Chapter Six
The Arts of Korea – Lestrade of the Met – Parker of MI5 – An Agreement in Principle – A Conversation with Master Kwan – The Fractal Heart.
#
#
Grabbing Medina's arm and ignoring the police-officers' shouts to stop, Cate charged headlong across Oxford Street, dodging between cars, taxies and the occasional big red bus as she navigated transversely through the stream of traffic, risking life-and-limb and the dreadful ire of rush-hour commuters.
"Come ON," she turned, waiting for John and Erik to catch up. "I know how to lose them, quick!"
Before either of the men had reached the spot, Cate and Medina had already taken to their heels, flying along the uneven pavement, scarves trailing behind them like battle colours.
"Bloody women," John muttered, accelerating to maintain pace with the lanky twenty-something beside him. Fortunately, keeping up with Sherlock's mad dashes had brought his street-sprinting ability to a fine peak. Sucking the cool morning air into his lungs, he stepped up the pace, knowing that if anything happened to Cate while he was in the same post-code, Mycroft's response would likely be excessive
The two officers were attempting to follow their track, but the lights had gone green and traffic was zipping along nicely. One of them spoke into his radio.
"Where the hell's she going?" Running beside him, the younger, taller Erik was able to see over the heads of oncoming pedestrians.
"There's a side street on the left," John knew it quite well. It had been one of the places – one of them – which had afforded him an opportunity to get royally thumped after Sherlock had danced beyond the reach of the thug they'd cornered. Not being in the same class of nimbleness as the younger Holmes, John had copped an eye-watering smack to the jaw. Mind you, the man had gone down in the next second, but still. Additionally, the place was only a couple of streets west of the British Museum, which offered a more recent and entirely joyous memory all of its own.
Following the two women down Bainbridge Street, all four ducked and weaved around parked cars and large, erratically located rubbish containers. There was still no sign of the police, but Cate realised they only had minutes before they'd be caught on the street. So they had to get off it. And there was only one place around here that beckoned now: Master Kwan's dojang.
There was a skinny little alleyway linking Bainbridge and Great Russell, and it was down this dark passageway that Cate headed. Rushing past shuttered doors and skipping around the hazards of urban parking, she made directly for a barely noticed archway, recessed, and with only the most minimal of signage, shouldering open an unremarkable grey door and ushered them all through.
Like the famous blue box of Gallifrey, this place seemed much larger on the inside. Spreading out as a massive square hall, the dojang was divided into several discrete training areas, with the largest space, the central mats, being the main instructional facility. John, Medina and Erik stood just inside the door staring around, while Cate spotted the one person she wanted to see.
"Master Kwan," wasting no time, she walked over to him, bowing slightly. "I am sorry to trouble you, but we need to avoid some people and would like to use your side door."
The small Korean man looked her directly in the eye. Cate was certainly not one of his longest-practicing students, nor was she the best, but she was one of the most determined, and he admired that characteristic. She was a little impetuous, yes, but part of him liked that too, although he'd never tell her. He knew she worked as a teacher, but looking over her shoulder at the three people with her, and recognising the expression in their eyes as one of anxiety, Kwan wondered in what else this woman might be involved. He looked thoughtful.
Unable to wait for Kwan to deliberate, and knowing every second was vital, Cate placed her fingers on his arm and began rattling away in Hanyu. The old man's eyebrows went up, but he listened in silence as she explained that the two young ones were her students; that they had been unfairly treated by the law; and that she was trying to keep them safe until such time as a more formal and legal process might determine their situation.
At the sound of the Professor's voice in an unknown Asian language, Erik and Medina stared at each other before turning to John.
"How many different languages does she speak?" Erik asked. "She did this a couple of days ago with Arabic when she started arguing with Medina's dad."
"Arabic?" John raised his eyebrows. "Lots, apparently," John looked at the two young people beside him. "What's going on?" he demanded. "I find the three of you about to be nabbed by some of London's finest, then I get sucked into running away from said Finest, which probably makes me an accomplice or something, and now we're in some martial arts place and God knows what Cate's telling that guy," John shook his head. "What is going on?"
