Chapter Nine

A Place of Safety – A Return to Danger – The Chessboard – A Babysitter – A Chilling Revelation – Revenge is Anticipated – J'adoube.

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Trentini's private jet touched down on the single central runway in London's Docklands just after dawn. Even though it was early, there was already an impressive volume of air-traffic at and around the small aerodrome, and they had to wait their turn before they could taxi into a reserved parking bay.

"Before we get to customs, I have to make two phone calls to ensure that we are neither stopped nor questioned," Sherlock announced. "Whatever you think might be happening, you need to do exactly as I say and stay with me at all times," he added. "Don't wander off as I cannot predict what may happen if we are separated."

"I understand, I understand," Trentini had napped during the flight and was still heavy-eyed. "Once we are out of the airport, where are we going?"

"That depends on the information I get from my conversations," Sherlock's eyes scanned the immediate area as they stepped down the short ladder and onto the tarmac. "If all is well, I'm going to see if I can get you into a safe-house, where you can stay until things quieten down."

"And if all is not well?" Trentini raised his eyebrows, tapping his pocket meaningfully. "I am prepared."

"Tell me you didn't bring a pistol?" Sherlock breathed sharply. "Do you have any idea of the penalty for carrying an unlicensed weapon in this country?"

"Then let us hope I have no need to use it, eh?" the Italian laughed softly. "I suggest you make your calls. I am tired and want to rest."

Blinking slowly, Sherlock pulled out his Blackberry.

His first call, naturally, was to Mycroft. "Developments?" he asked. "Progress?"

"I take it no-one can eavesdrop our conversation?" Mycroft wanted to be sure.

"Not yet," Sherlock deliberately did not look at Trentini, "but that may change. "I need a safe house."

"Do you, by God?" Mycroft's voice sounded satisfied. "Then this is your lucky day, brother," he added. "I shall have someone there momentarily to deliver you, at least temporarily, to exactly such a place."

"Where?"

"Just outside of Purfleet; a house on the edge of the Rainham Marshlands, noted home of the Great White Egret," Mycroft sounded as if her were checking his Hunter. "Your contact should be there in approximately four minutes. Her name is Croft …" there was a distinct hiatus at the end of the sentence.

"And what?" Sherlock knew this kind of pause from Mycroft meant something was not quite right. "Problem?"

"Unclear at the moment, so I'm keeping a few extra eyes and ears about the place."

Nodding in understanding, Sherlock realised immediately that his brother had actioned multiple-levels of surveillance. The watchers were themselves being watched. Clearly, this had to do with the overall situation leading to his seclusion beneath the Tower.

"Excellent," Sherlock's voice rose until he was sure Trentini could hear. "I will await our guide and contact you again when we are safely arrived."

His second call was to John's phone.

"Hello," John's voice was as clear as a bell.

"This is a remarkably clear line from Scotland," Sherlock observed. "Has everything gone to plan?"

"Scotland? Never made it there, Sherlock," his flatmate's soft words were slightly curt. "Mrs Hudson had a bit of an accident in her flat and I felt she needed someone there, and what with you gone as well …"

"So what happened with Munro?" the younger Holmes half-expected the answer.

"Cate refused to wait for me and went off up there by herself," John said, sounding vexed. "She flew up to Inverness yesterday morning after the two of you came back from seeing Mycroft in the Tower."

"Has she been heard from since she left?" Sherlock was relatively sure his sister-in-law wouldn't have gotten herself slain, abducted or generally interfered with, but this was Cate they were discussing. She was infuriatingly prone to finding the nearest danger.

"Not a peep," John sounded fractionally worried. "I've rung and left several messages, but she's not called me back yet. I was going to try and call Mycroft again – his phone's been off too."

"No need to call my brother," Sherlock shook his head. The way Mycroft was at the heart of this situation, he likely knew more than all of them put together, and he'd certainly have eyes, or at least ears in Scotland. Additionally, if the transmitters he'd pressed into action in Rome were already functioning, there was every reason to hope that Cate might have been able to plant at least one of them in Castle Tain. Given that his brother hadn't mentioned Cate, nor sounded concerned in any real way during their conversation, Sherlock was confident that, whatever situation she was in, it wasn't immediately critical.

