Chapter 10

In which the past and the future are considered.

###

Greg Lestrade was seated at his desk finishing off the final sections of several reports where his signature, as ranking officer, was required. Knowing his people did their jobs well, the temptation to skim through the various parts of each report and simply sign his name at the bottom was endlessly tempting, but his professional credibility hung on things like this and so he read everything carefully and thoroughly. Thus, it was almost six and the evening sky dark for several hours by the time he signed-off on the last one, sighing a little as he stacked the printed reports neatly, pushing them to one side of his marginally less-cluttered desk. Greg had even gone so far as to shrug into his heavy winter coat and was just about to flick the main office light switch off when his desk phone rang. Closing his eyes and groaning he trudged back to pick it up knowing that, even if he walked away and left the office, whoever wanted him would probably get him one way or another. Despite the fact that he was only paid to run a 40-hour week and had farewelled shifts a while back, things rarely worked out quite so neatly. May as well deal with whatever it was directly and get it done. It might even be something he could close on the phone and still be able to make it home in plenty of time for a microwaved curry and a long, cold bottle of lager.

"Lestrade."

The jabbering at the far end of the call was rapid, shocked and left nothing to the imagination. Greg felt his blood chill and his mouth dry as his mind digested the details. "Where? Who's on site? Who else knows?"

More rapid muttering, the speaker's voice broken and hoarse with horror and the inspector knew there would be little sleep for him this night. There had been two more vampire murders.

###

Refusing to be put off, no matter what age-old tricks she tried to pull, Sherlock sipped his tea until the cup was empty, waiting until Kit's compendium of excuses ran dry. About to tease and gently torment the old woman into a full and frank confession, Sherlock suddenly noted her skin looked pale ... no; not pale ... grey. Instantly sitting back in his seat, Sherlock schooled his observation into a more professional mode. Though Kit camouflaged it well, she was ill, and not merely ill with age, but really ill. By the faint cyan tinge of her nail-beds and the unaccustomed pallor of her lips, it was an illness of the heart and circulatory system. Why had he not seen this before? Why had Mycroft said nothing? Why had Kit kept this from him?

No sooner had the questions been asked than his mind supplied the answers. He had not returned to the Pall Mall address regularly enough to observe such an incremental decline before today. Mycroft had said nothing because Kit had clearly asked him to say nothing, hence Mycroft's prevarication of a few days earlier. The ancient vampire hadn't exactly lied but obfuscated the situation through omission and dissembling. Equally as clearly, Kit did not want him to know because she still felt the need to protect him from the harsh realities of the world. After all these years, Sherlock realised that in her eyes, he would always be the stricken young charge. His chest tightened and his breathing caught. Even after all this time, Kit would rather suffer in silence than cause him worry, just as she'd done almost all his life. It was beyond bearing, and Sherlock felt his throat constrict and burn at the thought of it. It was a sensation he found uncomfortable and displeasing.

Closing his eyes fleetingly and regulating his breath, he comprehended he would have to speak to Mycroft before he did anything else or said anything to the old woman. If she was willing to take such steps in order to keep her illness a secret, Sherlock realised, albeit belatedly, that he might not have the right to take that secret from her. Blinking his pale blue eyes wide open, he smiled brightly. "Would you like some more tea?" he asked carefully, leaning forward and resting his long fingers across her smaller hand. "You sit there and cut us both a slice of that cake, and I'll put the kettle on for a fresh pot, shall I?" he focused his gaze. "You're up to no good, I can see, but you clearly have a reason for bringing a stranger into the house and trying to make Mycroft feel guilty about something, but I shall keep my thoughts to myself on that matter for the time being."

"More tea would be lovely, my dear," Kitta smiled gratefully, and not only for the tea.

Sherlock stood, reaching for the electric kettle and feeling a sharp burn of grief he'd not had since his childhood. Kit. His chest tightened again and an alien wave of melancholy squeezed his throat just as a rising tide of anger clenched his hand tight closed. He would speak to the older man before the evening was out and have the unvarnished truth of the matter. Mycroft would tell him everything or there would be hell to pay.

