Chapter 6: One Thousand and One Nights.
The Sultan Shahryar, convinced that all women are false and faithless, vowed to put to death each of his wives after the first nuptial night. But the Sultana Scheherazade saved her life by entertaining her lord with fascinating tales, told seriatim, for a thousand and one nights. The Sultan, consumed with curiosity, postponed from day to day the execution of his wife, and finally repudiated his bloody vow entirely.
Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov.
10:00 a.m.
Mycroft blinked his eyes three times to make the blur go away. Always three times. He then twisted his head lightly, first to the right, then to the left. A small crack sounded in the quiet office and his neck was in pain no more. He sighed and sorted his papers in a black carton folder and then some others in a deep green one. Black was for his appointments and green was for classification. His systems always worked.
He heard the elevator's bell and Anthea appeared from behind the shiny, iron doors. As always, tapping at her Blackberry, she informed him in her smooth voice that the car was waiting for them downstairs.
Mycroft got up, smoothing wrinkles from his waistcoat and trousers. He took his grey jacket from the back of his chair and wore it. Collecting his things calmly but quickly, he took his briefcase, secured his cell phone in his pocket and walked to the elevator.
At midday he was sitting at his favorite table in his favorite restaurant. The circular interior of the room was filled with light and constant chatting. The big windows had a magnificent view of the park, which was rather quiet today.
Mycroft was sitting at round table for two in a rather secluded area of the room. With his right hand he was scooping beans, carrots and little bites of his chicken and with the other was tapping messages constantly. He kind of looked like a sick loved teenager writing nonstop to his crush.
Well… being the keeper of the secret broom cupboard of state, as Sherlock liked calling him apart from British Government, was like being in a constant relationship with Britain.
A waiter came and refilled his glass of wine and water. Mycroft gave him a small side smile and watched him leaving. He sighed and put the fork down to grab the glass of water.
The cold liquid washed his dry throat and he kept on tapping furiously.
''Can't they do something on their own?'', he thought, but in secret he liked that they all depended on him. He could set the rules of the game as he saw fit. And this exhilarated him.
When finally his conversation with the Prime Minister via cell phone ended, he put the darn thing back in his jacket pocket. He sat back in the comfy chair and sipped his wine. He lightly placed the crystal glass next to his plate, propped his chin in his fist and watched the people in the room, like they were some sort of an interesting spectacle.
A woman with heavy makeup and a big, thick pearl necklace around her neck was laughing hysterically at the jokes the young man opposite her made. They were almost identical, making people believe he must be her son.
Mycroft smirked as he deduced the woman with the clown mask for a face and the young man. Nice trick to fool someone, but certainly not him. The man had dyed his hair black and had worn contacts to hide his brown eyes and to appear like her son or nephew. The woman didn't seem to mind and certainly not the man, who judging by his watch and clothes was more of a gigolo rather than a young lover, trying to hide his liaison with the lady.
His phone vibrated to his chest and with a small sigh he answered.
''Holmes.''
''Sir, I have the tapes you requested. I'll leave them in your office.''
''Thank you, dear.''
He placed the phone back in his pocket and kept on watching the couple.
09:00 p.m.
His day was over. It was nice when people were depending on you entirely. You could set their program according to yours. He always requested his meetings to end at 9 pm, unless there was a crisis.
He picked the two CDs Anthea had left him in the office and placed the one with Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson written on in his laptop.
The video showed Sherlock playing his violin, while in the background Joan Watson was carrying heavy boxes with her belongings upstairs and in the living room of 221B, all by herself. Sherlock was being rather gallant these days!
He smirked. ''And then he tells me I can't do leg work.'', Mycroft thought amused.
He pushed fast forward watching as Sherlock kept playing while Joan made tea, cleaned the kitchen, and carried other smaller boxes and so on.
Then he watched them as they ordered take away food and sat at their armchairs quietly watching television, much to Sherlock's dislike, judging by his face.
The video ended and the DVD slot popped. Mycroft picked the CD and placed it back in its place. He then picked the next one. He looked at the name and closed his eyes for a while.
