Chapter Five
Not the Usual Thing – Sherlock and John Arrive – A New Lab and a New Assistant – Bleed For Me – A Snake in the Grass – Recalibration, the Old Fashioned Way – Mycroft Takes the Wheel – Black Wall of Certain Death.
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They were in the kitchen having breakfast when Julius lifted his head. "Car, Daddy," he said, his sharp ears catching the faint growl of an engine before anyone else.
Mycroft smiled at his son who looked interested at the thought of more visitors. Julius might not be as openly adventurous as his sister, but his wide hazel eyes saw everything and his curiosity was tenacious.
His children fascinated him almost daily with some new aspect of their personality or behaviour and despite his current predicament, Mycroft could not complain overmuch about his life. A brilliant and matchless partner; a comfortable lifestyle and two irreplaceable children. He stroked a lock of dark hair back from the small face, curving fingers around a soft cheek.
"You are a smart boy, Jules," Mycroft felt his innards lurch at the child's happy giggle. "Daddy loves you a very great deal."
Grinning widely, the child covered both his eyes with his hands, peeking between fingers.
"You are such a clown," Cate tickled her son's ribs as he squeaked with laughter. "And so is your father," she smiled standing behind Mycroft, her fingers combing through his hair.
"Darling," Mycroft allowed himself to rest easily back in his chair, even though his heart beat a little faster at her caress. He was determined to find some measure of control and composure by amending his behaviour and had mentioned this to Cate as they were dressing earlier.
"Meditation," she said sliding into a pair of loose shorts and a skimpy t-shirt that left most of her skin bare to the sun. Mycroft's heart thumped an undisciplined tempo.
"What?" his voice echoed his distraction.
"Preksha meditation," Cate looked up and saw him staring at her legs. She grinned. "The control of the emotions and passions through direction of breathing in order to attain inner peace," she held his gaze. "Instead of fighting to maintain control, allow yourself to float around it," she said. "You might be surprised how good it feels to take those corsets off."
"As you know, I am not accustomed to wearing such garments, my love," he murmured, lifting his gaze to hers.
"Not on the outside, perhaps," she grinned, darting close to press a light kiss to his mouth.
Tempted to catch her in a hug, Mycroft lifted his arms, only to clutch at his side with a sharp breath. Cate looked concerned. He shook his head.
"I appear to have over-extended a muscle in the recent past, though cannot recall the precise event," his tone was mild as he rubbed the tender spot.
"Really?" she laughed, amused. "I can think of several events during last night where you were over-extending just about everything," she turned, pulling down the neckline of her t-shirt displaying a faint but unmistakable bite-mark on the cusp of her shoulder.
Unsure whether the feeling that washed over him was mortified shame or guilty satisfaction, Mycroft kept his silence, although he couldn't help his eyes widening a fraction.
"Let's just hope your brother doesn't notice," Cate rearranged her top. "Because I'm not going to be doing any explaining."
Mycroft felt his mouth curve into a smile as he looked down. "What are these?" he asked, picking up a neatly folded garment from a pile of clothing on the edge of the bed.
Khaki-green, cotton-drill, tailored …
Cate looked. "Shorts," she nodded "I like your legs too."
"I don't wear shorts, darling," Mycroft unfolded them to look at the details. He noticed they were very well made.
"You do not usually wear shorts, my love," Cate rested her hands on her hips. "But then, so much about this moment in our lives is far from usual, wouldn't you say?" she nodded. "At least try them for an hour and if you really hate them, change back to trousers," she added. "I think you might be surprised."
The last time he recalled wearing shorts was the year before he began attending Harrow prep as a day-boy when he was eight. Other than on one or two unlikely sports days since he had never been expected to don such garb. Cate had left him a plain linen t-shirt as well, equally well-made and equally alien. On the floor was a new pair of light canvas deck-shoes in a dark tan shade, as well as a matching leather belt, also in tan. He raised his eyebrows. When Cate wanted him to do something, she left little to chance.
