Prompt at end of chapter.

Sub-Rosa

The door, a panel of heavy oaken boards tightly fitted and held fast with thick wrought iron strap hinges, their rivets standing proud, swung open silently and a man in an immaculately tailored morning suit peered out into the uncommonly clean alley that led from Pall Mall to Carlton House Street.

"Yes?" he enquired, stiff but polite.

"This the Diogenes Club, governor?" asked the tall, lanky man in the threadbare workman's clothes, a hawkish, aquiline nose protruding over a huge handlebar moustache.

"It is," replied the man in the morning suit.

"Oh. Good! Got a package for a… Let me see. Ah! A Mr. Mycroft Holmes. Funny name, that."

"I will take it, sir." The man in the morning suit held out his white-gloved hands.

"No. Sorry. I'm to delivery it into the gentleman's own hands." From his pocket, the deliveryman pulled a rumpled paper form and held it in front of the servant's eyes. "See there? Says specifically to make sure it gets into the gentleman's hands. Something important, I think. Expensive, no doubt. Cigars maybe." He shook the package. "Don't weigh nothing. Can't smell nothing, neither."

"Sir!" The servant snatched the form from the man's fingers, donned a pair of pince-nez and read the smudged type. "I see. Most irregular. Come in. Wipe your feet. This is a gentlemen's club after all."

"All right, governor. No need to be so uppity." The man stepped inside and peered around the service vestibule, mouth making a silent O. "Cor Blimey! Nice place, innit?"

"Yes. We intend to keep it that way," the servant said stiffly and swung the heavy door closed, bolting it.

"Thank you, Hollinger. Well done."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes. Your brother is expecting you. May I take the package?"

"No. It truly is meant to go to him."

"Then, sir, if you will, follow me." Hollinger, the epitome of the gentleman's gentleman in every respect, led the way through a side hall to a set of spiraling stairs beside a lift. Down these they went, heels clinking on iron rungs. They passed through what appeared to be an extensive wine cellar to another set of stairs, which came out into a brick walled hall, dimly lit by gas jets. This they followed to what appeared to be nothing more than a panel door, but when Hollinger knocked, it had the dull sound of reinforced iron. On the other side a bolt slid, a lock turned and the door swung ponderously open, revealing the lugubrious countenance of Mr. Mycroft Holmes. Subtly, his expression changed to something more lively, eyes twinkling in the gaslight.

"Sherlock," he purred and there was real warmth in the single word. "Thank you, Hollinger. We'll ring when we are ready for dinner."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes. Would you care for brandy, sir?"

"I'll see to it myself. Thank you."

Hollinger gave a crisp bow and departed back up the hall.

"You look a fine rascal," Mycroft said, gesturing Sherlock into the room. "Is the mustache real?"

"It is. I had a beard until two nights ago. Itched fearfully."

"Can't abide beards," grumbled Mycroft.

"I recall," said Sherlock, doffing his hat and peering around the room. The place was stylish, a large fireplace set in the wall with a cheery fire burning, brass gas lamps relieving the gloom, dark hardwood table with a setting for twelve, huge map of the world hung on the wall opposite the entrance and the inevitable portrait of the Queen taking pride of place on the wall across from the fire. Sherlock looked up and noted the wrought iron rose suspended from the ceiling. Turning an amused expression on his brother, he said, "Sub-rosa?"

"Indeed." Mycroft looked up and smiled. "Just a reminder, Sherlock. Just a reminder. And, something you must take seriously."

"I do. You know I do. When can I go back to Baker Street?"

"You cannot."

"What? You said…"

"I said you might be able to once that Moriarty business was attended to."

"It is attended to! Mycroft! Watson thinks I am dead! Not to mention Mrs. Hudson. The old dear is probably beside herself."

"She's lost two husbands, Sherlock. She knows how to deal with grief." Mycroft waved his hand dismissively. "I have men looking after her, regardless. I assure you, she will be taken care of."

"That is beside the point." Sherlock tossed the package none-too-gently on the large table and scowled at his brother.

"Careful with those!" Mycroft stepped quickly to the table and retrieved the cardboard box. "Ten shillings a piece. Are you mad?"

"Ten shillings? You must be mad," scoffed Sherlock.

"Worth ever farthing," grumbled Mycroft, cutting the twine and opening the lid. "Not hurt, I think."

"Mycroft, I do not give a damn about your cigars at the moment."

"Sherlock! Really, man. My only vice."

Sherlock snorted and then laughed. Mycroft looked uncomfortable a moment then nodded.

"Very well. Not my only vice." He folded the lid back over the box and turned to his brother. "Off track. Let us discuss your next move."

"Why can I not go home?"

"We helped you. Now you must help us."

"We? Us? Explain."

Mycroft went to a sideboy and poured sherry, offering one glass to Sherlock.

