Chapter Three
Birds and Bees – The Trouble with High Treason – O, To Be a British Butler – Uncle Sherlock is An Idiot – Saint Cate – Forbidden.
###
Mycroft felt ice in his veins.
Blythe was fourteen; barely adolescent, a mere child. How could she possibly be ready to enter the adult world of relationships and intimacy? His daughter was an innocent, entirely unprepared for this! How could he protect her when she allowed an outsider to be so close? How could she bring another man into her life, someone who would change her way of seeing things, change the way she behaved; someone who was not him.
In the same instant, he realised Blythe was fourteen, already far in advance of her years in many ways, and with her mother's clear awareness of the world as well as his own critical evaluation of it. She was closer to being an adult than an infant, and it was time she sought new experiences, new adventures, new ... friends. His child was no longer a child. Mycroft felt his heart pound in his chest, though whether it was from grief or from joy, he had no clue.
Torn between multiple conflicting feelings and further turmoiled by the fact he was actually experiencing such feelings; Mycroft stared down at Blythe's flushed and startled face. Pre-empting the barrage of questions he could sense about to emerge from Sherlock's mouth, he smiled gently.
"I believe we should have a little chat about such a momentous event, don't you?" he said carefully, realising now he was caught in the cleft-stick of two critical moments. He very much wanted to speak to his daughter about this unexpected revelation; it seemed entirely too coincidental for a new friend to enter her life just as he was being placed in such a dangerously pressured situation himself.
But if it did, he would rather not have Sherlock involved in such a conversation, which meant leaving his brother here, in the kitchen with Jules and Jack Parrish, a situation he would vastly prefer not take place under the current conditions.
"Later, perhaps?" he smiled again, steering Sherlock's momentarily resistant elbow back down the passage towards his office where John was still waiting.
Cate was at the foot of the stairs with some old towels she was about to put in the rag box. She smiled when she saw her brother-in-law; still as tall and sweeping as he ever was, though there were one or two paler hairs now among the dark curling mass.
"Your daughter needs to speak to you," he said, shooting an angry look at Mycroft even as he strode into the office and the door closed abruptly behind the two of them.
Blythe? What was the matter that Sherlock considered so important it was necessary to tell her?
"What's the matter, darling?" Cate walked into the kitchen, dumping the old towels on a chair. "Your uncle said we needed to speak. What's the matter, sweetheart?"
Jules groaned loudly, dropping his head heavily onto his arms as they rested on the table.
"I'll just take my gear up to my room," Jack Parrish smiled discreetly as he left, tapping Jules on the shoulder as he did.
"And I'm going to have a look at some homework or something," Julius was up on his feet and on Jack's heels, leaving the two women of the house with some privacy.
Something was clearly amiss. Cate looked squarely into her daughter's eyes. "Tell me," she said, softly. "Just tell me; you know I won't be angry, whatever it is."
"There's no reason for everyone to get all worked up about it," Blythe heaved a huge sigh and rolled her eyes. "It's not as if I've done anything wrong."
"Then what is it?" Cate was still watching her daughter's face. Despite Blythe's intellectual heritage, she was still a young girl. Cate smiled suddenly, reminded of the time when she was fourteen and once thrown out of a museum for being unable to resist stroking all the beautifully curved stone carvings.
Seeing her mother smile unexpectedly, Blythe sighed again and relaxed. "I think I have a boyfriend," she said. "Only I'm not sure because I haven't really had one before; boys at school who also happen to be my friends aren't really the same, are they?"
"No, not really," Cate smiled again as she sat down opposite her daughter. She had been expecting an announcement of this kind since the twins had entered the steamy jungles of puberty. "Is he very nice? Do I know him?"
"He's very nice," Blythe grinned shyly. "He's sixteen and he's at school and his name is Landry and he's really good at ancient Hebrew."
The things that caught the heart of a Holmes, Cate felt warm as she watched her teenage daughter turn into a young woman right in front of her eyes.
