"Sherlock," Sibyl said, smiling warmly. She rose from the white wicker chair in which she'd been sitting, her movements fluid and graceful. Sherlock grinned and stepped down into the small conservatory in which she'd been reading and sipping a cup of tea. She opened her arms to him and he stepped into her embrace, hugging her in return, then planting a kiss on her cheek.

"Hello, Mum," he said.

Sibyl drew back slightly and cupped his face in her hands, her grey eyes skimming over his features.

"Look at you, my boy. You look wonderful. Are you taking care of yourself, darling?"

"Always, Mum," he assured her. Sibyl evaluated him with a knowing and loving look in her eyes, then pulled him down to kiss his forehead lightly.

"So good to see you, as always. You really must get out here more often, you know."

"I know," Sherlock sighed but didn't lose the smile tugging on his lips. "Although London misses you."

Sibyl smiled again, her grey eyes dancing.

"I have had my fill of the city," she replied. "I prefer it out here now. It's much more peaceful and tranquil."

"Peace and tranquillity," Sherlock repeated, cocking a dark eyebrow.

"Oh, I know you find it terribly dull, darling. But I was never one for rushing madly about the world, interfering in everything like you and Mycroft."

Sherlock snorted at that and raised both eyebrows but Sibyl's expression was unreadable.

"I prefer the world to come to me," she added lightly. "Come, sit. I'll send for some tea, shall I? I had Thomas purchase some of those ghastly biscuits you like so much, too."

"Brilliant," Sherlock said.

Sibyl turned slightly as George, ever present when he was required, stepped smoothly into the entry to the conservatory.

"Tea and HobNobs for my son, George, and scones with cream and raspberry jam for me."

"Yes, ma'am," the butler replied in his cool, superior tone, inclining his head every so slightly. With barely a sound, he was gone. Sibyl sat down again and marked her page carefully before putting her book aside.

"Is Mycroft here yet?" Sherlock asked and Sibyl raised an eyebrow while sipping her tea.

"You're always so suspicious of him," she commented, amusement in her voice.

"He gives me little reason not to be," Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes. "And I did tell him that I was coming, so he'll be bound to arrive shortly – if he hasn't yet."

"He rang earlier today and said he'd be here by tea."

"That late?" Sherlock asked. "I'm surprised."

"Mm, as am I," Sibyl agreed. "But you're both busy men, as you so often remind me. I married a busy man and raised two busy sons."

"You can't tell me you're bored," Sherlock replied. "I know you; you'd never stand for it."

"Bored? Oh no. I've plenty to occupy myself when the men in my life go about their business."

"I know you do, although I suspect I don't know half of what it is that you do," Sherlock replied. "It's part of the reason I came to visit."

"To find out what I do or to make use of it?"

Sherlock gave her a wry smile and leaned forward, kissing her cheek again.

"I wouldn't ask for anything but your help," he replied. She smiled and paused when George came back bearing tea and biscuits and scones. He deposited the scones lightly on the table beside Sibyl and then tray with the tea and biscuits on the table between them. Sherlock nodded his thanks and the butler left as silently as he'd entered. Sherlock fixed his tea and picked up a biscuit before sitting back.

"And with what do you need my help?" Sibyl enquired.

"Business," Sherlock said.

"Nothing tedious, I hope."

Sherlock considered this and then grinned brightly. Jim had wanted a game to offset the boredom. Tedious was probably the last adjective he would choose for this. By the end, he suspected that Jim would look back and relish what he currently thought of as boredom, that he would long to get it back.

But he had asked. And he'd given Sherlock several reasons already to deliver.

"No, not tedious at all," Sherlock replied.

"Good," Sibyl said, spreading clotted cream lightly on a scone. "Mycroft tells me that you've asked for his assistance recently, too."

At this, Sherlock gave an abrupt sigh and rolled his eyes. Sibyl cast a glance at him, half amused, half in warning.

"Really, for a man who deals in secrets as his livelihood, he has no compunctions about disclosing mine," he said, his voice slightly sharper than he'd intended.

"He needs someone to speak with you on his behalf," Sibyl said. "You don't trust him."

"With good reason," Sherlock replied. "Nor does he trust me. Besides, I have someone speaks to him for me. He doesn't need to drag you into it."

"Yes, but Mycroft need someone he can trust, not just someone you trust. I've been your mother and his a long time. I know what I'm doing."

Sherlock chuckled and shook his head, sipping his tea.

"An entire military unit transferred from Bastion to Souter," Sibyl commented. "That isn't like you, Sherlock. I was surprised. You've been so adamant about staying out war zones."

"Yes," Sherlock said. He took another sip of his tea then set the cup aside before picking up a second biscuit. "This was not business, however. Not directly at any rate. A favour to an employee."

Sibyl arched an eyebrow but Sherlock wasn't about to let himself be trapped. He was thirty-two and had mastered that same expression well over a decade ago. He remained unfortunately aware that Sibyl could pin him with her gaze – but he was not about to be ensnared this time.

