Chapter Twenty-one
"No, Inspector, it's not intuition any more than it's something the Tooth Fairy might have left behind!" Sherlock ground his teeth together as his blood-pressure headed north.
"It doesn't matter what it is, Sherlock," Greg Lestrade stood with his hands on his hips, just as aggravated as the younger man. "Without tangible evidence and reason, there is no way I can intercede for you in another division's operation just because you want to question the man they arrested at the Marriott this morning," Lestrade sighed heavily and shook his head, exasperated. "Unless you can give me something specific to go on, there's no chance I'm taking your request higher, so if you've actually got something, rather than just having a bit of a rant, tell me now."
"He's Italian!" Sherlock lifted both hands in the air as if his announcement made everything perfectly clear.
"We've got more than a hundred-thousand Italian-born residents in London as of the last census," Greg was half- irate, half-incredulous as his own hands lifted. "Tell me why it's so bloody important for you to meet this particular representative!"
John hadn't budged from the corner where he'd been standing as the minor drama unfolded, but his expression was becoming increasingly weary.
"It's something my brother has his fingers in," digging his hands in his coat pockets, Sherlock almost spat the words. "It's an international operation between the British and Italian governments and it's currently involving a lot of people with pay grades considerably higher than yours!"
"Then I suggest you go and speak to one of them," Lestrade squared his shoulders and spoke stiffly, the insult quite enough in itself without him having to take any more.
"I can't!" Sherlock's eyes were wide and his nostrils flared in outrage. "Mycroft has played these particular cards very close to his chest and, while I can make some astute predictions as to who is involved, I don't know for sure."
"Then talk to your bloody brother!" Greg rolled his eyes. "If this is as important as you say it is ..."
"Mycroft said it was too dangerous for the family to have me involved!" Sherlock roared, stamping across to the window of the office and slapping a palm hard against the heavy glass. "Plus he's gone down to Kent to spend Christmas with our parents and his ..." Sherlock paused, screwing his eyes closed tight and scowling ferociously, before allowing his shoulders to drop as he stood and sighed hugely as all anger left him. He turned to face his only real colleague in Scotland Yard.
"There are assassins, Inspector," he said, quietly, finally. "Come from Italy, to abduct or possibly kill my mother, father and Mycroft's girlfriend, though Sarah's precise nomenclature is still somewhat up in the air at present," his words were quiet and matter-of-fact. "Mycroft thinks he has them all but now this man arrives and is immediately swept up and spirited away by the police but without any attempt to ensure he was acting alone or even if he was supposed to meet a local guide," Sherlock looked resigned. "I recognise my brother's ham-fisted approach here, but all I ask is five minutes with the prisoner simply to verify that Mycroft hasn't actually missed something," he paused again. "These are my parents I'm talking about, Graham," Sherlock sounded truly distraught, his eyes glassy with tears.
"Jesus, Sherlock," Greg rubbed a hand over his face. If it was this bad, bad enough to even worry someone like Sherlock Holmes ... "I'll do what I can to get you in, but I'm not promising anything and you can't barge in like you usually do or I'll lose what little clout I have over there. Hang on a minute and I'll see what I can organise, okay?"
Dropping into his chair, the Yarder dug around in spilled files until he located his desk phone. Picking up the handset, he dialled an internal number. By the window, Sherlock instantly lost his woebegone expression and turned to John, raising his eyebrows in an anticipatory fashion.
Still in the corner, his flatmate shook his head, mildly disgusted.
"Hello, Phil ... yeah, it is. Look mate, I need to get someone in for a couple of minutes chat with your pick up of this morning ... yeah, I know ... I do realise, but ... well, yes; I can see how that might be an issue, however ..." there were several seconds silence as he listened intently, his eyes arriving on Sherlock's face which was once again on the brink of genuine anguish. "It's Sherlock Holmes is who it is," Lestrade waited, before nodding. "Good. I'll bring him and his colleague, Doctor Watson across in a tick ... yeah, I really do owe you one, cheers mate."
Puffing out a slow breath, Lestrade stood, grabbing his coat. "Come on then," he held the office door open. "I've got you five minutes."
###
To his credit, Mycroft's sense of the world imploding about his ears lasted no more than two seconds.
"Can you walk to the car?" his arm was curved around Sarah's back supporting her upright, even as the question passed his lips. "I can have an ambulance here from Swanley Army barracks within seven minutes if you prefer not to move, my dear," he helped her sit back down on the edge of the massage bed. "Are you ... do you need to lie down?"
All Sarah could do for the minute was grab his arm and shake her head as she was gripped by the worst cramping she had ever felt.
The sound of a car screeching to a halt outside in the main street was heard, just before official voices shouted and equally official fists pounded on the other side of the solid door.
"Police! Open up!"
Nodding to his boss who once more positioned himself between Sarah and the door, Jack shouted that he wanted to see formal identification before anyone was opening anything. "I have a registered weapon in my hand," he made the fact very clearly known. "Anyone attempting to enter this room without formal ID will regret it."
"Don't be so bloody daft, lad," a male, vaguely Welsh voice sounded through the wood of the door. "Here's my ID and I'd like it back in once piece, if you don't mind."
There was a faint scrabbling on the wooden boards as a neat leather wallet slid under the door through a gap just large enough to take it. Whipping it off the floor, Jack checked the details in a second before presenting the bona fides to his boss.
