ICEMAN AND the Coffee Boy

by Soledad

For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Introduction.

Author's note: Diane Holmes is the female pilot from the Torchwood Season 1 episode "Out of Time", in case anyone is interested. Of course, she's a completely different character here. I don't think I need to introduce Harry Sullivan, but just in case: he was a short-term companion of the 4th Doctor, a surgeon-lieutenant of the Royal Navy.

The idea of Mummy Holmes being the Viscountess of Sherringford was conceived by fellow fanfic writer sevenpercent. The name itself is semi-canon.


Chapter 03 – The Confessions of Mycroft Holmes

Commodore Harry Sullivan was understandably surprised when he got Mycroft Holmes' message, in which the eldest son of his old friends requested a private meeting with him. That was a first. Of course, he'd known the Holmes family since having studied with Richard Holmes at Harrow, and they'd been close friends until Richard's death.

They both went to the Navy after school, dabbling in Naval Intelligence, among other things, but only Sullivan chose to become a career officer, like all his ancestors back to Victorian times. When the Navy sent him to medical school, Richard, too, quit service and went to Oxford, to follow his true calling as a scientist; his younger son had clearly inherited his scientific interest, if not the dogged determination to follow it.

A determination without which the Torchwood Institute, one of the biggest and best science institutes of the UK, had, never been founded.

Sullivan and Richard had even competed for the hand of Violet Sherringford in their youth. After some hesitation, Violet chose Richard – not that Sullivan would blame her. Richard had always attracted women, due to his flamboyant personality and his wealth; few men would have had the slightest chance against him. Still, that choice hadn't harmed their friendship at all.

Richard and Violet had even asked him to be godfather to their sons, and Sullivan gladly complied. However, he hadn't met the Holmes boys in private since Richard's funeral. The Diogenes Club – or working together with Mycroft on security projects – didn't count as a private meeting, and Sherlock avoided contact with his parents' friends like the plague since the beginning of his drug problems.

So Sullivan was really curious what Mycroft's problem might be. Mycroft had always been the stable, reliable one; the one who would follow his chosen path consequently. Having served as the Deputy Director of MI5 for years, Sullivan knew enough about Mycroft's career to be impressed. He just didn't know much about Mycroft himself.

"He's welcome any time between 2 pm and 5 pm tomorrow," he told that preternaturally efficient secretary. "I'll be home."


He avoided the Diogenes Club in the next morning, finding it easier to temper his own curiosity that way, as Mycroft often worked out of his private office within the Club. All the more eagerly was he now looking forward to the visit of the younger man, which had been announced for 3.30 pm.

As expected, Mycroft was punctual enough to set the clock after him (Sullivan remembered Violet having a thing about punctuality). The ancient clock on the mantelpiece had barely struck when the door opened and Benton – once his Chief Petty Officer in the Navy; his valet since his retirement – gravely announced:

"Mr. Holmes for you, Commodore."

The visitor walked in briskly, and Sullivan had a weird sense of déjá vu, as if he'd suddenly been thrown back at least forty years. The sharp tailoring of the expensive dark suit, with the flamboyant addition of the double-breasted waistcoat, combined with a silk tie and pocket square of the same shade of red, reminded him very much of his old friend, Richard.

Not that Mycroft would have much in common with his father in his looks; but he clearly had inherited Richard's hand of dressing like a dandy. That tie clip, for example, was an unnecessary addition, purely for show, as the tie tucked into the waistcoat. But it certainly complemented the looks as a whole, and it seemed to be the same gold as his ring.

The presence of that ring surprised Sullivan, as – to his knowledge – neither of the Holmes boys had ever been married or even engaged. Also, he remembered a similar ring – or perhaps the same one – being worn by Richard Holmes, next to his wedding band, while Violet didn't have one. He wondered what the purpose of it might be; a purpose that clearly went from father to firstborn son.

He also recognized the umbrella Mycroft was carrying. It was either the same one Richard would never go anywhere without, or an exact replica, made from Malacca wood by Fox's, the high-end umbrella craftsmen. Richard's umbrella used to have a blade concealed in its handle. Sullivan wondered what Mycroft's umbrella might hide.

But this was not the time for irrelevant questions. The boy – Sullivan couldn't help but think of Mycroft as a boy, despite the fact that they'd worked together on crisis management several times and he knew all too well what his godson was capable of – had come to him with a personal problem. This was a rare sign of trust, coming from someone who didn't trust easily, and Sullivan was determined not to disappoint him.