A silver BMW pulled to a careful halt several feet away.

"Got to go, looks like Mycroft has sent a ride for my guest and I."

"Guest?" John was curious.

"A certain Italian," Sherlock smiled thinly. "Talk later."

Sliding his Blackberry into his jacket, Sherlock turned to assess the woman who had just stepped out of the car to head his way.

"Ms Croft?" Sherlock offered his hand. "Your arrival is timely."

"Thank you, Mr ..?" Croft raised her eyebrows in anticipation. She knew full well who this man was, but it never hurt to get the lay of the land.

"Anderson," Sherlock nodded, turning back towards the Italian who was beginning to look suspicious. "My guest requires some British hospitality. Somewhere quiet, where he might commune with nature, perhaps?"

There was a small smile on Croft's face as she turned to examine the well-dressed Italian man. "May I see your passport, sir," she asked politely.

As Trentini looked at him for confirmation, Sherlock nodded, handing over his own gold-crested booklet for Croft to see.

"Thank you, Mr Anderson and Signor Trentini," she nodded. "I am here to take you to a safe place where you can relax until the situation may be resolved to the satisfaction of all," she said, indicating the BMW.

Nodding, Sherlock climbed into the front passenger seat. Purfleet, Good God.

###

"But I want to phone my children first," Cate held out her hand. "May I borrow yours, please?"

Turning the Blackberry on, Smith handed it over. "If you promise to stay in the car you can even keep it," he said. "Phone whoever you want."

"I can phone Mycroft?"

Nodding, Jon waved towards the device. "Help yourself."

Cate thought. If she rang Mycroft now, the first thing he'd want to know was what she was doing. Naturally, she'd end up telling him the truth, upon which news he'd go quiet and start being terribly nice to her, at which point, she'd fold like the pathetic wimp she was and never see her phone again. Or the file with his name on it.

Probably best not to phone him until after they'd left the castle, in that case.

"Perhaps a later," she said, swiftly dialling the townhouse.

Mrs Compton answered, pleased to hear from her "Are you coming back soon, Miss Cate?" she asked. "The children have been wondering where you and Mr Mycroft have gone."

"Put me on to them, please, Nora," Cate felt her throat go tight at the idea the twins might be feeling abandoned.

"Mumma?" Blythe's babyish tones were uncertain as Nora placed the phone against her ear. "Mumma? Bly want."

Cate knew at that moment that she was a dreadful parent; that she should never have gone to Scotland … the children would clearly degenerate into unsupervised delinquency and end up despising her, probably opting to leave home as soon as they could get away and never want to talk to her again. She would end up alone and unwanted in a ghastly old-people's home with paint peeling down the walls, and where all the terrible parents went to die.

"Hello, darling," her throat tight, she struggled with the words. "Are you being good for Nanny Nora?"

"Mumma! Nawwa an' Jules an' dukkies!"

Cate breathed hard with relief. So there was still a duck-thing happening. Thank God for small mercies. By the time Blythe worked out she wasn't home, she'd be home. Cate felt her guilt-ridden pangs begin to calm.

"Mummy mummy!" Jules' voice was suddenly much louder in her ear. "Mallard, mummy! Mallard dukky!"

Feeling the skin on her face begin to prickle, Cate inhaled slowly. Precocious wasn't really an appropriate word any more. Not yet a year old and beginning to use specific nouns in an almost complete sentence. At this rate, Julius would be conversing at a mature level well before his next birthday. Which meant Blythe wouldn't be far behind since she never allowed her brother to do anything she couldn't.

"Did Nora take you to see the ducks again, lovely boy?"

"Mallard ducky, mummy."

"Yes, my love, the Mallard ducks." Cate closed her eyes for a second. She could even hear a trace of Mycroft in the child's tone. Swallowing hard, Cate struggled with an overwhelming wave of tenderness for her children. She had thought it was impossible for them to take up any more space in her heart, but she had been wrong.