"And how does he feel about you?" Cate was quite comfortable with Blythe's ability to handle almost any situation requiring logical problem-solving, but this wasn't quite like that. And one of the things all the Holmes' seemed to have in common was an impressive ability to misconstrue other peoples' feelings. "Are you his first girlfriend?"
Blythe regarded her mother with deep patience realising that this was one of those parent-child rites-of-passage, things. "We haven't really talked about that kind of stuff yet," she said, calmly. "So far, it's been mostly the things we like and the things we don't like," she smiled again. "He's quite clever, for a boy," she added. "He rides horses and his family have a big house with stables near Pulborough. His mother trains racehorses."
"And what does his father do, do you know?"
"Something in the Government like Daddy," Blythe shrugged one shoulder. "His father isn't often around."
Brain of a computer, heart as soft as marshmallow. Just like Mycroft. Cate leaned across the table and caught her child's fingers. "And do you like him very much?"
Blythe looked down at the tabletop and grinned again. Lifting her eyes to her mother, she nodded, making a face. "Is Daddy going to make a fuss?"
"Daddy will only want to know that the two of you aren't rushing into a relationship too quickly," Cate hesitated. "Do I need to give you the mother-daughter talk or are you way ahead of me?"
"Oh God, Mum," Blythe covered her face with both hands in mortification. "I can't believe you'd be so pedestrian as to offer to give me the talk."
"Pedestrian I may be, but I'm your mother and it behoves me to make sure you have all the gory details burned into your brain like glowing cinders," she laughed, taking hold of Blythe's hand again. "Once upon a time, there were two little birds, who loved each other very very much, and one day ..."
Blythe buried her head in her free arm and groaned pitifully.
###
Sherlock sat stiffly in one of the comfortable chairs in Mycroft's office and stared at the ceiling. Mycroft ignored the unspoken criticism and turned instead to John who had, over the years, become a key stabilising factor in the life of the Holmes family.
"Good of you to come over at such short notice," Mycroft smiled briefly at the blond-haired man. "I've been offered the Barony of Esgair," he announced without preamble. "Not even the usual knighthood, this time," he inhaled deeply. "You see my problem."
John was struggling hard enough to come to terms with the fact that the elder Holmes was considered suitable material for a lordship to hear the note of irritation in Mycroft's words.
Despite himself, Sherlock couldn't help but hear, evaluate and analyse the entire statement and he turned his head, a look of malicious fascination on his features.
"Baron of Esgair?" he laughed cynically. "Someone up there really doesn't like you."
"What's the matter with being Baron of Esgair?" John was bewildered. "Isn't it a good thing to be?"
"The Barony of Esgair encompasses some of Wales' foremost farming and dairy lands," Mycroft linked his fingers across his stomach, a sour twist to his mouth. "The extensive physical property is not only celebrated as an area of great natural beauty, but it is highly productive both above and below ground. The revenue from mineral extraction alone runs into the millions, and though it reverted to the Crown several years ago when the nineteenth Baron died sans legitimate issue, it was assumed to be earmarked for one of the great scions of the aristocracy," he paused, frustration in his eyes.
"And yet, it comes to you," Sherlock stopped sulking in favour of taunting his brother who was clearly discomforted.
"And yet, it comes to me," Mycroft scowled even more.
"But I still don't see the problem," John looked from one Holmes to the other, at a loss to see the difficulty. "You've been offered a fantastic peerage in Wales in recognition of all the times you've saved the world; what's wrong with that? What does Cate say about it all?"
Mycroft looked horrified. "You cannot imagine for one second I'd inflict the knowledge of something like this on my family?" he looked faintly ill. "Despite her admiration of opera and vintage champagne, I can assure you that Cate is a dyed-in-the-wool socialist at heart; anything that smacked of an hereditary peerage would have her running for the hills," groaning beneath his breath, he rubbed an eyebrow. "The eventual knighthood will be bad enough," he muttered, closing his eyes.
