Chapter Two

The Bodyguard – Compound Usury – The Connection – Breakfast for Three – Plan C – The Sweetness of Young Love – Embracing Technology – Men With Guns.

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Although it was early, Erik Norling was already waiting outside the women's dorm when Medina came out. Still new to London and the Underground system, she had called and asked him for the quickest route from the dorm to the Dorchester Hotel, and he'd offered to act as guide and escort. Since the trip would take less than twenty minutes all up, Erik reasoned that he might as well get the exercise and take the opportunity to get to know her a little better.

He liked her. Medina was different from the other girls he knew. He'd never known anyone before who not only wouldn't drink and who insisted on acting in every situation as if propriety was the highest accolade anyone could imagine; but who always told the literal truth in such a way that made him laugh. It was as if she was having a series of personal conversations with her inner Nanna. Medina was so old-school, she made him look twice at his own assumptions about lots of stuff. And that was another thing: even when she was being entirely serious, she still made him laugh. He liked her. He liked her a lot.

Running down the wide steps outside her hall of residence, Medina spotted the white-blonde head perched above the striped purple-and-sky-blue university scarf he wore endlessly. She smiled. He was a really nice boy, although at home, she'd had little experience with boys of any description. But she was old enough now that her father trusted her to behave with decorum, and he had wanted her to gain some awareness of European behaviour. Completing a Master's degree in London or Paris had been her desire. Grinning at the thin blonde boy waiting for her, Medina was glad she had chosen London.

They smiled at each other.

"Do you know where the Dorchester is?" she asked, as they walked down the road towards the nearest tube station. "I've never been there before."

"It's in Park Lane," Erik nodded easily. "Very posh area. All the nobs stay there," he added. "Who are you meeting?" he asked curiously.

"Looking a shade uncomfortable, Medina looked up into two ice-blue eyes. "My father," she said.

"Your father is staying at the Dorchester?" Erik looked impressed. "Your family is rich?"

Nodding slowly, Medina sounded embarrassed. "Yes," she said. "Sorry."

"No need to be sorry about money," Erik shrugged. "My dad is sending me to Yale so that I won't screw up his company when it's my turn to run it."

"Your family has money?" Medina looked a little relieved.

"Dad hasn't given me all the details yet," Erik looked vaguely disinterested. "Apparently we do."

"Then you know what it's like to have to live up to family expectations," she sighed. "In my country, we all do what the head of the family says."

"And your father is saying what, exactly?" Erik didn't know why he was interested, but he was.

"Get my master's degree then come home and get married to a man he wants me to marry."

"Is that what you want to do?"

Medina turned, smiling a little sadly. "It's not a question of what I want to do," she said. "It's what everyone expects me to do."

Then why not just leave home and do whatever it is you choose?" Erik sounded irritated. "Surely your father can't force you to marry someone you don't want to marry?"

"If I left home without my father's blessing," Medina clarified. "I would be dead to my family. I'd never be able to see them again. My sister, my mother, my baby brother. Never."

"Sounds a bit draconian," Erik frowned.

"Yet you are going to another country and a school you do not want to attend because your father wishes it?"

It was Erik's turn to make a face. She was right. Sort of.

"What will your father say when he sees me?" It was a reasonable question. Medina had already thought of it.

"Would you agree to play a little act for me?" she asked, carefully. "If not," she added, "we had better not be seen together."

"What kind of an act?" Erik sounded doubtful.

"Would you mind pretending to be a bodyguard?"

His shout of laughter surprised her.

"Me?" he exclaimed. "A bodyguard?" Grinning madly, Erik stopped on the pavement to stare down at the delicate features of his companion. Nobody in their right mind would ever imagine him anything of the sort. Seeing her serious face, he stopped laughing immediately. She was utterly earnest. Exhaling loudly, he shrugged.

"I guess I could," he grinned again. "Though I don't know anyone who'd believe it."

"Do you know how bodyguards are supposed to act?" Medina asked, perfectly sensibly.

