These events are set around 1988-89

Check chapters for specific trigger warnings.

Trigger warnings: none


Mycroft continued to have no interest in sex. He had tried masturbation several times over the years, but found it boring, his need to maintain control preventing any sense of satisfaction. He could appreciate a beautiful countenance, an ample bosom, a slender waist, a muscular bicep, or a shapely arse. Male or female made no difference, but the appreciation was purely aesthetic. He was not disturbed that he had no sexual drive, nor a desire to spend time with the mindless rabble who swam, like so many goldfish, in pursuit of their own selfish passions. In fact, he found it a great relief. He focused on building his mind, refining his thinking, and learning complete mastery of his body.

Having completed his A levels, he applied for and was accepted at Balliol College, Oxford, studying Philosophy, Politics and Economics. He joined both the pistol and rifle clubs, the fencing club and, of course, the chess club. He found losing himself in a good game of chess to be an excellent form of relaxation, especially as he no longer had to endure Sherlock's attempts at distraction. Most of his opponents were moderately skilled, but occasionally he would play an opponent of exceptional ability who would sharpen his own talents in strategy and deception. Those were the matches he found the most exhilarating, not that anyone would know. Whilst his pulse quickened and his mind jumped for joy, his features remained as impassive as ever. There was no tremor of his hand to betray him, no twitch of his lips, nor bead of sweat on his brow. Between moves he sat, his fingers steepled on his chin, as he stared with apparent serenity at his opponent's face, never once allowing his eyes to stray to the board, even as his adversary made their move. Only once the move was complete and the timer stopped would he allow his eyes to flicker briefly to the board before he reached for his own piece.

It was during his first year that he was approached by both MI5 and MI6. Whilst the manipulation and subterfuge of the secret service appealed to him, he had little interest in the leg work. Not that he was not physically fit, and could not defend himself in multiple disciplines, but he preferred the cerebral to the physical. He declined.

In the April of his first year, he was approached by the Porter bearing an envelope addressed to him in a precise hand. The Porter treated the missive with some reverence, leading Mycroft to conclude it must have come from one of the senior fellows. He accepted the letter with a dismissive "Thank you," placing it in the inside breast pocket of his jacket, before returning to his rooms.

He had rented a small suite of rooms in the attic of a private house on Park Street, not far from the college, but away from the madness of the city centre. He desired quiet and privacy away from the tumult of other students, so chose not to stay in the offered student accommodation. Apart from anything else, the idea of sharing a bathroom with untold strangers was beyond the pale. Luckily the daughter of an old family friend lived in Oxford and had previously converted their attic into a self-contained apartment, initially for their own children, but now they had left home, the space was available to a suitable student each year. Mycroft, ever the pragmatist, took an option on the apartment for the duration of his studies in Oxford, much to the satisfaction of all parties.

Returning to his rooms, he made himself a pot of tea in his bone china teapot, setting it, a tea cup and saucer, milk jug and strainer onto a tray which he carried into his small sitting room. Setting the tray on the side table whilst allowing the tea to steep, he made himself comfortable in his armchair, turning the missive gently between his fingertips.

The envelope was of ecru parchment, stiff and heavy. There were no marks save the inscription "M. Holmes, Esq." upon its front, written by hand with a fountain pen in an unusually exuberant green ink for a male correspondent. Mycroft set the envelope aside as he poured a splash of milk into his tea cup, before adding the strainer and pouring the tea. Removing the strainer back to its rest, he picked up the saucer taking a sip from the cup before setting the saucer back on the tray. Retrieving the envelope, he slid his finger under the small dab of adhesive that sealed the flap, then withdrew the card within. It was a single sheet of ecru card bordered in a thin strip of Oxford blue. The top left corner was embossed with a small family crest. In the middle of the card, again in emerald green ink, was the command "Master's Lodge, 7 p.m."

Mycroft set the card leaning against the side lamp, then returned to sipping his tea, his face impassive, his mind racing.

-0-0-0-

He arrived at Balliol at 6:52. The Porter welcomed him by name as he passed through the arched gateway. He made his way slowly across the Quad to the corridor leading past the Library to the Garden Quadrangle and the Master's Lodgings. He had to time this perfectly, without appearing to be doing so.