"Mummy will be home very soon, Jules."

Confirming with Nora that her plan was to be back in London before nightfall, Cate ended the call and turned back to Smith.

"I want to see my children as soon as possible," she said. "Therefore, we need to get back into the Earl's office, find my phone, steal Mycroft's file and return to Inverness within the hour, how does that sound?"

Folding his arms, Jon nodded affably. "Sounds great," he said. "What if the Earl of Tain or any of his employees don't like that plan? It might be a little inconvenient to have to battle past the entire crew."

"Which is why I'm going to create a distraction for you while you go in and do whatever it is that spies do."

"What kind of distraction?" Smith felt his eyes narrowing of their own accord as he looked at her. If anything might keep her away from the castle itself, he wanted to hear it. He was forming the distinct suspicion that Holmes had not married this woman for her quietly conventional, stay-at-home, personality.

"I think a fire-alarm might be helpful, don't you?" she asked brightly. "A small fire in a dustbin with wet newspaper; lots of smoke, a couple of dozen screaming tourists?"

"Only an alarm?"

"I've had some experience with this," Cate looked helpful, remembering Bilbao. "You'd be amazed what a fire-alarm can do for people."

"And will you promise me that once you've got the alarm going, you'll come directly back to the car and stay in it?"

Wrinkling her nose, unwilling to be so constricted, Cate made a face at him.

"Unless you promise," Jon kept his face expressionless. "We head for Inverness immediately, even if I have to call the local police to make it happen."

"Oh, bloody hell, alright," he was being entirely too awkward about this. "Can we go back now?"

Leaning back in his well-padded seat, Smith nodded regally. "Whenever you're ready."

Throwing the car into reverse, Cate backed up and out of the layby, swinging around and back along the road towards Castle Tain. The Earl would not anticipate her return; he wouldn't be on the lookout for a second intrusion.

It all seemed perfectly reasonable.

Driving back towards the castle, Cate kept her eyes skinned for any sign of Munro: the last thing she wanted was to accidently bump into him before her tame spy had an opportunity to go look for the file and her phone.

"You said there was a way to get to the side door?" Jon was also keeping a wary eye as they re-entered the visitor's car park.

"It's around the back of those red sheds," Cate leaned to point through the rear window of the car. "Go to the right and then go right again as you head towards the main building. The side door's right there and you can see the office once inside," she paused. "My phone is a silver Galaxy with a tiny spot of red paint on the bottom right corner," she said. "The plastic file I saw with Mycroft's name was light grey in colour, about A4 size, though it wasn't overly thick," she paused again. "Do I wish you good luck?"

"I'll wait for five minutes or until the alarm goes off," Jon was working the practicalities out in his head. "As soon as you get the alarm going, come right back here without any deviation whatsoever and you stay in here, with all the doors locked for no more than ten minutes."

"What happens after ten minutes?" Cate was curious.

"If I'm not back at the car within ten minutes, you are to drive directly and immediately to Inverness airport and get on the first available flight to London, do you understand? The absolute first seat you can get?"

Nodding, Cate understood. If Smith hadn't returned within ten minutes, then it meant he wasn't going to return at all, at least not to her in the car park.

"Okay," she took a swift breath. "Shall we do this?"

"Let's."

Both of them slid through their respective doors, each heading in a different direction: Smith towards the red sheds at the rear of the car park, and Cate towards the visitor's entrance. Producing the ticket she'd bought last night, she waved it at the ticket-collector in an apologetic hurry, making a face as if to suggest she'd missed her group tour. She was waved right through.

Retracing her steps of last evening, Cate found herself once again in the public rooms. There was nobody in this particular room at the moment and she quickly found one of the slim metal waste bins she'd seen the previous night, dragging one under a discreet, wall-mounted smoke-detector. Grabbing a pile of the paper brochures that adorned every table, she screwed them up, quickly filling the bin. Seizing the nearest vase of flowers, she threw the flowers into the bin, adding a few more crumpled papers on top. Now all she had to do was light the paper and everything should start to happen.

