Ex Files

ex·trap·o·late \ik-ˈstra-pə-ˌlāt\

verb : to project, extend, or expand known data or experience into an area not known or experienced so as to arrive at a conjectural knowledge of the unknown area.

Mycroft Holmes approached the pigeon-holes in the Porter's lodge of Balliol College. He'd been expecting some post for some time—papers relating to the establishment of his brother's trust fund. It was important to ensure that, if anything happened to him, his father would not try to wrest control of the Sherringford assets away from Mycroft's legal heir, Sherlock.

But, apart from a small envelope with the college seal on it, his pigeon-hole was empty. He took out the envelope and opened it standing there, while the tide of students moved in and out of the Lodge around him. He didn't have time to go back to his rooms, before the walk up The Broad to All Souls College.

The note was from the Master's Office, a quickly written scrawl from the man himself:

Join me for Sherry at noon today

It was signed "Kenny". As if the handwriting alone wasn't enough. Or the printed words at the top of the notepaper- "The Master of Balliol College"- weren't obvious enough. Mycroft sighed. He would have to miss the lecture of Robert O'Neill, Chichele Professor of The History of War. He ran the University's Graduate Strategic Studies programme and was well connected with every Western government with an interest in geo-politics. A name to conjure with. For a second year undergraduate to be invited to attend a postgraduate and academics-only lecture series at All Souls College was rare enough; to miss even one of the seven would be…noticed.

He wondered if Sir Anthony Kenny would accept an excuse. It was eleven forty now, and the lecture started at twelve thirty. Perhaps if he explained to the Master's secretary that the invitation clashed, she would pass on his apologies. When he got to the outer office, she looked up from her computer screen with a smile. "Oh, Holmes- good- you got the message in time. He will be delighted." She stood up and came around her desk. "I'll see if they're ready for you now."

Whatever he was about to say about the lecture dried up in his mouth. They? He knew well enough that the Master routinely invited a group of students in for a glass of sherry and a conversation before lunch on Wednesdays. This was a Friday, so it was unlikely that there were other students involved. He wondered if this might be a reprise of an unfortunate meeting orchestrated by his father during his first year at Balliol. That had been a cataclysmic confrontation, leading to Mycroft becoming Sherlock's legal guardian.* He stiffened and asked the secretary bluntly, "Who else is involved in this meeting, Mrs. Handley?"

She gave him a reassuring smile. "Sir Anthony has an alumnus in with him, someone who has come up to Oxford today just to meet you."

Mycroft didn't know anyone who might fill that description and his curiosity was piqued. But his need to attend the lecture warred with it. "Unfortunately, the timing is difficult; I'm expected to attend a lecture at All Souls that starts at half past twelve. Is there any way this could be re-scheduled?"

She looked surprised. "No, not really. Mister Ford is rarely in the country and has made this trip for the express purpose of meeting you."

He didn't know anyone of that name. Now he felt torn. He didn't want to be rude, but on the other hand, he didn't want to jeopardise his attendance at the lecture. "Is he here now? Perhaps if I could see them briefly now, I might still make the lecture."

She raised an eyebrow. "I'll announce you're here," and disappeared into the inner office. A moment later, the door opened and she beckoned him in. As he crossed the threshold, he realised that the Master was sitting in one of the two leather armchairs in front of the fireplace, in the other was a man in his early thirties he had never seen before. Sir Anthony smiled and stood up.

"Ah, Holmes. Glad you could make it." He crossed to the side-table and poured a small crystal sherry glass full of what Mycroft knew would be the Master's favourite- an almacenista Palo Cortado. He handed the glass over as the second man languidly slouched back in his chair, holding his own glass of the same. Mycroft noticed that the Master did not seem to have a glass of his own.

"Have a seat." Sir Anthony gestured to the leather chair he had just vacated. Mycroft's hesitation must have been noticeable. "Let me introduce you to someone rather special. He's asked me to arrange this meeting, and I am happy to oblige. I have a luncheon appointment with the Vice Chancellor, so won't be joining you. In fact, I have to get going now, or I shall be late." Mycroft did not sit down, but turned his attention to the man seated in the other chair.

Kenny continued, as if unaware of Mycroft's unease. "This is Mister F.S. Ford; 'Fitz' to his friends. He graduated a decade ago and has gone on to do some rather remarkable things. I will leave him to explain more." And with that, the Master grabbed his briefcase and was out of the door before Mycroft had a chance to say another word.

"Oh, do sit down. I know his manners are deplorable and all that, but really…" the slightly American-accented voice had a barely suppressed laugh in it. "…you look a little shell-shocked."