###

Ellis knew she was on the tipsy side not only because she felt a little sleepy but because she was torn between squeaking her excitement one moment and sucking in great shocked lungfuls of air in the next. The first thing she'd really noticed standing almost directly in from of her in this incredible room of books was a spectacular celestial globe. A mid-nineteenth century Malby by the looks of it, encased in mahogany and standing almost as high as her chest. The thing was huge, at least sixty inches in diameter, an almost unheard of size. Ringed by a gleaming brass horizon band marked with the months of the year and the sigils of the astrological houses, all rotating within the brass engraved meridian ring. It was amazing; she'd never seen anything quite like it before, and Mycroft hadn't even bothered to stop and show her; but had walked straight past it towards a glass-encased cabinet some feet away. Itching to convince herself the thing was real, to have her hands on it and feel it rotate to heavenly co-ordinates beneath her touch, the historian looked about her for some protective hand-coverings, though there was none immediately obvious. So she simply stood, hands clasped tight against her chest, gawping helplessly at such magnificent craftsmanship.

"Here," Mycroft was at her shoulder, dangling a pair of fine white cotton gloves in front of her face. "I believe you wanted these?"

Not bothering to ask if he were a mind-reader as well as an incredibly wealthy collector of flawless antiquities, Ellis pulled the light fabric over her fingers and immediately ran a delicate touch along the meticulously demarked and curved brass rules holding the globe in place. The device moved as smoothly as oil on glass and in utter silence, the entire thing as untouched and perfect as if it had been made only yesterday. In her career thus far, Ellis had seen an uncounted number of fabulous and beautiful things, yet she had never really coveted any of them until this moment.

"Superb," she whispered, the amazement of having her hands on such an immaculate marvel clearing her head of any alcoholic haze, as she spread her fingers wide and drew them sensitively down the meticulously illustrated and painted outer casing of the great golden globe. "Stupendous."

Watching his guest lose herself entirely in what was only a trifling element of his great collection, Mycroft found it impossible to avoid wondering how those fingertips might feel stroking his face. A vague trickle of want stirred within him.

Beryan.

"I had imagined these might be more to your liking, actually," the unplanned lowering of his voice to a gravelly baritone seemed to go unnoticed, for which Mycroft was wholly thankful. He was here to show the historian pieces of his special collection, not embark upon a seduction. Gesturing towards the glass-topped Hepplewhite case which had originally been his intended destination, Mycroft stood unmoving as Ellis finally managed to tear her attention away from the great globe and turn to face him. Allowing her eyes to follow the direction of his hand, she stepped closer; only to falter again the moment she was able to see even part-way through the clear glass cover.

It was the heavy glow of gold that did it; Ellis couldn't recall seeing that much of the decorative metal in one place outside of the British Museum. "Oh, good grief," she hissed sotto voce, her hand reaching up to clutch heedlessly at Mycroft's upper arm as she leaned over the case.

An early eighteenth-century mahogany sideboard, splendid in its own right, built to accommodate a deep, glass-topped casement. Inside the case were three large books, each resting on a cushion of richly purple velvet padding. Religious tomes, and, like the globe, unique of their type. The middle one, open and displaying the earliest mechanically-printed text in Tyndale's English, was clear and unaffected by time.

"These are very early Geneva Bibles," awe-struck, Ellis kept her white-gloved fingers scrunched tight in the sleeve of Mycroft's dark suit. "And important ones, too."

"Mid-sixteenth-century," Mycroft's tone matched the historian's. "Gold-cased, lined with handwoven royal silk and triple gold-edged," he added, taking her free hand and bringing her a little closer to the cabinet. "These once belonged to a King," he added, as if such information would be needed. "It took a very long time to be able to reunite them like this." Lifting the glass lid, he detached the hand still affixed to his arm and drew it down towards the open, and largest of the three volumes, in the centre of the case. "Be my guest," he murmured, his eyes watching the myriad expressions crossing her face; the historian's transparent reaction of thrilled awe was far too delightful to miss.

