Author's Note: Okay so there isn't an excuse good enough, so I won't try. I AM SO SORRY. Now my exams are officially out the way, I've been planning out where this story is going to go from here, working out plot details etc, and it's really taken me this long to get some stuff down on paper (or screen). Nevertheless, we are back on track now with a whole plot sketched out. For those of you wanting more from Irene, she will definitely be back in the next chapter. In the meantime, enjoy chapter 4, and I have to ask (nay, beg) from some understanding - Mycroft Holmes is a fiendishly difficult character to write! Enjoy, guys!

The headlines two days later brought news of a second disappearance, and Watson found himself upon Holmes' doorstep once again, armed with a copy of the morning Gazette and Gladstone plodding on the lead at his heels.

Colonel Victor Shrewsbury was a decorated serviceman and highly-regarded member of Her Majesty's National Security Council with more than twenty years experience, military and parliamentary. According to the report (what Watson could gather since it was clear Scotland Yard was being extremely selective with the information they allowed for release), Shrewsbury had been en-route to the gentleman's club two nights previously but had never arrived. Mrs Shrewsbury had notified the authorities the following morning when she awoke to find her husband missing, thus adding a second name to the list of government ministers Scotland Yard was charged with finding and returning - a task they would invariably fail to complete if Lestrade remained so hell-bent upon keeping Sherlock Holmes out of the investigation.

Holmes was usually incapable of remembering to fetch his own paper and usually preferred to catch up on several weeks worth of national news when Watson stopped by with a morning periodical; that said it was a rare occasion when he remained totally in the dark when something monumental was panning out in the press. Holmes had eyes and ears all over the city to the point where even Watson wasn't sure of the true extent of his friend's connections.

So it was no real surprise to the Doctor that the news of Shrewsbury's disappearance seemed to have reached Baker Street before he did, at least if the hansom, horse and footman waiting on the doorstep of 221b was any indication.

Watson had brought his old key along and he slipped it into the lock, feeling the eyes of the footman on him as he did so. It was an unnerving feeling, and Watson was glad to step into the hallway and close the door on the street behind him.

He untied Gladstone's lead and let the little dog scamper away into the drawing room whilst he himself headed towards the stairs. It didn't take skilled observation to surmise that in the two days since Mrs Hudson had departed for the coast, standards of hygiene and general cleanliness at Baker Street had taken off on a distinctly downward trajectory: the smell of burning rubber was the first to assault Watson's nostrils as he began up the steps to the top floor, followed swiftly by those of tobacco and undiluted ethanol. Watson cast a glance downwards at the stair carpet underfoot. Scorch marks, black and angry and each about the size of a tuppence piece, began sporadically halfway up the stairs and became gradually more concentrated as Watson climbed. The top step was a mass of burns and blackened carpet in the delicate floral pattern of Mrs Hudson's coverings, and Watson shut his mind off against the onslaught of imaginings as to just what Holmes had been doing.

The door of Holmes' rooms stood wide open, so Watson didn't bother to knock.

"Holmes, are you aware there's a hansom downstairs and presumably a passenger who came here looking for..." Watson trailed off, having noticed that Holmes wasn't alone.

The detective was seated in his armchair by the window, fingers laced together and his expression laced with manic enthusiasm. The suited man in the seat opposite held a starched bowler hat on his lap and was eyeing his surroundings - the piles of rubbish, unopened letters and unidentifiable trinkets which made up the contents of Holmes' room - with an expression of utter distaste. He stood up as Watson entered, offering a handshake which the Doctor accepted with a bemused nod.

"Doctor Watson, I presume?" The man returned to his seat, casting a disdainful downwards as Gladstone appeared at Watson's heels, barking loudly. Watson saw Holmes stifle the beginnings of an amused smirk at their guest's obvious discomfort, and stepped smartly between the two chairs before the detective could compromise himself.

"And you are..?"