He opened them again decisively and placed the thin disk in the slot.
He watched DI Lestrade at her office. She hadn't slept in her home judging by her clothes. They were the same trousers, same blazer, same wrinkled black shirt, same everything. He kept watching her as she sipped her horrible coffees, one by one, knowing that they ruined her chances of sleep. He kept watching her as she was applying nicotine patches, but stole some moments during paperwork to smoke a cigarette.
''So unhealthy, Inspector.'', he mused.
He watched her as she was filling sheets and sheets of paper work with domestic abuse cases, petty thefts and so on, refusing to look at her case, refusing to look at his case.
''I won't take your case, Holmes.''
''Don't be stubborn, Inspector. I'm giving you a solid lead.''
''I don't need your leads!''
That phone call had occurred yesterday morning, followed by that night at the abandoned theater. He had come so close.
Mycroft stopped the video and opened another tab. He quickly tapped at some codes and entered the CCTV System. He pressed zoom and the small camera outside her office zoomed, giving him her image.
Lestrade was sitting at the window bench, the window open. She was holding a cigarette between her index and middle finger lightly. The cancer stick was burning slowly but she didn't seem to notice it. She was looking outside, her gaze unfocused. He could see the files of her Vampire Case along with the photographs lying on her desk.
The case has gone cold since they didn't have any lead and no one had come to recognize the victims. Sherlock was currently occupied with some cases he had given him and so he didn't bother the DI at this current point.
He pressed some other buttons, making the camera move a little.
''What are you thinking?'', he thought. ''Why can't you cooperate?''
He closed the tab and the video. He took the CD and threw it in the garbage bin angrily.
He panted heavily as Anthea stopped moving above him. They stayed there for some time, until she rolled on her back next to him. The silence of the room was disturbed from their ragged breathing, until it slowly died down.
Mycroft rolled off the bed and wore a nightgown Anthea had provided him with. She smiled at his image and then picked her Blackberry and started tapping. Her naked body had taken a warm reddish glow and her complexion suited perfectly against the dark blue of her sheets.
Mycroft headed for the bathroom, picking his clothes on the way.
After a quick shower he got dressed, looking impeccable as always and exited the room, to find Anthea still naked and still tapping.
''Your brother is at 221B with Dr. Watson. Everything is working well except for some minor explosion, due to an experiment with gasoline.''
Mycroft hummed as he worked the laces of his Italian handmade shoes.
''Also DI Lestrade is currently at the hospital for an injury in the head. Apparently there was a disturbance a while ago. An angry teenager attacked his mother with a porcelain clock and the Inspector protected her, receiving the blow instead. I thought you might be interested.''
Mycroft momentarily stopped and then continued with his laces. When he was done he got up and put his jacket and coat on.
''What makes you say that?'', he asked, as he sorted the collar of his black coat.
''I understand that you are interested in the DI, Mycroft.'', she replied indolently, still tapping at the small buttons of her phone.
The sound of his name coming from her lips did not surprise him. In their shared intimate moments he was always Mycroft and she was Anthea. In public, he was Sir and she was my PA or simply dear.
''Not as much as you believe I am. But thank you for informing me. See you tomorrow at the office.''
''Goodnight.'', she replied without raising her head. She was always professional, maybe a bit too much. Their agreement had started about five months ago. At the end of the day, whenever they felt like it, they would share their moments together, but the next day Mycroft was her boss and she was his PA. No strings attached… simply sex.
12:05 a.m.
He was standing outside the hospital, were currently Lestrade was hospitalized. He was waiting, leaning against his car, while his driver waited for him patiently. He made a mental note to give him a raise by the end of the month.
Mycroft saw the figure of the DI coming from the entrance. The street lights combined with those from the hospital, blurred his view and so he approached her, his umbrella hanging from his arm, swinging with every move he made.
Lestrade saw him and paused for some seconds. Then she moved again and stopped in front of him.
''Mr. Holmes.'', she said and made a curt nod with her head.