Not bothering to ask if he were absolutely sure he didn't mind her touching pieces from his precious collection, Ellis carefully slid her hands around and beneath the middle book, closing and lifting it carefully and slowly until it was level with her waist. The book and its golden cover was a heavy weight and Ellis had no desire to attempt to hold it for very long.

"Over here," Mycroft walked several feet away, indicating a strangely high and narrow table where he had already arranged a series of padded triangular blocks to create a shallow V-shape. Nodding her understanding, Ellis walked across and placed the book spine-down into the supportive embrace of the padding.

"Where did this come from?" she breathed in amazement, opening the front cover with exquisite delicacy. "I've not seen anything like this in any of the specialist sales for the last twenty years," she said. "Was it a private sale, or has it been in your family's collection for a long time?"

Avidly watching her white-sheathed fingers caress and lift the jewel-studded gold plated cover, Mycroft felt another rush of sensual pleasure as the historian's own enjoyment was telegraphed loud and clear in her breathing and micro gestures. He had never invited any expert such as she into his library before, and the effect that his carefully curated collectables were having on Doctor Wilde was as pleasurable to him as were the items themselves. Indeed, parts of him seemed extraordinarily aware of the good doctor's presence.

The bibles were a very special collection in their own right. He'd managed to obtain this largest and most dazzling one not long after its original owner had died at a very early age. Of the other two, one he'd managed to track down and obtain through a large payment enabling the owner to settle a hefty death-duty bill, and the other he had won as the result of a rather reckless wager. But as he had acquired the last of the three more than two hundred years ago, Mycroft felt discretion to be the greater part of valour in this instance.

"A gift," he said easily. "From a long-time colleague." John Dudley, First Duke of Northumberland had indeed been a colleague ... of a sort. Right up to the moment the man's head had been lopped from his shoulders for treason against the newly crowned Mary.

Recognising the royal coat of arms emblazoned in solid gold on a front cover already heavy with the stuff, Ellis took another deep breath as she worked out who the original owner must have been. "These were the English arms between 1509 and 1554," Ellis turned several hand-illustrated pages over with the greatest of care, a small frown lining her forehead. "They belonged to Henry VIII and his only legitimate son, Edward VI," she paused, narrowing her eyes in thought. "But the Geneva bible wasn't supposed to have even been written until 1557, let alone be printed in such an elaborate and exotic form before then, and Edward died in 1554, unless ..." she paused, turning from the book to look up into Mycroft's eyes.

"This book is far too recent to belong to Henry," she said, "who died in 1547, years before Mary's attempt at Catholic reformation forced Protestant scholars to flee for their lives to the Continent and write the thing," Ellis paused, thinking. "Therefore, this had to have been written and printed at the very end of Edward's reign, even while he was dying, in fact, so that he might have a true Protestant bible fit for a king that no Catholic queen could ever unwrite," pausing again, Mycroft saw her eyes widen in disbelief as understanding of the bible's provenance sunk in. "These are Edward's Textus Receptus?" Ellis brought a gloved hand to cover her open mouth. "The fabled bibles written for the boy-king shortly before his death so that he might approve one of the versions as the new English standard?" Looking back down at the brilliantly beautiful relic on the table in front of her, she exhaled loudly. "I may need some more of your brandy," she muttered, closing the book with the utmost care and stepping back and away from the table, as if the tome was too prized to suffer the touch of a mere mortal.

"How on earth do you have these things?" she demanded, meeting Mycroft's eyes again. "And don't tell me they were a gift; nobody gives things like these as gifts," she added, pursing her mouth and looking contemplative. "Was your family in royal service to the Tudors?"

At least he could answer this one truthfully, though perhaps not completely. He smiled. "There has been a man of my line present in one capacity or another in every royal house since before the Kings of Wessex sat on their throne in Winchester, though the family name has evolved through time, as you can imagine," he nodded musingly. That the man had been himself in every case was neither here nor there. "It has been a colourful and a somewhat eventful relationship."

