Sherlock Fanfiction: Safer

[saki101]

Title: Safer
Author: saki101
Characters/Pairings: Gregory Lestrade/Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock/John, Molly, OCs
Rating: R
Genre: Slash
Word Count: ~10K
Disclaimer: Sherlock is not mine and no money is being made.
Summary: During the Hiatus, one of the Met’s cases and one of Mycroft’s investigations intersect and Greg’s and Mycroft’s interest in one another develops beyond the professional. Sherlock finds much of it inconvenient.
A/N: Written for mmc12 whose generous prompts for the December 2013 Holmestice Exchange included "Johnlock, Mystrade and Anything!" which spurred me to write a sequel to Necropolis. The two may be read as a pair or as part of the Other Experiments Series where they would fit in after We Are Sorry For Any Inconvenience and before Leaf Fall.

Excerpt: “Lestrade’s managed to find the Cheapside Hoard of homicide when I can’t do anything about it."

Also, on AO3.


Safer

“John! The morgue is full of bodies.”

John jolted upright, his elbow knocking one of the manuals off the coffee table. Its spine hit the floor first. It toppled over in a flutter of pages. “Christ, I wasn’t expecting you to come in through the door. When do you ever use the door?” He bent down to pull the book out from under the table.

Sherlock settled on the arm of the sofa beside him. “They’re wonderful, John. Nearly a century of decomposition. Some of them are practically mummified.”

“We’ve got others things we’re supposed to be working on,” John said as he set the manual next to the nearest laptop. A crescent moon rose above sand dunes on one. Green lights twisted across a black sky in another. John turned to look at Sherlock. “Why are they down there?”

“Lestrade’s managed to find the Cheapside Hoard of homicide when I can’t do anything about it. How can I concentrate with that just below us?” Sherlock asked, giving the sofa a firm thump with his fist. “Some are in the quarantine room. Come have a look with me.”

Sherlock glanced at the laptops. “I didn’t see you film that.”

John considered the image shimmering across his screen and his features softened. “I only got a bit near the end. Happened to feel the phone in my pocket. You were looking at the sky. I got your profile against it.”

Sherlock watched the sequence loop. His eyebrow went up. “You edited me out?”

“That gave me another idea,” John said, his eyes still on the monitor, moving with the flickering light. One of his hands slipped into the pocket of his jeans.

Sherlock tucked a hand around John’s arm. “I really couldn’t have predicted we’d see that while we were there.”

John shook his head, smiling slightly, still tracking the movements. “Doesn’t matter, we did.”

“Come down to the morgue,” Sherlock said, tugging on John’s arm, “I want your opinion.”

***

Greg walked past Rafferty’s desk on his way to get more coffee. “Go home,” Greg said, without stopping.

Greg took a sip from his cup, wrinkled his nose and stared at the oily surface. “It’s warmer, but it’s still deadly,” he muttered, half sitting on Rafferty’s desk. “I told you to go home. You came in early this morning and stayed late last night. Go.”

“We just got more autopsy reports in, sir.” Rafferty finished reading a sentence before he looked up at Greg. “I see why you like working with Dr Hooper. Her reports are so detailed. These even more than the first ones.”

Greg set down his coffee and picked up the file, skimmed the pages. “Ye-es,” he said slowly. “Very detailed.” He glanced at the pile in front of Rafferty. “How many do you have there?”

“Six,” Rafferty replied and yawned. “Sorry, sir.”

“Is the full text in the database yet?”

“I grabbed them to read first.” Rafferty sat up straighter. “I could stay and enter it, sir.”

Greg shook his head. “You can do it tomorrow.” Greg stood and scooped up the rest of the files. “I’ll walk you down to the door, sergeant. Grab your things.”

Near the main doors, Greg lowered his voice. “When you do the data entry tomorrow, I want only the summary paragraph for each file.” Rafferty leaned closer. “Leave the details out.” Greg gave the files under one arm a pat.

Rafferty looked from Greg’s hand back to his face. “Sir…do you think?” he started.

“That little enterprise had been going on for a long time. Maybe they didn’t need any help remaining undetected, but maybe they did.”

Solemnly, Rafferty nodded. “Yes, sir. Summary only.”

***

Molly turned to the swinging doors with a smile. “Oh,” she said, smile dimming slightly. “Greg.” Her eyes flitted from Greg’s face to the envelope under his arm and back.

