This chapter contains a brief synopsis of Sherlock's sexual history - my version of it, of course - which includes some references to under-age sex, entirely consensual, I assure you. But if you don't want to read that part, just skip it.

There's also a reference to the EU Referendum, near the end, for those who would prefer to avoid it. :)

Chapter Thirty-Seven

The facts of Eurus's case had been presented and accepted. Charlotte's testimony was still to be heard but it would only add detail. Effectively, this case was over but Sherlock was not feeling the usual post-case euphoria. The collateral damage was going to be considerable for the Holmes family, for Mycroft and their mother, potentially catastrophic. And for Eurus, there was a long, hard road to recovery ahead. He was the only family member to come out of this in net credit So, unsurprising, he was experiencing an episode of Survivor's Guilt, a condition he was no stranger to, having suffered a severe bout in the aftermath to Mary's death.

He'd managed to push last night's developments to the back of his mind and focus fully on the task in hand, while at Mycroft's house, but now he had time to reflect on the sudden, strange and entirely unexpected turn his life had taken and wonder where this new path might lead.

Up to this point in time, his sexual history had been patchy, to say the least. Sex education began, for him, at boarding school but not in the classroom, as one might expect. If you're going to stick a bunch of hormonally charged adolescents in a residential setting, you have to expect consequences. And Sherlock's school being a single sex institution, there wasn't much access to female company, so the boys made the best of what was available and experimented on each other.

Some of the younger boys who, like him, were from less well-off families – Sherlock had won a Science Scholarship which paid one-third of his school fees and his parents scrimped and scraped to find the other two – had found a lucrative trade in prostituting themselves to the older boys. Sherlock was never overly concerned about money, content to live within his means, but he was extremely curious so he threw his hat into that particular ring. For a while, he was very popular with the senior boys but he had an unfortunate habit of critiquing their performance which led to a couple of beatings so, quite quickly, he decided to hang up his rent boy boots, effectively curtailing his sexual adventures for the time being.

At university, he'd had a few flings with members of both biological sexes but nothing that could be called a 'relationship' - in fact mostly one-night stands - and, since then, his sexual activities could best be described as 'opportunistic', as had been the case with the proprietor of the chippy in Marylebone Road.

Meeting Irene Adler was serendipitous for both of them. She was obviously physically attracted to him as he was to her and, in the aftermath of his dramatic rescue of her from the Islamic extremists, they were both on an adrenalin high so ending up between the sheets was pretty much inevitable. Irene was a very exacting sexual partner and, as he told Molly, an inspirational teacher. She rewarded him when he got things right and punished him when he failed to meet her expectations. He had learned such a lot about female sexuality and what women want from a sexual partner, during that long weekend in Islamabad, for which he would be eternally grateful but a relationship was never on the cards, whatever John Watson might believe.

But last night, everything changed. He discovered, rather late in the day, the true distinction between 'having sex' and 'making love'. And there was no comparison. Gazing into those beautiful, luminous, liquid, deep brown eyes, as he brought them both to the point of climax then tipped them over the edge into ecstasy, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that true sexual satisfaction could only be achieved when shared with one's partner. He could never be self-serving with Molly. Ever.

Installed in the back of the cab, Molly watched as Sherlock disappeared into his Mind Palace. Although apparently staring straight ahead, it was clear to her that his vision had turned inward as he slipped inside his own head, like an otter slipping into a deep pool of water, and was gone. His internal machinations were then reflected in the movement of his eyebrows and of his lips – wrinkling, quirking, pursing, pouting. She couldn't track his train of thought, as he could with her, but she could read his emotional nuances like a book. And when the space between his eyebrows – the glabella, meaning 'hairless', though in his case it wasn't entirely – crinkled into deep grooves, she felt the need to intervene.

'Are you alright?' she whispered.

'What?' he murmured and turned to meet her gaze.

There she was, his redeemer, sitting right next to him, holding his hand. When he turned his head and caught her eye, his brain was instantly awash with endorphins, reminiscent of a massive opioid hit.

