The aide rose from her chair, gave a brisk nod and set about to work in the kitchen. When she started to fill a kettle, Mycroft said simply, "This goes back to the day of Sherrinford's accident." Not the pronouncement that Sherlock had expected, the detective sat forward to study his brother as Mycroft stood and straightened his suit, then began to pace about the flat. Never one for an abundance of nervous energy, Mycroft paused, a tremendous sigh leaving him. "I have no wish to talk about that day, we never talk about it but today there is simply no way to avoid it." He extracted his mobile, keyed in a message in a flurry and then waited, with no response.
When Mycroft made no sign of continuing, Sherlock prompted him as he did so many of his clients, "Start at the beginning, leave nothing out."
Mycroft closed his eyes, and for a moment, the ice thawed – briefly but visibly, "Nothing was easy that day, Sherlock, and nothing has been easy since." His steel blue eyes lost focus for moment, then he was abruptly all business, "Officially, it was an accident. It was a bomb, Sherlock," Mycroft nodded when Sherlock face registered surprise, "You were in University, then you were – well, there was no need for you to know otherwise. The bomber was never caught, no surprise really, there were a lot of bombings in those days."
Sherlock's rich baritone was smooth, betraying no hint of his emotions, as he murmured, "You were uninjured."
"Pure happenstance," Mycroft stated, "Certain, logistical demands, had required me to stay at the office. I was notified of the explosion immediately, it happened a scant half mile from where our offices were at the time. I cannot even remember the ride to the accident site, just the utter mess of it. Two cars, almost completely obliterated – the paramedics were already working on those that had survived the blast when I arrived, Lestrade was mere minutes behind me.
"Lestrade?" Sherlock said, startled. To cover his shock, he reached for his mobile, typing a quick 'Mycroft is in a fury, whatever have you done, Mummy?' No response.
Mycroft rolled his eyes heavenward as he accepted a cup of tea from Anthea, hardly noting the gentle pat of assurance she gave his shoulder or the knowing look she gave Sherlock. "Do you persist in the belief that blind luck had a Detective Sergeant in Homicide just happen upon you when you were high? Really? Yet you pride yourself on supposedly being intelligent." When Sherlock smirked at him, Mycroft shrugged his shoulders slightly, "Lestrade was Sherrin's liaison with the Met and he has been a friend, a true friend for years."
Not knowing quite what to say at first, Sherlock nodded briskly as he rose from his seat to walk to the side table where Anthea had placed an extra cup and the teapot. After a moment, he smiled, "Of that, I have no doubt. And how does Mummy figure into this?"
Mycroft exhaled noisily, sitting down again, holding his teacup like a talisman in front of him. "I contacted her straight away, of course, imagine my surprise when she showed up with a passel of MI6 bristling about her. It turned out that she had held the post long before Sherrin or I ever thought of entering government." He laughed, a short amused laugh, "We all thought she worked in the steno pool whilst she was effectively running the British government."
Sherlock smiled despite himself, "I would expect that corralling the four of us did provide certain on the job training." When Mycroft frowned slightly, Sherlock continued, "She trained you."
"Yes," he agreed, "All the things that Sherrinford hadn't the time to do, Mummy stepped in, took over until she deemed that I could do the job to her complete satisfaction and then she retreated back to the cottage. She told me that she had taught me everything she knew," he paused, his brows furrowed, "it would appear that she lied about that." Mycroft sent off another message, with the same result – no response.
"She must have switched it off," Sherlock muttered, suddenly annoyed with his brother, his mother and the population of Greater London, "she's not responding to any of my texts either."
"Do tell!" Mycroft snapped in irritation, "Why on earth you would think otherwise is beyond me." When Sherlock glared at him petulantly, Mycroft spoke as if to a child, "Do credit her with some semblance of intelligence, Sherlock. After that little cryptic text bomb, would you leave your mobile on?"
