"Have you heard of that thing," Craig questioned, "in Germany?"
Sherlock blinked, before he pointed out: "You're going to have to be more specific, Craig."
"'Ostalgie'." Craig explained, saying the word like it tasted bad in his mouth, even as he continued to type and search on his many computers. "People who miss the old days under the Communists. People are weird, aren't they?"
"Mm." Sherlock hummed noncommittally, his eyes narrowing slightly at the irony of the situation, before he refocused as Craig said: "According to this, there's quite a market for Cold War memorabilia: Thatcher, Reagan, Stalin."
He smiled as he said sarcastically: "Time's a great leveller, innit? Thatcher's like, I dunno, Napoleon now."
"Yes, fascinating, irrelevant." Sherlock said impatiently, leaning over Craig to stare at the screens himself. "Where exactly did they come from?"
"I've got into the records of the suppliers…" Craig replied as he finally traced back all the data. "Gelder & Co.? Seems they're from Georgia."
"Where exactly?" Sherlock questioned, and Craig answered: "Uh, Tbilisi. Batch of… six."
Sherlock straightened up, thinking quickly, while Craig read off: "One to Welsborough; one to Hassan; one to Doctor Barnicot. Two to Miss Orrie Harker-"
Sherlock's phone started to ring, and he quickly reached for it in his coat pocket while Craig finished off: "- One to a Mr Jack Sandeford of Reading."
Sherlock swiftly answered his phone, asking: "Lestrade, another one?"
"Yeah." The DI replied, sounding tired, and Sherlock questioned instantly: "Harker or Sandeford?"
There was a pause from Lestrade's side, clearly from surprise, before the DI replied with a sigh: "Harker. And it's murder this time."
"Hm, that perks things up a bit." Sherlock retorted, glancing once more at the records on Cragi's screen and noting the two that had been sent to Miss Harker's address before he turned and walked out.
221B Baker Street
Marie smiled as Sheryl crawled – or rather 'wiggled', as Sherlock called it - across the floor towards her, and she exclaimed enthusiastically: "Well done, ma Chérie."
The sound of the front door opening downstairs made her pause for a split-second before her smile returned to her face as she scooped up her happy daughter into her arms. Marie carried the baby across the living room as she heard the soft tread coming up the stairs, and she'd just set Sheryl in the collapsible play den with her brother when a knock sounded on the flat door.
"Come in," Marie called as she turned to face the door, "Mycroft."
The door swung open to reveal the aloof, though slightly irritated, Holmes brother, and Mycroft greeted politely but coolly: "Marie."
"Would you like to sit down?" Marie asked, equally coldly, as she walked towards the kitchen. "Unless you'd like to say hello to your niece and nephew?"
"Oh, yes." Mycroft said a tad sarcastically as he glanced at the twins, who were staring up at the stranger curiously with bright intelligent eyes.
His gaze softened for a brief moment, so quick it was only a flash across his face, before he turned away and settled in John's armchair while Marie brought the teapot off the stove.
"I'm afraid we don't have biscuits." Marie said casually as she carried in two cups of tea, and Mycroft replied smugly: "That's quite all right - I don't take any."
"I know." Marie said lightly, wiping the smirk off Mycroft's face as she set his cup down on the table by his elbow. "How's the diet going, brother dear?"
"Fine." Mycroft answered, eyes narrowing at Marie, but she wasn't even fazed as she settled in Sherlock's seat and sipped her own tea. "I see your artistic sense has finally had an opportunity to be let loose."
He nodded at the children's play den, which Marie had personally painted with colourful swirls and patterns.
"Oh, yes." Marie smiled, nodding fondly at the den. "It was fun, and keeps the twins entertained; they were rather unimpressed with the dull blue and white original design."
"Pleasant, then, to be able to use your hobby for something other than decorating a dead man to have a passing resemblance to my brother's corpse?" Mycroft asked with an insincere smile, and Marie returned alike: "Yes, it was wonderful to be able to use colours other than red."
Mycroft chuckled as he sipped his tea, and Marie also smiled.
"It's been a while since we've spoken." Marie noted amusedly. "Though we've texted a few times and had passing encounters, I do believe the last time we spoke properly was when you handed me by retirement."
"Yes." Mycroft agreed with a raised brow. "And I would say I've missed this," he indicated their current positions across from each other, "but then it would be a lie."
"Ah, such a shame." Marie said lightly, concealing a smile. "And I would say that hurts me… but then, that would be a lie, too."
Mycroft smirked slightly, before he glanced to the side at the twins as they – having decided the stranger was neither dangerous nor interesting – started to grab and play with their various toys in the play den, Sheryl waving a plastic ring around while Scottie sucked on a plastic ball.