'You were thinking very loud,' she said.

'Happy thoughts,' he smiled.

It was almost frightening, this degree of happiness. So foreign to him. He was almost questioning his entitlement…but not quite. Reaching out, he slipped his fingers around the back of her neck, under her pony tail, and drew her in for a long, slow, languid kiss.

He really hadn't planned for things to progress so fast, last night. In fact, he'd only thought it through as far as 'the kiss'. But then things sort of…escalated, thanks to Molly taking the initiative, for which he was truly thankful. And now, here they were – snogging in the back of a cab!

He was vaguely aware of the cabbie sneaking surreptitious glances at them through the rear-view mirror but he really couldn't care less. He was grateful it wasn't the same cabbie who had shared his gratuitous pearls of wisdom, the other evening – but only because the man may have claimed the credit for bringing the two of them together, when it was actually the successful conclusion of the case that had enabled him to 'make his move'.

This particular cabbie, however, was beginning to get nervous, wondering where all the canoodling might be leading. He gave a cautionary cough and Molly took the hint and eased out of the kiss, lowering her eyes, with a bashful giggle. Sherlock smiled and, disentangling their fingers, wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, to rest his cheek against her head.

'Laterz,' he whispered.

Is it wrong that I wish we weren't going to John's? he wondered. At this precise moment, his sole desire was to be alone with her, to lose himself in her and be as one with her, to taste her on his tongue, savour her essence, drink her in.

But he owed it to his friend to bring him up to speed with all the dramatic recent developments. He wondered how John would react to the news that Eurus was no longer incarcerated.

ooOoo

'Well, look what the cat dragged in, Rosie,' John declared, on opening the door to Sherlock's ring of the bell, balancing his daughter on his hip. 'Hello, Molly, what a lovely surprise,' he added, pecking her briefly on the cheek. 'I told you he'd come home when he was hungry.'

Any replies were drowned out by Rosie's squeals of delight as she threw open her arms and launcher herself forward, toward her favourite 'uncle'. Sherlock caught her just as she over-balanced and plucked her from John's arms then strode into the house, engaging in an animated exchange with the child, mostly consisting of 'Is that so?' and 'Oh, really?' and 'I couldn't agree more,' in response to Rosie's animated babbling.

John and Molly followed them indoors and John took Molly's coat and hat, while she struggled out of her wellies for the second time that day.

'I don't know what possessed me to wear wellies today,' she gasped, hopping around on one foot while trying to pull a recalcitrant boot off the other.

'Because it was snowing last night?' John ventured.

'Yes, that's probably it,' she agreed. 'How are you?'

'Oh, you know, so-so,' he shrugged.

Molly quirked an eyebrow at that enigmatic reply.

'No, I'm fine, really,' he insisted. 'It's just…you know.'

Molly wrapped him in a comforting hug.

'You know, if you ever fancy a night out or…something, I'm always available for babysitting duties. Just ask,' she insisted.

'Well, actually…'

'Yes?' she prompted.

'Come into the kitchen while I make some tea.'

Molly followed him through the sitting room, where Sherlock – having thrown his coat and scarf over a chair and toed off his shoes at the edge of the sitting room carpet – was stretched out on the rug, propped up on his elbows, watching Rosie reconstruct a chunky wooden jigsaw puzzle, concentration etched deep on both their faces.

In the kitchen, John filled the kettle and switched it on then began assembling teapot, mugs, and whatnot on a tray. Molly leant against the fridge-freezer and folded her arms, waiting for him to find the words to say whatever it was that was on his mind. They weren't coming easily. But eventually, he stopped rearranging the tray, braced his hands on the worktop and said,

'I've met someone.'

'Oh!' Molly exclaimed, taken completely by surprise. That was the last thing she was expecting and, unfortunately, it showed.

'I know, I know, it's too soon…' he groaned, grinding the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.

'No, no…' Molly back-peddled.

'No, it is,' he insisted, turning to face her, his brow puckered into a frown. 'But, Molly…' He paused. 'I'm lonely. I'm not like His Nibs, in there. I can't live as a monk.'