It was only then she realised she had neither matches nor lighter.

Muttering some silent but colourful profanities, she searched quickly for a working fireplace, but none of those in the public rooms looked as if they'd been used for years. It was the bright flash of blue that caught the corner of her eye, as she saw a bowl of tourist matchbooks; gifts for those that had already paid for the tour. Grabbing one with a brief but profound thank you to the God of Fortuitous Discoveries, Cate pulled out two matches with shaking fingers and struck them against the coarse strip.

She pressed too hard and both matches buckled in her fingers. Cursing her stupidity, she pulled out another two matches and, taking a deep breath, struck again, slower and more gently. With an acrid flare of phosphorus, the cardboard matches took light and she waited a moment before placing them carefully beneath the crumpled paper. Within seconds, a yellow spear of fire shot up, the burning paper already smoking. The flames caught the moist flowers and dampened paper beneath them and in another few seconds, clouds of bitter smoke began rising through the room. Splashing a few drops more of the vase's water onto the flames brought forth an even greater density of smoke and she held her breath, wafting the clouds towards the mechanism on the wall.

Castle Tain's fire alarm was clear, strident and deafening.

Holding hands to both her ears, Cate scuttled out of the room and through the main exit, following the small flow of people who were doing exactly the same thing. Already, some of the castle's daytime staff were acting as Fire-wardens, guiding everyone away from the building and into the car park which was, coincidentally, precisely where Cate wanted to go. She made directly for the Evoque and clambered inside, clicking the seat-belt into place and waited.

A very tense six minutes later and she saw Smith in the rear-view mirror as he walked swiftly but not too swiftly towards the car. The door opened and closed, Cate touching the accelerator at the exact moment his seat-belt locked into place.

Pulling carefully out of the car park, she headed for the open road and home.

###

His pieces were all in play, and Mycroft, apart from flying through the usual accretion of his work, was almost entirely focused on the drama at hand. It was very nearly the endgame and his touch had to be sure: one accidental slip and the work of months could be ruined.

Sherlock was back in London and had brought Trentini with him. This was an unintended result of the play, but not unwelcome for all that. If nothing else, it meant that one more of his most vocal opponents would either be turned or put somewhere the man would no longer pose an obstacle to his continued efforts. Croft had met them both at the airport and was escorting his brother and their unanticipated guest to a quiet safe house until he needed them.

Cate should now be accompanied by Smith and, with luck, would already be heading back from Scotland. Just as with the Italian transmissions, there had been a significant amount of data from the devices that his wife had managed to place within Andrew Munro's home and it was still coming in. Mycroft had already worked his way through the earlier transcripted and audio versions of the transmitted data from Tain. He paused and looked pensive. It was not only he that had some explaining to do.

In the meantime, there were a few last-minute arrangements to be made. He lifted his Blackberry and called Lestrade.

###

It took less than thirty minutes for the BMW to cruise its way past Dagenham on the A13 to the outer reaches of Purfleet. Sherlock sighed, already bored to the edge of tears. The only thing that made this place even mildly interesting was the idea that Bram Stoker felt it a suitable location for Dracula to have an estate. He looked out the window on this early summer's morning, the sun already warm for the time of day. Not exactly vampire-friendly, he mused. Now there would be a challenge: tracking a vampire. He would have to investigate any documented methods. Not that vampires existed, of course, but there would always be the gullible and those who searched for life beyond the human.

Allowing his mind to float between ideas as the car proceeded deeper and deeper into the impenetrably dreariness of rural Essex, Sherlock wondered what Stoker would make of the place now: still historical but with the added layer of twentieth-century industrialisation to grind it even further into the mire of social obscurity. It was hard to imagine any Gothic novelist worth their salt would cast such a backwater as home to one of the greatest literary monsters of all time.

"Ever been to the Villa Diodati?" he asked Trentini, abstractedly.

"Diodati?" the Italian looked confused. "No, why?" he asked. "I don't even know where that is."

"Lake Geneva, Switzerland," Sherlock rested his chin in his hand as he stared out over the river's great mudflats, running away to his right. He sighed. "Mary Shelley wrote there."

