No triggers.

Chapter Thirty Nine

Mycroft slid into the rear passenger seat of Agent Richmond's car, next to Anthea, and acknowledged John Watson, in the front passenger seat, with a nod.

'First priority, my dear, Arthur needs some clothes,' he told his PA.

'A personal shopper could deal with that, sir. Most of the big stores in Manchester will have them, I should think. Is that the case, Richmond?'

'Yes, ma'am. The Trafford Centre has a service that covers all the shops but, if you have a brand preference, there's Selfridges, House of Fraser, Debenhams, Harvey Nichols…'

'Harvey Nichols will suffice,' Mycroft interceded. 'I've sent you a list of his requirements, with sizes. Could you take care of that?' he asked the PA.

'Of course, sir,' Anthea replied.

'And I assume they can deliver today?'

'I'm sure that won't be an issue.'

'Do we have any progress on the search for the horse box?' Mycroft asked, moving on to the next priority.

'Not at the moment. The Transport Police are still reviewing their camera footage. It's a large area to cover, they say,' Anthea replied.

'Then they need to put more staff on it,' Mycroft grunted, unimpressed by excuses.

The car pulled up outside the Railway Hotel and the three passengers climbed out, then Richmond drove away, back to the derelict hospital, to finish the clean-up. Dr Knowles' body had been removed, late last night, and was undergoing a post-mortem, though there was little doubt about the cause of death. Every scrap of evidence had been bagged, tagged and packed in sealed boxes to be sent for processing at the Home Office facility in London. So the only thing remaining was to clear and seal the site, to put it back to how it was before Moran's people took it over. Then, he thought, perhaps he and Monroe could go home to bed. It had been more than twenty four hours since either of them had slept.

On entering the hotel Reception Area, the party approached the desk to collect their keys.

'Good afternoon, sirs, madam,' the Duty Manager greeted them. 'Could I ask, will the other Mr Holmes be returning? When the housekeeper cleaned his room, it was noted that his bag is still there but he didn't return last night.'

'No, I don't think he will be returning. Would you have his belongings brought to my room? I can take them back to London for him,' Mycroft replied, smiling politely, as he accepted his key. Anthea and John took theirs, too.

'Lunch is still being served,' the young man advised them. 'You can order room service, if you would prefer. Just use the phones in your rooms.'

John's ears pricked at the mention of lunch. Breakfast seemed a long time ago.

They all turned to walk round the corner to the lift but Mycroft turned back.

'Tell me, would you have an up-to-date Road Atlas that I could borrow?'

He had Google Maps on his phone but Mycroft was a Twentieth Century man. He preferred hard copy.

The Duty Manager reached under the desk and took out a large AA Road Atlas, placing it on the counter top.

'This one is two years old, sir, but planned roads and roads under construction are all marked on it,' he explained.

Mycroft smiled his thanks and tucked the Atlas under his arm, to take to his room. When the lift reached the top floor, the three each headed to their own rooms, with their individual next moves in mind. Anthea would be checking with Agent Delaney to see if there was anything yet to report from the interrogations of Moran's men, John would be perusing the Lunch Menu and ordering something filling, and Mycroft would be studying the road atlas.

ooOoo

After smoking three cigarettes on the bounce, Sherlock's brain was in sharp focus once again, just as he needed it to be. He went into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face and rinse his mouth with a little of that expensive mouthwash provided by his generous host. He opened the front of his jacket and sniffed, wrinkling his nose at the condition of his two-day shirt, not helped by his attack of cold sweats.

Picking up the body spray cologne that he had used earlier, he debated whether to risk another hit. He did so hate to smell like a tart's bedroom but this stuff – although not his usual brand – was not half bad so he opened his shirt and sprayed himself again. He really needed to get out of this place and find a change of clothes.

A thought occurred, prompting him to return to the bedroom and open the large, antique wardrobe. It was hung with several pairs of black combat trousers and a number of combat jackets, varying sizes. Lined up in the bottom were a number of pairs of combat boots, also all different sizes. The linen press contained only bed linen, a spare duvet and pillows. The five drawer chest completed the search. The bottom two drawers were filled with black t-shirts, like the ones the foot soldiers had been wearing, at the derelict hospital, all freshly laundered and neatly folded. The top three drawers were stuffed with webbing straps and belts, gloves and socks, berets and balaclavas, all black, too,

So this room was the quartermaster's store. Perhaps this was where the potential new recruits were housed, while they underwent background checks and initiation rights. Moran clearly liked to keep things in-house.

When the guard returned to take him back downstairs, he was directed to the dining room, where his host invited him to take a seat and help himself to lunch. He lifted the covers of the dishes but was unimpressed so just poured a glass of water.