He rose from his armchair with a smile. "Mycroft!" he exclaimed. "I say, it's good to see you, old chap! Come, have a seat! Fancy some tea?"

"Thank you, Uncle Harry, tea would be lovely," Mycroft allowed Benton to take his Chesterfield overcoat and his umbrella and took the proffered seat, placing his leather briefcase carefully upon his knees.

That he called his godfather Uncle Harry, instead of the respectful and slightly detached Commodore of the official meetings told more about the private nature of his visit than anything else. Still, the commodore waited until Benton brought the tea and left.

"Well," he then said, "what is this about? Family emergency? I recently had Violet on the phone and she didn't mention anything. Or did Sherlock have another relapse?"

Mycroft shook his head. "No, he's doing surprisingly well. This ridiculous consulting detective business seems to work for him – save for the fact that his landlords keep throwing him out because of the mess he always makes with his so-called experiments. No; this is about me."

The admission clearly pained him very much, which was understandable. Mycroft had always been the sane one in the family; the responsible one. Having inherited Violet's more balanced personality, family matters had weighed upon his shoulder ever since Richard's death.

Responsibility for the family estate; responsibility for the Torchwood Institute, which, after all, enabled the Holmeses to keep their manor house and to finance their lifestyle; responsibility for an errant younger brother often unable to deal with his own genius… and responsibility for the safety of the entire country. It was a lot for such a young man to deal with.

And yet he had dealt with all this burden amazingly well, never asking for help or for other than professional advice concerning his work – until now. Now, though, he seemed painfully out of his depth… for the first time ever.

"All right," Sullivan said calmly. "Tell me what happened, and we shall see how we can right it."

"I made a mistake," Mycroft stared into his tea morosely. "I made a mistake, and now it's come back to bite me."

Well, that wasn't exactly informative, Sullivan found. It had to be some mistake if Mycroft was so riled up about it. No; not exactly riled up – deadly embarrassed would be the proper description.

"So, what have you done?" the commodore asked jovially, trying to ease the tension with a joke. "Got somebody pregnant?"

"Yes," Mycroft replied bluntly, efficiently rendering the older man speechless.

Sullivan opened and closed his mouth several times, unable to produce any actual sound. He was painfully aware of the fact that he was making the adequate imitation of a traumatised goldfish but he couldn't help himself.

Mycroft Holmes knocking someone up? Mycroft, who hasn't shown any interest in the opposite gender since university, despite all the pretty young things working for him?"

"Tell me it isn't your PA," the commodore finally said because that would have been highly unprofessional, aside from being horribly stupid.

Mycroft gave him a scandalized look.

"What? Of course not, Uncle, this isn't a recent event. It happened almost twenty years ago, when I was at university. I just didn't know about it – until three weeks ago."

"What happened three weeks ago then?" the commodore asked. "Did the kid simply show up on your doorstep, demanding his Papa? Or is it a she?"

"It's a boy," Mycroft replied. "Nineteen years old; and no, he didn't just show up. In fact, I haven't even met him yet."

"Hmmm," Sullivan stroked his extensive sideburns thoughtfully. "Care to go a bit more into detail, son? Right now this is a bit beyond me, I'm afraid."

Mycroft opened his briefcase, took out a large manila envelope and handed it to him.

"I got these papers exactly three weeks ago, from some quaint law firm in Swansea," he explained. "Go on, take a look!"

The commodore studied the documents thoroughly. Then he put them back into the envelope and handed it back to his godson, before rising and walking to the cupboard.

"I say a drop of brandy would be the thing now," he said conversationally, while he poured a drink for them both. "That must have been a nasty surprise for you."

"Uncle, you're the master of understatement," Mycroft answered sarcastically. Sullivan shrugged.

"At my age, I haven't got enough puff to get over-excited anymore. So, what are you gonna do about this newfound son of yours?"

"I don't know," Mycroft admitted. "For the first time in my life, I have no idea what to do."

"It isn't necessary, you know, to do anything, "Sullivan pointed out. "You could be making a fuss about nothing at all. The adoptive parents did sign that document; the one in which the boy gives up all potential claim on you."

"And we both know that such a wish would never stand half a chance before a court," Mycroft waved dismissively. "I wonder why their lawyers didn't tell them that."

"Perhaps they did; lawyers usually are very thorough with such things," Sullivan said. "But those good people probably didn't listen. Look, all this recrimination is pretty pointless, isn't it? The real question is: do you intend to have any contact with the boy? He's your only child, after all, no matter the circumstances of his birth. Unless you've got doubts that he's in fact yours…"

"Oh, he is mine all right," Mycroft said darkly. "That was the first thing I had checked; the DNA-analysis came back positive. I just don't know what I could possibly do with a son who grew up in a plebeian Welsh family. Father would roll in his grave if he knew."