“Molly,” Greg said. He waited until he was next to her before he continued. “He’s here? They're both here?” Molly bit her lip and Greg noticed the lipstick. He scanned her face, noted the mascara and the sparkly clip in her hair. He took a step back. “You were expecting someone else.”

Molly shoved her hands in the pockets of her lab coat and pulled it closed. Her smile had disappeared.

A half smile flitted across Greg’s face. “Rafferty’s a decent man.” Greg drew near again. “You can impress him all you want by telling him these extra…things…in person, but don’t include them in the reports.” He handed Molly the envelope. “Your latest reports are in there. If you could just…amend them, I’ll take them back with me for the files.”

Molly took the envelope and walked towards her office. Greg followed her and closed the door. “I’ll tell him to come round to benefit from your insights.”

Her computer sounded a few notes, Molly looked up at Greg. “He didn’t see these?”

“He did. I sent him home a little while ago, after I asked him to only enter the summary in the database tomorrow.” Greg sat in the chair next to Molly’s desk. “This way there will only be the summary in the file tomorrow.”

Molly opened a document. “Is that…” She glanced at Greg. “I’m sorry. The observations were just so…I didn’t even get all of them written down.”

“I let Rafferty think there was a possible breach of security at the Met,” Greg said.

Molly kept deleting as she spoke. “I should have just called you.”

“Look, I left my mobile at the Yard and I’m fairly sure Mycroft’s bugged my office, so if you want to tell me something, just text me to drop by. I’m not certain, but I think it’s safe in here.”

“Oh,” Molly said, turning towards Greg. “It is safe in here. Bart’s might be the safest place in England since...well, you know.”

“Good to hear,” Greg said, standing. “I’ll just go burn these while you finish up. Incinerator’s still in the corner, yeah?”

Molly nodded and hit the delete key again.

***

Greg balanced his cup of espresso on the rail of the balcony, watched his neighbours weave between the palm trees and flower beds in the garden between sips. Rain pattered on the arches of glass that covered the courtyard, the grey light deepening the green of the foliage. It was satisfying. Though small, his flat was nicer than he thought he’d be able to afford after the divorce, but without the upkeep of a car or an old house, he’d had more left than he thought he would. Not a lot, but more.

To be able to offer Charlotte someplace to stay during her holidays that was more than a step above the residence hall at uni, had been a relief. When Meredith was chucking everything out before the house was sold, he’d saved many of Charlotte’s things and he’d painted her new room lilac because she’d always favoured the colour as a child. If she’d grown out of the preference, she didn’t tell him. First time she saw the little bedroom, she’d just patted her rescued camel on his nearly bald hump and smiled at Greg. It had made him happier than he’d been in a long time. And from what Charlotte told him, Meredith seemed happier teaching in Singapore than she’d ever been in Croydon. Charlotte had sent a postcard when she’d visited her mother last. It was on the fridge next to Mycroft’s.

A short bark re-focussed Greg’s attention. The echo in the courtyard was significant. He spotted Stuart picking Didymus up to shush him.

“’Morning,” Greg called. The dog tried to wiggle out of Stuart’s arms at the sound. Stuart glanced up and waved. Didymus yipped, Stuart tilted his head towards the riverside door and hurried off. The terrier managed one more reverberating yip before Stuart got him outside.

“Didymus?” Charlotte asked, joining Greg at the railing. He nodded. “That smells glorious.” She lifted her chin at the cup in Greg’s hand and took a deep breath. “Is there more?” She pushed damp curls off her forehead. They were lighter than Greg’s hair had been and darker than her mother’s.

“I’ll make fresh,” Greg said.

“Let me,” Charlotte replied. “I’ve been wanting to have a go at your new gadget.” Greg turned towards the balcony doors. “Without supervision.” Charlotte caught Greg by the arm. “I won’t break it.” She headed to the kitchen. “And I want to see what you’ve laid in. I was too tired to look last night.” She picked a plum from the top of the fruit bowl as she passed through the sitting room and Greg smiled. He liked shopping for Charlotte’s visits, if he could find time between murders.

Greg was folding the newspaper when Charlotte appeared with a tray. “No explosions,” she said, setting it on the small table between the two balcony chairs. She nipped back into the sitting room and added the fruit bowl to the plate of croissants and the two demitasse cups on the table. Charlotte gestured towards the almond croissants. “I see you’ve been out already this morning.”