"I just bet it has," Ellis murmured, returning her gaze to the golden book on the table in front of her. "Though it still doesn't explain how you come to have these incredible things in your private collection," she said, frowning again. "These bibles are of international importance and should be, if not actually in the Royal collection themselves, then at least in the British Museum so that everyone can see them for the wondrous things they are."

Mycroft looked down at his linked fingers. "I've already made arrangements for the collection to be donated in toto to the nation upon my death," he said quietly. "I know this isn't exactly what you would prefer to hear, but since the family line will stop with me, I have taken certain steps to ensure the collection will be treated appropriately when the time comes," he added. "I will have no heirs, you see."

"Oh," Ellis wasn't sure why she suddenly felt a little sad. That this magnificent collection might one day be broken up, or perhaps that there would be a time when Mycroft Holmes was no longer among them, or even perhaps that there would be no further extension of the Holmes family line. "What about your brother?"

"Sherlock?" Mycroft looked at her, a small smile lighting his face before he shook his head. "Sherlock has made it very clear he has no plans for the continuation of the Holmes family line, and even if he were to change his mind at some point in the future, he has not the least interest in the continued curation of all ... this," he said, lifting up his hands and casting his eyes around the vast perimeter of the room. "A shame, but there's little point in romanticising the situation."

"So all this will end with you?" Ellis stared around at the massively tall shelving covering each wall, at the incredible stained-glass windows, at the statues, the glass-topped cabinets. "Oh."

Sensing the conversation was heading towards the sentimental, Mycroft caught the historian's hand. "Come see my lions," he said, tugging her from the centre of the room towards one of its corners where a great white cat waited, its eyes forever staring off towards an unseen horizon, perhaps into the distance of history itself. "Landseer made these," he murmured as Ellis stood before the statue nearest the doors; her gloved hand stroking down a cold marble flank. "They were trials for his design in Trafalgar Square, though those ones, of course, are much larger."

"They're beautiful," Ellis rested both hands on the cool stone and leaned her forehead against the big cat's chest. "What are their names?"

Nobody had ever asked him for their names before. Mycroft felt something inside him surge with euphoria. He had waited more than one hundred and fifty years to find anyone sufficiently interested to ask him their names. "Here at the south corner is Sekhmet," he said, the calmness of his voice belying his satisfaction. "The one to the west is Bes. In the north we have Maahes, and across to the east is Bast," he finished, watching her and waiting for her inevitable assessment. He felt sure she would know the names and understand their significance.

Nodding, Ellis reached up and stroked the cat's shoulder. "Appropriate," she said. "They are indeed godly creatures and should be venerated as such," she turned suddenly, fixing Mycroft with intelligent eyes. "You," she observed in something of an analytical tone, "are a huge romantic. For all that this place is built and sustained by what even I can see is really old money and service to Queen and Country, what actually keeps this place alive is you," stepping away from the enormous marble lion, Ellis walked closer to him, sizing him up and down as if meeting him for the first time.

"I appreciate all manner of beauty and beautiful things," Mycroft felt his mouth dry as the living image of his old love stood close before him. "They compensate me for things I have lost and shall never have again."

What a strange thing to say. "What is it you've lost that makes such compensation necessary?" Ellis looked up into a pair of mesmeric dark blue eyes that seemed to be carrying on an entire conversation with her all by themselves. "What things are so impossibly unique that you can never have them again?"

The sun, the blue skies of summer, the love of one who was taken from me. Meeting her gaze, Mycroft felt the slow crawl of desire prickle across his skin. Ellis Wilde was the personification of Beryan of Isca. Was it wrong to feel arousal at her proximity? Was it the ghost of his long-dead lover that called to him here, in this place, or was it the fascinating young historian whose heart he could hear beat harder whenever she beheld the splendour of the past? Of the two women, which one was it that created the pulse of longing he could feel resounding through him, even now? Who would be in his arms if he sought that reality ... Beryan or Ellis?

