Chapter 25 Attractions
The fraternal object of Sherlock's scorn is over seventeen hundred miles away and having a miserable time of it.
"Good night, Mycroft. Not that you're the sort to enjoy it…"
Mycroft doesn't miss the sarcasm in that statement, as he watches Fitzroy Ford, Director of the Security & Intelligence Liaison Service, walk down the third-floor corridor of the St Petersburg Astoria Hotel, arm in arm with two of the city's finest escorts. His superior's suite, overlooking Saint Isaac's Cathedral, has a king size bed and a fridge full of vodka that Mycroft assumes will be put to good use while enjoying the talents of the two tall blonde women.
Good. It will keep him occupied, while I see to some unfinished business. Mycroft learned long ago the risks associated with a sex drive and has successfully curbed his own for years. Alone protects me. If Ford has become a bit more careless lately, it may be because he is convinced that he is invincible. So, contrary to the man's snide comment, Mycroft is actually going to enjoy a bit of time to himself.
For the past month, Ford and Mycroft have been working with British intelligence assets in the Russian Federation and its CIS compatriots. At stake is the surreptitious movement of both weapons and funds through the Caucasus republics to arm and fund a variety of terrorist activities in Europe and the Middle East. The sums involved are staggering; a number of Putin's nearest friends are implicated. MI6's efforts to crack the financial intricacies of the Russian banking system have been stalled for months—raising suspicions back in London—and Ford and Mycroft have been sent to uncover the truth. The involvement of Putin's close circle means that the GRU is proving adept at turning once loyal spies against their masters. MI6 operatives are not immune to corruption and blackmail, so their mission is supposed to uncover the truth.
Once Ford is out of sight, Mycroft uses the stairs rather than the lift. His much smaller room on the second floor has an unimpressive view of the internal courtyard, but he isn't headed there. Instead of going down, he goes up three flights and exits onto the sixth floor. On the landing, he pauses to take a breather; legwork is annoyingly physical.
He can't rest for long because there are two groups of people he needs to hide his movements from: the Russians—for obvious reasons—and Fitzroy Ford, for reasons less obvious to the uninitiated. The reason why his superior is watching Mycroft's movements is because Ford is the cause of that corruption, the stimulus behind MI6's sloth, and is working hard to ensure that this truth is protected from prying eyes of London. Just as hard as Ford is working to hide the truth, Mycroft is working to collect the evidence to bring him down without alerting the man to this personal mission: trying to nail Ford for treason adds a frisson of fear to an already risky business. The half-brother is playing both sides of the exchange of weapons and money, making more than a small fortune in the process. Mycroft has found just enough evidence to tip the balance and bring the man to justice, but it isn't yet quite enough. He is also taking the precaution of planting some of his own evidence to deepen that incrimination. When he brings the dossier to the attention of the S&ILS's overseers, it has to be clear enough to warrant the kind of extreme reaction that will put the man out of circulation forever, and most importantly: without a trial. Ford cannot be given any chance of retaliation.
As he unlocks the door to Room 612 and steps in, Mycroft spots an envelope which had been slipped under the door, addressed to Otar Chankotadze, a Georgian. The booking had been made in that name for Mycroft by his secret contact in Tbilisi: Avtandil Ioseliani. The head of the Georgian intelligence service is indebted to Mycroft for a number of things, including the safe passage of his daughter Ketavan to London. These are troubled times in Georgia, and operating outside the legal constraints has become the norm. Ioseliani is one of the very, very few people that Mycroft trusts with both his life and knowledge of the plot to bring Fitzroy Ford to justice. The man has been of great assistance when it comes to tracing not only the valid proof, but also helping with the placement of the fabricated evidence. His contacts with Chechen rebels, for example, have proven invaluable.
Once inside the hotel room, Mycroft opens the envelope. Georgian is one of the few languages that he is fluent in but which Ford has not bothered to learn, awarding Mycroft one layer of protection. The faxes are also encrypted, with a code accessible only to someone using Mycroft's copy of John Le Carré's latest novel, The Constant Gardener, which he fishes out of his jacket pocket and opens to page 73. The content will have come from London via Tbilisi, and been encoded twice. Belt and braces; always necessary when Mycroft is trying to outwit Ford.
