A/N: As promised, yet another chapter ready for your enjoyment. Again the chapter was getting too long and some of it had to be cut short. However, as I've mentioned before, that means that it gets bumped the next chapter and makes it a faster turn around.
Enjoy!
"Collins!" Greg cried when he saw Hugh walking back through the doors of the police station, "Back so soon?"
"I'm afraid so, sir," Hugh said, as someone pushed Anthea forward, her hands bound in front of her, and he grabbed her by the arm to show her to Greg and Jack. "I'm booking Mrs Anthea Holmes for the attempted murder of Sherlock Holmes and the assault on Dr John Watson."
"What!" Greg and Jack shouted together.
Anthea rolled her eyes, "He assaulted me first."
Mycroft sighed heavily, "Anthea, please." Her jaw slammed shut and she looked down at her shoes contrite. "I'm afraid it's true, Detective Inspectors. The combined effort of Dr Watson, Constable Collins, and Phryne here managed to stop her before tragedy struck."
Phryne smirked and waved from behind Mycroft's shoulder.
"My God!" Jack exclaimed. "Is he all right?"
"He's fine," Mycroft assured him. "Mrs Collins and Dr Watson are with him. But Sherlock needs his rest, so I beg you to wait until tomorrow to take their statements."
Greg nodded and as much as the cop in him itched to get everything whilst it was still fresh in their minds, the compassionate human being in him knew it would do no good to force it out of them after such an ordeal. He placed a hand on Mycroft's elbow and gave it a squeeze. "Of course, Mycroft, and if there is anything I can do, please let me know."
Anthea jerked from Hugh's grasp and lunged at Greg. Hugh managed to catch hold of her again before she got close enough, however.
And as he hauled her to the interrogation room, she struggled and yelled over her shoulder, "Don't you touch him. Don't you dare!"
Mycroft closed his eyes, pained. "Would you grant me the chance to sit in on the interview?"
Jack and Greg shared a glance and they both nodded. "You can't be in there while we question her," Greg admitted, "but there is a room where you can see and hear everything being said. And she won't be able to see you. Is that all right?"
"That is more that I could even dare to expect," Mycroft said, squeezing Greg's hand where it clutched his arm.
Jack coughed and rocked back on his heels. Mycroft and Greg jumped apart, and they both looked a little sheepish.
"The same goes for you, Phryne," Jack said to Mycroft's shadow. "You'll stay on the other side of the glass."
Phryne pouted, but Jack refused to relent.
So she stood next to Mycroft and Hugh a couple of hours later in a darkened room, looking through a large pane of glass to the bright interrogation room beyond.
On the other side of the glass, Anthea sat in handcuffs, defiant and cold. Jack and Greg walked in together, Jack carrying a rather large file. Anthea's eyes narrowed on what was in Jack's hands.
"What's that then?" she asked, as Greg sat down in front of her and Jack tossed the file on the table between them.
"Between my contacts at the Home Office and Mr Holmes's connection to MI6, we were able to get a lot about you in a relatively short amount of time," Greg explained.
Anthea pointed at the file with her chin, "You don't have the clearance to read that."
"I think you'll find that there is more to me than some country cop, Mrs Holmes," Greg sneered.
Anthea's defiant mask slipped a bit as she realized that her previous attitude wouldn't fly here. She was balanced on the edge of a knife and she could feel it slide out from under her.
"You won't get anything from me," she said, tilting her chin up.
"We don't have to," Jack said, pulling out a small green book from his inner jacket pocket.
Anthea paled, "Where did you get that?"
"Phryne found it for us," Greg said, leaning his chin on his fist. "Very clever hiding it your makeup bag."
Anthea just shrugged.
"I know you don't have the clearance for that," Anthea snarled. "Only my superiors are allowed to read that."
Greg took out a pen and his notebook and jotted down a single word on it.
"That's not possible," Anthea said after she read the note. "You can't be him."
"I'm a lot older than everyone here, sweetheart," Greg replied flippantly. "Just because I chose the life I currently lead doesn't mean that I always lived liked this. Not only do I have clearance to read your little black book, I know that after you were released from duty, you were supposed to have burned it."
Anthea gulped.
On the other side of the glass, Mycroft held his hand over his mouth as tears streamed down his face.
"What's a black book?" Phryne asked. "Other than the fact that it clearly doesn't refer to the color."
"Black as in black operations," Mycroft explained, removing his hand from his mouth. "It would have a record of her targets along with dates and full dossiers. It means my wife was an assassin." He took out his handkerchief and wiped his face.
"And you didn't know?" Hugh asked.
Mycroft shook his head. "I didn't suspect a thing."
"Don't!" Anthea yelled, snapping the focus of those watching back to the scene before them.
Sitting on the side of the table, Jack was flipping through the book.
"Don't worry, Mrs Holmes," Greg said, jovially. "I had him read in. Just for you, and just for this."
Anthea glowered.
Jack stopped thumbing through it and went right to the last page. "Besides," he said with a smile, "This last entry was on the 9th of October, 1924. A full five years after the War. And your war record says that you were discharged on the 22nd of April, 1920. Four years after you were supposed to have burned this."
Anthea knew that she was done for now. "No comment."
"So who was the Dame Agatha Wyndham?" Greg asked.
"Oh for God's sake!" Mycroft hissed.
"Who was she?" Phryne asked.
"My godmother and the one person who could have put a stop to my marriage to Anthea," Mycroft said. "She was sickly and wouldn't have lasted the year, but if that notebook is any indication, my wife hurried her death along."
"You have been going through Mycroft's life and systematically removing obstacles in your way," Jack was saying.
"Do you have a point?" Anthea sneered.
"Goes to motive in the attempted homicide of Sherlock Holmes," Greg replied.