Holding the clothing in his hands he was at least able to appreciate the softness of the fabric as well as the lightness of the items themselves. They would not be uncomfortable to wear, especially as the day was already promising to be on the warm side.
Perhaps … with a few additional touches.
And not a single comment had been made upon his arrival for breakfast in the kitchen clad in his new civvies, although the addition of an open white shirt worn as a loose jacket, its sleeves carefully folded-up to elbow length and a loosely-knotted raw-silk cravat reduced his sense of exposure to an acceptable level. A pair of Wayfarers tucked into his breast-pocket completed the ensemble. Looking as relaxed as if he'd just stepped off a yacht in Cap d'Antibes, Mycroft smiled in his wife's direction as he took his seat, reaching for the coffee.
The children were already eating and Tomas looked like he had a decent head-start; Nora making sure everyone was going to have a good big breakfast as Cate sat at the table, a faint curve hung on her lips. He never failed to surprise her.
"There are two interesting people coming down to stay with us for a little while, Tomas," Cate helped herself to some of everything in front of her, feeling suddenly ravenous. "One is your uncle's brother who is a detective and the other is a doctor who works with him. They help the police with complicated cases."
Pausing in his apparent determination to clear the table unaided, Tomas fixed his eyes on his aunt. His sudden excitement was such that he hardly dared breathe. "Are they going to be helping find out what made you sick?" he looked at Mycroft.
"That is the intention," Mycroft nodded. "And you may be able to assist them in several areas, if you are agreeable."
"You bet, Uncle Mycroft," the boy's grin was almost indecent with anticipation. "That would be brilliant. What do you want me to do?"
"Your uncle is still not well, so he's going to be relaxing as much as possible, aren't you?" Cate raised an eyebrow as she caught Mycroft' gaze. "On the beach with me and the children, so it would be really good if you could show Sherlock and John where to find things, and fetch stuff for them if they need it," she paused, smiling. "I'd also like you to show them the secret passage. They'll probably want to go all the way down to the cove at least once, so we'd very much like you to act as their guide and assistant whenever they need anything, if you can manage all that?"
"You want me to be their assistant?" Tomas looked stunned. "And help them with the investigation?"
"If you don't mind, Tomas," Mycroft sipped his coffee. "I would regard it as a singular favour."
"When are going to be here?" Tomas jumped up. "I could start getting things ready for them right now. Where are they going to be sleeping? In the spare rooms? Want me to fix the rooms up for them? I could start doing that right now, if you like?"
Grinning, Cate waved a piece of bacon at her nephew to get him to sit and finish his breakfast. "Slow down. They're coming sometime this morning; yes, they are going to be in two of the spare rooms and Sherlock is also going to be using the old scullery behind the kitchen for some chemical analysis and is bringing some equipment with him, so you might be able to help him set things up as long as he doesn't think you'll get in the way. They might also ask you to take them around the place and ask you questions about local events, so I think you'll have plenty to do once they get here."
"Wow," Tomas sat, slowly chewing some toast. "This is so cool. Nobody in the family has ever done anything like this before. They are going to be so jealous."
And then Julius had pricked his ears. "Car, Daddy."
###
Sherlock made directly for the kitchen as if he had lived in the house his entire life, not even pausing to peer into the other rooms as he passed them by.
Standing over by the oven, Mrs Compton was the first to smile at his almost silent entry.
"Mr Sherlock, you are looking well. Would you like some breakfast?" his old nanny was pleased to see him but by the visible hollows in his face, considered him to be on the thin side. He never was much of a one for eating, but perhaps she might be able to make him some of his favourites while he was here.
