Chapter 2.
"Where are we going, Sherlock?" said John irritably. They'd gone to his home, picked up his car (with a brief stop for a goodbye to Mary, punctuated with eye-rolling from Sherlock), and had now been driving for an hour. Most of the time had been spent getting out of London, since rush hour was quickly approaching. John was without food, without Mary, and rapidly becoming without patience.
"You know where we're going," Sherlock answered.
"No, I know who we're going to see, not where she is. Based on how long we've been in this car, I'm guessing the back of beyond. Which is a good place for Irene Adler, if you ask me." John shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat. He rarely drove, so the prospect of navigating through busy London streets to some unknown destination hadn't been attractive. Sherlock therefore took over and was, unsurprisingly, a good driver. Mary's Audi A4 was also well-stocked with creature comforts. But deeply padded leather seats aside, the novelty of the journey was fast beginning to pall.
"Seriously, Sherlock, if you're going to be all mysterious about this trip," John waggled his fingers in air-quotes, earning a scowl from Sherlock, "At least tell me how long I can expect to be trapped making it."
"Wokstop," Sherlock said with a sigh.
"Wok…where?" John asked.
"Wokstop. Unofficial capital of The Dukeries region and, not incidentally, home of Welbeck Abbey. Surely you know the story of Welbeck," Sherlock said archly, quite aware that its existence, much less its history, were probably unknown to John.
"Surely, I don't. And surely you know that, so why don't you just fill me in," John snapped. "God knows you're dying to."
Sherlock huffed, but John was right. The opportunity to hold forth on an arcane subject about which his listener knew nothing was something Sherlock couldn't resist.
"Welbeck Abbey is the ancestral home of the Portlands, including the fifth Duke of Portland who lived there in the late 1800s. The Duke was a recluse the likes of which has rarely been seen. He never left home if he could avoid it and went to extraordinary lengths to avoid all human contact. He even built an electric railway inside the house to bring him food from the kitchen so he wouldn't have to interact with anyone at mealtimes."
"So a hero of yours, then?" John asked drily. Sherlock ignored him.
"What makes the Abbey of interest to us isn't that part of the house, though. It's the second wing of the house—more precisely, the network of rooms beneath the main floor. The old Duke put a large dent in his fortune having the underground wing built, including entertaining spaces which never saw use. Even better, the rooms connect to a vast series of tunnels and secret passageways which run for considerable distances beneath the surrounding landscape."
Despite himself, John was intrigued. Sherlock smiled. His story had worked as intended, distracting John until they were out of the city and heading into the countryside.
"A perfect hiding place, then," John said.
Sherlock nodded. "With the advantage of being all but invisible to anyone who doesn't know the property, yet with access to a fully functional living space—kitchens, toilets, everything one could reasonably need."
"Did you set her up there?"
"No, I don't know how she found it. I haven't been in touch with the Woman since returning to London."
John shook his head, struggling to take the implication in. "You mean, you saw her while you were off being dead?"
Sherlock had been absent from London for two years while working to destroy what was left of James Moriarty's criminal network after his death. John had believed Sherlock to be dead throughout that period, a point that was still a sore spot between them. While John eventually understood the reason, even the necessity, of the charade, its emotional impact on him had been devastating. Not something easily erased from memory, no matter how many apologies the usually unremorseful Sherlock offered.
Sherlock became absorbed in driving, a ridiculous pretense since the roads were now clear of traffic as they moved deeper into the countryside. Sherlock typically avoided discussion of his time away, but John suspected that this silence was motivated more by reluctance to discuss his relationship with the Woman.
Irene Adler, known professionally and to Sherlock as "The Woman," had been a dominatrix of substantial repute at one time. Her career (at least in London) had come to a crashing halt when she tried and failed to extort a lifetime's money and influence from the British Government, in the person of Mycroft. Sherlock had been the fly in the ointment, both in terms of the blackmail and her emotional state. As John understood it, her attraction to Sherlock had led her to unwisely use his name as the passcode for the phone which held the information she'd hoped to leverage into a fortune. He'd deduced it and left her to Mycroft's mercies, which had been minimal.
Sherlock's excuse that he'd rescued her from certain death just to preserve her intellect smacked of nonsense. To John, the news that they'd been in contact during Sherlock's "death" cemented his suspicion that Sherlock had formed an emotional attachment to the Woman as well. The idea was mind-boggling, and not one John intended to let lie. But he knew his friend well enough to recognize when the conversational gates had slammed shut—the pressed lips and the intense gaze anywhere but John's direction all signaled Sherlock's determination to change topics. John would wait—the time to ambush Sherlock on the subject of the Woman would eventually come.
"OK," he said. "If you won't tell me what you got up to with Irene Adler, at least tell me how long it'll be until the big reunion."
"I didn't get up to anything and 30 minutes."
"Fine," said John.
"Fine," answered Sherlock. Just as silence began to settle in, Sherlock's phone buzzed. John looked at the display.
"It's Mycroft."
"Ignore him," Sherlock commanded. The phone buzzed again. After several seconds, it stopped then began anew. This continued until Sherlock stabbed at the screen to power it down. His attention drawn from the road, the car swerved onto the shoulder.