"It's not like you to do such large favours."

"On the contrary, it's very much like me, although I can generally do these things on my own and not draw attention to them. In this case, I needed Mycroft's assistance because I don't have the contacts within the military to get this done. Mycroft does."

Sherlock picked up his tea again, sipping it. Sibyl was waiting for him to continue and he knew he would. She had always been able outwait him. He knew that he did not really want that to change, either.

"The new doctor I hired, John Watson, was an army surgeon. His former unit is stationed at Bastion and he worries. Kabul is safer. I had them transferred to help alleviate his concern because I need his mind focussed on his job rather than on events he cannot control in another country."

"Is that so?" Sibyl asked.

"Yes," Sherlock said simply. "He has a particularly close friend there, another doctor, about whom he has been worried."

"Hmm," Sibyl replied noncommittally. "Partner? Lover?"

"Sister, I should think. Not biologically or by marriage."

"Ah," Sibyl said. "In the heart."

Sherlock sniffed.

"If you want to be sentimental about these things."

"I've always found military men to be secret sentimentalists," Sibyl commented. "Although I suppose I would be, too, if my job entailed the possibility of dying or losing those close to me at any given moment."

Sherlock simply shrugged one shoulder; he hadn't thought of it one way or the other. He was accustomed to the possibility that he or those close to him could be killed, although he had to admit that it was far less likely to be because of a surprise bombing or in a gunfight with another military force. Or as collateral damage. That was the term they were using nowadays, wasn't it?

He kept another derisive sniff to himself. War was not at all profitable for the real estate market in an occupied country. To be fair, though, he had made quite a bit of money off treasures coming out of Iraq that needed to be sold in the western world without drawing attention. He had no direct presence in Iraq, because it was far simpler to be the specialist facilitating matters here once the artifacts had made it safely to Europe. He had a beautiful Assyrian vase in nearly perfect condition on display in his living room that had come out of Iraq in the early days following the invasion.

"I strongly suspect that Doctor Watson is quite an open sentimentalist," Sherlock remarked and Sibyl gave a surprised laugh.

"Well, so be it," she said. "That was still very kind of you."

Sherlock made no comment. He'd felt a quiet sense of satisfaction when Gabriel had reported to him that Mycroft had succeeded in having the regiment transferred, but he suspect that was more due to the fact that he'd actually got his brother to do something without unnecessary interference.

He'd probably pay for that sooner or later, though. Mycroft enjoyed having Sherlock in his debt. Sherlock felt strongly that his brother was often beholden to him, so perhaps he could use that when Mycroft tried to call in the favour.

"I'd like to purchase property in Italy," his mother said, changing the subject. "Can you take care of that for me?"

"Of course. What would you like?"

"Something in the mountains. A villa with a vineyard, I think."

"Not on the coast?"

"I'm quite happy with the villa in Frontignan, Sherlock." She paused, then smiled, sipping her tea again. "I remember the first time we took you there, when you were two. You used to chase the waves and laugh when you were caught in the surf and knocked over. Your father worried so much that you would drown, but you were fearless."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow thoughtfully.

"I can't imagine Father worrying about anything," he commented.

"Well," Sibyl said, setting her empty teacup aside. "You gave him cause to when you were very young. Fearless, as I said. And not just about the water. And fearless you remain, if I don't miss my guess. Besides, William has never been one for the water."

Sherlock snorted.

"He lives on a bloody island," he pointed out.

"A rather large island and it's not as though we ever needed to swim to France," Sibyl said and Sherlock chuckled.

"And you? You weren't worried about your small son in the sea?"

"I found it far more sensible to stay with you in the water. Who do you think first taught you to swim?"

"You taught me to swim? I don't remember that."

"Well, you were two. It was that summer, you know."

Sherlock thought about that, then grinned.

"You will never stop surprising me," he said, then gave his mother a questioning look when she laughed suddenly, the sound bright and ringing.

"Oh, Sherlock, how many times have I thought the same thing about you?" she asked.

Mycroft arrived in time for tea which they took in the dining room, just the three of them. William, as always, was held up in meetings. Sherlock occasionally wondered what his mother thought of this, if she missed her husband's presence or was content to see him when he was available. He had often had the impression that they were fond of each other in passing, but then he could catch them in unexpected moments, sitting next to one another with their fingers entwined, walking arm-in-arm in the gardens or, once, dancing together, really no more than swaying, without any music. He had come to the conclusion that they were happy, if only because his mother was not one to tolerate dissatisfaction in her life.

After the main course had been served, Sherlock dismissed the servants, ensuring they closed the doors as they went, leaving the three of them in privacy. Sibyl did not seem surprised by this but Mycroft looked slightly put off and Sherlock tallied a point in his favour.

"I'm in need of your help," he said bluntly, moving his gaze between his brother and his mother.

