Periodic tales

Krypton (Part Three)

The word narcotic is based on the Greek word ναρκωσις (narcosis), the term used by Hippocrates for the process of numbing or the numbed state. Krypton has a narcotic potency seven times greater than air, so breathing a gas containing 50% krypton and 50% air would cause narcosis similar to breathing air at four times atmospheric pressure. This would be comparable to the pressures of scuba diving at a depth of 30 m (100 ft) and would affect anyone breathing it. Nevertheless, that mixture would contain only 10% oxygen, and hypoxia would be an even greater concern. Sometimes, it isn't the narcotic that kills.


"Why are you staring at me?"

Sherlock asks the question in a tone that seems calm on the surface, but over the years Molly has tuned her ear to hear the currents and eddies that swirl underneath that baritone. He is a man of extremes- either spouting deductions at the speed of light, or keeping quiet for days at a time. When he does go quiet, she has to understand more about him from what his body is doing than the way he is acting through his voice.

What his stance tells her now is not good news. For the past hour, Sherlock has been hunched over a wooden array with over fifty capped test tubes in it, each one meticulously labelled. He is using the Barts computer system to analyse the pollen content of the water in the tubes, all drawn from various locations on the Thames.

It's late, after a long day in the mortuary, and Molly needs to finish her paperwork before she can go home to feed Toby; Tom has said he might stop by for a drink after he finishes a boys' night out at the pub where they first met.

She's almost done, just has to load data taken from the last post mortem. As the woman was an obese seventy year old chain smoker who had died from COPD and lung cancer at a care home, it's a task that she could do with her eyes closed. So, she seizes the opportunity for a bit of Sherlock-watching. She watches him type in the latest data, noting the tiniest of deviations from his usual blistering speed- and the occasional hesitation, backspacing to make a correction.

"I'm not staring; I'm observing," Molly says quietly.

That makes him look up from the computer screen for the first time. He doesn't actually make eye contact, but looks at the keyboard she should be typing on, but isn't.

"What?" This time the question has a bit of edge to it.

There was a time when that stern interrogative would have set off a blush. When she first met him years ago, she was so tongue-tied and fraught in his presence that the snapped question would have sent her scurrying back into her work, apologising for interrupting his concentration.

Not anymore. "It's something of an experiment; I've been running it every time you've shown up here over the past six weeks."

Now he looks both confused and slightly cautious.

"Is Stamford giving you grief about the lab time I'm clocking up under your name?"

"No."

She pushes back from the lab bench, letting the castors on the stool turn her so she can face him more directly. Not surprisingly, his gaze retreats to peripheral vision, turning his eyes back onto the computer screen in front of him.

"I couldn't see it at first, but then you were careful to start with. It was only once a week, and I thought it was a good thing, to see you back here experimenting. But now that you're in here three times a week, I know better."

He looks up at the array of test tubes, as if he were about to continue his work. "I've explained what I am doing, Molly. It may look tedious, but it is an important part of the model I've built to help identify the point of origin for body dumps in the Thames. This is a blind trial and I have to deduce the origin of the samples from the organic material. The water carries pollen at this time of year, and if it proves to be a significant variable it can give greater accuracy to my original database."

She shakes her head. "I haven't forgotten the hypothesis, Sherlock. It's given you a useful excuse to come to Barts on a regular basis for the past six weeks, as the samples collected by Doctor Foreman* and her team come in. I know all that."

"Then what is your experiment?"

"I know you're buying drugs from someone here in the hospital. The experiment is to see how much of them you end up taking before you get down here."

If she is expecting him to react with guilt, she doesn't get it.

Instead, a bland question: "How have you come to such a baseless conclusion?" as he lifts the next test tube out of the array.

She gives a slight smile. "It's not like you to make someone repeat themselves, but then…I suppose…yes, well; it's evidence in and of itself, isn't it? I have observed you, Sherlock."

He doesn't answer, but uses the pipette to draw a sample, putting a drop of it onto the slide. It is a fiddly job, and she sees the faintest of hesitations in the right hand as he puts the pipette down, and then positions and places the slip cover over the slide. He is being meticulous- too careful in his movements, the way drunks do when they're not quite confident of their control.

Molly is a pathologist. She has been trained to see things that are different, unusual. What would have been seen as perfectly normal in someone else is not in Sherlock's case. She'd always been impressed by the fine motor skills he showed when doing his experiments- his lack of self- consciousness gave him a fluidity that is now missing.

At least he has not denied her accusation…yet. She decides to press on, with a slight shrug. "Of course, it is logical. Barts is one of your regular haunts, and it's not going to attract the attention that meeting a street dealer would. And a hospital- what better place to source one's drugs? Medicinal quality, undiluted, uncut- expensive though, I would imagine. But then while you were away, you must have found ways of stashing the proceeds of crime in places where other people wouldn't find it. So, resources, opportunity and…" Molly pauses, wondering if she has the courage to really push this. She watches his eyes focusing down the lens at the sample, and sees the tiredness in his face. Worry gives her impetus to continue.