"Stop! Just let me answer if you won't and try not to kill us," John barked. He grabbed for the phone and swiped across the screen to answer the call and turn on the speaker.
"You should know by now, Sherlock, that you can't ignore me. No lesser an eminence than the Queen of England has ensured it." Mycroft's voice filled the car.
"I was going to wait until you'd sent a helicopter, Mycroft," Sherlock snarked. "You did it for John, the least you can do for your little brother is provide transportation to work."
"Yes, well, speaking of work, you aren't here." Mycroft noted.
"How perceptive of you. I can see now how you've managed to sucker so many people into giving you power, brother dear."
"Boys," interjected John. He was far too annoyed by being stuck in a car to add squabbling Holmes brothers to the mix. "Cut to the chase, please."
"Just so, John. Sherlock, you were to be at MI5 an hour ago. Instead, you are somewhere in the vicinity of Cheswell and going in the wrong direction. Am I to assume that you're taking a sick day, little brother?"
"Monday, Mycroft, not today. Even the poor working subjects of Her Majesty's secret service aren't on duty every day. And I told you before, you'll see me when I want you to. Or were you planning to lock me up in a corner of your office?"
"I am planning on you being available to assist the Commonwealth when needed, Sherlock. And, as I texted you this morning, you are needed now," Mycroft said grimly.
"I ignored that text, as you can see. I'm needed elsewhere." Sherlock said condescendingly.
"No," Mycroft answered. "You have an assignment, and I need you here to instruct you on it. Turn around, now."
"Sorry, but that won't be possible. If you really need to pretend that you can order me around, Mycroft, you can give me my assignment over the phone."
"No, I can't," Mycroft snapped.
"Then I'll talk to you on Monday," Sherlock tried to snatch his phone away from John to end the call. The car swerved slightly again.
"Sherlock," growled John. "You can be a pain in the arse on Monday, or any other day, but you won't be doing it while driving me down a road at 115 km/hour." He lifted the phone to speak directly into the microphone. "And you, Mycroft, can be a pompous prick some other time too. Just tell him what you need so I can get back to trying to survive this trip."
Both brothers sighed audibly, but stopped sniping at one another.
"What do you want, Mycroft? If you're worried about John hearing, don't be. I'll just tell him what you said anyway."
Mycroft sighed again. He knew it was true, so gave up any hope of his communication to Sherlock being private.
"It appears that I may have a hole in my security. I suspect someone, but cannot ask others in the organization to investigate. If this person is truly loyal, doing so would undermine their value to me. If they are not, I need to know how far their perfidy goes. It would take a powerful motivation to turn this asset, so if an inappropriate alliance has been formed, it would present great risk."
"Risk to whom?" asked John.
"Myself. And, by extension, anyone who relies on me." Mycroft sounded aggrieved, but John suspected it was due as much to John's participation in the call as the subject matter.
Sherlock stiffened. "Our parents?" he asked, suddenly fully engaged in the conversation.
"Yes. And you."
"I'm not reliant on you in any way," Sherlock objected, offended.
"You may not believe so, Sherlock, but others do. And it's that perception which counts."
Sherlock huffed. "Ridiculous. But I'll concede that having you provide their security may have put our parents at risk. Who is your mole?"
Mycroft didn't answer.
"Mycroft?" asked John, sharing a glance with Sherlock. He looked at the phone to ensure that the call was still connected. Full bars, call still active.
"Mouth too full to talk?" asked Sherlock solicitously. "Come on, Mycroft. I haven't got all day, who is it you want me to investigate?"
When Mycroft answered, all bluster had gone from his tone.
"Anthea," he said quietly.
Even Sherlock was shocked into silence. Anthea had been Mycroft's right hand woman for years. She was as close to him as it was likely possible to be without a family connection. She knew far too much for comfort—about Mycroft and Sherlock. She'd been complicit in many covert events in the Holmes' life, including Sherlock's "suicide" and the subsequent attack on Moriarty's organization. Personal details of the brothers' lives were known to her that both would prefer never see the light of day. The possibility that she'd been turned to release that information to a third party was a deeply disturbing one.
As Sherlock and John absorbed this information, signage for the village of Wokstop came into view. Welbeck Abbey was just outside of the town center, with a tower peeking out above the treeline.
"Text me the details, Mycroft," said Sherlock. "I'll look into it for you."
After a few moments, Mycroft responded. "Thank you."
"Now, brother dear, I regret that we'll have to hang up on you. We've arrived to visit an old friend. Later," Sherlock said as John ended the call.
"Jesus," said John. "Anthea."
"Yes," breathed Sherlock. "Could be a bit of trouble there."
He steered the car through the gates of the Abbey, which were open during the evening for the occasional tourist tour or reception. "But we have even bigger trouble awaiting us here," he said. Both men alighted from the car. Sherlock gestured toward the door. "Shall we?" Sherlock grinned suddenly and bounded toward the door, John following reluctantly behind.
They'd arrived, and the Woman was waiting.