Sherlock stood in front of the fireplace, his gaze locked on the skull resting on the mantle – the problem presented by Anthea whirling in his mind. One question answered had opened a door and through it, dozens of new questions flooded through. Given the information already provided by Sherrinford, and should Lestrade's theory prove correct which Sherlock had every confidence that it would – then everything they thought they knew about Moriarty's method and means was patently false. At the moment, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to land horizontal on that new sofa in the living area with at least two nicotine patches on arm and give this situation the thought it deserved. It was also unlikely to happen, given the quiet but rapidly escalating argument developing betwixt Mycroft and Lestrade. Resigned to listening to them squabble, he poured himself a cup of coffee and prayed for a moment of quiet.

"Whilst I sympathize with your interests," Mycroft began, his tone indicating a distinct lack of sympathy, "We need answers only she can provide."

Lestrade glared at his friend, "Piss off, Mycroft. Sympathy isn't your strong suit. She's exhausted, we can afford her some time to rest a bit."

Mycroft set his cup down on the saucer, his eyes rolling heavenward, "By your own theory, she's been back in England for at least a few days. She's a Holmes, our obligations…"

"Oh spare me your," Lestrade started, his voice rising in volume and pitch which had Sherlock gazing longingly over at the Persian slipper, wondering for a moment if he should just pull out his emergency cigarette before there was significant bloodshed. " ..Stiff upper lip bollocks. Travel isn't the only source of fatigue, you git."

Mycroft sneered at his friend, "I understand you harbour feelings for the woman but please, do not attribute antiquated Victorian ideals to her. I expect that her skills are still formidable, lack of sleep won't kill her when it's evident that a bomb cannot."

"Even you need rest on occasion, Mycroft!" Lestrade protested.

"I would say it's academic as she appears to be awake," Sherlock cut in as he watched Sherrin shuffle down the hall, clad in green tartan flannel pyjamas with his dressing gown wrapped tightly around her. "Though why you would think she could possibly sleep through your banter is beyond me."

"We weren't that loud," Lestrade protested. The flat look that Sherlock gave him spoke volumes. She stood there for a moment, fisting sleep from her eyes before she slumped down into John's chair.

She stared at Sherlock for long enough that he began to fidget, "Caffeine or nicotine, your choice – just get me one."

With those words, Sherlock stepped up out of the chair in a single motion and strode over to the fireplace. Plucking the cigarette from its hiding place, he held it out to her with great care, "My last one," he said matter-of-factly, "as the good doctors have insisted I cease with my 'dirty habit'. It's yours, if you'll consider sharing."

"Good lord, Sherlock," Mycroft muttered, "the least you can do is give the damn thing to her."

She laughed, "I'll make you a deal, baby brother, throw in a coffee and we share the cigarette." With a boyish grin, he relinquished control of the cigarette and lighter to her, stepping over Mycroft's legs to stand by the table where he poured a coffee – two cream, no sugar – and handed it to her. She took a sip, smiling, "Here you are, darling," she said as she passed him the cigarette, "as promised."

Lestrade watched the byplay silently as elder and younger Holmes shared coffee, cigarette and fond gazes. If Mycroft glowered from the corner, neither of them commented on it though they did spare him the occasional amused glance. The byplay was very new for Lestrade, he was familiar with the relaxed if somewhat prim relationship between Sherrin and Mycroft, he was even more familiar with the barely concealed surface hostility between Mycroft and Sherlock which hid affection both would adamantly deny, but this open affection between Sherrin and Sherlock was something else entirely. Not even with John, had Lestrade seen Sherlock so open and he found himself wondering what the Holmes family had been like before the bombing – before they'd become so broken.

After a few moments and a second cup of coffee, she looked over at Mycroft and said, "You have theories and questions."

Mycroft gave a curt nod as he raised his tea cup, "Gregory has a theory and I have questions."

Her focus shifted to Lestrade, one elegantly arched eyebrow lifting, "I'm listening."

"It was never about Moriarty, love," Lestrade said simply. "Everything he's done, it's been about you in some way – all of it, the Fall, Magnusson, the autopsy – everything he'd done has been about you or gaining leverage over the people closest to you."

The smile she gave him was radiant; she glanced over to Mycroft and asked, "Do you see how why I wanted him from the first? He sees it too, maybe not as quickly as we do, but he does see it."

"In this case, sister mine, I do not 'see it' as he does and that vexes me greatly."

She sighed, her fingers clenching around the mug in her hand, "That's because you have an unnatural desire for things to be complicated, Mycroft – you always have." Her fingers clenched around the mug in her hand. "I told Sherlock earlier that I'd hurt the both of you despite his protestations to the contrary – yes, Mummy made decisions I may not have made but she was doing what she could to keep us all safe." She held up her hand when Mycroft started to interrupt her, "You have no idea of the scope of the situation, you're still functioning under several misconceptions."