"…motive- yes, let's not forget that. I saw what happened in the stairwell ten days ago; you can't deny that. I still have the bruises."

That makes him blink, a couple of times, but he doesn't shift his gaze from the lens.

She wonders how much of it he remembers. "You had some sort of sensory...thing. Lost your balance and cracked your knee on the stair: I tried to help and you shoved me away, then ran up the stairs and out. It worried me."

He mumbles, "You were injured? I didn't know that. Sorry."

She shakes her head. "That wasn't the point I was trying to make. What's going on, Sherlock?"

"Nothing." He fiddles some more with the focus knob.

Two and a half years ago, she might have stopped here, stymied by his avoidance. But, her visit to Diane Goodliffe** has strengthened her resolve.

"That's not a good enough answer, not now."

She sees confusion crease the space between his eyebrows, and waits.

At first, he carries on examining the slide, as if hoping his silence will ensure that the conversation is over. She doesn't move her chair, but continues to stare at him, knowing that he can still see her with his peripheral vision.

A few moments later, the brow furrows more as curiosity overcomes his instinct for silence. "What does that mean?"

She jumps in. "It means that you can't treat me the way you used to. It means I won't take silence for an answer. Sherlock, I carried your secret for two years. I watched John fall into depression and did nothing to stop it, even though I could have. I did that for you, because you asked me to."

Molly takes a breath before continuing, her voice quiet but firm. "It was a horrible thing to ask of me. I think you know that now. So, when I ask you now to tell me why, you owe me an answer."

She realises that there is something cathartic going on- getting this off her chest feels good. "After you returned, you disappeared from view. After that skeleton business in Whitechapel you didn't come to the lab at all, and I was kept out of whatever went on at Hartswood. I didn't count; I know that I probably never will to the other people who call themselves your friends, your family. But, you said I did, and I don't think you were lying. So, I expect the truth from you now." She let him digest that, and then asked, "Why are you using drugs again?"

There was no answer, his silence confirming her suspicions.

"Is it because John is getting married?"

He closes the eyes that had been looking down the lens. "No. Why does everyone think that somehow that is a bad thing for me? He's found someone to love, the wife he has always wanted, a chance to start a family and to be happy. I know I may be self-centred, but I am not so far gone as to wish him anything but the happiness he deserves."

She bites her lip, but plucks up her courage. "That's all very noble of you. But trying to not react to what has happened, what's changed between you two- well, that must be hard. Are you using drugs to numb the pain?"

Sherlock doesn't reply but resumes working, noting something down on the pad beside the microscope and then typing on the keyboard. Molly sees an image on the screen of a half dozen round objects each with a couple of bumps on them, almost like an orange.

He notices her looking. "Silver birch pollen. Most likely found in the sector between Blackfriars and the Millennium Footbridge." He points to the label on the tube, "which is where I think the sample was taken. The trees are in front of the Tate Modern. Silver birch pollen is quite a distinctive shape."

She is momentarily surprised. "Can't you just use a database search on a photographed image of what's on the slide?"

"Palynology** is useful, but there is no database that will identify something just by its image."

She's slightly thrown by that fact. "Why? If Google can search zillions of images online, why can't a botany database do this? It seems like scut work that should be automated."

He snorted in derision. "Because there are 380,000 different species of plants on the planet, each with its own unique pollen type, and if you factor in geographic variations in the gene pools of each species, the number becomes too big. Without a direct commercial application, there is no money to fund such a database."

As a pathologist, Molly is well aware of the limitations on her own work that are placed by some medical conditions not being deemed worthy of research. "So, how is it possible to use pollen to identify the location of your samples?"

He wrote another number on the pad. "I know what species are indigenous to the Thames Valley and have plotted the map of their greatest concentrations. A smaller data set and visual verification makes this possible. Because pollen count in the water changes depending on where you are, it may be diagnostic, if the ratios remain valid within acceptable levels of tolerance. Even if the same types of plants are growing in different areas, the ratio of concentration in the water of each plant will be different- one place may have 70 percent birch, 20 percent London Plane, and 10 percent grass while another area may have the same plants, but different concentrations. It is my belief that each stretch of the Thames has its own unique pollen print generated from those plants." He pointed at the screen. "That pollen will be in the victim's lungs if they were killed near the place where the body was put into the river. It's in the air that they breathed, which helps locate them."

"Would such a thing stand up in court?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Circumstantial at best, but evidence that points an investigation in the right direction is often more important; from there, it's possible to build a case. With this database, the police don't even need a dead body or its lung tissue. Even if you put a criminal's clothes through a washing machine, a pollen print remains on the fabric. Think of it as a fingerprint for a river bank, a relatively indestructible fingerprint that is specific to the time of the year. What is a pollen signature in April for an area is not the same in July, or January. It's a hideously complicated database with dozens of variables. Not easy."

The little lecture was delivered in his typical all-in-one breath speed, and the scientist in her was fascinated with the idea that location of a crime scene might be identified by something that gave her hay-fever every spring. She could picture those birch trees by the museum; she'd always liked them. That made her visualise the view across the river. "There are lots more plane trees all along the north embankment from Westminster Bridge down to Blackfriars. How can you be sure that the pollen there isn't being moved away by the tidal flow?"