"You became aware of Moriarty through your own sources," Mycroft said heavily. "I became aware of something else through my sources. You brought your concerns to me. I brought mine to the Queen."

"What is this 'something else'?" Sherlock asked with narrowed eyes.

"You brought down Carthage. I mean to bring down Rome."

"Are you telling me there is another criminal organization as far reaching as Moriarty's?"

"Yes. Perhaps farther reaching. Moriarty was their chief competitor and sometime ally." Mycroft found one of the large wingback chairs beside the fireplace and gestured for Sherlock to take the other. "With the commission of the Queen, I have begun assembling a network of agents. We need you, Sherlock. You will be the seventh field agent in our organization. As you have likely deduced, the Diogenes Club is only a front. Most of the members know nothing whatever about its true purpose. We face a foe more dangerous than Moriarty because there is not a single man in charge but an underground governing council with a most diabolical leader."

"Sounds like something out of a penny dreadful," Sherlock said, but he was not scoffing.

"Oh, I well know it does," grumbled Mycroft. "That was the main reason it took me so long to convince the Queen and her advisors. Much easier to convince them Moriarty was real and not some mental astigmatism of yours."

"How long would you need my services?" asked Sherlock. His posture had changed radically from the perturbed younger brother to the professional investigator. It seemed he all but vibrated at the opportunity to chase down another master criminal.

"We gave you three years of assistance with Moriarty." Mycroft rubbed his chin. "I should think something like three, perhaps as much as five years would see your part done. At the end of which, you will have the gratitude of the Empire and all that entails."

Sherlock settled back into his chair, sipped his sherry and closed his eyes in thought. Mycroft let him be, allowing the younger brother to mull things over.

"I note you make no threats of what might occur should I decide against you," said Sherlock after several minutes.

"I would never threaten you. However, the Queen might withdraw Her protections. You know what that could mean for you, the doctor and Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock nodded. His eyes closed once again and he remained silent a while. Finally, he said, "Tell me about this grand criminal organization."

"It is extensive. They call themselves the Special Executive for Counter-intelligence, Terrorism, Revenge and Extortion." Mycroft shifted in his chair, a half-amused expression on his face. "SPECTRE, for short. And you thought it sound like some penny dreadful before. What do you think now?"

"Sounds entirely ridiculous. You are not having me on, are you?"

"I wish I were."

"Very well. What do you call your own organization?"

"Hasn't got a name. Not yet. May be better that way. Harder to track us down. More difficult to track our operatives. As I said, you will be the seventh."

"Everyone from England to India knows my name now that you've put it in so many of the papers."

"You will have a new name. The Queen likes Bond, James Bond. What do you think?"

Sherlock shook his head slowly and smirked. "I suppose it is ordinary enough. Am I to sign in that manner when communicating?"

"No. Simply sign 007. Even if the message is intercepted, they will not know your alias. You will write in code, of course."

"And what is your number?" asked Sherlock with an ironic smirk.

"Simply call me 'M'." Mycroft rose and went to the large desk. "I had better give you these while we are at it."

"Give me what?" Sherlock rose and joined him.

"This," said Mycroft, holding out a sheet of good quality paper.

Sherlock took it, read the text and shot a confused look at his brother.

"That is your license to kill," explained Mycroft. "You'll want this, too. Not what you usually carry, I'm afraid. Not as compact, but it holds more cartridges and is somewhat more accurate."

"How strange." Sherlock took the weapon, turning it over in his hands, scrutinizing it from all angles. "A Bergmann?"

"An early production model," Mycroft confirmed. "No cylinder. Loads from the top. Ten rounds. Double action. Once you chamber the first round, it will continue to fire until it is empty. Then you place the stripper clip in the slot and shove the bullets down, and it is ready to fire again."

"I shall need to practice with it," said Sherlock, admiring the complex design. "Have you a task for me? A first mission?"

"Indeed, and one to which you are admirably suited." Mycroft looked his younger brother in the eye and said, "We want you to bring the Adler woman into the fold. We like the way she dealt with that Bohemian nonsense and how she evaded you. You sail to Canada in three days. Get back here by the sixteenth. Kidnap her if you must but bring her here."

For a moment, Sherlock could only stare. Irene Adler? How could he induce such a woman…? No. THE woman. How could he induce her to return?

Seeming to read his mind, Mycroft took a folder from his desk and held it out to Sherlock.

"When you locate her, have her read this. It should be enough."

"She is married, you realize."

"Our sources say she has grown bored with her current situation. Give her this, Sherlock. Bring her back. We will do the rest."

"Well," Sherlock said, taking the folder, "it seems James Bond has his first mission."

Prompt from W. Y. Traveller – Spectre

AN: Sub-rosa: adjective – Happening or done in secret.