A/N: I don't even want to think about how long it has been since I lasted posted. However I got a really sweet review the other day and it made me go back and re read the is fic. I forgot how much I enjoyed writing this. Full disclosure I haven't watched season 4 yet so I am continuing this as if we are still post-season 3.
It must be warm in his office, Mycroft thought as he listened to his P.A. typing in a steady staccato. He could smell her perfume as it rose off her body, but the citrus top notes made no impression on him, despite knowing they were there, instead he could smell the rounded floral notes that made the body so enticing. In a sick way it always made him think of his mother. The conclusion: body heat not reapplication. True to his name, the Iceman, Mycroft ran cool. He did not notice when his office became stuffy. Opening a window may be misinterpreted though; women, in his limited experience, did not like to know you could smell them.
He walked behind her chair to glance at her screen, considering the message sent by his brother's phone. He was sure Sherlock was very specific about the wording, but a person made so many minute decisions when typing a message that it was obviously not composed by his brother. He wondered if he had had his doctor write the message then, offering Mycroft her 'friend' on a silver platter. How broken his little brother was, he could not predict how these actions would remove the object of his infatuation further and further from his sphere of influence. He was irate at Lestrade for exposing Sherlock to a woman who could so easily upset the delicate balance he had managed to claw back after his last obsession. The only thing saving the DI from Mycroft tightening the leash was that the Doctor had spent the night in his bed and not Sherlock's.
"Sir?" his PA interrupted his train of thought and he glanced down at her for the first time since she set up her small laptop in his office. The back of her shirt hung in a low cowl and Mycroft could see the corded muscles beneath. Her beauty and soft chestnut coloured hair distracted people from the fact she held the fastest neck snap at the academy. He turned his attention to the screen and what had called her attention. An old surveillance photograph of their terrorist; bound and being led by a rope was none other than the good doctor.
"Was there ever an investigation?" He keeps his tone low, an incisor making a small hole in his right cheek to keep at bay the grin he could feel tugging at his mouth. He had her now. Irrefutable proof that Dr. Laurent was not some lucky sublet-er or was naïve as to who was her benefactor. Instead here they were in grainy black and white separated by a scant 6 feet of rope.
His assistant made a small noise, a barely perceivable movement of air through her sinuses but Mycroft knew it was a scoff. He knew even her smallest sound, what the slightest change in breath meant. He knew them as intimately as if she was a finely tuned violin. He considered it necessary, a barometer for every situation. He looked at her computer screen, but he knew what would be on it.
"Just this, sir." she brought the scanned memo into focus, she was trying to catch a glance of him in her periphery without turning her head, but he was firmly behind her. On the screen was exactly what he had anticipated, his own looping hand mocking him 2 years later. The message scrawled on the pad from his desk read simply "Not one of ours, disregard. MH"
He remembered this small exchange; he had kept this photo tucked away in his mind, which is why he had brought his PA here to summon it again. He had hoped that his memory was failing him and that it would have been a different woman. It had been the right call at the time, not to investigate. If the woman had survived then diplomatically speaking it would be hard to gain access to her once she had returned to French soil. If he had known she was in fact Canadian he may have made a different choice, but then the only intel had been 'French-entomologist". If she was dead then all they had done was alert another government that they had a better idea where this international terrorist was, it meant having to play more of a role if he were to use this French woman to harm French International industry.
"Prepare a dossier on Curt Hayes, nothing above security clearance 3. Send it to 221B Baker Street within the hour." Mycroft turns his back on his assistant, moving to the window. He hears her quickly pack up and there is a slight urgency in the click of her heels as she exits the room. It is an unreasonable time limit, but necessary in order to discourage thoroughness. His brother had not been playing by the rules and he had no interest in helping him.
This left the question of how to handle Dr. Laurent. While it wasn't a crime to be kidnapped, the fact she moved to England immediately after and was in fact living off an international terrorist, made it something worth investigation. Taking this woman away from Sherlock now could be a gamble. While he weighed the options in his mind his finger found its way to the mother of pearl button set into his desk. He closed his eyes and pressed it, hearing the immediate empty buzz of an open comm link.
"Call for Dodson, I require his services."
He had no time for sentimentality. He had nursed his idiot brother through worse losses he could do it again. He had a far bigger target in his crosshairs and he would be damned if he would let him get away.