"It's a long story," Medina looked uncomfortable. "But it's to do with me getting kicked out of Uni because of who my father is."
"And?" John waited for the punch-line. "Who is he?"
"Malik al Badour," she said.
"Never heard of him," John shook his head. "What's he done?"
Looking bemused, Medina shrugged. She was about to add to her response when the doors behind them slammed open and two, somewhat breathless, police-officers stepped swiftly inside.
"Hey, you!" The first one pointed at Medina, clearly recognising her. "Stay right where you are!" Erik looked at the man with interest before moving in front of her. Turning their heads at the sound of the banging door, Cate and Kwan wore identical frowns. Cate also stepped forward, an odd expression of antagonism lighting her face. Kwan's features gained little expression at all. He went very still.
John didn't know who to look at, but reckoned the policemen were most likely to make the first move. He probably had about three seconds to make up his mind, but after Kandahar, three seconds was a lifetime. Still unsure of what Cate was actually up to, what the precise situation was, or why she was even involved with these two kids, he realised he trusted her judgement. That he also trusted Mycroft's judgement not to marry a fool was beside the point. Moving the boy away, John stood in front of them all.
"What seems to be the problem, Officer?" he asked, not entirely innocently. After giving Erik and Medina a fierce 'keep out of this' look, Cate came and stood beside him. It was only when she felt a light brush against her arm that she realised Kwan was taking pole position.
"Indeed," the little Korean man greeted the officers. "Is there a problem, Gentlemen?" he asked. "My name is Kwan and this is my dojang. How may I assist you?"
"Kwan Jungnim," Cate touched the old master's shoulder respectfully. "This is not something you have to deal with."
"Ah, but it is, Student," the aged Korean smiled politely and nodded. Cate ducked her head, also smiling. She had just been put neatly in her place.
"There's a warrant of arrest out for those two," the taller of the policemen pointed to Medina and Erik. "They've been evading detention and are persons of interest in a matter of national security."
"But they are children," Kwan lifted his hands in disbelief.
"Please step away, Sir," the younger of the officers said, beginning to walk towards Medina.
John, Cate, Erik, and, most significantly, Kwan, tensed.
The policemen began to suspect all might not be well.
The tall one walked towards Medina.
Erik stepped forward, protective. John pushed him aside and blocked the policeman's path.
The other officer reached for his collapsible baton as Cate turned to face him.
Kwan lifted his arms and bent at the knee.
The tall officer attempted to push past John, who grabbed his yellow jacket and started to swing him away from the girl.
Erik yelped and ducked beyond the reach of the policeman's grasping fingers as John put the representative of the law on the deck.
The second policeman went to his colleague's aid, only to find his baton flying gracefully through the air, at the same time as Kwan's grasp of his wrist and shoulder assisted him onto the floor. Placing his foot almost tenderly on the younger man's neck, Kwan kept him motionless beneath his sandal.
"No, John! You can't get involved!" Cate stepped in and caught the rising wrist of the policeman as John prepared to persuade the officer to stay down in a more permanent fashion. He stopped, frowning at her words.
Capitalising on the doctor's momentary hesitation, Cate swivelled, pulling the officer onto his feet faster than he could balance himself, making it entirely too easy for her to put him back down again, this time with an elbow in his solar plexus which had him curled up, gasping for every breath. "I'm so very very sorry," she apologised, mortified, as the policeman strained to stare up at her, teary-eyed, red-faced and wheezing, wrapped around his pain.
"Thank you, Master Kwan," she said, grabbing Medina and Erik's hands and backing away towards a small side door leading out onto Great Russell Street. "Thank you John, for your help. Please thank Sherlock for me. We'll be going now."
"Hold on," he said, watching the three runaways. "I'm coming with you."
"John, you can't," Cate shook her head. "There's no reason for you to get into the same kind of trouble as us."