"James Avery," the man introduced himself with a nod, lifting his eyes with difficulty away from the dog. "I've come at the bidding of my employers to bring Sherlock Holmes to them immediately; and you, Doctor, if you will insist on accompanying him..."

"He insists," Holmes said.

"Does he?" Watson dropped the newspaper into Holmes' lap, warding off a sigh as the detective took a fleeting glance at the front page before dumping the entire stack onto the floor by his feet.

"Yes, he does," Holmes said, looking belligerently up at Watson. "Now, what have we discussed about being rude to guests?"

"Your guest, Holmes," Watson pointed out, "not mine. Your house, not mine. Your mess, not mine." He stooped, bringing a dubious-looking sock up between finger and thumb for closer inspection. "Yes, Holmes - let's talk about manners, shall we?"

"Whether you come or not makes little difference," Avery interrupted before Holmes could argue back. He fixed Watson with a thin smile. "I'm sure you understand the necessity that this matter remains as discrete as possible, Doctor, even if your friend..." He glanced unpleasantly in Holmes' direction. "...does not. My employers advised diplomacy when attempting to separate him from you - I understand he is somewhat attached..."

Watson was liking Avery less and less with every word the man spoke: a protégée who had gained an important task and a self-important attitude all in one go. Gladstone apparently thought so too - the little dog hadn't stopped barking since Watson had brought him in, and Avery was visibly flinching with every snap of his teeth.

"Since I've arrived a little late, why don't you fill me in?" Watson gritted his teeth, drawing a stool and taking his seat halfway between the two armchairs. He felt like he was mediating an intermittently violent tennis match - Holmes wore a particularly dangerous expression which long experience had taught Watson to recognise as a sure sign of trouble ahead, usually with entertaining results.

Avery indicated the crumpled morning Gazette on the floor by Holmes' feet. "You've read the headlines, Doctor - I'm sure they were telling enough."

"Shrewsbury," Watson agreed.

"It appears a second minister gone missing was a little too much for my brother to place with Scotland Yard alone," Holmes said, stretching his legs out before him with a sly glance at Watson. "Even with the capable hands of Inspector Lestrade guiding the helm."

"Your brother?" Watson asked. He shifted his foot to allow room for Gladstone who had settled himself comfortably enough between the Doctor's two legs. "Mycroft..."

"...Is responsible for this, yes." Holmes looked up at Avery as he spoke, and seemed invigorated by the expression of shock passing fleetingly over the aide's countenance. "Though I feel I may have stolen from the splendour of the moment of which our guest was hoping to unveil our destination and the people who sent him here. His finest hour, don't you agree, Watson? And I took it from him."

"Awful of you," Watson said, nodding earnestly as he could manage. "Truly awful. In fact, I think you should apologise."

"I probably should."

"Enough," Avery barked. He had gone very red in the face; clearly not having been warned in greater detail about Holmes and Watson -the destructive duo - at their most antagonistic was taking its toll.

"My apologies," Watson said with cordial tact. "Perhaps if you told us more..."

"My instructions were to bring you to Whitehall and nothing more," Avery said stubbornly, and Watson noted with a concealed smile that only now did he consider it necessary to provide additional information.

"Ceremonial without due cause," Watson noted, tilting his head to one side. "Are you sure he's not with the Yard, Holmes?"

"As much as Lestrade would enjoy pulling the strings on this puppetry of pomp and circumstance..." Holmes looked Avery up and down in a way reminiscent of a tiger selecting the finest gazelle for the slaughter. "...I think not. Mycroft is the guilty party here, Watson. Surely a medical mind as shrewd as your own could not have failed to notice the accumulation of extra weight around the thighs and buttocks of our guest, though you were not present for my initial clue - a distinct lack of breath after climbing the stairs to the rooms in which we now sit: the telltale signs of a man who spends long periods of his life inert."

Holmes turned his piercing gaze downwards to Avery's shoes.