"Nanny Nora," Sherlock smiled at the older woman, walking over to peck her on the cheek before looking around, taking in the domestic scene with a single glance. His brother seemed calm though tired; Sherlock put that down to the toxin still coursing through his veins. Cate was looking well, he face peaceful and faintly smiling, her shoulders relaxing even as she stood to welcome him. She was clearly pleased they had come; the signs were plain. Probably worried to death about Mycroft. The two children grew massive grins on their faces as they always seemed to do when he appeared and which he had accepted by now as their default response to him. And there was a stranger in the family midst … teenager, no more than sixteen by the ratio of facial fat to jaw-length and the beginnings of darker facial-hair. Brown hair, dark eyes … familiar eyes, Sherlock focused for a second. Of course. Relative of Cate's; close, by the eleven separate points of similarity … ah yes. At the wedding. Neve Adin's youngest son, Mycroft's nephew by marriage. What was he doing here? But first, Mycroft.
"It is the same?" he directed the question at Mycroft as Cate walked around the table towards him.
"And hello to you too, favourite Brother-in-law," she smiled again, tugging his lapel until he bowed his head sufficiently for her to tiptoe and brush his cheek with her lips.
"It is the same, not yet worse," Mycroft stood stiffly, grabbing at his pulled muscle as it twinged. Looking across at his brother with a faintly derisive expression, Sherlock used the tip of his index finger to further reveal the mark he'd seen on Cate's shoulder as she'd stretched up to kiss him.
"Really, Mycroft," he censured. "At your age," he lifted an eyebrow at the hand his brother had clamped to his side. "And in your condition."
"No, no, really," Cate grinned maliciously as she poked the tall man firmly in the stomach so that he knifed away. "It's just so lovely to see you again, Sherlock."
John walked in, amiable smile at the ready. "Greetings all," he nodded, looking directly across at the elder Holmes. "You right, there?" he appraised the man standing before him in a doctorly manner. "I'd like a bit of a chat at some point," he added. "Medically speaking."
"Uncle Shellock! Uncle John!" Blythe piped, lifting both arms in the air, demanding the visitors' attention.
Sherlock sighed inwardly. The twins were always so enthusiastic about everything … but still. Even he found it difficult to dismiss his brother's children, small and intrusive and, in the case of Jules, frequently sticky though they often were.
Walking over to his niece's chair, he bent down until Blythe could put her hand on one side of his face and lay a soft, baby-like kiss on the other. "Uncle Shellock, are you going to make sands cassels today?"
"Not today, child," he stood, fingers sliding over her fine hair. "Possibly not even when I am in my dotage. Hello, Jules," Sherlock leaned over and looked deep into a pair of hazel eyes. "Are you going to make sand castles too?"
Nodding seriously, Jules looked decided. "On the beach," he leaned down to the seat beside him and picked up a small plastic tool, holding it up on the table. "I have a spade."
Keeping his face absolutely straight, John agreed. "You certainly do, young man. You could dig to Australia with that thing."
"Stralia?" Jules opened his eyes wider.
"All yours, John," Sherlock smiled brightly as he clapped his friend on the shoulder before turning back to Mycroft. "You said there was a place I could set up the equipment?"
"Darling, please sit and finish your breakfast, I'll show Sherlock where everything is and get Tomas to lend a hand." Cate stood, one hand stretched out towards her nephew.
Mycroft nodded easily. "Tomas here has agreed to be your lab assistant and general factotum for the duration," he said. "Get him to give you a hand with the things in the Landrover and then we can talk."
Obligingly, Tomas stood too, his eyes almost as wide as Jules'. "Just tell me what you want done and I'll do it," he nodded keenly.
By now John had convinced both twins that there was a magical land called Australia that was a very long way underneath the beach. Jules had already decided to find it. He stood, spade at the ready, grinning.
"Now that you've finished totally misinforming the next generation of the Holmes family," Sherlock frowned at his flatmate, "perhaps you would like to organise the medical investigatory elements of our little expedition?"
"But I've not even stopped for a cup of tea yet," John looked plaintively at the remains of a very decent breakfast on the table in front of him. "Let alone had anything to eat."