Looking down at the two police officers, John observed that neither of them wore the happiest of expressions.
"I'd say it was a bit late to worry about that," he said. "Let's go."
Looking at Kwan, Cate didn't know what to say, so she simply bowed low.
"Ha!" the old Korean scoffed. "Let us see if you are so respectful when I have you preparing for your Black belt!" He laughed shortly. "Now go, before these two very large officers overpower me and I am forced to pretend to be an old man."
Unable to avoid a grin, Cate led her little crew out the side door and away from the clutches of the Law.
###
"They did what?" Lestrade was not in the best of moods on hearing the officers' report. "An ancient Korean, a woman and a couple of kids?"
The two officers looked shamefaced. "The youngsters weren't involved, Sir," said the older man. "But there was another bloke, around medium height, blonde, carried himself like a squaddie."
"John," the other officer added. "The woman called him 'John'."
Clamping a hand over his eyes, the Inspector groaned loudly. "So what did this 'John' chap do?" he asked, not really wanting to hear. It had to be John Watson. This meant that … oh God … Sherlock was probably involved as well. Lestrade groaned again. First Mycroft puts the heavy word on him to find the girl, and now the younger Holmes might be cheering for the other side. It was all a bit much.
"Not very much actually, Sir," the officer looked sheepish. "He pulled my jacket."
Blinking slowly and taking a deep, silent breath, Greg Lestrade counted to ten.
"He pulled your jacket."
"Yessir."
Reaching for the phone on his desk, Lestrade rang Mycroft Holmes.
###
"… And I assume you were able to follow them back to their den?" Donald Parker flicked through a handful of papers, eventually affixing a neat signature to the final one. He looked up.
"We were able to track them to the Korean's training gym, Sir," the operative said. "But the police were also there and it was a case of either interfering with them and risking our cover, or tracking the targets when they exited the building."
"And the problem with that was ..?" the Director-General of MI5 was unsmiling.
"Two of us," the agent said. "Three exits. They took the one we didn't know about."
"Damnation." Parker was unambiguously frustrated. "How can a teacher and two college students stay undercover like this?
"The woman is married to Holmes, Sir," the agent shrugged. "Maybe there's more here than meets the eye?"
"Time to find out, then."
Reaching for the phone on his desk, Parker rang Mycroft Holmes.
###
Malik al Badour was very good at what he did. And what he was doing right now, was standing by, waiting for his Leader to agree or not, at least in principle, to the deal before him.
Hassan bin Khalid stared across the table at the British businessman.
"Do we have an agreement?" he asked.
"A contract will be delivered for your perusal and signature this afternoon," the businessman nodded, a pleasant enough smile on his face. "I trust that will be acceptable?"
"Perfectly." The Arab leader stood, shaking the Londoner's hand, sealing their pact in the traditional European manner. Turning, he left the room in an unhurried and self-assured pace. He had done what he had come to this country to do; his staff could handle the details.
"Do you know where to bring the contract?" al Badour was taking care of some of those minutia.
"My people will take care of everything," the Londoner nodded affably, straightening one of his silk cuffs. "Is there anything else I might be able to arrange for you?" he asked, a knowing smile hovering at the edge of his mouth. "A discreet visit to a casino, perhaps? A pretty girl or two ..?"
Grinning broadly, Malik al Badour laughed. "I have no time for the perils of gambling," he said. "And if my wife ever discovered I had been with another woman, I would die in my sleep that very night."
"I have the same problem," the Briton smiled and nodded. "Although I am fortunate in that I need look at no other woman."
"You are a lucky man, then," al Badour nodded also. "You have family?"
The Londoner smiled. "A son," he grinned. "Who will one day take my place, allowing me to take my beautiful wife away to peace and quiet. You?"
"I have a son also," he said. "And two loving daughters to fill a father's heart with delight."
"Then we are both lucky men," the Briton acknowledged.
Smiling still, Malik al Badour walked out of the room, following in the wake of his Leader and Chief.
