Best of Enemies
A Disorderly House – An Unexpected Ambivalence – Never Assume – The Altruistic Response.
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The three of them were directed towards a heavy door, partly opened so that a slice of golden light shone through. The man with the oily smile pushed the door wider and indicated Grace should precede the group.
Taking a deep breath and lifting her chin, she stepped inside a large, semi-lit space that seemed to be a combination of modern business-office and old-fashioned drawing room. There was a stylish dark striped wallpaper in shades of blue and rich patterned rugs.
A large antique desk took pride of place in one half of the room. There was an equally large leather chair behind it. The chair was occupied.
"I'm Helen Masterson, you wanted to speak with me?" the woman seated behind the desk watched them as they entered her office. "I'm always interested in talking about money," she added looking at the blonde newcomer before standing and walking over to a well-stocked bar. "Drink?"
Taking the lead as she had outside, Grace smiled graciously. "I'd love a gin and something," she said in an exquisite, cut-glass accent. "But the boys won't," she paused. "I expect my ... companions to be on their toes, don't I?" she purred, turning her head just enough to give Lestrade the merely flicker of a wink.
Not knowing if her game had the slightest chance of working, Greg felt they may as well try: they needed information and anything that might expedite a conversation was worth a go. He stood straighter and folded his arms, a fierce expression shaping his features. Sherlock didn't move; his normal look of terminal ennui sufficiently ominous as he leaned back against the wall by the door, hands in pockets and a saturnine cast to his face in the dimmed light. Grace wasn't sure if he was playing along or just watching the show.
Returning her gaze to the manager of the bordello, Grace assessed her as being late forties, possibly a little older; it was hard to say beneath that much make-up. Hair greying at the temples but regularly dyed a reddish-brown. Expensive clothes, but not terribly fashionable, as if they were being worn just that bit longer than was chic to do. There was a certain hardness in the woman's features, a coarseness that spoke of too much scotch and too little sleep.
Masterson cast her eyes over the two men standing so still and silent.
"You have them well-trained," she said, adding ice and tonic to a glass before handing it to Grace. "And they're so pretty, just standing there, waiting for you," she said. "Especially this one," she murmured, looking up into Lestrade's carefully blanked face. "You wouldn't consider a swap, would you?" she looked sideways at her assistant. "He's very keen to please, aren't you, kitten?"
Caught between a horrified possibility that the strange woman might actually accept the offer, and a desperate need to please the woman called Masterson, he simpered horribly.
Grace felt slightly ill.
"An intriguing idea," she said, standing beside the desk, although as you can see ..." she looked pointedly between the chair and Lestrade until he realised she wanted him to pull it out for her to sit in. He stepped forward quickly to fulfil the task.
"Sorry," he muttered.
"Sorry ..?" Grace let the gap hang in the air.
"Sorry Madam," he mumbled, ducking his head.
"As you can see," Grace sat, elegantly and as if she had all the time in the world. "This one still has a problem with his focus," she smiled. "But he has other skills," she added, cryptically.
"I just bet he does," Masterson retook her own seat, turning to examine the stunning ice-blonde woman with the two beautiful men who looked as if they'd kill on her word. "You spoke of making money? Of buying and selling?"
"Sherlock?" Grace didn't move her head. "I think that's your cue," she sat back and sipped her drink.
"Your business is failing," the tone in Sherlock's voice from the back of the room made it clear he wasn't asking a question. "You've already had to sell of most of the original antiques and replace them with shoddy knock-offs, the deep indentations in the carpets beside the newer pieces of junk a clear indication of the better items that you sold; even the paintings are unspeakable copies of the Lawrence originals. A place like this, in this location, at this time of night should be a literal hive of activity and yet your ... undertaking is mostly empty. It can't be because it's too early; busiest times in any brothel are between five and eleven at night. Nor is it because this establishment is hidden or lacking in off-road parking; Sadler's Wells is just down the road, making this an easy location to find with ample space for cars. So what is it that's causing all the problems?" Sherlock stepped away from the wall and into the light, his hands still in his pockets.
"Your problem is cash-flow, or rather, the lack thereof," he said, matter-of-factly. "Maybe you made some unwise investments, perhaps you just got greedy, but now there's a lot of competition building up in these areas north of the river; new places a great deal more enticing and glittery than some old club more noted for its links with long-dead British politicians than for its mailing list of living patrons," he said. "You need to modernise in order to attract the better class of sex-worker and, ergo, the better class of client, but you've run out of cash, haven't you?" he asked. "And the bank isn't willing to increase either your loan or your overdraft?"
Helen Masterson was silent as she absorbed the flood of information. "How do you know all this?" she asked. "This is private information; how did you get hold of it?"
"It doesn't matter how we know," Sherlock smiled coldly. "We know. We also know how you've been making ends meet in the interim. You've been rather naughty, haven't you?"
The woman's eyes widened, in either fear or outrage, Greg wasn't sure, but it was clear she was on the edge of some kind of outburst. He stepped closer to Grace, the front of his heavy coat brushing the back of her chair, hands ready, his face hardening. She could feel the ridge of his knuckles barely touching the top of her spine. It was oddly comforting.
Unexpectedly, Masterson smiled at Lestrade's instant reaction. "Your pets are quite something," she said, admiringly. "No wonder you don't want to part with them," she sighed heavily, resting both palms on her desk. "I am still very interested in knowing how you discovered this information," she frowned. "And what you intend to do about it."
"Who are your contacts?" Sherlock turned to look around the room with greater attention. "We know you've been acting as the go-between in certain financial transactions involving the sale of classified materials, so who have you been dealing with in your little enterprise?"
"What?" Finally, Masterson showed shock and fear. "Who are you people?" she whispered, a hand at her throat as if to protect that particular vulnerability.
"We are whoever we seem to be," Grace crossed her legs with a slither of silk. Lifting her bag, she extracted the bundle of high-denomination notes, twisting it slowly between her fingers.
The knuckles at her back tensed.
"My friends and I are not really bothered about your part in this; you've acted in the way you know best; as an intermediary. But what I want to know," Grace leaned into the woman's space. "Who are the principals in this activity?"
Looking between them, Helen Masterson was clearly at a loss, unsure what would be in her best interests to do. "And the money?" she asked, eyeing the bundle of notes. There had to be at least twenty-thousand pounds inside the tight band of bank-paper. She could do a lot with that kind of money
"Yours if your information leads us to either one of the two people we most want to speak with," Grace laid the bundle on the edge of the woman's oversized desk. "Give me names."