Sherlock exhaled slowly, looking at his best friend and colleague. "Someone is going to extraordinary lengths in an attempt to dislodge my brother from the centre of his incomprehensibly labyrinthine web in Whitehall," he said. "Only the monarch can award hereditary-peerages, therefore the Queen has somehow been convinced by the Honours committee that Mycroft, a complete unknown within all but the highest government circles and utterly unheard of without, should be given one of the greatest and most lucrative awards available in Britain today," he paused, shaking his head. "This is not even the natural reward of a British hero," Sherlock furrowed his brow and folded his arms. "Other than a very few individuals, nobody is aware of the work Mycroft does or has done for many years, therefore this is an unnatural reward; something so extraordinary as to be unique in the annals of the system."
"Which can mean only one thing," Mycroft's sigh echoed his brother's. "I am wanted out of the way and the easiest route to achieve this is assumed to be through my natural desire for wealth and status."
"Thus we may deduce the key stakeholder in this little exercise knows of you, but does not know you or Cate, personally or intimately," Sherlock steepled his fingers under his nose. "Clearly someone senior in government ranks, possibly even someone with whom you have worked in the last decade or so, either for or against," Sherlock was musing aloud. "Probably against," he smiled fleetingly.
"That description encompasses a significant number of individuals," Mycroft pursed his lips and looked towards the ceiling. "The orchestration of such an event would require someone to be on the inside of several key committees," he brought his gaze back down to earth. "I doubt it would be too hard to locate any common denominators."
"Though if our man - could be a woman, but based on the ongoing discriminatory practices of senior government recruitment, probably a man – is clever enough to weave this particular cloth, he would certainly be clever enough to have someone else do it on his behalf," Sherlock was now fully into analysis-mode, his face taking on a pointed expression, as if he were a hound on the trail of a fox. "Is it possible to back-track royal communiqués?" he asked, idly studying a thumbnail.
"You mean to gain access to the privileged and highly confidential private correspondence of both Her Majesty and her Privy Council?" Mycroft's eyebrows lifted slightly.
"That doesn't sound like a terribly sensible idea," John looked between the brothers. "The word treasonous seems to be coming at me from somewhere when I hear things like that," he folded his arms and looked vaguely puritanical.
"Don't be so squeamish, John," Sherlock smiled. "They stopped chopping people's heads off for high treason in seventeen-forty-seven," he turned to his sibling. "And Mycroft could probably get us out of trouble, couldn't you?"
"Hang on," John sensed a worrying subtext to the conversation. "What trouble?"
Sherlock steepled his fingers again and looked back at Mycroft.
And then at John.
Then he grinned.
###
Jules leaned against the frame of the door, watching as Jack Parrish unpacked his belongings, putting them away into a couple of drawers. A rather splendid jet-black suit on a hanger was carefully unwrapped, ready to be hung with great care, in the walk-in-wardrobe.
"You brought a dinner suit?" Julius already had one of his own and recognised the similarities.
"Not a dinner suit," Jack grinned. "My uniform."
"What kind of uniform is ... oh, I see," Jules nodded. "I didn't know they still had those outside of BBC historical dramas anymore. Is it really a proper butler's uniform?"
"Cost me a mint, but it's beautiful," Jack stroked the fine black livery with loving fingers. "Now I just need to be someplace where I'm allowed to wear it," he smiled brightly. "My plan is to get a job at one of the big stately houses; either old or new money, I don't mind, but somewhere that really values the old-fashioned skills of a British butler."
"You actually want to wear a formal butler's uniform?" Jules wrinkled his forehead. "Why?"
Digging around inside his suitcase to pull out a small laptop, Jack switched it on, waiting until it booted up. On the desktop were a series of video icons. He clicked one and handed the computer to the boy. "Watch and learn," he said, continuing to unpack.
The video was an extract from an old British film. In black-and-white, the grainy images featured a man dressed as a butler taking charge of a grand household, his effortless command and charm a thing of great elegance and charisma. Jules closed the image; there were a dozen or more similar icons on the computer's desktop. "May I?" he asked, pointing at the next one.
"Of course," Jack smiled as he shook out a pair of tailored trousers prior to hanging them. "Have a look at them all, if you like."