"Holmes, Holmes," Jack said, returning to flipping through the notebook. "Ah yes! 14th of August, 1916."
"Don't say it," Anthea growled. "I know he's listening on the other side of the glass. Don't you dare say it."
"Who?" Jack replied innocently.
"You know who. My husband."
"He might not be there any more. Perhaps the murder of his godmother was enough for him," Jack said with a shrug.
"You are intent on ruining me," Anthea rasped.
"You did that yourself," Greg said. "This is us making sure that you go away for a very long time."
"I like this part," Jack said, reading from the book, "Col. Holmes is proving as difficult to kill as Rasputin. He was supposed to die in that battle like everyone else, but he survived. They've assigned me to finish the job. The staff here already trusts me. It will be easy to do."
"What rank was Mycroft Holmes during the War?" Jack asked Greg.
Greg smiled up at him, "Major. But you know his brother Sherrinford was a colonel."
Behind the glass Mycroft grew cold, calculating. His spine straightened. His chin lifted up. He turned to Hugh.
"I need to make a phone call or two," he said, his voice monotone. "May I be permitted to use the phone?"
Phryne grabbed his arm, "Wait. I know what you are going to do, and I'm all for it, but wait."
Mycroft looked down at her, and Phryne could see the scathing comment bubble to his lips. He looked up at the hunched figure of his wife and then nodded.
Greg pulled out a photo, "That's you isn't?" He laid it in front of her.
"Yes," Anthea replied after she got a good look at the photo.
"According to the newspaper this was taken from, it lists an Andrea Yates, who's that, then?"
Anthea pursed her lips and then sighed. "I am. That was the name my mother gave me. I had been stationed at the hospital that they took Sherrinford to before the war, before my recruitment. It was so easy to go back and slip a little poison into his saline bag. Most of the kills in that book are listed as medical accidents or natural deaths in their obituaries."
"Why not do the same with Sherlock?" Jack asked.
Her face twisted. "I tried so hard to understand him, he is so awkward about most things and in others far too knowing. It was his feelings for John that made me want to continue to pursue Mary long after the thrill of the chase had worn off. Well, that and I was pretty sure she was the one who pushed me and caused my miscarriage. Not that I'll ever know now." Anthea shook her head. "But Sherlock's mind is a blackened pit. He had to be put down, he was worrying Mycroft. Most of my husband's ills came from that boy." She cocked her head to the side. "It's funny, isn't it? We all think of Sherlock as a child, but he's not. He hasn't been since the War ended."
"You do realize that this makes you look guilty for the Miss Morstan case as well?" Jack informed her. "With the mention that you held her responsible for death of your unborn child, and that she was blackmailing your husband, a man that you had killed for in the past."
Anthea rolled her eyes, "How many times do I have to tell you, I didn't kill her."
"You are to be charged with the attempted murder of Sherlock Holmes and the assault of Dr John Watson," Greg informed her. He tapped the photo, "And perhaps more than that if we can get the rest of them to stick. Especially the Mary Marston murder."
"I plead guilty," Anthea replied.
"Pleas are for the judge, Mrs Holmes," Greg said, as Jack went out to get a sheet of paper. When Jack returned with it, he placed it in front of Anthea and took out his pen. "But what we can do is make that confession a little more formal, shall we?"
She picked up the pen and began to write.
Sherlock sat on the bed in his room, sipping on tea. His body was still trembling, and he hated how this weakness was being telegraphed to both of his guests. Dot had brought up the tea things, enough for him and John. He felt like he should be brave like John.
"Why did she try to kill me?" he asked into his cup of tea.
John, who was sitting on a nearby chair, moved over to the bed and put his arms around Sherlock. Dot came up and took the cup and saucer gently from Sherlock so that he could bury his head into John's chest.
John trailed one hand down Sherlock's arm and the other braced the back of Sherlock's neck. He placed his head on Sherlock's curls and kissed his crown. "I don't know, love. I was so terrified that I was going to lose you before I could tell you that I loved you, and I had to do everything in my power to stop that."
Sherlock looked up, "You were frightened, too?"
"Very much so," John murmured.
"My mum always said that bravery was being afraid and doing what you needed to do anyway," Dot said with a small smile.
"I like that," Sherlock replied.
"As to your first question," Dot said, straightening the tea tray, "I think she was obsessed with Mycroft."
"What makes you say that?" Sherlock asked, sitting up, but still in John's arms.
Dot walked over to her handbag and pulled out a small, plain, leather notebook. "I read her diary."
John was incredulous, but Sherlock was amused.
"I already called the police station to let Miss Fisher know," she said gripping the book in both hands.
Sherlock took the time to fully deduce Dot. He hadn't done it before because she didn't seem like there was anything below the surface, but now? Now he could tell that he had severely misjudged her.
"You remind me a lot of John," Sherlock said, abruptly.
Both John and Dot turned to him, surprised.
Dot frowned, "We not alike, he's a doctor and former soldier, I'm just me."
Sherlock chuckled. "You are far more than that. You are kind, brave, fiercely loyal, and shrewd in ways that surprise most people because they can't see past the humble package that they are wrapped up in."
Both John and Dot blushed. "I see it, and I'm sure Miss Fisher does as well."
Dot coughed. "Well, thank you. Why don't we go outside and get some fresh air? I think it would do all of us a world of good right now."
Both men nodded and gathered up their coats. Dot grabbed her coat and hat on the way out to the garden.
A/N: I couldn't resist making Greg into a high ranking member of the Home Office. But he wasn't one her direct superiors, he just had high enough clearance to be read in and to read Jack in. And as for Hugh, Phryne and Mycroft, what the Home Office doesn't know won't hurt them. ;)