"Allons-nous mener cette activité en Français, M. Holmes ?"

"No." Mycroft handed the older man a small tumbler of brandy. He had poured none for himself. It had been a long day already, and the last thing he needed was to become indiscreet or have a hangover to deal with the next day.

Louis Jean Marie de La Trémoïlle had no such concerns, apparently. He looked tense but alert in the armchair opposite. Very rarely did Mycroft invite persons of importance to Linwood to discuss matters; business was usually conducted in his office, not his home. He'd reflected, though, that a bit of hospitality might be just the thing to smooth over the awkward situation of the hysterical French murder suspect and her very unimpressed parent. But this did not mean he was going to kow-tow to La Trémoïlle's every whim, and that included the language they were speaking to one another.

"No," he said again. "I think we can conduct our business in English, since we're standing on English territory."

The French ambassador shrugged. "As you wish," he said. Curiously, if Lestrade or any of his team were present during this, they would have noted that his accent was less prominent than his daughter's. He was a plump, grandfatherly figure- though Mycroft knew he was only fifty-seven- with square frameless glasses perched on his ruddy, snub nose. He twiddled his thumbs idly and Mycroft, glancing down at them, could see that the nails had been savagely chewed recently.

La Trémoïlle may have looked a little like Santa Claus, but a saint he was not.

"What can you tell me about my daughter?" he demanded.

"Probably nothing that you don't already know." Mycroft offered the man a cigar, holding in a beleaguered sigh. His head was aching again. He'd have to see if Stephen could rustle up some more aspirin- his headaches were becoming too frequent for comfort these days. "She's at liberty, though her passport has been confiscated and her movements are being monitored -"

"C'est scandaleux!"

"English, if you don't mind," Mycroft said evenly, knowing how much the man was irritated by the correction. "And no, it isn't. Your daughter confessed to a serious crime, one that might put her in an English prison for the rest of her life. Not even your considerable dignity and influence can change that, monsieur."

On seeing the expression on the dignified monsieur's face, Mycroft pursed his lips to avoid a smirk.

"But you surely cannot count her confession as anything other than the ravings of a drunk and distressed widow," La Trémoïlle protested.

"She was intoxicated voluntarily, and the Metropolitan unit involved in this case are fully aware that they're unable to count her confession legally," Mycroft continued. "Hence the need for a full investigation into what happened at the house and why your daughter would have made a confession if it wasn't true." He looked at La Trémoïlle keenly, trying to gauge his reaction.

No. He has no idea what happened between Adelaide and Edwin last night. Pity.

"That's why we're sending Mr. Sherlock Holmes to speak with her tomorrow morning," he said, in tones that heavily implied that the man opposite him had absolutely no say in the matter and he was not interested in hearing any objections. "And yes, if you're wondering, there is a family connection. He's my brother."

"Your brother? Not the -" La Trémoïlle's pug nose wrinkled slightly in disgust. "Not the amateur detective?"

"The same," Mycroft said stiffly. As much as he enjoyed telling Sherlock he was an 'amateur detective', he did not appreciate it when strangers used this as an insult. "And while he has unusual methods, he's the greatest freelance detective in Great Britain, and perhaps in the world. He has hundreds of successful cases to his name. You may recall that your great country has been indebted to him on many occasions. Most recently, he recovered the stolen Picasso painting, Le pigeon aux petit pois,* which the French authorities had given up for lost."

"Ah," the ambassador murmured. "Yes. I had forgotten that."

"Most people do." Most people forgot the good that Sherlock Holmes did in this world, Mycroft had often lamented to himself. "He gets results."

"Then I look forward to him declaring my child to be innocent of this crime."

"That remains to be seen."

The ambassador nursed his cigar and brandy in silence for a few minutes, refusing to rise to the bait. Finally he stood up, a little stiffly. "My apologies for seeing you so late, M. Holmes. I must go and see to Adelaide now. I suppose I can be present for her interview with M. Sherlock tomorrow?"

Mycroft frowned. "That," he said, "may not be beneficial to her case. However, I believe that's a question for my brother, as I don't intend to be there. Goodnight, monsieur."

"Goodnight."

~~o0o~~

Mycroft spent a minute or two in silent contemplation when the ambassador had let himself out of the house. He had sat down at his desk, and was debating the merits of going to bed versus lighting up a cigarette and doing some more work, when he heard the door open gently behind him. There was a pause, followed by soft footfalls on the floor. Then warm pressure on his shoulder and a hesitant voice.

"What happened?"

"Oh, nothing." Mycroft let out the sigh he'd been holding in all day and patted the hand on his shoulder without turning around. "Nothing yet. But this could be serious, Stephen. Or it could be quite insignificant. And much of it depends, I'm afraid to say, on my awful little brother and the way he behaves tomorrow."

"You think La Trémoïlle's influence with the French government might cause cool international relations."

"Yes."

"Well, but who cares if he doesn't like the way things are going? I can hardly imagine the French declaring war on us just because La Trémoïlle's daughter poisoned her English husband." Stephen had relaxed his accent and dropped his intonation a little.

"No." Mycroft sighed and tipped his head back. "Neither can I. But where Sherlock is involved... he has a history of muddying these waters."

"He should be aware that his actions have consequences."

