Author: Howlynn
Realm: Sherlock
Story Title: A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity. Part two
Summary: Mycroft makes connections.

Character/Relationships: John and Molly would never have noticed each other if he were not dead. The thing is, Molly knows he isn't and she never expected things to get this complicated. Welcome back to Part two, If you thought the first part was complicated, well you are in for a bit more. Please keep your hands inside the compartment at all times.

I Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Mendacity II chapter 31/8

The Language of Birds.

"The Raven's house is built with reeds,- Sing woe, and alas is me! And the Raven's couch is spread with weeds, High on the hollow tree; And the Raven himself, telling his beads In penance for his past misdeeds, Upon the top I see."

Thomas D'Arcy McGee

Mycroft entered his Spartan office, his steps heavy with exhaustion and care-worn dark bags prominently tucked below his eyes. He took exactly twelve seconds to realize his security had been breached at some point during his absence. The comprehension brought a sigh of relief rather than irritation. It meant his brother had thus far not succumbed to his long practiced method of dealing with unpleasant circumstance.

Mycroft's assistance brought him a perfect cup of tea laced with his favorite single malt. "Beatrice," she said with a wink, informing him of the name she planned to use the next week.

"Thank you, Winstonia," he replied. It was a little game they played from when she had been a new recruit. On occasion, she came up with something so off-the-wall that he would fail to remember her weekly choice, but those slips were few and far between. She must have taken pity on him this week, choosing something so lovely.

Mycroft sipped the tea and let the peaceful moment wash through his mind. Mycroft hated to expect the worst of Sherlock, but understanding had long ago whipped his hopeful and inexperienced prospects of his brother. He no longer held out hope that Sherlock would ever, ever develop a rational response to stress. His beliefs long ago morphed into a more realistic standard. Sherlock would be Sherlock, and Mycroft would have to mop his brother up from some disgusting situation.

Danger night protocol, grade-three surveillance, and even his willingness to be treated unbearably by his brother, rather than make any overt insistence that he behave, were all merely preemptive measures. Sherlock had proven repeatedly what his probable future would entail. The 'ice man' as he had of late been made aware was his most recent moniker, only hoped to prevent the inescapable for as long as possible.

Few people on this earth ever were allowed to suppose that Mycroft had a heart. Hearts were dismal overburdened liabilities. They were so easily broken but hard to mend. Mycroft had grown a bit lax under John Watson's helpful influence. John had represented a motive to excel far beyond any incentives Mycroft had ever been able to establish. John had become Sherlock's family.

Of course, Mycroft wasn't foolish enough to believe that Sherlock was not teetering upon the brink of the abyss since his own supposed death. Still, John's proverbial existence alone had kept Sherlock mindful of how far he let it run. John's relationship with Molly had nearly broken Sherlock. John's death was certain to leave but one Holmes to carry on the family.

God, he would have to get married soon and produce the next generation of the British government. Mycroft sighed and made a note for Winstonia to find him a suitably titled brood mare and see to the introductions. He wondered if he should plan eight or twelve dates before he could get down to the business of proposing.

He scanned the file his brother had left him. He went to the trouble of breaking in, it must be rather important to Sherlock, though it was a shame he couldn't just be civilized and make an appointment or invite him to lunch like the gentleman his background suggested him to be. It was one of Sherlock's quirks that frankly reminded Mycroft of their father. Sherlock had been so stubborn even back when their father had been lost.

It had required almost two years before the youngest Holmes didn't fly into a rage each time there was a casual remark concerning their father's death. Then he'd taken to his brooding silences and each time Mycroft came home for holiday he could see his dear little brother shrinking as his physical body became all elbows and hyper-extensive gawky joints and electric eyes announcing his towering ego.

Mycroft carefully read the file. Molly Hooper was the subject. It seems Sherlock had trusted a sleeper. Before him was proof that Moriarty had not so much created his web, as consolidated it into what it is now. He was a mythical Arthur, uniting an underworld. Molly was a lost princess, a grail maid, and he objectively found it very unlikely that she was unaware of her ties and duties.

Moriarty, in this case was not a family name, but a title. James Moriarty was never a man any more than Richard Brook was an actor. Mori means to die. Moriarty means a great navigator of the seas. He has no known children, yet it is said that they are searching for his heir.

