Chapter 8
To Sherlock's complete exasperation, his brother insisted on having a very public breakfast in the restaurant of the Connacht Hotel. He wanted to go to River House immediately, and Mycroft adopted his most supercilious tone, the one that grated the most, to explain his rational; speaking to him as if to a small child.
"Sherlock, be reasonable, it is going to take a little while for my team to collate all of the intelligence on Aoife's board of directors. Meanwhile, Aoife and I would like to send a strong message to our conspirers that they have failed spectacularly in their attempt to split us up. We shall, therefore, enjoy a very leisurely, and public, breakfast. It just so happens that a certain gossip columnist may have been informed of our breakfast intentions and is downstairs with a photographer. You are quite welcome to join us, of course."
Sherlock sighed heavily and conceded to the inevitable. They descended in the lift together and a camera flashed as they crossed the hotel lobby; Aoife looking spectacular in a smart casual fitted skirt and jacket and Louboutin high heels, her fingers threaded casually through his brothers and laughing happily with the two of them. Mycroft, in a rare public display of affection, wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her tight into his hip as they crossed the restaurant floor to their table. Aoife ran her hand up his back before restig it on his shoulder.
Sherlock groaned quietly. "Well, I think they've got the message now, Casanova," he grumbled.
Aoife giggled, leaned across and kissed him on the cheek.
"Says the man who cannot keep his hands off Molly Hooper!"
"Not while I'm on a case!" He retorted indignantly.
She snorted in derision.
"Excuse me Sherlock Holmes, but I beg to differ. I have seen her straddling your hips 'on a case' so do not give me that!"
Sherlock bit back a smirk, but squeezed her hand, secretly delighting in her sassiness. Aoife Quinn was back in force.
"Oh just order me a coffee. I'm going to make some calls. What time are we leaving for Ireland Aoife dearest, and are you flying? I think you should. It's very convenient."
Mycroft smothered a laugh, but Aoife showed no such restraint and grinned broadly at him.
"Tell Michael to expect us by late-afternoon and that we'll meet him in Oisin House. We can start the interviews this evening."
He nodded at her and then made eye contact with his brother; neither speaking a word, until after a minute Sherlock nodded his head and merely said, "fine, I agree. I'll tell Molly we'll pick her up on route." He turned and swept out of the restaurant pressing his phone to his ear.
He'd wanted her with him in any case, he admitted to himself, and contemplating her straddling his hips had no bearing on the fact that he'd already decided she had to come back to Ireland with them. Letting Mycroft assume an influence in that decision was no harm though.
Aoife raised a brow to her finance and her lips twitched. "You two!" was all she said. He smiled at her, and then watched his brother's perpetually graceful figure as he swept through the restaurant towards the exit.
"Sherlock Holmes; Dark Knight and Dragon Slayer," he murmured quietly. She reached across and kissed him gently on the lips.
"Mycroft Holmes, King Arthur," she stated, then continued with a small laugh, "with a smidgen of Merlin thrown in."
He threw back his head and laughed. As he watched his fiancée tucking into her breakfast, he contemplated their present situation. He briefly wondered if he should go to Ireland at all, or send her away and stay here in London to flush out his enemy; but he dismissed that. The regrettable truth was that they were both safer in Ireland because the security there was loyal, especially Aoife's private team, and the Irish security forces certainly had no intention of killing him. He was less sure about London, because therein lay his enemy.
Across the Irish Sea, in the salubrious suburb of Killiney in Dublin South, Mathew Doyle sat into the driving seat of his new Lexus, grinning to himself as he recalled the images on his twitter account of a clearly distressed Aoife Quinn with her Rottweiler detectives in tow, crossing the lobby of her hotel in London.
'Stupid bitch is finally getting what she deserves', he thought gleefully. He was sick of permanently having to take a back seat to her, and sick of her opposition to floating Oisin Holdings on the stock market. He had been advocating for them to do so for the past two years and meanwhile, his gambling debts were mounting. The car was leased through the company but his house was re-mortgaged and the payments were killing him. His other, less declarable lifestyle expenses were almost crippling him too.