Molly's heart went out to him and she stepped forward to hug him again. Who was she or anyone else to say when was 'too soon' to look for love? Everyone's needs were different. And as for 'His Nibs', John had quite a surprise coming his way…but not just now.

'What's her name?' she asked, moving back to the fridge-freezer as the kettle boiled and he spooned loose tea into the pot before pouring in the boiling water.

Again, he seemed to be having trouble articulating his thoughts.

'You're not going to believe this,' he said, at last, 'but it's Mary.'

She was a social worker. They had met through one of the multi-disciplinary teams his GP practice was involved in. She was divorced. They'd shared a few lunch breaks – just coffee and a sandwich. He felt they were ready to move on to the next step - a proper date.

'She's nothing like Mary,' he concluded.

'Not a retired assassin, then?'

'I don't think so but I suppose I could always ask Mycroft to check her out…I'm joking!' He barked a laugh.

'Does she have any children…from her first marriage?' Molly asked, tentatively, thinking of Rosie and the possibility – however remote – of a rapid expansion in the size of the little one's immediate family circle.

'No,' he replied. 'It was never the right time, apparently.'

'And has she met Rosie?'

'No, not yet,' he shook his head. 'I need to be sure there's at least a possibility of a relationship before I introduce her to Rosie…do you know what I mean?'

Molly did.

'So, when's the date?'

'I haven't asked her yet. I wanted to make sure you were OK with the idea, first.'

'Me? Why me?' she exclaimed.

'Because I value your opinion…'

'John,' she began, firmly but kindly. 'If you want to ask this woman out on a date, you do it. I'm more than happy to babysit Rosie for you. But don't ask me to tell you whether or not it's OK. Only you can decide that. And you don't need mine or anyone else's permission, right?'

'Right,' he said. 'Thank you, Molly. And…'

'Yes?'

'Don't say anything to him, will you?'

'Absolutely not!' she declared. 'It's none of my business.'

When they returned to the sitting room, with the tea tray, Sherlock was seated on the sofa with Rosie in his lap and one of her favourite story books open in front of them.

''Will you help me eat the bread?' asked Little Red Hen',' Sherlock read, in a high-pitched, piping voice.

''Oh, yes!' said the Rat, the Cat and the Dog',' he exclaimed, enthusiastically, in his Rat/Cat/Dog voice.

''Oh, no!' said Little Red Hen,' he piped, again, snootily. ''I will eat it all by myself!''

'And she did',' he concluded, in his own voice, and snapped the book closed, with a satisfied nod.

'A-den! A-den!' squealed Rosie.

'Again? Noooooo! Not again!' Sherlock groaned; his face twisted in despair. 'Don't make me read it again! Pleeeeease!' he beseeched, throwing himself over sideways, on the sofa, taking Rosie with him and proceeding to thump the seat cushion with his fist, sobbing distraughtly, while Rosie shrieked with delight.

'Alright, Sir Lawrence O-bloomin-livier,' John snorted, placing the tea tray on the dining table. 'Come and get your tea.'

At which Sherlock sat straight back up again, in eager anticipation, and said,

'Any cake?'

ooOoo

'Free? What do you mean, free? Has she escaped again?'

'No, she's been released…'

'What the f…?'

'Children present,' Sherlock cautioned.

'Don't tell me my own child is present!'

'Oh, calm down, John…!'

'And don't tell me to calm down, either!'

Molly stood and scooped Rosie up off the rug.

'Shall we go and look at the birdies, through the kitchen window, sweetie-pie?' she exclaimed, smiling sweetly at each of the men in turn. 'Let Daddy and Uncle Sherlock have their little argument in peace?' she added and exited the room, closing the kitchen door firmly behind her.

'She's not a danger to anyone, John,' said Sherlock, in a conciliatory tone.

'Says who? You?'

'Says Dr Taylor, for one. His wife found a copy of the assessment he undertook of Eurus and he found absolutely no evidence of psychopathy…'

'But she killed people! The Governor and his wife!'