The identification was genuine Mycroft noted, right down to the worn edge of leather where the wallet constantly rubbed up against the ubiquitous ballpoint pen that all police officers carried in their breast pockets.
On getting the nod, Jack informed his audience that he were coming out and he had his gun licence in his hand for them to see. He heaved the bench aside but kept hold of the gun.
"Can you move at all?" Mycroft's eyes were tight with concern as he slid his hands to the top of Sarah's arms, holding her steady on the edge of the bed. "How bad is it?"
The pain temporarily gone, Sarah realised that, for better or worse, she was in labour. At that moment, a great surge of panic almost overwhelmed her; the feeling that everything was about to go wrong, that all her carefully-laid plans would be for nothing ... But the feel of strong hands holding her close and the knowledge that Mycroft would never allow anything terrible to happen to either her or the baby ... With a sharp sigh, she relaxed, allowing everything to flow through her without resistance. Things were pretty much out of her hands now in any case.
As she calmed, the beginnings of panic retreated and she was able to think. Maybe she'd been in early labour for a while, considering how painful her back had been. Or perhaps it had been the shock of knowing a man with a gun had tried to shoot his way through a door not five feet from where she sat. Either way, her son was quite definitely on his way and she'd better get her shit together.
She'd also read quite enough about the process of childbirth to know roughly where she was in the scheme of things. The only question now, was could she hang on for the hour it would take to drive back up to her luxuriously appointed hospital delivery suite? Early labour and especially a first labour was supposed to take hours. It really depended on how long it was between ... she screwed her eyes tight and thumped her forehead against Mycroft's chest as another spasm of cramp made itself at home. Her back was killing her as well.
Which answered one question.
"I don't think I can get to London in time," she muttered the words through gritted teeth as the seconds of sharp discomfort ticked by. "And now he's started, I don't think he wants to hang around." A long sigh of relief greeted the end of the last contraction.
"The baby ..?" Mycroft looked so grim that Sarah had to smile.
"Mycroft, it's fine, really," she sat up a little and stretched her back. "He's just decided to come this side of Christmas, that's all," she sighed. "I may end up having him in your parent's spare bedroom. I hope they won't mind."
"I believe we can do better than that," Jack returned with two uniformed police officers standing behind him in the now open doorway. "There's a small cottage hospital just on the corner of Bower Lane. I can get you there in two minutes. There's a full maternity room, though I doubt it'll be anything too fancy."
"You are a man of many talents, Jack," Mycroft's eyes never left Sarah's face. "Can you make it to the car, my dear?" his voice was so soft and his expression so solicitous that Sarah brushed her fingertips over his mouth.
"I wish I'd known this Mycroft Holmes a year ago," she whispered. "It would have made life a lot simpler."
"Darling, let's get you to the car," taking one side of her while Jack supported Sarah's other elbow, they walked slowly to the front of the massage clinic where an agonised-looking Trish stood among a small group of bystanders on the narrow pavement, her face twisted with worry.
"Oh, thank god," she groaned in relief as she saw the three of them coming out together, only to pause as she realised Sarah was not walking as much as she was being half-carried. "Sarah?"
"Next time you get to do my back, I'll be bringing a little friend with me," Sarah tried to keep her expression calm as another wave of pain washed over her. Oddly, her back hurt less now that she was standing but there was no more time for conversation as Jack was already at the car with the rear door open.
"We'll take the lead and show you the way," the older policeman smiled and called over as Sarah levered herself into the back seat of the Jaguar. "Don't you worry, my girl. My missus had all of ours up at the local place; you'll be right as ninepence up there." Both cars started, the front one now sporting a festively flashing blue light.
Mycroft's phone was at his ear and Sarah vaguely heard him barking out all sorts of instructions to people as she stretched beside him catching her breath.
###
A seething Joseph Tuttini pulled his car into the middle of a small and reasonably full carpark just off Eynsford's main shopping centre, not that a few shops, a petrol station and a couple of pubs might be considered much of a centre from anything. His car was inconspicuous and would not be spotted as out of place for a long time.
How had this situation gone so wrong so fast?
He remembered asking directions of two women his mother's age; such old women always knew everything about everyone. He had given them the name he had been asked to find, Lillian Stuart. This apparently was an interesting name as the women had looked strangely at each other before telling him he was out of date and that what he needed, was the Holmes farmhouse off Crockenhill Lane.
Holmes?
They also said that if he was another guest staying for Christmas, then the best way to get there was to go up the lane and then take the first fork on the right, the farmhouse being right at the end of the narrow bit of road.
It was then that the uniformed driver of the expensive black Jaguar looked out of his car, staring at him even more strangely than the old women had.
Tuttini knew himself to have been hand-picked by Soren Mancuso to locate and acquire the two women and this was not the most dangerous or difficult situation he had been in before. He had seen men that stared at him, just like the driver of the expensive car had done It was never a good sign, especially as only a second later, the man had run into the massage place and the Italian realised he had to follow and silence the one witness who might be able to identify him to the police.
But then everything had gone to hell and now he was sitting in a carpark looking at a map of the local area on his phone.
Crockenhill Lane was easy to find; it was the nearest direct route from Eynsford to the M25. Tuttini had even considered using it himself as the swiftest route away from this place. But why had he been directed to the residence of a family called Holmes? Unless the woman Stuart was using a professional name as so many women did these days? Might his target be better known as Lillian Holmes?