“The new bakery’s on the ground floor. I don’t even have to go outside,” Greg replied as he picked up the fresh coffee and inhaled. “Well done,” he said and took a sip. “Very well done.”

Charlotte raised her cup in salute. “See?”

Greg tucked the newspaper under the edge of the tray and settled back in his chair. “You learned from a master,” he stated, taking another sip.

The rain drummed more loudly on the courtyard roof. “I didn’t like the sky being covered when I first saw that,” Charlotte said, glancing up at the frosted glass.

“Me neither,” Greg replied, setting his cup down, selecting a fig and beginning to peel it. “But on days like this…”

“…you see its worth,” Charlotte agreed, accepting the half of the fig Greg held out to her. She tapped a pot hanging off the corner of the railing, ran her finger along a broken stem of the aloe. “Scalded yourself with the steam?” she asked.

Greg held up the plate of croissants. “Eat,” he said. “Stop deducing.” He waved the plate a bit. Charlotte chose a pastry. “And it only happened once.”

She took a large bite. “Oh,” she said after a moment, “not good to have that in the same building. Watch out.” She placed it on the edge of the platter and turned her gaze to the garden below. “Papa,” she said around a mouthful of pastry; she swallowed. “There is a man with an umbrella speaking on a mobile and looking up at us.” She glanced to either side. None of their neighbours were out on their balconies.

In his pocket, Greg’s phone buzzed. He stood to pull it out, but didn’t answer it. He waved Mycroft up without a word. Mycroft snapped his phone shut and left the garden.

Charlotte caught Greg’s eye. “Your friend is very well dressed for a Saturday morning visit,” she commented. Her brows lowered. “Or is this official?”

“Could be either,” Greg replied and wondered when that might have become a true statement.

“I could leave you alone,” Charlotte offered.

Greg shook his head. “Let’s see which it is first.” He smiled at his daughter. “I’d like to introduce you.”

Charlotte plucked at the lapel of her dressing gown. “I’ll put something more formal than this on, then, shall I?”

The coffee cups were rinsed when the rap sounded. It was a short distance from the kitchen to Greg’s front door and yet there was the need to catch his breath before he opened it. As he did, Mycroft slipped his mobile back into his pocket and smiled; his eyes touched by it, but not fully participating. A quick glance up and down no doubt informed him of everything Greg had done since he awoke.

“Good morning, Gregory,” Mycroft began, “I hope I do not intrude.”

Greg nearly laughed at that. “Come in, Mycroft. What causes you to bypass the concierge in my humble lobby?” Greg asked, standing back and gesturing Mycroft in.

Mycroft didn’t move for a moment, fixing Greg with a variety of assessing look that Greg knew all too well. Yet when Mycroft opened his mouth as though to speak, Greg almost thought he was going to say, you. It seemed too warm in his flat suddenly, despite the open balcony doors.

Mycroft didn’t speak, however, simply glided past Greg into the flat. He brought the scent of the sea with him and something more. Greg noticed the white box suspended by a knotted ribbon from two of Mycroft’s fingers.

“I located the illustrated edition of Balzac I mentioned and thought to drop it by as I was in the neighbourhood.” He lifted the box. “And considering the hour, I brought something for the table as well.” He held it out to Greg. Now Greg could smell the quiche, too. “It seemed to suit the Balzac.”

Greg took the box and nodded. Not official, then. “Would you like coffee?”

More of Mycroft’s face became involved in his smile. He inhaled. “That would be most welcome, yes,” he said and glanced over Greg’s shoulder.

Greg turned and grinned. Charlotte’s curiosity had caused her to don what was to hand, but she looked well in her faded jeans and lavender jumper. He held out his arm to her. “Mycroft, this is my pride and joy, Charlotte.” Greg brushed his hand lightly along her arm as he continued. “Charlotte, this is my…” Supposedly dead friend’s older brother? The man who I think has me under surveillance? The person bringing me gifts of a Saturday morning? “…friend, Mycroft Holmes.” He saw the recognition of the name on Charlotte’s face, but she didn’t miss a beat holding out her hand as she smiled politely up at their guest.

Mycroft took it and held it up to his lips as he bowed in Charlotte’s direction. “Enchanté, mademoiselle,” he said over it and Greg saw him taking in all sorts of information about Charlotte as he released her hand and straightened again. “Your father’s eyes, I see,” he said and Greg pressed his lips together. He often thought he saw the eyes he’d seen looking back at him from the mirror as a boy when he looked at his daughter.

