Mrs. Hudson called down the stairs as Rebekah descended. "And get the light brown sugar. Less molasses."
"Of course, Mrs. Hudson. I'll be a couple hours – I've got another errand or two to run as well."
"All right dear. But hurry back. You wouldn't want to miss your Sunday game with Sherlock."
Rebekah had the sudden urge to punch the woman. She blamed Sherlock for bringing out her surliness. He had kissed her, whether he remembered it or not, and woken up in her apartment. An ordinary man would draw certain conclusions that Rebekah could play to her advantage. But no, Sherlock was a logical man, and she had destroyed the evidence. No impossibilities to eliminate, Sherlock's mind could wander into whatever hole it felt safest in. That was icy cold silence, apparently.
He hadn't spoken to her since. Not one text. Not one sudden drop by. Not one additional request for information on Moriarty. It was exactly what she had hoped he would do, and she loathed him for it.
Somehow, though, it still wasn't a surprise to her when the black car appeared next to her just before she descended into the tube. "Get in said the lanky man with a cane."
"Ah, Mycroft Holmes, I do believe. Pleased to make your acquaintance at last." She slid in next to him, knowing it could well be the most dangerous thing she could do.
"Mrs. Scott, you are playing a dangerous game." The car was rolling through the streets quickly, toward the wharf if she wasn't mistaken.
"As I've become painfully aware, Mr. Holmes. No need to remind me."
"He may not know, but I do."
She looked lazily at him. "Yes, I'm sure you do. You would be a poor excuse for the British government if you didn't. You made that mistake once, well twice if you count her, and are highly unlikely to do it again. So now you've whisked me away to decide my fate. Do you continue to let me be? Perhaps make the same offer you made Dr. Watson? Do you make me disappear into thin air, where not even Sherlock could follow the trace if he were so inclined? Or do you send me back like a dog on a leash, letting me live, letting me stay on at Baker Street, but monitored and coached for every move, reporting on your little brother in exchange for my pseudo-liberty? Choices, Mr. Holmes, choices."
"You're too much like him."
"Once again, painfully aware."
"You don't make this easy Mrs. Scott."
"What do you want from me, Mr. Holmes? To plead for my life? To promise to be good? Better than I'm expected to be? I'm not him, you know. And you would know."
She stared straight ahead, gathering what she could from the front of the car. Two up front, the driver and a body guard. She was rather surprised that Mycroft had come himself, that wasn't like him. She wondered what he knew. Nothing that Sherlock had told him, he was sure. She almost laughed. If he did know, would that make his choice easier or harder? She knew what he wanted to do – that part of him still tied to sentiment as much as the Holmes brothers disavowed it. She knew what the most strategic route would be.
Finally, she sighed. "Mr. Holmes, you can honestly do what you please. I got into the car knowing. I didn't run, I have no intention of doing so. I'm not an innocent, but I'm not selling secrets out of the country, or running a criminal network of immense proportions."
The car stopped suddenly, and Rebekah knew that Mycroft must have hit the switch hidden under the seat with his cane. "This is your stop, I believe, Mrs. Scott." The door unlocked in front of Tesco. "But before you go," he handed her an envelope, "take this. It may be the coup de grace in the little game you're playing. But play with prudence. It could still destroy both of you. And I would not stand for that."
"I made him promise."
"I know." Mycroft nodded toward the store. "Good day, Mrs. Scott."