Masterson swallowed and shook her head. "I don't have any names," she said. "Names were something none of us ever used."
"So how did you make contact?" Greg wanted to know how this whole thing started. "Who came to you with the deal?"
Sighing loudly, but keeping her eyes on the bundle of cash, Helen Masterson closed her eyes. "Some man came here to meet one of the girls," she said, eventually. "Clearly he thought this would be as good a place as any to carry out certain pieces of ... business. And afterwards, he leaves an envelope behind. All I was ever expected to do was to pass on the envelope. I'm only a ... facilitator."
"He?" Grace snapped. "He who?"
"I don't know," Masterson groaned. "He phoned one night after he'd been here; I never had any dealings with him other than by phone, and the envelopes he left. I knew he'd been a customer here, but I didn't know which one; he uses one of those electronic voice distorters when he phones."
"When was the last time he called?" Lestrade wanted to narrow the timeline down a little. "Do you keep a list of when your clients visit?"
"Last time?" Masterson paused, thinking. "It was several weeks ago," she said eventually. "And no; there's never been any need to keep track of who is here at any given time."
"But surely it must have occurred to you to keep track of the customer so that you'd have some idea of who this person actually was?" Grace looked disbelieving.
Masterson shook her head. "He always phones at night to tell me to expect an envelope and there'd be one; a large manila envelope, waiting behind the painting above the fireplace in the foyer."
"And what were you expected to do with this envelope?" Sherlock joined in. "Deliver it to someone, obviously," he said. "But to whom? And how?"
"I had to leave it overnight in the bedside drawer in one of the rooms upstairs," the woman shrugged helplessly. "It's gone the following day and I never have any idea of who takes it."
"And what's your cut for all this facilitating?" Greg was done with pretending to be anything other than a copper.
"Two thousand each time," Helen Masterson looked sour. "Not really enough to do anything with, but too good to turn away in the present situation."
"What's inside the envelopes?" Sherlock returned to the grilling. "Were they always collected by the next day? Did you ever look inside? Were they heavy? Could you feel what was in any of them?"
"No," the older woman almost wrung her hands. "I never did look, but they were always very thin and light; whatever was inside them couldn't have been much at all," she added. "A single sheet of paper or something like that," she said. "Never anything more than that."
"And did this man, whoever he is, phone at regular intervals?" Sherlock wondered if they might be able to calculate the next call's arrival.
"Not really, no," Milton's manager shrugged helplessly now, all bravado gone. "He calls when he calls."
Grace scowled. "Which tells us very little of what we want to know," she made a face, looking at the older woman. "I am not happy."
"Until we have located the man, all your incoming calls will be traced," Sherlock pulled out his mobile to send a text to the number Gerald Palmer had given them. It would be the work of a moment to have the calls in and out of this place traced. "And your mobile number?" he asked imperiously.
"He never calls that number," she protested. "Nobody does for the business."
"In case you find a way to call him, of course," Sherlock stood, impatient. "The number?"
Giving him her phone, Masterson sat, resigned and tired. Her business was going down the drain, she'd been reduced to taking crumbs to keep the place afloat, and now this...
"Do your worst," she muttered. "I doubt I'll be here much longer in any case," she added. "The bank's about to foreclose on the mortgage and your mystery man will have to go elsewhere to drop off his bloody envelopes if I shut down."
Still holding his phone, Sherlock's forehead creased. They had come this far; to lose the connection through something as boringly pedestrian as a missed mortgage payment ...
"I'll see if I can get the bank to hold off," he rolled his eyes, typing rapidly before he sent off another text to Palmer's people. "Until we catch our envelope-dropper," he added. "If I were you," he said, staring at Masterson, "I'd make the most of it"
"You can do that?" Masterson frowned in uncertainty. "Why on earth would you do that?"
"Which room upstairs?" Lestrade interrupted, wanting to examine the drop-off site, not that there'd be much to see, considering the amount of traffic that would have been in and out of the place since the last envelope-drop three weeks prior. But still.
"Number fourteen, first floor, to the left," Masterson waved a hand at the ceiling above her head. "It's never locked."
"Then I'm going to have a look around before we do anything else," Greg nodded, almost to himself, moving towards the door.
"The money?" Masterson spoke anxiously.
"When we catch the man doing this," Grace dropped the banded cash back into her bag. "Until then," her voice grew hard. "You get nothing."
"I'll let you know the minute he calls again, I promise," the increasingly unhappy woman tried desperately to have them believe her. That last thing she wanted was to get the police in here; that would be the death-knell of her business. "Just let me help you."
Handing her a business card, Sherlock stared directly into her eyes. "Try and do anything clever and you'll be peddling your trade out on the streets," he said.
Her eyes wide in fear, Masterson nodded hastily. "I promise," she whispered. "I promise."
Walking back out of her room, their long dark coats flaring slightly behind them, they reached the foyer.
Lestrade turned. "I have two questions," he spoke very quietly. There was some tension in his voice. "First," he looked into Grace's eyes. "Is that money real?"
Holding her bag suddenly against her chest, she looked faintly apprehensive. "I've had it for ages," she said, defensively. "Got it out of a collection of documents when I was working for the Law Archives," she shrugged. "I always meant to throw it away, but it's such good quality, I couldn't bear to part with it," she attempted an expression of injured innocence.
"You're telling me you've got a pile of funny money?" Greg scowled violently and sucked down a breath. "Were you really going to give it to that Masterson woman if she had been able to help us catch whoever's doing this?"
Looking surprised at the question, Grace lifted her eyebrows and looked subdued. "Of course not," she admitted reluctantly. "Though it might have been worth it."
"To hand over, what, at least ten grand of counterfeit cash? Are you insane? Do you know how many laws you're breaking just by having that stuff in your possession?" Lestrade had no idea why the thought of her having the illegal stash was making him feel so heated, but the back of his neck was getting warm.
"I will do whatever it takes to sort this problem out and take suspicion away from the people who work for me," Grace hissed, beginning to get angry herself. "Besides, it's not really any of your business, is it?"
"I'm a bloody copper; of course it's my bloody business." Gritting his teeth, Greg was about to stomp away to the wide staircase at the far side of the empty foyer, when Masterson came charging out of her office, a phone in her hand, her eyes wide. "It's him," she pointed frantically at the phone. "He's dropping something off tonight!"
Sherlock had the device from her hand and at his ear in the same moment, but the line was already dead. He looked across the room at his comrades and back at Masterson. "Looks like we shall be your guests for longer than we anticipated," he smiled without humour. "In the meantime, I shall check the upstairs room and then we'll wait for whatever eventuates."