He had chosen his clothing carefully, deciding upon one of his tailored two piece suits in a dark grey pinstripe, with a pale blue shirt, silver cufflinks, and a Balliol College tie. Unclear about the context of the meeting, he decided to dress conservatively to give an air of professionalism. The College tie was a minor affectation, but gave a clear statement of respect for tradition.

A good hour spent with Burke's Peerage had revealed the source of the embossed coat of arms. It belonged to the ffyfe-Young family, the last surviving member being Sir Peregrine. According to his biography, he was long established as a high ranking civil servant of indeterminate position. Now in his sixties, he was widowed in his forties, with his only child killed in a motor accident many years before. Sir Peregrine was the last of a long and distinguished line. And he had asked to meet Mycroft.

As he had walked from his lodgings to Balliol, Mycroft had pondered why none of Sir Peregrine's ancestors had change the spelling of the family name to Fyfe-Young, dropping the two small fs. It was an open secret in aristocratic circles that the two small fs was a mistranscription of a capital F in ancient handwritten records. An error made by lazy transcribers and accepted by uneducated or pretentious ancestors. It seemed strange that a family as distinguished as the ffyfe-Youngs would allow something so obviously risible to stand, unless tradition and a centuries old mistake meant more to them than accuracy.

Mycroft walked through the cream stone corridor beside the library, as so many had done before, arriving at the Master's Lodgings on the stroke of 7 o'clock. He raised his hand to knock, but was thwarted when the door before him was opened by a dark suited man. A very slight pull on his jacket revealed to Mycroft's sharp eyes that he was wearing a shoulder holster.

The man gestured for Mycroft to enter, closing the door behind him and locking it. Mycroft was then lead through to the Master's study. Two leather wingback chairs flanked the stone fireplace. The seat on the right was occupied by a tall man, with grey hair and a pale complexion. The most striking thing about him was his complete lack of distinguishing features. Mycroft was quite sure that, if he chose, this gentleman could become almost invisible. The only unusual thing was the black umbrella that leant against the chair. It looked like any other gentleman's umbrella, except a closer inspection revealed the handle and ferrule were of walnut, with the collar in gold. A slender band of gold also highlighted the ferrule and the base of the handle. Mycroft strongly suspected that, like the gentleman before him, the innocuous object held deadly secrets.

"Welcome Mr Holmes. Please, take a seat. Barraclough, tea, if you would be so kind."

"Sir." The black suited man left the room.

Nothing was said until the tea had been brought, and two cups poured.

"Close the door Barraclough. We are not to be disturbed."

Both men sipped their tea in silence even after the door had been closed for several minutes.

"I am pleased that you accepted my invitation. I must remember to thank the Master for allowing me the use of his Lodgings. A small endowment perhaps."

The older man looked intently at the younger, as though scrutinizing him. Mycroft was certain that any assessment had been carried out quite thoroughly before any invitation was sent. Therefore, the gaze was a ploy, perhaps to see if he was unnerved by the attention. Mycroft remained impassive and took another sip of tea.

"May I call you Mycroft?"

"Of course, Sir."

"Excellent. I have no doubt you have already discovered my identity."

"Sir Peregrine Hubert Plantagenet ffyfe-Young."

"Well done. As I had anticipated. You are enjoying Oxford?"

"Yes, Sir."

"You have aspirations." A statement, not a question.

"I have, as yet undefined. Something diplomatic, although I am leaving myself open to what opportunities may arise." The older man nodded in acceptance.

"I understand you have a gift for seeing what is meant to be unseen. Tell me, what do you observe?" The older man gestured with his free hand to indicate that he was to be the subject of Mycroft's test, for surely that's what this was.