"Soot and scorch marks," said he, "clearly visible. Brown leather is rather telling of hours spent sitting too close to the fire." It was clear by now that Holmes was having fun, even if the opposite was true for the unfortunate Avery.

"You might also observe, Watson, the behaviour of our guest when confronting our canine companion." Holmes had produced a pipe from somewhere inside his waistcoat, and he waved it somewhat menacingly in Gladstone's direction. "We both were privy to his discomfort when the dog began barking. Perhaps he is no friend to the animals; but then you, my dear doctor, would not have seen Mr Avery pause to pet a stray mongrel which wandered into his path as he exited the hansom outside. Conclusion - it is the barking he objects to rather than the creature who emitted it." Holmes leaned back in his chair, crossed one leg over the other and closed his eyes. "What indeed is more disturbing than abrupt and continuous noise to a man who is at his most comfortable in a state of absolute silence..?" He opened one eye and looked to Watson. "Do tell us, Watson - in which establishment frequented by my brother would we find a group of gentlemen sitting perfectly still with their feet in the hearth, basking languidly in the blessed silence of seclusion..?"

"The Diogenes Club," Watson finished.

"Correct." Holmes let the eye fall closed again.

"Of course..." Watson craned his neck, looking down at the hansom and then back at Holmes. "And I'm sure the fact you failed to mention the coat of arms representing Her Majesty's government sewn into the flat-cap of the footman downstairs was just a simple lapse of memory..?"

Holmes barely twitched.

"Of course not," he said with a touch of indignation. "I paid due consideration to all variables; however to state the obvious is to make a mockery of higher thought."

"Oh that's your excuse, is it?" Watson scoffed. "That's the reason you missed the most fundamental clue available, rather than because you were too busy showing off..?"

"All the world's a stage," said Holmes, "and all the men and women merely players; though some more gifted than most."

Watson bit back a cutting retort when he remembered Avery: Mycroft's aide (who had of course come straight from the Diogenes where the meeting with his employer had taken place that morning) had lost the worst of his violent scarlet flush, instead resigning himself to Holmes' dissection with a faintly sickened expression - the picture of a man genuinely violated with little or no intention of speaking up. He got slowly to his feet, flinching at another rowdy bark from Gladstone, and placed the bowler hat firmly on top of his head, irrespective of the presence of company and the fact they were still inside. It was clear Avery had decided to adopt a similar attitude to etiquette as his host.

"Shall we, gentlemen? The carriage has been waiting some time as it is, and I'm sure you're aware your brother operates an exceedingly tight schedule, Mr Holmes - particularly in uncertain times such as these."

"Oh?" Holmes queried, standing and brushing himself down. "A shame - I was beginning to enjoy myself; but we will go where you bid."

Avery had either decided both Holmes and Watson were potentially dangerously unstable and was therefore bound to humour them, or else the detective's spot-on analysis had provided a sharp poke to his ego and allowed him to realise just what he was up against, at which point common sense had intervened and told him it would be best to back off before he came off worse a second time. Watson would have put his final shilling on the former possibility: as the three men boarded the hansom that would whisk them away to Mycroft's daytime office, the doctor could feel Avery's gaze on him, and it was definitely one of apprehension rather than humility. Holmes, as was his way and well accustomed to people's expressions of mingled fear and respect, didn't seem to notice. In any case, Avery's attitude did not affront him: it had taken Sherlock Holmes a lifetime of practiced egotism to reach this high on his pedestal, and it would take a sight more than an inflated government aide to bring him down again.

Watson passed frequently through Whitehall on his way to visit patients, though usually on-foot and usually without Holmes, who was whistling fervently as the carriage wheels clicked in time with the hooves of the grey mare pulling it.

Despite the company, however, Watson was content just to sit back and enjoy the ride. Even the verses of 'I Bow to Thee My Country' whistled somewhat tunelessly through the teeth of the detective beside him couldn't penetrate the small sense of moral victory he felt at getting Holmes out of the house and ankle-deep into a new case. It was merely unfortunate, as Watson's medical and military compassion whispered to him, that another man should have to go missing before the authorities could swallow their pride and invite their rightful Admiral (and of course the ship's Doctor) onboard.