Behind him, James Norling extracted a large Cohiba from his breast pocket and, sitting back in his comfortable chair, took time to smoke it properly.
###
This was unexpected.
Mycroft's Level One surveillance had yielded some surprising results, and his brain was currently processing the permutations. It was either incredible coincidence – something to which he rarely allotted the slightest credence – or there were other influences at play here.
His thinking went like this: Hassan bin Khalid, next-in-line in a powerful Arab dynasty, arrives with entourage, apparently contemplating an arms-deal with a British-based supplier. This in itself, while unusual, was not wholly out of the ordinary. Accompanying this heir-apparent is Malik al Badour, warlord and advisor to bin Khalid's father, the obvious assumption being that al Badour's experience and understanding of the arms-business would ensure any potential deal would be advantageous to the House of Khalid. While in London, al Badour's favourite eldest daughter visits him at the Dorchester, squired by the young and presentable Erik Norling. The three are observed taking breakfast together in al Badour's suite.
So far, so straightforward. Now things began to convolute.
MI5, spy-takers and upholders of British espionage upon domestic soil, also an interested party in the bin Khalid group, are observed to be tracking al Badour, and, by extension, his daughter and her young man who are seen talking to Professor Adin-Holmes …
Cate. Mycroft's face hardened.
… Are seen talking to his wife, who shortly thereafter is taken into custody by MI5 after interfering with two of their operatives and thus permitting her students to avoid arrest. His wife leaves the following day … Cate … vanishing, as do young Norling and the girl. Indications that they were probably together, likely in Islington, were at that moment being confirmed by his people.
Next; Cate, Norling junior, and al Badour's daughter narrowly avoid detention by Lestrade's men outside of Tottenham Court Road tube-station, an event facilitated by – and this beggared belief – his own brother and John Watson. Watson then absconds with the three fugitives, the ensuing chase ending in what might best be described as a minor scuffle with two policemen in a Korean martial-arts dojang, during which, one officer had, according to Lestrade, "his jacket pulled", the other receiving a punch from Cate, immediately following which he also received her apparently heart-felt apology. The Proprietor of the dojang was currently awaiting his questioning.
At this point, Mycroft felt the need to rub his eyes. Was there something in the water that engendered temporary madness in his family? How could something as simple as a visiting royal on a shopping expedition for guns degenerate into such a morass? Lifting a sheet of paper with the latest Intel, his thoughts refocused upon the tenuous connection between al Badour and the Norling boy. Not so tenuous as might first be considered, especially after this afternoon's meeting between bin Kahlid, al Badour and Erik Norling's father …
What linked the Norlings, father and son, with Malik al Badour and his daughter?
Laying the report flat on the desk before him, Mycroft's rested his elbows on either side, hands together, fingertips tapping against his mouth as he toyed with the connections and implications. There was also the matter of questioning the Korean – he had insisted on the police leaving him here – the less Cate was implicated in all this, the better.
Walking down to the interrogation rooms, Mycroft reviewed the old man's file. It was rather interesting. Original passport and migration visa forms; banking details, tax-returns for the last seven years and business charter, and that was it; nothing remotely personal or in any way connected to his life before arriving in Britain, some nineteen years previously. Mr Kwan was something of a mystery. Mycroft smiled: in today's technological alles zu teilen, he rather admired mysteries. They required application.
"Good afternoon … Mr Kwan." And thus it began.
The old man raised his brows slightly and gave a fractional nod.
Mycroft revised his previous assessment. Not only a mystery but also lacking any evidence of concern. He might have to change this.
"You know my wife, I believe," Mycroft sat in the opposite chair.
Kwan looked mildy curious. "I do?" he said, pleasantly enough.
"Her name is Cate," Mycroft continued. "She is one of your students."
"Cate is your wife?" Kwan's brows crawled up his head; a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. "Would you prefer tremendous congratulations or sympathetic understanding?"
Mycroft remained expressionless, but it was with a little effort. Clearly the Korean knew Cate quite well.
"She is in trouble," Mycroft said, quietly. "Would you like to help her?"
