Chapter Eleven: Familial Duty

24th September, 1890

Amidst the comforting, familiar surrounds of 221b, Watson sat, his pen poised a half inch above the notebook laid flat upon the table before him, a far away look in his eyes. It was a posture he had retained for some time now -- his gaze fixed upon the foggy window panes being assailed by splatters of rain, his mind long since drifted away and his thoughts lingering on the same moment that had shaped his world for nearly a week and a half.

A particularly large droplet of water threw itself against the window pane, the dull thud rousing him with a somewhat startled blink to an awareness of his environs. A sigh followed as he lowered his pen in a gesture of defeat, the ink seeping outwards to blot the still blank page.

He had been working steadily with Holmes the last few days, and doing so well enough. When left alone by his friend, as now, he had planned to turn to his mountain of case notes, hoping to draft them into a somewhat coherent story involving an errant Christmas goose and its priceless, shimmering contents. However, it was becoming increasingly clear he'd get no more done on it today than he had yesterday…or the day before.

As he laid the pen down, disquiet washed through him again as he wondered for the umpteenth time if perhaps he should return home. No. Helen had been correct in her assessment, insisting that he needed to rejoin life again and that he would do his wife little good sinking into a depression of his own while Mary was so valiantly trying to battle hers as she came to terms with her own grief.

And so when he had completed his morning clinic, his wife's dearest friend had begun shooing him out of his house to take, as she called it, a daily constitutional. Naturally, his feet had led him each day to Baker Street, where Holmes had, as if in unseen communion with the woman he was squiring, immediately inducted him into a regimen of work.

He shook his head a little wryly. Not that Holmes would not have done so in any case. There were almost always things to discuss, correspondence to answer, files to update. But as of late, there had not been the same abruptness that so often defined Holmes's 'requests' that he work with him. This time, the work came with a more definite tone of gentility, and Watson found he was immensely grateful for both.

He was a deal more fragile than he had thought he could be. He was a doctor; he saw and dealt with such things all too frequently. It was a common fact of life, of

medicine, of maternity, and it was the second time…it should not have affected him so. Swallowing hard as wave of painful memory struck him, he stoppered the ink bottle. But it had affected him. The sense of loss so much more profound the second time around.

The miscarriage had been worse than the last...this time resulting in a tiny, but perfectly recognizable body...a baby...their baby. One that had been fortunate not to have survived the process of such an extremely premature birth.

Mary had been inconsolable for days and though he'd tried his best to aid her, he'd been forced to admit failure. He was a good doctor, he hoped, and prided himself on sensitivity to women especially, but he was too close to this. When he spoke to her, Mary saw in him not a doctor trying to advise, but her husband whose child she had again lost. The failure to assist her and the sheer necessity to return to his patients meant he had little recourse but to accept Helen's kind offer of watching over her.

He hoped that having a woman about to aid in such matters, or simply to talk to her and ease her, would be beneficial...and it had. Mary was most certainly on the mend...though the pain of their loss was still evident in her.

"Devil take the man anyhow!"

Watson's quiet reverie was shattered in an instant when Holmes, dressing gown open and flying behind him, burst into the room with a telegram in his hands.

"He really has the most insufferable arrogance at times," the detective continued while striding across the room, hopping over a rather large pile of papers and ungracefully seating himself at his desk with a decided huff. Glancing up and intending to go on, he remembered his friend and quietened with a rather uncomfortable expression on his face before glaring at the telegram again. "My apologies, Watson; did I disturb your work?"

Watson, who had been staring at his friend in utter confusion, blinked once and then sighed softly. "No...you didn't disturb anything, dear fellow. It seems as though the Muse has decided she will not be calling upon me again today." Pushing aside the paper and pen, he turned to focus on his friend and his conundrum. "What's the matter?" he asked, nodding at the telegram in Holmes's hand.

"If the tone of this is to be believed," Holmes waved the telegram in disgust, "I apparently am the matter!" Turning swiftly in his chair, he leaned on its arm as he looked across at Watson. "By this account, I have been remiss in my familial duties, ill mannered, and discommoding. And as a result, I have been summoned!"

That only seemed to confuse Watson even further. "Summoned? By whom? Your father?"

"My father? Of course not, he is long dead!" Holmes scoffed, casually throwing a considerable piece of personal information at his friend's feet without a second thought. "Mycroft, Watson! Mycroft! I realise he is the elder and ostensibly the head of what remains of our family, but really, he can be most terribly pompous at times," he groused as he sat back again.

For the first time in over a week, Watson felt his mouth curl a little in a smile, though the guilt swelled in him immediately after for indulging in such a reaction. "How have you been remiss?" he asked quickly.

"According to my dear brother, in not informing him of the extent of my attachment to Miss Thurlow," came the muttered response. Perhaps it was Watson's imagination, but from where he was sitting, he could swear he saw a vague wisp of relief rising from his friend as he continued to cavil, "Quite frankly, given his information network, his not deducing the fact for himself after this long is the only thing remiss about the entire affair."

A sigh of strained forbearance escaped Holmes as he dropped the telegram onto his desk. "So now I, or rather Miss Thurlow and I, are to appear by royal command. Note if you will," he grabbed the communiqué straight back up again and waved it once more as he looked back at Watson, "he did not say...if you are free...or when you can arrange it...but in essence 'come', 'here', 'at this time', 'without fail!'"

The doctor found himself straining this time to keep the unseemly smile from his face. While Holmes could be perfectly polite in forming his requests and invitations, Watson had quite frequently been subject to similarly phrased 'dictates.' Quelling just a tiny prick of satisfaction, he rose, moving to sit on the couch while ransacking his store of diplomacy. "That does sound a trifle…curt," he settled on saying before asking curiously, "But, if I might enquire, why did you not tell your brother about Helen?"

"What was there to tell him to begin with?" Holmes waved his hand dismissively as he sat back in his chair, crossing his legs. "I had been seen in public aplenty with her prior to our courting. Afterwards..." he paused, a little discomfited by the memory, before rushing on quickly, "well, you remember the weakness of my position as a suitor. I had no idea how things would progress, or if they would at all! Besides..." he sniffed, "had I told him earlier…well…Mycroft is far too opinionated not to have given forth upon the matter, at length and frequently!"

This time Watson found himself repressing a small chuckle at his friend's familial evasions. It seemed even Holmes was not immune to the manoeuvrings of dealing with one's relatives. It was refreshingly routine. "Well, I suppose then that he simply wants to meet her. It's only natural, old man," he replied tactfully. "He is your brother, and you and Helen have become more visible."

"I am not denying his decision to meet with her, Watson." The detective sighed. "Merely the manner in which he has 'requested' to do so. Quite apart from the fact that I might myself be occupied, he expects me to accost Helen and take her to meet him forthwith." He rose and fetched a pipe. "And of course, he shall not travel to us...we unlike Mohammed must go to the mountain."