He took on the surname when he'd earned it. He was not so much a fellow named James Moriarty but a king of crime. He was James, the Moriarty. Mycroft thought back into history. He felt as if his own deductive mind should have made the connections long ago. He sat very still, thinking and following the paths his subconscious selected. Mycroft focused on a story of his family and it was as if dusty puzzles finally slotted together in his mind.

It was joked that the Holmes family had been behind the crown since England had been an outpost of Rome. There were four families who were called the magic behind the majesty. There is a legend that says when the ravens leave the tower of London, England would fall. There are actual captive birds who people think her majesty has discourse with for advice. It is a silly fairytale much beloved by the tourists and touted as fact.

Of course, every fairytale has some truth. The four families are secretly known as the Ravens. They have served for generations, yet the history books never speak of these advisors. Oh, on occasion they get mentioned in reference to some deed or document. Once in a while, there is a beheading. But there is always a raven watching over the crown. This service has never been limited to England, but nobody needs to know about that.

Richard the lionhearted was attended by a Holmes all the way to the crusades and it was a Holmes who paid his ransom and brought him back to his beloved people. It is legend that the last of the Templars were protected by the French Holmes family and found safe passage for the betrayed knights. There should have been reprisals, but even foolish popes and greedy kings can be brought to justice. The Poor Knights were aided by the St. Claire family and continued existence into the present day.

Queen Elizabeth the First had a tower full of brilliant ravens and look what she accomplished with their council. Queen Mary banished most of them, in her normal bloody fashion. Yes, there were truths behind the myths. Bloody Mary had faith in Rome, not ravens. Good Queen Bess had faith in her clever birds and they had served her with faith in England.

There were stories of Mycroft's Great-Great-Grandfather told in hushed tones with both awe and shame. The year was 1893 and coincidentally another Sherlock Holmes waged an epic battle against a mathematician who was a Cambridge Professor. It was said that Mycroft and Sherlock's distant ancestor had died in disgrace. He'd been ruined by accusations and had died a broken man. Yet the family spoke of him with unreserved regard among themselves. They still named sons after him. He had been brilliant according to the family story. He had killed the evil Professor, sacrificing his own life in the process.

The official story was much darker. He'd gone down in history as a murderer. Some even claimed he was Jack the Ripper.

Mycroft had always listened to these tales with a bored skeptic's ear. Of course, Sherlock believed them hook, line and sinker, but he did get stuck with the name, so Mycroft had indulged his brother's questions much of the time.

There were other tales of that Sherlock from long ago having been caught red-handed visiting various famed Molly Houses. Buggery was against the law and to be found guilty meant prison and ruin. James Spensor was the last man to be hanged for the crime in 1860, but conviction or rumor effectively ended the life of anyone suspected none- the-less. There were many famous cases in which the highest were brought to ill fate at the mere accusation of such propensity. Sherlock had died in 1893 and it is rumored that his name was still being dragged through the muddy waters at the trial of Oscar Wilde two years later.

The coincidence of the name Moriarty now made Mycroft's skin crawl, for he'd seen variations on it for his whole life, yet never connected the dots. There were ancient records that spoke of bandits with names like Muircheardach and McMuirihertie.

His brother, his wonderful, brilliant brother, had bent time and legend and formed an answer of profoundly disturbing significance. He has tried to conquer an empire without borders and a king without a throne, who sinks into myth, mist and malevolence.

The evidence before him sickened him. Molly Hooper's ancestry spoke volumes. Molly's father was Harold Hooper, a boxer in his youth. He later became a supposed fisherman, who had ties with smugglers in the early seventies. He had appeared on several government watch lists but never been convicted of any crime. His wife's illness had brought about his apparent retirement from his supposed illegal career goals. His final days were spent as the proprietor of a small fish and chip shop. The wife was actually the most solid connection.

Molly Hooper's mother had been an O'Murich from Ireland. The O'Murich family had spawned some rather renowned creatures. The Professor was included in her familial line and so was a man by the name of James O'Murich who would grow up to be known as James Moriarty. James O'Murich would one day be buried under a black stone that read Sherlock Holmes. Molly and James were actually distant cousins.

Mycroft sat and contemplated these connections, feeling like he'd been personally betrayed by those who had vetted her. But, this had all taken place years before, so there had been no glaring connections to follow up. James would not risk his kingdom for many years and there was no reason to suspect Sherlock would be able to pull himself out of the rubbish he'd made of his life at that time. Molly was actually one of the few people who seemed to be willing to give Sherlock any kindness.

