Jim

Do you know what I've got? Do you know what I've got that nobody else in the world could possibly have?

Well, hold on, first things first; first I have an extremely relaxed looking thief curled in a ball at the other end of the sofa, looking precisely as if she might give herself a bath any second now. And no, I don't mean go upstairs and run herself one. Which reminds me; I really have to find a new place of my own, somewhere I can lock the door if I want to, somewhere I can sit in hermetically sealed comfort while I get their reports via video messenger and nothing messier than that. I would always say there's no such thing as taking too much pleasure in your work, but it's like they say, the exception proves.

Miss Mies is looking dreamily into space, into the dawn outside the window, a little slack-jawed, moving only in long, slow blinks, like a cow. I have called her twice already. Nothing has gotten through yet. Therefore, you understand, it's not ignorant of me to start snapping my fingers at her now. "Oi!"

"Yes, James, you lovely man? And have I said thank you, already? For the opportunity, I mean. And I genuinely mean that, it's not an Apprentice 'thank you for the opportunity', it's out of my heart."

Less I know about her swollen, overflowing heart the better. "Appreciate the sentiment, love, but could you get round to telling me how it all went, please?"

Not right away; no, first she has to laugh, as if she's only just remembering what all happened. It is a low, filthy laugh, the same as when I tell her some pleasingly diabolical idea I've had, except it's all in her head, so it's a purely private pleasure. You know this feeling, don't you? When you don't know the joke? How frustrated, how angry do you get when you don't know the joke? Plus there's the fact that she laughs herself into a wrinkle, folding over the sofa arm, and I see for the first time she's still got her gloves, hanging out her back pocket. "Really?" I ask her, grabbing them away. "Seriously, though?"

Two pairs. Apparently this is a trick professionals use. Rather than opt for the black leather that film and television would have us believe is traditional, you're supposed to wear a pair of latex lab gloves, to keep all your DNA in, under a pair of thin cloth ones, so you can still feel any keypads and such under your fingers. Or in case you get caught up in some light gardening along the way.

Don't laugh. It wasn't Danielle, but one of her friends, who got stuck waiting of a roof once and gave the mark's greenhouse a good pruning while he was up there.

Don't look at me like that either; I just use the people, I don't claim to understand their minds.

"Relax," she tells me, while I'm stripping the latex out of the cloth outers. "Relax."

"Why, am I killing your buzz? How'd it go, Danielle, simple question."

Bemusedly. "What have you got in your hand?"

Something nobody else in the world could possibly have. Fair point. "Yes, it went 'well', but 'well' is not an answer."

"Oh, you want details?"

…No. No, Dani, you're alright. Go home, go to bed. Your work here is done. Sleep it off. No, in fact, go to whatever vile market can provide you with a morning's entertainment, take him/her and go home and go to bed. Work through all this and come back to me fresh and clean. You see, I've made a grave mistake here, by asking her for details. She has misinterpreted that question. She thinks I've asked her for a play-by-play. She has lit up, grinning, looking really rather excited about the idea of doing that. She has animated, and I think I preferred her the way she was before.

"I mean," she begins, "for an off-the-cuff job, no prep, it was incredible. There's not a lot of people who can do that, y'know. I'm not entirely comfortable with it myself. But I knew you needed me so…" She shrugs. Lucky for me, I'm not getting eye contact. Her eyes are up in the corner, drifting, the mirror of the profile picture of any given internet poseur I've had to put up with while researching something or other. "I did it at his offices. You remember; around the corner from the cathedral?"

Me, having unwittingly asked for it, I get the whole rapturous monologue, full of cunning and vocal traps and the gestures, ugh… Anybody watching this without sound, I wonder what sort of story they'd think she was telling me?

For your benefit, I'll shorten it down a bit. I'll keep it to the simple facts. Y'know, the way something like this ought to be related? Not that she's no fun to listen to, but I just worry sometimes how much she gets out of it.

The offices she's talking about, of course, are those that belong to Mycroft Holmes. I didn't tell her to go there. I just told her what we needed and she decided that was the place to look. For whatever reason, there were security types hanging around. She saw them in the street at the front and back of the building, and a car patrolling the area. There was a brief scare when the driver 'looked right at her', but he must have had his eyes closed. Maybe he just wasn't all that familiar with the case. One way or another, she was allowed to continue. So Dani made some innocuous noise at the back of the building. When the car passed them again, the gents there flagged it down, to let them know about the activity. (Yes, this is the bloody shortened version. Don't express your pity, I can feel it in waves.) But that meant the gate to the side-alley was unguarded, and the driver couldn't see, because they were standing in front of him. Then she was in, and oh, for God's sake!

Listen, right? The circumstances don't matter to you. They matter to me because I need to look for faults and exposure and what I might expect to come back on me. But they don't matter to you. You need to know only one thing. I am holding in my hand something nobody else in the world could ever have.

I am holding a mobile phone.

Don't laugh. Don't dare. Men have died for less than laughing like you were about to.

This particular mobile phone was, at some unknown and meaningless point in the distant past, allocated to one Mr Mycroft Holmes. It is not his everyday phone. He would have noticed that missing in minutes reported it, then it becomes useless to me. No, this is something he's probably forgotten he has. This was there in case something happens to his everyday phone. He'll never notice it's gone. He won't even know that it was gone; I intend to have Dani put it back.