'Not hungry?' Moran asked, tucking into lamb chops and vegetables with great enthusiasm.

'I don't eat when I'm…away from home,' Sherlock replied, checking himself just in time and taking that near faux pas as a reminder to be on Red Alert at all times.

He sat quietly, waiting for the Colonel to finish his meal and start the conversation. Having cleared his plate, Moran wiped his mouth with a linen napkin, propped his elbows on the table and folded his hands.

'We lost a number of good men in that raid, last night,' he declared.

'My condolences,' Sherlock replied.

'Oh, not that kind of 'lost', though they might as well have been. Once your brother's people have finished with them, they'll be of no use to me.'

'So I imagine you'll be moving house, pretty soon,' Sherlock observed.

'Not necessary. They won't give away any information – well, nothing of any value to Mycroft's mob. They are all well versed in anti-interrogation techniques. As I said, good men.'

Sherlock shrugged but said nothing.

'I'm still not entirely sure I can trust you, Mr Holmes,' Moran said, clearly moving on, 'but I do believe your story. I would very much like to see the contents of this memory stick but I can't just let you go off on your own to get it.'

'Then we have an impasse,' Sherlock replied and lapsed back into silence again.

Moran stared at him, then replied,

'The way I see it, you are in no position to dictate matters. Either you agree to my terms or the deal is off and, if I have no further business with you, you will go the way of Dr Knowles. Nothing would give me greater pleasure – short of total public exposure and humiliation – than to send you back to your brother in a body bag.'

Sherlock stared him down, wondering what his terms might be.

'I need some sort of guarantee that you will come back with the goods. Another hostage, perhaps,' Moran elaborated.

Sherlock scoffed,

'Well, good luck with that. Everyone who means anything to me is neatly tucked away in a safe haven.'

'Not quite everyone,' Moran replied with a leary grin.

For the first time, Sherlock wondered whether Mycroft had thought to include Mrs Hudson in the invitation to Colbert House and he silently damned himself for not insisting on it, at the time. Rather than draw attention to that weak spot, he decided to appear to accept the fait acompli.

'Oh, whatever. I'm getting really bored with this game and I could use a change of clothes so, alright, you can send someone with me, if you insist.'

He pursed his lips, to emphasise his annoyance.

'Good. We'll go tonight,' Moran nodded, with a triumphant grin. 'And you can have that change of clothes you are so desperate for. In your room, as you already know, are various items of clothing that will enable you to blend in with my men, on our trip to London. You're sure to find a set that will fit you. An you need to do something with that,' the colonel added, waving in the general direction of Sherlock's head.

'I'm not cutting my hair!' Sherlock exclaimed, his expression that of a disgruntled diva.

'Then slick it back with something,' Moran snapped back. 'There's hair gel and similar products in your bathroom. Just make yourself look less like a pansy and more like a soldier.'

As though as an afterthought, Sherlock added,

'But first, I need to email my wife. I haven't spoken to her today and she'll be worried. God only knows what lies Mycroft has told her. He loves to make trouble between us.'

He looked at the sceptical expression of the other man and added,

'Oh, please, don't be boring. You can read it. There won't be any secret coded messages, this time. She's my wife, not a superspy!'

Moran got up from the table and gestured for Sherlock to follow him. They went from the dining room back to the study, collecting the guard on the way, and Sherlock was invited to sit at the desk again. Moran stood behind him and watched as he opened the anonymous email account and tapped in Molly's St Bart's email address. He wasn't about to divulge her private one and it was common knowledge that she worked at Bart's, anyway.

He began to type:

My darling Molly

I am so very sorry to have kept you in the dark. I've made a deal that will free me from Mycroft's yoke forever. Soon we'll be able to take that nice little place in Bayswater, just us and the boys.

Much love, as always

Sherly xxx

Having typed the message, he glanced at his host, who was reading over his shoulder.

'If you ever tell a soul about her pet name for me, I will kill you,' he warned, with venom in his voice.

Moran just laughed at his guest's discomfort and nodded his permission to send the email. Sherlock did just that.

ooOoo

At Colbert House, Molly was in the dining room, with Mary, Michele and all the children, sharing a cold lunch. It was far too warm outside to be eating anything cooked. Once the meal was over, Mary and Mycroft's nanny took the four three year olds up to the Nursery for a story and a nap. William went to the library, to research bees, and Molly took Violet upstairs for her nap. As she laid the baby in the travel cot and covered her with a light blanket, she heard her phone ping an email alert.

Crossing to the bedside table, she picked up her mobile and opened the email app. She saw that the message had been forwarded, automatically, from her work email account. She wondered who it could be from. All her colleagues knew she was still on Maternity Leave. As she opened and read it, her hand shot straight to her mouth and she quickly switched to the phone app and dialled Mycroft's number.

