Playtime over, folks. Things get a bit serious again, now. :(

This up-date is a bit of a bumper edition but there just wasn't a suitable point at which to split it. \_0_/

Chapter Fifty-Six

Sunday morning dawned bright, cold and frosty to find both Sherlock and Molly deeply asleep, thoroughly sated and totally chilled. Molly was the first to awaken and, having rolled over to check the time by her bedside clock, she did a double take and then threw back the duvet and jumped out of bed.

'Sherlock! Wake up!' she exclaimed, in a panic. 'It's eleven o'clock. We've overslept. We're due at Mycroft's in an hour!'

'Ugh?' Sherlock grunted then threw an arm across his eyes as Molly pulled open the curtains and the winter sun poured in, flooding the room with a golden glow. 'What the f…?' he growled, rolling onto his stomach and burying his head under the pillow in protest at the brutal assault of the bright light.

But Molly was too preoccupied to notice his reaction, rushing around the room, picking up random items of clothing that had been tossed about the night before. She had to giggle at finding Sherlock's boxers draped over the standard lamp in the corner of the room, remembering how he had flung them as far as he could when, eventually, given permission to remove them.

'I'm just going to jump in the shower,' she announced, 'and then the bathroom is all yours. In the meantime, could you please make some coffee?'

When there was no reply, she turned her attention to the hump on his side of the bed, noting that the only part of him visible was a pair of hands, holding the pillow around his ears. She frowned then marched over to his side of the bed and tugged the pillow out from under those hands, saying,

'Sherlock, wake up. We're late. Please, get up and make some coffee while I have a quick shower…'

He replied with a barely articulated mumble which Molly correctly interpreted as,

'I heard you the first time.'

'Good. So, come on, up you get. You know how Lord Snooty despises people who aren't punctual.'

She was rewarded with a deep, rumbling chuckle at her use one of his personal epithets for his brother – one of the more polite ones, actually. She leant over and pressed a kiss to the back of his head then scurried off to the bathroom.

When she emerged fifteen minutes later, wrapped in a bath sheet and with her hair in a towel turban, she was relieved to detect the aroma of her finest Fair Trade Arabica coffee floating up the stairs.

'Bathroom's free!' she called down the stairs and crossed into the bedroom, pleased to see that Sherlock's trousers, shirt and boxers had disappeared; and that he had made the bed. She opened the wardrobe door and took out a maroon-coloured dress, printed with abstract African motifs, a jade green cable knit cardigan and a pair of black ankle boots, and heard Sherlock come up the stairs and go into the bathroom, closely followed by the sound of the shower.

From the chest of drawers, she selected bra, pants and some warm winter tights, also maroon, to match her dress. Then she quickly applied a minimum amount of makeup – just a smudge of eye shadow, a few strokes of mascara, a light dusting of blusher and a dab of lipstick – then removed the towel turban, gave her hair a vigorous rub, brushed it out and began to dry it. By the time Sherlock came out of the bathroom and crossed to the spare bedroom, which had assumed the role of his dressing room since they began sleeping together, her hair was just slightly damp and she decided to leave it to finish drying in the air. She donned an Alice band to keep it off her face.

She rubbed herself dry with the bath towel and dressed in the clothes she had selected then trotted downstairs and served herself a mug of coffee from the cafetiere that Sherlock had prepared earlier. It was a little on the cool side but still drinkable. He, she noted, had already drunk his usual 'black two sugars' and the evidence – an empty mug - was sitting on the draining board with the dirty supper things from the previous evening.

Standing at the sink, looking out through kitchen window, Molly sipped her coffee and watched the birds, some feeding from the coconut shells full of fat that she had hung out for them and some hopping about on the lawn and in the border, hunting for worms and insects. The overnight frost had made the ground quite hard, except for where she and Sherlock had disturbed the soil when planting out bulbs, yesterday. The birds had noticed this, too, and were concentrating their efforts in those spots. Molly smiled, partly at the antics of the birds and partly from reminiscing about their own antics of the night before. By the time Sherlock jogged down the stairs, Molly was shrugging into her Puffa coat and donning her Cossack hat, ready to leave. It was twenty minutes to twelve.