'The Governor killed himself and his wife is not dead. I found her.'

There was a stunned silence in the room as John processed that bombshell.

'Where? Where did you find her?' he asked, at last.

'In Edinburgh. She has a house there. That's where Eurus is now.'

ooOoo

Dandling Rosie on her hip, Molly stood by the kitchen sink, looking out through the window at the back garden beyond and, specifically, at the bird feeders suspended from a cast iron 'feeder tree', spiked into the middle of the lawn. The local bird population was in the throes of a last-minute feeding frenzy, making the most of the sun's dying rays to fill their stomachs before repairing to their roosts for the night.

'Oh, look at that one! That is such a pretty one, isn't it?' Molly exclaimed, pointing to a blue tit, hanging upside down from a fat ball, pecking away, furiously.

'Pitty one!' said Rosie.

'Oh, oh, oh, look out! Here come the house sparrows! They're a noisy lot, aren't they? And they always fly around in flocks.'

'Flops!' Rosie declared.

Molly was relieved to note that the raised voices from the other room had quietened to a dull, conversational hum. John could be very volatile, at times, and she knew it was mostly due to PTSD, a sadly all too common affliction of ex-service personnel and not sufficiently recognised, and in his case exacerbated by the tragic loss of his wife, but at least he was seeing a therapist – a real one, this time – so he was doing his best to deal with it. She just wished he didn't so often take it out on Sherlock.

Despite his wishes to the contrary, she knew she would have to say something to John about Sherlock's experiences in Serbia. Apart from anything else, she believed John had a right to know the truth rather than the glossed over, sanitised version that he'd been fed. he was, after all, a grown-up.

'Oh, wow! Look at those two, Rosie!' Molly exclaimed, as a pair of little birds with black and white heads, bright red faces and yellow flashes on their wings, swooped in, grabbed a beak full each of sunflower hearts and flew off again. 'They're goldfinches!'

'Doe-pinces!' Rosie chirped.

'And, oh, there's a fat little robin redbreast, all fluffed up like a little ball of feathers. Hello, Robin Redbreast!'

'He-wo, Wobin Webwes!' Rosie repeated and waved at the little bird, which didn't wave back but continued to peck at the meal worms scattered on the flat surface of the bird table, suspended by thin cords from one of the feeder tree's hooks.

'It's OK, you can come back in now. It's safe,' said John, entering the kitchen, teapot in hand, looking sheepish. 'Fancy another cuppa?'

ooOoo

'That went better than expected,' Sherlock observed, as he and Molly sat side by side in yet another taxi, on their way from John's house to Baker Street. Molly's frown made her opinion clear.

'He calmed down relatively quickly.'

She acknowledged that with a grudging nod.

'And Eurus did scare him when she pointed that tranquilizer gun at him. He thought he'd never see Rosie again.'

Molly nodded to that, too, but in a very non-committal manner.

'Molly Hooper, you're supposed to be the 'good cop' half of this partnership,' he reproached, gently.

'I can be 'bad cop', too', she retorted.

'Is that a promise?' he enquired, wiggling his eyebrows, suggestively,

'Don't change the subject,' she scolded.

Sherlock tried the 'puppy eyes' but Molly was not to be distracted from her cause.

'He should be told the truth…the whole truth.'

'OK, maybe one day,' he conceded and brought her hand to his lips, kissing it, softly, as the cab turned into Baker Street and pulled up outside 221. Sherlock was curious to see what developments had occurred in his absence. Had any of the furniture been delivered? And, if so, what? He paid the cabbie and jumped out onto the pavement, holding the door and offering his hand to assist Molly.

No sooner had they entered the front door of 221 than Mrs Hudson's flat door opened and she appeared in the front hall.

'Oh, Sherlock, you're back. Thank goodness!' she exclaimed.

'I'm sorry, Mrs H, was there a problem?' he asked.

'Well, no, dear…Oh, hello, Molly, lovely to see you…' she added, in passing, then continued without batting an eyelid, 'no, nothing wrong, I just wondered where you'd got to, that's all.'