He had no choice but to attempt to complete the contract. A police car had already flown down the road, lights flashing and siren blaring; he had no time to lose.
Starting his car, the Italian dropped the phone onto the seat beside him, following its instructions on how to reach the farmhouse in Crockenhill Lane. It was not far.
###
It took less than a second to know the man in the dark suit sitting at the table was a trained assassin. The negligible but permanent list to the right from carrying a heavy pistol in a left-sided shoulder holster; his fine awareness of movement at the periphery of his vision; the way he had chosen the side of the table where the light worked in his favour, rather than against him. The constant wariness of all those in the room with him and the almost grudging respect for the senior officer in charge.
Sherlock smiled absently. Hardened, disciplined; a soldier. Mafioso.
Throwing himself into the seat opposite, the younger Holmes caught and held the man's unwilling attention as he leaned forward, fractionally. "My brother is a Don," he whispered. "He's ruthless and has a very, very long reach. You came here to hurt his family, what do you think he will do to yours?" Sherlock's gaze flicked from the man's hands to the crook of his right arm. "To your wife and child?"
The Italian remained silent but everyone in the room saw his back stiffen.
"A little girl, am I right?" Sherlock leaned back now, knowing he had the man's complete attention. "My brother's child, his first child, actually, is going to be a boy," Sherlock examined his nails. "Have you any conception how far my brother will go to protect his first-born son and the mother of his child?" Holding up his fingers to the light for critical inspection, Sherlock arched his eyebrows and continued, almost disinterestedly. "He will find your family," there was a pause as Sherlock glanced briefly at the other man's tie. "In ... Naples," he nodded. "And he will hurt them and then they will die," the smile on his face was cruel. "And the only thing that will stop this inevitability," Sherlock's cold smile grew marginally. "Is you," he added, leaning even further across the table. "Answer my questions and I will intercede on your behalf. Remain silent and your soul will be damned with the preventable deaths of your wife and your ..."
"All right!" the Italian slammed a hand down on the table. "Ask me what you will," he rubbed a palm across his face. "Just leave my family alone and I'll tell you everything I know. I swear."
"Excellent," Sherlock sat back, linking his fingers in his lap. "Who else did Soren Mancuso send and how did you plan to meet up with them after the abduction had been completed?"
Raising his eyes to the calm fact of the tall man sitting opposite him in a heavy dark coat, the Italian shook his head. "The Mancusos will kill me if I tell you," he sounded unutterably weary.
"Any my brother will have you killed if you do not," Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "But there may be a way for each of us to get what we need ..."
###
Eynsford Cottage Hospital was a double-fronted Victorian villa on a slight hill, red-bricked, with white-painted bay windows on either side of the trellised central front door. Just up from the corner of Bower Lane, it was screened from the road by a well-trimmed privet hedge, a large, leafless Sycamore and a small stretch of green lawn. There was a white lamppost stationed at the edge of the lawn adjacent to the drive and a couple of pretty ancient cars parked away in one corner. The drive itself was to the higher side of the hospital, an extensive tarmacked parking area where ambulances could turn around after collecting or delivering patients for or from any of the larger or more specialised London hospitals.
This close to Christmas, there was only one current occupant in the hospital itself; an ancient smallholder who'd come down with double pneumonia after letting a chest cold turn to bronchitis, waiting for his daughter to take him home to Tunbridge Wells for the festive season. Overall, it was a fairly quiet spot in a very quiet English village.
The police car, flashing blue lights and siren wailing was first to screech to a halt in the carpark, both officers flinging open their doors simultaneously; one running to open the hospital entrance and the other to see if any additional assistance was needed in the transfer of the labouring woman into the place which, for better or worse, would see her confinement.
The shiny black Jaguar swept into the wide drive area mere seconds behind the white police vehicle. The instant it came to a halt, both the driver's door and one of the rear doors opened wide. Jack flew around the front of the big car in order to ensure nobody else entered the drive area behind them and to offer his assistance with Sarah, should such assistance be required.
"There will be other arrivals," Mycroft muttered in passing as he helped Sarah lever herself from the car, pausing as another contraction hit. All he could do was stand with her, out in the chill winter air and hope there were no Italian visitors in range. How had his people missed the second man? By every piece of intelligence they had, there were only two final emissaries from Mancuso; one they had picked up at the Marriott, the other arrested as he descended the steps of his jet at Biggin Hill. It was obvious the plane that took Sarah and his mother over to San Vincenzo would be backtracked to their point of departure; hardly rocket science to keep an eye on all incoming private flights, especially those from Italy. But if the man from the morning's flight was in custody, where had Tuttini come from?
Mycroft's thoughts were interrupted as Sarah sagged hard against him, her face pressed deep into the front of his suit, her low groan of pain vibrating against his skin.
"I need to move, Mycroft," she husked. "Help me stand up, please."
"I've got Doctor Mandal coming down from London with a police escort," he murmured close to her ear as his arms took more of her weight, lifting. "She'll be here inside the hour, so all you have to do my darling, is hang on for a little while longer."
"Not sure I'm really in charge of things any more, Mycroft," Sarah sucked down a deep breath and stood straighter, the pain in abeyance for the moment. "Your son is probably going to be as bloody-minded and autocratic about this whole birth thing as you've been."
"I have not."