"I'll fix you up a nice plate, Doctor Watson," Nora Compton understood very well what it was to work in a house full of Holmes's. "I'll give you a shout when it's ready."
"Mrs Compton, you are a saint," John looked more cheerful. "I'll start unloading the transport." He looked across as Tomas. "Hi. My name's John and I'm a doctor," he said, offering his hand as he looked the boy over.
"I'm Tomas," the boy almost stuttered in his anticipation as he shook the blonde man's hand. "Aunty Cate is my aunt and Uncle Mycroft is, well, he's … and anyway, they said I could help you if you needed any help. If I can help, that is," his voice tailed away as he gulped in a sudden terror they wouldn't want his assistance.
Nodding sagely, John raised his eyebrows. "Always use a good man," he said. "Come and give me a hand unloading the equipment first," he added. "Do you know where it's all going?"
"I know everything," Tomas smiled brilliantly, leading the way out to the parked Landrover.
"Coffee, Sherlock?" Cate pointed him to a chair opposite his brother and waited to pour him a cup.
"Thank you," he smiled briefly before returning to stare at Mycroft who looked calmly back.
"Dermatologic, then?" he suggested. "Neurotoxin?"
Mycroft nodded. "Entered the bloodstream through these," he said, turning his right palm upwards for Sherlock to see the still-healing cuts. The skin surrounding them was raised and slightly angry-looking.
"Painful? Pain anywhere?" Sherlock reached out with both hands to pull Mycroft fingers closer. He sniffed the skin, pulling out his pocket-lens. No residual substance, obviously, no staining, no surface necrosis. There was nothing visible to the naked eye: hardly surprising given the number of times the skin had been cleansed in the interim.
"No pain there anymore," Mycroft shook his head. "Heat, sometimes, but not specific topical discomfort." He sat back and looked introspective. "No pain elsewhere, either, just a significant reduction of my thinking. It's as if a thick membrane has wrapped itself around my thoughts."
"I'll have John take some scrapings from your hand once he's set up," Sherlock sat back, reaching for his coffee. "And blood samples and I'll need to ask you a number of diagnostic questions, but in the meantime, speculations?"
"Some kind of chemical pollutant or reagent, obviously," Mycroft reached for his own cup. "But what, and how it relocated into the strata beneath this house, I cannot imagine."
"I had wondered if …" Sherlock paused, thoughtfully. "If it might have anything to do with Rémi Allanou?" he paused, watching his brother's reaction.
"Allanou?" Mycroft leaned forward. "The European Commission's tame wunderkind?" he frowned. "But he's on the side of the angels, or at least, everything I know of the man points that way."
"Not Allanou himself I was thinking of, per se," Sherlock lifted two fingers to support the side of his head. "But rather some of his protocols."
Closing his eyes, Mycroft pushed his mind as hard as he could, but only vague outlines were there. The real meat of the information was tantalisingly out of reach. He wrinkled his forehead unhappily. "Remind me," he said.
Careful not to show his surprise at the level of Mycroft's debilitation, Sherlock linked his fingers.
"I'll walk the children down to the beach," Cate helped Blythe down from her seat. There was a small and very sheltered inlet almost directly in front of the house, down a gentle but extended sloping pathway through the garden. With the children's short legs, it would take them easily ten minutes or more to get to the shore. "I'll expect you to join us as soon as you are done here, darling," Holding her hand out for Jules to latch onto, the brothers heard her walking out to the front of the house talking to the children about putting on their sunscreen.
"Cate is worried," Mycroft rubbed a hand over his face. "She says nothing, but her concern is manifest."
"Then we must all do what we can to remove her fears," Sherlock replaced his cup, making up his mind about something. "Mycroft," he said. "What are you wearing?"
###
Some of the crates and boxes in the Landrover were small but very heavy.
"Hang on," John saw Tomas attempting to lever a particularly solid box into his arms. "I'll take that one: it's a micro-centrifuge and costs more than you or I are worth put together," he said, lifting the beast carefully into his arms and walking it through the house to the old scullery at the back.