As the hansom approached the cast-iron gates of 'Warwickshire Court' -their eventual destination- they swung back to admit the visitors, and Watson swallowed hard on the realisation that they were sure to be watched closely from now on. He'd never been inside a British government building on official business before, and couldn't help but wonder what to expect.

The footman tugged on the reins, bringing the horse and carriage to a stop before the entrance where two guards in olive green britches were waiting to greet them. Avery stepped down from the carriage without a word, leaving the door ajar with a silent glance over his shoulder that Watson and Holmes should follow him close-at-heel.

Behind the mahogany doors of Warwickshire Court lay nestled a twisting maze of almost identical corridors, distinguishable (to Watson's untrained eyes at least) only by the different faces staring down from oil impressions of dour but otherwise nameless politicians which lined the panelled walls inside. Every so often they would come up against a guard or suited official passing towards their own business behind one or other of the anonymous doors; what was amusing was that not one of them gave Avery a second glance, and Watson could almost see the self-importance deflate from the shoulder pads of the man's pressed suit-jacket. Throwing a cursory glance in Holmes' direction after a large man with a gold chain around his neck almost walked straight through their pompous guide, Watson could have sworn he saw the detective smirk.

It occurred to Watson that for a man of Avery's (admittedly half imaginary) status to be brushed aside so completely by his fellows, it must be powerful men indeed who held office here. Watson knew enough of Mycroft Holmes to have some vague idea of the circles he ran in - it was said he had a finger in the pie of every major government department, and that was more pies than Watson cared to count, every one sporting a gilded crust and suspiciously dangerous filling. Wherever they were going and whoever they were going to see, Watson couldn't shake the impression that it was going to be impressive (and perilous) indeed.

So it was of some surprise and a touch of disappointment to Watson when they crossed the threshold into the 'Victoria Room' -their eventual destination- to find that the waiting audience was actually a decidedly unglamorous one: Mycroft Holmes was there, of course -rotund and haughty as Watson remembered him, and flanked as he always was by the poe-faced lackey Caruthers who stood motionless at his side. To the left of Caruthers stood Inspector Lestrade, arms filled with papers and an ugly scowl darkening his already sullen countenance. The final member of their group was a man Watson's didn't recognise - he might have been thirty years old, with watery grey eyes and a moustache which twitched like a nervous ferret when his eyes fell upon Avery and the men he was leading.

"About time too, Sherly - I was beginning to think you weren't coming." This was clearly Mycroft's office - who else would have forsaken hardwood guest chairs in favour of the sprawling armchair in which he sat? The elder Holmes heaved himself out of the cushioned depths, approaching his brother with hands tucked neatly behind his back. He threw a glance in Watson's direction, eyebrows creeping slowly upwards as he appraised the taller man. "A new mattress may be in order, I feel, Doctor - with three children so young, a back injury would be most inconvenient. That will be all, Avery." The shamefaced aide slunk out of the room with a nod of compliance, and Mycroft turned back to his brother.

"Since proceedings have rather ground to a halt over the Lowerly case, I feel, as do my superiors, that it is high time your skills were put to their best use in finding him, Sherly."

"Finding him only," Lestrade interjected, and the contempt was clear in his voice. "You find out what happened to the missing men and nothing more - none of your usual funny business, d'you hear?"

"I believe Inspector Lestrade intends for you to be responsible for locating our missing friends, at which point Scotland Yard will deal with the perpetrators," Mycroft said diplomatically. "This is a delicate matter, Sherly, and justice must be served; there can be no doubt whatsoever over the legitimacy of the arrests." Watson for one was beginning to gain some idea of how much of Mycroft's considerable influence had been pumped into Lestrade's agreeing to allow Holmes on the case in the first place.