"Good for him," Sullivan returned with dry humour. "He could have used a bit of exercise while still alive. Developed a real pouch in his late years, he did."

Mycroft stared at his godfather incredulously. "Father had a weight problem? My father?"

"Well, at least Violet seemed to think so," Sullivan replied. "Personally, I see nothing wrong with a little padding around a gentleman's waistline, but your mother, God bless her, has always been obsessed with excess weight, healthy food and other such nonsense," he grinned at Mycroft. "Of course, she never stood a chance with Sherlock, who's thin like a wraith, but I bet she regularly gives you hell about your weight."

"Mummy has a thing about discipline," Mycroft muttered uncomfortably.

The commodore grinned at him again. "Which is, I say, one of the reasons why you don't want to tell her about the son you've just found, right?"

Mycroft nodded glumly. "She'd be furious. Even more so than Father was when he found out about my… er… affair with the boy's mother."

"And you always wanted to be her perfect son," Sullivan said. It wasn't a question. He'd always known that while Mycroft had gone great lengths to meet his father's sometimes too high expectations, it was his mother whom he'd wanted to please more than everyone else. "Well, I think I can put your mind at ease in this particular matter. Violet has always been more… forgiving towards the folly of youth than Richard."

"What?" Mycroft was positively shocked now. "But wasn't Father always worried about us meeting Mummy's expectations?"

"He was worried about himself, first and foremost," Sullivan told him. "Because he wasn't the one with the true aristocratic roots and the hereditary title and all that stuff. Violet was. Although coming from a good enough family himself, Richard always felt… well, a bit inadequate, compared with her. He was more of old money than of old blood."

Mycroft nodded absent-mindedly because that was certainly true. The Holmes side of the family had started its career in the Victorian Era, making their future in the rapidly developing industry, while more blue-blooded aristocrats whose wealth was based on their holdings suddenly found themselves near penniless.

The Holmeses had been a cadet branch of a rather unremarkable family of minor country gentry; a branch that had started with a younger son and had inherited a holding too small to support the lifestyle typically expected from their class. Fortunately, Mycroft's great-grandfather had taken an interest in the industrial development and recognized the possibilities offered by them. He'd also had the business sense to grab the chance in time, and thus the Torchwood Institute had been born in the late 19th century.

Holmes men working for the government for generations ensured that they always knew in which branch of the industry investment and research would pay off best; that helped them to remain on top of the market most of the times. Mycroft himself had followed this path since entering Civil Service at a fairly young age; the only thing he regretted was the fact that he didn't understand the actual science behind. If Sherlock hadn't been such a stubborn fool…

He shook his head. His brother's adamant refusal to put that amazing scientific mind of his into the service of the family business was a constant nuisance for him, but not the current problem at hand.

"I didn't know Father would feel that way," he murmured. "He was the one who always acted like an eccentric aristocrat, not Mummy."

"True; because Violet never needed to act," Sullivan reminded him. "She's a Sherringford, and that's more than enough. But she's also a Vernet from her mother's side; she unites in her the nobility of birth and the nobility of art… no wonder poor Richard always felt he had to prove his worth."

"And that he always pressed us so hard to be the perfect sons," Mycroft commented dryly.

The commodore nodded. "Most likely, yes. But that's neither here nor there. Richard is dead; and you need to tell Violet the truth."

"Do I?" Mycroft asked darkly. "I can choose to ignore this so-called truth; and buy off the boy, should he suddenly discover filial feelings towards a father he's never met."

"No, you can't; not really," Sullivan replied bluntly. "And you know that as well as I do. The boy is a Holmes; and it isn't so as if you had any other children. Unless you get married and start a family very soon, he's the only son you'll ever have. And because of that, Violet would have an interest in him."

"The son of a lowly Welsh tailor as the next Viscount Sherringford," Mycroft commented cynically. "Mummy would love it."

"That's something you'll have leave to her to decide," Sullivan said. "And the sooner you tell her about the boy the better. Violet doesn't like to be kept in the dark," he paused. "Do you need me to be there?"

Mycroft hesitated. Uncle Harry could always deal with Mummy better than anyone else. But this was a family matter. Mummy wouldn't approve of the presence of any outsiders; not even that of an old family friend.

"No, I believe not," he said slowly. "This is something I'll have to do on my own, I'm afraid. Thanks for the offer, though."