"Plane tree pollen will appear in the water samples in the first two weeks of May; it's still too early. Remember that time is also a variable, and not just the day of a month. Pollen counts vary according to the time of day and the weather conditions, with greater concentrations being released on warm days in the noon to four o'clock period. So temperature, rain and a 24 hour clock need to be factored in."

For a moment, Molly finds herself side-tracked by thinking of just how many variables needed to be considered, before she realises what he was doing.

She crosses her arms and gives him a stern look. "So, if it isn't because of John, then why are you taking drugs again?"

He rolls his eyes. "This is far more interesting a subject, I can assure you," and returns to looking through the microscope lens.

"Not to me."

"Well, it is to me, so just go. Run off to that fiancé of yours; I'm sure he's better company."

"No. You can't fob me off; answer the question."

"Why should I? Why does it matter? What possible difference can it make to anyone other than me what chemicals I choose to ingest?"

"I'm not interested in the chemicals, Sherlock, but I do want to know why you feel the need to take them."

He sighs, jotting down a number against the handwritten silver birch note on the pad.

She waits.

The deadlock continues until the odd noise of a vibrating phone interrupts. Both she and Sherlock look around, and then Molly identifies it as coming from her handbag. She rummages around and then plucks it free, looking for the caller ID.

"He's getting impatient. Go home."

"No. Not until you tell me."

"Molly…"

"I mean it."

Sherlock rolls his eyes again. "Well, don't make me into the villain when he gets annoyed." He reaches for the pipette, preparing the next slide.

Molly knows that he will do nine more and then take the average count of concentrations to write up in the database. She decides that this is one standoff she is not going to lose. She returns the call, but it goes straight to voice-mail; Tom's probably still at the pub. She decides to leave a message, rather than text, because then Sherlock will hear it and deduce the truth.

"Hello, love; it's me. I'm stuck at work- complicated case that's going to take ages yet. So, could you be a dear and feed Toby for me? I'll text you when I leave here." Then she shoves the phone back into her handbag.

Sherlock finishes up making the slide. "You lied. Why?"

"You said not to make you into the villain. Anyway, you are a complicated case, if there ever was one. So, I'm not going anywhere until you answer my question."

"You wouldn't understand." He slips the new slide onto the microscope stage.

"You can't judge that until you know what my reaction is. And that means you have to tell me, so I can have a reaction. You're the logical one."

He sighs and jots another number on the notepad. "Molly, no one has ever understood; everyone jumps to the wrong conclusions. Don't take it personally." The pencil is now being tapped, marking the tempo of his irritation at her interrogation.

"I do take it personally. I didn't judge you when you decided what you had to do about Moriarty; just try, please."

He puts the pencil down and turns around on the stool to face her. Crossing his arms, he gives her a sideways look that says he is sceptical, cynical, even reluctant. But then he starts.

"I take drugs because they allow me to feel what you would call normal; I don't get anxious, or stressed by sensory overload, I don't get bothered by emotions I can't control; I relax. They slow things down to the point where I can cope with the idiocy of my life at the moment. If any prescribed medicine could numb the agitation, I'd take it. But, it doesn't, so I use the drugs that do."

He shrugs. "It's my bad luck that the rest of the world sees one type of chemical as good, but when you add a few other molecules to it, suddenly it becomes bad. Anti-depressants don't work on me; stimulants do. I'm in control of it; occasional use stops the anxiety and agitation getting in the way. It means that I can cope with the inane tasks that are required to deliver a wedding, something that I'd usually say is mind-numbingly boring. You asked why I took something on the way down here." He gives a gesture behind him. "Do you think I would have the patience to handle this amount of repetitious detail work if I hadn't?"

She thinks this through. "You've done experiments this complicated before without drugs; in fact, you used to say that it was what calmed you down and gave you focus. Why now?"

He won't meet her eyes, and then squirms a tiny bit on the chair. "I don't know. I can't explain it. Nothing is what it is supposed to be, what it used to be like. Experiments are different now, even solving crimes has changed. Nothing's been right since I got back."

"Did you use when you were away?"

"No, of course not." He looks affronted by her question.

"Why not? You had to be facing change all the time; new people, places, nothing was familiar. And dangerous, I can't forget that. I can't imagine anything more stressful than putting up with it all non-stop for two years."

Sherlock seems to consider this. "It was different. I knew things were going to be challenging, but it didn't matter, because it was necessary. I had to do it, if I was going to be sure that Moriarty's contingency plans didn't end up killing John, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson- or me, for that matter. That gave me the focus I needed to put up with just about anything. Drugs would have only slowed me down and interfered- too dangerous to relax, not to be at the top of my game. I didn't need them, not at all."

"And you are missing that focus now?"

Sherlock looks down at the floor. "Yes…" but then he immediately contradicts that. "No…" He drags his hands through his hair, as if the stimulation might help him find words. "I don't know; nothing matters in the same way. There's no…" He stops, and his right hand flails a bit in frustration.

