A Gift and a Curse
Chapter 6
"Monsieur Pascal, Je m'excuse profondément pour –"
Mycroft rolled his eyes as the French ambassador's secretary refused to let him continue and rattled on furiously. The French could be ridiculously difficult sometimes.
Mycroft valiantly tried again
"Oui, oui, je comprends que vous avez un calendrier serré pour conserver, mais il y avait une question pressante qui ne pouvait tout simplement pas être reportée –"
The ambassador's secretary, a man going by the name of Alexandre Pascal cut Mycroft off and continued with his rant, mentioning words such as 'outragious', 'disgraceful' and 'atrocious'.
"Vous oubliez votre position actuelle, monsieur. Je vais maintenant vous transférez à ma secrétaire et il réorganiser la réunion. Bonne soirée, Monsieur Pascal."
Mycroft spoke calmly but there was an unmistakeable edge to his voice, which undoubtably put the secretary in his place.
He slammed the phone down on the high pitched Frenchman's rant. Mycroft leant back in his chair and sighed.
He closed his eyes momentarily as he could feel as headache coming on. He rubbed his temples gently. He knew he wasn't going to sleep tonight. He rarely slept anyway, his normal routine was to go to sleep at precisely 4:06 and wake up at 7:37.
Just like his brother Mycroft didn't need that much sleep to continue on with his day but unlike his brother he did need to actually sleep.
On the topic of his brother...
Mycroft picked his phone up off the desk and began his bombardment by text.
Sherlock, are you aware of what Jane wants to do with the child ?
With your child.
MH
She is insisting that I arrange an appointment at an abortion clinic.
MH
Sherlock Holmes your child is going to die tomorrow if you don't do anything to stop it.
MH
Jane is insistent – verging on hysterical, so I highly suggest you do something about it.
MH
Sherlock, please…please just respond when you get these messages.
MH
Mycroft gave up texting and slammed his phone down on the desk in annoyance.
Why on God's earth did siblings have to exist? And why must they be so bloody trying?
Of all the problems Mycroft dealt with on a daily basis, Sherlock Holmes was definitely the most infuriating.
He had received no word from his own 'Irregulars' that Sherlock had turned to Baker Street and there hadn't been any confirmation that Sherlock was in St. Bart's so the question was; where was he?
Mycroft just hoped from the bottom of his heart (although that statement could be disputed as he had been often informed that he didn't have a heart, but still) that Sherlock wasn't lying motionless in some filthy alley drugged up to his eyeballs. But…perhaps Sherlock wasn't alone, even though it was unlikely, he still might be with an…acquaintance.
He picked up the phone and was answered immediately by his tired sounding secretary.
"Yessir?"
"Sosa, I want the current surveillance footage on Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade."
Mycroft put the phone down and a minute later a sharply dressed young man in a grey suit entered carrying a laptop.
He placed the laptop in front of Mycroft and played the surveillance video.
"He left Scotland Yard at around half nine, sir. We've traced him as far as Northumberland Street. Then he entered…Angelo's Restaurant. I'm afraid we can't get any footage from inside the actual restaurant, sir. We think Mr. Holmes had placed disrupters in the restaurant."
Mycroft 'hmm'ed thoughtfully. "How was the French Ambassador?"
"He was exceedingly…French."
The side of Mycroft's mouth twitched in amusement. "But you drove the message home?"
"Oh of course, sir. Monsieur Pascal shall trouble us no more."
Richard Sosa was a young man in his mid twenties; he was tall and always immaculately dressed. The man was practically elegance personified. He was also one of the fastest typists in England and remarkably intelligent for a man not originally middle-class bred.
Sosa was a handsome man with sparkling dark green eyes and pale features but thankfully not interested in pursuing a relationship with either sex. His dark brown hair was prematurely greying at the roots and there were bags under his eyes. All were indications that he was an extremely hard-worker.
Sosa stood opposite Mycroft, his hands behind his back and standing with an almost military-like stance.
"Very good, thank you Sosa."
"Is there anything else you require, sir?"
"No. You may go home now if you wish."
The young man's face lit up. "Thank you, sir. Do you want me to call Isis?"
"Is that what she's calling herself now?"
"Indeed, sir. She would pick the name of a Goddess."
"Hm…yes, yes. Tell her to arrive but tell her there is no rush."
"Very good, sir. Goodnight Mr. Holmes."
"Goodnight Sosa."
Sosa walked out of the door. Mycroft took no real notice of the younger man's absence as his attention was absorbed by the footage of the silver haired detective walked through the doors of Angelo's Restaurant.
Mycroft leaned back and sighed heavily. "Well Sherlock…you've chosen worse people to obtain information from. Let us hope the good detective knows what he's talking about."