Chapter Seven
The Fox tracked the man behind the name of 'Mycroft Holmes' to Camp 020, Latchmere House, South London.
Camp 020 was infamous to men of the Fox's occupation as being a British interrogation centre for captured German agents, run by Lieutenant Colonel Robin 'Tin Eye' Stephens.
Mycroft Holmes was only a step down in the hierarchy, but a mile up in terms of unspoken power. Impressive, for a man of his age.
So here the Fox was. A German spy, spying on a British interrogation centre that specialized in torturing and extracting information from German spies.
Lovely job he had.
On the second day of his stakeout, he caught his first glimpse of Mycroft Holmes.
"Hello, handsome." he smirked to himself aloud as he watched Mycroft step out of his car and stride purposefully into Camp 020.
Just a moment before he entered into the building, Mycroft lingered in the doorway and glanced around but didn't see him.
The Fox took that moment to study the man's face from a distance.
Dark copper hair, blue eyes, a pinched expression that somehow managed to constantly look both disdainful and imperious. And then there was his umbrella...
The Fox glanced up at the brilliant blue sky. Not a cloud in sight.
Huh, odd man. He lifted his hands and snapped a picture of the British spymaster with his camera.
Then, Mycroft turned and disappeared into the building.
The Fox lowered his camera.
Mycroft Holmes, who are you?
Moriarty was sitting by the fire in the new flat Sebastian had secured for them. He had his book of Grimm's Fairytales open on his lap.
Sebastian watched him read for a moment or two before interrupting him. "Good reading?" he asked.
Moriarty didn't look up from his page. "Mhm."
"Bit odd, isn't it? That the Germans would go through the trouble of getting a book of fairytales into England." the sniper hinted.
Moriarty looked up finally. "Sebby." he said patiently. "I read, you shoot. Okay?"
Sebastian raised his eyebrows. "'Sebby'?"
"Yes." Moriarty said flatly with a look that said defy-me-and-I'll-skin-you.
Sebastian and Moriarty stared each other down. Then, Sebastian rolled his eyes and sprawled himself on the couch. "Whatever, you stubborn shit."
They remained in silence for a few hours, Moriarty reading, and Sebastian cleaning his handgun.
"It's a code." Moriarty said at length.
"What is?" Sebastian asked, before belatedly realizing that Moriarty was talking about his Grimm's Fairytales.
"A wonderful German editor fixed it up for the Abwehr. It's a list of British Intelligence agents that they want us to take care of." Moriarty explained. Then, he pointed at Sebastian. "I read, you shoot." he said a second time.
Sebastian nodded his understanding.
"Alright. Who's first?"
Mycroft spent the next day held hostage by a social event, one of the Holmes's long standing family friends were throwing a birthday party and Mycroft had been in attendance.
After he had made all the obligatory rounds of greetings and congratulations, he had found himself at the bar with a drink.
An attractive gentleman with silvery hair, chocolate brown eyes, a smart waistcoat, and shirtsleeves that were rolled up to his elbows, slid neatly into the narrow space between Mycroft and another patron of the bar, close enough to brush arms with him, but not close enough to make him very uncomfortable.
The man ordered a beer and turned toward Mycroft with a smile.
Mycroft caught his glance, slightly surprised at his choice of drink, and smiled back politely.
"Everybody always has that sort of expression when I order a beer at a high-classed bar." the stranger said with a rueful smile. "But, well, if you're going to drink, you might as well get something you'd enjoy, correct?"
Mycroft nodded. "I'm sure so."
The man gave a lopsided grin that was easy-going and natural, somehow out of place in the tight-collared society event. "I'm Sholto Grayson." the handsome man introduced himself, holding out his hand.
Mycroft shook it. "Mycroft Holmes. Are you a friend of the birthday celebrant?" he asked conversationally.
"Oh, 'celebrant'...!" Grayson smiled as his drink arrived, easily deflecting the question. "Your wording is delightful, I've never known anyone who injects words like that into conversation so naturally without sounding pretentious." Grayson let out a slightly bashful chuckle. "You must forgive my enthusiasm, Mister Holmes, I am a humble journalist and as such quite inexperienced in such high-class events."
Mycroft just smiled, noting that Grayson had not answered his question. "I had no idea Bethany was one to talk to journalists, she does avoid the eye of the public so."
"Oh, believe me Mister Holmes, if she and I met each other face-to-face here and now, she would never - even on pain of death - admit to knowing me." Grayson winked.
Mycroft chuckled.
"Enjoying the party?" Grayson asked him politely after a careful sip of beer.
"Quite." Mycroft lied fluidly. "It has been so long since I've seen everybody." Now that was the truth.
Just then, another guest wormed up to the bar behind Mycroft, forcing the younger man to step closer to Grayson, who was blocked also on his side.
"Oh, excuse me." Mycroft blustered slightly, now realizing that they were close enough for their knees to bump against each other and for their feet to be in danger of being stepped on if one or both of them shifted even the slightest bit.
Grayson tried to step back to give him room, bumped into the man behind him and immediately spewed out a flustered string of apologies.
"Well then..." Grayson smiled, slightly brittle but still charming, turning back. "... coming my way?" he tried to make light of the... tight situation.
Mycroft had not been expecting that and burst into startled laughter.
It took him more by surprise than it did Grayson. Mycroft Holmes was not one to laugh so unguardedly.
Mycroft cleared his throat, covering his mouth with his hand. "Excuse me."
Grayson shook his head with a smile of a man who was holding back his own laughter. "I'm the one who should say sorry. That was inappropriate of me."
Mycroft felt a slight heat in his face. "You took me by surprise, is all."
Grayson tapped his fingers on the bar. "Well, I feel like I should apologize. Let me buy you another drink."
Mycroft only then noticed that his drink was nearly gone. "Then, I shall accept your generous offer."
Grayson gestured for another drink to be brought over and handed it to Mycroft, their fingers brushing softly as the glass exchanged hands and causing a sharp thrill to course through Mycroft's spine. "Cheers then, mate." he said, glancing the neck of his beer bottle against Mycroft's glass. "See you around."
And he was sauntering off into the crowd with a backward wave.
Mycroft watched him go, thought back to the charming man's joke, blushed, and shook his head as if to clear it. Then he lifted his glass...
"Excuse me. Sorry!" Another guest exclaimed when he bumped into Mycroft, spilling the man's drink. "Jesus, sorry mate!"
Mycroft watched champagne run down the length of his trousered leg and grimaced. "That's alright." he sighed.
He made for the exit, he was done for the day, he decided. The spill only served as a plausible excuse to escape. He said goodbye to the hostess and walked out.
Outside in the front yard as Mycroft waited for his car to pick him up, one of the guest's dogs ambled over to him and lapped cheerfully at his stained ankle.
"Go away old boy." Mycroft grumbled gently shaking the canine off. "Champagne isn't for you."
Suddenly, the dog crouched down on its front legs, letting out the most horrible whimpers and keenings.
Mycroft bent down, slightly concerned. "What is it boy? What's wrong?"
The unhappy dog let out one more whimper and died quite suddenly.
Mycroft stared in shock until his driver arrived. "Sir?" the elderly man asked.
Mycroft snapped out of his trance and darted back into the party in search of the charming 'Mister Grayson'.
But he was long gone.