To call it a scullery was probably unfair, since the entire house had been thoroughly renovated in the last ten years and this particular space was now light and airy and just waiting to be put to proper use. A line of windows with heavy roller-blinds rand down one side of the long and narrow space. In front of these, there was a long, waist-high bench made of solid and waterproof-looking wood, with a large stone butler's sink in the corner. Beneath this ran a line of empty shelves and cupboards.
On the opposite side of the room was another bench-type structure, but this one was narrower, and stood more like a very wide shelf. But it was sturdy and would serve as additional workspace were such needed. On both sides of the room were several double electrical sockets. The lighting was good and there was plenty of ventilation both via the operable windows and a half-glassed door at the far end which could also be locked. It was almost a perfect set up for a makeshift laboratory.
Between them Tomas and John had already managed to empty the Landrover, except for a series of cardboard boxes containing various materials and supplies. The heavy equipment was already to be hooked into the various power sockets, awaiting only Sherlock's choice of their location.
"I'll go get the rest, John," Tomas used the older man's name shyly, unused to this new adult egalitarianism. John smiled. It was a long time since he'd been quite so green, but he remembered the feeling and he wondered what the story was; why was the boy staying with Mycroft and Cate?
Sherlock strolled through into the brightly lit space, looking around to see the extent of his temporary empire. "This should do well enough," he murmured, noting the unpacked equipment and boxes of distilling glassware, flasks, clamps and scales. There was a great deal to do setting up before he could even begin collecting and analysing the offending material. His laptop was on top of the nearest box and he opened it only to find the battery defunct. He could use it plugged-in, but he preferred the freedom to move it around with him as he thought.
"Damn," he muttered. "I'll have to print out the ratios page I was going to use. That's a nuisance. Wonder if Cate's got a printer."
"Ratios?" Tomas placed another heavy box down onto the wide shelf behind his uncle's brother. "You have a problem with ratios? I can help with those, if you like," the boy smiled encouragingly, tapping the side of his head. "I'm good with sums and stuff."
Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock examined Cate's young relative. He appeared to be quite serious.
"78 divided by 162?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows.
"0.481481481," Tomas blinked once.
"27 divided by 13?"
"2.07692308," not even a blink that time.
"15054 times 162?" Sherlock folded his arms.
"2438748." Tomas leaned back against the shelf, a small smile creeping in the corner of his mouth.
"I see we have something of a Mathematician in our midst, John," Sherlock looked appraisingly at the happy youth. "How are you with chemical formulae?"
"Pretty good, I think," Tomas frowned slightly. "Don't get the chance to do much of that kind of stuff at school yet."
"Then you shall have some practice as you help us solve the problem that is my brother's mysterious illness," Sherlock nibbled his bottom lip. "Just numerics or do you have other skills as well?"
Looking apologetic, Tomas shook his head. "No," he admitted. "Just the numbers thing," he made a face. "I realise it's not much."
"More than I could manage without taking my socks off," John brought in the last of the big boxes. "Only a few bits and pieces left out there," he said. "Now I'm going to have some breakfast and a little chat with Mycroft. You two okay to play safely out here without me for a few minutes?"
Rolling his eyes, Sherlock turned to Tomas. "You can show me how to get into the secret passage?"
"Hey," John shouted back down the passage. "Not without me, you don't, so don't show him, Tomas," John's words faded as he vanished into the kitchen.
"Do you really want to see the passage without John coming too?" Tomas asked.
"I'd never hear the end of it if I did," Sherlock started setting up the equipment, beginning the lengthy recalibration process usually needed after such pieces had been in transit. He indicated the closest piece of technology with a sideways look. "Want to help?"
Thrilled almost speechless, Tomas could only nod. "Do what?" he asked.
Digging out a fine scalpel from a pack, Sherlock smiled. "Bleed for me," he walked forward.