"Just don't involve the police, please," the manager of the bordello looked almost sick with worry.
"A little late to be worrying about the police, don't you think?" he asked, turning on his heel and heading across the foyer to the fireplace. Levering the painting slightly away from the wall, he checked there was nothing already there. Satisfied, he took the carpeted stairs two at a time, there was nobody else around and the three of them made it up to number fourteen without being seen.
"Will your brother be ready to have this place watched in time?" Lestrade looked around him. The younger Holmes was perfectly correct; this place had seen far better days.
"Knowing Mycroft, I expect this place has been under CCTV surveillance since I told him we were coming here, although I plan to be waiting for our visitor down in the foyer when he makes his drop."
"Then I want a good look around in the meantime," Greg's eyes were already searching out other hiding places, which the younger Holmes went directly to the farthest beside cabinet.
The room was of a fairly standard size; large enough to hold a very big bed, a couple of bedside tables, a dressing-table and a couple of armchairs. There was a miniscule ensuite bathroom off to the right.
"What can I do to help?" Grace wanted to be involved; the idea of sitting still and doing nothing while Sherlock and the inspector hustled around the place made her fingers itch.
"You can sit there and keep out of my way," Lestrade stabbed a finger at one of the chairs. "I'm still in half a mind to arrest you under the Forgery and Counterfeit Act of 1981, section two, and all five paragraphs of subsections fifteen and sixteen," he snapped, his still-angry gaze evidence of his mood.
For once, Grace felt discretion to be the better part of valour and she took a seat without further argument. He'd calm down sooner or later.
There was a muffled buzzing from over in the corner. Sherlock closed a drawer in the bedside table and the buzzing almost vanished.
Almost.
"What's that?" Grace peered across the expanse of bed, wondering.
"Nothing," Sherlock stood in front of the table, hands in his coat pockets. "Bedside alarm going off."
"The clock radio's over here," Greg nodded down at the white plastic box on the bedside table by his knee. "Dunno what's making that noise, but it would be better stopped in case someone hears and decides to come in here."
"No-one'll hear," Sherlock looked overly innocent. "Nothing to hear, really," he said, as the buzzing continued, quite loud enough for all three of them to realise it wasn't going to stop anytime soon without human intervention.
Heaving a short sigh, the younger Holmes turned on his heel, wrenched open the drawer and bent over, grasping something in his hands.
The buzzing grew suddenly louder.
"Bloody, bloody thing," he muttered, clearly attempting to yank something apart in his bare hands.
Grace felt her eyes widen of their own accord. The buzzing sounded awfully familiar. Though she tried, she couldn't stop the slightly manic expression creeping across her face. She turned to see if the same thought had occurred to the policeman.
Judging by the height of his eyebrows and the fact he was biting his lower lip to keep from disbelieving laughter, it had.
"Some kind of radio device, Sherlock?" Greg asked carefully. "An alarm of some sort?"
"Something like that," the dark coat dipped to the ground as Sherlock bent nearly double in an effort to end the irritating noise.
"Or perhaps it's some form of timer?" Grace turned to Lestrade, her voice wavering with the effort not to snigger dreadfully. "I'm sure places like this must have all sort of, um, things ..." she bit the inside of her cheeks.
"Yes, well, alright," Sherlock stood upright, turning to face them both. In one hand he held a moderately-sized pink item, columnar in shape, it filled his hand. Bits of it rotated. The whole thing buzzed like a jar of angry bees. "It came on when I moved it and now I can't make it stop." He held it out. "Help."
"Don't look at me," Greg lifted both hands and stepped back. "I'm not touching anything in here without latex gloves."
"I'm sure there would be such things on the premises," Sherlock gritted between his teeth as the buzzing thing made an unsuccessful bid for freedom.
"Oh, good grief," Grace walked over, took the vibrator and twisted the base in an anti-clockwise direction. The buzzing ceased immediately. "Honestly, the pair of you are useless. You act as if you've never seen one of these before."
Sherlock gave her a look of icy indifference. "There's nothing more for me up here," he said, looking down his nose at both his companions. "I'll find a place downstairs to watch out for our friend. I suggest you keep an eye out for his accomplice; they may come in here looking for the envelope at any time; clearly our man has a way of contacting someone inside this place," Sherlock looked around and wrinkled his nose before heading back out through the door.
"Right then," Greg knew exactly what he was going to do first. "I'll take that wad of counterfeit dosh, if you don't mind," he said, holding out his hand. "The sooner it's out of general circulation, the happier I'll feel." He stood, waiting.
"I wouldn't have given it to Masterson," Grace huffed as she dug in her bag and pulled out the pile of notes. "I just thought it might open a few doors for us and it did, so don't go all sanctimonious on me," she added, looking mutinous.
"This is going up in smoke the minute I find a proper fire," Lestrade waved the counterfeit money at her. "And if you have any more of this stuff, you'd be wise to get rid of it pronto," he added, sternly. "Do you?"
There was a tone in his voice that made Grace look at him more closely as she answered his question with a shake of her head. Clearly a man of some integrity, she didn't doubt for a moment that he was morally decent and upright; a policeman who worked closely with both Holmes men, he had to have something going for him. She felt nothing from him that whispered Alpha, nor did she have any sense that he shared her own special physiology. Beta then; as was the vast majority of the population.
But nothing wrong with him for being that, she thought.
And his eyes really were quite dreamy.
Greg realised he was staring, but she was just standing there, looking at him, saying nothing. In the slightly dimmed light of the bedroom, her clear grey gaze seemed almost luminescent. And vaguely hypnotic. Lestrade found it difficult to look away, not that he really wanted to look anywhere else for the moment.
Grace Chandler filled his eyes and he smiled.
"Fancy a coffee when we get out of here?" he spoke his idea without thinking. "I doubt we'll be able to get back to our respective dens much before midnight, so maybe a coffee or something, yeah?"
"A late night during the week and coffee after ten?" Grace sounded wary. "You're leading me astray, Inspector."
"Greg," he grinned back. "And there's nothing wrong with a little wickedness, after all," he said, his grin widening. "Besides, I am an upstanding officer of the law," he added. "I know exactly how far we can afford to stray."
His smile was as innocent as his words though Grace had a feeling neither were quite as harmless as they seemed.
He was tall, she realised as she looked up into those delicious dark eyes. The perfect kind of eyes to take her thoughts away from a much bluer pair ...
"I think a little, late-night transgression is exactly what the doctor ordered," she smiled. "And since I am, actually, a doctor ..."
"You talked me into it," Lestrade blinked slowly, a new smile on his face.