"I will forego what is public knowledge. Today you wear a signet ring on the little finger of your left hand, presumably bearing your family's crest, however you do not normally wear a ring and have put it on especially for this meeting. Your knuckle is scrapped where you had to force it on. You wish to convey to me a strong sense of tradition and loyalty to your ancestors. You do not wear a wrist watch, preferring a pocket watch on a finely crafted chain in your waistcoat. The chain is a family piece, but the watch, whilst giving every appearance of being an heirloom, is actually a modern precision timepiece. The pocket watch is to prevent observers from guessing your dominant hand by the location of your wrist watch. It also projects the image of a traditionalist. A man set in his ways, buried in past glories and rivalries. You have also been alternating between hands to hold your cup and saucer. Normally one holds the saucer in the recessive hand whilst lifting the cup with the dominant. The manoeuvring of your tea cup is to indicate to me that you are, in fact, ambidextrous, a useful conceit. You are wearing the Regimental tie of the Grenadier Guards, when in reality you served with the 5th Royal Inniskilling Dragoon Guards. Another 'fact' to mislead the unwary."

Sir Peregrine smiled. "Very good. Anything else?"

"I suspect your umbrella is considered an offensive weapon, a blade cleverly concealed in an everyday object."

"Excellent. An impressive beginning. Although you have a question."

"I have many Sir, but I would not be so presumptuous to ask."

The older man inclined his head to acknowledge the courtesy being accorded him. "I will answer your most vexing question, as it is germane to this evening's discussion. Why have we retained the minuscule double f? It's very simple, as are most people. My family has enjoyed positions of great power for many generations, but we have remained largely invisible. The power behind the throne, you might say. Other pretenders, hungry for power and glory, have seen the spelling of my family name and assumed that we were just like them; petty, self-aggrandising dolts too mired in tradition to be a threat to their aspirations. It is the simplest form of manipulation. Every back-street magician knows the secret to any trick is misdirection. Master that and you have control. People see, but they do not observe. My family name is the first of many obfuscations my ancestors have perfected over the years. You have identified some, but not all. However, you saw more than most. We will work on that."

Mycroft sipped his tea. The man before him was the master of dissimulation. Mycroft was surprised to realise he would cheerfully sit at this man's feet to learn such a skill.

"Do you have a preference for men or women?"

The sudden change in direction took Mycroft by surprise, leaving him moderately shocked at the question. He managed to cover his confusion before answering. "No particular preference, Sir."

"For men or women, or for sex in general."

"The latter."

"Any perversions, foibles or fetishes that could lead you astray?"

"Not that I'm aware of, Sir."

"Good, good. I understand that you've been approached by the Security Services and have rejected both offers. Have you received a counter offer from another power?"

Now Mycroft did allow the shock to register on his face. "Of course not Sir, and I am offended that you felt the need to ask."

"Well my boy, we are in Oxford. Oxbridge has a certain notoriety on that score. More tea?"

Tea cups refreshed, Sir Peregrine continued. "May I ask why you rejected both offers?"

"They did not offer what I want. Whilst I am capable of field work, I prefer a more cerebral challenge. The creation of strategies, the manipulation of events and individuals to a specific end. That is where my interest lies. I feared that if I accepted either offer I would end up either in the field or one of many backroom analysts. Neither proposition was appealing, and, if I may be so bold, a waste of my talents."

"Perhaps I might suggest something that would pique your interest. I am in need of an apprentice, if you will. I have long held a minor position in the British Government, and whilst age has not weakened my mind, it is beginning to debilitate my body. I require a young man to mentor, to guide through the labyrinth of international politics. Someone I can trust to take over when I am no longer able. It is not a career, more a vocation, dedicated to Queen and Country. Once you set foot upon this path there is no turning back. It will consume your life and your every waking moment. I will expect you to dedicate much of your recreational hours to training, some of which may seem unorthodox, but essential. And of course, you may tell no one. Complete secrecy is essential and will remain so. You may continue with your current extra-curricular activities as they will no doubt prove to be useful skills at some later date, however, every other moment of your life will belong to me. Does this tempt you Mycroft Auberon Holmes? Can I have your life unconditionally?"

Mycroft took a further sip of his tea. It was all the time he needed to make a decision that would alter the course of his life. "Yes Sir. When do we start?"


Oxbridge is the standard contraction for the universities of Oxford and Cambridge

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