"Darling Mycroft, yes you have," Sarah laughed breathlessly, but she was feeling suddenly rather frightened and alone. If there was ever a time when she would have appreciated having her mother close by, it would be now.
Darling Mycroft. It was the shock, obviously.
"I also had my mother picked up from the farmhouse. She's on her way here right ..."
The sound of another car pulling into the asphalted area drew their attention, the driver already opening the rear passenger door almost before the car was properly parked.
Both Lillian and Bill Holmes were assisted out onto the hospital driveway, their gazes turning immediately towards their eldest son and the woman he was holding.
"Mycroft!" Lillian absorbed the situation in an instant. "We need to get Sarah inside and comfortable," she declaimed in no uncertain terms, pointing to the hospital entrance. "Really, you men are absolutely hopeless."
"A hand, Jack, if you wouldn't mind?" Mycroft held Sarah close until his driver arrived to take her other arm. At almost the same moment, a uniformed nurse ran out from the main door to meet them.
"Emergency delivery?" she asked, risking Mycroft's eternal ire for stating the blatantly obvious. Between Mycroft and his driver, Sarah was brought through the wide main door and into the ground floor level rooms.
"Down the back to your right," the nurse directed, looking as if she wished she wasn't the only one on duty at this time of day.
The delivery room was big, mostly empty and very quiet. The nondescript wall paint, the sterile, vaguely antiseptic smell and somewhat spartan surrounds enhanced the feeling that everything that went on in here was nothing to get worked up over and the basic facilities were more than competent to do their job.
"Have her lie down here," Mummy was quite the tyrant, Mycroft realised, as he helped raise Sarah onto the high, white-sheeted bed.
"Right, now clear out, the lot of you," Lillian was already holding Sarah's hand, her expression not one to be crossed unless it be for the declaration of a third world war. "This is women's work."
Suddenly and horribly uncertain, Mycroft paused as he watched the woman who was about to deliver his first and probably his only child, swathed in crisp white sheets, her clothing and footwear making way for a hospital gown and, for some ungodly reason, long white socks. Did he want to leave? Did Sarah want him to leave?
The answer was moot, as Sarah groaned into another contraction and his mother shooed him out the door, closing it fast behind him.
"Probably not long now, sir," Jack nodded cheerfully. "Seems as if your lady is cracking on with the job."
For a driver, Jack suddenly seemed to know a very great deal about the maternity accommodations in the area and about the process of delivering a baby generally. Quite odd, really considering the man was single and never married.
"How did you know about the facilities here, Jack?" Mycroft's voice was soft and almost distracted. "And how are you suddenly so well informed about such ... operational details?"
His grin widening, Jack squinted one eye closed. "My friend, sir," he said. "The one I've been staying with when we've come down here for the night. "Her name's Emma and she's a nurse," the grin, if anything, got bigger.
Of course she was. Had his thoughts not been so otherwise occupied, Mycroft would have observed the miniscule but very neat vertical mattress stitch repair to the lapel of Jack's coat.
"And your nurse friend works here?" Mycroft felt a de-escalation of an inner tension.
Raising his eyebrows and offering a small, smug smile, Jack shoved his hands in his pocket.
"The main security team has been situated around the perimeter, sir," Jack looked around, thoughtfully. "A couple of them have remained at your parent's house to ensure there's no funny business, but the rest are here I'll just go wait outside, shall I?" he hesitated. "Or would you like me to pop down the village and get everyone something to eat; might be a bit of a long business, this being Miss Sarah's first, and all that."
Raising his own eyebrows in mild exasperation at the sudden bonhomie, Mycroft rested the flat of one hand on the closed door beside him. There was the faint sound of voices from within, followed by the rising note of Sarah's voice as she was again caught by a the pain of a contraction.
Despite himself, Mycroft felt a dampness in the palms of his hands. The urge to open the door and simply stay with Sarah was very strong, no matter what his mother might have concluded. Checking his watch, he phoned to clarify the ETA of Doctor Mandal.
Twenty minutes, give or take.
Twenty minutes in which he would not move from this door.
###
"Kent, John," Sherlock Holmes checked his watch and blinked, the various routes between London and his parent's Eynsford farmhouse rattling through his mind in fractions of a second. The A20 was the obvious bet; a fast police car with blaring sirens and no speed limitation could probably make it in thirty minutes, but any such arrival would be known by all. The quieter back roads were more discreet but would take closer to a full hour to traverse. There was one other possibility. Taking out his phone, he speed-dialled a number he had promised Mycroft he would no longer call to ask for a helicopter he had sworn never to use again.
###
There were two problems with these narrow British lanes, Tuttini realised as he navigated his car slowly up a hill between two towering hedgerows. One, anyone coming the other way could block your passage simply by occupying the middle of the road and two, you couldn't see if anyone was coming the other way until you were bumper to bumper.
Knowing where your enemies were made them easier to avoid and Joey Tuttini was not a man to give up on a contract simply because someone had recognised him. There was still time; time to find Lillian Stuart and maybe even time to find out where the Lawrence signorina was ... women were easy to handle. Smack them a little and they soon came around.
Arriving at the triple junction in the lane, he drove carefully down the fork the old woman had told him was the way to the Holmes fattoria, an old place, right at the end of the narrow lane. It was a matter of moments before he saw the shape of a high, grey-tiled roof and a deep pink red painted house come into view. There was another one of the shiny black cars in the driveway and two men sitting in the front seats, already opening their respective doors as they saw the stranger arrive.