Erik thought for a moment about the people his father did business with. They were not always terribly pleasant people. Some of them were downright unpleasant. Some needed bodyguards.

"Oh yeah," he said, quietly. "I know how bodyguards behave."

"Good, then," Medina seemed to have thought the whole thing through. "If you still want to come in and meet my father, then I'll tell him the University has assigned you to be my…" she looked him up and down. He was right: too skinny and young to be a professional bodyguard. "Student Guardian," she nodded. That would do. Her father would approve of that.

"Student Guardian?" Erik wasn't buying it.

"I'll say the University gives all its new students the option of an older student guardian who looks after them for the first semester," she smiled. "But you'll have to behave as if being my guide and guardian angel is a real chore for you."

Lifting his eyebrows, Erik grinned again. "And here was me thinking you were such a good girl," he laughed.

"I am a good girl," Medina grinned back. "But I don't want my father to worry about me or else I may have to return home sooner than I want." Stopping again, she looked back into those palest of pale-blues. "Will you help?"

"Of course I'll help," Erik nodded. "Though you'll have to stop being so nice to me."

"I can do that," Medina laughed.

###

Fortunately, Sherlock was out for the day – analysing relative dye-values in product bar-codes, or something. John had taken little notice of the path home to Baker Street, and now, sipping tea in his favourite chair, his head was still spinning with the idea he was legally responsible for a massive and critical chunk of cash. Massive, because these days his biggest financial investment tended to be, at best, a warm jacket; critical, simply because he didn't have it. Where in hell's name was he going to find twenty grand in less than three weeks? Even if he gave up sleep and locum'd every hour he could get, he'd not be able to earn that kind of money. Taking a deep breath, he listed the key problems in making the payment. Point one: he had nothing of any value worth selling. Point two, going to the banks for a loan would have him laughed successively out of their offices. Point three, no loan company would touch him without Point one. He couldn't go to Harry – she'd long ago drunk her way through any potential savings. He couldn't ask Sherlock, because … well. Because. Besides, the likelihood of Sherlock having that kind of money just lying around was about on par with there really being a Santa. He didn't know anyone else who, one; had that kind of cash, and who, two, would lend it to him. He was stumped. If he couldn't get the cash, then he'd have to try and renegotiate the loan; maybe see if he could get the term extended or something.

There was a mobile number on the back of the slip of paper he'd taken from the envelope. Digging out his phone he took a deep breath and keyed the digits.

"Bow Bells Finance," a woman's voice answered.

Clearing his throat, John asked to speak with someone about changing the payments on a loan. After a few seconds uncomfortable silence, the woman advised she was putting him through to the manager.

"You want to change payments how?" an aggressive male voice demanded. Clearly this particular manager hadn't attended charm school. John got the distinct feeling there might be a more physical edge to this company's method of coping with bad debt.

"Well I have a bit of a problem," he said amiably. "I just found out this morning that a loan my friend, my now dead friend, took out several years ago, has me down as guarantor, and now you've asked me to pay it back by the end of the month, and there's no way I can do that."

"What's your friend's, your dead friend's name?"

"Sean Lachlan," John cleared his throat. "Captain Sean Lachlan." There was an extended pause. John could hear metal cabinet drawers being slammed closed.

"Twenty big ones, yeah?"

"Er, yes." John nodded to nobody in particular. "It was twenty thousand, yes."

"Due in three weeks, yeah?"

"I believe that was the expectation," John took a deep breath. He hated having to think about money. Especially when he never seemed to have any.

"Nah. Can't do it, Mate," the male voice sounded almost conciliatory. "Gotta stick to the rules, see?"

"Surely there must be someone I can speak to," John felt a stir of anger. "You can't just dump this kind of debt on me and expect instant payment. I don't have the money."

"But you're a doctor," the man argued. "All doctors is rollin' in it."

"Not this doctor," John made a face. "I don't work as a doctor."

"What does you work at then?"

"I was recently invalided out of the army," John announced. "I live on my army pension and some occasional locum jobs," he added. "I do not have the kind of money you want."