'What is it, my dear?' he brother-in-law asked, as soon as he answered.

'Mycroft, I've had an anonymous email from Sherlock. I know it's definitely from him.'

'What does it say?' Mycroft prompted, eager to hear what his brother had communicated to his wife.

'Well, it starts 'My darling Molly', which is a code phrase because he never calls me anything but Molly. I use lots of terms of endearment to him and the children but he doesn't go in for that sort of thing. Definitely not his area.'

'And the message?'

She read out the main body of the text.

'I am so very sorry to have kept you in the dark. I've made a deal that will free me from Mycroft's yoke forever. Soon we'll be able to take that nice little place in Bayswater, just us and the boys.'

Mycroft mulled over the cryptic message. The first part was clear enough. After dark, Sherlock would be 'free' from his current place of incarceration. The next part was more of a puzzle.

'What is the significance of Bayswater?' he asked.

'He has a secret bolt hole in Leinster Gardens, Bayswater. He told me about it ages ago. He says I'm the only other person he has ever told so the fact that he is mentioning it now, knowing that I will pass this message on to you, means this must be a pretty desperate situation,' she explained. 'He wouldn't have me give away such a big secret otherwise.'

'He must be going there, presumably under guard, so one must assume he has persuaded Moran that there is a damn good reason to do so. Perhaps he's led him to believe that something significant can be found there. Where exactly is this bolt hole?'

'You will know it when you see it, Mycroft. That's what he always told me, that you would know exactly what it was, if you ever saw it.'

Mycroft had to smile at that comment, so typical of his brother, who loved a puzzle.

'And the last part,' Molly continued, 'he says 'just us and the boys'. He makes no mention of Violet, so he can't mean our children.'

'No, I think perhaps he is telling us that the party will include him, Moran and some of his men - 'the boys'. He's warning us that it could be messy. He obviously wants me to set a trap, an ambush.'

'Yes, I'm sure that's what he means. And then, in the last part, he says, 'Much love as always, Sherly' and three x's,' she concluded. 'Again, he never says 'much love' and he certainly would never refer to himself as Sherly or add kisses to a message – well, one maybe, but never three.'

'Much love, Sherly and three x's, what could that mean?' Mycroft mused. 'Leave it with me, Molly. We have cryptographers here who will probably be able to work that out. And, thank you, my dear. This will be most helpful.'

'Mycroft, that bit about being free of your yoke? Why would he say that?' Molly asked, feeling uncomfortable with the negative connotations of that statement.

'Based on several strange comments and remarks he has said or written, it would seem that he's playing a game with Moran, that he's made some sort of pact with the man against me.'

'So is this all just a personal attack on you? Does Moran hate you that much?

'Moran blames me for the death of Moriarty and the destruction of the Irishman's criminal empire but I don't think it's entirely personal. The chief aim of Combat 18 is to bring down democratically elected governments, so I assume the aim is to attack our Government through me. If my brother has convinced the Colonel that he has evidence that could be detrimental to my reputation – that could publicly humiliate and discredit me – it would be a very attractive prospect, both to Moran and to Combat 18.'

'What sort of evidence could that be?' Molly wondered aloud.

'I suspect it involves some sort of sexual deviance, my dear. Arthur said something that suggested as much. He is convinced, at the moment, that what he has been told – or shown – is genuine.'

'Oh, Mycroft, surely not?' she exclaimed.

'I'm afraid so, Molly, but I am hopeful that, following a stint at St Hugh's, he will be able to see the lies for what they are.'

Molly could hear the sadness in her brother-in-law's voice. Neither he nor Arthur or the children deserved any of this. It was too cruel.

'I'm sure he will, Mycroft, once he is himself again,' she replied, hoping against hope that she was right.

'How is the family?' Mycroft asked, as though following her line of reasoning, which of course he was.

'Much as you would expect,' Molly replied. 'Poor Charlie is lost without his Poppah. Katy is coping better, and our three – well, I'm sure you can guess the rest.'

'Well, on the positive side, I'm confident that Arthur will be discharged from hospital later today so I'm having him transferred straight to St Hugh's. If Sherlock is heading for Bayswater, I will return to London this afternoon and we'll have Leinster Gardens staked out before night fall.'

'Would you like me to say anything to Katy and Charlie?' she asked.

'Yes, if you would be so kind. Tell them that they will see Daddy and Poppah very soon. Not today, but probably tomorrow. I wish I could tell you to give the same message to William and Freddie but, as you know, we mustn't raise their hopes prematurely. I'm truly sorry for that, Molly.'

'I know you are, Mycroft, I know,' she replied.

ooOoo

Couldn't keep away from the laptop! This story is racing to a big finish, I hope...