Detective Sargent Lestrade and Molly Hooper had managed to pull his brother into sobriety and some measure of responsibility. At the time, Mycroft was appreciative of any small favor on Sherlock's behalf. He'd run off to America at one point and Mycroft had washed his hands of the whole affair. He'd assumed his brother was dead by the time his influence had grown enough to have the power to track him down to some Florida backwater. He was returned to England, alive but addicted and his mind addled to such a degree that Mycroft was unsure if he would ever find more than a disappointing end.

He dashed a small fortune into treatment facilities. Sherlock preferred to sleep with fleas and commune with rats than admit he needed help. It was a terrible time for Sherlock and it was probably harder still on Mycroft, who genuinely wanted to see Sherlock take his place among the ravens. He'd wanted to be able to introduce Sherlock as his equal, not shamefully admit that he was here to collect him from another of his disastrous whims. Mycroft had tried so hard.

Molly Hooper and Greg Lestrade had been the fundamental beginning of the bridge toward Sherlock finding his light. John Watson could be called his turning point, but the other two and in fact a hair-brained but lovable older woman who Sherlock had met in the colonies had done the impossible. If not for them, there never would have been a John Watson to whisk Sherlock into an off-beat nearly normal moment in life.

Moriarty had never shown his face before. He had never made himself known to Sherlock. They had no idea that he'd been making small overtures toward Sherlock Homes until the night his brother had deemed it necessary to challenge the wits of that cabbie. Thank heavens John had surreptitiously put a stop to that evening's possible outcome.

Mycroft was never so pleased in his life that he had not managed to intimidate someone. His brother could have died due to his meddling in this case. It truly disconcerted him when John had turned to him calmly and inquired about his motives. The man had just shot someone, and cool and innocent as snow, turned and asked a government employee if his inquiries toward Sherlock where what…honorable? At that point, Mycroft was highly intimidated. Doctor Watson had shocked the British Government enough that he'd thought of hiring John himself. The two of them, Sherlock and the doctor, had strolled off laughing and planning dinner as if life could not get any more amusing.

John never seemed fooled by the Holmes bluster and yawl. He at once reassessed Mycroft and had on occasion volunteered many helpful suggestions, most of which Mycroft had heartily ignored. John had shamed him, included him, and actually become part of his family without any fanfare or sentimental exchanges. He was gone now and Mycroft hated to admit how much he would regret not making an overture that final night.

Of course he'd backed off the security detail, there were texts flying that night with indecision. John had met someone directly after Sherlock had left him. By the time Mycroft had set aside time to personally review the security tapes, his people's faces already were filled with disaster. First what took place in 221B would never be known because every camera in a five block radius suddenly stopped functioning.

Second, John didn't even bother to ditch his security detail that morning. Mycroft could find no fault in their actions. One man spent time in hospital because he'd tried to save John Watson. The other had notified Mycroft seconds after the doctor hit the water. Mycroft had petulantly demanded that they recover his body, for Sherlock. All of it was to no avail. John Watson had killed again with all the efficiency he had always displayed. This time his victim had definitely not deserved to die.

Mycroft, was in some ways, glad that John had not been recovered from the water so far. He dreaded his brother being unable to part with, well, all of his doctor. Father had been odd about trophies. He especially liked skulls and had even brought one home to Sherlock once. He remembered Mummy screaming the words "a human skull for a seven year old boy…"

Father had immediately offered to bring the next one home to Mycroft, as if a fifteen-year-old boy may be in greater need of such a gift. Mycroft had declined father's kind offer, and hoped Sherlock would grow bored of Mr. Fellows soon. Mr. Fellows had been the only clean thing in Sherlock's suitcase upon his return from America. Sherlock certainly had not returned clean.

Mycroft would not have put it past Sherlock for a second to avidly display a matching bookend. He could see his brother introducing all future possible flat-mates to his dear friends, Mr. Fellows and Dr. Watson.

John probably would have known this and somehow weighted himself in such a way to guarantee he was not found. If the two of them had not been in the middle of such a row though and John had died, Mycroft wouldn't have put it past John to have approved of such a plan. John was an odd little man at times. He seemed to get Sherlock's sense of humor in ways that baffled Mycroft.