Molly had to trot to keep up with Sherlock's stride as they made their way to the main road and he hailed a cab which had, once again, appeared as if by magic. When they jumped inside and he gave the cabbie the address of their destination, Molly was puzzled.

'I thought we were going to Mycroft's,' she queried, not sure why she was whispering.

'We are,' Sherlock replied, at normal volume. 'He's at his London residence, today…well, it's not actually his; the flat belongs to the government but he lives in it. It comes with the job.'

Well, that explained it. Molly wished she had known earlier that they only had to go as far as Knightsbridge. She wouldn't have panicked so much about the time.

When the cab turned into Cadogan Square, Molly gazed in awe at the imposing, six-storey, mid-Victorian buildings, designed in the Dutch style, that lined the leafy square. She had heard of Cadogan Square but never imagined she would ever know someone who lived there. Properties in this square were amongst the most expensive in the whole of London, with the average house regularly achieving a multimillion-pound price tag. They were mostly privately owned but a significant number, like Mycroft's grace and favour home, were owned by the state and used for diplomatic purposes.

Mycroft's pied a terre was located on the western side of the square, in a building designed and built for Lord Cadogan by the architect William Young, in 1877. The cab pulled up alongside a grand portico, with stone steps leading to the main entrance. While Sherlock paid the driver, Molly stepped out onto the pavement and glanced down into the tiny court yard that gave access to the basement flat. The steps leading down from street-level to that residence, through a gate in the wrought iron fence, were not unlike the ones at John's house but there the similarity ended. John's humble little home was probably less than half the square footage of this one and worth just a fraction of the value.

'He's not down there,' said Sherlock, glancing down into the basement. 'Not yet, at least... It's this way,' he added, leading the way up the main stone steps to the half-glazed, wooden panelled double doors with a stained-glass transom window above, that led into a light and airy communal entrance hall with a Minton tiled floor. A column of Entryphone door bells sat to the right of the entrance and Sherlock pressed the second call button from the bottom. A loud buzzer sounded, signalling the release of the lock, and he pushed open the right-hand door, inviting Molly to enter first.

Directly opposite the main front doors was a stately wooden staircase, laid with a central stair runner, that snaked upwards to four more floors. A passage way to the side of the stairs led to an antique lift, which also gave access to the floors above but not the basement, but Sherlock chose to take the stairs to the first floor landing, where he approached a door to the left and waited patiently to be let in.

It wasn't long before the door opened inwards and an elderly gentleman, with greying hair and a matching moustache, dressed in a black three-piece suit, white shirt and a striped tie, appeared on the threshold. Sherlock smiled at the man and said,

'Good afternoon, Wilder.'

As he spoke, he gave the man a thumbs up and then touched his chin with the index and middle fingers of the same hand, twisted it at the wrist and moved those two fingers towards the man, in what Moly recognised as British Sign Language for 'Good afternoon'. This was one of a number of frequently-used BSL words and phrases that all staff at the hospital were taught and encouraged to use, both at work and in their daily lives.

The man returned the greeting with a smile and moved to the side to allow the guests to enter.

'This,' said Sherlock, indicating Molly, 'is Dr Hooper, my…partner.' As he spoke, he tapped the back of his left wrist with the same two fingers of his right hand then spelled out 'Hooper' in the BSL alphabet before taking a closed fist to his chest, then putting both fists together, thumbs sticking up, and tilted them from side to side, signing fluently - except for a slight hesitation while considering how best to describe Molly's relationship to him. He had definitively moved on from 'my pathologist'.

'And this,' he said, turning to Molly, and signing for Wilder's benefit, 'is Mr Wilder. He used to work at the Diogenes Club, Mycroft's care home for old dinosaurs…' at which Mr Wilder chuckled '…until my brother poached him to be his housekeeper here at the flat.'

The housekeeper turned to Molly and gave a polite little bow.

'Good afternoon, Dr Hooper,' he signed, followed by another short phrase in BSL.

'He's pleased to meet you,' Sherlock translated.

'I'm pleased to meet you, too,' Molly replied, with Sherlock continuing in his role as interpreter.

Wilder turned back to Sherlock, rubbing both fists together - but with the thumbs turned down this time, not up - then tapping his chest with the thumb of one closed hand.

