The next morning, Mycroft perused the day's papers over a breakfast of tea and crumpets; the crumpets were perhaps an indulgence, but it was turning into a particularly trying week. The press were behaving exactly as he expected the press to behave, except on this occasion they were acting, albeit inadvertently, as his agents of propaganda. These people really were the absolute worst, Mycroft reflected; the very same tabloids that had pilloried Sherlock in the weeks before his 'death' were now either hailing him as some sort of figure of noble tragedy, or were publishing sickeningly sycophantic obituaries that painted him as a hero of the people. He particularly disliked the one that finished '...he is survived by his father, mother, and an older brother, Myrick, 58, a civil servant.' That particular newspaper was going to find it very difficult to obtain press passes in the future.

He roughly re-folded the offending newspaper and cast it onto the floor by his feet. On the plus side, Anthea had texted to say that Sherlock's passports were ready, along with thirteen different denominations of currency and a pouch full of SIM cards. Mycroft was surprised not to have heard from either his parents or from Sherlock since the previous evening, and initially wondered whether Anthea had taken the initiative to screen his calls. In the end, he sent a message to his parents:

Did you receive the additional provisions?

He knew full well that they had, so either they were disgruntled in some way, or they were currently working their way through them. He was about to bite into his second crumpet when he was surprised by his phone ringing. It was his mother. Surely a simple 'yes, thank you' could have sufficed?

"It arrived?" he said, brushing a crumb from his waistcoat.

"Yes, it's all very lovely, thank you," his mother replied. "Teapot's a bit small, but we'll make do. We did worry, though - just for a moment - that the whole thing might have been...you know, an IUD."

Mycroft pulled a face of mild discomfort as he looked at the phone.

"I'm fairly certain you mean an IED," he told her. "Although it seems rather unlikely that such a thing would be delivered to you in a Fortnum and Mason hamper by a secret service agent who knows the keypad entry code, hm?"

"Yes, well, you never can be too careful," she replied, a frown in her voice. "Certainly where you boys are concerned."

There was a brief rustling sound at the other end of the line before his mother spoke again.

"I'm putting you on the speaker thing, so your father can join in."

Oh, good lord.

"How's Sherlock?" his father asked, rather louder than required.

"As of twelve hours ago, fine," Mycroft replied.

"Molly's taking care of him?" his mother asked.

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"One assumes."

"It does make me feel slightly better about this whole horrible affair," she continued. "Knowing that someone is looking after him; that he isn't alone."

Funny, it wasn't having the same effect on Mycroft. In fact, the more he dwelt on it, the more urgent it seemed to get Sherlock on a plane, to cut him loose, to rub his nose in the scent and follow the trail. Generously-proportioned beds, home-made meals and companionship (of either the feminine or feline kind) were unlikely to harden his brother to the task ahead.

"By the way, Myc," his mother said, interrupting his thoughts. "We need to know where the funeral is going to take place. People are starting to ask, and we don't know what to say."

Mycroft felt a mild spasm of alarm course through him.

"Who? What people?" he asked quickly, adding more firmly. "And I thought we agreed that you wouldn't speak to anyone?"

"These aren't just 'people', Mycroft, these are friends, members of our family - your family," his mother replied. "I'm getting texts and missed calls all over the place, and I've got to tell them something."

Mycroft set his jaw, then took a deep breath.

"I am handling it," he replied, as gently as possible. "My PA has all of the necessary contact details and everyone will get the information they need in good time. As will you."

"Us?" his mother asked. "But I thought we weren't-"

"They will have their chance to say goodbye, and shortly after, you will too," Mycroft told them.

"We'll see Sherlock?" his mother gasped. "Oh, thank God! Where? When?"

"It will all be arranged," he assured them. "Now I'm afraid I must go. I have to brief the Prime Minister."

0000000000

Mycroft assumed that his parents must, by now, have realised that 'briefing the Prime Minister' was barely-concealed code for 'I'm ending this conversation now', but they didn't make a fuss about it on this occasion. It was only in the last few moments of the call that he decided what he was going to do next; he hadn't expected it to be necessary, he had thought a phone call would suffice, but he found himself in need of something - reassurance, possibly.