Slamming his foot on the accelerator, Tuttini rammed the front of the car with all the speed his own vehicle could summon, jamming the black car violently backwards and hurling the two men to the ground where both of them were knocked completely unconscious as the car doors rebounded forcefully, laying them out cold as cleanly as if he'd tapped them himself.
Which suggested he'd found the right house.
And now he'd taken care of the minders, it also looked like there was nothing stopping him from taking care of whoever was inside. With a relaxed grin, Tuttini pulled out the Beretta out of his jacket and walked slowly towards the front door of the farmhouse.
###
The police car carrying Anni Mandal broke not only the speed limit getting her from London down to Eynsford but also the speed record. The Indian doctor was as pleased to have reached her destination as was her driver, though for entirely different reasons.
Escorting her into the cottage hospital, the police driver also carried the doctor's substantial black box, almost too big to be considered a bag though it did have a handle at the top. Cutting a swathe through the assorted security personnel gathered in the hospital driveway, Doctor Mandal strode through the big house until she reached the required room, only to be faced by Cerberus in a Savile Row suit.
"I'm here," she announced, needlessly. "How's Sarah?"
"In there," Mycroft stood away from the door, giving the obstetrician access.
"And why are you out here while she is in there?" Anni Mandal threw him a questioning look. "She's going to need every bit of support she can get; this is not going to be easy for her, you realise."
"Does she need to get to London?" a cold fear flopped around Mycroft's stomach.
"It's easier for me to get the air-ambulance than you, I think," the doctor rested a calming hand on his forearm. "And it might not come to that, but be ready to move very quickly; there'll be no time for dithering if I need to move Sarah in a hurry."
Biting back a desire to respond to the accusation of dithering, Mycroft simply inclined his head and opened the door.
Lillian looked up, visibly relieved when she saw Sarah's specialist enter the room, complete with black bag.
And her son.
His eyes were on Sarah from the moment he stepped inside the room, noting her general pallor, as well as the unnatural flush that painted the skin around her eyes and upper cheeks. Pain shaped her every breath and it was all he could do to stop himself from calling up an army rescue helicopter on the spot.
"Sarah, do you want your partner to leave?" Doctor Mandal was already unpacking her equipment and medications, prior to washing her hands and gowning up. "I need someone strong to hold you upright and I think Mycroft is the very best option, but I can ask the duty nurse if you'd prefer?"
"Mycroft, stay please," Sarah sounded exhausted. Closing her eyes, she moaned softly. "Something feels wrong," she said. "I think the baby's stuck inside."
"Given his size, I can't say I'm terribly surprised," Anni Mandal coiled her long dark hair up inside a surgical cap before washing her hands thoroughly. Once her hands were clean, the duty nurse assisted her in donning sterile scrubs and long latex gloves. "It would have been simpler to go for a Caesar," she said quietly. Laying her warm hands gently and carefully either side of Sarah's rigid belly, feeling the way the baby was positioned. "But there's nothing wrong with doing this the traditional way either, especially as your young man is so keen to join everyone for Christmas," she smiled behind her mask. "It'll just take a bit longer and you're going to be that much more tired," the doctor paused as she saw the way Sarah was lying with a pillow doubled up hard beneath her back. "Is your back causing you pain?"
"It's bloody killing me," Sarah closed her eyes as another contraction hit and she clamped her lips together to hold in a cry.
Lillian was almost as pale as Sarah as she clutched Mycroft's arm. She hadn't had this problem with either of the boys, even though they had both been on the big side. And she realised that even today, women still died in childbirth. It was a horrible thought. Perhaps Mycroft really shouldn't be in here, after all.
"Then I'm going to give you an epidural," Doctor Mandal nodded almost to herself. "Normally, this would be done by an anaesthesiologist, but your baby is in a semi-breech position and I have to turn him a little before he can be born the way nature intended and we have no time to wait. I need you to stop pushing until I've got him properly aligned, and the only way I can do that and relieve your pain is with an epidural injection. I have successfully administered this form of pain management on multiple occasions. Do you agree for me to do this?"
"Yes, oh god please, please, please ..." Sarah reached around for something to hold and found Mycroft's hand, right where it needed to be.
As Sarah's fingers clamped around his, Mycroft examined Anni Mandal's face with a fierce scrutiny. Was it safe for her to do this? She wasn't an anaesthesiologist, she might make a mistake. This was his son's life in the balance here, his son and the woman he ... he felt Sarah's fingers close tight around his own. His son and the woman he did not want to lose, could not lose. Not now, not like this.
Anni Mandal returned his glower with a calm appraisal.
One look at Mycroft's face told Lillian that, for better or worse, he had already accepted the situation. The duty nurse was laying out towels and wraps and other equipment in a most orderly fashion and there was no need for another onlooker. She would only be in the way.
"Then unless you need a fourth pair of hands, I think I'll go and find daddy and perhaps take him home for a break from all this excitement," Lillian felt her voice wobbling a little now that the emergency of the situation was ebbing.
"Go and have some tea, Mummy," Mycroft's voice was gentler than Lillian had ever heard him be, even when Sherlock was young. "I'll call if you can help, I promise."
"Be sure you do," Lillian meant to sound dependable but ended up sounding more like a wavery old woman. Yes, best she go and leave the experts to it. As the door closed behind her, the nurse was already manoeuvring Sarah more onto her side so that her spine was unobstructed. After wiping the area with iodine, the obstetrician was ready to go.