Charlotte held Mycroft’s gaze. “People usually say I look like my mother,” she replied.

Greg saw Mycroft registering Charlotte’s scrutiny. “They see, but they do not observe,” Mycroft responded. “My brother was fond of describing people’s inattention that way.”

“Mycroft has brought us quiche,” Greg interjected and they both turned to look at him. “And I’m going to make more coffee.” He headed for the kitchen.

Behind him, Mycroft explained, “I was dropping off a book your father and I were discussing recently. Perhaps you would care to have a look at it?” Greg glanced from the kitchen doorway and saw Mycroft take it from an inside jacket pocket. The green leather was faded. Charlotte took it with the care with which she always handled books. Mycroft looked towards the kitchen. “Might I be of assistance, Gregory?” he asked. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said to Charlotte, without waiting for Greg’s answer. He left Charlotte with the book.

“He’s quite different from his brother,” Charlotte said after Mycroft left. “They don’t resemble one another, but the way he looked at me reminded me of Sherlock.”

Greg sat down on the sofa, put his legs up on the coffee table and figured if Mycroft had bugged the flat he deserved whatever he heard. “Yeah, it's interesting. They never seemed to get on, but they looked out for one another in their own ways. Didn’t always agree about what form that should take.”

“His visit didn’t seem rushed and yet he didn’t stay long,” Charlotte mused, settling on the other end of the sofa and stretching out until her toes were tucked under her father’s leg. “As if he knew precisely how long to stay to show us that he appreciated our hospitality, but not so long that I would resent his encroaching on our day.”

“Sure you don’t want to join the Met?” Greg asked and held an arm out towards the book on the table.

“Not since I was twelve,” Charlotte replied and reached for it. “You speak French together?” she asked, handing the book on.

“We drift into it if we’re talking about food or fencing,” Greg replied.

“Or literature,” Charlotte added. Greg fanned the gilt pages lightly, stopping at the engraving done after a drawing by Vernet. “Did you notice that it’s signed?” Greg flipped back to the title page, considered the faded ink and the date. “Most people wouldn’t loan that to just anyone.”

Greg nodded, but didn’t look up from the words: La Peau de chagrin.

***

The door from the quarantine room into the main morgue swung shut. The lock clicked.

“This one appears to have been killed twice,” Sherlock commented. “What are your thoughts, John?”

John recapped his water bottle and left it on the lab table. “I’m going to need lunch soon,” he said as he joined Sherlock.

“We just had br…” Sherlock glanced at the upright hands on the wall clock and huffed.

John observed the fracture lines radiating out from the neat circle in the front of the skull. He bent down. “First an assassin and then the Luftwaffe. This bloke was definitely having a bad day,” John said.

“That close together?” Sherlock asked

John flicked a quick glance at Sherlock, noted the one-sided upward curve of his lips. “Well, maybe not the same day. Hard to be precise after sixty years, but the bullet wound didn’t precede the shrapnel by long, I’d say.”

John reached for the tray of surgical instruments next to the examination table. He extracted a long metal sliver wedged between the ribs, held it up to the light. “Parachute mine would be my guess.”

Sherlock took the surgical tweezers from John and stared at the metal shard. “That would give us a fairly accurate date of death for this man, which should help identify him, but it also means he died when thousands were disappearing under collapsed buildings and cemeteries would have been overwhelmed,” he said thoughtfully.

“We’ve found the needle,” John replied, smiling, “we just need to figure out who put it in the haystack.”

“Quaint,” Sherlock murmured. His eyes gleamed when he looked up from his contemplation of the metal. “But apt.” He deposited the fragment in an empty dish on the tray. His jacket flared as he turned towards the body behind him.

John walked around the examination table, covered the dish and labelled it. “Lunch, before I join this group without any mystery as to why at all.”

“Just one more,” Sherlock said. “I think we may have cleared the Second World War-era bodies after this next one.” John sighed and moved to the other side of the examination table.

Sherlock glanced across the cadaver at John. “What?” John asked.

Sherlock’s gaze flitted over John’s face and down to where the table blocked his view and back again. “You require such upkeep,” he said. “So much sleep and food…” His fingers fluttered briefly in the air before settling against the metal surface.

John stood straighter. “I could go eat by myself, but you need food, too.”