He bit back the flare of anger. The 5% shareholding he held in the company would multiply in value by many millions of euros if that bitch would just comply, but he'd had a hard time convincing the other shareholders too, because of her staunch opposition to floating the company. Aoife Quinn owned 80% of the total share and there was no convincing her; so, he'd set out to discredit her instead, and thus weaken her position with the other board members. Doubt was insidious. It wasn't as if she didn't deserve it, swanning around London with her connected boyfriend and his smartarse brother, and everyone from the Taoiseach to Whitehall eating out of her hands. Not for much longer, he smirked. Reputations are made and reputations are destroyed. It was a case of sitting back and watching the destruction of hers now.
If he had felt a slither of unease when the Englishman had first approached him with the idea of leaking sensitive information to discredit Mycroft Holmes, and by default, Aoife, he had dismissed those feelings pretty fast. The rewards for doing so were too bountiful to turn down; his wife was high maintenance and the kids private school fees were killing him too. Throw a demanding mistress and an accelerating cocaine habit into the pot and costs had recently begun to spiral. The opportune stranger had pointed out the financial benefits expertly and seemed to know a lot about him. He'd offered him an additional financial sweetener too, which had certainly helped to persuade him. The way he saw it, Doyle justified to himself, he was only boosting the Irish economy, if he was helping to swing business to Ireland and out of Britain. 'Win-win' he muttered to himself.
As he drew to a standstill in heavy commuter traffic snaking its way into Dublin city, he switched on the radio to catch the news.
'Word is just reaching us of a fatal shooting at the London home of Aoife Quinn, CEO of Oisin Holdings, and her partner, Mr Mycroft Holmes, Head of MI5, this morning. It has been confirmed that the couple were not at home at the time of the incident. Early reports indicate that the victim was a member of their household staff. Police are at the scene and it is further reported that Mr Sherlock Holmes, the famous detective and brother of Mycroft Holmes, was at the house at the time of the shooting. He is reported to be unharmed.
Ms Quinn's security detail, Detective Garda Michael Reilly, is believed to have returned to Dublin last night and is unavailable for comment. RTE have been referred to the Garda Press Office, who shall issue a statement shortly. We shall return to this story throughout the day and await a statement from Aoife Quinn."
Mathew Doyle swallowed the nausea and anxiety churning in his stomach and up to his throat. He could feel panic rising and drew in long deep breaths. He pulled off the motorway into a side road and parked his car. His hands were shaking. He realised he'd been a complete idiot and he'd got into something way over his head. His mind raced and he considered his options. Grasping at straws, he wondered briefly if this was just a co-incidence; that it wasn't the informant in the house that was killed, but he dismissed that as the fantasy it was. He frantically wondered if Mycroft Holmes had played a part in the house-keepers death, but rapidly dismissed that too. The only real conclusion to be drawn was that the instigator of this grand plan was 'cleaning house' and he figured he was next.
He was a pragmatic man, and at this moment, a terrified one; so he took out his phone, called his solicitor and briefed her. Then he drove the kilometre to Donnybrook Garda Station, parked his car and walked up to the Garda on reception duty.
"My name is Mathew Doyle. I am a board member of Oisin Holdings. I need to speak to Detective Michael Reilly immediately. I have reason to believe my life is in danger."
Then he turned away from the surprised Garda and sat down to await his solicitor. The Garda, eyebrows raised, lifted the phone and called his Inspector. Twenty minutes later, in Mycroft's busy office in River House, Aoife received a call from the Garda Commissioner. She locked eyes with Mycroft while the Commissioner told her what had just occurred in Donnybrook station. He raised an enquiring brow at her, but she didn't want to let him know in front of his staff. Then Michael called, and she grinned ruefully. That hadn't taken long.
"Come home now Aoife," he said firmly, and bring Sherlock," he paused for a long moment, "and whatever you do, bring Mycroft too. He needs to get out of London." She glanced over at her man, her eyes narrowing in concern.
"We're on our way," she responded quietly. Don't interrogate that treacherous bastard until Sherlock gets there. He might object to a second interrogation, especially from an English 'private detective'.
"Grand, Aoife. We have to thread carefully though. I'm not all that sure that he's broken any laws here, to be honest."
Aoife sighed in exasperation. She knew he was right. Doyle's ass was grass as far as his position on the board was concerned, but criminal charges were another matter. She wasn't too worried about her business at this point though, she was far more concerned about Mycroft. She clenched her jaw and sneaked another glance at him as he spoke quietly to several members of his senior staff, with Sherlock quietly listening in. She caught his eye beckoned him over. She filled him in quietly on events in Dublin. Sherlock's eyes glinted tellingly. He glanced back across the room to his brother. Mycroft looked back over at him and shook his head slightly and then returned to his conversation.