That irritated Mycroft, so he turned to look at the man, to really look at him for the first time. He'd be about the same height as Mycroft if he had been standing. Dark brown, nearly black hair cut short, with dark blue eyes. Not handsome, but not plain either. A striking man, but hard to put a finger on what it was that made him so. For some reason, Mycroft felt that he might have seen him before, even though he knew that they had never met.

As it was, slouched back, with his right leg crossed over his left knee, Ford looked utterly comfortable. The sherry glass was half empty. The cut of his navy blue suit was expensive- but not tailor-made. The pale blue shirt and the understated tie were of a similar quality- good but not eye-catching. Not British by the look of them, nor were the leather loafers.

Mycroft sat down in the Master's chair. Unlike the other man, he kept his feet on the floor and his posture formal. No handshake in greeting had been offered, so he did not do so either. Rather stiffly, the nineteen year old said "Mister Ford, I have an important lecture that I should not miss at 12.30. So, whatever brings you here needs to be done before 12.25." It was rude, and he knew it, but he didn't care. He'd been manoeuvred into this meeting, and didn't like the feeling in the room.

The man was smiling, but watching him with equally forensic scrutiny. Before he could reply, however, Mycroft decided to interrupt. "You're not actually American, but have spent a lot of time in America. You like to think that you can pass as one of them. What would such a person want with me? Enough to warrant a special trip to Oxford?"

That made Ford smirk. "He said you were sharp."

"Who? Not Kenny."

"And why not Kenny?"

"Because he wouldn't recognise intellectual acuity if it was standing an inch in front of him."

The smirk turned into a laugh. "You're right, but I won't tell on you. It was Robert O'Neill. And, by the way, you're in that lecture series because I asked him to invite you to them- and he knows you won't be there today. So you can sit back and relax. This will take a little while."

Whatever Mycroft had been thinking about the mysterious Mister Ford was suddenly put to one side. He went very still, keeping his face utterly unaffected by the information he had just been given.

"Good, you know how to control yourself. Lesser minds would have been firing questions at me by now. O'Neill said you were patient."

Mycroft did sit back a bit more in the leather chair, and he took a sip of the sherry. His eyes never left the face of the man in the opposite chair. He looks familiar, but why can't I place him?

Aware of the scrutiny, Ford gave him what Mycroft decided was a smile designed to reassure him. It was followed by a conspiratorial wink. "Sir Anthony has his uses. He's told me about your exemplary work. Says you're 'going places'; he believes he can spot political potential, that one."

Mycroft decided to join the conversation. "He's a former Cabinet Minister. His instincts have been honed by twenty years of in-fighting in the most hostile political party environments. That doesn't require intellectual gifts, just political acumen."

"In both of which you consider yourself well endowed, Lord Mycroft Holmes, Viscount Sherrinford."

Mycroft didn't answer. To agree would be conceited, to disagree would be false modesty. He preferred to keep his opinion to himself.

Ford smiled. "And you know when to keep silent, too. That's a useful skill, and rare in one so young."

Mycroft was getting irritated. He would like nothing more than to end this and go to the lecture. O'Neill was speaking on the new power struggles going on in the South China seas- naval posturing between Vietnamese ships and the Chinese fleet had taken place in the summer, and he wanted to know the Australian academic's assessment of it.

"Oh, just relax, will you? If you want, I'll get O'Neill to give you a private tutorial."

Mycroft wondered how the man was able to know what he was thinking. Am I really that easy to read? The only one able to deduce his thought processes this well was Sherlock- if he could be bothered.

"Anyway…" Ford took a sip of his sherry, "…it's all claptrap and gunboat diplomacy for domestic consumption; neither Viet Nam nor China want to do anything other than rattle the bars of the American Pacific fleet."

Mycroft responded. "So the Pacific region isn't your speciality then. What is?"

"Я предполагаю, что Вы говорите на русском языке?"**

"Yes. But I would prefer to continue in English. You are…involved in some way in studying the dissolution of the Soviet Union?"

"Yes, it will be all over by Christmas. Gorbachev will dissolve the union and hand over the Kremlin to Yeltsin. Now the interesting part- all those nuclear weapons in the wrong places, nuclear materials- uranium, plutonium- just begging to find their way into the black market and private hands. That happens to be my current area. Something of a dilemma, don't you think?"

"No one ever said democracy was safer than tyranny." Mycroft's reply was cautious.