"What's your number?" the man asked. "I'll see if I can talk to the boss and then maybe we can talk a deal," he said. "Won't be cheap though," he added. "There's the matter of interest, see?"

"What kind of interest?" As John gave his mobile number he started to wonder how long Sean had had this loan.

"Thirty-five percent," angry-voice said. "Compound."

"Thirty-five percent?" John almost shouted. "That's not interest," he protested. "That's usury."

"Them's the rules, Mate," the man said. "It's what you signed for."

And there, John had to admit, he was snookered. He had indeed signed for the loan. It was his responsibility. Somehow, though he had no practical notion of exactly how, he would have to clear up Sean's debt. At thirty-five percent interest. Compounded.

Looking up, he realised the sound he'd just heard was Sherlock pounding up the stairs to the flat. John took another deep breath; there was the minor issue of ensuring his friend got no wind of this. At all. Hey-ho, he thought. This should be fun.

Breezing in, Sherlock hurled two plastic bags on the table so hard; they skidded off the other side and ended up in the corner near the refrigerator.

"Mental incompetents," he snarled, throwing himself into his own chair.

Leaving his circular cogitations aside, John steepled his fingers. "Who are?" he asked, looking helpful.

"Tesco employees," Sherlock was distinctly unimpressed.

"And what have Tesco staff done to incur your everlasting wrath?" John shook his head. They had probably advised Sherlock it was company policy to pay for things.

"Apparently they didn't like me taking samples of their product barcodes," he muttered. "Droned on and on about privileged information."

"So what did they actually make you do about it?" John could guess.

"I had to buy everything I wanted to sample," his tone suggested the notion was a scandalous waste of taxpayer's money.

"Hence the bags?"

Nodding grumpily. "The bags," Sherlock agreed.

Perhaps all was not lost. Collecting the despised articles, John emptied them out onto the table: perhaps they might at least manage a meal out of Sherlock's efforts.

"Brown shoe polish; unscented fly spray; six different kinds of magazine and about a ton of children's sweeties?" Turning to stare at his flatmate, John's voice moved up the tonal scale. "Why on earth would you want to sample six different women's magazines?"

Adopting a superior expression, "paper quality," he muttered.

Dumping everything back into the bags, John returned to his chair, the weight of his new problem reasserting itself. His pensive expression was clearly insufficiently guarded against his friend's inescapable analysis.

"It wasn't that bad," Sherlock commented, watching John's face. "Was it?"

Looking up, John shook his head. "Nothing to do with you," he said, quietly. "Got something on my mind."

Instantly alerted by his friend's choice of words – a method of speech he used only where a serious personal issue was in the wind, Sherlock fixed his entire consideration on John's state.

"Tell me," he demanded.

Lifting his head, John saw Sherlock's look. He knew that look. He sighed internally. It was going to be a long night.

###

Appropriate to a Level One surveillance, information and details came in thick and fast. Mycroft absorbed the data as they arrived.

Hassan bin Khalid's group were now ensconced in several suites at the Dorchester and had been booked for the entire week. Two of the men in the group were bin Khalid's bodyguards, both with known military expertise, deadly combat abilities and sworn loyalties; the others, apart from al Badour, were negotiators and assistants: middle-men. Then there was al Badour himself. Military advisor to bin Khalid's father, it appeared as if his future was becoming cemented with the heir of this particular family branch. Looking as if there was a bad taste in his mouth, Mycroft Holmes digested new information as it appeared on his screen.

There had been a visitor this morning. Two visitors, to be accurate, although the one, apparently, had accompanied the other. A young woman, early to mid-twenties, dark, pretty, clearly of Middle-Eastern origins, had arrived at the hotel in time to breakfast in the suite housing Malik al Badour and guard. Who was this female? Relative? Intermediary? Lover? And what was the relationship between the tall young man who seemingly accompanied her inside al Badour's suite? Who was he? Why was he there? What was his connection to either the girl or al Badour?