"Gregory," Grace tried his name out. "A good name for a police officer."
"Only my mother calls me that anymore," he shrugged. "And then only when she considers I've done something wrong."
"Then Gregory it shall be," Grace nodded, pleased. "But how long are we going to be here?"
"Dunno. How long we wait might depend on the envelope-dropper doing his thing so we can nab him."
"Do you really think it's going to be someone from my team doing this?" Grace felt her stomach clench with sudden anxiety. The idea that any of her people might be involved in this made her feel queasy.
"It's not your fault if it is," Greg spoke gently; he could see the idea of a snake in the grass was upsetting her. "And the sooner we catch whoever's doing this, the quicker you can get back to doing what you're good at doing."
Grace was about to thank him for his consideration, when suddenly all the lights in the room went dead. Utter blackness took them both by surprise.
"Shit ... wait here," Lestrade's hands found her shoulders and gave a quick squeeze as she felt him step away towards the nearest wall so he could work his way around to the door.
There was no point in opening the curtains, she realised; all the windows on this floor had been blacked out for privacy reasons.
The door to the room opened and closed across to her right. With outstretched hands, she stepped cautiously across the open space of the bedroom, making sure she didn't bang into any furniture. It seemed an inordinately long way to the nearest wall, but her questing fingertips eventually brushed against the flat of a papered surface and then, the edge of a the doorframe. Fumbling her way to the handle, she turned the round knob until the door opened, mostly silently, and a slight draft told her that air was coming in from the passageway.
Suddenly, there was a shout, and then another yell not far from where she was standing in the doorway, but as every light in the entire place seemed to have gone, she couldn't see anything at all expect a great expanse of blackness.
More shouts, and a few, swiftly silenced screams echoed at a distance; sounds of doors opening and slamming and of people milling around in the dark. Close by there was the sound of heavy feet running blindly in the dark towards her; she could feel the vibration in the floor beneath her feet, but could see nothing in the total gloom. She had no idea who was coming her way and wasn't sure which way was the safest direction to move.
A heavy body crashed into her, sending her sideways into the wall just beyond the door, her left arm flying outwards, clutching at anything for stability, only to crack violently against the solid doorframe. The pain was fierce and sharp and she cried out with the force of it as a hot stab of flame shot up her arm.
Forcing herself to step backwards into the bedroom, Grace cradled her wounded hand against her chest, retreating into the relative safety of the room she'd just started to leave.
"Grace! Are you alright?" Lestrade's voice echoed away off to the right hand side of the passageway.
"I'm okay," she called back, slightly breathless with shock and pain. "But someone just came belting past me, was that you?"
"Someone who tried to thump me and who I tried to catch," Greg's voice was closer now as he tracked her down by the sound of her voice. "The whole place has had the power cut; there's no lights anywhere and none of the wall-switches work."
There was a pause as footsteps approached.
"There's either been a massive short-circuit somewhere or it's deliberate," he said, arriving in the doorway. "I thought for a second I heard you yelling. Did you?"
"I banged my hand against the door when whoever it was charged past me," she said, feeling the stabbing throb in her hand gradually diminish into a pulsating ache as she held it still and protected by her other arm. "I think I might have made some kind of noise, but I'm okay now."
The lights came on, all of them. All at once.
Blinking as her eyes adjusted for a couple of seconds, it was only at Lestrade's low whistle of displeasure that she opened her eyes properly to look where he was looking; her hand.
It was covered in blood, several thin lines of it running down towards her elbow, though they were already sticky and drying even as she watched. The previously clear silvery lines of the snake's tail were darkened and smudged.
"What the hell ..?" Greg reached out with his fingers, stopping before he made contact. "Can you move your arm at all?" he asked, his eyes moving between her face and her hand. "Can you wiggle your fingers?" he watched more closely as she lifted her hand up and showed a definite, though tentative, wiggling ability.
"Good," he sighed. "Not broken. Looks bloody nasty though," he added. "A quick visit to the local Emergency department, I think."
"I don't think it's all that serious," Grace murmured as she turned the hand slowly around. The knuckles were already puffy and swollen and the skin over two of them was split, the cause of the bleeding, but it didn't seem to be worse than that. "Although it is throbbing a bit," she admitted. "Whoever barged past me pushed me back into the doorframe," she shrugged. "I'm sure I'll live," she wrinkled her nose. Making a scene wasn't really her thing and she felt somewhat self-conscious.
There was the sound of feet running up the staircase and Sherlock flew around the corner of the hallway. "Did either of you see anything?" he asked. "There was all manner of unnecessary drama downstairs when the power was cut; bodies running everywhere, including out the main entrance. Utterly impossible to tell who was what," he sniffed in disgust. "No way to identify our man in the dark. Either it was a fortuitous accident or an engineered event; I suspect the latter. That he knew an escape plan was needed suggests he has access to intelligence that we do not." He scowled, but held up a hand. "Found this though," he said, waving a yellow A4 envelope.
"Then he did drop it off tonight," Grace was stunned that whoever was doing this was still able to get away with it despite every bit of surveillance she'd arranged to have put in place at work. "What's in it?" she asked, barely daring to breathe.
Carefully lifting the flap of the envelope with the corner of a credit card, Sherlock peered inside, eventually pulling a back-and-white photo of a young boy playing on a small garden slide. There was nothing salacious or unusual about the photo – just a back garden snap that might be taken a million times in a million different gardens every summer.
"Do you recognise him?" Sherlock held the picture up for Grace's assessment.
She shook her head; she'd never seen the child before.
"Does this kid belong to any of your staff?" Greg asked. "Have you see this photo anywhere at all?" he paused. "Think, Grace, it's important."
Casting her memory around all the photos she'd seen lately, there had been a couple of them in the morning newspaper; some in the window of a children's shop, advertising a special; Shane Meath had his three kids up on his computer, but this boy wasn't one of his; she'd seen Meath's photos before; all his children had dark hair, and the child by the slide was very blonde. None of the other staff had pictures of children anywhere, not even framed on their desks.
"I've never seen this photo before," she spoke confidently. "He's no relation to any of my team that I know of, I'm positive," she added, shaking her head.
"Mycroft's people will be able to examine it in however much detail is required," Sherlock lowered the photograph back into the envelope. "If there's anything to be found, they'll hopefully exert themselves to find it."
"Then there's no further reason for us to stay here?" Lestrade wanted to be sure before he left anything undone. "It's just that Grace got caught by some idiot charging down the hallway in the dark and bashed her hand," he nodded towards the blood-stained injury. "I think she should have it looked at by a doctor, just in case."