'My brother is expecting us,' Sherlock passed on.

Wilder signed another phrase, which Molly correctly interpreted - it being fairly self-explanatory - as,

'May I take your coats?'

'Thank you,' Sherlock and Molly said and signed together, another of those frequently used signs included in the training package.

Wilder took their outdoor clothing and hung then on pegs in the inner hall then invited them to follow him down a narrow corridor, towards the rear of the flat. About half way down the passage, the housekeeper stopped at a door on the left and opened it before stepping aside and inviting Sherlock and Molly to enter. They both thanked him again then stepped into a spacious, well-appointed drawing room, illuminated by the three panels of an enormous, floor to ceiling, bay window.

Mycroft, sitting on one of two matching navy-blue plush velvet sofas which faced each other across an Art Deco coffee table, made of metal and glass, rose to his feet to greet them.

'Molly, my dear, how lovely to see you again,' he declared, stepping forward and taking her by the shoulders while inclining forward, to give her a brief peck on each cheek, which Molly received awkwardly, unaccustomed to this level of intimacy from Sherlock's brother. The last time they met, he'd called her 'Miss Hooper'! 'Do sit down, won't you?' he invited. 'Lunch will be served shortly. Would you care for a glass of something while we wait?'

Since the time was barely past noon, they both declined the offer of alcohol but Molly accepted a glass of water, which Mycroft served to her on a silver platter, in a cut crystal glass, poured from a matching jug which sat on the sideboard. Mycroft served himself a tumbler of whiskey, prompting Sherlock to narrow his eyes at the sight of his brother drinking spirits - hardly an aperitif - so early in the day. Were things proving a bit too much for the Iceman just lately, he wondered?

Molly, seated next to Sherlock on the second sofa, sipped her water and listened with interest while Mycroft brought them both up to speed on the progress of his investigations into Sir Edwin's activities.

'We identified the unit that broke into your flat. They've confirmed that their orders came directly from Sir Edwin…soon to become plain old Edwin Beauchamp Esq, you'll no doubt be please to know.'

Sherlock was no great fan of the British Honours system at the best of times. He had no problem with ordinary people being lauded for going above and beyond in charitable pursuits or voluntary activities but he didn't quite understand why people like Edwin and Rudi should be rewarded with titles and high social status simply for doing the job they were employed. No doubt Mycroft would beg to differ. However, he was glad that Edwin was to be stripped of his rank and titles but he wondered if this would be the only consequence the man would suffer for all his crimes. Mycroft read his thoughts.

'I doubt he will stand trial.'

'Despite deploying servants of the state to murder members of the public? Including me…and Eurus...had he been successful? By the way, did you establish what was in the hypodermic that he was about to inject into our sister?'

'Indeed, we have,' Mycroft replied. 'It was a particularly potent strain of psilocybin – Psilocybin Cyanescens, I understand. The effects would have made her appear utterly psychotic to your Scottish lawyers. It may even have proven fatal, when administered intravenously. Not the usual means by which it is imbibed, I'm told. I wouldn't know, myself. More your area, of course.'

Sherlock ignored the jibe but his expression emphasised the point that Edwin was escaping justice.

'As you are well aware, brother mine, some people know far too much to be put on public trial. But we have our own means of dealing with such individuals.'

That phrase, delivered so casually in this pleasant drawing room on a sunny Sunday afternoon, caused Molly's blood to run cold and she shivered, involuntarily.

'Are you feeling the chill, my dear?' Mycroft enquired, solicitously. 'Should I ask Wilder to turn up the heating?'

'No, I'm fine, thank you,' Molly replied, already warmed by the simple action of Sherlock taking her hand in his, where they both rested, side by side on the sofa seat.

'Have you been in communication with Eurus recently?' Mycroft enquired, managing to make it sound like a diplomatic mission rather than a conversation between siblings.

'Yes,' Sherlock replied, 'a couple of times. I've arranged to take Pa for a visit on Tuesday. Just Pa, for now,' he added, pre-empting his brother's next question. 'How about you?'

Mycroft's brow wrinkled and his mouth turned down at the corners.