He'd seen John angry only a few times but the quiet control of it concerned him. He always wondered what would happen if John actually lost control. He wondered if the most lethal player was John or James. He'd concluded it was James. John had too many chivalrous notions of fair to beat James.

Mycroft knew of James Moriarty, but had greatly underestimated his power. He'd seemed like such a cocky little braggart, until just recently. Sherlock had caught his notice. He'd tried to woo Sherlock for twenty years and they had barely noted him. James and Sherlock had begun together at the pool where Carl Powers had drowned. They had been enemies but in a strange way, they had been much more. They had historical family alliances on opposing ends of the law, yet they both managed to always think themselves above the law, even above death or losing.

If they had ever aligned on the same side, good or evil, nothing could have stopped them from changing the world. If James had made his move earlier, what would Sherlock have become? Would he have been happier as some advisor to a monarch less noble than Mycroft's? Were they really that different when you looked at the whole?

Mycroft contemplated parallels. There were similarities, though intention must be weighed carefully. Government sought to protect its people and its resources, which was actually the same thing James did for his own people. Molly was certainly never in any danger from Jim Moriarty. Was she in fact protected?

Jim killed innocent people. Mycroft sent men into danger every day, knowing some would not return.

Moriarty earned his money by stealing, swindling, threatening, harassing, and was an unpredictable sociopath.

Mycroft grimaced and thought about what happened to those who didn't pay their taxes. Sherlock was notorious for forgetting. He'd had some rather heated dealings with HMRC whilst on the wrong end and though he'd thrown money and experts at it to make certain issues go away for his brother, if he hadn't been Mycroft Holmes, who knows where the difficulty would have ended. Sherlock certainly was not capable of mediation on his own behalf.

If all fundamental stewing about right and wrong and loyalty were removed from the picture, Sherlock might have found some measure of satisfaction and happiness within James Moriarty's kingdom. God knows he was born to be a pirate, or an art thief, or a cat-burglar. He demonstrated those skills every time he broke into Mycroft's office, just for fun. How would they have ever stopped him if he'd turned on them?

"Oh, bloody…"

He would have turned, if not for John.

Neither of the cabbies pills had tested as fatal. He'd never told Sherlock this fact. He'd hidden it from all eyes actually. It was for the best should anyone question the shooter's intent or ever come forward to identify the good doctor. Only now did this fact become significant. Moriarty provided the pills.

If Sherlock won or lost, he would have been unconscious within fifteen minutes. Both men would have been collected by Moriarty's entourage. The fate of the cabbie could be easily imagined because he'd served his purpose. But, Sherlock's fate may have gone any number of routes. Most of the probable outcomes would have included a choice between death and joining a certain kingdom.

The night at the pool, was probably a similar scenario. Sherlock brought Jim the missile plans like a gift.

Moriarty brought him his fifth pip as insurance. Things didn't go as smoothly as planned. John had done the unexpected. Moriarty had never intended to kill Sherlock. He'd wanted something else. If not, there was no purpose to the entire bomb game.

"I threw away thirty million quid, just to get you to come out and play," Jim had said.

Lestrade was Sherlock's handler for Mycroft.

What if Molly was Sherlock's handler for Jim?

John had spoiled Moriarty's games. John had filled the place of friend before Jim got done showing off. Only then did Jim's games really mean to harm Sherlock. Jim hoped to offer Sherlock what neither of them had ever had. One true friend was the reason, and plain little Dr. Watson had beaten Jim. Jim had made Sherlock's reputation with his insane little puzzles and when he lost, only then did he want to take it all away.

Jim's cell had been covered with writing, but only one word was ever written. Were all these actions some sort of perverse love-letter? Could all these actions be as simple as Jim seeking love from a man who had been diagnosed as incapable of understanding the word?

Jim went so far as to lie to the world. He arranged the three break-ins and the talk of the key-code in an enormous and elaborate scheme to win Sherlock from Dr. Watson. Jim could have won anyone he'd wanted with his brains, money and power. Why would he set his sights on Sherlock? What could he gain?

If you own the world, what is left to want? Sherlock was something Jim could not have. Then John showed up, older, damaged, boring and yet Sherlock loved him.

All the king's money and power and brawn could not steal Sherlock's heart from his John.

When it didn't work, he decided to destroy them both, like a scorned woman. Love is the most vicious motivator in the world. Could it be unrequited love that destroyed Jim?