"It's really not all that painful," Grace made a doubtful face as she peered down at her knuckles. They were quite swollen by now and there was a rapidly spreading bruise covering the back of her hand. What with the drying blood and blue-black bruising, it wasn't looking terribly pretty.
"John should be here," Sherlock mused, ducking down to bring his eyes level with the injured hand. "Doesn't seem in any imminent danger of falling off, but I'd prefer John's opinion."
"John?" Grace raised her eyebrows.
"Doctor John Watson, sometime GP and my blogger," Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he touched the tip of her middle finger.
Yelping, Grace jerked back as a spike of pain coursed up her arm.
"Hmm," Sherlock looked at her from beneath his furrowed eyebrows. "You may have dislocated the digitus medius," he stood back, frowning. "John would know."
"Well no need to bother John at this time of the night," Lestrade stood upright. "I'll take her into Bart's minor injuries unit, it's the closest," he said, taking charge as if it were the most normal thing to do. "You okay until we get there?" he asked, looking down into a pair of calm grey eyes.
"I really am fine," Grace sounded embarrassed. "There's no need to worry about this," she waved her hand a little. "I'm sure it'll be fine once the swelling goes down."
"If she doesn't want to see a doctor, Inspector ..?." Sherlock looked sideways at Lestrade.
"Okay, enough, both of you," Greg made sure Grace's coat was fastened so she wouldn't have to fuss with it enroute. "We'll get a separate taxi, so you'll not be inconvenienced," he looked at Sherlock as if the matter was decided.
"But if Doctor Chandler doesn't want to go ..?"
"Oh goodness," Grace looked between the two of them. "It hurts, so I supposed I should get it looked at, at least," she shrugged one shoulder. "If Gregory doesn't mind taking me there, then I'm hardly going to complain, am I?"
"Gregory?" Sherlock looked surprised and vaguely suspicious. "Gregory?"
"Yeah? It's my name," Lestrade shook his head wondering what all the fuss was about. "You'll get that photo to Mycroft and Palmer, and let him know what happened here tonight, will you?" His fingers brushed Grace's good arm. "And I'll get you looked at," he said, turning back to her. "Although we may need to leave that coffee for another night."
"Coffee?" the younger Holmes seemed to be inexplicably curious this evening.
"Sherlock, what is your problem?" Greg was the one sounding suspicious now, wondering if there was something he'd missed.
"Nothing at all, Gregory," the younger Holmes drew himself up into dignified silence. "I'll text you after I've spoken with Mycroft."
"You do that," Lestrade gave the tall, dark-haired man a strange look as Grace walked along the passage ahead of them. What was going on in that mad brain?
In his solo taxi, heading back to Baker Street, Sherlock examined the photograph once again in the dimmed internal lights of the vehicle. There was nothing in the image that suggested location or even time, though the child's clothing said summer, and the angle of the shadows meant the photo had been taken sometime between two and four in the afternoon. The garden was probably in Britain, judging by the manufacturer's stamp on the base of the plastic slide, which was of fairly recent genesis. But exactly where, and precisely how long ago the photo had been taken was a mystery. He could think of at least five ways in which the image might be concealing information, but if the child's picture represented some form of symbol or codified message, then help was needed in order to ascertain the meaning behind the symbol. Part of him hoped, it wouldn't be quite that obscure. Part of him hoped it would.
Perhaps Mycroft's people would be able to extract the finer details. Despite the hour, he lifted his phone and began a text to his brother.
###
It was so late, it was early.
Having given up on sleep, Mycroft sat in his study at home going through overnight Comms traffic and wondering for the umpteenth time what on earth his brother and the inspector were doing running around some of the less salubrious parts of London with Grace Chandler in tow. Lifting a tall silver pot, he poured himself a second cup of coffee and deliberated the question.
The earlier text he'd received from Sherlock was typically frustrating in its brevity. Accompanying Lestrade and Chandler to Miltons. Your Archivist in leading role. SH
And he'd attached a bloody photo, damn him.
Knowing precisely what Milton's was, or at least, what it purported to be, the elder Holmes had no idea what 'leading role' Grace Chandler might be playing, but judging by her outfit and her decidedly louche appearance, he doubted it would be anything she'd put on her CV. And what was she even doing with his brother and Lestrade in the first place? Damn it all; she had no right to be doing this! She was quite possibly endangering the entire operation! Obviously she had felt that any passive actions on her part were insufficient, he shook his head. He should have known she wouldn't be satisfied with merely looking on while others took a more active stance.
And what did Sherlock mean ... your archivist? No doubt his private life was to furnish Sherlock's amusement for the foreseeable future ... why in heaven's name had he felt the need to unburden himself to his brother about his liaison with Grace Chandler?
Placing a hand across his eyes, Mycroft sighed tiredly. Lacking any reasonable rest, the coming day was likely to be arduous, not that it would be the first time he'd managed without sleep, but for some reason, he wasn't feeling entirely at his best. Perhaps he really was coming down with some virus or other.
Picking up his phone, he flicked back to the photo of the beautiful blonde in a black dress that left very little to the imagination. And that snake on her arm ... parts of him recalled the dream that had roused him from sleep, and he cleared his throat with another sip of hot coffee. Focusing on her face, he narrowed his eyes in thought. She'd lost weight, he realised; the shadows around the bones of her face were fractionally deeper and her waist was significantly reduced in span. Had she been ill? He frowned a little. Not that her wellbeing or otherwise was any concern of his ...
The phone in his hand pinged gently. Another incoming text from Sherlock. What now, he wondered.
Your Archivist injured. Lestrade accompanying her to Bart's emergency for immediate treatment. Suggest your presence advisable. SH
Mycroft felt ice trickle through his veins. If Grace Chandler had been seriously hurt in the course of this investigation ... if she ...
Unrealised, his finger had already depressed the speed-dial button for his night-driver. "I need you at the door in three minutes," he said. "St Bart's Hospital, emergency admissions." Even as he ended the call, he was out of his seat and swinging the jacket of his suit around his back. Shouldering into the heavy winter coat, he grabbed a soft silk scarf and his gloves as he seized his umbrella. By the time he'd made it down to the front door, he was as wide awake as if he'd had a full eight-hours downtime.
"Bart's emergency, hurry," he snapped, lifting the phone to his ear and calling the Duty Administrator of a certain private clinic in the heart of London's West. It was a very low-profile and highly discreet organisation, both very good reasons why certain members of MI5 and MI6 made use of its facilities when the need arose. "Prepare to admit a patient in the near future," he instructed. "Yes," he nodded in the darkness of the car. "One of ours. Someone will be in touch with additional details."