The curtains of the flat were still closed, although it was mid-morning by the time the car pulled up outside. One of the necessities of harbouring a dead man, he supposed. He told the driver to park somewhere a little distance from the property, and to wait for his call. As he walked up the short path, Mycroft performed a swift appraisal of the building he was about to enter; modest ground floor flat on a standard Victorian terrace, with its own private entrance (she would have preferred the first floor from a safety perspective, but couldn't resist the small garden), everything well-kept but not showy, a cat-flap set into the traditional four-panelled front door, and a peep-hole set at a lower-than-average height, clearly by the flat's current owner.

When he rang the bell for the first time, he didn't expect an answer. He could picture Sherlock instructing his host what to do, where to go, while he armed himself with a soup ladle or a heavy textbook, or whatever other deadly weapon thirty-three-year old pathologists might have to hand in their cosy East London flats. Sighing, Mycroft took out his phone.

It's me.

In the complete silence of the flat, he could hear the buzz from Sherlock's phone as his message arrived. A few moments later...

Wanker - SH

Another few seconds went by before the door opened, Molly Hooper confirming his identity before unbolting the door and allowing him to slip inside. Mycroft didn't even have the chance to exchange greetings with her before Sherlock came barrelling into the hallway, dressing gown flapping around him and brandishing a...rolling pin! Damn, he really should have guessed that.

"Sorry, did I interrupt your baking session?" Mycroft asked, mildly.

"Mycroft, what the hell are you doing?" Sherlock barked.

"Good morning, Dr Hooper," Mycroft said, choosing to ignore the rather pathetic attempt at threatening behaviour coming from the figure to his left.

"Um, hi," the small woman replied, arms wrapped around her middle, her gaze flicking uncertainly between the two men. There was an undercurrent of something in her tone – Mycroft had expected diffidence, but this sounded very much like Dr Hooper was mildly irritated with him.

"Why the hell didn't you give us some warning?" Sherlock demanded.

Mycroft felt his eyebrows elevate.

"Why, what were you up to?" he queried.

In response, he received a cold glare from the man with the rolling pin. Mycroft replied with a pointed stare of his own.

"Well, what are you doing here?" Sherlock snapped. "What's the point in us communicating via encrypted text message, if you're just going to come sashaying up to the door in broad daylight?"

"I'll, er, I'll just-" – Molly Hooper gestured awkwardly in the direction of the back of the flat, moving from one foot to the other.

"Don't worry, Dr Hooper," Mycroft replied quickly, offering her a diplomatic smile. "I won't stay long. Sherlock and I need to discuss…logistics."

"Logistics? What do you mean?" Sherlock replied, equally quickly.

"Everything is in place, brother mine," Mycroft said, clasping his hands in front of him. "The next act is upon us."

It lasted a fraction of a second, but Mycroft caught it – that look on his brother's face that told him this wasn't expected. He believed he had more time. He saw Sherlock quickly compose himself, the lines of his face hardening, his whole body tensing as he drew himself up.

"Fine," Sherlock replied, tersely. "Won't you step into my office?"

He swung out a hand to motion towards the living room door, which was partly open. From the reflection in a mirror on the wall, Mycroft could see that the television was playing in there on mute.

"We were, um, we were just going to have some more tea," Molly said, a comment Mycroft realised was directed at him. "Would you like some?"

This young woman was clearly wary of him, but from what Mycroft could remember of his only previous encounter with Molly Hooper, he was slightly surprised that she hadn't immediately scuttled into the nearest hole in the skirting board. She was clearly mistress of her own home, he had to grant her that. But she was also, Mycroft knew, making herself scarce in order to make things easier for them.

"Thank you," Mycroft replied, with a nod.

He saw her eyes flick briefly to Sherlock before she turned and headed towards the back of the flat, scooping up the cat as it slunk out of the living room, and carrying it with her. Mycroft saw his brother's eyes follow her down the short hallway before he turned and stalked into the living room with a vague 'follow me' gesture.

As soon as they were in there, Sherlock swiftly crossed to the television and switched it off, but not before Mycroft caught a glimpse of what was on the screen – an old BBC costume drama, quite a good one if he recognised it correctly. Hardly his brother's viewing tastes, though. He saw Sherlock give the cushions on the sofa a seemingly random nudge with his knee, but it was not enough to hide the indentations that exposed the fact that two people had until very recently been sharing the same sofa. Not closely, but sharing it nonetheless.