"Shelley? What has she to do with us?"

"Nothing whatsoever," Sherlock sighed again. He could feel the tedium of being trapped in this car with this man already beginning to bite. Why Mycroft wanted him to accompany Trentini to the safe house was not so much a mystery as a punishment. Sherlock suspected he was here as a babysitter. But of whom?

###

"Did you get it?" Cate kept her eyes to the road, though it was scarcely populated at this time of the morning. "Did you find it?"

Sliding a hand inside his jacket, Smith produced a slim grey plastic folder. "Got the file," he wiggled it. "Your phone was nowhere to be seen, so either Munro has it on him, or it's locked away somewhere. Managed to find this, however," he added. "It was in a desk drawer; not even hidden, really."

"What's in it?" Cate kept her eyes on the road. "I never had the chance to open it."

Holding the folder in one hand and flicking through the contents with the other, Smith scanned over several printed documents.

"Looks like he's had someone watching your husband, Professor," he said, turning over several more papers. "There seem to be reports of at least two detective agencies here, although the information they've managed to put together is limited, to say the least," he frowned. There were also a number of photographs, mostly taken at a distance and not terribly detailed. The clearest one was of Mycroft Holmes himself, in conversation with an unknown but well-dressed man outside some large imperial-age building in London, an unfurled umbrella in his hand. There was another picture of him getting into his Jaguar on a busy town street.

There was also a shot of Mycroft walking down a broad pavement with a woman beside him. A dark-haired woman, obviously very pregnant at the time the image had been recorded. The wind had just caught her hair and blown it half across her face at the moment of the photograph was taken, so her features were mostly obscured, but it was clearly Cate, to anyone who knew her.

Had Munro recognised her? Smith thought probably not or she would have seen it in his behaviour. Lucky for her, in that case.

The remaining few document in the file were a little more sinister in that one seemed to offer a schedule of Holmes' activities, including the time he left home in the morning, the various route his car took into Whitehall and his various appearances at any public meeting during the day.

The other item was chilling. It was a photocopy of the twins' birth certificates.

Not only did Munro know the Holmes' domestic address, but that there were young children in the relationship.

"What?" Cate flicker her eyes away from the clear road to his face for a second. "You look like you've bitten a lemon," her smile faded. "What's in there?"

"Some photographs of your husband; you're in one of them, though not clearly seen," Smith stalled. Should he tell her about the birth certificates?

"There's something else though, isn't there?" she asked carefully, still focused on the empty road ahead. There was nothing coming either way and with a gentle swerve, she pulled into the side of the road again. The engine pulsed quietly as she put the handbrake on.

"What is it you don't want to tell me?"

Jon didn't know why he would be surprised: nobody could live with Mycroft Holmes and not pick up a few things. He handed her the final piece of paper, watching as her brain absorbed what her eyes were telling her.

Cate went very still, almost to the point of ceasing to breathe. Then she inhaled, long and slow, her eyes staring out of the front window but blind to the external view.

"If my children are in danger, Munro will be stopped," she said softly.

"It may be nothing, just the detectives delivering whatever they could fine: he must have been paying them well to come up with this much."

"I don't care about the other stuff," Cate shook her head. "But if there is so much as a hint that Munro is going for the children, Mycroft will end him," she added. "Utterly."

"He knows your address," Jon's voice was gentle. "You need security."

"I know his address, too," she turned to face him now, a curious smile on her face.

"You're not going back there again," Smith felt another chill as he took in the stillness of her face. "I'll phone your husband right now and get a security detail arranged," Jon suited his actions to his words.

The call connected instantly.

"Munro has photos of you and your wife and he knows about your children," he said tersely. "You need security, sir."

There was the faintest sound of a reply, at which Smith nodded, his shoulders relaxing an inch or two, a curve shaping his mouth. "Of course, Mr Holmes; I should have realised. Your wife is here, would you like a word?"

Lifting his eyebrows, his smile faint but definite, Jon handed the phone over.

"Darling?" Cate felt her voice was hoarse. "Are the children safe?"