Watson nodded, remembering the last time he had met the rather formidable personality that was Mycroft Holmes. "Yes, if I remember correctly, you and he both mentioned how fond he is of his habits." Settling back on the couch, he pulled out his cigarette case and selected a Woodbine. "Would you like me to take a note home with me tonight for Helen?" he asked as he lit it.

"She is remaining overnight with you?" Holmes looked back at him while filling a black briar pipe.

Watson inhaled slowly, the white smoke from his cigarette coiling into the air. "No," he replied, "but she won't leave until I return." A melancholy smile flitted on his face as he finally spoke a little of what was going on at home. "She's been a wondrous help to Mary during...during her illness." A tremor shook his hand as he took another draft of his cigarette. "To both of us."

"I am quite sure," Holmes replied in calmer tones. "Helen has a soothing quality to her at times, I have found. And I am glad to hear that Mary is progressing." He sat down again, still regarding his friend. "But not surprised. She has ever been of strong character and spirit."

Taking another draw, Watson gave his friend a grateful smile and nod. "That she is," he agreed wholeheartedly. Looking down for a moment, he continued, "She has already made it clear she wishes to be out of bed as soon as possible. And I doubt either Helen or I will be able to keep her there for much longer."

"And nor should you," Holmes answered. "She needs to occupy herself, and there is nowhere that affords the mind more time to linger over thoughts than a bed. Encourage her to rise if you deem her medically able, give her small tasks. She must feel more than a patient."

"Yes, I know, old man...I know. But the..." The older man paused, still unsure what exactly what to call what had occurred without sounding either too much the medical man or too much the grieving father. "It left her weakened due to a loss of blood. It takes time for the body to revitalize itself in such cases, and I wish to be cautious. But you are right...I think some light tasks may be just what she needs. I shall discuss it with her tonight," he resolved and smiled just a little. "I think she'll be a little relieved to see to the running of her house again."

"Most women are," his friend said, lighting a match. "The very idea of another woman running their household without their strict supervision is abhorrent to them. Two together in one house are as territorial and stubborn as two bull elephants upon the savannahs of Africa could ever be." Both men exchanged small smiles at that.

"Perhaps..." Holmes said at length in between drawing on his pipe, "I should travel with you to your home, if you have no objections. It might be as wise to inform Helen of what awaits her. And then she may be properly escorted home."

Watson quickly took a long drag of his cigarette to hide the smile threatening again to show on his face, knowing that the courting couple had not seen each other for several weeks. "Of course," he agreed. "I am sure she will be most pleased to see you and shall appreciate the escort back to Brown's." He paused, a suspicion striking him formed from the memory of his own experience on the matter. "Have you told her about your brother yet?"

Holmes cleared his throat lightly. "No. It is one of the reasons I felt it might be best to speak to her in person."

Watson's eyes widened just a little as he stood to flick the remains of his cigarette into the hearth. "You haven't? I would have thought...does she know you even have a brother?"

"The subject never arose," Holmes answered. "No more than it did with you."

His friend just looked at him for a long moment before slowly nodding. "Yes, I remember...and you're quite right, it did not. But I was not being courted by you." He shook his head slowly, both surprised and not by his friend's admission.

"I presume she, like you, supposed because I did not speak of family, I had none. It is a common thing in people to fill gaps in knowledge with their own assumptions." Holmes shrugged off any suggestion of his being negligent in the matter. "Neither of you ever queried the matter; had you asked, I would have told you freely."

"Well, I think it is safe to say that your idea for telling her personally is a most sound one." Watson shook his head and then smiled. "I wonder how she'll find him."

The edges of Holmes's lips twitched uncontrollably, mischievous eyes darting to his friend. "I shouldn't imagine she'll miss him easily."

Watson snorted. "No...he has quite a presence. I found him rather extraordinary. Though that said, I wonder how he'll find Helen?" His eyebrow arched as he contemplated that.

Holmes grew quieter. "Yes."

"Yes?" his friend prompted, watching Holmes closely before continuing, "I suppose he's just incredibly curious about her. Not an uncommon reaction as of late."

The detective's jaw tightened. "No, not uncommon at all." He returned his pipe to his mouth, his voice very quiet indeed. "To that end the meeting with him is not entirely unwelcome."

"Hmmm," Watson mused. "Do you mind if I ask Mrs. Hudson for some tea?" he enquired after a moment. Holmes gestured at him to go ahead, his thoughts clearly still on his brother's meeting with Helen. Sensing something amiss, Watson sat quietly, watching his friend before asking, "Have there been enquiries, Holmes? About Helen?" His gaze flicked over to Holmes's correspondence pile, his tone a trifle concerned.

His friend's gaze drifted back to him. "Enquiries? None. Other than those from a few newspaper editors wondering whether they are free to speak of us now that the matter has become more open in higher circles. I have asked them to maintain their silence. Our attachment will not be the first time they have undertaken such a task." He examined the bowl of his pipe critically. "And I still feel it is for the best that they continue to do so."

Watson nodded, a slight sigh of relief coming from his lips. "Oh good," he replied. "Mary mentioned...before her illness...that there'd been an incident. I am glad everything now seems to be progressing rather smoothly."

"Yes," came the solitary answer again as Holmes returned his pipe to his mouth.

Realising, with a small frown, that there was something troubling his friend, but knowing too that he wasn't going to be much more forthcoming, Watson retrieved the evening paper and went to arrange for his tea.


Holmes waited in the parlour of the Watsons' home, the fire warm at his back as he watched the door, the muffled voices of Watson and Helen seeping in from the hallway. Their tones were quiet but carried within them an unmistakeable element of the positive. Mary Watson was most decidedly upon the mend.

Turning away, he moved to a seat and stretched out his feet before the fire, the small but cheery blaze welcome as the late September eve brought with it the first real chill of autumn. He inhaled slowly, the dim light of the fire and a single low burning gas light casting long shadows that were rather soothing.

Women were the one mystery he knew he would never unravel, and the business of childbirth, save in those few areas that pertained to his expertise -- poisons, backstreet operations, abandoned children and the like, was just as mysterious. Loss was always hard. He was thankful that the inhabitants of this home were starting to find it surmountable. Just as he hoped that the discovery, after all this time, of the appendage that was his brother would be quickly surmountable by Helen.

His words to Watson hadn't been idle; he truly was surprised it had taken Mycroft this long to discover the true state of affairs. It had become irritating waiting for his brother to call him to his side to discuss the matter, something Holmes had been wanting ever since that heated night at the opera.