At the foot of the sofa were a pair of slippers so fluffy that they might have been two angora rabbits at rest – if they weren't in the most startling shade of pink. Dr Hooper had clearly been sitting with her bare feet tucked underneath her, Mycroft's arrival not allowing her time put the slippers back on again before answering the door. At the other end of the sofa were Sherlock's black oxfords, laces arranged precisely.

On the coffee table were two un-matching cups and saucers and a couple of empty plates; mobile phones sat side by side. The only other thing adorning it was a laptop, presumably Molly's, which Sherlock had clearly abandoned in a hurry when the doorbell was rung. As though reading Mycroft's mind, Sherlock firmly snapped down the screen, looking up at him with an irritated expression. Was he supposed to feel guilty for interrupting this scene of domesticity?

"I assumed you were working?" Mycroft began, hitching the legs of his suit trousers before taking a seat on the only sensible-looking chair in the room.

"I was trying to," Sherlock replied.

Mycroft gazed pointedly around the room.

"I expected to see that you had redecorated," he continued. "Made a little collage of evidence on Dr Hooper's wall."

"I have, but not in here," his brother replied flatly. "Spare room."

Mycroft pursed his lips.

"But I thought you weren't in the spare room?" he said, fixing Sherlock with a challenging gaze.

His brother stared him down.

"I'm not," he replied, his eyebrow slowly arching. "But it's always best to separate work and pleasure, don't you think?"

He was bluffing, Mycroft knew it…so why was it irking him so much? It was clear that it was going to be up to him to be the grown up in this situation.

"About that little trip you're going to make, Sherlock," he said, folding his hands in his lap. "I think we should perhaps discuss your itinerary."

They were only a few minutes into the discussion when there was a soft knock on the door, and Sherlock's host came in with a small tray bearing a teapot that was swamped by a brightly-knitted cosy. As she set it down, Mycroft saw that the mug she'd brought with it – evidently for him - bore the slogan 'Forensic pathologists are the best! Their patients are coolest'. He couldn't help but think that Dr Hooper had selected this mug especially, something that was only confirmed by the barely concealed mirth on Sherlock's face. This could possibly be forgiven, though, by the plate beside it that was arranged with dense slices of the most richly-fragranced Jamaican ginger cake, unmistakably home-made.

"It's good stuff," Sherlock told him, through the mouthful that he had already crammed into his face. Beneath the uncouth table manners, there was an odd mixture of both authority and pride in his tone.

"There really was no need, Dr Hooper," Mycroft told Molly. "But the cake does indeed look very good. Now, you have my word that this won't take very long."

He saw that she was about to retreat again, when Sherlock set down his plate.

"This is Molly's home," he said. "She can stay if she wants to."

Mycroft sighed inwardly. What was this? If it was Sherlock's attempt at some sort of chivalry or loyalty, it was deeply misjudged. Even allowing for the fact that Dr Hooper simply didn't have the necessary security clearance, did his brother really wish for her to hear the details of what the operation might – and in some cases, would – involve? What Sherlock might be called upon to do? What might be done to him in return? It could all lead to a terribly messy scene, and one for which Mycroft didn't have the time and his brother certainly didn't have the skills to successfully navigate.

"I'm going to go and tidy the kitchen," Molly said, eventually, with a nod. "Sherlock, just…if you need anything, I'll just be through there."

Mycroft saw the look that passed between them; then how his brother's taut and annoyed expression relaxed into something approaching reasonable and accepting. It was starting to make some sort of sense – albeit an unnerving sort. Although they hadn't discussed it, Sherlock knew as well as he did that Molly Hooper wasn't necessary to the plan and never had been; he and Mycroft had everything worked out between them, and Mycroft was perfectly able to arrange for the odd death certificate to be falsified and to find a willing party to eject a corpse from a window, if required. It had been a surprise to say the least when Sherlock had called him, telling him that someone else was now involved – he wasn't asking him, he had gone ahead without consultation. They had briefly argued about it, but Sherlock had shut him down completely, and anyway, Mycroft could see that the damage was already done – for whatever reason, it was clear that his brother wanted Molly Hooper to be involved.

And perhaps the moment that had just passed was similar; she couldn't contribute anything useful to their plans, couldn't add anything to the conversation - but Sherlock simply wanted Molly Hooper at his side.

He had certainly developed some regrettable habits in the past year or so.