'Edinburgh,' he declared, as though that explained everything.

'Oh, I see. Well, it's nice to see you, anyway, safe and sound,' Mrs Hudson declared. 'You've got a pile of mail. I took it upstairs because it was threatening to block the hallway.'

Sherlock was fairly sure that was a gross exaggeration. He thanked her and set off up the stairs, as Molly made to follow on behind.

'You'll find lots of changes up there,' Mrs H added, smiling conspiratorially.

'Ah! Did the furniture arrive?' he exclaimed.

'Oh, yes. And the curtains.'

Sherlock took the stairs three at a time, eager to inspect all the latest developments in the refurbishment of his home.

Standing at the bottom of the stairs, Molly looked around the hallway and stair well, nodding her approval.

'It looks lovely in here, Mrs H. You have excellent taste. The white paint makes the space seem so much bigger, very light and airy, and the wood grain on the staircase is beautiful.'

'Oh, thank you, dear,' Mrs Hudson purred, preening with pleasure at Molly's kind words. But then her expression sobered and she stepped forward, placing a hand on Molly's arm and, in a grim tone, said,

'Is he alright, dear?'

Molly was slightly thrown by the question. 'Alright' was such a relative term, especially when applied to Sherlock.

'I think he mostly is…but is there anything in particular you're concerned about?'

'Well, on Tuesday evening, he told me he was going out early on Wednesday morning and would be back mid-afternoon the same day. That was the last I saw of him until just now. And not a word to let me know he was OK! Now, I know I'm not his mother and I have no right to expect anything from him but…I can't help worrying. This business with his sister has really played on his mind…'

Molly reached out and rubbed the old lady's arm in sympathy.

'I do understand, Mrs H, I was worried myself. All I know is, he went to Edinburgh on Friday and came back yesterday. Last night, he stayed at my house, and today we went to Mycroft's house to see him and Lady Smallwood, then to John's and now back here. But the good news is, his sister has been freed! She's out of prison and reunited with a lady she met in Sherrinford, who is taking care of her.'

'Oh! Well, that's very sudden…but what excellent news! It must be a great weight off his mind.'

Molly nodded, smiling happily, and the two women shared a spontaneous hug, took their leave and Mrs H returned to her flat while Molly made her way up staircase.

On reaching the top of the stairs, Molly crossed the landing and pushed the door open wide before stepping inside then paused to take in the view. She was most impressed by what she saw.

The bare floor boards, which, like the stairs, had been sanded and oiled to highlight the grain of the wood, were now mostly covered by a large, antique rug, very similar to the one that had been there before, but in far better condition than that one. The main colour was a deep, vibrant red and the primary motif was a floral design in navy blue, repeated on a smaller scale around the border. The effect of the rug was to deaden the brittle acoustics of the room and to add strong splashes of colour to the largely monochrome décor.

The new curtains were of a heavy, Regency striped fabric, predominantly red in colour, stretching from ceiling to floor and restrained by tie backs. They would certainly keep out the cold this winter - and every winter for years to come.

Between the windows sat a dark wood dining table that would, no doubt, double as a desk for Sherlock, and tucked underneath it were four hardwood dining chairs, none of which matched each other but each very sturdy and serviceable in its own right. Opposite Sherlock's new leather and stainless-steel chair was an upholstered arm chair not dissimilar to the one it replaced – 'John's chair' - mostly red in colour, with big, plump cushions and braided fringing around the edge of the base.

Sitting beside that chair was a plain but dainty wooden side table, the surface of which had the smooth, lustrous patina only French polishing could achieve, while next to Sherlock's chair was an unusual, dark wood, three drawer, oval-shaped cabinet, the drawer fronts inlaid with a carved leaf design. The top of the cabinet had a little raised rim around the edge which gave it a very striking – very Sherlock-y - appearance.

In the recesses, either side of the chimney breast, stood two tall, oak bookcases, the shelves completely bare now but, over time, she felt sure that Sherlock would fill them again with an eclectic selection of tomes which would rival his former collection.