In the days after, it had become increasingly clear to him that he and Helen could not go on as they were. Now that society was aware of their understanding, his presence with her in the public realm had brought her once more into contact with danger, and yet it also carried its own particular perils in their private relations as well. The physical manifestation of his attraction to her was something he now consciously had to control, something which both fascinated and irked him. Still, there was no denying the closeness they now shared and how rapidly events between them and, indeed, in life were developing. So much so that even before Mary Watson's loss, he had subtly distanced himself from Helen to allow himself time to think further upon these matters, corresponding with her only by post. But he had found himself too pulled in differing directions on the matter. It was as he had always known, attachment led to a dilution of logical thought. The heart clouded the head. Therefore, he required an objective view.

An objective view he could trust. One he did not intend to colour by showing his brother more of his attachment to Helen than possible before Mycroft contacted him. The fact that Mycroft had not called him to heel over Helen while they were merely attending events together proved that his brother had not thought him capable of this further step with her. Whether his brother thought him incapable for emotional or cautionary reasons, remained to be seen. Either way, Mycroft's would make for an invaluable viewpoint.

Holmes looked up on hearing the cessation of voices outside and the heavy male tread of Watson's footsteps up the stairs. Their conversation done, he rose before the door handle began to turn, his hands moving to clasp behind his back as he awaited Helen.

The door opened quietly, and the smiling if somewhat weary face of his sweetheart appeared. "Good evening, Sherlock," she greeted him, closing the door behind her and crossing over to him, her hands out. "It is good to see you."

Taking her hands, he bent to kiss her cheek, keeping his mental notations of her visual appeal firmly in check. "Good evening," he replied before leading her to a seat to see her off her feet. Moving back to his own, he sat, leaning upon one arm of the chair. "How went your day?"

"Busy," she replied with a sigh, wishing somewhat guiltily that he would sweep her up in his arms and hold her close, but knowing that such an action would not be forthcoming in their current environs. "It is not an easy thing, helping to run someone else's home. I find that it is much like the fingerprints you told me of...each style unique to each household. But it is worth it so that Mary has less to worry about other than getting well." She smiled a bit. "Though she's told me that she plans to be back to full strength in a week. And I do rather believe her!"

"As would I," he advised. "And you have done a great service to her in your time here."

"Not more than I would do for any other friend in need," she insisted before her expression shifted into one of a more eager smile, her pleasure at seeing him after so long a parting quite evident. "But how has your day fared? I will decline to say more of my own thoughts and actions otherwise you will have no reason at all to open the letter I posted to you earlier this afternoon."

"Your letters are always a welcome distraction -- informative, contemplative, and full of colour. Decidedly feminine," he demurred, his description of them causing her to smile, but leaving her not entirely sure whether she should be complimented or not. "My day has been much as I have outlined to you in my responses," he went on. "Consultations with the police, depositions to legal personages, and correspondence to those seeking my attentions…I am afraid my letter was more of a working list than anything of interest.

"Watson's presence has both aided and added reminiscences to the list. He has been filling both our minds with past instances in an attempt to write up the next of his tales." He folded his arms. "I do not think much in the way of concrete work has been done, for the recollections seem only to have drifted and distracted him. No doubt for the best." He smiled a little before looking back at her. "However, there was something that may be of interest to you."

"Oh?" she enquired, interest lighting her face. "A case?"

"No..." he replied as he sat forward slowly. "A telegram. From my brother."

Helen blinked in surprise but managed to retain the presence of mind not to show how completely stunned she was. "Your...brother?" she enquired with deceptive mildness.

He nodded. "My older brother, Mycroft."

"Older?" she found herself repeating.

"By seven years," he confirmed. "He has a position in Whitehall and is quite...well regarded and well connected. He is often of great aid to me in cases, especially those with a foreign or political edge to them. In fact, he provided me with some help in your own case."

"He did?" she replied as she digested these new, rather astounding, pieces of information. Part of her wondered why she'd never heard of this man until now, and the other part scolded her for the slightly ruffled feathers she had about that. Inhaling just a little, she composed herself, determined not to make a mountain over the smallest of molehills. So there was a brother. People often had relatives they did not mention; it happened all the time. Never mind adding to the mix the fact that her beau was also an intensely private man. "Would you pass along my gratitude, then, for his aid? It was most kind of him."

His hesitation was only momentary. "You may do so yourself if you wish. He has...requested...the pleasure of your company at lunch tomorrow." Holmes rose from his chair, adding, "He is quite eager to meet you."

"I must say I feel quite the same," she replied with a smile, vastly understating her tremendous curiousity. "It will be nice to meet another Holmes."

"Good." He nodded briskly. "Then I shall inform him in the morning that we shall attend. He has made the unusual step of reserving a room for us in a restaurant across the street from his club."

Her brow creased in puzzlement. "Why, if I may ask, is that unusual? Does he not like making luncheon arrangements?"

Holmes kept his smile small with effort. "On the contrary, he is exceedingly fond of luncheon arrangements. What he is not fond of is leaving his club. But seeing as you are a woman and cannot enter the environs of the Diogenes Club, he must come to meet you." He paused. "At least a tiny part of the way."

She nodded, the rationale making complete sense. Men's clubs were most certainly not places a woman would ever dream of venturing. They were the sanctums of men, places to be protected for men to do...whatever men did there. Based on what she had heard from other gentlemen, Helen had images of them all sitting around drinking brandies, smoking, and reading newspapers while talking nothing but politics and sport. To be perfectly honest, she found the idea rather dull. "Of course."

"You are one of a very few people to have been accorded the honour of even that amount of disaccommodation on his part," he informed her. "Mycroft, if not at home or at work, is always at the Diogenes, which is as much his home as his actual residence ever was. It requires something of great import to break his routine. We may take it our attachment has been bestowed such status." The fact Mycroft wished to run the rule over her remained unspoken but implied.

"Ah," she breathed. "Then I shall consider his gesture the highest of compliments." Smiling, she rose to her feet, well aware why this newly mentioned sibling wished to break his routine. Even amongst men, it was not at all odd or uncommon for elder family members to meet the families of the person a member was courting to either approve or disapprove of them. It was actually rather expected. And in the case of a younger brother like Sherlock, the elder Holmes's curiosity must indeed be running rampant! "I am looking forward to meeting him," she insisted, quelling a slight tremor of nervousness.

Holmes nodded, glancing at his feet for a moment. This meeting was important, more important than he had ever thought it might be should it come to pass. It would not decide anything, but the encounter and discussion would be a strong pointer for him. He could sense a certain tension in her, but it was no more than would be expected from someone who was about to meet the family of one's suitor. He was glad she was unaware of the significance of the event in his mind, and he was taken by how much he desired her to make a favourable impression. Raising his head, he smiled. "Now...if you would care to fetch your belongings, my other reason for coming here is to escort you back to Brown's."