Waiting impatiently until face-recog provided at least some answers, the girl's passport information popped up to announce she was Medina bint Escalla bint Aadila; currently an international student in London. Odd. Usually a Muslim child took the father's name, but this girl travelled under her mother's family name. This almost never happened unless the father had been disgraced, or … Mycroft gave a short smile and requested information on al Badour's family. Taking only seconds, details appeared advising him that the girl was indeed his eldest, and, by all accounts, al Badour's favourite, daughter. That explained her presence in his suite for breakfast, although it said nothing about her choice of travelling name, unless al Badour himself desired it for her own safety. It was certainly possible.

The young man was Erik Argyll Norling, British citizen, born a true Londoner. Swedish mother. Father, one James Argyll Norling, wealthy London businessman, son of a Scot, grandson of a Swede. Currently the boy was a postgraduate student at London College University … ah. Mycroft blinked. The connection.

The next piece of information made him inhale a little deeply. Medina, daughter of Escalla, was a registered Masters student in the English department at the University College of London, and ascribed to one Professor Catherine Adin-Holmes. Returning to the young man's details, it seemed he too had been a student of Cate's. Pure coincidence of course, but Mycroft's omniscient antenna gave the faintest of twitches. He had little liking of anything connected with al Badour, and wanted no increase of association between the man and Britain. That Cate was connected to him, even peripherally, gave Mycroft an uneasy sensation. He rubbed the back of his neck. Not only was his antenna pinging, but his muscles had just started to twinge. It might be prudent to have a little word with his wife on this matter. Just to be safe.

###

Leaving the Dorchester, Erik felt that the entire experience he'd just gone through held more than an element of the surreal.

Getting in to meet Medina's father had been simplicity itself, although seeing the guard on sentry-duty outside the suite's entrance had given him a distinctly weird feeling: this was Britain. You just didn't have big men with guns standing around outside hotel doors in London. Not even his father's associates did that. Or maybe they did, and he just hadn't noticed. Erik reflected that perhaps he needed to have a look at a few things a little more closely in the future.

Medina had ignored the guard completely and simply opened the door and walked through. Erik had to undergo a professional search, but it was impersonal and swiftly done. He followed Medina into the suite. A well-dressed man in his late forties looked up, surprise turning to immediate concern. Remembering his role in this little family drama, Erik stood tall just away from the wall behind him, his hands clasped loosely in front. He gave a fractional smile. "Good morning, Sir," he said, nodding briefly.

"And this is Erik somebody," without turning, Medina gestured irritably over her shoulder. "Really, Pappa, the University is being incredibly dreary about me as a new student, almost insisting I accept their guardianship until I am more familiar with the city."

Standing, Medina's father walked slowly towards Erik, his dark eyes not leaving the young man's pale features and unwavering blue gaze.

"The University has asked you to watch over my daughter?" he queried softly.

"Making sure new students, and especially new female students avoid getting themselves into unexpected … problems, is only one of the things the University tries to do, Sir," Erik was formally polite. "Miss Medina has only been in town for a couple of weeks and until the University can be assured of her wellbeing, she has been assigned a temporary angel." He smiled a little more genuinely, placing a hand briefly over his heart, he offered a miniscule bow. "In this instance, myself."

Turning back to his daughter, al Badour looked thoughtful.

"The University has someone watch over you?" he asked. "This seems strange."

"And boring, Pappa," Medina complained. "This … Erik person makes sure I am in class when I should be and that I am escorted home to my dormitory at night."

"Your daughter may choose any angel she wishes, Sir," Erik looked and sounded utterly unimpeachable. "Male or female, although," he paused, smiling slightly, "a female guardian is likely to be more, not less intrusive."

Lifting his eyebrows in consideration, Medina's father nodded. "I am impressed by the University's desire to ensure their students' safety," he said, finally. "Do you accompany my daughter if she attends social engagements?"

"Sir, Miss Medina has not yet established a social calendar, although I did escort her to a University Union bar last night."

A flicker of outrage crossed al Badour's features. "You took my daughter into a bar?"