"I'm rather adept at ignoring your texts, brother mine," Sherlock quipped. "Regardless, now we have the puzzle of that text…"
Mycroft leaned back into the comfort of John's chair, his fingers clasped below his chin, "In the fourteen years that I have dealt with Mummy in any sort of professional capacity, I have yet to coax a single thing from her before she intended me to." He lifted his tea cup and saluted his brother, "We shall simply have to wait until this source of hers is revealed."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and fell down into his chair much like a marionette with cut strings, "What shall it be, then? Operation or Risk?"
The battle raged for over an hour and a half, with Sherlock capturing a fair sized chunk of Europe and Asia from his brother when he heard the tell-tale sound of a car pulling up in front of 221B Baker Street. He glanced at his brother before standing and moving over to the window to peer at the scene below.
His mother was clearly taking no risks with this source of hers – two black government cars idled in front of the building. As he watched, a sizeable security detail extracted itself from one of the cars and the agents scurried to secure the street and the area around the door before one lone figure emerged from the second car. Any observations about the figure would have to wait, as her appearance was obscured by a large, if somewhat fashionable, azure hat. Sherlock flicked a glance over his brother and shrugged delicately. He crossed to the door, opening it slightly before moving to take his regular place in his chair and then he paused for a moment to settle himself mentally and physically. Mycroft had not been idle, he had apparently issued instructions and Anthea had removed the used cups and teapot and appeared to be brewing another pot of tea.
A single knock on the door announced their visitor before one of the agents, clad in the ubiquitous black suit that appeared to be the unofficial uniform of MI6, stepped into the room. His gaze was curiously blank, he studied to the two men gazing back at him before stepping further into the room. As he did so, another agent moved to take up position at the door as the first agent moved into the kitchen to survey the room. Satisfied with what he saw, he nodded to his counterpart who gave his head a half-turn and nodded. After a moment, their guest entered the room and the agents left, closing the door behind them. They were posted outside the closed door, of that Sherlock was sure.
She moved forward, her awkward gait carrying further into the room as she crossed over to where a lone wood chair sat facing the two brothers. She took another step closer, unsteady on her feet, Sherlock noted. She is above average height for a woman at approximately 170 centimeters in bare feet, flat shoes – loafers. How interesting. A large blue straw hat left her features hidden shadows and her hair appeared to be cut in a short blonde bob. She wore large sunglasses that covered most of her face and it took everything Sherlock had not to laugh out at the absurdity of it. If there was an outfit that screamed "I'm a spy", this was it.
She shuffled, apparently nervous before asking, "May I sit? Please?" Another surprise, he thought, American. No. Canadian. What the devil is Mummy doing with the Canadians and what does this have to do with Moriarty? Ever the gallant, Sherlock stood and went to the table, selecting one of the more comfortable cushions and set it firmly on the chair before her before gesturing for her to take a seat. She gave him a small smile, sitting with obvious relief. She waited until he was seated again before saying, "Yes, she said this is a test of sorts. What do you see, Mr. Holmes?"
Sherlock glanced at Mycroft who shrugged elegantly, clearly conceding the floor to his brother. Sherlock inclined his head slightly to the left, one eyebrow quirked before demanding, "Take off that ridiculous hat." The removal of the hat confirmed several of his suspicions, the blonde hair is an obvious wig, a hint of ivory skin near her ear indicated that the soft sand tone of her skin was courtesy of cosmetics. "The disguise wasn't necessary; we have much large concerns, Ms?"
She smiled, perfect white teeth flashing, "Smith, for the moment." She reached up to smooth the fall of her wig and a hint of metal flashed on one of her hands before it was hidden again as she folded her hands in her lap. "You assume the disguise is for your benefit."
"Fair assessment," he murmured, his voice deceptive soft, "A wager then, if I tell you what I see, you'll explain Mummy's text." When she nodded, he said, "Your hair is no more blonde than mine and that skin tone is makeup, not nature and definitely not sun-kissed. You've taken measures to change the shape of your face, though why, I have no idea. Scarring perhaps? Cheek pouches, it affects your speech. Your accent sounds at first as if it was American but it's not, Canadian. There's a hint of England still and no American would have that unless they were faking it or they were expats. You wear a heavy wool suit, attractive, but it's much too warm for early April so you come from somewhere where you are obviously used to cooler temperatures than what London currently has. Trousers, not a skirt and you limp slightly which suggests you have an injury that could identify you to certain people." When she smiled, he said with a shrug, "Just a first impression."