"Thank you. After this time apart, it will be good to be in your company, even if for only a little while longer." She smiled at him in return and touched his arm gently before exiting.


25th September, 1890

Sorel's on Pall Mall was fortunate in its locality. Surrounded by a great many of the gentlemen's clubs, it was the recipient of those members who had either tired of their club's dining rooms, or were eager to sample the skills of Sorel's renowned French chef.

As a result, the vast majority of its patrons were gentlemen, two of whom touched their hats in greeting to Holmes as he emerged from his cab while they departed. Greeting them in turn, Holmes turned to pay the cabbie and send him on his way before removing his pocket watch to check the time. He was on time, to the minute.

Not seeing any lingering cabs in the vicinity, he returned his watch to its place, placed his gloved hands upon the top of his cane before him, and began to wait, a slight frown on his brow. He was still of a mind that escorting her here from Kensington and the Watson's would have made the better impression upon his undoubtedly watching brother.

His gaze moved to the Diogenes Club across the way and to the window his brother so often used to scrutinise the world. On seeing nothing, he turned swiftly to observe the front of Sorel's, his eyes shifting from the dusky decorated glass of their main window below to the clear picture windows with their lace curtains above. One delicate hanging twitched a little. The breeze perhaps -- he turned away, doubting it greatly.

He'd had to bow to Helen's current calling, unable to insist that he take her from Mary Watson's side at the appointed time. She would not leave until Watson had returned, and she had felt it best that should he be delayed, Mycroft should not be left waiting alone. She would make her own way there and join him at the appointed time.

He waited upon the pavement, taking in the comings and goings of one of the most unusual stretches of street in any city in the world -- every second or third specimen of the large classical style buildings that made up Pall Mall a haven for the well to do British male. The Athenaeum, the Carlton, the Travellers Club, Reform Club, United Services Club, Oxford & Cambridge Club -- the list was considerable.

The interests and ambitions of the men within their walls differed, but their comforts did not. Without the clutter of the feminine hand, they provided a cleaner, more comfortingly austere style that allowed a man's mind rest without distraction. Lounges, dining rooms, smoking rooms, billiard rooms, card rooms, and in many cases, gymnasia and absolutely outstanding libraries, along with comfortable bedrooms, afforded the members a world of relaxation and male pursuits. It also ended the need to curb one's topic of conversation out of the regard for the sensibilities of women.

It was, however, always an irony, Holmes thought, that men eagerly shut themselves away from women only to spend a great deal of their time in discussion of the very thing they distanced themselves from. It was, without doubt, a very good thing that ladies did not know too much of their husbands', fathers', or brothers' conversations in that regard

Sorel's, embedded within this very male preserve of London, was not often frequented by ladies. They were most certainly not forbidden, but in order to maintain the male atmosphere which the majority of their customers found comfortable, wives and daughters were always escorted to the private dining rooms upstairs. Though, Holmes observed as he saw a gentleman enter the establishment through the ornamental glass doors, a splendidly garbed woman upon his arm, not all the ladies escorted there were quite so respectable.

He checked his watch again. Some seven minutes after the hour. It appeared she was delayed and he would have to play the advance guard. Turning, he too entered through the glass doors.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes." The clipped French tones of Anton, the maitre d', addressed him to his left. "You are most welcome back to Sorel's."

"Thank you, Anton." Holmes turned, moving to the maitre d's lectern by the ornate door to the main dining room. "I believe my brother has acquired a private room for our usage?"

"Indeed that is so, Mr. Holmes," Anton replied, his English only slightly affected. "Though I think it has been so long since he has been with us that he had quite forgotten the rooms lay upstairs."

Holmes smiled. "I hope the grumbling did not disturb your other customers."

"I believe not, sir." Anton shared his smile. "Though we have endeavoured to make the amends by providing him with complimentary hors d'oeuvres."

Holmes glanced to the stairs. "Then I shall hope to find him in relatively good spirits." Turning to go, he stopped and looked back at the dapper, moustachioed maitre d'. "Anton, the reason for the procuring of the private room is that we are expecting a lady to join us. May I leave it in your hands to ensure she is escorted with all due courtesy to meet us?"

"Upon me, you may rely." Anton bowed as he moved to join the detective.

As they ascended the wide stone stairway with its walls of the lightest cream colour, Holmes allowed his thoughts upon the meeting to resurface. He truly had no idea how Mycroft might react today. His brother was a man far more open to pleasurable pursuits and emotions than he. He might have been considered a bon vivant had he not been so greatly misanthropic and so rigid in his habits. A woman in Mycroft's life, truly involved, would have been unconscionable. She would have been far too large an adjustment to his well-ordered existence. That said, Mycroft had admired quite a few in his life.

He had also commented many times on his younger brother's aloofness from women, though after a certain point in their youth, he had never pushed him on it. Mycroft's reaction to his brother squiring a woman after all this time of steadfast bachelorhood would reveal a good deal about what the older brother thought of the younger's suitability as a suitor, and more. That, as much as what Mycroft made of Helen, would be a considerable factor in what was to happen next with them.

At the top of the stairs, Anton led him down the left hand hallway, past the mahogany doors that lined it, and stopped halfway down. Knocking politely, the maitre d' opened the door into a splendidly decorated dining room, also in light cream. Its pilasters and cornices picked out in gold and panels of deep blue-green stamped velvet were all bathed in the sunlight that came through the windows looking out upon the street.

"Good afternoon, Mycroft." Sherlock smiled at the figure by the same window whose curtain he had seen flutter as Anton retired, closing the door behind him.

"You know, Sherlock, at times I really do understand how Shakespeare viewed all the world as a stage and all upon it merely players. People are if nothing else completely predictable," came the deep voice of the tall, rather corpulent man still gazing out the window in front of him and down at the street. He turned to the younger Holmes and smiled slightly. "Perhaps we should request a rewrite!"

"Perhaps, but then..." Holmes replied, placing his hat, gloves, and cane to one side and walking across to join his brother, "that would make our work immeasurably more difficult." He glanced down upon the street below. "There are just enough surprises in the world to keep us occupied," a smile touched his lips, "and off balance."

Tapping some snuff from an ornate silver box on to the side of his fist, the older man chuckled softly before inhaling the brownish substance and regarding his younger brother with watery grey eyes. "Indeed!" He snuffled slightly in agreement, waving a large hand at the chairs and crossing over to sink into one himself with a grateful sigh. "And none more so than from my own family, it seems. Just when I had thought I knew you backwards and forwards, my dear boy, you do something else rather extraordinary."

Smoothing a crease from his cravat, Holmes kept his smile from spreading, his brother taking the opening as expected. "You find it extraordinary?" he enquired as he moved to sit opposite him.