The Jaguar flew through the still half-deserted streets, arriving at Bart's Accident and Emergency entrance scarcely eight minutes after he'd received Sherlock's text. Striding into the building with a familiarity born of long experience with bureaucracies, Mycroft looked around for someone who had the air of authority. Intimidating those in authority was his speciality.
A diminutive woman in a set of dark scrubs lifted her eyes from the sheaf of papers clasped in her hand. "Are you looking for someone in particular?" she asked in a melodic accent that spoke of Mumbai or Kolkata.
"One of my ... staff has been injured and brought here. I wanted to ensure they were transferred to an appropriate facility," he announced, looking around as if an ability to see through walls had suddenly been realised.
"It's been a quiet night," she said. "What's the name you're after?" she asked, lifting the pen in her hand towards a curtained room. "We had someone come in not five minutes ago ..." she was interrupted by Mycroft's curt nod of thanks as he swivelled towards the rippling fabric, only to come to an abrupt halt as Lestrade appeared through the heavy curtain.
"Thought I heard your dulcet tones," he nodded, an expression of curiosity in his eyes. "I assume you're here because of Sherlock?"
"One of his enigmatic texts," Mycroft inhaled sharply through his nose. "He said Grace Chandler had been injured and that you were bringing her here for emergency treatment. It sounded serious."
Greg pursed his lips and shook his head, smiling. "Typical Sherlock," he looked apologetic. "It's not that serious," he added. "We almost caught someone at Milton's, but the power was cut and Grace was thumped in the dark. She hurt her hand, but it's not exactly life-threatening. I'm taking her home once she's finished here."
Mycroft paused as the information sank in. That Grace wasn't badly hurt was more of a relief than he had any right to expect. That she was being accompanied by the inspector was both sensible and logical. That Lestrade had called her Grace and was waiting to take her home was oddly displeasing.
"She's in there with the nurse now," Lestrade pointed to the curtained space. "They only treat minor injuries here; her hand took a bit of a battering, but they said she would be fine."
Mycroft decided he would be the judge of that and parted the curtain to peer inside.
Grace was sitting comfortably in a high chair, resting her left hand on the chair's wide, sloping arm. The skin of her wrist and hand was in the process of being cleaned by a young male nurse, exposing the small, but jagged wounds across her middle knuckles.
Expecting it to be Greg re-entering the cubicle, as soon as she saw who it was, the emerging smile on her face died. "Why are you here?" she asked eventually, trying hard to sound indifferent.
Disregarding the nurse and stepping forward to examine her injuries in closer detail, Mycroft's gaze took in the swollen and damaged hand. No stitches would be required, but it would be painful for several days. She wasn't going to be able to do much.
"I was on my way into the office when I received Sherlock's text," he said. "A minor detour to ensure Gerald Palmer would not need to immediately re-advertise your post seemed advisable," he said, watching her face pinch with pain as the nurse was less than gentle. "You should take a couple of days off to let it recover."
Why couldn't he stay out of her life? He'd made it painfully clear a long time ago that she wasn't wanted, so why couldn't he simply leave her alone? Grace felt an underlying anger colour her words. "Take time off in my first week on the job?" she snapped the question. "Are you mad? I shall be fine; it's not as if I'm left-handed or anything."
"You are fortunate the injuries were not worse," Mycroft's lips flattened as he saw her frown in discomfort while the nurse pressed butterfly-strips across the split skin. "What you were doing taking part in any activity beyond your direct mandate is grist for a later conversation. What on earth possessed you to join forces with the inspector and my brother? Though Inspector Lestrade is a reasonably perspicacious individual, I cannot say the same for Sherlock."
"Your brother is one of the nicest people I've met in a long time," Grace gritted out the words as the nursed lifted her wrist to commence bandaging. "He must have inherited all the pleasant genes in your family," she hissed softly, biting her bottom lip.
Sherlock ... nice?
"In addition to your hand, did you also receive an injury to your head?" Mycroft was mystified. "Believe me when I say that my brother, though possessed of several commendable attributes, is not one of nature's most amenable individuals."
"Then I must be extra lucky because he was entirely pleasant to me," Grace closed her eyes and sucked down a breath as the nurse lifted her hand into a padded, figure-of-eight loop that he fixed around her neck.
Mycroft stopped himself from wincing as her face paled. "If you prefer not to take time off for medical reasons, can you at least work from home today?" he suggested. "I am aware you have a great deal of policy-reading relevant to your new post to get through; it might be an efficient use of time that also assists with any immediate discomfort."
Loathe though she was to agree with him, it was a good idea. She did have a ton of reading to crawl through, and she probably wasn't going to be at her most agile in the office today ...
Grace sighed. "That's actually a sensible suggestion," she nodded reluctantly. "I'll arrange it."
"No need," pulling out his Hunter, Mycroft checked the time. It was still a little too early to expect a response to a phone call, but a text might suffice in this instance. In a second, he had his Nokia in his fingers and was rattling off a brief message to Gerald Palmer.
"Done," he announced, a barely discernable smile of satisfaction curving his mouth.
"Done? Great," Lestrade stepped around the elder Holmes and extended a hand to Grace as she moved to escape the chair. She was a little awkward with the encumbrance of the sling and lost her balance for a moment.
"Here," Greg stepped closer, gently sliding her coat around her shoulders and extending a supporting hand beneath her good arm. "Lean on me; don't want you doing any more damage tonight, do we?"
For some reason, Mycroft was almost prepared to find fault with the inspector's solicitude, although it was perfectly obvious that it was merely an act of thoughtfulness and consideration. He inhaled sharply. The lack of sleep last night and the general malaise he'd been feeling recently was clearly having a negative effect upon his normal insouciance.
"May I offer you both a lift across the river?" he asked, attempting to override the abnormal reaction.
"Ta, but no, Mycroft, no need," Lestrade had Grace's bag in one hand and her good elbow in the other. "Got a cab waiting outside," he grinned. "One of the perks of being in the Met is that cabbies will always wait; I expect they think it's good for their karma or something."
Watching the pair of them navigate slowly out of the room and across the somewhat busier emergency room towards the exit, Mycroft realised he was experiencing a profound state of ambivalence over the situation. He frowned. Upon observing the inspector slide his hand into the small of Grace's back to steady her through the doors, he felt discomfort in his fingers, and upon looking down, saw them clenched rather forcefully around the handle of his umbrella.
He frowned again. What was the matter with him?