###
The three Watchers were beside themselves with excitement. Another army jeep, this one packed solid with mysterious boxes of all shapes and sizes and with two men in it, although neither were in uniform. Taking note that some of the boxes seemed very heavy and that the blonde man wouldn't let the older boy carry some of them, they also noted that several of the ones the boy was able to carry had medical red crosses on them. Medical supplies? Were they for the man who had been sick and taken away in the helicopter? Was one of the men a doctor?
Wondering what Grampy would think when they told them of the newcomers and the piles of stuff being carried into the house, the boys went scurrying off, grandsons one and two tearing away, leaving grandson three to run as fast as possible to keep up.
Not being quite so tall as the other two, the youngest was in such a mad dash to keep up that he quite failed to notice the coiled serpentine creature basking in a clearing of grass in the early morning sun.
Failed to see it at all until his small foot had already thudded down perilously close to the dark-brown snake, whose black-V markings became even more visible as the snake reared up to strike.
By the time the child realised what was happening, the Adder had already sunk its fangs into the boy's ankle.
He screamed.
###
John walked into the makeshift lab with a thoughtful look on his face. He had given Mycroft a basic examination and done a few elementary neurological tests, and everything seemed fine. He would need to work up his own pathologies, the etiology of whatever was afflicting the man was not going to be a simple find, especially if a research centre like the West Cornwall wasn't able to come up with much.
But then, they hadn't been working with someone like Sherlock Holmes.
As he walked in through the kitchen-side door of the lab, the first thing he saw was the extraordinary pallor on the boy's face. He looked as if he were right about to faint.
The next thing he saw was the fine blade in Sherlock's hands and the intent expression upon his face.
"What's going on here?" John frowned as Sherlock waited for Tomas to hold out a hand.
"Cate's nephew is giving me a sample so I can recalibrate the Multiplex PCR using positive aerobic samples before I test anything that might be other than healthy, and since young Tomas here is probably going to have the healthiest blood among us all, then his seems the best candidate for the recalibration." Sherlock frowned. "Problem"
"Only that the boy's looks about to pass out in fear from being approached by a knife-wielding stranger," John rested his hands on his hips. "Put the bloody thing down and I'll get you a sample the old-fashioned way, assuming Tomas is still agreeable to helping."
Nodding mutely, Tomas couldn't help relaxing a bit when he saw his uncle's brother slide the blade back among its peers. "Old-fashioned way?"
Reaching into a cardboard box that declared its contents to be Arterial blood gas equipment, he quickly found a smaller box entirely devoted to syringes, extracting a sampler with an integrated needle. Grabbing an alcohol prep pad, he quickly swabbed down a spot on the vein on the inside of his elbow and in a second, had the sampler collecting a small amount of swiftly-flowing blood. As soon as the sampler had filled, an act that took scarcely three seconds to accomplish, John popped it from his skin, stuck a small round plaster over the tiny red mark and handed the filled sample to Sherlock who took it with a smile of thanks, disposing of the used needle in a yellow Sharps container.
The entire procedure had taken less than twenty seconds.
"You still want to help?" John raised his eyebrows, reaching into the box for another sampler.
"Of course," Tomas nodded easily, more secure in the knowledge of what was expected. Just as with John's own sample, the boy's blood took mere seconds in collection and Sherlock now had two healthy specimens for his recalibration purposes.
Wearing his own small round plaster like a badge of honour. Tomas and John made short work of unpacking the rest of the equipment and setting it up wherever it seems the most sensible place to be. No doubt Sherlock would want to change it all around to suit his own preference, but he didn't need them for that.
"Right then," John stood up, stretching his back. "Ready to show me that secret passage?"
"At least wait until I have organised the equipment," Sherlock kept his eyes on the glassware he was setting up. "Did you find the HAZMAT sample kits?"
"Yep, over here," John nodded, indicating several clear plastic bags, each containing a range of gloves, sample bottles, tins and bags, as well as spatulas, disposable tweezers and pipettes.