"Mycroft is going to need another couple of hours here Aoife. Tell Michael to keep Doyle there. We'll go directly to Donnybrook Station."
"It will take too long Sherlock. We can't hold him. He just came in to make a statement."
She thought for a long minute. "We can threaten him with being complicit in a murder and get Mycroft to initiate extradition proceedings to the UK to answer charges here." Sherlock chuckled, a little maliciously.
"Oh, he's not going anywhere. He's scared out of his mind of being shot if he leaves that garda station. He'll stay there all night if necessary." He laughed as he turned to leave.
"Get Mycroft to begin extradition proceedings anyway. They'll never stick, but it will shake him up a bit. I'm off to collect Molly. I'll meet you at the plane."
Looking again at his brother, he turned back and whispered in Aoife's ear.
"Are your men still outside?" She nodded solemnly at him.
"I have two visible outside with the car."
"Armed?"
"Yes."
He smirked at her.
"How many 'invisible'?"
She grinned back at him.
"Eight. Two of them are going to break off and protect you. Do me a favour and let them. I have four guarding the plane and the airfield and they'll come on the plane with us. The rest will follow immediately afterwards, and armed Gardaí will escort us from the military airfield in Baldonnel."
He peered at her. "And the house?" She rolled her eyes.
"Yes, the house too. They're expecting us. And before you ask, yes, you can have your room back."
Sherlock laughed.
"I have to sell this to Molly, considering we've just returned from Ireland and moved into 221B. She loves your house though, that'll help."
He paused and then added, "Get Michael to stay at the house with us this time too. I'm not sure what's going on here, but I…" he trailed off, glancing again at his brother,
"I know Sherlock. I only want trusted people around us too. I'll ask Michael."
He patted her hand and then left the office.
A half an hour later, Sherlock quietly let himself into 221B, listening out for activity in the house. He could hear Mrs Hudson gossiping on the phone in her recently refurbished flat downstairs and hoped she wasn't talking to his mother. No good ever came from that.
It did mean that his darling pathologist was upstairs; alone. He smirked to himself and moved silently up the steps. He was about half way up when he heard the sound of her slightly muffled singing coming from the kitchen. She was still unpacking her own kitchenware and fussing with presses. This unpacking project had been on-going for a week now and he found it most endearing; Molly insisting on consulting with him on his preferences for placement of everything from the pots and pans, to her 'knickknacks', considering he didn't care less one way or the other, but it made her happy, so it was fine with him to continue to offer an opinion when sought.
When he got to the kitchen doorway he paused and leaned against the doorframe, enjoying the view. Molly was on her hands and knees, half buried in one of the presses, wiping it out with a cloth. Her I-phone was docked into the music system and she was singing along to one of her pop songs she loved. What had really gripped his attention was that she was shaking her arse in time to the beat. The fact that she was wearing tight cropped running pants and a vest top only enhanced the visage. His cock had hardened in seconds.
He shucked off his coat and jacket and threw them over to the couch, then leaning back against the door he growled deeply, "don't move."
Molly froze. "Whaa, Sherlock!" She moved backwards slightly and turned her startled head to look at him. The expression on his face made her gasp and her heart began to race with anticipation.
"I said, don't move," he grated, even more firmly. He was across the floor in seconds and turned off the music. Molly's hips swayed slightly and she gasped as she felt his hand behind her begin to stroke her ass. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun and Sherlock smirked smugly to himself because he could see that even the back of her neck was blushing.
"You, Dr Hooper, are a very naughty girl."
"What, what do you mean?" She stammered. He could hear the excited hitch in her voice.
"There are, in fact, two misdemeanours to discuss," he informed her sternly.
He drummed his fingers on her buttock and Molly shifted and moaned and then jutted her backside into his hand.
"T..two?" she stammered and took a deep, audible breath.
"Yes Doctor; two," he replied, still kneading her ass and then ran his hand between her legs. Molly groaned louder and slumping her shoulders, she dropped her head into her arms.
"Allow me to elaborate," he continued, in that gravelly tone that always made her overheat, as his hands continued its caressing motion between her thighs.
"Firstly, you were expressly informed by both Aoife and myself that those presses have already been forensically cleaned for use."
Molly considered the re-cleaning of the presses a pretty minor 'misdemeanour' but had no intention of disputing the issue. She was too turned on.