The older man snorted. "Perhaps. But polonium in the hands of terrorists? That can be delivered in the form of a dirty bomb no bigger than a suitcase- and that threatens every Western democracy. The Cold War's over; we now face the prospect of Holy Wars, wars of national liberation, wars of madmen. The control of dangerous materials- I should include bacterial and chemical warfare substances in there too- well, that all gets rather compromised in times like these. It needs men like me."

Ford was now watching Mycroft carefully. "Aren't you even the slightest bit curious to discover what Sir Anthony meant by 'the rather remarkable things ' I've got up to since leaving these hallowed halls?"

Calmly, Mycroft locked eyes. "You'll tell me if it's important."

That made the older man give a knowing smile. "You tell me. Go on…show off. Tell me that I have not made the wrong decision to have this meeting."

Mycroft wondered why this particular man had been sent. He had not expected the call to come this early- had thought it more likely that he would be approached in his final year at Oxford. He took another sip of his sherry and then put the glass down on the side table beside the Master's chair. He folded his hands in his lap. "I expected this to happen. What I don't understand is why you are the recruiter."

"Recruiter…for what, exactly? Spit it out; time to be open."

Mycroft gave a little sigh of exasperation. "Oh, very well. You are not English, American or French- even though you have spent time in all three. Your accent is carefully schooled, but you can't eliminate everything. Right now you're putting emphasis on the American because it suits you to be seen as someone who has spent time in America. So not MI5, rather, the Security Services. Probably a stint at Langley as liaison, if I am not mistaken.

"The fact that you know Robert O'Neill well enough to push him into putting me onto his lecture register suggests that you are senior enough to win his deference. Familiarity with his positions on naval manoeuvres in the South China Sea suggests that you have worked with him before. Probably an appointment when he was Director of the International Institute for Strategic Studies. It would serve as a useful cover." He was watching Ford as he delivered the deductive stream in rapid-fire monotone that was just a trifle bored. When he mentioned the IISS, he saw what he was waiting for- a tiny dilation of the pupils.

Mycroft smirked. "Ah, I see. O'Neill recruited you." That much he could extrapolate from the known facts. There was a tiny nod of affirmation from the man sitting across from him by the fireplace. "But none of that explains why you are talking to me now. O'Neill is far better placed to do this himself than a person I have never met before. I respect him. So, before this goes any further I need to know, who are you?"

Ford stood up and put his glass on the mantle-piece. He moved until he was just a few inches inside what would be considered a polite distance from where the undergraduate was seated. It made him loom over the younger man.

"Let's face it; you'll accept recruitment no matter who delivers the invitation. Now at last, you are asking the right question. I have something much more interesting to discuss- something more 'personal'." His previous lackadaisical attitude was suddenly replaced by an intensity of purpose. There was a physical tension in his posture, like a predator waiting to pounce.

Mycroft did not move. A different young man, intimidated by the sudden change in demeanour of someone conversing with him, might have instinctively felt the need to stand up, too, to minimise the difference in their heights. Mycroft needed no such transparent measures. His confidence was born of centuries of aristocratic heritage. He sat his ground, and waited.

"This is the part I've been waiting for…well, for a very long time." Ford returned to his seat. He composed himself and then said quietly, "Did you ever wonder why it took so long for your mother to get married? I mean, you know she was a catch- a wealthy heiress, only child, with a title. Minor aristocrat with her looks and pedigree should have been snapped up by any one of a dozen suitable male equivalents. Yet, somehow, she marries late at 33 and to a rather uncommon commoner, a boring Norwegian chemist. It wasn't a big wedding. You will have wondered about these things as you grew up."

Whatever Mycroft had been expecting, this wasn't it. Why is he bringing up family history? Of course, Mycroft had wondered about his mother. She had a debut season in 1957 that turned men's heads all over London and the Home Counties and filled the newspaper society columns with speculative talk of suitable matches. But, a year later she rebelled and went to the south of France to stay with her mother's relatives. "To study French" was the official line- Violet had gone to university in Nice, against her father's wishes. She spent four years away. He'd asked her about it once. "Oh, it was the era of rebellion. 1960 was the most exciting time to be alive- I didn't want to spend it locked up in dreadful stuffy aristocratic circles. God, how boring." Yet, all that had changed when her father died. She returned to England and became Viscountess, marrying a decade later.

All that flashed through his mind in a moment, but left him unable to extrapolate where the conversation was leading.

Ford was watching him, barely able to keep from grinning. "Figured it out, yet?"

Mycroft waited, but now he knew that he would not be able to suppress the tension that was in his shoulders.