It takes him ten minutes to decode the faxes, and the contents make frustrating reading, to say the least: Sherlock has disregarded all of the conditions Mycroft had set at New Year's. So much for staying away from Victor Trevor: the young man had made contact with Sherlock immediately on his return to Cambridge on the 6th of January. That very night, while Mycroft was landing in Baku on the first leg of his journey through the various 'Stans, Sherlock had moved out of the B&B and back into the flat on Saxon Street.
Mycroft could not have made his instructions clearer, and he had assumed that Sherlock's acquiescence to the B&B had meant that they had an agreement. Yet, the report from the boy's minders reveals that in the past six weeks that agreement had been thoroughly flouted. According to his surveillance team, the boy's been seen persistently in the company of young Mister Trevor, and has flagrantly ignored instructions to keep his head down and focus on his course work. The pair has been seen eating out, attending concerts, even taking up a new activity: Sherlock had purchased a bicycle and the two have been exploring the countryside surrounding Cambridge, stopping off at pubs for lunch. Perhaps there is some therapeutic value; cycling may help Sherlock's leg recover strength. But, that is no excuse for entangling himself yet more in Victor Trevor's life.
And, as expected, the aftermath of Sherlock's assault created a scandal at Cambridge. Thankfully, the furore around the resignation of the Blues Rugby Team captain was starting to die down by the first week of February; the decoded report indicates that by late January, five members of the second team had been expelled from CRUFC membership for unspecified misdemeanours. The match record of the first team, the Blues, has suffered without their captain, apparently losing all but one of the subsequent fixtures to date. There are rumours that the board is thinking of sacking the manager for mishandling the whole business.
On the 7th of January, the expulsion of Chloe Seaman had gone according to plan, although she had waited a week to leave Cambridge—just long enough to gain access to Sherlock's dorm in Burrell's Fields. The resulting graffiti had taken the authorities some time to remove, but was not in evidence by the time the students were allowed back into the dorm. Thank heavens. On the afternoon of that day, the 14th of January, after leaving Burrell's Fields, Seaman had also paid a visit to Saxon Street on her way to the train station. The spray-painted word 'queers' had been removed from the front wall of the Saxon Street flat within hours by Victor Trevor himself while Sherlock had been at the Chemistry Department. As a result, Sherlock has been shielded and kept unaware of the depths of her anger.
So, it is left to Mycroft to despair of all this. He'd tried to warn his brother about how love is a vicious motivator. In fact, Sherlock's determination to expose himself to more problems by continuing his association with Victor Trevor may just be proof of that very notion. The boy had been in oblivious mode when they last spoke on New Year's Day, and clearly, he still is. The last fax says the two of them are planning a stay in in London this week.
Hormones, Sherlock's impulsivity, and his refusal to consider consequences are clearly a recipe for disaster. Mycroft does not need further confirmation from his younger brother as to what propels his fascination with the Trevor boy; never before has Sherlock been so obsessed and flustered over someone. He doesn't have 'friends', after all.
At least the background checks on Trevor and his family suggest that there is nothing immediately dangerous. It was enough for Mycroft to dismiss one of his more paranoid theories—that Fitzroy Ford was somehow manipulating Victor Trevor into a weapon to destroy Sherlock. If it had been true, it wouldn't have been the first time*. He'd entrusted the research on this theory to Ketavan Ioseliani, the third and final person aware that Ford is a traitor. Neither of the Ioselianis can, however, be trusted with the fact that Ford is a half-brother.
What is there in the faxes is enough to send Mycroft heading for the bathroom to unearth what he knows will have been placed behind a loose tile in the bathroom. Secured by toothpaste that has dried to match the colour of the mortar, the tile hides a burner cell phone—untraceable, with no way for Ford or his Russian oligarch friends to link it to him. Even so, he will have to be very careful to paraphrase.
The number rings twice and then is picked up. "Baker."
"Charlie here." Mycroft lowers the tone of his voice, and delivers his words in a strong Welsh accent. "Got your messages. Watch him very carefully in London; this trip you mention is worrying."