"It was rather a surprise to hear about the relationship between yourself and Miss Thurlow from several Foreign Office members and not my own brother," he huffed reprovingly, "but none more so that I had not foreseen it myself. Dashed relations between France and Germany are taking up far too much of my time."

"Hearing it from a source other than your own is surprising, I grant you," Holmes replied, withdrawing the silver cigarette case Helen had given him from his jacket. "I had thought to hear from you about it well before now." Taking a cigarette out, he tapped it upon the case. "But do you find the news all that extraordinary?"

His brother sat back, fingering his snuff box case in thought. "Perhaps not," he said after at least a minute. "You were always more malleable than myself. All that courting business takes way too much energy..." his nose wrinkled just a little, "never mind all the required altering of one's habits."

He looked thoughtfully into the air for a moment. "Your views regarding the intelligence and queerness of women's minds are hardly novel amongst men. I suppose the only surprise comes from your rather fixed mistrust of the sex and your view of attachment vis-à-vis your work. This Helen Thurlow must be quite the woman for you to alter such a life long perception." His eyes turned back to the younger Holmes. "Though since she has managed for two years now to run the late Arthur Thurlow's business and foundations with nary a hiccup, I suppose she relishes a challenge."

Holmes smiled at his brother's light jibe. "I suppose she must. Even for a woman, she is singularly difficult to dissuade from something when she sets her mind to it. It was, in part, her tenacity that eroded certain misgivings. After all, not even a boulder can forever withstand the force of a river's constant flow." Lighting his cigarette, he sat back, drawing upon his Woodbine and exhaling. "She is at once both exceptionally ordinary and quite remarkably exceptional."

Mycroft's eyebrow arched just a little, a short 'harrumph' like laugh filling the air. "She is also quite conspicuously absent," he said pointedly, laying the snuff box on the table to take a sip of his whisky and soda.

"Yes…" Holmes straightened a little in his chair, a little of his comfort eroding with his brother's words. "She has been attending to the welfare of Mary Watson, who has been unwell, and to whom she is a friend. She preferred not to leave until Watson returned from his morning visits. One must presume he has been delayed."

"Ah." Mycroft nodded. "Then we must pass the time as brothers while we wait for her to join us. In that vein, I suppose I must do my duty as head of this family and ask you a series of bothersome, completely predictable but pertinent questions?"

"I believe it is the done thing," Holmes agreed with a smile.

"How annoying," the older man groused with a sigh. "Well, I think we can forgo the factual recitation of her pedigree since we neither of us care a great deal about that and I already know most of it. The obvious modification of your behaviour and attitude in regard to women for this woman reveals your attachment to and affection for her, so there is no need to quiz you upon that matter." He sighed again. "Very well, Sherlock, what are your intentions in regards to Miss Thurlow?"

Holmes smile faded. "That is the question," he replied at length.

"Ah..." Mycroft breathed, taking another sip of his drink.

"I find myself in something of a quandary, Mycroft," Holmes said truthfully. "A quandary Miss Thurlow knows nothing of."

The older man nodded slowly. "You find yourself deeply attached to her, but unsure how or even if to proceed further?" He smiled just a little. "You would not be the first man in such a quandary."

"Perhaps not," his brother answered, "but there are circumstances to take into account. Not the least of which is her safety while in my circle of acquaintance." Reaching out, he tapped his cigarette ash into a nearby crystal ashtray. "I have always been leery of progressing with her because of what accompanies attachment to me, both personally and privately. My concerns have only grown of late."

"Something has occurred," the elder Holmes stated.

His brother nodded. "At the opera at Covent Garden. It was easily dealt with, but she was targeted for my sake, not her own." Holmes gazed at Mycroft. "In the course of my work, I have caused a great deal of anger and resentment. Even with regard to those I have helped discreetly, I hold a great deal of knowledge of a personal nature which I am quite sure they are rather I did not, and as at the opera, there are always those who may be considered almost unhinged." He paused, his brow creasing. "Logically, I should remove myself from her, but I find it..." he hesitated, the words hard for him in front of his brother, "I find it difficult to envisage doing so."

"Understandable." Mycroft nodded, vaguely amused at the signs of the smitten man he had never thought to see in his brother. "And logical," he agreed. "But to follow that logic onwards…if every man in a certain position which brought with it danger concerned himself with the safety of those he loves to the extent of ending or having no relations of that sort...then those in the military, police force, politics, and fourth estate would never reproduce. Although in the case of the latter two that may be no bad thing, I grant you."

Holmes smiled. "Coincidentally, a member of that very fourth estate, Mr. Buckle of The Times, advised me similarly once."

Mycroft frowned a little at that as he took another sip of his drink. It was unlike his brother to need to hear these things more than once. "You have no faith in her courage to face a bad situation," he said swiftly.

Holmes blinked. "On the contrary," he said quickly. "She shows tremendous, if somewhat foolhardy, courage at times."

"Ah, then her intelligence is lacking."

"No." Holmes frowned at the idea he could consort with anyone of that sort. "In addition to high intelligence, she has a passion…an eagerness that carries her on occasion and an admirable sense of personal morality."

"Then she is capricious, whimsical, given to flights of fancy."

"She is nothing of the sort, as you well know," Holmes eyed his brother, "given your already stated admiration of her handling of Balfour and Thurlow."

"Then even without meeting her, she sounds quite capable in your estimation, dear brother, of handling or at the very least accepting what attachment to you brings." Mycroft relaxed a little more, the quick barrage of questions at an end. "In the end, you will have to assess whether the advantages of a life with this woman outweigh the disadvantages." Placing his glass on the table, he looked at it intently for a moment. "But keep in my mind always that there is nothing worse in this life, Sherlock, than regret about what could have been."

"Except perhaps regret over what could have been avoided," his brother answered quietly.

Mycroft's gaze upon him was steady for some time before he spoke again. "I perceive there is something more to this than the simple fear of malign outside influences. You fear a more…self inflicted…damage to the lady?"

Holmes resisted for a moment, the conflict in his mind writ clear on his aquiline features before he sat forward. "I would appreciate your personal opinion of her, and also whether you can discern whether she is truly aware of the disadvantages of a more…" He inhaled, distinctly uncomfortable with this topic and its many intimations. "Mycroft, you are one of the few to know what it is to be close to me and my personal...foibles," he muttered, irritated at having to say it. "Watson is another, but he is far too far too good hearted a fellow to talk about me in what might be construed as a frank manner to Helen to ensure she truly knows what to expect. You as my elder brother are subject to no such constraints...in fact, one might almost expect it."