'I fear any approach from me would be counter-productive at the present time. I'm currently maintaining a respectful distance. Ms Storer has my number. I'm sure she will be in touch if my attention is required.'

Sherlock suspected that his brother might be correct in all his assumptions. It could take a while for Eurus to overcome her negative associations with her older sibling but Charlotte would not be backwards at coming forwards if Mycroft's assistance was needed.

'With regards to Mummy,' he said, addressing the elephant in the room, 'it occurred to me that if anyone were in dire need of a thorough debriefing from one of your tame psychologists, it would be her. In terms of longevity alone, she has been most subject to Rudi's brainwashing techniques. We can't leave it all to Pa. It just wouldn't be fair.'

'No, you're right,' Mycroft concurred. 'I'll need to discuss the matter with the Home Secretary, since such use of government personnel would require her sanction.'

Molly found it highly amusing that Mycroft referred to his partner, the woman he slept alongside every night, as 'the Home Secretary', as though the two were entirely separate entities. It was the equivalent of her referring to Sherlock as 'the Consulting Detective' or him referring to her as 'the Pathologist'…oh, actually… But she hoped Mycroft hadn't noticed her suppressing her giggles.

Opportunely, at that very moment, Wilder came to the drawing room door and announced that lunch was served. He led the way further along the internal corridor to the dining room, where Alicia was waiting to greet her guests, having prepared a sumptuous feast whose mouth-watering aromas beckoned them into the room.

As was the case the previous Sunday, their exchanges during the meal itself were purely conversational. Molly found herself drawn once again to Lady Smallwood who was a very easy person to talk to, being completely down to earth and matter of fact, despite holding one of the Great Offices of State in the British Government.

Somehow, the topic of holiday disasters came up – a subject neither Sherlock nor Mycroft could contribute to, having never actually been 'away' on holiday, so far as they could remember. Lady S shared several hilarious anecdotes concerning various incidents that had occurred on a number of 'Hen' holidays she had shared, including a fortnight at an all-inclusive hotel complex in Cancun, on the Yucatán Peninsular in Mexico.

That particular tale involved a rather steamy night out at a touristy discotheque and a raucous coach journey back to the hotel, during which one of their number fell into a drunken stupor on the back seat and got left on the bus, because nobody noticed. The anonymous person – Lady S insisted it wasn't her but would not identify the party - ending up spending two nights and one day locked in the bus garage, while the other ladies hunted high and low all over the hotel complex, checking every swimming pool – of which there were nine – and fountain – of which there were several – fearing that she had wandered off and drowned. Fortunately, she was brought back to the hotel, safe and sound if somewhat hungry and dehydrated, after the bus company's cleaning team found her when they returned to work on the Monday morning.

Molly couldn't beat that, although she told a hilarious story about an unfortunate encounter with a ski lift in Soldeu, Andorra. Sherlock and Mycroft looked on, befuddled, as the two ladies snorted with laughter, after which Molly observed,

'Perhaps one had to be there,' prompting Alicia to reply,

'In spirit, if not in body.'

Meal over, the foursome retired to the drawing room, where Wilder served coffee and the main topic of the day was raised, at last.

'As you are aware, I've decided to sell Rudi's house,' Mycroft announced. 'It's become increasingly difficult to countenance living there, particularly in light of what you revealed last Monday,' he added, turning to Sherlock. 'Since then, Alicia and I have discussed the subject extensively and the decision we have reached will, I believe, benefit everyone.'

Sherlock had no desire to benefit in any way, shape or form from the sale of Rudi's house. He didn't want anything to do with anything that Rudi had ever touched but he kept silent and waited for Mycroft to explain in detail his intensions with regard to the house and its proceeds.

'The house and grounds have been valued and an eight-figure sum has been mooted. My estate agent has put out some tentative feelers and a couple of individuals have registered an interest…'

'Who might they be, I wonder?' Sherlock hummed.

'Suffice to say, a rather high-profile couple are likely to become front page news in the near future when their divorce settlement is revealed. The lady in question is looking for a home for herself and her children within easy reach of London and she has sufficient means,' Mycroft explained.

'And the other one?'

'A Saudi prince.'

'Ah, bin Nayef,' Sherlock exclaimed.