But he was focused now, and Mycroft was cheered by the way his brother rattled through his findings of the last few days, thoughts and theories spilling out like rapid-fire gunshot. Sherlock's instinct and research, and his own intelligence-gathering, dovetailed perfectly; it all pointed to the same course of action, and confirmed that time was of the essence. The synchronicity seemed worth celebrating – luckily, that excellent ginger cake was still to hand.

"It's possible we could bring the schedule forward twenty-four hours," Mycroft said, moving a second slice of cake to his plate; he had been thinking out loud, but now it seemed like the most logical course of action. He could have a plane on the runway by nine o'clock that night. They were ready, and the longer they waited, the greater the risk of discovery, after all.

He saw Sherlock's tongue darting out to moisten his lips.

"I thought we were waiting until after the funeral," he said, frowning.

Mycroft wasn't sure whether this was intended as humour.

"I can't see a pressing reason for you to be around for your own funeral," he replied, smiling. "And the quicker we do this, the sooner I can return our parents to their natural habitat, and the sooner I can get back to my other responsibilities. Sadly, this country won't run itself, and I do have other things to do besides acting as your travel agent and making sure you don't eat your weight in baked goods."

"Says the man on his second piece of cake," his brother retorted in a grumble. "We stick with the original plan: we do it tomorrow."

"It makes perfect sense, Sherlock," Mycroft insisted. "You still have nearly five hours, and I hardly think it's going to take you that long to pack."

"This isn't-" Sherlock began, before cutting himself off.

Mycroft observed him, tilting his head to one side as though to say 'well?' He badly wanted to see Sherlock finish that thought.

"It isn't just about me," his brother finally said, looking down at his hands that hung, clenched, between his knees.

"How nice of you to say so," Mycroft replied. "And usually, I would agree with you. But on this occasion, I can't see who else it could possibly be about..."

He was issuing Sherlock a challenge, and he didn't care if he knew it. In response, Sherlock got to his feet, taking a couple of paces away from Mycroft before turning just far enough to look over his shoulder at him.

"Tomorrow night, Mycroft," he repeated, getting to his feet. "You have my word that I'll be ready."

Mycroft slowly sat back in his seat, watching Sherlock the whole time; the hands stuffed into the dressing gown pockets, the gaze fixed somewhere in the bottom corner of the room. He could scarcely believe they were having this conversation, but here they were; the world's most dangerous and insidious criminal network was bloodied and punch-drunk, and rather than moving swiftly to deliver the knockout blow, his brother was trying to renegotiate the timetable. But he also knew that it was impossible to force Sherlock into doing something he didn't want to do – and if you did, he would do his utmost to make your very existence hell (and very probably refuse to put on his clothes in the bargain).

"Very well," Mycroft said eventually, to his brother's back. "Tomorrow. And if you want my advice, Sherlock-"

"-not terribly likely-"

"Get some sleep, eat a decent meal, say your goodbyes if you must – and don't be tempted by…going-away presents. Of any kind. Giving or receiving."

At this, Sherlock whirled around surprisingly quickly, as though to check Mycroft's meaning. The second that their eyes met, Sherlock let out a derisive and dismissive snort. But Mycroft couldn't help but notice that his brother's famous eloquence and verbosity was eluding him at this moment. Instead, he watched as Sherlock returned to the sofa and flipped up the laptop screen again, immediately engrossing himself in whatever was on the screen (hopefully, it pertained to the operation, and Sherlock wasn't back on Twitter under an assumed name, arguing with halfwits and conspiracy theorists).

"I'll see my way out, shall I?" Mycroft said pleasantly, setting down his plate and getting to his feet.

"If you would," his brother replied, his eyes still fixed on his screen.

Still watching Sherlock, went to pick up his umbrella from where it leant against the wall; as he did so, he saw the living room door open slightly, and the cat strolled into the room. Disregarding him completely, it made a beeline for the sofa, where it hopped up beside Sherlock, who – without even looking up – began to idly stroke the creature's head. Mycroft gave an inward sigh; little brother was completely oblivious.

"Please pass on my thanks to Dr Hooper," Mycroft said, poised by the door.

All he got in response was an indistinct and not-altogether-friendly noise, somewhere between a hum and a grunt. But as he took one final look at his brother, face bathed in the blue-ish light of the screen, Mycroft was pleased that he had followed his instincts and come to see Sherlock in person – at least now he knew what he was up against. And he very definitely going to keep in close and regular contact during these last thirty hours.