It obviously destroyed John.

Jim wins now. He has burned the heart out of my brother.

John had been Sherlock's Raven. The raven has left the tower. Sherlock will fall to the sea.

Sweat beaded on Mycroft's upper lip. Visions of Sherlock Moriarty clouded his eyes with tears. They are searching for his heir. What happens when the heir is found?

Damn John Watson for opening this door. He brought this plague upon Sherlock. John taught him to love. Mycroft cursed the man for his death. He knew it was an irrational anger; John had no way of knowing. If only Mycroft had the presence of mind to explain or figure this out sooner. If only Sherlock had seen this before he lost all will to fight what may be his undoing.

Mycroft turned to the last page in the file. It was a handwritten note from his brother. Of course it was written in their own childish 'pirate' code. Mycroft's fingers trembled as he quickly translated it. It was a simple, if unknown, substitution and shift. It would only take an expert a few hours to extract any message written this way, but it did keep random prying eyes at bay.

Dearest Brother,

I leave this file in your care. I never suspected her. I leave her fate in your hands, unable to justify any action against her or in her favor. I am sure you will ask her to meet with you and have an extensive interview with Miss Hooper. Did she play us? Is she naïve or calculating? I suppose her willingness to cooperate will speak for itself, will it not?

She did save my life, as you know. This never would have mattered without her and I would be long dead without her intervention and recently dead without her assistance. It may be of no matter, but my indecision toward her and her roll in John's death must be weighed against my own guilt in his resolution to leave me.

Perhaps, he could not survive the thought of my loss again. Maybe my words and actions were what spurred his hopeless end. I always feared I would break him and it would seem that he no longer was sure of reality. She should have never told him. He should have been stronger before he was told. If I had truly believed he would die, what would it have harmed us for his last moment to be spent with me? I can honestly think of no punishment worse than living without him.

His note makes no sense to me; he knew I was not dead at the moment he left it for us to find. I have contemplated it in every possible permutation and all I can imagine it to mean was that his final hours took place in a fugue of irrationality. I will never know. I don't deserve to know. I never deserved him.

If I wish to wallow in truths here, I never deserved you either, my brother. You have been my life long dearest guide and the most worthy arch-enemy anyone could hope for in life. We were so enjoyably engaged with the pursuit to unravel each other; I fear we may have succeeded.

It is my hope that I will find the will to return to you someday. Have faith in me. Perhaps it will make the difference at some unknown moment of despair. I freely admit that I embark on this task with little hope and mountains of desolation. I don't care what happens to me now. Only the work matters. You tried to teach me that caring was not an advantage and as always I should have listened. Forgive me for doubting that I broke that rule in your heart.

I know you always cared. Things are so much clearer in retrospect, are they not?

Watch over Mrs. Hudson. She will be terribly bored without John and me to give her a bit of intrigue. Perhaps you may find some small role for her to play. You know she is inexorable in her loyalty to me as I shall forever remain towards her.

Mummy is not upset with my intent. I have explained this to her and she has opened her own limited and ancient contacts for my assistance. I will be in touch through her. Those near you may be compromised. I realize you think it insanity to utilize a bunch of old duffers, but I assure you they are not as far removed from us as you may assume. The elderly are like the homeless, invisible and numberless and yet they have a wealth of sly tricks we would never think to employ.

Do not let Lestrade come to harm. Find that bastard who is still under deep cover in his department. I wish it were Anderson, but it honestly is not. Sally hates me, but I have always trusted her to be objective, stupid from time to time but unwilling to compromise. She may be mistaken but she is never malicious.

I want to say this, but there is never space for words between us. You believe me to be saying goodbye to you. I am, but only as a precaution. I have disgraced you all our lives and you have put up with all the hateful things I have done, knowing it is my own self-loathing that made me take the actions I did. I said I don't care about myself and I know that frightens you, but caring is not an advantage. You are not an advantage, Mycroft. Deduce that.

I have never doubted you, Mycroft. You have always been right. None of this was your fault. This time, life or death, I swear I will make you proud of me this once.

Please don't torture Molly. She responds to kindness. It's how he won her and how I probably lost her. Do remember that she may not be a saint but she has been my savior. I can't help but believe that she truly lost John too. If you discover anything helpful, let Mummy know. Our mother is a wicked woman and she has more secrets then you will ever believe.