Ellis watched as the eyes of the man beside her grew wider and darker at her questions, as if he were seeing something invisible to her. She could swear he was leaning closer, his eyes more black now than blue, it was almost as if he was about to ...

"I'm sorry," feeling strangely dizzy, she looked away. "I have no right to ask you such personal questions. I forget myself, sometimes. Please forgive me."

There was a heaviness in the air as if a storm was threatening.

"I have a number of other very fine items in my library that you will likely find of interest," Mycroft's smile was fleeting as he stepped back suddenly, his features schooled once more into a polite mask. "These bibles are magnificent, as you say, yet here," he indicated the very next glass-topped cabinet, "is something of equal rarity, if you are familiar with Plutarch."

Plutarch? Ellis felt her head spin again. Was it the champagne that made her think the man had almost kissed her, or had she simply been imagining it? She felt very warm, so alcohol seemed the likely candidate. Clearing her throat and inhaling sharply to clear her head, Ellis peered into the next case, only to see twin first folios of Plutarch's Vitae, printed and hand-illuminated. The identification card announced the date of printing was 1440, and that the manual illuminations had been done in Rome which, of course, was absolutely impossible. Gutenberg only invented his moveable press in 1439, and to have produced something with such complexity in Germany in such a short space of time and then to have it sent to a Vatican cloister for illumination by hand ... was incredible. The date had to be wrong. Leaning closer to see the fine print in more detail, Ellis missed the wave of relief that momentarily smoothed all expression from Mycroft's face as he blinked rapidly and loosened the knot of his tie.

###

Mycroft and the woman, whom Kit had advised was from the London Museum, showing him a business card in glorious Technicolour, had been in the library for almost an hour. In that time, Sherlock had drunk more tea than he had all week, had bitten the inside of his mouth in order to stop himself from blurting out everything he had already deduced about his elderly nanny. That she was ill with a heart-related condition was painfully obvious. That Kit had also come to some pathetic arrangement with Mycroft not to say anything about it was so outrageous as to be verging on the offensive. If Kit had left the room for but a few moments, he would have been able to ascertain the precise nature of her illness as she was keeping her medication in the larger of the two ovens, judging by the several looks she had unrealisingly cast its way; out of sight but convenient and in a place only she would go. Given Kit's age and general condition, and the fact that she had become unwell in increments pointed to some form of narrowed arteries and reduced blood flow; Angina would be the most likely. But why had she chosen not to say anything to him? Did she consider him so immature that he could not bear to hear of her suffering? Kit.

Saying nothing, he dutifully ate the chicken sandwich she had insisted on making him, since he'd already told her he wasn't going to be staying for dinner. He'd also taken his case up to his old room which, apart from looking a lot cleaner and emptier than he remembered, had changed little since his university days. There was still the faint scorch-mark on the rug where, aged ten, his paraffin-fuelled steam engine had singed the nap; the near invisible dent in the high ceiling where, aged eleven, his indoor rocket almost became an outdoor one. Following the fire at his flat, the more expensive elements of his rescued clothing were either at the dry-cleaners in an attempt to rid it of the smoke, or had been unceremoniously dumped in the nearest skip since no cleaner would take them, thus his luggage was minimal.

Throwing his case onto the bed, Sherlock knew three things were about to happen. He was going to find out from Mycroft exactly what was going on with Kit and just what Ellis Wilde, Research Historian, was doing in Mycroft's inner sanctum. He was also going to update the older man on the initial results of his tests at Bart's that afternoon. And then he would purloin a half-dozen of Mycroft's best, hand-made shirts. Even though they would inevitably be conservative and dull, they would also be of the highest quality. About to head down to the floor below and into Mycroft's private dressing room, his phone rang. Lifting it to his ear, the urgent tone of Inspector Lestrade's voice had him running out the bedroom door and down the stairs towards the front door even as he listened.

"Where? When? Who's there?"

Within moments, he had grabbed his coat and ran outside, hailing the first cab in sight.