'Obviously,' Mycroft replied.

Molly had absolutely no idea what was so obvious about the name that Sherlock had just quoted. She knew nothing of this or any other Saudi prince, though it was clear to her that everyone else in the room was completely up to speed. She decided to say nothing for now but to ask Sherlock about it on the way home.

'So, it's as good as sold, then,' declared Sherlock.

'Indeed,' Mycroft nodded, 'and for the full asking price, no doubt. If not more.'

'So, who gets the lolly?' Sherlock enquired, though he thought he had a fair idea what Mycroft was about to say.

'After tax - which will be a considerable sum, of course - I intend to divide the remaining fund four ways. One quarter will go to our parents, one quarter to the Trevor family, one quarter to Eurus and the final quarter will be spent on refurbishing Musgrave Hall. Once the refurbishment is complete, Alicia and I intend to live there, since I'm reasonably sure our parents won't wish to. However, should they choose to make it their permanent home, Alicia and I would occupy the gate house, which will also be refurbished as part of the overall package.'

He paused, Sherlock suspected for dramatic effect, or perhaps because he was about to say something contentious. Either way, he wished Mycroft would just get on with it.

'Get on with it,' Sherlock snapped, irritably.

'Since it's fairly obvious that Alicia and I are well past reproductive age, it is my intention to leave Musgrave in my will to you, brother dear…you and your progeny.'

'Oh, Mycroft…' Lady S groaned, quite mortified at Mycroft's lack of decorum, as Sherlock's expression darkened. So, he'd chosen the contentious option.

It wasn't, as Alicia thought, Mycroft's use of the word 'progeny' that had elicited Sherlock's scowl, though that in itself was regrettable. He and Molly had been in an intimate relationship for only a week and progeny was the last thing on either of their minds right now; however, should things progress favourably, he was not averse to the idea that perhaps, one day, they might consider the possibility of having children, even though Mycroft's comment was, in the current climate, crass and guaranteed – even if not intended - to cause Molly a fair degree of embarrassment. And glancing to his right only served to confirm the accuracy of his deduction. Molly was doing her best to hide her discomposure but her cheeks betrayed her, each sporting a spot of bright pink.

'I must apologise for my unforgivable oversight, Molly,' he said, with mock sincerity. 'I'm afraid I completely forgot to advise you in advance of my brother's unfortunate impediment,' he added, glaring at Mycroft as he spoke. 'Yes, I should have warned you that he is, at times, a complete arse.'

What had actually caused his hackles to rise was the conflation of, on the one hand, the proceeds of Rudi's ill-gotten gains financing the refurbishment of their ancestral home and, on the other, the prospect of him, at some point in the future, inheriting it. Of all the family members, Sherlock had been the happiest at Musgrave Hall. All his memories from there were good ones, except one. It was the ultimate childhood idyll, until it was destroyed by a single evil act. So, it wasn't hard for him to imagine what a perfect environment Musgrave would be for the raising of children.

'I thought I'd made it clear, Mycroft…' he began, his tone brittle with indignation.

'Yes, you made it very clear that you have no desire to profit from Uncle Rudi's nefarious exploits,' Mycroft interjected, still blissfully ignorant of the effect his earlier comment had had on Molly. 'But I would like to remind you of what our father revealed last Monday night…'

Sherlock was baffled. What had his Pa said last Monday night that could have any bearing on this conversation? Was he even awake to hear it?

'How would I know, Mycroft?' he snorted, 'I was out cold, on the floor, most of the time.' Now it was Molly's turn to wrap her fingers around his hand and give it a comforting squeeze.

'Apologies, brother,' Mycroft conceded. 'I do now recall that you were sleeping at the time this conversation took place.'

He proceeded to relate, in precise, their father's revelations about Uncle Rudi's 'generous' loan to cover the cost of refurbishing Musgrave Hall, back in the 1980s, and the relative advantages and disadvantages for all parties involved - overwhelmingly in Rudi's favour, of course.

'Uncle Rudi profited hugely from the financial arrangement he forced upon our father,' said Mycroft, visibly bristling with righteous indignation. 'The proceeds from the sale of his house are not a gift but a debt repaid, reparation for the damage wreaked upon us as a family and as individuals.'