"The concert is at Wigmore Hall tomorrow evening; we'll have eyes on him from arrival at Liverpool Street tonight."
"Your faxes say he's broken all but two of the conditions. Any evidence of those last two?"
"No sir; not yet."
Mycroft gives a silent sigh of relief. Sherlock is not using drugs and he isn't engaging in sexual relations with Trevor.
Not yet, at least. Thank God for small favours.
"You're sure? Absolutely positive?"
"Yes, sir."
That degree of assurance means his people must have found a way to plant a listening device at the Saxon Street flat. "Does he know who is watching?"
"One had to be replaced because he was identified. Otherwise, we're intact. If we keep our distance, he seems to lose interest."
Mycroft is aware that without eyes inside wherever Sherlock ends up in London over the weekend, information on drugs or physical relations cannot be guaranteed with certainty. It is infuriating to be so far from the event horizon; he would attend in person if he could to try to read the truth on Sherlock face-to-face. "If either of those conditions is broken, inform me immediately."
"Yes, sir."
Mycroft cuts the connection, looking at his watch: thirty-two seconds. Short enough to have avoided the GRU tracing its location.
Dealing with one errant sibling is challenging enough, but two is just plain exhausting. There is nothing more he can do right now to manage the situation from afar. There is also the fact that Sherlock is legally entitled to make his own choices, now, unless there is evidence of drug use or sexual abuse. If only he could see sense! Mycroft had liked to believe he had raised Sherlock to be able to resist the traps of human frailties, but ever so often the boy has been drawn to kindness and attention of others like a moth to a flame.
Mycroft takes a moment to sit on the bed and reflect on Sherlock. He knows he needs to stop thinking about him as if he was still a teenager. If only his emotional age matched his actual years spent on the Earth. At twenty, the boy is legally able to be more independent. Unfortunately, that means he is also free to make adult mistakes. If he were normal, he'd try to learn from them, but the boy has never been good at that, unfortunately. When pushed to the edge, Sherlock has been prone to fall over it, rather than learn how to avoid the precipice in the first place.
If Mycroft is going to protect him as an adult, he must somehow educate and persuade—rather than dictate—and to find a way to offer counsel in a manner that Sherlock finds acceptable. Of course, that is easier said than done, given Sherlock's predilection for resisting authority. It seems that the risk-taking, impulsive behaviour that is his brother's staple diet will continue to cause serious problems, especially if he keeps trying to fulfil his yearning for companionship.
He's always been so emotional.
Mycroft stares at the phone in his hand and the faxes on the bed, wondering how the hell he's ever managed to end up in this position, being caught by his siblings between the proverbial rock and a hard place.
Once more, unto the breach. If Mycroft is successful in putting Ford in a place where he can no longer threaten him or Sherlock, then there will be time to deal with things at home. Right now, he has to prioritise his efforts on Ford; the needs of the country must be put first. The fact that Ford's fall from grace will also remove one of the biggest threats to Sherlock is another advantage. So long as Sherlock can manage to stay out of further trouble for the next few months, then Mycroft should have sorted Ford out. He can only hope that Victor Trevor will remain the moderate nuisance he is right now instead of dragging Sherlock deeper into a relationship, before Mycroft can shift his focus away from treasonous activities of one sibling to being a guiding hand for the other to pull him away from romantic entanglements.
Mycroft replaces the burner phone, uses the toothpaste on the basin to re-seal the tile, and wipes the surfaces of everything he has touched in the room before leaving. His tradecraft has to be impeccable. It's not just his own future he is protecting, but Sherlock's as well.
o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o
They're outside of Liverpool Street Station, waiting in the dark for Simon. A Maserati comes into the pick-up lane, and parks in front of the boys.
Simon jumps out of the car to shout at Victor a "Happy Birthday, Coz". He looks down the pavement right past Sherlock, not realising they are together. "Where's Chloe?"
"Okay, Simon; I know I should have told you; we broke off the engagement." Victor rolls his eyes. "I thought everybody would have heard the gossip by now. I've brought a friend with me instead of her."
Simon then seems to register Sherlock's existence, enough to blurt out, "Who are you?"
"Not Chloe."
Victor seems flustered. "Simon, this is Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, meet Simon Spencer."