"I'm going to be injecting a very fine catheter directly into the epidural space," she murmured, her fingertips feeling alongside each of Sarah's bony vertebrae. "I'll only be giving you a small amount of Ropivacaine combined with an analgesic and I can always give more later if needed," she said, finding exactly the right spot and marking with a pen. "You shouldn't feel anything at all as I've already given you a touch of surface anaesthetic where the injection will go," she added, preparing the needle behind Sarah's back.
To Mycroft's eyes, it seemed obscenely long and dangerous.
"Here we go," Mandal sounded very calm. "Now keep absolutely still for me for about twenty seconds, please."
Feeling a firm pressure on the middle of her back, Sarah was about to respond when she was hit by another ferocious contraction. Screwing her eyes tight and gripping Mycroft's hands with everything that she could, Sarah whimpered behind a jaw clamped tight.
"I think we should call him Bertram," Mycroft leaned down, smoothing back long sweat-damped hairs from her face. "It has a certain ring, don't you agree?"
"Bertram?" Sarah was suddenly and horribly aghast. "Are you insane? Not even if that's one of your middle names am I calling our son Bertram."
"Then how might you feel about Hadley?" Mycroft's voice was light and intentionally amused. "Or Norville," he pondered. "Always a favourite, though I believe Her Majesty would prefer Salisbury."
"Have you been drinking?" Sarah caught her breath as the contraction passed and she was able to relax for a few moments. "Those are truly terrible names."
"All done," the obstetrician stepped back, allowing the nurse to move in with some medical tape to stop the catheter from moving about and making it safe to lie on.
"Done?" Sarah didn't know if laughing hysterically might be a bad sign, but everything today was on its head; all her careful planning flung to the winds. And it was Mycroft, of all people, who was keeping her grounded. "You don't really like Bertram, do you?" she asked, more for reassurance than confirmation.
Mycroft pressed the back of her hand to his mouth and smiled against the heated skin. "Not particularly," he said, glancing across at the doctor who tapped her wristwatch and held up a handful of outspread fingers. Five minutes before the injection started to work. "Though I confess I am a little curious as to the names you have been considering," he said candidly, pulling an old seat over towards the high bed so he could sit and meet Sara's eyes without her having to strain her neck. "Have you, in fact, thought of any at all?"
Behind Sarah's back, Anni Mandal nodded. Four minutes.
"I was thinking of Christopher, actually," Sarah sounded unusually hesitant, but it was the name itself that had Mycroft sitting back, blinking rapidly in surprise.
"Christopher is my father's middle name," he said quietly.
"Really?" Sarah found herself smiling despite everything. "It was my father's middle name too."
"Then Christopher it shall be," Mycroft brought up his other hand to clasp hers between them. "But what about a middle name? Any self-respecting British gentleman requires a middle name, if only to meet the minimum standards of a stylish monogram."
"You are such a dreadful snob," Sarah felt the pressure of another contraction building and tightened her grip. "Though I agree. A good middle name can be a useful thing."
"Something tasteful for the monogram, perhaps?" Mycroft watched the tensing of her features as Sarah waited for the ordeal to begin again, felt her whole body ready itself for the inevitable pain.
"If you suggest anything like Bertram, I swear I'll call him Wayne or Donny or something," Sarah hissed as the first brush of discomfort made itself known.
"Well really, "Mycroft rubbed the tip of his nose thoughtfully against her hand, "I quite like Wyndham ... unless you feel that's unspeakably nineteenth-century?"
"Wyndham?" Sarah's eyes unfocused for a moment as she tasted the name in her mind. "Wyndham," she smiled. "A good writer's name is that," she paused, abruptly introspective. "There's no pain," she said, wonderingly. "There's absolutely no pain at all," her fingers relaxed around Mycroft's hands. "Not even my back hurts as much as it did ... in fact ..." Sarah flexed her body cautiously. There was only a moderate twinge. "It's wonderful."
"Excellent," Doctor Mandal nodded again in satisfaction. "Let's get you into a position where I can do what needs to be done and then let's see if we can deliver your son in time for tea, shall we?"
A glance over Sarah's shoulder at Mycroft's intense expression was all she needed to see. He stood and slowly removed his jacket.
###
The farmhouse was still and quiet, but that might easily be because someone was hiding. Tuttini knew this was the house where Lillian Stuart was supposed to live and there'd be little reason to have two guards outside an empty house, would there?
Walking slowly into the old building, he noted the burning log fire in the fireplace; not recently tended but not in any danger of dying out. It had been fed fairly recently. There was a reasonably fresh fragrance of brewed coffee in the kitchen; again, an aroma that strong could only have been made only in the last half-hour or so.
Making his way silently into the main downstairs hallway, he stopped suddenly, his ears catching the faintest of sounds at what might have been the back door of the house; the sound of a door being closed carefully so that it made no noise. Fortunately, Tuttini had excellent hearing. Moving with purpose now, he strode swiftly towards the end of the house where the sound had originated. There was the end of the passageway. There was a door. An almost closed door. A smile shifted his face, though the left side of his mouth did not move.