Of course, Sherlock already knew all this. He had deduced, over the years, his father's true feelings with regard to that loan but this was a dramatic volte-face on Mycroft's part and proof, if any were needed, that he was completely disillusioned with his former mentor. But Sherlock was concerned that his brother's mood pendulum may have swung too far in the opposite direction.

He suspected that Mycroft's mood instability was at least partly due to the amount of alcohol he had consumed before and during their meal. Of the two bottles of wine served with lunch, Mycroft had probably accounted for at least one of them, all by himself. And Sherlock could not help but notice when Lady Smallwood discretely moved the second bottle to the opposite side of the table, beyond his brother's reach. Imbibing like this was not normal for Mycroft. He liked a drink but he wasn't 'a drinker'.

'I take your point, Mycroft, but do dial down on the Pity Points, would you?' Sherlock quipped.

'Ah, yes. So sorry, I forgot. We're not victims, are we. We're survivors,' Mycroft huffed.

'Look, what you do with the money from the house is entirely your…' Sherlock began but pulled up short, mid-sentence, and all the colour – what little there was – drained from his cheeks.

'What did you just say?' he gasped.

His heart began to race and he could hear it thundering in his ears as he got slowly to his feet.

'What did you just say?' he demanded, pointing an accusatory finger at his brother. Then, without waiting for a reply, he turned and began to pace around the room, his hands rising up to rest on top of his head as he muttered incoherently to himself. Mycroft, meanwhile, remained seated but his demeanour was not one of concern, more of…guilt? Lady Smallwood, on the other hand, sat in stunned surprise, looking both puzzled and concerned at this sudden and bizarre development.

'Sherlock?' Molly exclaimed in alarm, jumping to her feet and tracking him, with her eyes, around the room. 'What is it? What's the matter?'

'No, no, no…' Sherlock repeated, on a rising cadence, then stopped dead, swung around toward Mycroft and demanded,

'Where did you hear that phrase?'

'What…what…I don't know what…' Mycroft stuttered, completely out of character, in Molly's experience.

'You said you hadn't spoken to Eurus!'

'I haven't!' Mycroft insisted.

'And I don't believe Charlotte would use that phrase with you.'

'She…she…she may have…'

'No!' Sherlock roared. 'You've been spying on me, again!' He strode forward and loomed, threateningly, over his brother. 'Have you bugged my flat? Or Molly's house? No…' he swung around and paced away again, scanning the walls, the floor, the ceiling as though searching for something – a word, a hint, a clue of some kind – in the very fabric of the room itself. 'No…' he swung back. 'I wasn't at home, I was out…in a cab…on my phone! Did you hack my phone?'

'No! No! Of course not!' Mycroft yelped, still not sounding at all like himself.

Sherlock veered off around the room again, bringing his hands together, in a broad sweeping motion, and up to his lips in the classic Holmesian prayer position. But then he halted and spun around, glaring at his brother in outraged disdain.

'Charlotte's phone. You hacked Charlotte's phone…'

His mind reeled backwards through time to just over a week ago. The scene was Charlotte's dining-kitchen and the conversation around the lunch table…

'I will be placing this house under round-the-clock surveillance...'

'You mustn't do that!'

'I'm afraid, dear lady, I must.'

'Oh, trust me, Charlotte, he must. He can't help it. It's a compulsion with him. But don't take it personally. He's been spying on me my entire adult life. So, if you intend to remain a close associate of a member of this family, you're going to have to get used to it. But it can be rather fun, sometimes…finding different ways to out-fox Mycroft's minions.'

'However, don't be alarmed. It will be discreet. Agents will be deployed in the vicinity, day and night, to monitor the house and, should Eurus leave the property, she will be shadowed but, I can assure you, they will be invisible. You won't even know they're there. My sister's safety is my paramount concern.'

And then, in the cab outside…

'I hope you're right about her. We're taking an enormous risk leaving those two together, unsupervised.'

'Hardly unsupervised, Mycroft.'

'Don't be infantile, Sherlock. We must assume that Sir Edwin has contingency plans in place, on the off-chance that he might fail in his mission. I'll be interviewing him at some point over the weekend but it would be negligent to leave Eurus unprotected, while we assess the level of threat.'