Armed with a full cup of coffee, Sherlock nodded to himself slightly before asking, "He was behind the attempt on your life, wasn't he? He was the bomber that Mycroft couldn't find."

The smile that flitted across her features was bitter, "Yes and no, he was responsible for the bomb but it was never his intent to kill me."

Mycroft stood, exasperation evident in his posture, "For Christ's sake, Sherrin…"

"Sit down and do shut up," she ordered, watching as he sat down, rigid with disapproval, "He wasn't trying to kill me, he was trying to kill you. That bomb wasn't meant for me, brother dear."

Tea balanced on her knee, she took a mouthful of scone, chewing while they digested the news she'd just imparted. Washing down the bite of scone with a mouthful of tea, she said to Sherlock, "You were likely too young to remember, you were maybe six or seven at the time – I went straight from Uni into service. It had always been my attention to be involved in Intelligence, the Cold War was in full swing and I'd focused my studies on Eastern Bloc politics, culture, and language. It had been decided on high that I should get some field experience and with the 1984 Olympics being held in Sarajevo, I was listed as an 'aide'. Mummy had heard all manner of rumours regarding illegal activities running out of the embassy – prostitution, graft, counterfeiting, murder for hire."

Lestrade stared at her, "Your Mum sent you into that? Did she paint a target on your back?"

She rolled her expressive eyes, gripping the mug tightly, "Hardly. She sent me in as Elizabeth Vernet, no one at the consulate knew who I really was. All they knew was I was fresh into the service, spoke Serbo-Croatian languages fluently and that the SIS intended for me to work with in field agents. That's how I meet James Moriarty – he was working at the consulate as part of the security detail."

"You said you were his control, earlier when you first arrived," Mycroft reminded her, "how did that come about?"

"It was determined by the SIS that one of the cleaning staff was giving information about the Embassy to the SFRY government – Moriarty was and is a shooter – he had a basic understanding of Slovenian but his abilities in the other languages was poor. While frowned on, it wasn't uncommon to see office romances pop up in foreign missions – the SIS thought that if we posed as a couple, we would have higher mobility outside the Embassy and that it was possible that the SFRY might even try to coerce us into giving over information. Under the cover of going to Sarajevo to check and co-ordinate security concerns, we made multiple trips. I played doting girlfriend, he played the gallant and to all appearances we did our job."

"To all appearances?" Lestrade asked.

She nodded, "We found what appeared to be proof that one of the embassy staff was involved in smuggling contraband into the UK through diplomatic means. While searching his flat, I found what appeared to be documents concerning the security layout of the embassy. Blueprints, schedules, staff rotations – I wanted to contact home right away, James tried to get me to go with him at a secondary location – wait for backup. While we were arguing our action, we heard a lot of cars arrive at the flat – we fled and were separated. I reported back, called home, told Mummy about what we've found. Within hours, the embassy staff was rotated out – except for that one lone staff member and Moriarty."

"And that staffer would be?"

"Sebastian Moran, son of Lord Augustus Moran – of whom, I believe you and Sherlock have some passing knowledge. He disappeared without a trace, it was hushed up in deference to Lord Moran's standing – James was presumed dead. His car was found burned out some time later." She set the mug down, eyes unfocused, "I was home by then, integrated back into Mummy's office here in London. Three months after I arrived home, a bouquet of lily of the valley was delivered to my flat with a card that read 'See you soon, darling'"

"Subtle, lily of the valley being the national flower of Yugoslavia," Sherlock murmured.

"Yes," she agreed. "The following week, I received an item by courier and the gifts continued every week or two for approximately four months. His surveillance of me was top notch, the gifts he sent at first were sentimental, after a while they became things that I'd considered in shops. After that initial four month period, I'd randomly get items with no determined time table, from varying locations – chocolate from Brussels, a bottle of very fine Bordeaux, an amber necklace from Konigsberg. The gifts would stop for a while and then suddenly stop for a month or two. As time progressed, they became more and more valuable – the sources and means of delivery more and more complex. Then the carved jet chess pieces started to arrive."

"A rather byzantine approach to courting gifts," Mycroft stated, "whatever did he hope to achieve?"

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, wondering in that moment if his brother was complete obtuse, "What piece arrived first?"

"The White Queen, of course."

Notes:

The song for the chapter is Elemental by Tears for Fears.

Take another leap in the dark
With a humble heart
Do yourself some good?
What did you become?
Patience, be sure
Baby, baby

These days it's all in the mind
It's Elemental
Don't say you're up when you're down
It's Elemental