Sherlock hesitates for a split second and then shakes the hand that is offered, but he doesn't make eye contact with the twenty-seven-year-old in a pinstripe suit. He's suddenly aware of the fact that he is in London in all its magnificent sensory night is ablaze with lights from the City's skyscrapers, and he can feel the energy that seems to flow through the air. He's missed this.
There is a queue of cars building up and someone hoots a horn in frustration. Victor slips the backpack off his shoulders and walks to the rear as Simon opens the boot of the car. Victor then opens the passenger side door and slides the seat forward so Sherlock can clamber in before getting into the front beside Simon.
As they roar off down Old Broad Street, Sherlock has barely managed to get his seatbelt buckled before the car takes a sharp left onto Wormwood Street and then another right down Bishopsgate. By the time they stop at the traffic lights at the junction with Cornhill, he's just about got his legs sorted so he knees aren't squashed against the back of Victor's seat.
"I know you like French food, Victor. We're heading for dinner at one of the hottest restaurants in town."
They cross the Bank intersection and pull up to the kerbside at Number One, Poultry. A man in a uniform roadside valet service opens the passenger car door, as Simon gets out of the front and tosses the keys to him.
As Simon is pushing the lift button he explains, "Coq d'Argent." As the lift doors open, he gestures the two boys in. "It's Bryony's favourite restaurant. Her investor relations job means she gets to eat here regularly on expenses."
He looks over at Sherlock. "I guess I should have asked if you have any food allergies or stuff. Just I didn't think who other than Chloe would be accompanying Victor when I booked it back before Christmas. You aren't a vegetarian, are you?"
"No."
Sherlock doesn't say anything more. No need to pander to the guy's curiosity; he's already being scrutinised from head to toe as the lift makes its way to the sixth floor. Apparently, the dress shirt, jacket and trousers he's wearing pass muster. Whenever Simon isn't looking, he makes some observation of his own. The banker's suit is expensive, but off the peg; the shoes are brogues, probably Loakes rather than hand-made. He's got money, but no taste for the old-boy tailoring that Mycroft favours. Perhaps he recognises the fact that Sherlock's attire is mostly bespoke.
"Bryony agreed to meet us here; she sweet-talked them into a window table," Simon boasts.
When the lift disgorges them onto the roof terrace, Sherlock's senses are assaulted by the sights and sounds of a fashionable eatery. Food aromas battle with the expensive perfumes and aftershaves of the wealthy restaurant patrons. Above the dull roar of dozens of conversations, Sherlock's ears are battered by the clatter of cutlery and clink of glassware, punctuated by a barman's vigorous work with a cocktail shaker. It's enough to stop him in his tracks for a moment, leaving him a few paces behind Victor and his cousin as they go up to the Maitre d' at the reception desk.
"We're joining Miss Stemple's table," Simon says.
"Of course; follow me." The man does not hesitate to consult the reservation book or a table plan, but escorts them immediately to a table on the upper level. Here the lighting is more subdued, and the warmth of the wood wall behind reduces some of the eye strain that had beset Sherlock.
"Happy Birthday, Victor." Bryony has stood up and gives Victor a welcoming smile.
Simon pulls out a chair and drops into it, as he says, "Change of plans, my dear. He's gone and dumped Chloe and come with a friend instead."
Victor cringes a bit. "Dumped… is not a word I'd have used; more like a parting of the ways. Miss Stemple, this is my friend Sherlock Holmes." He steps aside so she can see Sherlock properly.
"Oh… how delightful." Her eyes are raking over Sherlock and he suddenly feels rather exposed, and looks away, seeking something less intense. With his peripheral vision he realises that she has put her hand out to be shaken, so he steps around Victor to do what is required. Ever since he'd agreed to come on this trip with Victor, Sherlock has been priming himself for the inevitable social contacts that would come with this first evening. He's been on edge about it, worrying that he won't get through it without embarrassing Victor.
So, he plasters a smile on his face and shakes the offered hand, before murmuring, "Nice to meet you." That's what people are supposed to say, isn't it? Of course, in his case, he'd rather not be meeting anyone. But if this is the price he has to pay for having the rest of the weekend alone with Victor, he will pay it. He has rehearsed scripts, prepared for this, and is hoping for the best.