'Of course, how silly of me. Your motives are purely altruistic.'

'Discreet, you said…External surveillance only, you said…For her own protection, you said!' Sherlock's voice rose in pitch and volume with every phrase. 'And I bloody well believed you! What an absolute moron am I!' he roared, resuming his manic pacing, up and down the room. 'You know, Mycroft, I actually thought that, once you came to understand how Rudi manipulated you…manipulated us all… that you would stop all this invasive, clandestine monitoring of your own family members...well, me, in fact...'

He turned to confront his brother, his face crimson, now, with rage.

'I even convinced Charlotte that it would be OK, that you wouldn't do anything too intrusive. But you lied!' he roared again, spittle flying from his lips, as he threw out his arms in a grand gesture.

'Mycroft?' Lady Smallwood's voice cut in, cold, hard, commanding. 'What have you done?'

'I needed to be sure!' Mycroft exclaimed. 'I didn't know if we could trust her…either of them, in fact…and, let's face it, we agreed. It needed testing on a low-grade target. It seemed an obvious choice!'

Molly stood rooted to the spot, looking from Sherlock's stricken expression to Mycroft's almost petulant one and then to Alicia's demeanour of horrified surprise, and she felt as though she had just slipped through a crack in the pavement of reality, into a crazy alternate universe where nothing made any sense at all.

'Can someone please tell me what on earth is going on?' she exclaimed but no one seemed to hear her.

'Mycroft,' Lady Smallwood intoned, her voice like ice. 'Have you deployed Pegasus on your sister's partner's phone?'

Mycroft seemed to crumple and, as he flopped back in the sofa, in a dishevelled heap, he extended a hand towards Alicia but she sat up, tall and stiff, withdrawing from him both physically and emotionally, folding her hands together in her lap.

Molly barely had time to take in this drawing room drama, playing out before her very eyes, before her attention was ripped away by a sound she had hoped never to hear again - Sherlock hyperventilating. She turned her head and saw him stagger backwards towards the bay windows, covering his face with his hands, leaving only his eyes visible, staring, wide and glassy. She had seen him look like this only once before - last Monday night, when he turned up at St Bart's...

It took only a couple of seconds for her to cross the room and reach out to him, grabbing his wrists and pulling him sharply toward her, to try and get his attention but his eyes were fixed on Mycroft.

His skin felt cold and clammy and his head was full of sixty thousand angry bees, all buzzing fit to bust.

'I trusted you…' he gasped, between ragged breaths. 'How utterly, utterly stupid of me…' A sob caught in his throat and angry tears started from his eyes. Inside his chest, a tidal wave of emotion - monumental outrage, combined with abject betrayal - roiled, tossed, hissed and swelled, forcing its way up and out, pushing against his ribcage, his diaphragm, his larynx…desperate to escape… But it couldn't get out…It was going to erupt, explode and blow him apart in the process, into tiny little pieces…

'Oh, god,' he groaned, switching his gaze, at last, to Molly. 'I'm going to puke...' and he turned away just in time, as a torrent of projectile vomit issued from his gut and splattered on the highly polished wooden parquet flooring of Mycroft's elegant sitting room, avoiding Molly by mere millimetres.

As the contents of his stomach, so recently consumed, forced their way out again, Sherlock sank to his hands and knees and heaved and heaved, repeatedly, while Molly dropped down beside him and rubbed his back, soothingly, murmuring words of consolation in an effort to comfort him. Eventually, the retching subsided and he rolled over onto his side, in the foetal position, resting his head on the floor. Molly knelt next to him, brushing the hair off his forehead whilst looking round for something with which to wipe the vomit from his face.

But Alicia was on the ball. She had already summoned Wilder and instructed him to bring the wherewithal to deal with the mess – a roll of paper kitchen towels, a bin bag, a bucket of hot water with bleach, rubber gloves and a mop – and now she was standing by with a box of tissues and a glass of water. Molly accepted both, gratefully, and set about cleaning around Sherlock's mouth and chin.