Sullivan took no offence. He'd known the Holmeses long enough to understand the strange family dynamics; probably better than the family itself, due to his different perspective as an outsider. He still had one suggestion to make, though.

"If you take a piece of advice from me: make sure your Aunt Diane is present," he said. "She's been Violet's best friend since… well, since forever. And she always favoured you."

That, again, was very true. While Mummy had always had a soft spot for Sherlock, who'd inherited Father's eccentric nature and made it an art form, Aunt Diane never tried to hide her preference of Mycroft. Perhaps having her present would help.

One thing was certain, though. He'd keep the truth from Sherlock as long as possible. The last thing he needed was the exposure to Sherlock's scathing remarks.

Of course, it was doubtful that he'd be able to fool his observant little brother for long.


Getting a phone call from her favourite nephew wasn't something that would have surprised Dame Diane Holmes in itself. She and Mycroft kept regular contact. Dame Diane, after retiring from the Women's Royal Air Force in the rank of an Air Commander when the WRAF had merged with the regular RAF in 1994, marking the full assimilation of women into the British military and the end of the WRAF as an independent branch, kept working for the Secret Service till the current day, and that meant she had been in touch with her nephew through official channels all the time.

It was more than unusual, however, that Mycroft would call her on her private landline, only to request her presence at a hastily called-together family meeting.

"I have to tell Mummy something," Mycroft admitted. "She won't take it well, I'm afraid, so I could use your support, Auntie."

"Of course, my boy, you know you can always count on me," she said in genuine surprise. "Is this about Sherlock? What has he done this time?"

"Nothing; it has nothing to do with him for a change," Mycroft sighed. "I wish it had; Mummy is always willing to forgive him for everything."

"I see," the emphasis on the pronoun wasn't lost on Dame Diane; she was a Holmes, after all. "I cannot imagine you doing anything improper… unless you've gained some weight and are afraid of Violet's tongue, but whatever it is, I shall stand behind you like a brick wall, I promise."

"I wish it were as simple as a disagreement about proper body mass indeed," Mycroft said glumly. "Thank you, Auntie; I shall send Smith with the car to fetch you."

"Forget it, young man!" Dame Diane replied sharply. "I might no longer be twenty, but I'm no dotard yet, and I do have a perfectly good car as you know. A perfectly good car that I can still drive perfectly well."

"As long as you don't drive any faster than your guardian angel can fly," Mycroft delivered the ages-old private joke with his usual reliability. "It's a car, not an airplane, you know."

"Insolent pup," Dame Diane could hear the genuine fondness in her own voice. "Don't worry about me, my boy. I'm not a fool. I know what I'm capable of, and I know when to back off. See you in the manor house tomorrow, then. Take care."

"You, too, Auntie," and with that, Mycroft hung up.

For a moment Diane Holmes glared at her now mute phone with a displeased scowl. She didn't like this a bit. Mycroft in trouble was not something she was used to. Sherlock, yes, God knows Violet had spoiled that boy terribly. Small wonder he'd become such a nightmare. But Mycroft? Dutiful, reliable, disciplined Mycroft? The man who'd dealt with idiotic politicians and terrorist threats successfully since his mid-twenties? Richard's pride and joy, the apple of his father's eye?

What could have possibly happened? She'd never heard the boy so out of sorts in his entire life.

Oh, she was sure that others wouldn't have noticed, not even Violet. Especially not Violet, as Mycroft had always gone great lengths to keep a perfect façade in the presence of his mother. Quite frankly, Violet had always been a bit hard on the boy; always too busy with her over-favoured problem child, she'd simply expected from her firstborn to deal with everything else after Richard's death… and Mycroft never failed to rise to those expectations. Which, considering the delicate day job he had to do, was not a small feat from such a young man.

Having worked along similar lines all her life, Diane Holmes was probably the only one in the family who knew what exactly Mycroft did for a living. And it angered her very much that while a great deal of the boy's time and resources had to be used to keep his wayward brother safe, Mycroft never got any thanks for his considerable efforts. Not from Violet and certainly not from Sherlock, who seemed to get willingly in trouble at times, just to piss his brother off. It was childish and irresponsible; and yet Violet took Sherlock's side every time.

It wasn't so that Dame Diane wouldn't like her younger nephew; she did. But it insulted her sense of propriety that Sherlock would waste his life the way he'd done until recently. And even though he seemed to have reshaped his life into some semblance of order, it was still a waste in her eyes. The boy could have become a Nobel-prize winner chemist, had he put his mind to it. Or a philosopher. Or a classical concert violinist. Instead he'd chosen to hunt down criminals in the dirty alleys of London, regardless of his own safety.