###
It was just early enough that their taxi managed to skate around the beginning of the morning's peak traffic, getting them to the South Bank as the first streaks of grey dawn split the clouds.
Assisting Grace out of the cab, Lestrade walked her carefully up the wide staircase to the third floor, taking the keys from her bag and unlocking her front door.
Welcoming him inside, she kicked off her high-heels with a loud sigh of relief, padding into the kitchen to fill the kettle.
"I so desperately want a shower to get all this gunk off my face," she scratched at her cheek where the more-than-usually heavy makeup was starting to itch.
"Then off you go; I'll make tea. You want anything to eat? Breakfast, instead of that coffee we discussed?"
"Oh, would you?" Grace turned to face him, a look on her face more usually associated with puppies. "I wasn't really hungry until you mentioned food but now I'm suddenly starving. Would you mind?"
Lestrade slid out of his long winter coat and the jacket beneath as he started rolling up his sleeves. "I've been divorced long enough now to have learned quite a bit of cooking and stuff," he lifted his eyebrows. "Fancy a proper cooked breakfast?"
At the suggestion, her stomach growled loudly and she clamped her uninjured hand across it. "Sorry," Grace looked sheepish. "But you just said the magic words, I'm afraid."
Greg laughed. "One proper cooked breakfast coming up, then," he walked to the fridge. "Want anything in particular?"
"Whatever's going will be fantastic," Grace draped her coat over the back of a chair at the table and paused. "Um ..."
"Um?" Lestrade turned back from the open fridge balancing a carton of eggs, a packet of bacon, a small punnet of mushrooms and two large tomatoes.
"If you wouldn't mind ..." Grace made a face and turned her back to him. "I can't undo this this dress one-handed," she waved vaguely at the back of her neck. "There's a small clasp at the top that needs both hands, so ... if you wouldn't mind ..."
Wiping his hands together, Greg squinted down at the miniscule fastening at the top of the zip. "Jeez," he muttered, peering. "Think they could make this any smaller?"
The sensation of his warm fingers brushing repeatedly across the nape of her neck made her quiver involuntarily. The skin there was so delicate that when her hair had been longer, even the weight of it brought on a frisson, at times.
"Sensitive, eh?" she could hear the smile in his voice. "I'll remember that in case I have to do this again."
"And can you pull the zip down a bit until I can reach it with my hand, please?" she asked, reaching around her back to a point mid-way between her shoulder blades. "About here, would be good."
Taking great care to go no further than the point she had indicated, Lestrade brought the fastener to within her grasp. "Now you go off and get cleaned up while I unleash my creative genius with eggs and bacon in your kitchen," he said. "Or do you need help in the shower, too?" He waggled his eyebrows and looked villainous.
"Fairly confident I can manage by myself in the shower, thanks," Grace replied tartly, a smile curling her mouth even as she walked away to find a plastic bag with which to waterproof her aching hand.
Fortunately, she had designed her bathroom as an open shower along one entire wall, with the other bathroom fitments on the opposite side, out of the water's reach. The open space thus enabled her to rotate beneath the ceiling-located shower head and let gravity and the hot water do most of the work. As the heavy stream of refreshing water cascaded over her tired and somewhat trampled body, Grace felt her mood lighten and improve. So they hadn't yet discovered who was doing this thing, or worked out how the information was being smuggled out of MI5, but at least they were onto a solid lead and nobody was about to give up on any of it, not just yet.
And certainly not her.
Getting hurt last night had been an unpleasant accident, but didn't mean she was going to back off and leave everything to the two men, even though they were the professionals and she, at best, was a motivated bystander. She knew more about the methods of moving data from one place to another than the both Sherlock and Gregory together, and they needed that knowledge if they were going to crack this problem. All she really had to do now was to get her mind to work on the problem and maybe come up with an answer or two.
As she rinsed her favourite lemon balm from her hair, Grace felt some of the anxiety of the previous night slip away, leaving her tired but far more relaxed than she had been since reading the report Palmer had given her.
Drying her hair one-handed, she slid into a towelling robe and opened the bathroom door to be greeted by the most incredible and succulent aroma of hot food. Torn between going directly to the kitchen or observing some decorum and redressing first, she realised if she appeared semi-naked, the man responsible for the glorious breakfast might be embarrassed and that wasn't fair. Stomach growling, she headed into her bedroom and dragged on a soft pair of track-pants and a voluminous old grey Cambridge sweat-shirt. Following her nose, she reappeared at Lestrade's side just as several pieces of toast flung themselves up for eating. He stomach rumbled again, louder and with some quite serious intent.
"Sit down," Greg laughed. "Never let it be said that I starved you in your own home," he added, carrying over two plates and then a second time with two mugs of hot tea.
"This is fantastic," Grace was already into the mushrooms, and was trying to work out how to butter the toast with only one working hand when he saw her quandary.
"Here," he said, reaching across and doing the honours, held it up to her for a bite.
Crunching and chewing and smiling, Grace turned happily to her culinary saviour, just as he lifted his eyes to hers.
She could see he was laughing at her, but in a very gentle sort of way. Despite the night they'd just shared, he seemed almost carefree.
To Greg's eyes, she looked about nineteen without makeup and with her hair spiking any which way it felt like. Her smile was without the slightest reservation.
And ... there was a moment.
Oh. Grace felt everything go still as she looked into dark hazel eyes which widened unexpectedly as they looked back. There was an awkward sort of pause at the simultaneous realisation that something had just happened between them, although neither were quite sure exactly what.
"Ah ..." Greg put her toast down and turned to his own plate, suddenly interested in the salt and pepper.
"So," Grace fumbled for something neutral to say. "What's on for you today?"
"Oh, this and that," he cleared his throat and turned back to meet her gaze, the faintest of smiles on his mouth. "Though the idea of paperwork doesn't appeal all that much after what we were doing last night," he grinned again as if nothing had passed between them. "Got to grab some sleep, too," he added, rubbing an eye. "The last few hours were a bit on the manic side. What about you?"
"I'm going to stuff myself silly with your lovely breakfast and then I'm going to sleep for a few hours before I tackle a pile of reading that I was going to have a go at on Saturday. Doing it today means I'll have the weekend free, which will be nice."
"Doing anything at the weekend in particular?" Lestrade sipped his tea, his eyes focused elsewhere.
"Not that I'd made any plans for," Grace tried to think if there was anything she had to do. "Got to get some groceries, but that's about it."
"Fancy going to the pictures?" he sipped his tea again, staring aimlessly into the middle distance.