She is moved by this honesty; by his inability to put it into words. And it worries Molly, deeply. "What can I do to help?"

This time the answer is immediate and emphatic, and this time he looks straight at her. "Nothing. Do nothing. Don't tell anyone else about this conversation, or what you are thinking about what you think you've observed. Just don't." And then, in an echo of a plea he'd made almost three years ago, Sherlock said. "Please, I do need your help, Molly. But this time, all I want you to do is leave me alone."

Molly thinks about it. She's been aware that he's used drugs before, and it hasn't changed her feelings about him. But maybe he'd misconstrued her past silence for acceptance, which worries her. "I don't condone the use of drugs, Sherlock. I never have and I can't now, you know that. It's dangerous- and unfair to those who care about you. But…" Molly takes a deep breath. "This isn't about the drugs, is it? Not really. Just…" she stops, uncertain how to phrase what she wants to say.

He won't meet her gaze. She feels his sadness, and somehow this is worse, far worse than that time in the lab the time when she saw him looking sad, when he thought John couldn't see him. That memory gives her confidence. "If you promise me that you won't let this get out of hand, I won't say or do anything right now. But I am here. When it gets to be too much, remember that."

"I can control the drugs; it's not a problem. Nobody else has noticed."

Molly shakes her head. "It's not about getting away with it, Sherlock. You have to find a way to deal with the problem properly, because it's not the drugs that will kill you. It's the reason why you are taking them that'll do that."

Sherlock doesn't reply. He turns and resumes his work on the next slide.

oOo


Author's Note: *The first time his database is mentioned is in Chapter One of Musgrave Blaze; Dr Donna Foreman's role in it is mentioned in Pocket Full of Rye, Got My Eye on You Chapter 84

**Palynology- forensic botony

**In Express, ExFiles chapter nine


oOo

"Have you got a list?"

There was no reply.

Mycroft sighed and said quietly, "Don't make me repeat myself."

He looked down at the figure of his brother, sprawled across the duvet like a starfish. Sherlock had turned his head away from him when he walked in the door; all he could see was the tousled hair.

He sniffed. "You'll need a haircut, too."

This provoked a groan, as he knew it would. Then a petulant voice muffled in the pillow said, "Why? What did you do with the trunk I packed last year?"

"The chauffeur collected it from…the house in Harrow, where you left it." Mycroft chose not to mention that the said trunk had been held as police evidence until the autopsy came through, proving that Robert McGarry had died of natural causes, a cerebral aneurysm that had burst while he was sleeping.* For nine months, Mycroft had wondered whether the shock of finding his Chemistry master and mentor was what had driven Sherlock onto the streets of London.

Mycroft eyed the length of pale bony forearm protruding from the pyjama sleeve. "If you're thinking that you will still fit into anything that was packed into that trunk, you'll have to think again. By my estimation, you've grown at least two inches in the past year- despite your appalling diet and living conditions."

"Don't start." This was less muffled, as Sherlock levered himself up on his elbow and glowered over his shoulder at his brother.

"I won't, so long as you are dressed and ready to leave the house in forty five minutes."

There got him another peevish "Why?"

"Because your arrival at Cambridge next month demands that you are properly dressed. And that means you need new clothes. I've arranged a fitting at New & Lingwood*. If I can bear it, we will stop by Trumper's and get your hair cut. One morning and it's done."

"If you can bear it? What about me?!"

Mycroft was trying to get Sherlock motivated about going to university, but it was proving to be challenging. He'd got a list of the clothing items in the trunk from Mrs Walters at Parham; the housekeeper had faxed it to him last night. The things that were not affected by the teenager's growth spurt would be arriving in three days' time. But, he wanted Sherlock to take some ownership of the process of preparing for his new life. That's the advice he'd been given by Dr Cohen.

"You need to help him prepare for this life transition. It's important that he has all the time he needs to get his mind around it." The petite psychiatrist had come to the house to talk to Mycroft while Sherlock was at the Guildhall Music Library.

Mycroft sniffed. "He's been to public school; college life is not that dissimilar."

"Maybe it wasn't to you, but it will certainly be for him. School life is bound by strict rules. The boundaries of acceptable behaviour are all set, and rigorously maintained. There wasn't a moment during his day when there wasn't someone operating in locus parentis. His weaknesses in executive functioning were compensated for by the regime. Once he is at university, he will be the only one responsible for getting himself out of bed, dressed and attending classes. No one will see whether he eats, sleeps or takes care of himself, until it gets so obvious that he's in trouble- by which time it will be too late." She delivered this lecture with the sternness of a headmistress.

"So what do you suggest?"

"You have six weeks to get him to do all of those things himself. Consider it a trial-run. Sell it to him that way. He has to demonstrate that he can manage on his own, or you will insist on his living out of college, with a resident house-keeper."

As much as he'd have preferred that arrangement- especially if that house-keeper could double as a body guard- Mycroft knew that Sherlock would never accept it.

Throughout the summer, Dr Cohen came to the South Eaton Place townhouse twice a week for sessions with Sherlock. Mycroft had enquired occasionally about those sessions.