"He is. The trouble is, I don't know if he cares. He does as he pleases, and never a mind for how it might affect the bigger picture." Mycroft rubbed his eyes. "And don't suggest I 'talk to him', if you'd like to save my sanity. I've been 'talking' to him about this for thirty years. I'm convinced that the more we talk, the more determined he is to do the opposite of what I ask, just to spite me."

Stephen was silent. "Perhaps," he ventured, "it might be worth asking John Watson to -"

"No. John has more on his mind just now than seeing that my brother behaves himself. Besides, he and I have never got along, and since the incident with James Moriarty..." Mycroft trailed off vaguely for a moment. "Well. He'd be more likely to aid and abet Sherlock so they could both spite me."

Mycroft had never really explained to Stephen Hassell why he and John had never 'got along.' There were many things the man still didn't know about him - or so he hoped. He felt Stephen's hand slide from his shoulder to the back of his neck. "It's getting late," he remarked.

"No. Not tonight. I'm busy."

"I didn't mean that. But you do need to sleep too, you know. It's been a long day."

"I'm busy," Mycroft repeated stubbornly, rubbing his tired eyes. "But I won't be up all night. Just give me another hour."

"In that case, I'll get you a cup of tea."

Before Mycroft could protest that he didn't want a cup of tea, Stephen had gone out to the kitchen for it. And in the seconds that followed, he realised he hadn't had a cup of tea all day and one would be exceptionally welcome just then.

God, Stephen, how did I ever do this before... before you?

By the time the cab pulled up at the flat at half-past ten, Sherlock had decided that eating something that evening had been a terrible mistake. Cold nausea had been rising since he'd given the address to the driver.

This was new. Nausea was not a usual part of the world of Sherlock Holmes, and the unfamiliar sensation was alarming, to say the least. As the cab turned that last corner, a little faster than necessary, Sherlock swallowed hard and his fingers twitched for his phone.

Well, John might be able to give some phone advice...

No. John's phone advice was sure to be an exasperated sigh and: Oh for God's sake, I told you so. Take a glass of water and a bucket to bed with you and call me first thing tomorrow. You'll live.

Once the cab was at a halt he barely had time to shove a twenty-pound note at the driver, stagger out of the kerbside door, and heave violently. Vomit splattered onto the pavement at his feet, barely missing his shoes.

"Hey," he heard over his shoulder. The cab driver had got out and shut his door behind him. "'Scuse me, 'you okay?"

"I'm fine..." Sherlock managed to get out before he heaved again. This time he heard the driver swear.

"'You sure…? 'Cause I could.."

Sherlock fished into his pocket for a tissue, wiping his mouth. He was shaking badly, and there was only a limited time that his legs were going to hold him up before giving out altogether. "I'm fine. I've… got a virus, or something."

"Well if I come down with it too, I know where you live," was the cheerful response. "You look like shit. Make sure you sleep it off, mate."

Sherlock felt a handful of coins pressed into his free hand, and he closed his fingers around the cash with a kind of involuntary spasm and swallowed again. "Yes," he said with effort. "I will."

The cab remained on the kerb while he fumbled with the front door key and let himself into the building. Mrs Hudson's flat was silent and dark. She was at her sister's for the weekend and, Sherlock remembered gratefully, she'd taken Smudge with her. The last thing he felt like doing was seeing about the bloody cat.

He made his way up the stairs and into 221B; by the time he'd changed into his pyjamas and was brushing his teeth he was starting to feel better already. The nausea was manageable, and the shakes were passing.

Still odd, though.

Intellectually, Sherlock grasped that he should try to eat again, though he'd noted a lack of appetite that was at odds with how he'd felt two hours before. All the same, perhaps some dry toast, or... he mentally went through his own pantry. None of the options were appetising, but John had been right - his body needed fuel to continue. The Bartlett case would probably be taking all of his attention and energy for the next... well, who knew how long? Hopefully, only a day or two. The Blue Carbuncle case had been exhausting. The last thing he wanted was another week-long case with far too much legwork and far too little brain-fodder.

He reluctantly made some toast and tea. The tea he drank gratefully; the toast he nibbled at listlessly as he pored through an article on chloroform on his phone. Difficult to read from, but he couldn't be bothered turning on the laptop.

Chloroform has been widely used as an anaesthetic but it has now been abandoned due to its toxicity. Prolonged administration as an anaesthetic may lead to profound toxaemia and damage to the liver, heart and kidneys. Inhalation of concentrated chloroform vapour causes irritation of exposed mucous surfaces. Narcosis is ordinarily preceded by a stage of excitation which is followed by loss of reflexes, sensation and consciousness... **

The letters started to swim under his gaze, making a hopeless jumble of the paragraph he was looking at. Besides, it was never a good idea to read up on poison when one was feeling ill. Every symptom seemed to apply, however ludicrous the idea of John or Molly trying to poison him was when it was examined logically.

Being sick was, unfortunately, not always subject to the laws of logic.

His plans to read up on chloroform were just going to have to wait. Leaving the empty cup and plate of cold toast on the living room table, he went down the shadowy hall to his bedroom and crawled into bed instead, shivering miserably under the duvet in the darkness.

Author's Notes

* This real painting by Pablo Picasso was stolen from Musée d'Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris in May of 2010. Sadly, although the culprit was caught, he claimed to have thrown the painting out in a panic and it has never yet been recovered.

** inchem dot org/documents/pims/chemical/pim121 dot htm