He risks a quick glance at the woman. She's attractive, well-dressed and there is something in her demeanour that makes him relax a bit. He can sense her welcoming him is genuine, and that is surprising.
"Outstanding." She is smiling at him as she says this. "Victor, your choice of friend is perfect. You two are like day and night: blond and dark, the sun and the moon." A gentle laugh and then she goes on, "A real feast for the eyes. Please be seated."
She beckons to a waiter. "Send the sommelier over, please. I need to change my order."
Simon laughs. "Bryony is a wine connoisseur; lucky me. I leave all the choices to her excellent taste."
When the sommelier arrives, Bryony is still smiling at Victor and Sherlock. "Thank you, Charles. Now that I know I don't have to cater for some Essex girl's taste, we can indulge. I think the Bollinger RD, please."
"Of course, Miss Stemple."
The champagne arrives and is opened without fanfare or flourish, then poured into flutes.
Simon raises his glass in a toast. "Happy 21st, Victor. Many happy returns of the day."
Sherlock has always been wary of alcohol; it has a tendency not to agree with his stomach, but he takes a mouthful anyway, because he doesn't want to spoil Victor's celebration.
The taste is… surprising. He has never liked champagne in the past; too acidic and dry to his palate, but this one is different. His tongue fractionates the flavours: yeasty, but not like bread. This is more brioche. There's a nutty, almost coffee-like intensity. The tastes keep coming and the length of the flavours develop and unfold on his tongue.
Bryony's smile turns a bit more serious as she lifts the glass to consider its contents. "This is from the exceptional 1988 vintage. So, what were you doing when you were ten years old, Victor?"
He laughs. "Playing truant from my prep, Hethersett Old Hall School, where I was a day boy. My father always took me out for my birthday and for my tenth I think we went to the coast and went sailing. I loved the sea, still do. That was my pirates and naval battles period."
Pirates. Sherlock nearly chokes on the champagne. He can so see this in his mind—Victor as a small boy enjoying himself on the deck of a sailing ship. He has come to realise that Victor has a sense of fun and adventure that he had not appreciated when he first met him. It seems that Victor has shed a lot of detritus over the past two months: the rugby playing stereotype with the social climbing girlfriend is a thing of the past, cast off like a pair of boring trousers with an equally dull tweed jacket. What is emerging is someone new and much more interesting.
Bryony turns to look at Sherlock. "And what about you, Sherlock?"
"I was nine. Home schooled, in West Sussex. Probably bored."
She tries to draw him out a bit. "And did you have a pirate phase?"
He finds he is blushing. "Yes. When I was younger, though. By the time I was nine, I wanted to be a chemist. Or play the violin."
Victor steps into the conversation, "Both of which he does spectacularly well now, whereas I have ceased to be a pirate." He laughs as he takes a quick sip. "Misspent youth."
The menus arrive, and Sherlock has to take a deep breath. He doesn't want to draw attention to himself, but the thought of a dinner of three or more courses is hard for him to consider. Thankfully, he spots the fact that one can order langoustine by the piece; a small portion of three will be acceptable. And, there is a risotto as a main course. It will be too big, but he can get away with that by saying it's too rich for him.
Simon and his date order foie gras and a Chateaubriand for two, and Victor picks foie gras and a fillet steak.
Bryony wants to know what sort of white wine Sherlock would like. "The sommelier is happy to open any bottle on the list for a single glass or two; a nice white burgundy would go well. I can recommend the Puligny Montrachet 1996."
"I'm happy just to finish this glass of champagne."
Simon sniffs. "You should take her up on that recommendation; she knows this wine list like the back of her hand. We'll be having a great burgundy red with the foie gras and steak, if I know her."
Sherlock really doesn't want to offend anyone, but before he can say anything, Victor comes to his defence. "It's okay, Sherlock."
When he then turns to Bryony and says, "We're both on a bit of health kick at the moment. Watching our alcohol intake," Sherlock is relieved.
"It's your birthday, Coz; why not indulge?"