"They're private, Mycroft, for a reason. Sherlock needs space to talk about what happened in the past year, and how he is coping with taking responsibility."

"He's talking?" He made his disbelief plain. Mycroft's own hopes of getting his brother to tell the truth about his time spent with Mason, and how it had ended in the man being murdered, had been repeatedly dashed. He'd not confronted Sherlock with the fact that he knew the truth. It was a delicate balancing act. A confession from him would lead Sherlock to asking too many questions about how Mycroft knew, the blackmail evidence and just who was behind it all. Keeping Ford's existence a secret was something that Mycroft was determined to do, at all costs.

So far, fraternal conversations had been a study in oblique attempts; never a full frontal assault. It seemed to suit Sherlock, who wanted nothing more than to leave it all behind him, if Mycroft was to believe what little the boy would say about his nine months on the streets. Most of their conversation had focused on getting Sherlock to do what he had said he would do.

Eyeing the semi-comatose figure of the teenager, he wondered whether Sherlock would be able to manage at Cambridge. Mycroft had to stifle both irritation and a pang of fear. As trying as it had been to share the townhouse with Sherlock for the past ten weeks, at least he'd been able to organise someone to keep an eye on him at all times. Stimpson and Miss Forster did what they could in the house, but Mycroft could not expect them to provide close protection whenever Sherlock left South Eaton Place.

Of the two Research Associate men hired for the summer, one was Jeremy Forton, who had been listening in on the night at the Priory when the whole sorry saga began. He was the one who apprehended the nurse, Clifford Akroyd, and been there when Mycroft and Ranger had first confronted the man in Neasden, but mercifully not when the final showdown with Ford had taken place. If Forton had concerns about whether his boss's disappearance had anything to do with that, he'd kept his silence when talking to the police- a quality of discretion that made Mycroft request his services in particular.

Their first contact at the townhouse had been a conversation where more was left unsaid. When Mycroft had thanked him for his discretion, Forton's reaction was to nod and then ask, "I don't suppose it is possible for you to say anything about what did or didn't happen after I left Neasden?"

When Mycroft shook his head, Forton continued. "Thank you, sir, for this assignment. I know how important his survival is to you. And something of the risks involved. I will do my best."

And he had. Sherlock had twice made a half-hearted attempt to evade his security detail. Both times Forton was able to keep him in sight. "Just a bit of fun" had been Sherlock's excuse when Mycroft confronted him on the subject. "He's good; thinking of recruiting him, are you?"

Mycroft smirked. The thought had occurred to him.

Come the end of September, though,Mycroft would have to rely on someone new, someone Sherlock wouldn't recognise and a person able to conduct covert surveillance at a distance, which ran its own risks.

His brother's ability to manage his own timetable and take responsibility for his decisions over the next six weeks might prove challenging. This morning's decision to have a lie-in rather than the shopping he'd agreed to do with Mycroft was a case in point.

"When you are dressed, I have a present for you."

There was a monosyllabic grunt from the bed, which Mycroft decided to interpret as assent.

Twenty minutes later, Mycroft was relieved when the door to the front sitting room opened. He peered over the Financial Times to see his brother sweep into the room. The sight raised a smile which he hid behind the newspaper. Sherlock was always one for dramatic entrances. He was now reasonably attired for the weather; today was forecast to be the hottest day of the year. But, the khaki trousers which were too short, a white cotton shirt that was a bit tight and a blue linen jacket, the sleeves of which showed that it was from last year's wardrobe. Mycroft's tailor would instantly see the opportunity.

Sherlock walked over to the round Georgian table in the front window, and picked up the box with a bow. Slipping the ribbon off, he opened it to see a Blackberry mobile phone in it. Mycroft watched around the edge of his paper to see the boy's reaction.

"A phone? What do I want a phone for? No one ever calls me."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, and folded the newspaper. "It's a phone, Sherlock, which isn't just about receiving calls. You just might want to call me, or someone else for that matter." It wouldn't take much for the boy to deduce that the other person Mycroft had in mind was Doctor Cohen.

"There are pay phones at Trinity; the Burrell's Field rooms all have them at the end of the corridor."

"But you won't be in your room that often. The classrooms, the chemistry labs are across the river. This goes with you, everywhere. And you can use it to send emails, too, if you can't be bothered to actually talk."

Sherlock lifted the phone out of the box and eyed the tiny keyboard. "That's neat."

Mycroft agreed. Blackberry phones had become the phone of choice for all of the UK's security services. Using radio waves rather than the other mobile phone networks, Blackberry phones were highly encrypted and secure, as well as less prone to cell coverage gaps. The qwerty keyboard also helped make it an efficient method of sending emails- or receiving them, as Mycroft would be doing on a regular basis, just to keep Sherlock aware that he was keeping an active interest in his progress. That too had been discussed with Dr Cohen.

"You'll need to keep it charged, but it has a longer battery life than any other phone on the market here."

Sherlock had already turned it on and was looking at the small screen, investigating how the various buttons opened different menus.