What a stupid, selfish choice!

Dame Diane lit a cigarette and blew the smoke toward the smoke alarm detector defiantly. She'd disabled the stupid alarm long ago. This was her house, and no idiotic government would forbid her to smoke within her own four walls, dammit! Not even if her own nephew was practically running said idiotic government.

She smiled grimly. Richard's boys had both picked up smoking from her, much to Violet's dismay. Not that she'd have encouraged them, of course; it must have been some kind of rebellion against Violet's strict health rules, just like Mycroft's occasional cake excesses. Oh, she understood that Violet only wanted what was best for her family, health-wise, but there could be too much of a good thing. Small wonder Sherlock had developed such an aversion towards eating in general that it was almost an ongoing battle to get him to eat at all and looked like a wraith as a result.

Besides, Dame Diane thought after a contented glance into the beautiful glass on glass mirror hanging over her mantelpiece, despite her so-called unhealthy lifestyle, she still looked great for a 68-year-old. Granted, the dark mahogany colour of her hair was no longer natural (although convincing enough), but otherwise? She was still slim and trim and, as Harry Sullivan had put after her last physical, almost disgustingly healthy.

She smiled to herself. Even though her hopes had remained unfulfilled after Violet had chosen Richard over Harry, the commodore and she had stayed good friends. And a friendship that had lasted over forty years was better than a marriage that might have gone wrong, wasn't it? The same thing that made them such great friends would probably have ruined their hypothetical marriage; they were simply too similar.

Speaking of which… she briefly wondered whether Harry knew about Mycroft's problem. Though the boy was no longer as close to his godfather as he used to be in his youth, they often worked together, and Mycroft trusted Harry more than anyone else.

Her cigarette almost rendered to a stump, Dame Diane picked up the phone again and called the number of Harry Sullivan's mobile, hoping that her old friend wasn't in the Diogenes Club where he wouldn't take any calls.

To her relief, Harry answered the phone after the fourth ring. "Sullivan."

"Harry, this is Diane. I just got a most… interesting call from my favourite nephew. Very mysterious and all. Do you happen to know what this is all about?"

There was a meaningful pause on the other end of the connection before Harry would reply to that.

"Yes, I do. In fact, the boy had sought me out just yesterday because of this. But…"

"… but you're not entitled to tell me," she finished for him.

"Afraid not," he admitted ruefully. "Besides, even if I were at the liberty to discuss it, I wouldn't do so on the phone. Not on this phone anyway."

Not on an unsecured line. She understood; and it worried her. A lot.

"Crickey, is it that bad?"

"Not exactly bad, not as we understand it in our line of work," her old friend replied carefully. "I say, embarrassing would be a more fitting word for it. But your nephew will definitely need your support in this."

"He shall have it; he always does, and you know that," she said. "That's why you sent him to me, wasn't it? It was you, right? He'd never come to me for help on his own. That stupid pride of his…"

"Well, he came to it honestly; Richard wasn't any better," her old friend pointed out. As I said, it is something… embarrassing. For him, the epitome of a British gentleman, even more embarrassing than it would be for most people. The power of education and all that. You can't go to Eton and not be shaped by the experience."

"It takes one to absorb it so completely, though," she commented.

"That's very true," Harry agreed. "One might no longer believe everything one was taught as a youngster, but unconsciously it would still motivate one."

"Says the man who has quite successfully freed himself from the restraints of convention," she laughed. She could almost see Harry shrug.

"I think it takes our line of work to become a little unconventional, despite our education," he said. "I'm not complaining, though."

"Yes, I imagine you wouldn't," she replied. "Very well, I shall learn the murky details soon enough, I suppose. Will you be there, too?"

"Oh, no," Harry said, almost scandalized. "This is a strictly family matter and will be treated as such. In all honesty, I don't mind to keep out of it. Violet will not be happy, and when she isn't happy, others won't be, either. Things can become very nasty, very quickly. Which is why I encouraged the boy to call you. You can handle Violet better than any of us."

"I shall try my best," she promised, and he laughed.

"Oh, I never doubted that for a moment. Any chance of you telling me about the outcome afterwards?"

"Surely, why not?" she liked the idea of being better informed than him for a change. "I'll call you when it's over. Make sure you'll have a stiff drink or five. Dealing with an unhappy Violet is thirsty work."

Harry promised that he would, then he thanked her, and she hung up. Then she put on her jacket and went down to the garage to check on her car.

~TBC~