Mycroft inspected her. He had underestimated the wounds inflicted on her face. A deep cut adorned her forehead and was currently covered with a clean white bandage covering her stiches. The injury she received two days ago was still there, but had already started to fade. There was dry blood to the roots of her hair and her lips were bruised, making them appear plumper than they were in reality. His gaze was fixed on those lips that he almost tasted only two nights ago.
''What are you doing here?'', her voice pulled him back in reality.
''I heard about your injury.''
''So what? You came like the Knight in his Savile Row armor, with his mighty Black Mercedes to rescue me?'', she snorted. ''I don't need you Holmes. I handled myself perfectly well, even before I met you.''
Mycroft looked at her again from top to bottom. Some white porcelain shards were still stuck in her trousers, clearly from the case. He looked at her glazed brown eyes. She was drugged and obviously really weary.
''I am aware of the fact.'', he said coldly. ''But I am not here to protect you, merely offer you a ride to your home. I understand you did not come here by car.''
''No thanks. Goodnight Holmes.'', she replied quickly.
He watched her as she walked at a different direction, tucking her hands inside her coat pockets and walking hastily.
''Why have you abandoned the case?'', he asked loudly enough to be heard.
Jenny paused and turned just her upper body to look at him. ''I will solve the case when I have clues.''
''I gave you clues. Irene Adler is the clue, or better yet, the link you need.'' He sighed quietly and raised the tip of his umbrella to the level of his eyes. ''Think it over, Inspector.'', he said nonchalantly, his gaze fixed on the sharp tip.
He listened to her footsteps, as she resumed her walking and so Mycroft got in the car, driving away from the hospital.
01:15 a.m.
Mycroft entered the security code and the doors of his manor house opened. He walked to the main hall and the warmth assaulted him pleasantly. The manor was dark, apart from some small lights on the walls, that gave the house a lovely soft glow and provided enough light for him to see.
Mycroft heard footsteps on the staircase and saw the lean frame of a man approaching him.
''Good evening, Sir.'', said the voice of his butler. The gentleman approached him and helped him with his coat.
''Good evening, Jarvis. How was your day?''
''The usual, sir. Would you like some lavender tea perhaps?'', asked Jarvis as soon as he was done collecting Mycroft's coat and briefcase.
''No, no… that'll be all. Is Sylvia back?''
''No Sir. Mrs. Holmes has not yet returned from the opera. But I believe she will be back soon.''
Mycroft nodded. ''Good. You can retire for tonight Jarvis. Good night.''
''Good night sir.'', replied the man and left to head for his room.
Jarvis Burton was Mycroft's valet since he was nine years old. A young man of five and twenty at that time, Jarvis has been and probably still was Mycroft's only true friend. A smart and capable man, Jarvis was there at every step of his life, tutoring him about pretty much everything. How to play chess, how to be composed, calm, intimidating when necessary and so on.
When Mycroft left his family's manor, he requested from his father and mother to take Jarvis under his employment something that Sir and Lady Holmes did not object at, since they knew their son's love and admiration for the valet. So Jarvis entered the service of his young master and became the butler of the house, running the estate and taking care of everything perfectly well, when Mycroft wasn't around, which was most of the times.
Mycroft walked the stairs that led to the upper floor and to his room.
Free from his jacket, waistcoat and leather shoes, with just his black silk nightgown on top of his trousers and shirt, Mycroft entered the library. The burning fire on the mantel warmed the room with its orange flames and scented it with a lovely aroma.
He closed the door quietly and went to stand in front of the bookcases. One was filled with CD, cassettes, vinyl discs. Years of collecting rare and accustomed disks from his travels, from flea markets or record shops. Hundreds of records of every kind of music.
With his long pale fingers he trailed the well orderly CDs and found his favorite one. He had found that disc by chance in a flea market in Iran about five years ago and what a delightful moment had been, when he beheld the simple black cover with the golden letters, which resembled the Arabic font, amongst bracelets with colorful stones and second hand books.