"Yes, Sir," Erik seemed unperturbed. "University Union bars are a primary source of networking among new students, and part of my role is to arrange, when possible, for my charge to be able to meet with likewise new students in a place of safety."

"A bar?" Medina's father was still on the edge of anger.

"Sir," Erik looked sheepish. "University bars are not the same as other drinking places," he said calmly. "Many students, like Miss Medina, do not drink, and this was one of the reasons why I was assigned as her angel in the first place, since I do not drink either."

Slightly mollified, al Badour relaxed his shoulders. "You do not drink alcohol?"

"No, Sir," Erik shook his head. "Can't stand the stuff."

"And what did you do in this Union bar last night?" Turning to Medina, his expression was curious.

"I drank pineapple juice, made some new friends and learned the words to a silly British song, Pappa," she said. "Something about hope and glory."

As Medina's father turned to him for an explanation, Erik smiled. "Elgar, Sir," he said. "The choir was practicing for a concert."

"Your choir practices in a bar?" al Badour looked sceptical.

"Sir, in all fairness, we are students," Erik smiled and shrugged. "We'll sing anywhere we can."

Looking at the tall young man standing relaxed in his long student jacket and garish, purple-striped scarf; his face as angelic as his claimed purpose, Malik al Badour felt himself relax. There was truth in this room. Smiling inwardly, Medina's father was quite aware that it might not be the entire truth, but he trusted his daughter's integrity, and this young man had not lied to him.

"Very well, Erik somebody," al Badour smiled, becoming the immediate host. "Will you join my daughter and I for breakfast?"

"Delighted, Sir," Erik walked towards a seat, unwinding his scarf. He was actually quite hungry.

And now they were heading back toward the Uni.

"Tell me that wasn't the maddest thing you've ever done," Erik looked down at Medina, walking calmly beside him.

"It wasn't the maddest thing I've ever done," she agreed.

"It wasn't?" Erik was instantly intrigued. "Then what was?"

Laughing, Medina told him.

###

"Tell you what?" John asked, moving into Plan A: Prevarication.

"Tell me what's worrying you," Sherlock pressed. "I know there's something," he said. "The angle of your jaw is approaching ninety-degrees."

"The angle of my jaw tells you I'm worried?" John couldn't help but smile.

"But only intermittently," Sherlock looked knowing. "Or you wouldn't have smiled."

John stopped smiling. "I'm not worried about anything," he lied.

"And that was an outright lie, meaning you consider the problem embarrassing," lifting his eyebrows, Sherlock's eyes narrowed fractionally.

"It's not embarrassing," John sighed. Plan A wasn't going down terribly well.

"Then you definitely do have a problem and it definitely is embarrassing you," Sherlock looked impressed. "Okay, so far so good," he said. "Now would you care to tell me the rest of it of your own volition, or must I play dentist for the next three minutes?" Sherlock looked at John's face. "Two minutes," he amended, still watching. "Possibly one-and-a-half."

John considered moving into Plan B: Outright Denial and Retreat. He knew however, that Sherlock would sit in that chair all night if needs be, working out any and all possible permutations. Even if he vanished to bed right this second, he'd never hear the end of it. Rubbing a hand over his face, John sighed.

Just over the minute, Sherlock observed. It was serious, then.

###

Welcoming Medina and Erik back into her office, Cate smiled at them both. It was not usual for a new research candidate to bring a friend for their first meeting, but neither was it unheard of. Besides, Cate thought, looking at the two of them, there was clearly something rather sweet going on here. If they were happy to be together, she wasn't going to stop them.

"So, Medina," she said. "Talk to me about your research proposal."

Taking a deep breath, the young woman looked Cate in the eye.

"I want to write about the power of cultural narratives to change culture," she rattled out quickly, almost as if she needed to say it fast in case she forgot.

Thinking, Cate looked down at her fingers. "That's a very big topic," she said. Looking up at the girl, "Or are you thinking of articulating this into a PhD after a year?"