Looking down at the table top between them, Kwan was thoughtful. "Cate is an exceptional person," he said slowly. "Your wife does not require my help."
"Yet you obstructed the police in order to allow her to escape your premises?"
"That was for the children," Kwan nodded, thinking. "Not for her."
Opening the slim folder in front of him, Mycroft looked as if her were reading. "You are a permanent resident in Britain," he said. "But you have never taken citizenship," he paused. "Why is that?"
Kwan relaxed back into his uncomfortable wooden seat, folding his arms and offering a strange little smile. "Do I need to?"
Lifting his brows marginally, Mycroft closed the file, returning to stare into Kwan's dark eyes. "A foreign national using violence against British police-officers during the performance of their duties? It might have been better for you if you had," he said, casually.
Laughing softly, Kwan shook his head. "You will have to work harder than that for your pay if you want to frighten me," he said.
For the first time, Mycroft's bearing eased. He rather liked this old warrior.
"What's she like as a student?" he asked, genuinely curious.
"Cate?" Kwan met Mycroft's gaze. He smiled properly. "She is … unpredictable."
"Yes; she is rather," Mycroft folded his arms, mirroring the Korean. "Is she a good learner?"
Relaxing, Kwan smiled again, nodding. "Cate accepts nothing but the highest standards from herself, which can be challenging, but she has an honourable soul and her heart is purposeful," he said. "She is braver than most, more impulsive than others, and occasionally reckless, yet I would not trade her for fifty masters."
Mycroft felt his heart thud. He would not willingly trade her either. "I agree," he spoke quietly, his thoughts elsewhere.
"Then what did you do to drive her away?"
Lifting his head sharply, Mycroft frowned at the old Korean. "What do you mean?"
Kwan looked patient, as if he were instructing a particularly dense pupil. "You are a clever and powerful man," he explained slowly. "You have all this," he waved in the air around his head, "and yet she does not come to you, her husband, when she is in trouble?" he asked, pointedly. "Why is this?"
Feeling that the situation was escaping him a little, Mycroft stayed impassive.
"Ah," Kwan nodded. "So that is why."
Avoiding the bait, Mycroft simply stared at the old man. "You are in trouble with the police," he said, finally. "You intervened with the course of the law."
"I am not in trouble with the police or someone would have charged me by now," Kwan said. "And even if they do in the future, I am an old man," he sighed, resigned. "There is only so much trouble I can pay for."
Despite himself, Mycroft felt his lip twitch. No wonder Cate liked her teacher. He did too. There was nothing sinister here, he decided. Kwan could go. He closed the folder and was about to stand when the Korean lifted his hand. Mycroft found himself pausing.
"May I offer a clever and powerful man some advice?" Kwan asked softly.
His attention engaged, Mycroft sat back, examining Kwan's face. "Go on."
"Cate is like mountain mist," he paused, "swift and invigorating, yet also elusive and fragile." The old man smiled kindly. "Impossible to recapture once it is gone," he added. "Find her and tell her she is the beat of your heart."
Mycroft stared down at his hands for several seconds. "It may already be too late for that," he said, slowly.
"Do you love her?" Kwan asked. "Do you?"
Lifting his eyes, Mycroft looked bleak.
"Then find her and tell her," Kwan nodded in satisfaction. "She needs to hear this from you."
Standing, Mycroft looked down into the strangely serene face of the old Hapkido master. Leaving the room, the elder Holmes felt marginally relieved the man wanted to stay in Britain. Lord knows what he might have said otherwise.
###
"It's confirmed, Sir," the admin turned from his desk. "The lease was taken out in the name of Catherine Adin, at the beginning of last week."
... Cate.
"Thank you," Mycroft nodded, his hand tightening. He could stand it no longer; he would have to see her before he went mad with uncertainty.
"Do we have a schedule yet?"
"Only one regular route, Sir, so far."
"It will suffice."