Mycroft hoped that his brother would leave it on, all the time. He'd managed to customise this one, with a signal tracer buried inside the casing. So long as he was within a two mile radius, the new Research Associate man would have a fighting chance of keeping Sherlock under surveillance from a distance as a result. It had been Mycroft's only way to manage his fear of letting Sherlock out of his control. The two men guarding Sherlock whenever he left the townhouse this summer had been stood down for today; it had been a condition of Sherlock's agreeing to the shopping trip with Mycroft.

Two hours later, after steering an increasingly hot and bothered Sherlock around Mayfair, Mycroft was beginning to realise that there was only so much of his brother's company he was actually willing to tolerate. The session at his tailor's had been torturous. The problem was that Sherlock's hypersensitivity made fabric choice difficult. Still, when Sherlock left the shop he was wearing a new linen and silk jacket over a crisp white shirt. The trousers would have to wait, because they needed to be tailored to fit his tall, spare frame. The tailor was patient, but even his naturally polite smile became strained by the end of it all.

By the time they got to Trumper's, Mycroft had given up on trying to be civil. His barber had spent the past two years doing the best he could with Mycroft's receding hairline and thinning hair, so his rather wide-eyed look at the mass of dark tousled curls on the head of the young man sitting in the chair only added insult to injury.

"In addition to the haircut, he needs to be taught how to shave."

Sherlock's rather sulky expression turned into a scowl. "I know how to shave, Mycroft."

"The razor burn on your neck and the nick on the edge of your jaw say otherwise."

Under the barber's gown, a pair of arms crossed petulantly. "Well, if you hadn't been in such a rush, then I might have been able to take more care."

The barber tried to defuse the tension in the air. "Getting the best from a wet shave and a razor takes practice; you might find some of my tips useful, sir."

Sherlock was beyond being polite. "Oh, just get on with it. I hate the whole process of being touched by anyone, so make this as quick as possible or I will just get up and walk out."

Somewhat startled by the abrupt tone, the barber picked up his scissors and went to work.

By the time the floor under the chair was awash with dark curls, Mycroft could see that Sherlock's level of fidgeting was escalating to the point of imminent rebellion. He'd opened his mouth to suggest that the shaving lesson could wait, when he was interrupted by the sound of his own Blackberry ringing.

He pulled the phone out of his pocket and brought it to his ear. "Hello?"

"Mister Holmes."

The tinny voice on the other end of a bad international line had the faintest of Slavic accents, but Mycroft recognised it immediately.

"Yes. You have news for me?" The call was from Moscow; he had a personal contact there in the Finance Academy who had been serving in the Russian consulate in Mexico City.

"Indeed. You asked me to get to the bottom of what happened on the night of the 20th of June. Well, the story is amazing, but true."

Mycroft eyed Sherlock fidgeting in the chair, but decided that this call could not be deferred. Piotr was taking a great personal risk calling from Russia. He would just have to keep his side of the conversation vague. He nodded to his barber, "Do try to finish, quickly." Then he walked to the back of the shop and spoke into the phone, "Go ahead."

"You know that on the night of the 19th of June, the President's head of security Korzakhov stopped Chubais's people from taking half million dollars from the Kremlin?"

"Yes, of course."

"The next day Deputy Prime Minister Chubais was all over state television accusing Korzakhov of a coup attempt, and the next day the Kremlin issues a statement that Yeltsin has sacked Alexander Yasilyevich, and his Presidential Security Service is taken over by the Chubais faction. And onward they go arm and arm to Yeltsin's re-election."

"Yes. I know." That much had been shared between all the Western intelligence services. None of it really explained why Ford was so adamant that Yeltsin would win the second round, but then he had won, much to everyone in the West's surprise. Ford's smugness at backing the right horse against the odds had boosted his star immeasurably with the British PM.

There was a bit of static on the line and then Piotr's voice returned mid-sentence, "…was not seen much before the second vote, and apart from his acceptance speech, scarcely at all afterwards. Statements from the President's dacha at Shuiskaya Chupa say he is resting after the tough campaign."

Mycroft sighed. "Tell me something I don't know."

"Well, I now know what happened in the Kremlin that night, and why he's holed up in Karelia near the border with Finland."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, and through clenched teeth, snapped, "Get on with it."

"On the night of the 19th of June, Yeltsin had a heart attack."

Mycroft could not control his sudden intake of breath in surprise, nor how the shock of this news straightened his posture.

Piotr continued, "Chubais' people panicked; they were convinced he was going to die. So they raided the President's office, liberated the satchel of dollars he has always kept there ever since the 1991 coup attempt and tried to get out of the Kremlin, while the doctors were in the bedroom trying to resuscitate him. Korzakhov's people intercepted them and interrogated them for twelve hours trying to find out if they'd poisoned Yeltsin to bring on a heart attack. Apparently not; the doctors were able to get his heart going again and they were able to use medication to keep him on his feet for the three public engagements he had before the vote on 3 July and then his acceptance speech- after which they whisked him off to the dacha, where an American cardiologist brought across the border from Finland is treating him."

Mycroft felt a pair of grey-green eyes on him as this tale unfolded. Turning around, he realised that Sherlock was watching him in the reflection of the mirror.