Though there were a good number of the clips, they were short, a few minutes each, and the young Holmes ran through the lot before the new guest had finished putting everything away. Each one of them had shown the character of an archetypal British Majordomo in full flight. Rousing. Heroic.
"So you really want to do the whole butler thing, then?" Jules asked, closing the final clip. "Gosford Park and Downton Abbey eat your heart out?"
"Look, I know it sounds like a crazy thing, especially to someone like you who's got the brains and ability to do whatever you want to do, but yeah," Jack screwed one eye closed and grinned. "I really do."
"At some big, country estate with lots of house parties and a proper wine-cellar and grounds to maintain, and Lord-of-the-Manor stuff happening?"
Jack closed his eyes, a beatific grin curving his lips. "Perfect," he sighed. "Just perfect."
"Well, I think you're quite mad," Jules offered cheerfully. "But then people say that to me when I tell them I'd like to fly fighter jets, or when Bly announces she wants to run the country," he shrugged like only a fourteen-year-old could.
"Do you really want to be in the RAF?" Jack perched on the end of his bed. "It's a dangerous job, you know, especially these days."
Jules shrugged again, grinning. "Exactly."
"And what about your sister?" Jack turned his attention to the pillows Cate had arranged earlier, piling them up to suit his own preference before sliding up the bed and relaxing back, fingers clasped across his stomach. "Is she really as scary as she seems?"
Straddling the chair in front of the dressing table and leaning his arms across the back, Jules looked reflective. "Blythe is cleverer than most people, as clever as Dad in many ways," he said. "Probably end up even cleverer than our uncle, and he's about as smart as they come," he tilted his head. "I'm pretty bright too, but I see things in a different way to her," he smiled again. "I'm more like Mum, in a lot of ways, though I look more like Uncle Sherlock. Bly looks like Mummy but is really very much like Dad. Families," he shook his head, amused.
"I know your father is in the Government," Jack stared up at the ornate coving around the edge of the ceiling, "because that's how he heard I'd applied for a job as a servitor in the Houses of Parliament," he said. "Your dad told me you were all in need of help as there were all kinds of things happening and they needed someone temporarily to take some of the pressure off the normal things so that he and your mother could concentrate on bigger problems. Does that sound about right?"
"Yeah, it does, kind of," Jules rested his chin on his hands. "Mum used to be a university professor, but then she got into writing and now she does that as well as a lot of work for charitable organisations, so she's almost always busy. It's going to be hard for her to organise having the house completely redecorated as well," the young Holmes sounded pensive.
"You're having this place completely done up?" Jack looked around. "And if both your parents are busy, I guess they might like some help with organising tradespeople and deliveries and keeping track of all sorts of ... stuff?" there was an odd tone of interest in the young man's voice.
"I suppose so," Jules pursed his lips and looked thoughtful. "I know Mum is getting an architect in, but she's also got a lot of work to do with her new book coming out, and then there's all the things to do with our school ... she's flat out, really."
"Your mother writes? What kind of things?"
"Mummy writes spy novels," Jules grinned. "She's written a dozen of them so far and people seem to like them."
"Would I have read any of them?" Jack was curious. He'd never worked for a writer before.
Jules grinned harder, pointing to the paperback Jack had laid on the bedside table. "That's one of hers," he looked a little superior.
Reaching over for the creased copy of London Lies, Jack sat up, a look of sudden focus across his features. "Your mother wrote this? Your mother is Catherine Adin?"
Shrugging again, Jules said nothing.
"Mada ... Mrs Hol ... Cate, your mother, is Catherine Adin?"
"The odds are pretty good she'd be someone's mother," Jules laughed at the look on his new friend's face.
"Holy wow," Jack sat back, dazed. "Never worked for anyone famous, before," he said, pleased.
"And you might have heard of my Uncle Sherlock, as well," Jules was grinning now. "He's been in the headlines a few times, too."
Frowning, the tall blond searched for the name Sherlock Holmes in his memory. On finding a possible match, he looked back at the dark-haired boy occupying his bedroom chair.