"They're gorgeous, aren't they?" Marie teased, laughing at the flash of disgust that crossed Mycroft's face. "Your parents loved them, the one time we went to see them, about two months ago."
"They aren't the worst I've seen." He acknowledged, and Marie said cheekily: "They're clever, too. Sherlock's particularly proud of that."
"I should hope they were." Mycroft said dryly. "Given the gene pool they were working with."
"Would it really kill you to say one nice thing about your brother's children?" Marie mock pouted, and Mycroft replied flatly: "You know I dislike them."
"You don't know if they're 'goldfish' yet." Marie pointed out, nodding at the twins, and Mycroft countered: "Yes, but if Sherlock seems slow to me, you can imagine what I think of babies, who are incapable of speech."
It was at that moment, of course, that they were interrupted.
"Ma."
Mycroft blinked while Marie froze, her teacup still held halfway to her mouth.
"Dada."
Mycroft raised a brow while Marie whipped her head around, her eyes wide as she stared at Sheryl, and then Scottie.
"Did you just say…" She began, and Sheryl repeated: "Da."
"Mamama." Scottie mumbled in response, and a wide smile broke out over Marie's face.
Tea forgotten, she left Mycroft to observe from his chair as she hurried to her children, hugging them both as she cooed: "That's right, here's mama, and your dada will be home soon."
"I wouldn't count on it." Mycroft commented dryly, and she shushed lightly: "Oh, shut up, they don't have to know that."
"Da." Sheryl said, and Marie muttered: "Of course, you would say 'dada' first – at least Scottie knows his mama."
"Is it really worth getting that worked up over a simple 'da' and 'ma'?" Mycroft sniffed. "It's not even like they said 'daddy' or 'mummy'."
"You try carrying a baby for nine months, and then raising them for another six after that." Marie retorted. "You'd learn that each moment is precious. But then again, you and I know that all too well already, don't we, Mycroft?"
Mycroft rolled his eyes, while Marie continued to fawn over her children as they mumbled.
In a cab, London streets
Sherlock searched new articles on his phone as he sat in the cab, on his way to see Lestrade at Miss Harker's. He searched information about the 'BLACK PEARL MYSTERY' first, before narrowing the search to 'INTERPOL'.
He frowned as he read the various investigations, all starting from the pearl's theft from a secure vault… in Georgia. He pursed his lips, mentally berating himself for overlooking something that had been thrust into his face on multiple occasions, when his phone rang.
Glancing down, Sherlock frowned as he saw the caller ID before answering quickly and with a hint of concern: "Marie?"
"Hang on." Marie answered, and Sherlock's frown deepened as he heard shuffling from her end of the conversation.
"Come on, ma chérie, go on." He heard her whisper, and then a voice mumbled into the phone: "Dada."
Sherlock blinked, his heart skipping just one beat, and he asked: "What?"
"Dada. Dada." Sheryl mumbled into the phone, and then Marie was back as she asked excitedly: "Did you hear that?"
"I heard it." Sherlock confirmed, and he could see Marie's brilliant smile in his mind's eye as she asked: "And?"
"She called me." Sherlock murmured, still mostly in shock. He'd heard about the incredible feeling of hearing your child speak for the first time, but this…
"Hang on, here's Scottie." Marie added, and her comment was followed by another shuffle before Scottie's voice mumbled into the phone: "Mama. Ma."
"Of course he'd call you first." Sherlock sighed, and Marie laughed: "Chérie called her daddy first."
"And Scott's a mama's boy." Sherlock sniffed, but he couldn't quite conceal his delight as he kept a small smile on his face.
"Of course he is." Marie replied. "He's your son."
Sherlock wrinkled his nose at her implication, and Marie laughed again as though she knew what his reaction had been (which she probably did). She added: "Well, I just thought you should know and hear them for yourself. I'll let you concentrate on that case of yours now. Any progress?"
"Maybe." Sherlock replied, declining to mention his latest theory. He'd confirm it first, before he worried her. "I'll be late, tonight."
"All right, as long as you come back, mister." Marie answered lightly, but he heard the worry she couldn't quite conceal.
"I'll always come back." Sherlock promised, before he hung up and stared thoughtfully out of the cab window as he drove through the London streets.
"Defensive wounds on her face and hands." Lestrade listed as he walked with Sherlock onto the scene of the crime. "Throat cut – sharp blade."
Sherlock's eyes roamed over the garden, where the forensic investigators were photographing the body lying in the centre. The woman, Miss Harker, was lying face down in the ground, dressed in her sleepwear and dressing gown, and her slippers had even fallen off on one side of the body from where she'd evidently been attacked.