Perhaps some distant Christmas, I will share some of her conspiracies and together we shall tease her unmercifully. I never did care for the pudding.

Nevermore, Mycroft.

With my deepest and truest respect,

Nevermore

Mycroft brought his handkerchief to his eyes. "Sherlock," he said softly almost like a prayer. He nodded, assuring himself that he did believe in his brother. Of course he'd never quite believe his brother would not find some way to either get out of his promise or make the fact a living hell for Mycroft if he did keep it, but that wasn't important right now. The code-word 'nevermore' was only used among the ravens and he was not handing him a maudlin suicide declaration, but a promise. He would do what he could to come back and despite his loss and his own grief; he'd taken the time to offer Mycroft both forgiveness and hope.

Someday there would be a Christmas dinner again.

Someday Sherlock would take his place at his side and fight with him to save the world.

Until that time, Mycroft would believe.

"Winstonia, I need Miss Hooper rounded up at once please," He said pushing the button on the intercom.

"Shall I send her an appointment card, Sir?" came the immediate reply.

Mycroft smiled and serenely instructed, "I think I am in the mood to surprise her, my dear. Will you see to it?"

"Yes, of course. She should be here within the hour."

Mycroft reclined in his chair and stretched languidly. He would see to it that Sherlock would be a Raven and not Moriarty's heir. He hoped Miss Hooper would have something of value to contribute to his effort.

. /englishwiz/library/names/etymology_of_last_

Moriarty/Moirerdagh/Muirihertie: Irish Occupational Name...from very old Celtic terms muir =sea and cheardach =good navigator. Settled in County Kerry, on both sides of Castlemaine Harbor. The name is an anglicized version of Muircheardach or O'Muircheardach, with a literal meaning of skilled navigator of the sea. Variations include McMoirerdagh, and McMuirihertie. Requested by: Erina Moriarty

Moran is a variant of the English and French surname Morant, which is an old given name of unknown etymology, but believed to mean 'steadfast' or 'enduring.' When of Irish descent, Moran is derived by Anglicizing O' Morain, (descendant of Moran), which usually has its accent on the first syllable, as opposed to the English and French version's second syllable accent.

For further reading on what a Molly House was, see: wiki/Molly_house

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Some of you have asked if I realize that I have an under-theme of water. First yes, I do realize. I never tell one story. There is always the high-concept plot, the side-plots and at least one undercurrent. Symbols are always important and are always a key. Many people don't enjoy reading my stories because they are not deep readers. The Holmes fandom has a huge percentage of readers who honestly amaze me with the subtle things they do pick up on.

I don't wave my sign on tumbler so I realize I am on very few, if any Rec lists. That means you have stumbled here on your own, made a discovery, and you are not only still here, some of you have been kind enough to review, PM, follow or favorite. That means the world to me.

I write complicated stories, I know. I try very hard not to waste your time. I don't feel writing these tales is a waste of my time either. That is because of you, dear reviewers. Sometimes I manage to open a door to you, make you think of something in a new way or make you feel like you need to comment back to me. With most fiction, the story is long finished before the readers ever see it. Fan Fiction has opened the door to writers. Anyone can be an author here. Anyone can offer opinion.

That makes the time spent worth it. I have learned more than I ever thought possible in this place and though Thanksgiving is a traditionally American concept holiday that seriously has some much darker bubbles just under the surface, in its purest form, it is a moment to take the time to be thankful for opportunities and life experiences.

Family is most often mentioned as the thing we begin this silly meal celebrating our thankfulness. I too am thankful for the people I am related to by blood, marriage and fate. But I want to take a moment to also mention that I am thankful to this whole concept of fan-fiction. I feel this is also a family and though we may be scattered all over the globe, may have never spoken in person, may disagree about many things, we still find a form of family thanks to this place. We put aside politics, borders, problems, and busy lives to come here and help each other, form friendships, and somehow become family.

My heartfelt thanks to my reviewers, FF friends, my critics, the authors who have given me many hours of entertainment and most of all every single reader who has found me. I also offer thanks to those of you who put up with my arrogance and still manage to teach me Write from Wrong. (sigh, yes the homophone was on purpose, grin.)

I have decided to list this story as complete. Book two still has many chapters to go, but Book one is finished and as I put it up on Ao3, I will class them separately. FFN works a bit differently so I wanted to keep them hooked together. Please don't panic – we still have far to travel. Howlynn