fact, Mycroft knew that she was actually quite proud of her headstrong daughter's determination to make her own way in her chosen career, irrespective of the weight of the inheritance.

"Come to the Diogenes and we will have a light supper there first, before going on. It wouldn't do to get there too early. She will have other people to impress, rather than you and me."

He could see her thinking about it, wondering if finally a corner had been turned. He deduced that she was thinking that she just might be able to talk to him about Sherlock. He was dreading that. He had no wish to compound the lie. But neither would he refuse to see what Ara had produced. Mycroft was not a coward. He knew that he could no longer postpone it. It was time to confront some inner demons.