"Not the detective chappie who wears that bloody silly hat?" Jack leaned forward again. "The guy who found the Chinese Ambassador's stolen gold dragons last year? The one who saved the Banksy mural from the City of London Council by having the whole building put under arrest? That Sherlock Holmes?"
Jules scratched an ear, but kept silent. His air of smug awareness ample confirmation.
"Bloody hell," Jack Parrish slumped back against the pillows. He'd landed up right in the middle of things this time.
"And what with this place going to be done up, and Mummy's new book coming out and Daddy saying he's thinking about retiring, which means he'll probably be spending more time down at Deepdene ..." Julius paused. "Did my father tell you we have a country house in Surrey and a small property down in Cornwall?"
Jack felt his pulse surge.
"There's a country residence in Surrey?" he asked, carefully. "And another in Cornwall?"
"Oh yes," Jules watched the man's face very carefully. "Deepdene is a few acres in Westhumble, just down from Leatherhead," he said. "Nice little place, actually. Mummy adores it. Daddy's great-grandfather, General, Sir Julius Tarquin Holmes built it in nineteen-o-two. I'm named after him; probably one of the reasons I want to be in the armed services."
"And the place in Cornwall?" Jack felt a little dizzy. No wonder Holmes Senior was old school with a Sir in the family. There had been a lot to take in these last few minutes. "You did say there was another place in Cornwall?"
"Mmm, yes. Not an estate, but a really nice big old house with a private beach," Jules perked up. "There's even a secret passage down to a hidden cove on the other side of the headland," he added, trying hard not to laugh at the blond man's expression. Anyone would think he'd won the lottery.
"So a townhouse in London that's going to get done up and will require considerable management in the meantime; a country estate in Surrey called Deepdene and a seaside property down in Cornwall; your mother is an acclaimed and very famous author; your uncle is the internationally well-known detective; your great-great granddad was a General Sir; your father is a high-up in the Government, and both you and your sister are probably too clever for your own good," Jack exhaled slowly. "Did I miss anything?"
"My paternal grandfather was Sir Jocelyn Holmes of the Home Office and my grandmother was Lady Elinor Holmes, a noted beauty of her time."
"Oh, dear god," Jack pressed a hand to his head. Another Sir. It was all a bit much. When he'd agreed to take the job on a temporary basis, he'd had no idea what he was getting into. This setup sounded a lot more than he'd bargained for.
Sitting up straight, he took a deep breath. Even if this was just a temporary billet, the professional butler always did his or her work to the very highest level. Jack Parrish was not the kind of man to let the side down.
"Right then," he said. "Can you show me the rest of the house and tell me what's likely to happen in the renovations?" he asked. "Just so I have an idea of what's going to be expected and where I might be the most use to everyone."
"I can do that, Jack," Jules stepped out into the main passage, his expression of unconcealed calculation hidden in the shadows.
###
"I insist," Sherlock locked stares with his brother. "It will be expected of me."
John had long since joined Cate in the kitchen for coffee, allowing the brothers to negotiate whatever it was they were choosing to fight over this time.
"I assure you, Sherlock, it is not expected of anyone, and I dare say Blythe will be entirely happy to keep things that way," Mycroft sounded cautious.
"But you're going to have a talk with her?"
"Of course, but I am her father and there are certain ... items of information I would like to ascertain before the relationship proceeds."
"I have the same desire," Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. "Blythe has come to depend upon my advice and guardianship as her only uncle, and I have come to ... have come to ... cherish our relationship," he finished defiantly. "If I were not to speak with her on this matter, she may imagine I have lost interest in her wellbeing and that would be unacceptable."
Mycroft was tired. It had been a long day and he knew there were even longer days ahead. He wanted to husband his reserves, which meant not engaging in unnecessary intellectual wrangling with his brother.
But this was Blythe. His daughter ... his child ...
And if Sherlock spoke with her first, then she would be more accepting of questions from her father, Mycroft realised.
"Very well," he said. "But be aware you run the risk of disrupting the very thing you hold so dear," he said slowly. "Don't upset her, Sherlock," he murmured. "Whatever else Blythe may be, she is still untested in so many ways."