He didn't want to be overheard, but he had to ask, "Who's in charge?"

"Not Chubais. The Family don't trust him now. It's Berezovsky and the other six who are pulling the strings- and raking in the benefits like there was no tomorrow- because if Yeltsin dies, there will be no tomorrow for them."

Mycroft closed his eyes, stunned by the implications of this. Ford must have somehow found out about Yeltsin's heart attack but got Mycroft to change the report to the British Prime Minister to get Britain to back him anyway. If the Russian president died, then it would be Mycroft's head on the block for recommending that Britain should back Yeltsin. If Yeltsin survived, then Britain's support would be considered invaluable at a crucial time, and buy a lot of good will in the Kremlin- or rather amongst those who were actually in charge. And it would be Ford who would get the credit in Britain. For the first time, Mycroft also realised that Ford would also be seen as a champion in the eyes of those who were in charge of Russia.

Between the two rounds of voting, Ford must have known the Davos Four and their fellow travellers were manoeuvring behind the scenes to wrest power away from both the stricken president and his vice-president. This explained why Korzakhov had been dismissed. With the President's own security force out of play, that meant for all intents and purposes the oligarchs and their sleeping partner, Ford, had been running the Russian Government for nearly three months. And no one in the West knew it.

The success of this audacious plan hinged on Yeltsin's survival, so again, despite the risk of being overheard, he had to ask, "What are the odds of that lasting?"

There was a snort from the Russian on the other end of the line. "Who knows? Be careful, my friend."

"And you. Call immediately if there is an update. Goodbye."

Mycroft evaluated the situation in the few seconds that passed between hanging up and walking back to the barber's chair, where Sherlock's hair was now being blown dry. Mycroft knew Piotr's revelations meant that he finally had some leverage over Ford, but with every hour that passed, it might disappear, if Yeltsin died. He made a decision.

"Sherlock, I have to go. Duty calls. I'll leave the car behind and Stimpson will take you home; I'll walk."

He was only half way down Duke of York Street by the time Ford answered.

Mycroft put every ounce of steely determination in his voice. "We need to talk, now."

"It isn't convenient."

"The truth rarely is. But you have a choice of hearing it from me, or reading it in tomorrow's newspaper. Shall I meet you in an hour at your flat, or the office?"

After a moment's hesitation, Ford replied, "Neither. Ninety minutes- at the Diogenes."

Mycroft put that time to the best possible use. What he was going to do was exceedingly risky; he'd be bluffing that he knew more than he actually did, and that he had the incriminating hard evidence to back up the story, as well. But Mycroft also knew that this was the best chance he was going to get to buy both himself and Sherlock some breathing space.

So he spent the next ninety minutes taking whatever steps he could to mitigate the risk. After an eight minute walk through St James's Square to the club, he got there with enough time to write a letter. He got the concierge at the Diogenes to photocopy it and he then sealed them into six separate individually addressed envelopes, before packaging the whole lot into an envelope which he took up the road to the Lower Regent Street post office. The package was mailed express delivery to Dr Esther Cohen, whom he asked to post each of the enclosed letters. Should anything happen to him as a result of the coming confrontation with Ford, he needed to put in place some way of neutralising the bastard and protecting Sherlock.

It was his insurance policy- a tersely factual account, sent to the people who he figured would be able to resist Ford's counter-measures and bluster. By posting it to someone who would probably not be on his half-brother's immediate list of suspects to be neutralised, Mycroft hoped that it would suffice.

He decided against phoning Esther to warn her and to explain; even a Blackberry could be hacked by someone with Ford's contacts, so he couldn't risk it. In fact, the very thought of it made him worry. While waiting in the queue at the post office, he deleted the record of the call with Piotr, and then turned his phone off. He did not want it to be on, or any of its contents traceable.

When Mycroft returned from the post office, the Diogenes concierge used sign language to tell him that Ford had arrived. He was shown to Ford's office in the basement, where his half-brother was waiting.

And the man looked annoyed, despite leaning with some nonchalance against the front of his desk, with ankles crossed and arms folded. "That's my afternoon ruined, Holmes, so this had better be good."

Mycroft gave him a raised left eyebrow. "That depends on your perspective. I'd hazard a guess that Boris Yeltsin isn't too happy about his heart attack, and that your cronies in Moscow won't be happy when the news gets out."

"Who's been spreading a rumour then?"

Mycroft snorted. "As if I would tell you. That would be followed forthwith by my source's immediate death. And it's not a rumour, so don't pretend it is. No, you will have to try harder."

That got him a tilt of the head; Ford's dark wavy hair dropped a strand of dark hair onto his forehead, as he acknowledged Mycroft's point. "Yes, I do tend to forget that you have a slightly more than average intelligence. So, what does it matter that an alcoholic unfit sixty five year old has a cardiac problem?" The question was as nonchalant as the man's posture.

"A great deal to those oligarchs who are running the country behind his back, and also to you. Your little cabal stands to gain from keeping that fact quiet for as long as it takes to clean out the Kremlin's coffers."