"My love, the children have never been in any danger whatsoever, whether you are with them or not," he said, compellingly. Comfortingly. "I would not leave two of the three most precious things in my life unprotected, nor do I want you ever to fret about them. Are you coming home?"

"Mr Smith and I are heading for Inverness as we speak," she said. "We'll get the first available seats and with luck, should be at Heathrow early this afternoon. Can you have someone meet us?"

"Let me know your flight number when you've got your boarding passes and I'll have everything taken care of, my love. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Cate sighed. "It's been a bit of an adventure, but I'll tell you all about it when I see you at home," she said. "You are going to be coming home?"

"With luck, I should be with you and the children very soon," she could hear the smile in his voice; clearly he meant what he said. Cate felt an unrealised anxiety leave her.

"There are a few things you are going to have to clarify for me, darling," she felt able to be demanding now that things appeared to be achieving a measure of control.

"A discussion that will undoubtedly flow in both directions, my love," he was still smiling though Cate swore she could hear an edge to his voice.

"Mr Smith and I will be at the airport in about thirty minutes. Is there any chance you can arrange seats for us?"

The smile was back in his voice as Mycroft advised her it had already been done. As soon as she presented herself at the British Airways desk, two of their best seats would suddenly become available, getting both she and Smith would be back in London sometime in the early afternoon.

"What do you want me to do when I get back to London?" Cate wasn't sure whether to go home to the children, or …

Mycroft's response was definitive. "You will come here," he said. "I'll have the car bring you here, to me. It's important, Catie."

When his voice held that specific tone, she knew he was serious and since she had no real clue what was going on, except it was dangerous and involved a man with copies of her children's birth certificates, she had no argument. Clearly Mycroft had something orchestrated, and so she would do as asked.

He wanted her to come to the Tower. He wanted her with him. She would go.

###

Andrew Munro, twenty-third Laird of Tain, Earl and Peer of the realm, sat in his office and stared hard at the top of his desk, his expression a mixture of savage anger and sophisticated humour. The woman he'd caught trespassing on his property, in his home, had vanished, as had certain things that ought not to have been touched.

The King's bed in the Jacobean room was despoiled, a fact which he would make her regret, tempting though it was now to simply burn the entire bed. It was ruined anyway. The damage she'd caused during her escape was eclipsed only by the damage she'd attempted to cause when she returned to his home less than an hour after she'd left and started the fire.

He knew it was the woman who'd stayed in his home last night; Catherine. He knew it was her because the internal security cameras in the public rooms had captured her every movement since she returned, although it hadn't been she who had broken into his office; but as there were no cameras in the private areas, that was still a mystery. There must have been an accomplice. He had not yet discovered anything missing, and she wouldn't have been able to find her phone as he had it in his pocket even now.

He'd watched the recorded video of her as she'd stacked the steel bin with paper and dampened it with the vase of water and the flowers. He'd seen the care she'd taken to set the alarm off. The only thing remotely assuaging was that she hadn't deliberately tried to cause any further damage, not real damage.

"Show me the video from the car park camera," he glowered at Finley who hastened to comply, speeding through the video until they could see Cate getting into a silver-grey vehicle and simply sitting there. The external images disappeared when the Castle's electronics closed everything down as per protocol during a fire alarm, so no accomplice had been seen with her. The only other casualty seemed to be the phone-system which had ceased to function – they could ring out, but nothing was coming in. An engineer had been summonsed.

No matter. There was an Inverness car-rental sticker in the rear window of the Range Rover and Munro smiled. He knew that particular franchise rather well: it belonged to his estate.

Now he had her.

Lifting his phone, he called the manager of the franchise, asking for several details about the customer who'd recently hired one of their Range Rovers. Who was she, what was her address, how had she paid for the rental?