'I am so sorry,' Alicia groaned, her tone heavy with sincere regret, kneeling on the floor and addressing both Sherlock and Molly. 'I really cannot…'

'No,' Sherlock mumbled, barely audible. 'Not your fault. None of this your fault.'

'No, I should have been more on the ball…'

'Alicia,' said Molly, sitting up straight and speaking forthrightly. 'What is Pegasus?'

Lady S sat back on her heels and took a deep breath.

'Pegasus is a piece of weapons grade spyware we recently acquired from an American private equity firm but it was originally developed by an Israeli company that specialised in cyber-arms. Don't ask me what an American equity firm would want with such a piece of software,' she digressed, shaking her head in disgust, but then continued,

'It can be installed on any electronic communication device – a smart phone, a laptop, tablet or PC, by the simple expedient of sending a text or an email to the user. The text or email doesn't even have to be opened to activate the software. Once installed, it can monitor all communications or web searches made on the device or devices. It can track phone calls, and the geographic movements of the target user and tell us exactly where the person is or has been. And it can activate the microphone and camera of any smartphone or other Wi-Fi device, affording continuous surveillance of the target without ever needing to enter their property to fit spy cams or audio devices or deploy any other surveillance hardware.

As I said, we acquired it recently - as an invaluable tool to be deployed against active terror cells and organised crime syndicates. We had discussed the need to test it on a soft, low-level target to test the parameters of what it did, to see if it was as good as the designers claimed. But I had no idea…' She looked away, dismayed.

Molly was appalled.

'And Mycroft put this thing on Charlotte's phone?'

'Apparently, yes, he did,' Alicia conceded, her voice heavy with regret.

Molly turned toward the sofas to look at Mycroft but he wasn't there. At some point, he had vacated the room. He hadn't even asked how Sherlock was.

'He's getting it removed, even as we speak. That's where he is. I told him to deal with it,' Alicia explained. 'Please…don't judge him too harshly,' she pleaded. 'This business with Rudi and Edwin and Eurus. You have no idea how hard it's hit him.'

'Not just him, Alicia,' Molly replied, as courteously as she could muster, considering the burning anger she was feeling right now.

Sherlock, who had heard every word, even through the brain fog, rolled over, struggling to get up.

'Can we help you to the sofa?' Alicia asked, standing up herself.

'No,' he growled. Reaching out for something to grab hold of and finding Molly's shoulder, he tried to pull himself upright but he was too heavy and nearly pulled her over.

'Sherlock, what do you want to do?' Molly asked, ducking under his shoulder and sliding her arm around his back, creating a far more stable base.

'I want to go home. Get me out of here. Please.'

It was probably inadvisable to move him but Molly knew that persuading him to stay put was a lost cause. With Alicia's help – she a former gymnast and still pretty strong, despite her slim build – they got him to his feet. At this stage, Wilder, who had been engaged laying strips of kitchen towel over the floor to soak up the vomit, peeled off his rubber gloves and took Molly's place under Sherlock's shoulder. The party made their way out of the drawing room and along the passage way to the front door, where Molly collected their outdoor clothes and they exited the flat.

Wilder very wisely chose the lift as the most appropriate form of transport and, as it lowered them gently to the ground floor, Molly used her phone app to summon a cab. Needless to say, there were plenty to choose from in Knightsbridge on a Sunday afternoon. As they negotiated the steps at the front of the building, the cab drew up and Wilder installed Sherlock inside while Molly and Alicia said their farewells.

'Please, let me know how he is, would you?' Alicia pleaded.

'Of course,' Molly replied and the two women hugged.

Molly thanked Wilder for his assistance and climbed into the cab. She wrapped Sherlock's coat around him to mitigate the shivering that she doubted was solely due to the temperature outside, and took her place beside him, as he huddled in the corner of the back seat, eyes squeezed tight and expression pinched.

The cab moved off and rounded the square before pulling out onto Sloane Street and heading north toward Hyde Park and Marylebone, Baker Street being the closest and, therefore, the most obvious destination.

ooOoo

Mycroft may have been the first to use Pegasus to spy on his relatives but he definitely wasn't the last. The ruler of Dubai was just found guilty of the same thing, after bugging his wife and her legal team during their divorce proceedings. Life imitates Art! ;)