There was a smirk that disturbed Mycroft because it looked too similar to one he'd seen this morning on Sherlock's face. But the man then shattered the image of the mother they shared by asking "and why do you think I have anything to gain from what might or might not be going on in Moscow?"

Mycroft's deductions were based on the slenderest threads of evidence, but he could not allow Ford to know that. "I know what you did at Davos. I know about Berezovsky. I know about it all."

"You're bluffing. What proof do you have of this little fairy tale of yours?"

This was the weakness in Mycroft's gambit, but he'd learned to hide things over the past few years. Being around Ford had elevated his need to do so, but Ford was not Sherlock. His elder sibling's skills were not about deducing the truth from what people were thinking but not saying. Ford's talents lay in drawing connections that other people missed, in being able to pursue a dozen different agendas, whilst keeping his own interests at heart. The man liked to win- to use power for power's sake. Mycroft was counting on that fact.

"Wouldn't you like to know… but, again, don't think I am stupid enough to tell you."

That got him a sardonic smile. "Well, then you really are stupid. Without proof, what's stopping me from moving up the timetable? Ours is a hazardous occupation, so you could meet an untimely death- some hitman sent by aggrieved drug lord you inconvenienced in Mexico."

The older man leaned back on the desk with a smile. "Lord Fitzroy Ford, Viscount of Sherringford…that has a certain ring to it, don't you think?"

"I've left contingency plans. Just like you. Any precipitate move on your part will bring down your house of cards."

Ford snorted. "Alright- let's stop playing. The fact that we are having this conversation in private means that you want something in exchange. Let's have it; I don't have all day."

"The explanation of what happened in Moscow on the 19th of June and the evidence of your role are in safe places. Notice the plural. If something happens to me, it becomes public."

Ford shrugged. "The facts are bound to come out sooner or later; it's likely that Boris will need surgery- and that is hard to keep quiet. The story will get the oxygen of publicity sometime this autumn."

Mycroft shook his head. "That isn't the issue. It's your role, your links to the Davos Four, their cronies, including Berezovsky, which are the problem for you. If all that becomes known by the right people, then you'll have to cut and run. My assessment is that you are too greedy, too sure of winning even more to risk that. So, you will agree to my conditions in return for my continuing silence."

Ford gave a slightly bored look. "Conditions? Oh, do tell."

"Sherlock. He's off to Cambridge at the end of next month. You're to leave him alone. No contact, no attempts to undermine him. If I detect the slightest movement by you in his direction, I will release that information."

Ford's eyes hardened. "You'd lose, too- I'd just go public with what I have on you, and your cretinous little brother. You'd find the credibility of your charges against me to be somewhat undermined if they are issued by someone facing trial for murder."

Mycroft laughed. "Don't think for one moment that I'd be stupid enough to link the information and the evidence to me. No matter how much damage you manage to inflict on me, you'll still end up in prison- or on the run to Russia. It's called Mutually Assured Destruction- it's been enough to keep the Cold War from becoming a hot conflict. And it can do the same for ours."

Ford looked down at his fingernails, as if suggesting that the whole conversation was unimportant. "A stand-off then."

"Exactly."

"I can wait." He shrugged. "It's a deal. Your little brother will self-destruct at university with or without my help. You're still mine, and you will do what I want you to do. Use that persuasive turn of phrase, your insider knowledge to get my policies into the right people's ears. That's non-negotiable."

Mycroft reluctantly nodded. He didn't expect anything else.

Ford pointed toward the door. "Now go, and let me get back to what I was doing before you so rudely interrupted."

Once he was out on the street again, Mycroft slipped his jacket off. The afternoon heat was unbearable, and he decided he'd call the townhouse and get Stimpson to pick him up, since the Bentley was blissfully air-conditioned.

As soon as he turned his phone back on, it buzzed in his hand.

"Hello?"

"Sir, we have a problem."

Mycroft recognised the voice; it was Forton, the Research Associates man who had been given the afternoon off because Sherlock was with Mycroft. "What's happened?"

"The chauffeur says your brother never showed up. When he went into the shop about a half hour after you told him to wait, the barber said your brother left shortly after you did, saying he was walking home, so Stimpson returned to the townhouse. He tried to call you, but your phone wasn't on. It only takes a half hour at most to walk from Mayfair to Belgravia, so he contacted us when he couldn't get an answer from you. I'm sorry sir, I tried to pick up the trail, but it's gone cold. We can't get a trace on him either. Your housekeeper thinks he took the phone, but he's not turned it on yet."

It was too soon; Ford could not have arranged a snatch in the ten minutes he'd had since Mycroft had done the deal at the Diogenes Club. Nor would Ford have tried, knowing the consequences would be to bring the whole house of cards down around his own head. In a flash, Mycroft suddenly realised that Sherlock's insistence on the Research Associates men standing down was all part of a plan. Mycroft had been manipulated this afternoon alright, but not by Ford. This was his little brother's escape plan, and it could not have come at a worse time.

Sherlock, what have you done?


Author's Notes: *There is a reason why Mycroft's tailor is New & Lingwood of Jermyn Street. Since 1865 New & Lingwood has proudly outfitted the students of Eton College.