The information was interesting but hardly exhaustive, although a couple of items gave him pause. Catherine Adin, a teacher, yes, but at a university, not a school and not really a teacher in that case. An Academic. So she'd not been entirely forthcoming. The Earl of Tain lifted his eyebrows in thought. The address she'd given had been university one, not a private home address … that was interesting in itself. Why would anyone give their work rather than their home address? However, she'd paid by a personal VISA, and it was amazing how many fascinating details might be extracted from one of those. He assumed that, after having retuned the rental car, Catherine Adin would be on the next flight back to London. All he needed, therefore, was to discover with which particular airline she had booked a ticket and then have one of his London contacts follow her from the airport in the City when she arrived.

That she was trying to evade him now was a pointless exercise: he would have her traced, tracked and cornered. And when she was, when the delicious Catherine was all alone, he would come to her in the quiet and the dark and all would be as he desired. That he might additionally extract a little reparation for the damage she'd caused in his home was a secondary but no less important a matter. He would enjoy both aspects of their meeting.

He set his man onto chasing the requisite information, and in the meantime, prepared himself for his trip.

"Tell Robert I am going to London sooner than planned," he said, leaning back in his seat and clasping his fingers together. "I'd like to fly down this afternoon: ask him to arrange it."

"Of course, Your Lordship," Finley was glad the Laird was going to vent his wrath far away from home and hearth: it was never pleasant when he was on one of his … crusades. If the woman who'd stayed for dinner the previous night had sparked-off the Earl's desire for retribution, then she'd better be very good at hiding her tracks. By the sound of things, she wasn't. Finley wished her luck: she was going to need it.

###

It was later in the day than she'd expected by the time their British Airways flight 1389 touched down at Heathrow airport. Escorted by one of his nameless supernumeraries, they were taken, as promised, to where Mycroft's black Jaguar waited for them, parked in one of the very private areas where visiting VIPs went to avoid the tabloid press.

Wearier than she realised, Cate piled into the back seat and sagged exhaustedly against the pale leather. She closed her eyes and heaved a massive sigh.

"Really tired," she muttered, rubbing a hand over her face and yawning. She had been on edge since the evening Mycroft had been taken into custody, which would have been, what … only two nights previously, but nearly all of the intervening hours had been spent either awake or travelling. Ironically, the only time she'd had any opportunity to really rest was after Munro had drugged her tea. But now the excessive hours without respite, the anxiety about Mycroft, the worry about the children, were beginning to show, and Cate could feel her depleted energy fading even further in the warm comfort of the car.

"It'll take us nearly an hour to get there," Smith saw her eyelids drooping. "Why don't you have a nap and I'll give you a shake before we arrive?"

It was a tempting idea, and Cate was so sleepy, she almost accepted. But she knew if she did, she'd be in an even worse state at the other end. No; she would wait until she could sleep safely with Mycroft beside her.

"If I sleep now," she managed a faint smile. "I'll not be able to wake up, and there's too much that still needs to be sorted out, I think," she added, yawning mightily. "Plenty of time to sleep later."

"If you say so," Jon smiled as he turned his head to gaze through the window. If the Professor was still awake in five minute's time, he'd be amazed.

In less time than even that, he felt a slight pressure against his right side. Turning back, his smile grew wider as he saw her, fast asleep, leaning against his shoulder. God knows what she'd been through by herself, but a brief nap wouldn't hurt. Turning so that she was resting against his chest rather than his shoulder, he lifted an arm around her and held her against him so at least she wouldn't fall off the seat. There was a soft snore.

He smiled.

In less time than he'd predicted, the Jaguar swept majestically through one of the Tower gates, come to a gentle halt inside the battlements themselves.

"Time to wake up, sleeping beauty," Jon shook his passenger who by now, was almost curled up against him.

"Not yet," Cate mumbled. "Another minute."

"Don't you want to see your husband?"

Heaving her face away from his chest, he laughed openly at the expression on her face: crumpled from sleep, partly disgusted at actually going to sleep and partly disgusted at having to wake up.

"Come on, then," Cate dragged herself through her door and into the cooling air of a late London afternoon. Sucking in a massive breath, she blinked hard several times and straightened up. "Fine now," she nodded, still blinking. "Take me to your leader."

She was so different from the utterly controlled Holmes that Smith wondered how these two had ever managed to get together. One of life's little mysteries.