Against the right-hand wall sat a replacement leather sofa, dark brown in colour and covered in scatter cushions of various sizes, shapes and colours. In front of that, was circular, light wood coffee table with a central glass insert. She hoped Sherlock wouldn't use it as a stepping stone from the sofa as he had the previous one!

Standing to the side of the coffee table, at a right angle to the sofa, was a wooden-framed arm chair, upholstered in a beautiful shimmering gold-coloured brocade jacquard fabric with a bold paisley pattern. Molly was immediately drawn to that chair; she couldn't help herself. She knelt beside it and smoothed her hand over the surface of the fabric. It was cool and smooth and soft to the touch and the colour was exquisite.

Sherlock, who had been moving round the room, inspecting each item – especially those he had personally bought - checking that no damage had occurred during transit and installation, noticed Molly approaching the chair he had selected with her in mind, and paused, feeling a little apprehensive.

'Do you like it?' he asked.

'Like it?' she gasped. 'No! I love it! It's beautiful!'

'I knew you would,' he murmured. 'That's why I bought it. For you.'

She shot him a look, surprise etched in every line of her face.

'For me?' she breathed.

'Well, John has his own chair here. Why shouldn't you?' he shrugged.

'Oh, thank you!' she exclaimed, jumping up and running across the room to throw herself into his arms. He laughed in delight at her unbridled joy, feeling a warm inner glow that he was the architect of it. As she lifted her chin and beamed at him, it felt utterly natural to dip his head and press his lips to hers in a tender kiss.

ooOoo

Since Sherlock and Moly had departed, Mycroft had been sitting in the same chair, at the end of the dining table, in his shirt sleeves and waistcoat - jacket removed - one elbow on the table top and his chin in his hand, changing position only to rub his hands over his scalp from time to time and to take small, occasional sips from the large shot of whisky Sherlock had poured, earlier.

Lady Smallwood was terribly worried about him. She had known him as a friend and colleague for many years, during which time he had faced numerous crises – national, international and personal – but she had never known him be so deeply affected before. He seemed utterly defeated, helpless, lost. She was debating whether or not she should call the family doctor and ask them to perhaps prescribe a sedative or something when he suddenly sighed, soulfully, and met her gaze.

'No point sitting here, wondering 'what if'. I have an interrogation to perform.'

Alicia pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes then said,

'No.'

'What?'

'I said, no, Mycroft. I don't think you should perform this particular interrogation.'

'But…'

'No buts. I forbid it.'

'You can't…'

'Indeed, I can. As Home Secretary, I out-rank you. You are my…minion.'

Mycroft was dumbfounded. He was being out-ranked by his lover!

'But who else could possibly carry out such a significant and sensitive interrogation?' he spluttered.

'Anthea.'

Mycroft was pulled up short by that suggestion. He tried to come up with reasons why Anthea couldn't possibly conduct the interview with Sir Edwin…and he could not think of a single one. She was, by far, the most qualified person in the whole of the British Secret Service, barring himself.

'You and I will sit in the gallery and observe and you may make suggestions but Anthea will do the actual face-to-face.'

'Sir Edwin will not happy,' Mycroft cautioned, 'firstly, because she's a woman. And, secondly, because she is of a lower rank than him.'

'Precisely,' Alicia replied. 'We'll begin tomorrow morning. He can stew in his own juices, in the bowels of the River House, for another night.'

And that was the end of the discussion.

Later – much later, in fact – that night, Alicia's deep and dreamless sleep was disturbed by a motion like a boat rocking on a choppy tide and she struggled to wakefulness to find the space beside her on the mattress vacant. The movement that had woken her was Mycroft climbing out of bed. She heaved a sigh and, throwing aside the duvet, rolled off the bed and exited the bedroom, collecting her dressing gown on the way. Making her way down the stairs and along the corridor, she came to Mycroft's study. The door was closed but she could see a light glowing through the gap at the bottom. Without bothering knock, she turned the handle and pushed the door open, entering the room.