"A good one," she conceded, "Mostly correct. I live in north-eastern Ontario; forgive me if I don't say exactly where. Yes, I was injured, in the line of duty and yes, it's the cause of the limp. I owe this limp to one James Moriarty."
Mycroft leaned forward then, watching her carefully, "That gives the appearance of being an old injury, Ms. Smith."
She laughed, a rich low laugh and Sherlock startled for a moment. He knew that laugh, he was sure of it, he simply couldn't place it. "You might say that," she agreed, "It's an old one and yet still a very new one." She turned her attention back to Sherlock, "You believe that Moriarty is dead, you've been functioning under erroneous assumptions."
"I doubt that," Sherlock retorted, stung, "I've had extensive dealings with the man."
Whether it was annoyance or nerves, her hands finally moved into view – they were fine boned, elegant hands, adorned only with a single diamond ring on her left hand ring finger. It was a simple ring, a working man's ring, and its existence was a contradiction to the picture she presented. The ring was pure sentiment and there seemed to be no sentiment in her carefully presented façade. Removing her sunglasses, she set them in her lap before she met Sherlock's gaze. He didn't know why, but he was disappointed to see that her eyes were a dark brown. "You've never met the man," she said abruptly, twisting the ring on her finger. "Your 'James' is the younger brother – use to work in the rail industry if you can believe that. James Moriarty never liked the limelight, he always preferred to work through an intermediary or in the shadows and he is very good at it."
"You seem very certain," Mycroft said softly.
"I am. The James Moriarty I knew did specialty work in the late 80s and 90s, he was born in Dublin in 1962 – Irish father, English mother. I was his control."
They sat in companionable silence as Anthea served tea in elegant Wedgwood cups with a simple silver rim and Sherlock blinked for a moment before remembering where and when he had acquired the fine china. Keeping his gaze on his own tea, he watched her from the corner of his eye – there was something in the back of his mind screaming at him but he couldn't place it.
Taking a sip of tea, he noted that Anthea had once again defaulted to his favourite tea and he smirked into his cup when Mycroft let a small sigh escape his lips. Their guest's reaction to their favourite pine-smoked black tea was not one he expected, she had added a small amount of milk to the cup (no sugar), brought the tea to her lips and had inhaled deeply. Her soft sigh of pleasure had been almost inaudible over Mycroft's but Sherlock had noted it. 'Not a type of tea common in Canada, I should think.'
She had enjoyed a mouthful of tea and was preparing to continue when the door of 221B opened and a somewhat annoyed Lestrade stood there, glaring at the detective while being barred entry by two of the agents.
"Oi, mate, tell your goons to let me pass," he called out to Mycroft. One of the guards had glanced over at Mycroft who gave a nod and then let go of Lestrade, he stumbled into the room, turning to glare at the men in the hallway before closing the door firmly behind him.
He turned back to face them, about to say something to Sherlock when he stopped stock still. His focus shifted to Ms. Smith, or specifically her hands. She stared at him, the cup frozen midway to her lips. Sherlock stood abruptly when Lestrade strode over to the woman, falling to his knees in front of her. To their shock, he reached up, took her face in his hands and pressed a kiss to her lips, wrapping her in his embrace. The china tea cup fell from her nerveless fingers as she clung to the Detective Inspector.
"Oh holy hell," Mycroft whispered, clearly stunned, "Sherrinford."
Notes:
I know, another cliffhanger - please don't hate me. I hope that you've enjoyed the story so far and that I'm not letting you down. I have another 5 chapters written and it looks like we have another three or four after that before this story is done.
The song for this chapter was Stockholm Syndrome by Muse.