Outside, the long winter's grass was threaded through with worn muddy pathways, most of them smudged with old footprints. The one leading around the back of the house was different, showing a series of sharp neat footprints. Levelling the Beretta, Tuttini crept cautiously around the corner of the building, his eyes catching sight of some kind of wood and wire construction between several low and leafless trees. There was a flicker of movement as something, someone, seemed to be hiding.
"I can see you," he called out, victory in every syllable.
"Yeah, and I can see you, mate," holding a heavy branch in his hands John Watson stepped out from behind a pile of rough-sawn logs. With a vicious swing of his arm, he landed a solid blow on the intruder's hand sending the Beretta flying and almost knocking the man to his knees.
Only just managing to stay upright, Tuttini dragged a flick-knife from the sleeve of his coat, the wicked blade flashing in the pale December sunshine. Swinging it horizontally backwards and forwards at his attacker's midsection, it was all John could do to keep his midriff arced away from the razor's tip. A particularly wide sweep managed to slice the edge of his jacket.
"Could use a little help over here!" he called out to nobody in particular, dodging and weaving to stay beyond the long reach of the knife.
"So you like to dance, eh?" Joey Tuttini could see the shorter blond man was already tiring and the Italian's lopsided smile returned. "First I cut you and then I find the old woman and then maybe I come back and let her watch while I make you pretty for her, shall I?"
"Not today, thank you," Sherlock was standing directly behind the assassin, who swung around to meet the new threat, his dagger still outstretched. "Meet Bertie," Sherlock threw the cockerel directly at the Italian's head who screamed as the large elderly bird screeched, flapped, clawed and scratched vigorously at anything his talons could reach; hands, face, scalp. In seconds, Tuttini was down on his knees, desperately trying to fend off an infuriated chicken.
"There are two more where he came from and they're all killers," Sherlock waited until the Italian was on the ground before picking up the gun and throwing it over to John. "Hold him still for a moment while I organise an appropriate method of containment," he said, bending once again to gather up a still-ruffled Bertie, before striding away.
Holding the black pistol unnaturally steady, John poked the downed man with his foot. "Are you the only one or should we be ready for some other joker to arrive?"
"Go to hell," Joey Tuttini sat on the cold ground, wiping the bloodied cuts and grazes on his face and hands with a handkerchief.
"You have absolutely no idea what kind of trouble you're in, do you?" John grinned. "This is one family you do not mess around with," the grin widened. "His brother's a Don."
###
"Well, you'll have to start holding him at some point," Sarah lay back against fresh pillows as the bed was changed around her. She had already been the recipient of a quick wash while Anni Mandal was taking Christopher's Apgar, which was a clear ten by the way he yelled his head off, pink and wriggling, the second he was born. His weight was nine pounds six ounces and he was just on twenty-four inches long. Olympic stock if there ever was.
Mycroft sat, partially slumped in the chair beside the bed, still in shock. Once the obstetrician had managed to reposition the baby, things had moved very quickly and his son his son his son had been born at eleven minutes past six in the evening. As soon as he'd been weighed and cleaned, Sarah had put him to her breast without any fuss or bother. She could feel her feet but very little else from the waist down but knew such a state of affairs couldn't last forever. Suckling for only a few minutes, the infant fell asleep.
"I need to go to the bathroom before this wonderful painkiller wears off completely," Sarah beckoned Mycroft to come and hold his child. "Just hold him for a bit while he's asleep, would you? I doubt I'll be too long."
As the duty nurse helped Sarah cautiously upright, Mycroft sat back in the chair as a surprisingly solid lump of baby was placed delicately in his nervous arms.
He could feel the warm length of the baby's legs enveloped in the soft cotton wrap. They seemed incredibly long, but then the rest of him was long too. A fuzz of dark hair capped a smooth skull which seemed a little flattened at the sides but which he had been assured would soon round out. A miniscule pair of hands were clasped, prayer-like in front of his ... in front of Christopher's face.
Utterly lost in contemplation of the feel of his child, Mycroft was completely unprepared when a pair of eyes opened suddenly to stare unblinkingly upwards at him with an unfocused crystalline blue gaze. It was the most profound expression of trust Mycroft had ever experienced and his throat tightened to the point of discomposure.
Which was how Sarah found them both as she hobbled back to the bed on the arm of the nurse. Mycroft, perched on a small wooden chair; jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled up, waistcoat undone and tie missing, gazing down into the eyes of his new-born child.
It would do she decided, as her own eyes misted. It would do.
###
"You put him in with the chickens?" Lillian paused as she poured a fresh sherry for herself, shock lifting her eyebrows. "In the chicken coop?"
"Best place for him, Mummy," Sherlock accepted a refill of his glass from the decanter Mycroft was carrying around. "Though I confess to feeling a modicum of guilt at forcing Mildred and Angelique to stomach his presence," he paused. "However, Bertie was a complete trooper and defended their honour valiantly and with great enthusiasm."
The farmhouse kitchen was warm and festive for Christmas day and for once, not even the brothers' continued proximity appeared to be unbearable. A civilised peacefulness had survived since Sherlock and John arrived before lunch, the younger Holmes leaving a large, heavy box on a spare part of the kitchen table.
"A Christopher present," he'd said, an odd smile on his face.
"If it's dangerous, it'll stay in the box until he's old enough to play with it," Mycroft looked up over a copy of The Times; the political obituaries were always more fulsome at Christmas. Assessing the shape, size and general contours of the box, his eyebrows arched. "Is that what I think it is?"