"Then this will be another of those tests," Sherlock stood, a look of rare understanding and tolerance on his face.
"Blythe is in the rear lounge, waiting for you, Sherlock," Cate looked up as she heard footsteps enter the kitchen.
"Be kind, now," John sipped his coffee and raised his eyebrows. "She's just a little girl."
"My niece was never just a little girl," Sherlock turned on his heel and headed to the nearby door of the smaller lounge Cate had effectively taken over as her own office.
The room was only semi-lit as he closed the door behind him; only the four wall-sconces illuminated the large space. Enough light to see by, but also sufficient shadow to hide behind. Clever.
Blythe was seated at her mother's desk, elbows resting on the heavy wooden top, fingers linked. The wall-lights were above her, leaving her face in soft shadow. She didn't move as he took one of the seats facing the desk, crossing his legs and resting his hands in his lap. He stared hard at her face.
Lifting her eyes marginally, Blythe met her uncle's gaze. She had expected this conversation from the instant she'd last seen him standing in the kitchen doorway. It was his way.
But it might not be hers anymore. She was growing up now, Mummy had already accepted the fact; Blythe had seen it in her expression, heard it in the tone of her mother's voice. Uncle Sherlock might be the world's greatest deductive detective, but she was no intellectual slouch either. Something had changed tonight and she felt ... different. Let him do his worst. Blythe's expression hadn't changed an iota.
Assessing the motionless child sitting at Cate's desk, Sherlock realised just how much she had begun to resemble her mother. The same heavy length of dark-brown hair, the same pale skin and delicacy of feature. The only thing that leaped out to claim her as a Holmes were her father's eyes. Eyes of a piercing dark blue. Eyes that were currently meeting his own with nary a blink or a moment's shift of focus. His niece might be turning into a physical replica of her mother, but her internal modality was entirely down to Mycroft.
"So," he said, slowly. "Boyfriend."
Blythe remained silent and unmoving. There was no question yet.
"You met him at Westminster, of course, most likely in the library," Sherlock began. "He comes from money, probably an old family; present company excepted, Westminster does tend to appeal to those of a more traditional bent. He's only a little older than you, I'd say no more than seventeen. He is physically tall, with light hair and is moderately attractive, probably engages in at least one form of senselessly physical sporting activity. His politics run to the conventional though he sees his future in something intellectual but not mainstream; archaeology, perhaps, or possibly museum curation or even the vague notion of a Bishopric, if his family run to the religious, though that would not be my first assumption."
Sherlock folded his arms. "He speaks at least three languages, one of which must be Latin or some other ancient tongue; I'd speculate it might be Sanskrit or Greek, something he uses in his research. He dresses well and has impeccable manners, as well as a slight fondness for nineteenth-century romantic classics; does he prefer Austin or the Brontës? He rides, but not to hounds. He likes to think he has a sense of humour and enjoys a variety of musical forms, including the classical," Sherlock paused, thoughtfully. 'He's not as clever as you are, and you both know it."
Blythe had witnessed this scene many, many times in the past, where her uncle, and occasionally, her father, would dissect a scenario or a person's lift-history, in order to extrapolate the next likely event or development.
But never before had Sherlock applied it to her in so direct or personal a manner. Blythe reflected that her uncle had no reason to be cross or upset with her and therefore, this unusual display of his was not any indication of censure, but rather, one of support and concern.
He was anxious for her.
Smiling inwardly, Blythe remained impassive. "Is there a question in there?" she asked, softly.
Sherlock revised his earlier impression. His niece wasn't just an internal reflection of his brother, she was turning into Mycroft's understudy. He paused, contemplating his next utterance.
"Are you ... sure ... about him?" he said.
Blythe relaxed. The worst was past and all that now remained were the details. She puffed out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding in.