A year and a half before he found that CD again, Sherlock in a fit of anger and a drugged state, had broken every copy of this particular record Mycroft had. Mycroft had merely collected the smithereens and for some reason kept them in a box, believing that some day they would magically repair themselves.
This small plastic case held inside the music that could calm the British Government. The tranquility transformed into notes.
Scheherazade, by Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov.
He carried the case to the player, holding it carefully like a new born baby. He opened it and took the CD in his hands, carefully placing it in the player. He raised the volume knowing that he would not disturb, since the walls were soundproofed and listened to the glorious bass motif.
He opened the French doors that led to the balcony and closed them just enough for the music to escape the walls of the library. The fresh, cold air was a lovely change, making his head feel purified and calm. He closed his eyes and inhaled.
And there… there was the placid violin sound. Scheherazade enters the scene. In his mind, the entire orchestra was playing the suite.
When he was little, just seven years of age, his parents had taken him to see the performance in the London Opera House. His uncle, Tiberius Nathaniel Holmes was conducting the orchestra and it would have been rude if Mycroft wasn't present. So he had gone along with his parents, complaining about losing the new episode of Doctor Who and arguing with his father, that the theme of the famous Tv-show was far more appealing to him, than boring classic music.
How wrong had he been?
While he sat between his father and mother, touching her swollen belly with his small hand, trying to communicate with his little unborn brother he was enchanted by the music and the tale behind it.
How a woman changed a king.
How wit, intelligence and patience changed a stubborn, ruthless man, like the Sultan Shahryar.
How stories could tell us how to live.
Returning to his home that night, Mycroft had requested the volumes of One Thousand and One Nights. His parents of course could not say no to the eagerness of their son and the broadening of his horizons and his imaginations, with those tales, intrigued them.
Mycroft walked the small distance and with his hands, grabbed the elaborate iron banister to support his weight. He looked at the garden, which was neat and the grass carefully trimmed. The smell of the wet ground and the night flowers, lingered all over the grounds of the manor.
He closed his eyes and let the glorious music feel his ears. He breathed and felt the cold chilling his nose. In this library, his refuge, he could sort his brilliant mind, or his Mind Palace as Sherlock always liked to call it. He had always been the most dramatic of the two.
So in his Mind, he searched for a certain door. A simple, wooden door, so plain and unnoticeable you could almost miss it. He opened it and entered the space. Again… simple, plain and so full of secrets. Like the person it was created for; DI Lestrade.
The most common, yet most fascinating woman he'd ever met, which was such a paradox. She led a simple life, except for the moments when Sherlock was involved. Yet somehow she had managed to make Mycroft look at her twice.
On the black road of life think not to find, either a friend or lover to your mind. If you must love, oh then, love solitude. For solitude alone is true and kind.
His favorite quote from the Arabian Nights popped into his mind the moment he opened the door of Lestrade's section in his Mind. He loved solitude. Because it was the sole thing that was true and kind.
But desire? Ah, yes. Desire was not something anyone could control. Not even his great mind. Because desire crept inside the mind and controlled the body viciously. You could never escape.
And he desired. Many times. Desire for power, for knowledge, reason, for logic. But never for desire itself.
Of course the fact that he helped his beloved baby brother was a plus point to the simple DI, but this certainly wasn't the reason he desired her. On one hand she was beautiful in a very special way. But on the other, he hated her.
Yes, hate. She had cursed him multiple times, she was stubborn, audacious, and proud and she was resisting in his charms perfectly well. No woman or man had ever resisted. No one. It wasn't just his physical appearance; it was his way of handling people, manipulating them and leading them as he saw fit.
And another thing he hated about her was that she was responsible for that desire. Dark, hateful passion which kills you day by day; to want and not to have; to yearn and not poses.
His train of thought was disturbed by the sound of stiletto heel shoes on the polished wooden floor. He loathed that particular sound and knew perfectly well who caused this commotion.
Reluctantly he left the balcony and entered the warm room again. He securely closed the doors and slowly went to press pause. The music abruptly stopped. For some strange reason he never liked other people listening to his music. He felt like they were invading his personal space.