"Then we are about ready to begin our investigations, I believe," taking a quick look around the newly-arrange lab, the younger Holmes was not completely unhappy with the equipment Mycroft had arranged for him. It was nowhere near as comprehensive as a full-scale laboratory, but it would be sufficient to provide at least the beginning of an investigation.
Tomas was leading them down through the kitchen and about to cross the main hallway into the book room on the other side of the house, when a thunderous thumping at the front door.
"Help! Help us please if there is a doctor inside. Help!"
John was the first to react, probably used to hearing anguished cries for help; his immediate dash towards the door was instinctive as much as rational. Even though he had moved the moment he'd heard the first shout, Mycroft was still there before him, wrenching the door open even as John arrived, with Tomas and Sherlock mere yards behind.
A tall older man stood panting in the porch, his arms clutching a small boy close to his chest.
"Help me if you can, please," he gasped, "Is there a doctor here?"
"I'm a doctor," John was already lifting the child from the man's arms, taking him into the nearest room which happened to be the front sitting room where Alex Beaumont had sipped his coffee only yesterday.
Laying the small form along one of the sofas, the doctor turned his attention directly to the obvious source of the problem: the child's ankle was red and swollen hard. There was a small patch of whitened skin directly above the ankle joint and in the centre of this were two livid bite marks.
"Snake?" John didn't need to ask, but it was always wise never to assume. As he waited for a response, he began checking the boy's vital signs, his breathing and circulation. Though the child was not completely unconscious, he was slipping in and out of awareness. Not the best of signs. "How long ago?"
"Not more than twenty minutes," the old man had sunk down onto a chair, breathing very heavily. "Does he need to go to the hospital?"
"Yes, he does," John looked up, nodding. "But they will have anti-venom handy at this time of year, so there shouldn't be too much problem in getting the lad fixed up. You alright to come with us?" John looked the old man up and down while he lifted the semi-conscious child just as Mycroft rattled the keys to the Landrover.
"I'll drive," he said, striding to the door.
The man nodded in answer to John's question, holding his chest, still catching his breath.
"You okay to drive?" John spoke to Mycroft's moving back.
"Perfectly fine to drive, Doctor," Mycroft called over his shoulder, already at the side of the vehicle, opening the rear door for John to climb in. The old man clambered in beside them.
"Want me to show you the way to Poltair Hospital, Uncle Mycroft?" Tomas was hovering, anxious to help.
"Not necessary, my boy," Mycroft slid behind the wheel, hunting for the ignition. "I have the GPS to show me. You stay with my brother and get things started here."
"But no going down the secret passage until I get back," John called out before all the doors were closed and Mycroft had spun the wheel into a tight circle.
Fortunately, the Landrover was the perfect transport for the terrain.
"This thing tells me it's an eighteen-minute drive," Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "Let's see if we can shave a little off that, shall we? Hold on, back there," he muttered, slamming the car into a higher gear and hitting the accelerator, navigating the bumpy road one-handed, as if he did such things on daily basis. With his other hand he reached for his Blackberry, giving several rapid instructions.
Holding the boy as still as possible in his arms, John kept the bitten ankle motionless. The child was asleep or unconscious and made no resistance. Thankful for small mercies, John turned at last to the old man.
"How did this happen?" he asked. "The hospital will want to know."
"My three grandsons were running back to camp and this one, my youngest," the man's face crumbled into an anxious smile, "was running to keep up with his brothers and obviously never saw the Adder until it struck him." He looked up. "Is he going to be alright?" his voice wavered a little. "I have seen snakebite before, but it was never this bad with the others, not even with the children."
"Some people are more seriously affected by venom than others," John checked the boy's breathing again. It was subdued but regular; the heartbeat a little fast. "He should be fine as soon as we can get the antidote into him … might take a few hours though. Are you able to stay with him, or do you need to contact someone?"