With an optimistic expression, Medina nodded slowly. "I had hoped …" she said. "If it were to be possible?"

"Anything's possible, Medina," Cate raised her eyebrows. "Why don't we go through your detailed proposal and see exactly what you've been considering?" Turning to Erik, she looked questioning. "You sure you want to stay for this?" she asked. "Might get a little dull."

Tipping his head towards Medina, his eyes asked her the same question.

"You want me to stay?"

She nodded. He smiled.

"I'll stay," he said.

Looking between them both, Cate smiled again. The sweetness of young love.

###

Cate was at her Hapkido class, so tonight was his turn for dinner. Rolling his neck yet again to relieve the irksome tension that had settled nicely into a dull, cramping ache, Mycroft was not really in the mood for anything extravagant or high-preparation. Deciding on a swift Pilaf, with kidneys, bacon and mushrooms, its rapid cooking time enabled him to check in on the latest al Badour surveillance. Since a Level One surveil was, by its nature, exponential, he needed to ensure his resources were kept in focus on key areas. He had decided Medina bint Malik al Badour fell into that category. The girl's every move would be logged, at least while her father was in Britain. Calling up the latest Intel, Mycroft scowled.

After leaving her father's suite at the Dorchester, both the girl and her youthful male companion had gone directly to Gower Street and into Cate's office. There were even a couple of photographs of the three of them talking around Cate's desk. Of course, the girl Medina was one of Cate's students, thus there was every reason for such a meeting to occur. It simply looked … questionable. Had Cate not been his wife, Mycroft would have ordered her immediate profiling. He was damned if he did and damned if he didn't. He sighed, rubbing his neck. She'd be home soon. Closing down his computer, he headed into the kitchen.

Dumping her gear in the laundry, Cate breezed into the rear of the house looking for the man of her dreams. Seeing him leaning over the cooktop, she smiled.

"Good day?" she asked, leaning around him to press a gentle kiss to his mouth.

"A day of complexities," Mycroft turned, catching her, bringing her back to him. "I missed you," he murmured, finding her lips again.

About to wrap him up in her arms, Cate stopped as he winced, jerking away.

"What's wrong, darling?"

Looking apologetic, Mycroft rubbed his muscles. "Incredibly sore neck," he winced again, tipping his head back to ease the ache.

"Right then," Cate took charge. Pulling out a chair, she pointed. "Sit." Heading over to one of the drawers, she dug around to unearth a padded rice bag. Whacking it in the microwave, she set it to heat.

"Do not move," she said as he looked about to stand. "Do not even think of moving."

In the main drawing room, she poured a stiff Scotch. Returning to Mycroft, she put it in his hand and fetched the heating pad. Not too hot, Cate eased it gently around the back of his neck, exploring the muscles as she did. They were as hard as rock. No wonder he was in pain. He sighed as the temporary warmth soothed the ache.

Serving dinner in the kitchen for a change, Cate watched him eat, seeing Mycroft's shoulders tense whenever he took a mildly deep breath. His conversation was minimal. She frowned: this was silly.

"You need a massage," she said, finishing her wine and rising to place the dishes in the sink. "I think upstairs would be best."

"It's far too early to go to sleep," Mycroft rolled his shoulders in a vain attempt to put things right.

"Not talking about sleeping," Cate grinned. "I'm going to give you a massage and you need to lie down."

Giving in now that even shaking his head had become too difficult, Mycroft watched her bundle up several large towels inside heavy aluminium foil and put them in the oven.

"Come on, old thing," Cate pulled him up to their bedroom.

Covering the bed with a double-layer of thick towels, Cate turned to face him, looking at his clothes, and appreciating his lean length. Despite the discomfort in his neck, her gaze tempted him. Dear God, he thought. All it took now was a look.

"Take your clothes off," she ran a fingertip down the front of his waistcoat, breathing the words against his throat. "I want you naked and on the bed," she grinned provocatively, his pulse quickening as she ran her hand up and along his jaw. "Back in a minute."