''How was Aida, Sylvia? Did you like the performance?'', he asked nonchalantly, walking to sit to the plush armchair near the fire.
''No. I couldn't stand the screech.'', replied his wife and flopped on the couch next to him.
Mycroft winced. Aida was one of his favorite operas and he hated when people who couldn't appreciate good music judged this masterpieces.
''Her lament over her love for a man and her duty to her people and country, is hardly a screech, Sylvia dear.''
She tisked. ''I suppose those archaic things are your cup of tea.'', she replied in her husky voice.
''I suppose I'm the one with taste.''
Mycroft slowly turned his head to his right, just a little, to look at her better. Her slim long body was enveloped in a deep red dress with a cut that gave a view of her creamy left leg. She was wearing matching shoes and her dark blonde hair was falling freely and wavy over her shoulders. The ensemble was concluded with red lipstick and green eye shadow over her hazel eyes.
Sylvia Holmes, nee Wilde was a woman who could practically take the breath of every man away. Stunning and beautiful, she resembled the actress Lauren Bacall remarkably.
But Mycroft, although acknowledging that, was completely uninterested on his wife. She could parade around naked and still take no notice of her.
''I understand that my birthday gift to you was not satisfactory.''
''No. Next time stick with jewelry'', she said and rolled her small diamond earring between her thumb and index finger. ''You have a remarkable taste there.'', she grinned.
Mycroft hummed.
Sylvia started tapping her heel on the floor impatiently, the sound muffled by the carpet. ''You wanted to see me I believe? Why? It's two in the morning people usually go to sleep.'', she said and yawned.
''I prefer to make good value of my time.'', he said, giving her a half smile. ''I have a very important reason of calling you here.''
His tone was soft, yet very dark making Sylvia shudder. She knew that tone and she knew what she was about to hear, was not going to be pleasant. She sat up and narrowed her eyes to hide her distress. ''What is it Mycroft?''
''Is the name Oswald Reuben familiar to you?'', he smirked.
Sylvia's lovely face became pale. She tried to remain composed under the gaze of her husband but she knew it was hopeless. Mycroft was able to bring anyone down with just a look and a smile.
''Let me help you, dear.'', he grinned and stood. He went to retrieve a folder from a shelf and returned, throwing it gently on the coffee table in front of her. ''Oswald Reuben, age thirty, civil servant, working under my employment. Expert in computer hacking and quite a talent I must say. I'm not easily impressed you see and he caught my eye from the first time. Apparently, he did the same to you, didn't he?''
Sylvia wasn't even able to nod. She just stared at the closed folder, feeling cold droplets of sweat trickling down her forehead and the back of her neck.
''Anyway.'', continued Mycroft. ''Reuben, with little help from inside, stole my ID and hacked some accounts of mine. He withdrew a meaningful some of money and of course became a fugitive. Do you enjoy the story so far?''
His smirk wiped every life force Sylvia had in her features, something that seemed to satisfy him. She opened her mouth to utter some word, but she wasn't able to.
''But you see vanity is very strong. The man, believing that he could fool me, stole not only my money, but certain secrets of national importance. Some serious and very compromising pictures of a young, female member of the Royal Family, which you understand if they were published, they would cause quite a stir.''
''I don't understand how this affects me?'', said Sylvia breathlessly, trying to appear calm, but failing.
''Oh, I'm getting there dear.'', he smiled. ''You see, although an excellent hacker and I admit that I was foolish for not being extra careful, there wasn't any possibility that he could get past the security of those pictures. Those pictures, retrieved by a woman that my people were monitoring for a long time, were in my possession. So it got me thinking… how could such an insignificant man get past the security of my house?''
''Are you asking me?''
Mycroft's smiled was wiped from his face. He was now dead serious and he was even more terrifying. ''Oh no, I'm not asking because I already know. You, my dear, stole the mobile phone that contained the pictures and gave it to your lover.''