"I shall stay with him," the old man said. "My name is Leander Purrun," by the way," he half-smiled, his worry easing a little as they approached medical treatment. "I am the leader of our small group."
"Romani?" Mycroft asked over his shoulder, as he increased the Landrover's speed still more as they hit paved road. It had been less than five minutes so far.
"Indeed we are," Purrun nodded. "Though most people call we travellers Gypsies," he added. "We are not always welcomed."
"And where are you camping at the moment?" Mycroft looked into the older man's eyes in the rear-view mirror, a faint smile curving his mouth as Purrun had the grace to look away.
"We are camped on a small piece of grassland not far from the house where you are staying," he admitted. "If we knew who owned the land, we would have asked for permission first, but the house is so often empty, we did not think anyone would mind."
Examining Purrun in the mirror, Mycroft smiled.
"I own the land," he said. "And you may camp there without concern for the time being."
About to quiz their driver in greater detail, Purrun realised they were screeching to a halt directly outside the large stone entrance of Poltair Hospital. It had been less than ten minutes since they had left the Cornish House.
Jumping out to open John's door, Mycroft directed the waiting medical staff to their young patient. Placing the child carefully onto a wheeled bed, Mycroft and Purrun looked at each other. Of a similar height and build, both men stood tall and self-assured.
"You have the gratitude of my camp and my family, Mr ..?"
"Holmes," Mycroft offered his hand. "But please call me Mycroft," he added. "Things like this have a way of removing the formality between strangers."
"And you have two young children yourself, I believe?" Purrun turned towards the entrance of the building.
"You are well informed," Mycroft raised his eyebrows.
Shrugging and looking momentarily awkward. "One of my Watchers," he said, nodding through the open doorway.
"Of course," Mycroft smiled. "I doubt there will be any need to move your grandson any further today, but shall we see what the general medical opinion is?" lifting his arm, he invited the older man to enter before him.
###
The roar of the larger ship's engines had been heard from miles away, before they could even see it. And that had been the problem.
Without knowing the direction from which it was approaching, it was impossible to decide which way to avoid it; which way to run.
Thus Bisset had decided to power-down La Ciel Claire's own engines and wait in the darkness. The heavy swell of the English Channel reminded the Captain yet again that it was never safe to assume safety when crossing the busiest stretch of water in the Western world, and both he and Joubert were scanning as much of the horizon as they possibly could with illegally-acquired military night-binoculars. There were still no navigation light in sight, and the unpowered pitch and yaw of the boat was already becoming uncomfortable, especially for their solitary passenger, who had been sounding worse and worse for the last ten minutes as the Clear Sky wallowed and skewed in whatever direction the swell felt inclined to take.
Bisset ignored the man: let him be ill. He was not about to jeopardise his livelihood to quell the seasickness of some felon avoiding the law.
The sound of engines and the rush of a massive bow-wave swept closer as – finally – Bisset managed to make out some dulled navigation lights on an enormous, elongated pile, driving heavily through the swells. The nearest to them was green, the oil tanker's starboard bow was almost upon them and still bearing their way as the Captain of the Clear Sky hammered the engine ignition with his thumb, only to have the boat remain still and unresponsive beneath his fingers.
The tanker was almost on them now, Yves Joubert rushing up from the main deck, his eyes wide and a little panicky.
"Damn motors won't start," Bisset pressed and held the green starter button, but still there was no response. Of all times for the electrics to fail … he tried once more, his stomach spasmed with relief as the Pentas roared into life.
Sweeping the large ship's wheel as far and as fast to port as he could, Bisset held his breath as the sheer cliff walls of the tanker rose above the much smaller craft, already beginning to cant on the rise of the oncoming bow wave.
"There is no more time!" Joubert yelled. "It's too late … we're all going to be crushed!"
Sending every joule of energy he could to his precious dual engines, Bisset could only wait and pray as the black shadow of the massive tanker rode over them all.