"His name is Landry Banister and he's nearly seventeen, obviously no older because he'd have left school by now if he was and as that's the only place I get to spend much time with strangers, then yes," she nodded, dropping her hands down to the desktop. "He's tall and blondish, as you say, and I like that, probably because all the men in my family are tall and I've come to accept that as a mark of male attractiveness. I realise I have two short blond hairs on the shoulder of my school blazer, which explains your assumption as nobody else here has hair that colour. Landry and I met in the school library, unsurprising as I spend at least a third of my time in there these days. He and I were both looking for the same book on reading techniques of ancient Biblical documents as we are both interested in translating the Dead Sea documents," she paused. "Ancient Hebrew is his principal ancient language, in case you wanted to know, but his Latin is quite good too, mainly because it's a required language in the Classics program we're both in. Of course he dresses well and has impeccable manners; everyone at the school is drilled ad nauseum into being mannerly and dressing well. Naturally his politics are conventional, mostly because his family is conventional and he's only sixteen so hasn't really had time to choose anything else. His family have a place on the Sussex Downs where his mother breeds and trains racehorses which is where their money comes from, so of course he rides too; you can probably smell horses on the scarf he lent me and which is currently hanging by the front door and the reason for the blond hairs on my blazer, which is hanging under the scarf. You already know my feelings on hunting; I could never be attracted to anyone who imagines bloodsports to be the equivalent of fun," she stopped to see if that were sufficient details. Judging by her uncle's intent gaze, it wasn't. She sighed.
"Landry wants to be a Paleographer, but it's getting harder and harder to do any field-work in the Middle East, these days," Blythe shrugged. "He enjoys rugby, mostly because he's always been tall for his age and kept being picked for teams whether he wanted to be in them or not, so he's kind of gone with the flow on that one. He likes all sorts of music because not only are we fortunate enough to have a school music department that specialises in both secular and religious classics, but everyone at school also has access to all sorts of music online, no it's no wonder my generation has eclectic tastes. He's read a lot of nineteenth-century literature as we all have and, like me, prefers Austin to both Dickens and the Brontës. He tells the world's worst jokes and he also tells me he doesn't care how clever I am," Blythe leaned forward, holding Sherlock's pale blue eyes with her own darker ones. "And no, I'm not sure about anything, but I want to try this and see where it goes."
There was a pregnant pause.
"And are we to meet this paragon at some point in the near future?" Sherlock sniffed, clearly not entirely appeased by the data provided.
"Maybe," Blythe raised her eyebrows exactly as her mother did. "If my family promise to behave themselves."
"You expect a great deal."
"I expect everyone to give my friend the benefit of the doubt and be aware that, if you upset him, you will be upsetting me."
"Emotional blackmail," Sherlock glared and shoved both hands in his pockets.
"Absolutely," Blythe grinned. "I'm glad you approve."
"Your father will probably demand to have his entire clan fingerprinted and vetted for unwholesome political and professional contacts, you realise?" Sherlock was not about to let his concern go quite so easily.
"I thought that might have been your preference," she laughed.
"No, but a sample of the boy's DNA would be an acceptable compromise."
"Are we done with this?" Blythe stood up, a happy smile on her face. No matter how irritating her uncle could be, it was only because he cared so deeply while pretending not to care too much at all.
"I have to go, but remember, your father will have the last say, so beware," Sherlock placed his hands on her shoulders as they reached the door. "You are even more precious to him that you are to ... other people."
"You're such an idiot, Uncle Sherlock," Blythe slid her arm around his waist and walked him towards the front door where John was waiting
###
"So this is where your sister wants to have her room?" Jack stood in the middle of the semi-cleared floor space, hands on his hips as he looked around. The lower ground-floor of the houses in this area were all substantial; high ceilinged, with large windows coming down from pavement-level.
"Mum had the place cleaned out and new damp-proofing put in a couple of years ago," Jules assessed the sheer amount of junk that was down here. How four people could accumulate such vast quantities of paraphernalia was a mystery. Boxes of old sports equipment and toys competed for room with ancient vacuum cleaners and a washing machine that had seen better days. There was even a small trampoline leaning up against one of the walls.
In one far-off corner was a sink, a shower unit and a large space of concrete flooring with a big drain in the middle, Jack was curious.