###
Ensuring she had the woollen cat-hat pulled down tightly around her ears, Cate wrapped her old college scarf around the lower half of her face, lifted up her collar, and stuck both hands in her pockets. Hardly elegant, but needs must. Stepping out of the flat, she kept her face deliberately averted from the CCTV cameras the three of them had been able to identify, and, staring at the pavement, she moved swiftly towards Sainsbury's, taking the increasingly familiar shortcut through the basement-level floor of the multi-story car park.
Stepping over the low concrete boundary-wall, Cate felt something was odd. It wasn't until she realised there was a complete absence of cars down here – a level usually filled to capacity by this time of the day – that she wondered if repairs were going on at the entrance to the facility. Something was obviously stopping them from coming down here.
She was well into the centre of the vast and empty space when she heard the first vehicle driving down the ramp. Paying it no heed, she kept her head down and made for the exit at the far side of the level.
The noise of the descending car seemed to be getting very close and she moved towards the perimeter to allow it plenty of room to pass her without interference. It was only when she heard coming even closer, that she bothered to look up.
A large, black Jaguar swept to a smooth halt scant meters away. Cate's heart thumped. She knew the car. Hard not to, considering how many times she'd been in it. So: he'd found her. It had only been a matter of time.
The rear door opened and Mycroft stepped out, as ordered and unemotional as if he were visiting his tailor. Wearing the same coat he had worn the day he'd come looking for her at the dance studio, the scarlet lining flashed briefly as he moved. Mycroft took care to maintain an equable perspective of this meeting. Part of him wanted to rage: to bundle Cate into the car and safely home. Another part wanted to wrap her inside his coat; to hold her close and talk until the ache of her absence went away. Yet still a third part wondered how he might use her meddlesome actions to his advantage. The problem was deciding which part to air first.
The morning was cold and Cate noticed he was also wearing the low-blue silk scarf she had found for him. His leather-gloved hands rested across the top of the ubiquitous umbrella as on the hilt of a sword as he stood, looking at her. His expression was measured. They stared at each other in silence.
Mycroft had never seen her this way; dressed as one of her students. She seemed strange, less Cate and more gypsy, her plain, dark clothing fitting her more for life in the streets than in the Academy. Yet still; she was – how did the Korean put it – the beat of his heart.
"Cate," he asked eventually, tilting his head. "What are you doing?"
Standing several feet away, she could see his eyes and the shadows beneath them. The timbre of his voice when he spoke so intimately and, yes, almost menacingly, lifted her chin and made her breathing spike. She would not bow to pressure, no matter how skilfully it was applied.
"Hello, darling," she met his cool gaze. "I'm fine, thank you for asking."
Listening to her voice for the first time in over a week turned his pulse traitor. He was glad Cate was no nearer or she'd hear its reckless pounding.
"You play a dangerous game, my love," he said, slowly.
""I'm not playing anything, Mycroft."
"Everyone is looking for you, you realise?"
Nodding, Cate shrugged. "I suspected that might be the case."
"How are they?" he asked.
"Erik and Medina?" She was surprised. That Mycroft was concerned with their welfare seemed incongruous when, because of the father, he was actively trying to send the girl home and ruin her future.
"Apart from being anxious, lonely and utterly confused at what they've done wrong, they're actually managing quite well."
"Is John with you?"
"John returned to Baker Street as soon as he saw we were safe and knew where we were staying," she said. "I don't want you to involve him in this."
Shaking his head, Mycroft was already far beyond worrying about John Watson.
"How are you holding up?" His voice had lost its cold edge. Cate fancied she heard a warmer note of concern.
It was no use. Mycroft had promised himself he would not weaken; he would not relent, but she was a handful of feet away and it felt like miles. All he wanted to do was put his arms around his wife and stop feeling as if the centre of him was numb. But he couldn't. Not yet.
"Apart from being anxious, lonely and confused about what I've done wrong, I'm fine," she said, watching his expression. She hated the invisible wall between them; it was like being trapped in glass.
"It doesn't have to be like this," he said, relaxing his stance a fraction and stepping closer. "You can end this any time you choose."