This is not just any mobile phone. This is an SIS mobile phone.

Sherlock

I am no longer trying not to laugh. I was, for a while, but it was only really making things worse. Kept spluttering, could feel myself turning red. It was probably just annoying Mycroft more… Oh, there's a point. But I can't go back now. Now that I'm laughing I can't stop. Couldn't even if I really wanted to.

You see, Mycroft is in a bit of a rage. Which is funny in itself, but just wait. He thought he'd take advantage of my inebriated state. He'd sat me down again and now that I wasn't walking anymore, walking was very much off the menu. I'm still where he put me and I'm honestly not sure I still have feet. I'll check in a while, but sitting up that far is going to take a bit of preparation. I'm meditating. And laughing. Yes, that's what I was telling; he thought he'd take advantage of the fact that I can't run screaming from the room, can't even put my hands over my ears, and he'd tell me the source of all his woes.

It was clearly affecting him very deeply. I could go through all the little signs and signals but… You know what an aggravated person looks like. There's no sense getting too stuck in. But that's why I started out trying not to laugh. I was being respectful. But it's a very funny story, however he feels.

Mycroft has been… hijacked, is how we'll phrase it.

I've mentioned before how his whole mastermind theory wasn't about saving the world, wasn't about queen and country, but simply about his own advancement. I've mentioned it and anybody with half a brain should have spotted it a dozen times over. He wants to take this seemingly ridiculous idea (which he seems to be right about) and prove it. This will mean his bosses cannot ignore him or his ridiculous instincts. This is all very basic.

I have mentioned also, and you know, that he's had some very useful contact with what-may-be the organization of said-mastermind (if such a thing exists). And when you take all the qualifiers out of that sentence it's really quite impressive. You'd think he was doing quite well, if I told you that.

But it would seem he has taken one too many pot-shots at said-organization, the apparent spokeswoman of which would no doubt grin like a fool if I were to use the term 'Deep Throat', so I won't, except that I just did. Tired of rejection, they have decided to bestow their affections elsewhere. And please, yes, read all the innuendo you like. As I said, it can only bring those uncrowned heads great pleasure.

They've found a new favourite spook. A much friendlier ghost too, it seems. His name is Underwood. They're going to give him Hedegaard's murderer. A show of good faith, maybe, before other requests and favours might be exchanged.

Mycroft, to use a very technical term, is fuming. Really. T-minus-not-very-long until actual steam starts firing out of his ears. To his mind, all the work he's done is about to go down the tubes, and the glory is to be grabbed by this Underwood fellow, right out from under his nose.

If he didn't stick his nose quite so high in the air, it might be harder to snatch things from under it, but I haven't told him that. Mostly I'm laughing; not a lot of breath left after all the laughing.

Why? Why is it funny? Because it fits.

"It's not fair," I say, as soon as I can. "Is it?"

Mycroft sneers, looking just precisely as if he'd like to spit at me. I'm willing him to. It wouldn't be the first time it's happened, but the first time from my brother. Personal trauma. I'm not looking for excuses to stay back on the junk, I promise. That's not what this is. If I'm honest, I intend staying back on the junk one way or another, just now. But an excuse is always a handy thing to have. In case somebody asks an awkward question. Or somebody awkward asks. Reminds me, I should check up on Donovan. Not now, obviously, later, when I'm sober, before I'm sick. Have to time that right.

Oh, Mycroft's still here. "Fair," he says, "Doesn't come into it." And just like that, speech leaves me again, because laughter has returned. "What on earth is the matter with you?" he snaps.

"Do you even realize what you just said?"

He hadn't, but I think he can see where I'm taking this argument now. Rolls his eyes, gets all uppity. "I've told you before; you don't belong on the moral high ground."

"I haven't done anything very wrong lately. Puts me one up on you. Oh, and I wouldn't mention my brave and logical decision to get as high as physiologically bearable; that would just be you being judgemental. That's not objective morality, if such a thing might be said to be possible." Listening to myself, I'm really quite proud. Didn't quite manage the word 'physiologically', but it was still recognizable. "Anyway, it's nothing to do with who's right and who's wrong. It's facts. If you could learn to stop second guessing everybody all the time, you'd get along a lot better. You're not smart enough to outsmart people you don't know." Oh, that stings him. He's never thought of it in so many words before, and it stings him to be told there's something he can't do, and to believe it.

Now this really isn't fair. I'm the one looking for the personal trauma and there it is all over Mycroft's face. Really, I don't think anyone is smart enough to outsmart people they don't know; some knowledge of the target is essential, prerequisite, logical. But I'm not telling him that. Why should I soften the blow?

"You should leave," I say. "I can't think of a single way I can help you. If I could think of one, I'd pretend I couldn't. Even the villains are turning their backs on you, Mycroft, and it's not out of fear. I think they've got the right idea."

It could be the opiates talking, or some more permanent cruelty. I'm actually surprised. Sometimes, when I can't move, I say things, and I listen to them as if they were said from far, far away. I'll listen and think, "Oh, that daft bastard, why would he say a thing like that out loud…" And tonight, well, this morning, whatever, now, I'm not feeling that at all. I'm hearing it come back to me and thinking, "Yeah, fair play. More than he deserves. 'Bout time you started doing right by yourself, my faraway friend."