"Mummy decided to try hydroponics for a hobby," he said. "But she ran out of time and the plants turned into Triffids and tried to take over the entire cellar. But it would be easy to have a proper bathroom built if Blythe really did want to live down here," he turned, nodding at a door embedded in opposite far wall. "There's even an emergency exit over there," he added. "Whoever lived down here could have their own private entrance."
"Also their own private burglar," Jack made a face, unhappy with the lack of visible security.
"Oh, don't worry about that, Dad's got the entire house wired for anything and everything that could go wrong." Jules looked around. "He's very safety-conscious."
"Good to hear," the tall blond had a thing about security.
"So now you've seen everything except my parent's suite," Jules lifted his hands. "Any questions?"
"What time does the Mast ... what time does Mr Holmes leave for his office in the morning and what time does he return in the evening? Where does Mada ... Mrs Hol ... Cate do her work and what's her usual routine? What time do you and your sister need to be up and ready for school? What's the routine at the weekends? What's the agenda?" Jack Parrish ticked the questions off on his fingers. "Is the family thinking of, er, going down to Surrey anytime soon?" he added. "Not that it makes any difference," he added quickly, "but I was curious."
"You need to have a chat with Mum," Jules suggested. "She'll probably show you the family event diary so you can keep track of who's doing what ... I think we're having a bit of a dinner-party here next week, too."
"A social diary? Your family keeps a social calendar?" Jack's voice was oddly tense.
"Yes, of course," the young Holmes smiled easily. "Otherwise how would any of us remember where we're supposed to be?"
"And ... a dinner party?" Jack's hand rested on Jule's shoulder. He squeezed.
"Well, yes. Mummy likes to have formal dinners as often as possible; she says it's the best way to learn how to behave in public."
"Your mother is a saint," Jack breathed deeply. "Now show me this social calendar."
###
She had waited until both her uncles had gone before tapping on the door of her father's office. Blythe had no doubt Daddy would be curious about Landry, but as she had clearly done no wrong, nor bent, let alone broken any family rules, she really wasn't all that bothered. Her father might not always be the most visibly emotional of people, but nor would she want him to be. Blythe understood him and he understood her; he was possibly the only person who really did understand.
"Come in, Sweetheart."
She smiled.
Taking a seat in front of his desk, she allowed her eyes to roam across several of the upside-down documents lying open, but only for a moment before he turned to her and looked encouraging.
"So tell me everything you think I should know about this young man of yours," he said, his eyes wide and unjudging.
Blythe took a deep breath. "Landry Banister is very nice and I like him a great deal," she said, after a moment's consideration; her father would already have deduced the same particulars as had her uncle, therefore he only needed to know the subjective rather than objective details. "I'd want the family to meet him at some point, if that's all right?"
"How about you invite him over for dinner one evening, perhaps one night next week? I believe both Sherlock and John may be coming for dinner. We could make it a family affair," Mycroft took pains to sound relaxed about the whole thing.
Blythe pondered the possibility. Landry would have to meet everyone at some point if they were seriously considering a relationship, but the entire family in one go?
"I'd have to ask him and see how he felt about that," she said. "There's usually only he and his mother at home; his father's in the Government like you and is rarely around, so a big crowd might be a little daunting."
"Oh?" Mycroft's smile was vague and non-committal. "His father being?"
"Actually, I'm not sure," Blythe frowned slightly. "Landry lives with his mother at weekends, and Banister is her maiden name, not his father's ... he said his father's surname was Devereux and that he worked for some agency in the Home Office, but he never mentioned a Christian name or any other details."
Mycroft felt a spike of alarm.
"James Devereux of the National Crime Agency?"
"That sounds about right," Blythe narrowed her eyes a little at the change in her father's tone. "Why?"
There was a long silence between them.
"What is it, Daddy?" Blythe felt distinctly uneasy.
"My dear, I am terribly sorry," Mycroft's words were incredibly soft as he reached out a hand towards her. "But I cannot possibly have that boy in this house."