Silence lingered heavily over the room, the sole sound coming from the wood that cracked as it burned. Sylvia was biting the inside of her cheek, not wanting to burst into tears. ''So… what now?'', she stammered.
''It has already been sorted.'', smiled Mycroft. ''It took me about an hour to sent my agents to pick your lover from the airport. His disguise didn't fool them naturally. My money is back in my accounts and the mobile is secured. The pictures have been destroyed and so…'', he said and clapped his hands once. ''All set!''
Sylvia nodded weakly. ''Good.'', she said, biting back a sob.
''Well… not so good.''
She raised her head and looked at him through watery eyes.
''I have to do something. My credibility has been shaken because of that little incident. Not by the fact I couldn't solve it, because I did, but because my own wife almost caused chaos in Britain. Something must be done.''
Various scenarios went through Sylvia's head. She knew that Mycroft never did any ''leg work'', so someone else would take care of the matter. He heard him chuckling and averted her gaze from the fire to him. She was now angry.
''Is this funny?'', she growled.
''I can practically hear your thoughts. They are quite amusing. No Sylvia dear, I won't kill you. I will, however, get rid of you. For good. The divorce papers will be finalized tomorrow. The good thing about controlling everything, you see. I want you to leave this house by tomorrow midnight. Do not take anything that doesn't belong to you. I'll make sure that Jarvis sees to the preparations of your departure. And of course you will receive not a single penny from me.''
That wretched silence hanged from their heads like a guillotine ready to fall. Sylvia was afraid that if she spoke a single word, then everything would be lost. But she couldn't keep silent. The anger was boiling inside her. ''You think I'm the sole responsible for this?'', she cried, the tears now running freely on her perfect cheeks.
Mycroft looked at her coldly. ''No, but I've already taken care of the Reuben matter.''
''God you're such an ice man!'', she yelled and stood up. ''I don't mean this! I mean us!'', she continued, waving her hand frantically. ''Have you ever thought that if you'd showed a little sympathy, a little love I would never had done any of these?''
''The only reason we go married was because I wanted to secure my status and you because of my wealth. There wasn't any love in the first place, merely an agreement between two individuals. The role of the martyr doesn't suit you dear.''
''You freak! Have you got no heart?'', she yelled.
''I have, or else I wouldn't be alive.'', he scoffed. ''Don't pretend that my lack of affection drove you into this.''
''It did!''
''No, your greed did. And your belief that you could fool me. I wasted three years of my life into this marriage. I wasted one thousand and one of my nights and what do I get? A promiscuous wife who almost ruined me professionally.''
''Says the man with the string of lovers!'', she sobbed and gave him a vicious look. ''Who should I count? Margaret, Meredith, Louisa? Even Anthea your PA!''
''You did the same, dear.''
''It's not a fucking competition!'', she shouted.
The yelling didn't seem to affect Mycroft. He simply removed his golden band from his finger and placed it gently on the coffee table. ''I suggest you depart now.'', he said and looked at the view outside the French doors. ''Goodnight.''
She stayed there looking at him, her mouth open, breathing from there roughly. She sniffed. ''Alright then.'', she stated and walked to the door. ''I pity any poor woman who crosses paths with you, Mycroft.'', she spat. ''You are just an ice man with nothing to offer, but money. That's what you're only good at, honey. Nothing more.''
With that she opened the door and slammed it.
Calmly he stood up and went to stand in front of the shelf stereo. He pressed the play button and the violin echoed once again in the quiet room.
He retrieved his cell phone from his trouser pocket and tapped a text to his assistant quickly. He disliked texts, but at this ungodly hour, he didn't want her to be alarmed.
Proceed with the surveillance in Adler's house. – MH
He knew she would see the text in the morning and arrange everything.
All it would take now was for the DI to cooperate.
He walked and sat again at his comfy chair, closing his eyes blissfully, letting Rimsky-Korsakov's Symphony take him in faraway lands, away from the beautiful, gloomy London, while Scheherazade narrated him tales of romance, passion and tragedies.