Holmes had remained silent the entire time, hands clasped thoughtfully behind his back. Too thoughtfully, Watson thought; the detective might have been thinking of something else altogether. His eyes had fallen upon the unknown man at Mycroft's side, and Mycroft cut through the contemplative silence to intervene.

"This spruce and spry young dandy is my chief of staff. Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson - Charles Wetherspoon." Mycroft sniffed. "I'm giving him over into your sticky fingers for the duration of the case - pray he returns to me unsullied."

Wetherspoon turned a somewhat sickened smile in Holmes and Watson's direction. He appeared pleasant enough at first glance; maybe even a touch embarrassed by Mycroft's deferential introduction. The man seemed nervous, Watson noted, for he fiddled constantly with the gold wedding band on his ring finger, twisting it around and around the digit as if to conceal a tremble, twitch or impulse that would reveal his discomfort. His eyes flickered between doctor and detective with mingled respect and fear, and Watson wondered whether this was the effect Holmes had on people when they were well aware of his abilities.

"I already have ample assistance at my disposal." Holmes spoke for the first time, looking to Watson as he did so.

"We need someone on the inside," Lestrade interjected before Mycroft had a chance to respond. "Someone who's going to make sure you stay on the task at hand without any tangents, and who's going to report back to me..." Lestrade jabbed a finger into his own chest. "...about all your goings on."

Holmes, who would have appeared coolly unconcerned to those who did not know him well enough to recognise the expression of simmering outrage buried just below the surface, turned his gaze upon Wetherspoon, apparently contented himself with the fact that it would do no good to shoot the messenger, and then looked straight back to Lestrade.

"How lucky for you, Inspector, to have such a means with which to keep pace with my investigation as to have it handed to you on a silver platter by our young comrade-in-arms..."

"It would have been a member of the Yard if not for my negotiations," Mycroft said swiftly. "I would advise you not to argue: Mr Wetherspoon's presence was one of the good Inspector's conditions of your involvement in the case."

"I assure you, Mr Holmes, you will barely notice my presence." Wetherspoon himself stepped forwards a little hesitantly, offering a hand which Holmes accepted. "I need not be privy to every aspect of the investigation; merely kept 'in the loop', as it were."

Watson, who was the next to shake Wetherspoon by the hand and surely by default the next to notice the light sheen of sweat on the younger man's palms, kept his eyes upon Holmes, awaiting his reaction with a certain amount of glee. He'd heard it from the horse's mouth, of course, that Lestrade was unwilling to allow Holmes onto the case, and whilst it wasn't rare for the Inspector to question Holmes' methods, this instance marked the first time he had actively challenged them.

Watson chose the silence as an opportunity to voice a query that had entered his mind not seconds after Mycroft had last spoken. "What were the Inspector's other conditions for allowing Holmes onto the case?"

"How fortunate of you to ask, my dear Doctor." Mycroft stepped back to indicate the stack of files and photographs which sat on the edge of his desk. The pile was double the size of the one held by Inspector Lestrade. "Dossiers, witness statements and accounts of both Lowerly and Shrewsbury's movements up to and not exceeding three hours before their respective disappearances." The elder Holmes regarded his brother with a twisted half-smile. "Though I'm sure you won't read half before the entire stack finds its way into the hearth at 221b Baker Street; indeed I wouldn't think less of you if they did." Mycroft strolled to the window, looking out onto Whitehall with a superior expression. "All this paperwork seems a frankly pitiable alternative to the merits of swift calculation in conducting the sort of concise investigation you specialise in, brother. Nevertheless, it is Inspector Lestrade's wish that you study the material thoroughly alongside your own work, and indeed who am I to contest him?"

Holmes seemed to be suppressing a smirk. He eyed the papers Lestrade was offering up with a sardonic expression, scooping up one of the top-most folders and flicking briefly through the pages.