Mycroft was seated at his desk, both elbows on the desk top and his head in his hands, illuminated only by the green-shaded desk lamp positioned beside the ink blotter. He didn't even look up when she walked in and approached the front of the desk.

'Mycroft, what are you doing?' she asked.

There was such a long pause, she began to wonder if perhaps he was sleep walking, although to her knowledge he had no history of such a thing, but then he spoke, in a dull, flat, gravelly voice.

'I'm trying to compose my resignation letter.'

Lady Smallwood stared at him for a moment or two, her brow puckered by a frown, then turned, abruptly, marched over to the door, reached for the main light switch on the wall and turned on the central ceiling light, flooding the room with a harsh, white light that caused them both to screw up their eyes in a defensive reflex. She then retraced her steps and sat down in the green leather winged chair opposite him.

'Why on Earth would you even consider resigning?' she demanded.

'Because I'm a fake and a fraud,' he replied, in a plaintive tone so very unlike his natural voice. 'Sherlock is right - Sherlock was always right - about Rudi. He was the only member of the family who wasn't taken in by him, even from a very young age. He could never abide him. And that unnerved Rudi. He told me, before he died, to watch Sherlock like a hawk because he was a loose cannon and might one day destroy me. And, in a way, he was correct, because my brother has exposed me for what I truly am.

I was groomed by Rudi to become his puppet and rule in his place after his death. He clearly saw in me someone who could be manipulated, shaped and moulded in his own image. Someone who would do his bidding, without question. And he was right! I believed every lie Rudi spun, swallowed them all, hook, line and sinker. Someone like me has no place being in my position, exercising my degree of power. I'm an abomination and a danger to the security of this country, therefore, I have no choice but to resign. It's the only responsible thing to do.'

Lady Smallwood listened to Mycroft's self-excoriating diatribe with a pinched expression and, after he finished, she sat in silence, considering his words before responding. But, at last, she took a preparatory breath, looked directly into his eyes and spoke.

'I knew your uncle as a colleague for nearly twenty years so I had adequate opportunity to make an informed assessment of his character. I've known you for almost as long and so the same consideration applies and I can categorically state that you are nothing like Rudi Vernet.

Rudi was a narcissist. Everything he did was moderated by how it would benefit him, further his own cause. His sole objective was self-advancement. He was not a patriot. He used his position in the Civil Service to his own ends and never put country before self.

But Rudi was completely wrong about you. He thought he could manipulate you and he chose you as his protégé with that goal in mind but I believe he realised, far too late, that you were not that person and that presented him with a dilemma. He needed a Plan B. And that's when he recruited Sir Edwin. Edwin is Rudi's clone, not you.

You, Mycroft, are the most patriotic person I know and your current stance proves that, beyond question. You use your diplomatic skills and influence for the betterment of human society, within the UK and throughout the world, by mitigating the worst excesses our leaders and rulers impose upon us. You have always endeavoured to steer those with political power in the right direction and, on the occasions that this effort has been unsuccessful, you have applied your talents to making the best of the bad situations and protected the proletariat from the potentially disastrous consequences of those terrible decisions.

The current situation is a case in point. You have advised strongly against an EU Referendum but the elected government feel they know better – it's my own party so I'm entitled to be scathing – so, when it all ends in disaster, you need to be there to pick up the pieces. If you are not, I fear for the future of this country, I really do.

So, Mycroft, you cannot resign. Your country needs you, like never before.'

Mycroft had sat in silence, listening to Lady Smallwood's verbal dissertation without comment or even facial expression giving away his inner thoughts and, now she was done, he still did not react for several seconds but then his face began to fall and his hands came up to catch it and his shoulders shook as he uttered a desperate howl of anguish. Alicia was immediately out of her chair, displaying all the latent grace and suppleness of a former gymnast. Rounding the desk, she stood beside his chair and, leaning over, enveloped him in her arms, resting her head against his back and murmuring those universal words of comfort,

'There-there, there-there.'

ooOoo