The older Holmes sniffed, though there was that hint of a smile again on his lips. "I see," he murmured in a knowing manner that, rather enjoyably to him, served to irritate his brother still further. "Your mind is indeed at quite a crossroads, brother…it seems that two extreme paths await your decision." Pursing his lips and his fingers drumming on the arm of his chair, he gauged the request. "There are some foibles, Sherlock, that you shall have to tell her yourself," he said after a moment, his gaze flashing to his brother's left arm. "And I am not experienced at all with this kind of thing; however, on the general...I suppose I can be of some small assistance."

"Thank you," Holmes replied, nodding curtly and patently ignoring his brother's other allusion.

"You will, of course, make yourself absent for that portion of the conversation," Mycroft instructed him lightly as he brushed an hors d'oeuvres crumb from his waistcoat. His grey eyes looked back at his brother, a smile in them. "I can hardly be expected to portray the full frankness required with you seated there across from me, now can I?"

Before Holmes could answer, there was a short rap at the door and on Mycroft's call of "Enter!" Anton opened it and introduced the woman in question.

Both men rose to their feet, Holmes crossing over to the door. "Good afternoon, Helen. Thank you, Anton." The maitre d' bowed and retired as Holmes took Helen's hand and led her inside.

"Good afternoon, Sherlock," she replied with a wide if vaguely embarrassed smile. "I am terribly sorry for my lateness. There was an unexpected patient at John's surgery, and so I kept Mary company until he was free." Turning to the elder Holmes, she smiled at him as well. "Again, I do apologise," she added to him, unsure whether to introduce herself or not...the penetrating gaze not helping her already nervous state.

"I am hardly in any fit position to have complaint for your tardiness," Holmes assuaged her, "and given my brother's occupation, you may be assured that patience is something he has honed to a fine art." Looking to Mycroft, he led her to him. "Mycroft, this is Miss Helen Thurlow. Helen..." he released her hand, "my elder brother, Mycroft Holmes."

"How do you do?" she greeted him, holding out her hand, her eyes alert with curiosity, already fascinated by the physical differences though she was obviously trying to restrain her reaction to something more lady-like.

"Miss Thurlow," he replied, taking her hand and bowing over it before releasing it. "A pleasure. And to answer your question, I am quite well." He smiled charmingly at her and waved a hand at the empty chair, a familiar gesture she was now sure must be inherited. "Do have a seat. My younger brother is quite correct; he is hardly in a position to complain. I sincerely doubt he has been on time for any social occasion since he was seven."

Helen found herself smiling a little, though she was not exactly sure how to take such a revelation from so new an acquaintance. Taking a seat, she removed her gloves and hat and discretely arranged her light wool skirts.

Once she was seated, the two men reposed themselves, Mycroft lowering himself as genteelly as his bulk would allow. A sigh escaped him as he settled into the chair before levelling his gaze at her once more, his expression all business. "I must offer you my compliments, Miss Thurlow," he said. "There are not a great many women, outside the aristocracy or involved somehow in the sphere of politics, whose activities reach my ears on merit. You are one of the very few. It must be said that, for a woman, the City thinks very highly of how you have attended to the running of Balfour and Thurlow."

Her cheeks flushed slightly as she accepted his compliment with an incline of her head. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes," she replied, her voice steady and clear. "I have worked hard to be accepted and ensure my father's legacy is intact for my brothers, but it would be immodest and untruthful of me to accept sole credit. I have had several wonderful and knowledgeable advisors from whose advice and guidance I have benefited."

"Yes...Grufstred works for you, doesn't he?" Mycroft stroked a finger across his chin. "Fine lawyer, has a future in politics that one should he turn his mind to it."

"I agree." Helen nodded with a smile. "He has some very strong opinions on child labour that I feel can only benefit our nation, and a very relaxed and amiable attitude that seems to assure one that he is always on your side and offering his full attention."

"Explains how he lasted so long in your father's employ," Mycroft mused. "Not an easy fellow to please, your late father. A near genius at business, but a man with very definite views and little time for equivocators." He cleared his throat a little as he noted his brother giving him a pointed look. "My condolences, however late as they may be, on his loss, Miss Thurlow; it was most unfortunate what happened to him," he said quietly.

Her jaw tightened just a little. Given his position and what Sherlock had told her the previous night about the depth and breadth of his knowledge as they had journeyed to Brown's, she wondered just how much Mycroft Holmes really knew about the matter. "Yes...yes, it was," she agreed just as quietly, her eyes dipping down to her place setting. Taking a silent breath, she looked back up, her gaze meeting her beau's, taking comfort in the gentleness there. "His death only showed how precious life is...how we should cherish each and every moment and the people we share it with."

Mycroft cleared his throat again with a slight harrumph. "Quite, quite," he murmured, shifting slightly in his seat as Holmes hid a smile, his brother's view on the people he shared this life with not quite in line with Helen's. "Still," the older man continued, "I dare say there are a few you are just as glad to have left behind. Your background has not always been one of privilege, and I would hazard that has stood to you well in the business world. Sharpened your senses, made you more aware of the evils in the world and those trying to dupe you. I'll wager it made you a deal less trusting and a deal more likely to exercise your intelligence and wit than you might have had to had circumstances dictated that you grow up in the cosseted world most ladies do, eh?"

Before she had the chance to answer, he glanced at his brother. "Sherlock, both you and Miss Thurlow are without refreshment, and we are in need of a good bottle of champagne to mark this occasion. Take yourself down to Anton, arrange for drinks to be sent up, and go with him to the cellars. Find us something exceptional," he ordered summarily.

To Helen's intense surprise and apart from a slight blink of the eye, Sherlock rose and did exactly what he was bid without demure. Inclining his head to her and assuring her of a swift return, he left her alone with his brother. She swallowed as lightly as she could. She had of course been expecting this at some point, just not so early on. Her mouth felt dry, and she almost wished she drank hard liqueur, such was the appeal of Mycroft's whiskey and soda at that moment.

"Now…" The portly man's voice brought her eyes back to him. "I was saying as to the advantages of your background?"

"Yes." She settled herself hurriedly. "I believe you to be correct, Mr. Holmes. My experiences in Camden Town may well have benefited me a great deal. I learned the true value of economics there -- the value of a penny and shilling and how to make do rather than spend willy-nilly. We were poor, but my mother and I had each other." She smiled a little. "I also learned a strong work ethic and discipline, and that has seen me through many a challenge at Balfour and Thurlow.

"It is true that I have seen some of the evils mankind is capable of...but these are so often caused by desperation of some sort. I have always believed in trying to find the positives in our lives as well as the sins. That may sound naive, but I find that people tend to try harder to retain a good opinion from a person than fight a negative one." Her eyes met Mycroft's. "I prefer to trust than mistrust...but make no mistake, I do see and understand what deceptions and hazards lay out there in the world and do not give my trust without good cause."