The bedroom was sufficiently warm that removing his clothing did not leave him feeling chilly, although lying naked across the towels left him with an unexpectedly exposed sensation.

Returning with a thermal bag and a smaller kit bag, Cate looked at him and smiled.

"On your front, my love," she laughed. Groaning theatrically, he rolled over.

Opening one of the foil-rolled towels, Cate spread it across Mycroft's shoulders and back, tucking a thick roll around his neck. He groaned again, but this time in pleasure as the latent heat soaked into him. Even if this was all she had planned, it would be enough.

Unrolling the small kit bag beside him, Mycroft watched Cate bring out several objects. A small bottle of almost clear liquid, which swirled lucidly: oil of some kind. A small container of cedar and wintergreen balm; a small, strange-looking mechanical device.

"What's that?" he asked, staring at the gadget. It had two small loops on the bottom.

"A vibrator," Cate was grinning: he could hear it in her voice.

"Odd-looking vibrator," he muttered.

"You need to embrace technology, my love," she said. "It's designed for massage," Cate laughed, changing the cooling towel for another hot one. He groaned again. This was not unpleasant.

"Look," she said, kneeling down to the level of his eyes. Mycroft watched as Cate slid the device onto her index and middle-fingers and turned a dial resting on the top of her hand. Immediately, her hand began to vibrate. She ran it across his shoulder: tremors of feeling shimmied across his skin and muscles. It felt … pleasing.

"But this comes later," she said, covering his lower body up in the two towels that had cooled as she applied yet another heated one to his shoulders.

"I may have you do this every night from now on," he mumbled, his shoulders finally beginning to ease in the heat and their relaxed position.

"Hold that thought," Cate grinned. It was going to get worse before it got better. Crawling up onto the bed, she supported her weight with a knee either side of his hips, resting on him. Mycroft rather enjoyed the feeling. He smiled into the towel. This might end up being better than he'd first thought.

Pulling the cooling cover away, Cate poured a little of the viscous oil into her hands, then onto the smooth skin of his back. Spreading it around, she paused.

"Ready?" she asked. "This may be a little uncomfortable to begin with, so I won't worry if you want to complain."

"Holmes men never comp … argh," he nearly shouted as Cate's fingers found the first of the knots in his shoulders.

Laughing, Cate relented. "That was mean of me," she admitted. "I need to get you warmed up first." Taking a good ten minutes, she rolled, stretched and pulled all the major muscles of his back and shoulders until his skin was pink and warm to the touch.

"Here we go, darling," Cate smiled at the back of his head. "Be brave."

"You sound as if you're contemplating major surgery," the previous ten minutes had lulled Mycroft into an general feeling of ease and warmth.

It was only when Cate used her elbow in an attempt to push one of his muscles out through the front of his shoulder that Mycroft gave in and groaned loudly.

"That's a scalene," Cate muttered, digging in deep. "Nasty little buggers."

"Sweet Christ, woman," Mycroft gritted out through clenched teeth. "I thought massage was supposed to be a gentle, relaxing affair?"

"Oh, it is," she agreed. "Eventually." Shifting her weight and stretching her back, Cate took a breather. "Now for the other side," she said, waiting for a storm of protest.

Nothing. Not a peep. Cate checked. "Are you still conscious?"

"It feels … better," Mycroft admitted slowly. "Looser." He sighed, wriggling into a more comfortable position. "Do your worst."

Fortunately, Mycroft's left-hand side wasn't as tense as the right had been, thus Cate's ministrations were a little briefer and less invasive, although she managed to get a couple of quite reasonable yelps out of him before she felt the job was properly done.

"Now the soft and gentle part," she whispered close to his ear as she fitted the massager over her fingers. Turning it to high, she ran her hand in slow strokes down and across his shoulders and down from the back of his head. As each sweep affected the newly-relaxed muscles, Cate could see them quiver softly and fall back into rest.

"Nice?"

Mycroft was barely audible, "don't stop," he muttered. "Please."