Grace felt herself wanting to smile. "Is this you asking me out?" she fought to keep her voice level; to laugh now would be extraordinarily bad-mannered.
"Might be," Greg turned to gauge her expression. It seemed generally encouraging. "There's a re-run of some classic 1950 Sci-Fi's at the Barbican," he said. "They're showing The Day the Earth Stood Still on Saturday night ... fancy giving it a go?"
Thinking for a moment, Grace looked very serious. "Klaatu barada nikto?" she asked, smiling again as Lestrade's eyes grew even wider than before. "You're a fan too?"
"You might be surprised to learn what I know about science fiction," Grace returned to her breakfast. "Never assume."
"I never will with you," Greg swallowed more tea and finished off the last of his eggs. He sighed. "If I go now, are you going to be alright with everything, with that?" he indicated her bandaged hand and wrist. "If there's anything you need me to do before I leave..?"
Kiss me goodbye, a ghost-voice flitted through her thoughts.
"Not a thing, thanks," she smiled. "You done everything above and beyond the call of duty," she waved a second piece of toast at him. "Off you go and get some shut-eye."
"You're sure you don't need me to turn down your bed or get some fresh milk or set your alarm or anything?" Greg couldn't stop himself from teasing; the mood between them was so comfortable.
"Positive, thank you," Grace looked up at him from beneath raised eyebrows. "I have a wonky hand, not a wonky everything."
"Just checking," Greg slid into his suit jacket. "If you need anything for later, you'll let me know?"
"If I need anything for later, I can probably organise it for myself," she looked at him assessingly.
"Probably?" he asked, meeting her gaze.
"Definitely," she agreed, as he picked up his overcoat. "You'll let me know of any developments?"
"Of course," Greg grinned as she walked him out to the front door through an amazing, circular book room. He would like to have a closer look at some of these books, one day, he realised. "You're on the team now."
###
"Utterly ridiculous," Sherlock crossed his legs and folded his arms. "The only motive behind sending those texts was to ensure you were adequately briefed on the progress of the investigation," he paused, looking petulant. "You would rather remain ignorant of the fact that Doctor Chandler, indirectly one of you own senior staff, had attached herself to our little investigation?"
Waiting for an initial forensic report on the photograph taken from Milton's, there was little the two Holmes brothers could do other than stare at each other in silence or engage in some form of conversation, no matter how desultory.
Sat behind his desk, Mycroft said nothing and reserved judgement on his sibling's statement. It was entirely possible Sherlock was speaking the unvarnished truth, had it not been for one small, but not insignificant point.
"She said you were very nice to her," Mycroft linked his fingers across his lap. Had it not been for that one telling point, he might have passed the whole thing off as Sherlock being in snit at having now to deal with two lesser beings rather than Lestrade alone. "You're not even pleasant to Mummy when you think she's interfering, so why you would want to be nice to Doctor Chandler, a complete stranger, is beyond my ken. I am intrigued to learn the reason behind such niceness."
"I can't be nice to someone when I feel like it?"
"An altruistic response?" Mycroft's incredulous expression said it all. "Not without some extraordinarily good reason, Sherlock, no; I'm not sure you could be."
There was a pause as both sides of the debate marshalled their arguments.
"She likes me," opting for directness, Sherlock flicked some invisible fluff from the knee of his suit trousers. "Doctor Chandler picked up I was Alpha straight away; not sure how, but I saw the recognition on her face, almost at the same instant as she started to wonder about our parents."
"Our parents?" Mycroft was momentarily puzzled, until the obvious explanation became clear. "Of course," he nodded. "Being an Omega herself, Grace would know all about the per capita birth-ratio and the extreme unlikelihood of two Alpha children in the one brood."
He still thought of the Chandler woman as 'Grace', Sherlock noted. Interesting.
"Her thinking was on the obvious side," Sherlock made something of a face. "She didn't need to open her mouth; it was written all over her face. Didn't you find such transparency a little wearing when you and she were ... ah ..?"
"Actually, no," Mycroft looked off into the middle distance as he recalled how invigorating discussions had been between them. "It was ..." he blinked and looked down for a second. "It's none of your business," he said softly but with an air of finality. "I'd prefer we not discuss that particular past, if you don't mind."
"She wondered how father managed to cope with the three of us," totally ignoring his brother's attempt to close down the topic, Sherlock released a flicker of smile. "I think she'd get on with him rather well, don't you?"
Despite himself, an image of her arrived in his mind's eye: standing in his parent's kitchen, looking out through one of the broad-paned windows, down towards the bottom of the kitchen garden, a pensive expression on her features.
Observing his brother's gaze grow briefly but unmistakably distant, Sherlock kept his external expression immobile. Internally, however, was another matter.
Really brother?
The moment was broken by an understated knock on the door.
"Yes?" Mycroft was instantly alert.
"The preliminary forensic report on the photograph, sir," a discreet admin placed a thin file in his hands.
"Thank you," Mycroft scanned the report, a frown developing between his eyes.
"Well?" Sherlock was done with waiting. "What does the photo contain?"
Lifting his eyes slowly away from the several printed sheets, the elder Holmes was clearly displeased.
"Nothing," he said. "Apparently it contains nothing," he said, handing the file across to his brother. "The photograph appears to be exactly what it purports to be, no microdots, no hidden audio in the grey tones, no sub-images. Nothing."
"That's impossible," Sherlock looked annoyed. "There has to be something in the photo; there would be no earthly reason for it to be there if it were simply what is seems to be."
"See for yourself," Mycroft waited as Sherlock took in all the data. "My people may find something with further tests, however, so let's not write this off just yet."
Biting his lower lip, the younger Holmes grunted in frustration. "Then we need to get Chandler's opinion," he murmured. "And see if she's as good as she thinks she is."
"Grace Chandler will not be in her office today, the inspector escorted her home from the hospital. Her injury will heal faster with respite and I recommended she work from home. She needs to rest."
"Now who's being nice?" Sherlock tilted his head as he evaluated his brother's action. "I'm not the only one from whom an altruistic response might seem unlikely," he added, mockingly. "Give me the report and I'll go and see her."
It was the logical thing to do, but Mycroft felt a rising level of uneasiness. There had never been any intention of involving Grace in this situation beyond the limits of her office, but she had already placed herself in danger and suffered the consequences of such an action. That Sherlock seemed happy to work with her boded well for the investigation, but was it likely to expose her to further, and possibly more perilous, threat.
As his brother disappeared from the confines of the room, Mycroft Holmes leaned forward on his desk, resting his chin on clasped hands.
The tension he was experiencing was acute and palpable, and he had no real idea why.