Mycroft sighed, twitching his eyebrows up, and reached for his wine glass. He sipped the deep red liquid before asking:

"Twice in the space of a week, Sherlock? I hope your business isn't suffering along with the economy."

"There will always be fools with money, Mycroft," Sherlock replied.

"And there will always be people to take it from them," his brother rejoined.

"Supply and demand," Sherlock agreed.

Sibyl arched a white eyebrow and Mycroft and Sherlock glowered at each other across the table for a moment.

"Is dinner really the time and place to discuss business?" Mycroft enquired.

"I prefer to do so here," Sherlock answered. "I have plans after dinner that don't involve you."

"And what would those be?" Mycroft asked smoothly, cocking an eyebrow, giving Sherlock one of his maddening knowing expressions.

"I don't know yet. I intend to see what the evening brings."

Mycroft rolled his eyes and sipped his wine again. Sherlock chalked up another point for himself.

"Be civilised," Sibyl warned. "I'll not have petty bickering at this table."

Sherlock nodded and his mother shot him a brief warning look before turning it to Mycroft.

"Will you tell me now what you need help with?" Sibyl asked.

"James Moriarty," Sherlock replied, keeping his eyes on his mother's face. He knew Mycroft knew who Jim was but had never mentioned him to Sibyl, operating on the basis that the less she knew about Jim, the better off she was. He had no intentions of giving Jim any ammunition against his family. Mycroft could certainly take care of himself, and Sherlock was certain that Sibyl and William could as well. But given that Jim had been meddling in the life of someone close to Sherlock recently, he was inclined to be as cautious as possible.

"I've heard the name," Sibyl said and Sherlock was not particularly surprised.

"What do you know of him?" he asked.

"Whispers and rumours only – but all of them unpleasant. The truth is in there and I suspect it's far worse than the stories suggest."

"I guarantee it," Sherlock replied. "He is – dangerous. Very dangerous. He operates in the same circles as I do, on the same level. I've known him for a over a decade, Mum, and have succeeded in keeping him at arm's length. Until recently. Now he's begun interfering."

Mycroft was watching his brother carefully, with no hint of gloating, which confirmed for Sherlock how accurate his brother's information about Jim was. Sibyl's expression was concerned and dark but patient, waiting for Sherlock to explain.

He outlined briefly his interactions with Jim over the past eleven years and spoke in more detail about the recent complications. He saw Sibyl's eyes flash with distaste and understood – he himself found Jim's actions unsophisticated and childish. It was part of the problem in dealing with a psychopath. Jim could not be reasoned with, nor he could not be counted to have a consistent behaviour. He did what he found entertaining at the time and always managed to extract himself from difficult situations with the minimum amount of fuss for himself and the maximum amount of chaos for others.

"We've been trying to track him for years," Mycroft said. "We have nothing official on him, though. Same as with Mummy – we have only innuendo and whispers. Nothing concrete. Why hadn't you given me this information before?"

Sherlock fixed his grey eyes on his brother.

"I've never had need to," he replied bluntly.

"And now that he's upset you personally, you think it's an appropriate time to bring him to my attention?"

"Yes. He's my competition, Mycroft, but he's always been relatively careful with me. Oh, he taunts and teases me because it amuses him, but until now he's never actually put anyone close to me in real danger. Had John Watson not had the sense to watch Gabriel get into a cab, Gabriel may well be dead and that does not sit well with me. I run a large and complex organisation. I cannot simply replace people directly below me at a moment's notice. Do you go after all of your direct competition? I can hardly imagine you do – if you did, there'd be no one left in the British government at all. His presence also helps keep the police at bay – without him, they'd have more time to focus on me."

"The police," Mycroft said, half to himself. "You don't consider yourself out of their reach?"

"The day I do is the day I should turn myself into Scotland Yard," Sherlock snapped. "That kind of arrogance only leads to failure. They recently caught the serial suicide murder, that cabbie, Jeffrey Wells."

"And did you have anything to do with that?" Mycroft asked, arching an eyebrow with that maddening knowing expression.

"No," Sherlock lied, making sure the truth was all Mycroft could read in his features.

Sibyl held out a hand, barely moving, but both men stilled.

"You may both be adults, but you are in my home and I am your mother. If you do not treat each other with respect at my table, I will confine you both to your rooms."

Sherlock and Mycroft stared at her, then Sherlock glanced away, fighting down a smile. He had no doubt she was utterly serious and that it was within her abilities to follow through on that threat.

"I am sorry, Mum," he said sincerely. Mycroft managed a stiff nod.

"Thank you," Sibyl said smoothly. "What is it that you want from us, Sherlock?"

"Information only, at least for now. I have a great deal of my own, but more will not hurt. This will take time. If he is to fall, the entire structure underneath him must crumble first. It is the only way I can get him down to a level where he can be dealt with."

"And then?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock sighed inwardly; his brother had an unreasonable preoccupation with wanting Sherlock to go through official channels despite the fact that he almost never did so himself.

"And then we shall see. Information first and we will work from there."