"The same thing inside the house? The bust?" Sherlock questioned, and Lestrade confirmed: "Two of them this time."
"Interesting." Sherlock commented as he and Lestrade stopped beside the body. "That batch of statues was made in Tbilisi several years ago – limited edition of six."
"And now someone's wandering about destroying 'em all." Lestrade sighed. "Makes no sense. What's the point?"
"No, they're not destroying them. That's not what's happening." Sherlock dismissed, and Lestrade stared at the younger man as he protested: "Yes it is."
"Well, it is what's happening, but it's not the point." Sherlock snapped, more scolding himself than irritated with the older man. "I've been slow; far too slow."
"Well, I'm still being slow over here," Lestrade said impatiently, "so if you wouldn't mind-"
"Slow but lucky; very lucky." Sherlock murmured. "And since they smashed both busts, our luck might just hold."
Lestrade stared at him in confusion, but Sherlock ignored the look as he simply informed the other man: "Jack Sandeford of Reading is where I'm going next. Congratulations, by the way."
"I'm sorry?" Lestrade asked, and Sherlock smirked: "Well, you're about to solve a big one."
Sherlock turned and walked away, while Lestrade turned back to the body as he said waspishly: "Yeah, until John publishes his blog."
"Yeah." Sherlock called over his shoulder. "'Til then, basically."
Meanwhile at Baker Street
"So, would you mind telling me what this is really about?" Mycroft asked as Marie hung up her phone after letting Sherlock hear his children's first words and carefully placed Scottie back in the play den.
"You can't just deduce the reason I called you?" Marie teased lightly, and Mycroft arched a brow as he stared at his sister-in-law.
"It's about Sherlock." He stated, and Marie explained shortly: "It's more for Sherlock, than about him."
"And that is…?" He asked a tad irritably, and Marie settled down in her chair once more.
"I need to call in a favour." Marie informed the elder Holmes brother, and Mycroft's eyebrows shot up.
"And why would I do that?" He questioned, his voice neutral though his eyes were sharp and focused carefully on her.
"You've read my file." Marie said calmly, and Mycroft raised his brow again at her curious shift in the conversation.
"Of course." He stated, deciding to go along with her. "It wasn't too difficult to pull everything together after you provided us with your real name… and your aliases."
"So you know exactly what I'm capable of." Marie continued, and Mycroft pointed out: "I wouldn't have kept you hired under the British Government if I didn't."
"So you know that when I say that I feel that I'm reaching out of my depth, it's not something to take lightly." Marie stated, and Mycroft's brow furrowed just slightly.
"What is your request?" He asked, examining her carefully, and Marie took a deep breath before she answered his question.
Her response made Mycroft's eyebrow arch even higher than before, and a slight note of disbelief entered his eyes, even though he controlled the rest of his reaction to her surprising entreaty.
Sandeford Home
A man walked into the kitchenette-living room, wrapped up in his dressing gown and carrying a towel over one arm. He passed a small table, which displayed a few items of the man's greatest achievements: a framed photograph of the man holding a trophy, a different trophy of a man swinging a golf club, and a white plaster bust of Margaret Thatcher.
Walking across the room, he could see the little girl swimming in the indoor pool through the floor-to-ceiling glass window that separated the indoor pool from the rest of the room.
With a smile, Mr. Sandeford entered through the open door and called fondly: "That's enough now, love."
He walked over to the side, which housed a small Jacuzzi just to the corner of the main pool. Beside each side of the Jacuzzi were two silver taps, pouring thin sheets of water into the main pool; Sandeford leant down and passed his hand over the photoelectric sensor, stopping the water flow.
"Daddy has things to do, I'm afraid." He called, and his young daughter swam up to the ladder at the side of the pool.
Sandeford walked to meet her as she climbed up, and he added fondly: "And you need to get to bed! Come on!"
His daughter pulled herself up, and Sandeford wrapped the towel he'd been carrying around her. Together, they walked out of the pool room, Sandeford closing the door and shutting off the lights by swiping his hand on the sensor on the wall.
They walked away, heading deeper into the house, just as a shadow appeared in the pool room. The tall figure, wrapped in a long coat and with a curly mop of hair, stood at the glass wall, looking into the living room.
Sherlock wrinkled his nose slightly as he watched the man and his daughter leave the room, but he didn't curl his lip as he used to when faced with loving familial gestures. Instead, his mind wandered briefly to his own children, who would be currently getting ready to be put to bed, while his wife presided over them.
With a soft sigh, Sherlock glanced at the Thatcher bust, barely visible in the dark, once more before he slid out of view once more, settling down to wait.