###

About to show his guest another prized item, this one a first edition in English of Newton's landmark Principia, published two years after the great man's death, Mycroft's Blackberry rang. "Excuse me," he murmured, moving away to take the call. "Sherlock? Unable to stagger the distance to the library from the kitchen under the weight of your intellectual superiority?"

"Don't be an arse, Mycroft," the younger man sounded faintly breathless. "There's been another occurrence of the so-called Vampire killings and I felt sure you'd want to know."

Immediately on high alert, Mycroft's mind snapped into deep-analysis mode. "Tell me."

"Empty massage parlour in SoHo; a seedy place in Brewer Street. Looks like it's been vacant for a while; there's a To Let sign outside that's been there since well before Christmas. Lestrade's got people chasing the owner of the place now, much good that will do."

Mycroft felt his eyebrows rise. "Is there an approximate time of death yet?"

"No doubt the pathologists will be able to supply a somewhat more specific time, but judging by the depth to which the blood has soaked into the carpet and the dryness of the various spatter patterns on the wall, and taking into consideration the general ambient temperature and humidity of late, together with the lack of air movement in the room and ..."

"Just tell me, Sherlock," Mycroft lifted his eyes to heaven in search of patience.

"I'd say not more than thirty-six to forty-eight hours ago at most," Sherlock spoke rapidly. "It's the same layout as in both previous cases; two bodies, or rather, one body and a bucket of spare-parts."

"I have to see the scene for myself," Mycroft was already preparing a story for his guest to excuse his precipitous departure. "I'll have the usual arrangements made and will be with you shortly." Ending the call, he hit a speed dial number. Anthea. "I need two cars at my Pall Mall address immediately," he directed quietly. One to SoHo, the other to Camberwell. I also want to extend the current defence advisory notice on the double-killings series to cover all further incidents, so please advise the Home Office accordingly." Turning immediately to Ellis, currently gazing rapturously as a small seventeenth-century Flemish tapestried screen. "I am genuinely sorry," he began, truthfully. "But a matter of some urgency has arisen and I must leave now," he paused. "I've arranged for a car to take you home, so please don't be concerned about finding a taxi in the rush hour," he smiled and paused, a little awkwardly. "It's been wonderful to have someone here who understands the importance of all this," he looked around before returning his gaze to Ellis. "I hope you'll consider returning in the near future so that I might continue to surprise you," he smiled down into eyes he had fallen in love with more than two thousand years before.

Once again, Ellis felt there was a much bigger conversation going on between them than mere words could encompass. "I should like that very much," she blinked and nodded.

"I have your card," Mycroft knew he had to leave, but was inexplicably reluctant to end this time together. "Soon," he added, as Ellis turned towards the library's double doors. "I'll call you soon."

###

Anthea was waiting for him in the Jaguar as the big car headed down the Mall, crossing Regent Street and speeded through the theatre district. "The Home Secretary was not entirely pleased with being summoned by his people after working hours for what is, and I quote," she said, pulling out her phone and selecting a stored message. "'An unpleasant but minor police matter,' unquote," she laid her hand down in her lap. "Since you're involving yourself personally, I can see that it's neither minor and possibly not even a police matter anymore," she said. "Care to enlighten me?"

She was coming along very nicely, Mycroft realised. Almost too well if she was so quickly able to make such inferences with ease and certitude. "Sherlock's involved," he murmured. "I merely keep abreast of my brother's activities to ensure he pursues his passion at minimal risk to his wellbeing."

And that was a load of bollocks, wasn't it? Andrea held her silence. Sherlock Holmes had been getting up to all sorts of things in the last few months that Himself hadn't bothered checking up on, so that was a lie he'd just told her, the first one she'd been able to spot.

Excellent.

If there was something important enough to make Mycroft Holmes lie about it, then she wanted to know, because anything that needed a lie to exist made it a weakness, and anything that was a weakness meant it would be easier to kill the man if she could make the weakness work in her favour.

As the Jaguar headed up the Haymarket and into Denman Street, Anthea smiled on the side of her face nearest the window.