"What thorough preparation." Holmes' voice and the contempt it held was lost on no-one but Lestrade. "Really, Inspector, if you could assemble the manpower for such meticulous research every time a case comes your way, you would have me out of a job before Christmas..."

Watson took up the folder Holmes had abandoned, curious to read for himself the material Lestrade had selected as relevant for the detective's investigation; the irony of course being that little or no selection of material had taken place whatsoever. The dossier (this one concerning the first missing man, Sir Francis Lowerly) contained maybe forty pages with handwritten text on both sides, interspersed with newspaper clippings and official-looking documents of such depth and detail that Watson's head had begun to ache before he was at the bottom of the first page. A cursory glance over the other files presented similar results: page after page of material recounting Lowerly's early life and career, his marriage, acquaintances and political connections, together with what appeared to be the records of the politician's movements leading to his disappearance. Watson already anticipated there would be an almost identical set of papers for Colonel Shrewsbury, and he certainly wasn't looking forward to reading them. It would be Watson, after all, who would read the papers - someone had to, and somehow the Doctor doubted Holmes would be doing so any time soon.

"I'll have Caruthers arrange a courier to bring the papers to Baker Street for you this morning, Sherly," Mycroft said in languid tones, as if the continued mention of the Inspector's demands -perhaps even of the case itself - was boring him listless. "I would bid you good day, gentlemen, unless there are any further questions..?"

"No, thank you." Watson spoke quickly before Holmes could take the chance; in all likelihood it was better for all involved that he had. Nonetheless, Watson too was displeased, and he hoped his own contempt would shine through loud and clear enough for even the oblivious Lestrade to hear it. "Thank you, Inspector - for the opportunity and the assistance. I'm sure it will be of some great use."

"Great, if yet unknown," Holmes murmured.

Watson ignored Holmes, accepting a parting handshake from Wetherspoon.

"Until we meet again, Doctor." Mycroft's chief of staff took back his hand and returned immediately to twisting the wedding band around his finger. "Mr Holmes..." He looked to the detective who had been making his way towards the door without a word of farewell to either his brother or Inspector Lestrade. Holmes paused in the doorway but did not look back, and Wetherspoon, apparently quite taken aback, accepted Watson's wordless prompt that he should speak anyway. "I hope I can be of some use to you in the scheme of things, Sir."

Though he could not see the detective's face, Watson could imagine the expression.

"We'll see," said Holmes.

"Why does it always fall to me to be the adult?" It took Watson some smart steps on a knee that still gave him some measurable trouble before he managed to catch up with Holmes, and lucky indeed that he had, for Holmes was certainly the only one of the two who could remember the correct way back through the corridors to the outside. It appeared that James Avery was not going to be assisting them on their way home.

"In a room full of infants, somebody has to," Holmes answered. He stared straight ahead, unblinking, and Watson found it impossible to tell whether the detective was lost in thought concerning the case or simply too angry with Lestrade's intrusion to behave otherwise. "Myself, I prefer to give as good as I get..."

"So what's the first step?" Watson asked, unable to dispute the detective's 'logic'. "I trust you plan on having both ministers returned safely and the verdict delivered before it even becomes necessary to discuss the details with Wetherspoon..?"

"Wetherspoon," Holmes said, "knows more than he would care to reveal. In time I hope we will discover just how much." Holmes clapped his hands together in front of his face, his tone suddenly businesslike. "So, to the case..." There was a spring in his step, and Watson smiled to see it. "I am returning to Baker Street forthwith - I have an engagement." The detective glanced over his shoulder without breaking his stride. "You are returning to Mycroft's office to inform him that the courier should bring the papers to Cavendish Place rather than 221b, because there will be little use for them there."

"Of course..." Watson nodded resignedly. He called after Holmes as the detective threw open the door to the outside courtyard. "Give Miss Adler my best regards, won't you..?"

He could no longer see Holmes, but the detective's voice carried all the same.

"A sentiment I am sure she'll return..."