"Oh, I haven't all day if you're being dense about this." The man's grin vanished. "My full name is Fitzroy S. Ford. The initial S stands for 'Sherrin'. Put it together. Our mother had a sense of humour when it came to names."

Fitzroy. A name French in origin, meaning son of a noble person. Used since Tudor times in England to refer to the bastard sons of kings. Fitzroy Sherrin Ford. My mother had a child before she married. This time, he knew that his shock could not be hidden. In those last two months of her life, Violet Holmes had spoken to Mycroft every day on the phone. A lot of it was family business, but personal things crept in, too. He was all too aware that her time was running out. The pancreatic cancer that was killing her robbed him of a future when he could have asked these things in a more casual way. He could not stop himself from blurting out, "She would have told me."

Ford laughed out loud. "Oh, no she wouldn't. I was the mistake. The one who nearly got her disinherited. She was banished to France in the hope that the news wouldn't get out. They had wanted an abortion. When they didn't get that, they wanted to take me away at birth, give me up for adoption to some unknown family in Provence who'd know nothing of my origins. She refused. She hung onto me all through her university years down in Nice. But, the Viscount died and tradition called, so she went running back to Parham. Left me behind- four years old and an abandoned bastard. I was palmed off to a couple whose discretion could be bought, who then emigrated to the west coast of America. Money came until she died, but nothing else. Not one call, not one card or letter. And I forgot her. I was only four at the time she abandoned me. At that age, memories fade pretty quickly. I got told a pack of lies all through my childhood about being an orphan. The money came through an anonymous trust fund. It wasn't until I was in my teens that I got a tad curious and started to dig."

He leaned forward in the chair, his hands on his knees, his expression intense. "There were enough rumours around about what she'd got up to in France that it scared away any proper aristocrats, so even when she returned from France, she was seen as damaged goods. In the end, she had to settle for that Norwegian fellow. Made a lot of practical sense- she got access to his money to keep the estate afloat; he got access to her social circles- which went back to what they were once she was safely married and behaving. A marriage made in heaven, don't you think?"

He was watching Mycroft's face, and there was a cruel look in his eyes. "By the time I put the pieces together, you were four years old. The heir apparent, the apple of his parents' eyes. Shame that illness of yours threw a scare into them, so they decided to have a second child. That didn't turn out so well, did it?" There was just the trace of a sneer.

Still reeling from the revelation, Mycroft knew that his control would not be up to shielding his reaction to all this. The snide reference to Sherlock annoyed him, but he decided diversion might buy him enough time to get himself back under control.

"Who was your father?" Common sense was kicking in; Mycroft needed to know if there were other parties sharing this knowledge.

That brought the smirk back. "Never fear, your lordship. He doesn't know about me. He was just one of many midnight flings of a socially naïve debutante, who decided she wanted to keep the baby rather than resort to a backstreet private abortion."

"But you know."

"Yes. One of the privileges of my current position is that I have access to information. A paternity test without the subject's consent? It can be arranged." Another smirk, followed by, "I'm not the only one in the family to have tried that one; your own father resorted to it soon after Sherlock was diagnosed as developmentally challenged; didn't like to think he was capable of such defective genes. That tells you more about the state of your parents' relationship than mine did."

The casual air of superiority from the man grated like a rasp against Mycroft's hold on his emotions.

"What do you want?" This was flatly said, with more than an ounce of distain.

That provoked a laugh of derision. "Don't even think of going there. This isn't blackmail. I am not after money and I can't be bought off. But…"The man sat forward in his chair. "You need to know that I intend being second in line. You obviously have the better claim. But, the UK law about illegitimacy changed in 1975- that's four years before our little brother was born. I'm going to hazard a guess that it's unlikely you will produce an heir. So, just know that whatever legal arrangements you put into place, remember that I will stake a claim when you're dead. There will be…others in the family who will support my claim when they know the truth. In their eyes anything is better than having someone like Sherlock take the title and the assets."

Ford stood up again and deposited his sherry glass on the Master's side table, next to the decanter. "So, brother mine, thank you for the opportunity to share a little bit of personal history that won't be shared with anyone else in the Service. Our paths will cross again; I'll make certain of that. Keep an eye on you; put in a good word here and there. But, while you are rising up the food chain in the business, just remember that there is somewhere someone who knows your family's little secret." He smiled.

It pained Mycroft no end that he now recognised where he had seen that smile before- it was his mother's smile.

Author's Notes:

*the back-story to this is told in Periodic Tales, Chapter 15

**I assume you speak Russian?