"Not yet having mastered the art of telepathy, I couldn't begin to tell you what you think it might be, Bro," Sherlock filched a mince tart from a heaped plate, avoiding his mother's attempted smack.
"Don't you think Christopher is a shade too young to have a worm farm?" Mycroft sounded resigned.
"One is never too young to have a worm farm," Sherlock sniffed, taking a second mince tart.
"Lunch will be ready in half-an-hour," Lillian sounded marginally irritated. "If you fill yourself up with sweeties now, you won't eat a proper meal."
"I'll be delighted to ensure all your hard work does not go unappreciated, Mrs Holmes," John smirked at his flatmate as Lillian handed him a tart of his own.
"All done," Sarah walked in with Christopher in her arms. "He's been fed and changed and should drop off in about two minutes. Who wants to hold him while I get myself a drink?"
"Sit," Mycroft dropped his paper, about to stand and get Sarah what she wanted, just as she saw John standing there, curiosity written all over his face.
"Here you go, John," she said softly, handing the blond man the shawl-wrapped bundle. "Christopher needs to get to know different people."
Happy to take the baby, John walked him slowly around the kitchen, smiling and murmuring quietly. It was inevitable that Sherlock watched.
And equally inevitable that John would know it.
Walking around the kitchen again in a slow arc, John paused just before he reached his friend's chair.
"Not a chance," Sherlock saw perfectly well what John was intending and beat him to it, holding both hands back at shoulder-level. "I am unsuitable for babies."
"Your uncle's full of rubbish, is what he is," John advised Christopher at the same time as he lowered the heavy bundle adroitly down into Sherlock's lap before stepping away, arms folded.
Unable to pick the baby up and put it somewhere else or hand it back to John, Sherlock was trapped, automatically curling a long arm around the child to ensure that no unexpected movement might send him falling.
Standing over by the sink, Mycroft finished pouring Sarah a drink from the last of the non-alcoholic bubbly, his eyes fastened intently on his brother. About to issue a warning, Mycroft stilled as Sarah rested a hand on his, shaking her head when he met her eyes. Sweeping his gaze back to Sherlock, he experienced a moment of near disbelief as he watched his younger brother fold back the top edge of the shawl to better see the infant's features. It was a moment of pure theatre.
"Thank god he's got Sarah's nose," Sherlock observed, sliding his free arm beneath Christopher's head and neck. "With luck, he might end up nothing like his father whatsoever," he added, his voice dropping to a near croon as Christopher grinned a gaping jerky smile.
"Try not to breathe alcohol fumes all over him, Sherlock," Mycroft guided Sarah to the chair next to his. "Two days old is fractionally too young to deal with malt scotch."
"And I certainly hope you have your mamma's personality or you're going to have a hellish childhood," Sherlock continued to croon.
"When you've quite finished maligning me to my son, I'd like a brief word, Sherlock," Mycroft walked across to collect a gurning baby, handing him back to Sarah. "Won't be long," he said, dropping a kiss on the top of her head.
Out in the back garden, neither man took the opportunity to sneak in their ritual Christmas cigarette; the idea of breathing smoke over Christopher simply impossible.
"Your little idea has produced fruit," he said. "I have a job for you and John," Mycroft came to the point. "It requires you to return briefly to San Vincenzo."
"To do what?" Sherlock frowned, unwilling to be too interested.
"To make a film."
###
Three months later.
"I'll be there very shortly my dear," he ended the conversation with Sarah, already waiting at the Langham for lunch. "Ten minutes at most."
Standing, Mycroft flicked the short recording to play the last sixty seconds one more time. The images settled into a picture of Lucien Fesch making a video call from his laptop.
"And so it is with deep sadness that I tell you my brother, mio migliore amico, the most genteel Signor Soren Mancuso, has this day been found dead by the police in Rome," Fesch paused, his features genuinely anguished, struggling with tears. "I have seen his body myself and swear his death to be genuine," Fesch hesitated again, swallowing hard. "I shall miss my bennefattore with all my heart."
Even though there was an almost unnoticeable silver glow to the shoulder of Fesch's outline at one point, it would be easily removed in a spot of highly classified post-production. It was indeed a work of art. Soren Mancuso was alive and well and singing like a canary. The film-work of the digitalised Fesch was rather good; Sherlock had excelled himself.
"Hidden depths, little brother," Mycroft smiled, slipping into his coat on a raw March day. In rare high spirits he got into his car, nodding to his driver as he did so.
"Does your fiancée approve of our wedding gift?"
"She loves it, Mr Holmes," Jack was all grin. "I still can't work out how you and Miss Sarah knew my Emma needed a new car; she can't believe anyone would be so generous."
"Compared to the gift Sarah and I received, it's a minor thing," Mycroft smiled warmly.
"The Langham, sir?" Jack was already pulling the Jaguar out of the parking space.
"Indeed. I'm meeting Sarah for lunch."
Lunch and a conversation that was long overdue.
On several occasions since Christmas, Sarah had begun to discuss a particular topic, only to change her mind before the subject had been properly broached and Mycroft was fairly certain he knew what she wanted to say. Wanted to suggest.
Only this time, he was determined they would do things in a much more conventional manner. Sliding his hand into his coat pocket, his fingers found the small velvet box.
#
The End
#
Thank you to everyone who has told me they've enjoyed the story.
It's been great fun to write and your comments are wonderful.