Guiding her carefully around corners and through discreet doors, they came at last to a plain stone wall with the steel façade of a lift embedded in the concrete. Cate fancied she'd been here before.

Travelling down, the smell of the place: cool and vaguely garage-like, helped her wake even more and as they walked down the corridor, Cate's skin prickled with recognition. She even recognised the door up ahead and quickened her stride.

The door stood open, light streaming out into the passageway. Stepping inside, her eyes were drawn instantly to Mycroft who was sitting, relaxed and peaceful in one of a pair of comfortable-looking leather armchairs. He was sipping tea.

"Mycroft," Cate stopped short, her voice cracking as she saw him free of restraint and safe. She had an almost overwhelming urge to weep.

"My darling," he was standing and had her in his arms, his fingers pressing her into his chest as he took a very deep breath. One less problem for him to worry about. "Are you alright? Are you hurt in any way?"

"I'm fine, but what about the children and Nora?"

"The family are safe and well," Mycroft spoke reassuringly as he tucked the sweep of her hair behind her ear. "They have never been in any danger at any time, and my people have the entire area under the highest level of observation for over two weeks now," he added, nodding.

"Two weeks?" Cate frowned. "Then something's been going on for a lot more than the last few days and you chose not to tell me?"

"My darling wife," Mycroft smiled down at her slightly cross expression. "You are a shockingly dreadful liar. The moment you'd known something was up, your entire behaviour would have changed and as I couldn't risk the operation, I made a choice."

Leaning against the warm solidity of his body, Cate was too tired to think about it now that she knew the children and Nora were safe. Her tiredness came back in a rush.

"Then that's all right then," she muttered, sagging a little in his arms. It was warm and quiet down her and she was with him again and there was nothing to worry about for a while. She yawned.

"Why don't you lie down and sleep for a while?" Mycroft knew her well enough to see the deep fatigue just below the surface. "I promise to wake you if anything happens."

"Is something going to happen?" Cate yawned again, allowing herself to be guided by his arm around her shoulders into the adjacent sleeping-quarters.

"Oh yes," Mycroft nodded as he pulled a cover over her as she curled onto the bed. "I think something will happen fairly soon."

"Good," she mumbled. "'Bout time. Whatever it is." She was asleep even as he stood back to check her appearance. Windswept, dishevelled, clearly exhausted. Mycroft felt his heart thud in his chest. All his family were safe now.

Returning to the main room. He indicated Smith into the opposite seat as he resumed his own, answering his Blackberry as it rang.

"Excellent," he voice was mild. "Treat him carefully but ensure our expectations are quite clear," he said. "Is the package being delivered?" He nodded again, checking his Hunter, a fleeting smile on his lips. "We may need to adjust our timing a little," his eyebrows twitched upwards. "But I do not foresee any major departure from schedule. Keep everyone informed and in place."

Ending the call, he looked apologetically at Smith as he pressed several keys. "Ms Croft?" his tone was impersonal. "I want you to bring your two guests to me. Yes, to my exact location. Right away, please." Mycroft returned the phone to his inner pocket.

"Progress?" Smith linked his fingers and looked interested.

"Indeed," Mycroft was thoughtful. "It's almost dusk," he said. "I will need to go outside soon," he said. "Time for me to play my part as sacrificial goat."

"You intend to go through with this … whatever this is, and put yourself in danger just to finish the operation?" Jon was almost angry, although he wasn't sure why. "By the sound of it, you already have all the important things battened down, so surely there can be no real need for you to put yourself literally in the firing line?'

Mycroft's expression didn't change.

"You know she'll be impossible to deal with if you were actually hurt?" he asked wryly. "And your wife is not someone I would want angry at me."

"Cate would understand what I'm doing and why I have to do it," Mycroft looked down at his hands for a moment, allowing the shadow of a smile to cross his face. "The risk to myself is negligible."

It was only as his eyes swung back to Smith's face, he saw the younger man was not looking at him anymore, but in fact, was gazing over his left shoulder.

"What risk?" Cate was right behind him.