"It's not up to me," she shook her head. "It never was."
"Of course it's up to you," the faintest snap. "Who else can decide?"
"This will be over when the problem is resolved and not before," Cate sighed tiredly. "You could stop this in a moment by rescinding Medina's exclusion and ergo, her visa problem."
Mycroft shook his head. He wanted the entire al Badour line out of the country. The man was simply too dangerous to be given any realm of freedom in Britain. Remove his favourite daughter and remove a key reason for him to return.
"I can't do that," he looked at his shoes. "I want no cause for her father to be here."
"So you admit it was at your behest that Charles Shelsher excluded Medina from the University?" It was more of a statement than a question. Cate had long since realised the only person who could force Shelsher's hand so very quietly and privately, would be Mycroft.
He had the decency to look reflective. "For the greater good."
"The greater good?" Cate suddenly felt a strange calm. "I refuse to believe that ruining a young woman's future can contribute to any kind of 'good'."
"So this is all about the girl and her young man?" Mycroft was hard-put to accept Cate would jeopardise everything in her life for such an abstract principle.
"It has always been about them," Cate was earnest. "They have no power or knowledge; they are the innocents in this mess," she shook her head again. "They asked for my help."
"And, naturally," Mycroft took a step closer. "You had to agree to give it?"
"Yes," Cate looked up into his eyes. "Someone had to."
"But why you?" He was close enough now to see the tension on her face and the unusual pallor of her skin. Remembering Kwan's words, Mycroft saw the old man had been right: an honourable soul, yet elusive and fragile. His hand clenched inside his glove. My love.
"Because they had nobody else to ask."
"Cate," he hesitated, seeking the best words. "Don't do this."
"I am doing this, Mycroft," her voice was low and resigned. "I have to see this through."
"Darling," he was so close now, he could almost feel her warmth. When she looked up at him, he saw the dark of her eyes and the paleness of her cheeks. But she was so wrapped in scarf and hat that half of her face was obscured. Reaching slowly forward, Mycroft tugged the ridiculous knitted cap from her head, dark coils spilling forward as her hair came free. The intensity of the urge to comb his fingers through it; to pull her close … staggered him. He cleared his throat and stepped away, slamming his charging emotions down. If he kissed her, he would crumble and consider the world well lost to have her in his arms.
As he leaned closer, Cate's heart raced. For an infinitesimal moment, she thought he was going to wrap his arms around her and make the world go away … instead, she watched his face grow expressionless and distant as he stood back. He didn't want to touch her, which was as well, for if he kissed her, she would crumble and cling to him until she was old and grey. Her chest tight with regret, she stepped away; away from his eyes and the presence of him. She could not stay here, this close, feeling like this.
Taking an abrupt step backwards, Cate's eyes glittered with nameless passion. "Don't come looking for me again," she said, her voice taut with stress. "Unless you change your mind about Medina." Turning on her heel, Cate strode off towards the far exit.
Watching her walk away, Mycroft felt his spirits sink. He had no idea when he'd see her again. Impossible to recapture. Or even if. He wanted to stop her; to call her back, make Cate listen to reason, but he could say nothing she wanted to hear.
###
Lying on his back in the unwelcoming bed in the silent bedroom, Mycroft readied himself for yet another restless, sleepless night. How many had it been now? Yet he still had to function; he had to maintain the sham that everything was normal. Closing his eyes, his brain immediately began its frenetic dance; a monstrous waltz of swaying grotesquery: Cate hurt, missing, dead. That he might one day see nothing in her face for him but aversion … His eyes snapped open, remembering. Clambering out of bed, he hunted for his coat, flung carelessly over the back of a high bedroom chair. It would be in the pocket. Searching, his fingers located his prize and in a second he held Cate's silly woolly hat between his hands. Pressing it to his face, Mycroft inhaled her scent, fresh and familiar. His skin prickled with a desire for more.
Returning to the bed, he held the thing against his pillow. Breathing in the smell of her, Mycroft finally felt his body give in to the comfort of sleep.