"A little wariness before trust goes a long way," Mycroft agreed. "It can save one a deal of pain later. An intelligent standpoint, as befits the tales of the intelligent woman I have heard this past while." Affording her a complimentary bow of the head, he then smiled. "Taking that intelligence into account, however, one wonders why a woman of such perspicacity and obvious openness should ever even think to take up with my brother?" he commented with blithe acerbity while picking up the hors d'oeuvres tray and offering her one.

She blinked slowly, taken aback by his rather blunt query. However, as she took a small smoked salmon bite from the tray, she found herself trying not to smile on discovering another common Holmes trait. "How so?" she enquired before taking a delicate nibble from her hors d'oeuvres.

"Oh come, Miss Thurlow." Mycroft returned the tray to the table. "My brother may be one of the most celebrated bachelors in the Empire, but that is not to say he is one of the most celebrated catches." He smiled to himself. "Although Sherlock himself may disagree, even as a child he always did have the most profound view of his own worth. Came as a shock at aged six when he discovered the world did not entirely revolve around his opinions."

Her eyebrow arched as she restrained the smile wanting to form on her lips, finding the idea of a six year old Sherlock Holmes shocked rather endearing. "Well, I have found most young boys commonly believe that they are right and the world at large is wrong. And I am sure you were no different," she replied with a tiny smile. "And though I cannot comment on how others perceive Sherlock and his 'eligibility,' I have found him to be most satisfactory." His amused smile at her way of putting it caused her cheeks to flush. "I…that is not to say that I have been testing him in any way."

"Now, now," his amusement only grew, "let neither of us pretend that that is not precisely what the courting process is. Nor that my brother is a woman's ideal. You will excuse my bluntness upon the matter, Miss Thurlow, but blinkered ideals and romances of the mind have a habit of getting short shrift in the Holmes family. And as its head, I must carry the best interests of its members…and those who might join our number."

Her eyes turned down to her lap, feeling a little embarrassed and wrong-footed before taking a silent breath and looking back up at the large man. "Do not misunderstand me, Mr. Holmes, there have been ups and downs, and I would be blind and rather imbecilic to believe there will not be any in the future. Relationships, whether between friends or couples, take work, care, and patience. There must be an openness of dialogue and a willingness to be part of something greater than just one's self as a single unit. Otherwise, it is doomed to failure. I have had to work on a great many of my own personal idiosyncrasies...as has Sherlock. Something that, I hope, has only brought us closer together."

The elder Holmes sipped on his drink lightly. "What then of his reticence to deal with, never mind discuss, those things that hold no interest for him? You speak of openness and dialogue, but it has ever been Sherlock's way to ignore what he does not care to speak of. That can be most irritating even to a man, but to women, who put such store in conversation, how much more so. My word…" He shook his head in thought. "If he regards such things as great literary works as beneath his time and reads only the crime news and the agony column in the papers, how much lower upon his register are the day to day happenings in a household or a business to him?"

"Does any man, Mr. Holmes, ever find the running of a home a particularly invigorating topic of conversation?" she answered with a low laugh. "He is an incredibly busy man, and I would prefer, as I know he would, that our dinner and evening conversations remain about something more stimulating then my accounts problems. I find his work and the puzzles and problems he devotes himself to incredibly fascinating as well as lessons to learn from. I should hope that I would continue to be enough in his confidence and esteem that he would feel free to speak openly and honestly with me about all things...and not just the usual withdrawing room generalities that frankly I can get anywhere."

"So you say now, Miss Thurlow," Mycroft replied at length, "but I wonder have you truly given sufficient thought to what you are saying? It is all very well to find his...puzzles and problems...as you put them, fascinating lessons to be learned, but my brother is seldom concerned with much else. He has a chemistry lab in his rooms, bullet holes in his walls, keeps ungodly hours, and is known to withdraw into himself for days on end. There are times when you too shall have difficulties or problems you wish to share. Over time such burdens can grow heavy when you feel you should not speak of them because you feel they are not worthy of his time, or because you fear his indifference." His voice grew gentle, a true measure of concern in it. "He is not a callous man, do not misunderstand me, but his focus and drive is such that it can grow wearisome for others who may wish to speak of other things." His lips tugged upwards in a smile. "Heaven knows sometimes even the mere thought of him is enough to tire me."

Despite the courtesy of his tone, she could find little in his words. She frowned, finding herself protective of Sherlock and irritated on his behalf that his brother, of all people, could affect to denigrate him to one in his affections. She had come here suspecting from experience with her beau that a meeting with another Holmes was not likely to be a usual 'inspection' by the head of family, but she had not expected this. It was if he was trying to frighten her away or…she paused mid thought, her mind turning to the empty chair behind her and how willingly it had been vacated.

Mycroft watched her closely, a slight crease forming on his brow at her silence. He was just about to speak when she inhaled deeply, her shoulders straightening and her hands refolding themselves in her lap as her eyes met his.

"Is he so unsure of me?" she asked him quietly.

"Ah…." He nodded slightly. "I warned Sherlock I had no particular experience at this; my subtlety clearly is not what it should be." With a sigh, he gave her an admiring smile. "Nevertheless, my compliments on your perspicacity, Miss Thurlow. And in answer to your question…I believe it is himself he doubts."

She took this in, her gaze steady before shaking her head in slight resignation. "Still."

"He cares for you a very great deal, Miss Thurlow." Mycroft folded his hands before him. "He endeavours to hide it, but in a man who until late rejected all women without thought, the change in him is as plain on the nose on his face. But from our words before you came, it is also clear to me that he fears he may be the cause of hurt to you."

"I have assured him of my understanding of the risks to…" she began strongly, only to be halted by the raising of the elder Holmes's hand.

"Not merely by outside forces," he told her pointedly.

"I see," she said with deceptive calmness. "He is afraid he will hurt me or at the very least, make me unhappy."

"It is evident that your attachment is deepening, Miss Thurlow, and there are decisions to be made by a man in such situations. Possibilities to consider."

"Does he mean to end our relationship?" she asked, trying to quell the fear that was roiling inside her.

Mycroft's lips tugged into a hint of a smile. "A man who brings a lady to meet his family does not strike one as a man who wishes to end anything. Sherlock has a great deal of confidence in himself. He affects to think a great deal of himself, and in a great many respects, he does!" His smile grew a little more. "But he cannot be the man he is, do the work he does, without knowing his own faults as perceived by others. The closer one grows to a person, the more one cares for their well-being, and those faults come home to them, concern them."