Continuing the stroking for several more minutes, Cate eventually laid the vibrator aside, reaching for the cedar balm.

"This may feel a little warm at first," she said, "but it'll go in a minute or so." With a gentle, circular movement, Cate rubbed some of the fragrantly woody unguent into the lines of Mycroft's neck, along the crest of his shoulders and down towards his spine.

Wiping her hands, Cate felt it was a job well done. From a distressed, pain-ridden and unhappy man, she had produced a warm, quivering lump of husband.

"Are you still with me?" she laughed.

"Mmm," slowly stretching, Mycroft resurfaced, blinking. "That," he said, "was an experience." Rolling onto his back, he looked at Cate's pleased face. "Where on earth did you learn how to do that?"

"You forget I worked with dancers and all manner of crazy physical people for a long time before you and I met," she said, leaning down to kiss him. "Knowledge of massage is a prerequisite in such circles." Lifting herself away from him "Now you should get into some pyjamas and stay warm to get the best out of this," Cate began packing away the detritus.

Mycroft's arms pulled her back against his chest as he lay on the towels.

"I feel the need to first demonstrate some form of appreciation," he said, nibbling her neck.

"And what form of appreciation did you have in mind?" Cate smiled, looping her arms behind his head and stretching herself down along his body.

"Firstly," Mycroft's fingers were at the buttons of her blouse. "One of us is definitely overdressed," he murmured, kissing her throat and along her clavicle. "And secondly," he announced, twisting his arm behind him, and, grasping the vibrator, slid it onto his fingers. He turned the dial to high. "I have decided to embrace technology," his smile was entirely sinful.

###

At breakfast, curling his fingers through Cate's shining hair, Mycroft kissed her good morning, gathering her up into a spontaneous hug. He couldn't help himself any more: she was as necessary to him as air. He had slept like a dead man and awoken as fresh as the proverbial daisy. Now he wanted coffee, but there was also the matter of Cate's connection to al Badour's daughter. He sighed. He already knew Cate was not going to like what he needed to say, but it was unavoidable. It couldn't be put off any longer.

"Darling," he began, waiting until he had her full attention. "There is an issue with one of your students."

Looking puzzled, Cate tipped her head, waiting.

"Medina bint Malik al Badour," he said.

"I have a new Master's student called Medina," Cate agreed, "but her name's not 'bint Malik al Badour'."

"Yes," Mycroft said gently. "It is."

Looking even more puzzled, Cate frowned. "How are you involved with Medina, assuming it is actually the same student?"

"Sorry darling," he paused. "I'm not able to give you the details," Mycroft stared into his coffee. "You need to find her another supervisor. Possibly a different university."

Cate's expression moved into concern. "Why?"

Another pause. "I can't tell you that, either," Mycroft's gaze was unruffled. "Can you simply accept that I say this for the very best of reasons?"

Pushing her own coffee aside, Cate linked her fingers and stared down at the kitchen table. She considered his request.

Pinching her lips together, she looked at him. "No, Mycroft," she shook her head slowly. "I don't think I can do that."

He put his cup down. "I'm sorry, my love," his expression was serious. "I'm afraid I have to insist."

Taking a deep breath, Cate stood. "You may insist all you wish," she said softly, walking over to him. "But I will not mess around with the academic future of a vulnerable young student simply because you say so." Looking directly into his eyes, she rested a hand on his chest.

"Tell me why," she said. "Give me a good reason."

Scanning her face, Mycroft could see Cate wanted no argument with him, but he could not share his knowledge with her. Nothing associated with a Level One operation was able to enter a public domain. Nothing. He had instituted the rule himself. Even mentioning Medina's real name might have been a mistake.

"I can't, darling," his voice made Cate ache.

"Neither can I," she replied, her words equally soft. Hesitant, she asked. "What happens now?"

"Now MI5 get involved."

Disbelievingly, Cate choked. "Men with guns?"

Desperate to pull her close to him, to tell her everything would be all right, Mycroft did neither. Instead, he nodded.

Men with guns.