Bryony is watching the interplay between Sherlock and Victor, and reaches a restraining hand to touch Simon's forearm. "It's fine, Simon. The night is young. Keeping a clear head for the pleasures to come is sensible."
The dinner passes without too many anxiety-inducing moments for Sherlock. Victor is attentive and steers the conversation in a direction that can include him, talking to Simon about his ideas on the future of biotech companies and the reasons why he had decided to go to business school.
Sherlock blushes a bit when Victor starts explaining how his chemistry tutor thinks he's a genius, telling them about how Victor himself thinks Sherlock is utterly brilliant, and that the two of them have some business ideas.
"You do know your dad is going to be pretty cut up about these plans of yours, don't you?"
Victor gives a rueful smile. "It's my life, not his. I'm telling him over the Easter break. So, don't spill the beans before, please. You're lucky that your dad hasn't tried to dictate how you should organise your life."
Simon laughs, "Who said he didn't? If he'd had has way, I'd be sitting at home in Hampshire playing at being the yacht owner the way he has. Investment banking is much more interesting."
Bryony is absorbed by the conversation. "Hush, Simon. They've got a good sense for business. The gene technology sector is really going to boom over the next decade, so I think these two are really onto something. The property market you specialise in is going to peak sometime, and you really should be thinking about what comes next."
The langoustine are delicious, but Sherlock struggles to finish the third.
Victor eyes it on the plate and asks, "Can I have a bite? It's one of my favourites."
Because Victor helps out with the risotto as well, Sherlock doesn't end up looking like too much of a fussy eater—something he'd been dreading before the dinner. In fact, with Victor there, he's been able to relax a bit. Whenever he's felt a bit unsettled, he just looks at Victor. The solidity of his presence calms him. Sherlock doesn't participate a lot in the conversation, but Victor defers to him on the science side of things.
Sherlock has an espresso while the others order a dessert.
When Simon teases him about being the only one of the table who really doesn't need to watch his weight, Bryony shushes him. "Sherlock has the figure of a menswear fashion model; he really is someone who should be in a Vogue photoshoot. So, leave him be, Simon."
This seems to amuse Victor who is about to reply when the desserts arrive. Victor's tarte tatin has a single candle with a happy birthday greeting written in chocolate on the plate, but he's spared the embarrassment of having the table and the waiter singing happy birthday; he's blushing enough as it is.
Sherlock is relieved that the conversation then turns to horrible birthday gifts from relatives.
"What do you think your dad is going to get you, Victor? A twenty-first calls for something exciting," Simon suggests.
Victor shrugs. "Don't know. The party got cancelled, thank God. I've had it with his using every occasion as one of his networking events."
Simon nods. "Yeah. Been there, done that, too. Your dad and mine are more alike than I'd like. I just asked for money for my twenty first and used it to backpack around Europe all summer."
"I've asked for money, too. What he doesn't know is that I'll use it to pay rent in Cambridge over the summer. I've got a lot of reading to do before I start business school."
This is the first Sherlock has heard of these summer plans, and he instantly wonders if there is any way he can talk Professor Blay into letting him join one of those chemistry projects that are run during the summer—anything to avoid being confined to barracks in London or imprisoned at Parham.
He's so taken with the idea of spending the summer with Victor that he misses part of the conversation. When he tunes back in, Simon is saying, "…You've clearly got more ambition than I did at your age. Well done, you."
When the meal is over, Victor is profuse in his thanks, and Sherlock adds his own quiet appreciation. It hasn't been anything like the ordeal that he'd anticipated.
o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o
When the car arrives at the kerbside on Poultry, Simon tells Victor to take off his tie and then makes an offer. "As it's your birthday, Victor… You can drive."
Victor's eyes widen in excitement, but then a little frown forms. "What about insurance? Not to say that I won't be careful…"
"Relax. It's the car that's insured, irrespective of the driver. When I'm trying to impress a client, I let them take a spin."
Simon turns to Bryony. "Given I'll be navigator, you and Sherlock can get cosy in the back."
Before she gets in the back, Bryony says, "Simon, dear. Change of plan on destination. We shouldn't go to the Ministry of Sound. It's either Turnmill or Heaven."