"Mr. Holmes," she said after a moment, trying to order her thoughts, "our faults are part of what make us what we are...they are what make us unique. And what society conceives of as a fault, an individual may not. I know Sherlock can be crotchety in the extreme, single minded and focused to the neglect of even his own health, never mind that of the people around him. I know he often forgets the niceties of social conversation or constraints in favour of his own interests or getting to the point...something I can often admire but do not always think is wise. I know he can be blinkered in his thoughts, brusque, arrogant, and self absorbed...but he can also be generous of time and spirit. He is a great brain, Mr. Holmes...but under it there is a great heart and a man forgiving of my own faults. The appendix, to which he so often consigns that part of himself that is not his mind, informs his actions, his sense of justice, his gentility, his chivalry, his affections, and that is as great a part of him as his mind, whether he likes to believe it or not. "

Her chin rose a little in defiance of any perceived weakness in her in this regard. "I do not think life with him would always be pleasant, nor perfect. But should we decide that that road is the one we are to walk...then I shall try very hard to accommodate him. But I have no illusions that the road will be a smooth one."

Her eyes were clear as she gazed at the elder Holmes. "Make no mistake, Mr. Holmes, I love your brother. I love him for everything he is and despite everything he is...and I know my place in his life. Though it is evident he does not know how clearly I know it. I know I shall never be first in his thoughts or in importance. It something I had to accept and come to terms with before we ever stepped out with each other. I know that I share him with his work...and that his work will always have priority. And to be honest, how can I disagree with that? He saves lives...whether from outright threat or simply the threat of scandal. He helps people...he helps his country. How can I put myself before that? Will I ever resent such a state? I don't know. I really don't. There are no such things in life, Mr. Holmes, as absolutes."

Mycroft regarded her, a little wide-eyed. "Well…" he said, drawing breath after a moment, "you are a forthright young lady. There is a great deal of your father in you, that much is obvious." He frowned at her lightly before starting to chuckle. "I begin to see much of what Sherlock sees in you, my dear. There is steel beneath the comforting velvet. Intelligence beneath the…if I might say…most becoming curls."

Helen found herself flushing at the burst of compliments and charm.

"Typically, Sherlock imagines that a woman's mind is too caught up in the romantic to consider the practical implications properly. While you and I know far better. Nothing concerns a woman's mind more than the practicalities of a romance. It is only the male that allows himself to be so carried away as to forget them." His eyes twinkled at her. "However, considering his past, I had thought it unlikely he would ever progress at all on the subject of women. I am more delighted than I can say that I was wrong." He looked away for a moment before turning his gaze back to her. "Another tribute to you, my dear."

She offered him a small smile and shook her head. "Given our conversation, Mr. Holmes, it appears my effect is still somewhat lacking on behalf of my gender."

Leaning forward slowly, Mycroft reached over and grasped her hand. "You are a patient, strong, and loyal woman, Miss Thurlow; precisely the kind of woman a man as imposing, yet fragile, as my brother requires. Have a little more patience. He has come quite the ways with you, and if he is wise he will go a long way with you yet.

She exhaled slowly, her heart hoping so. "Fragile?" she repeated, her gaze shifting to regard her glass. "I suppose I never thought of Sherlock that way. Reserved, stoic, enclosed...but not fragile. But I have seen glimpses occasionally of what he is like underneath the armour and reason, and I suppose all of us have our fragile side." Sighing, she looked at the elder Holmes. "I admit I'm not completely prepared...but I do not see how I or any woman could be. I can only try my utmost."

Rising to her feet, she crossed to the window. "I know there will be those who will seek to use me and my relationship with him. That they may try and possibly succeed in harming me. And I have told him that my life is not that important should he be placed in such a scenario. Though I do not know if he will listen. I have stood with a knife at my throat at least twice, and have had a gun pointed at me or seen it pointed at him. And I was…" She turned and gazed at the portly man, "completely terrified each time. I think I shall continue to worry each time...it is impossible not to...but what is the alternative? Life without him?" She smiled just a little and shook her head. "You will forgive yet another example of womanly emotionalism, but frankly the thought of life without him is worse than any possible danger anyone could inflict on him, myself, or us both combined." Again that fear of Holmes's possibly ending their relationship for her own good stabbed at her.

Mycroft observed her without blinking, his gaze as intense if not more so than his brother's. And like his brother's, equally unconcerned about how it might make the subject feel. "Your answer is all that could be hoped for and all that is required, dear lady," he finally responded. "No one can legislate for what might come in the future. All that one can do is be sure that those who choose to journey on with us have given it every thought and consideration before they make their choice. I can see that you have, and I'm gratified too that Sherlock has stirred such a depth of feeling in a lady such as yourself." He smiled at her again, the twinkle in his eye returning. "If a little mystified as to how."

Her cheeks flushed a little as she returned his smile, her fingers playing with the curtain for a moment. "There is no great mystery in that, Mr. Holmes...certainly not one deserving of the mind of a Holmes to dwell upon." Taking another breath or two to still her nerves, which his questions had greatly heightened, she crossed back to the table and took her seat.

As she did, there was a knock on the door, and Mycroft smiled at Helen before turning his attention to the door. "Enter."

Anton entered, carrying aperitifs for Helen and Holmes and a refill for Mycroft, a second waiter following with a bottle on ice in a bucket, who was in turn followed by Holmes himself. The detective's eyes moved immediately to Helen, seeking to gauge her mood.

She looked at him after a moment, her gaze meeting his. She knew should be angry with him for testing her so, for being so unsure of himself and of her ability to accept him for what he was. But she found she could not be. How could she? She loved him for everything he was, how he was…and this was another example of how he sometimes was -- cautious, careful, uncertain of others. He was intensely brave in so many ways, but fearful in so many others. Mycroft's words became more real to her…he was fragile in certain ways. She smiled gently at him, that fragile side of him endearing to her. She could only hope that today would be enough to convince him that her own fragility lay not with him, but without him.

Holmes returned her smile with a small incline of his head. Her eyes were clear, her posture not as relaxed as it might be, but more relaxed than had she found Mycroft's quizzing intolerably discomfiting. His gaze turned to his brother, who rose to give instructions on the placement of the wine stand and the bringing of the menus.

Taking a step away from the table as the waiter served Helen and followed his instructions, Mycroft laid his hand upon his brother's arm and murmured quietly and quickly with a smile, "Return to me when you have seen her home; we have much to discuss."


Authors' Notes: Let me first start of with a huge thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, or even just dropped us a line. We truely are thrilled you are enjoying this story! Also, I'm very sorry this chapter is up late, but my grandmother passed after a long illness last week and I had to fly out suddenly to attend her memorial service and help out my father and his wife. And so, I would like to dedicate this chapter to her. She was a sweet, kind woman with a heart of gold, and I shall miss her deeply.

You will all be glad to hear we have drafted the next chapter and are already in edit mode with it (sadly, we're behind on the Snape story now as we've been completely distracted by Doctor Who). So hopefully, we'll be able to post it in a couple weeks. Thank you again for your words and patience with us. -- Aeryn (of aerynfire)