And he dreamed.
He knew he was asleep, which is why he also realised he was dreaming, yet for all that, the realism of the sensation was uncanny.
He was in a place of wild mist and furze; the faint sound of running water in an indefinable light. Moorland? Somewhere north?
He could feel no temperature; neither heat nor cold; there was no wind, or sound, other than the water, or movement; yet he could smell the tang of wet bracken and the rich malt of leaf mould. The ground beneath his feet – he was fully dressed, apparently – was soft and yielding.
Where was this place? Why was he here?
Though there was silence, Mycroft knew someone was approaching – maybe the light was bending differently – he scanned the mist over to his left. Over there; yes.
It could only have been her.
Cate walked, more nearly floated, over the rough grassland. She was barefoot, clad in a classical Grecian gown of dark grey smoke which writhed and swirled around her as a living thing. Her hair was longer, he noticed; long enough for her to have it caught up in a heavy chignon at the nape of her neck, dark tendrils carelessly escaping. Her arms were bare, her face was pale, innocent of cosmetics.
"Where are we?" he asked when she was close enough to hear.
"I was born over there," she pointed towards a small, stone-walled town suddenly visible in the valley below them.
"This is Wales?" Mycroft was surprised at his surprise. This was a dream, after all.
Cate smiled. "Of course," as if there were nowhere else it could be.
"Why are we here?"
"I wanted to show you something," she said taking his hand. Her fingers felt cool and insubstantial in his. He held tight.
Walking, or rather, Cate walked, the broken terrain no obstacle to her progress; while he stumbled and caught on every tussock and root. Traversing reeded pools and boggy marsh, they came to a small hill. "We need to climb now," Cate nodded upwards.
They climbed, or rather he climbed while Cate floated upwards and he slaved up the mild incline, each step a massive effort. Eventually, the summit was achieved.
The sight was breath-taking.
Below them lay a plateau of gold and silver and sunlight; of broad blue rivers and the whitest of clouds; of verdant farmland and orchards. In the middle-distance there stood a castle; not a real castle, nor yet something from celluloid, but a white-towered construction of impossible scale and majesty; of soaring architecture and burnished carapace. Elegant colours flew lazily from the parapets in a mood of untroubled permanence. There was even a moat.
"What is this place?" Mycroft was trying to take it all in, but the more details he observed, the more detail appeared. It was fractal beauty: impossible to see a point of genesis.
"You don't know where we are?" Cate turned to him, amused.
Shaking his head, Mycroft faced her, staring into her eyes as if to extract the knowledge that way.
"This is my heart, Mycroft," she smiled. "We are in my heart."
"It's beautiful," he managed only a whisper.
"Thank you," Cate smiled self-consciously. "I try."
"Who lives in the castle?" he had to ask.
Lifting her eyebrows, her expression suggesting he was being a bit dim, she shook her head. "And I thought you were the clever one."
"Is it mine?" Mycroft held her arms, her answer suddenly terribly important. "Is that where I live?"
Looking up with a smile of radiance and laughter, Cate nodded. "As if anyone but you could build in here," she grinned. "It's incredibly difficult territory."
Closing his eyes, Mycroft rested his head against hers, his fingers reaching up to the knot of her hair. With a gentle tug, the silky mass came down, flowing over them both. He revelled in the sensation.
"That was silly," her voice sounded faint. "Now you've spoiled it."
He looked up, she was walking away. From him. No. "Cate …"
"Goodbye, Mycroft …"
Opening his eyes, he saw that dawn was well-advanced. It was the longest period of continuous sleep he'd had for over a week. Mycroft's first realisation was that, for once, he felt rested.
His second realisation was that he could not happily exist without her now. It was as simple as that.
His next thought gave him pause.
To get her back, he was going to have to play both sides of a complex chess-game, in the open, surrounded by keen observers, without anyone noticing he was breaking every single one of his own rules.
Mycroft stretched under the covers and smiled.
He was going to have to cheat.