"What? Why….? Oh. Really? Are you sure about that?"
Bryony smiles. "Absolutely. No doubt about it. The boys will love it. In fact, I think it should be Heaven, for sure."
Simon is looking at Sherlock and Victor standing together on the pavement as if seeing them for the first time. Surprise gives way to some sort of realisation, and then he's smiling, too. "Yeah, now that you mention it… Do you think they will let us in?"
"Sure. It's a Friday night. I know the security staff. And I'll bet you these two will get us to the front of the line."
Cosy is a good description. Sherlock finds his legs are too long and ends up with his knees up to his chest.
"A Maserati is not made for four. Not really." Bryony gets the giggles as she needs to do the same, bringing a shapely pair of knees up to rest on the back of the bucket seat occupied by Simon, who is about the same height as Sherlock.
As Victor pulls away and heads west on Cheapside, the noise of the engine means that whatever directions Simon is giving Victor can't be heard in the back seats.
Bryony leans a little closer so that she can say something into Sherlock's ear. "You okay with this? Was I right? You've heard of Heaven, but Victor hasn't?"
He nods, still looking straight ahead.
"Been there before?"
"No. Someone I once knew…When I was in London, before university…He was in security. Did a stint there and bragged about it. The name stuck in my memory.**"
He then gives her a quick glance, suddenly anxious. "What if Victor won't like it?"
She laughed. "He'll have a good time, because you'll be there. You may not realise it, but it's as plain as day to me. He's into you the same way you are with him. It's just harder for a guy who's been handcuffed to a girl. I can sympathise; I swing both ways, and it took me a while to realise that girls were just as exciting. Different, but just as good in their own way. How else do you think I know about Heaven?"
Sherlock tries to hide his confusion. He's spent the last two months telling himself that his physical attraction to Victor is pointless, a sign of his own weakness and stupidity at being drawn to someone who is obviously heterosexual. Now, this woman is telling him the opposite.
"How can you tell? How can you be so sure?"
The car is turning left off Cheapside onto New Change Street. Victor misjudges the speed a bit and Bryony ends up sliding up against Sherlock's side.
"Sorry! Everyone all right back there?" Victor's shouted it loud enough to be heard over the car engine.
Bryony answers for them both: "Just fine."
Simon turns and leans his head through the gap between the front seats. "What are you two conspiring back there?"
She laughs and shouts, "Mind your own business and focus on the road."
Much quieter, she puts her mouth closer to his ear so she only has to whisper, "You're too close to see it. But, you're observant; you've already got me sussed, haven't you?"
He gives a cautious smile.
"Out with it, then. Come on; I dare you."
It's like someone pushed a button. After being quiet and restrained all through dinner, the words start pouring out of Sherlock, even if they are whispered. "You're a grammar school girl who made it into Oxford- not Lady Margaret Hall- too blue stocking; I'd say Somerville is more your scene. Maths is your forte – probably a first, everyone said you should be an academic, but you're too clever for that. Very bright and unfortunately very frustrated in the City. You could run rings around the investment bankers you work with; risk management and credit analysis behind the trading programme are your passions, but the boys won't let you play because it's such a macho culture. So they've stuck you in the stereotyped slot of investor relations, thinking you are pretty enough and nice enough to sweet talk institutions into backing their recommendations." He gives a sly smile. "How am I doing so far?"
"Ten out of ten. But, you have questions now."
"Why Simon? You're ten times smarter than he is."
She laughs again. "Because he's easy. He doesn't want exclusive, doesn't mind me playing with the girls. In fact, it sort of turns him on. Not that I'm into threesomes. He feels comfortable because he knows I'm not after his money or marriage. It's not love, but we're convenient for each other."
The car crosses the intersection with Farringdon Street and heads up Fleet Street. Sherlock knows even with traffic they will arrive at their destination in less than ten minutes.
Bryony leans into his shoulder, and with a slightly conspiratorial look in her eye, says to him: "You two, on the other hand, are in love. And from what I've seen so far tonight, a much better match. If you don't see the fact that he loves you, just be patient. He'll get there."
The car turns into Charing Cross station, and Sherlock has no more time to think, because under the arches of this station is the nightclub called Heaven.