"Secondly, and far more critically," he continued, as he prised her running pants and thong down over her hips and buttocks, dragging them half way down her thighs, "you are also distracting me when I'm on a case."
He knelt directly behind her, nipped her buttock gently with his teeth, and then kissed it better, making her groan audibly.
"Is that right?" Molly gasped out provocatively, "and just how am I doing that?"
Sherlock chuckled deeply and then pulled her backside tight into the erection straining hard and long against his trousers. He held her hips firmly and then smacked her backside sharply as she wriggled against him.
"You know very well how you're distracting me; presenting yourself like this when you knew I was on my way home".
His hand ran up between her thighs again and she parted her knees to give him better access. He cupped her mound and stroked a long finger between her lips. Her wetness coated his finger and he grinned smugly again. He raised her hips higher and cupping her ass, he lowered his mouth and licked her with long deft strokes until he heard her moaning his name. He stood and lifted her up high and around to face him, and kissed her long and deeply on the mouth. Then he sat her on the kitchen island and casually ripped off her bottoms. Molly's beautiful face was flushed and her eyes were soaking him up as she leaned back on her hands. Sherlock was always the dominant one but this was bringing it to a whole new level. They smiled lasciviously at each other. His eyes glinted as he gestured to her top.
"Take it off. All of it," he ordered her.
She swallowed her excitement and pulled off her top, deliberately leaving her bra on to provoke a response. He raised a brow challengingly and his lips twitched in amusement. He gripped her knees and spread her legs wide, exposing her completely to him and then he slowly scanned her glistening sex. Molly groaned and reached for him but he stepped back and shook his head; denying her.
"I said all of it, Molly." She scanned him for weakness and realised immediately that he was not going to relent.
She scrabbled behind her back and opening her bra, she ripped it from her body and then she reached for him again, gripping his biceps tightly with frantic fingers.
"Please Sherlock…"
"Please what Molly, mm? Tell me what you want, and be specific."
Sherlock was struggling to hold on to all control as he watched her flushed face, conflict evident at having to use the words when she knew he already knew what exactly she wanted from him. Her body was completely betraying her, a sheen of perspiration covered her forehead, her eyes popping hugely as they begged for him, and her tongue swept involuntarily across her lips.
"Sherlock..," she pleaded again.
"Yes Molly?" he taunted her, determined to push her boundaries. She glared at him for a long second and knew he'd never give in first.
"Oh Christ! Sherlock Holmes, put that magnificent mouth back on my clitoris right now!"
He growled in triumph and gripping her by her thighs, he raised them high over his shoulders and obliged. His tongue dove into her centre and her thighs clenched him hard as he licked and sucked her in hard strokes. When he pressed a strong finger on her clitoris she exploded under his mouth; screaming his name as she came. She had barely recovered when he scrabbled with his trousers, releasing himself; lifting her effortlessly as she climbed him like a tree and lowered herself determinedly onto him.
He filled her to the hilt and began to pound into her without restraint, lifting and controlling her easily in unrelenting, powerful strokes; soon building her to another blinding orgasm. His lips found hers and he kissed her hungrily as he increased his pace; flowing with her in perfect harmony and thrusting hard and deep. Molly's breath tore from her throat as she climaxed again and still he maintained iron-willed control until she deliberately clenched down hard around his cock. She felt the tell-tale tremble in his back that indicated that he was close and then, when he came, she knew, once again, that they'd once again found that level of perfection together that she'd never experienced with anybody else. He was her love, her life, and she would be forever bound to him, and him to her. He held her clamped tightly to him and kissed away a stray tear that slid down her face.
"Yes Molly," he confirmed tenderly, as if she'd spoken aloud, "I am yours completely."
Sherlock carried her into their bedroom and lay her gently on the bed, covering her with one of her flowery throws to keep her warm. He ran the bath the way she liked, using her lotions, and stripped off his clothes. He returned to her and scooped her up in his arms, carrying her to the bath as she nestled her head into his neck. He lowered her in and climbing in behind her, he drew her back to rest against his chest and held her quietly for long minutes. Eventually she turned and rolled her eyes as she reached up to him to run her fingers through his damp curls. She glinted knowingly at him.
"Alright Sherlock Holmes. What time do we leave for Ireland?"
Sherlock spluttered out a loud laugh and then, dipping his head he kissed her before purring into her ear,
"Oh don't you worry Molly; we have at least an hour before we leave."