Sherlock’s eyes made another circuit of John’s physiognomy, pausing at the small vee of his open collar, again at his ear and then at his mouth. John shifted his stance slightly. “You want my company for lunch,” Sherlock stated, meeting John’s eyes. “You eat more, digest better.” Sherlock stood up and John’s eyes rose with him. “You sleep better if I’m in the bed with you. You rarely have nightmares then, and if they begin, you roll towards me in your sleep, if I haven’t already reached out to you, and they recede.” Sherlock stepped around the table, peeled off the gloves, let them drop on the body and John turned, tilted his head back, kept that laser gaze. “We haven’t been apart for more than a few hours in a while,” Sherlock said. He rested his hands on John’s shoulders, either side of his throat, raised his index fingers to stroke above John’s shirt collar, up behind his ears. Sherlock’s voice dropped into a lower register. “The need hasn’t torn at us, has it?”

John moistened his lips and Sherlock bent to bring his mouth closer to them. “Perhaps satisfying it so often, will make it more insatiable,” he whispered. His lips brushed against John’s, parted to let John’s tongue enter.

Sherlock drew back slowly, his hands smoothing down John’s arms and hooking in the cuffs of the gloves. “I don’t think it’s lunch you need right now, is it, John?” Sherlock pulled the gloves off.

John looked up, let his breath go out and in several times as he held Sherlock’s eyes and his bare hands undid fastenings instinctively. His glance remained upwards as he lowered himself to the floor.

Sherlock gripped the edge of the table, his other hand in John’s hair. He bit down on his lip to keep quiet, his breath harsh through his nose. His knees gave way gracefully, one of John’s hands firm along his back.

“Can you stand?” Sherlock asked, head falling to John’s shoulder. It stilled beneath the weight. John shook his head, his breath sliding hot across Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock tilted his face so John’s mouth could find his, dropped his hand to find John’s hand. The muscles in John’s shoulder began to move again. Sherlock tightened his fingers between John’s, moved with their rhythm, felt the pulse, the shudder, the liquid heat.

***

Sherlock dropped his second pair of gloves into the bin and glanced at the clock hands’ sixty degree angle. “You see you didn’t really need lunch,” he said to John.

John looked up from labelling a series of covered dishes. “I am starving now.”

“Hence, you will enjoy your meal more. We examined six additional bodies and progressed past the war years,” Sherlock said, rolling down his sleeves. “And you’ll be keener to accompany me when I come down next.” He buttoned his cuffs and looked up through his fringe. “Associations, you know.”

“So manipulative,” John remarked, setting down the pen.

Sherlock raised his head, ran a finger along his upper lip and watched John’s eyes follow the movement. “Two hours,” he said pensively, dropping his hand, “even though your blood sugar is truly low now. Interesting.”

John picked his jumper off a stool and decided not to put it on. “We can warm up the moussaka and finish the rest of the tzatziki,” John said, walking towards the supply cupboard. “And there is olive oil left for the bread.”

Sherlock crowded behind him as John pushed the shelving aside. The glassware tinkled. “Olive oil is very versatile,” Sherlock commented, following John into the dark stairwell and sliding the cupboard shut behind them. In the dark, he reached out for John.

John caught Sherlock’s hand and set it on the railing. “I am definitely eating first,” John declared, mounting the stairs quickly. “What has come over you?”

“We should look into that,” Sherlock said as he slipped past John into the office. John pushed the bookcase back into position. “Whatever it is, it seems to be affecting Molly, too. She was wearing lipstick and mascara today. I thought we’d progressed past that stage.”

John strode purposefully to the sideboard, pulled a loaf of bread from a cupboard and ripped off a chunk. Bread in mouth, he put the moussaka in the microwave. “I’ve got some intel on that,” John replied, chewing. He ripped off more bread. “She wasn’t dressed up for you.”

Sherlock stepped out of his shoes and stretched along the sofa, arms folded behind his head. “Really? She appeared as enthralled as ever.”

“That might never change,” John said, carrying two bowls of tzatziki to the coffee table. He handed Sherlock a spoon. “But Mike told me she’s taken with the bright young spark at the Yard whose working with Greg on the cemetery case.”

Sherlock set the bowl on his chest and stirred the tzatziki slowly. “Rafferty,” he said, holding the spoon up and watching the yoghurt drip back into the bowl. “Transferred from Cirencester when Donovan took the DI post in Manchester a few months ago.”

“Greg keeping you up-to-date?” John asked and took a large spoonful of tzatziki. Sherlock didn’t answer, but one eyebrow lifted briefly. John crunched bits of cucumber for a moment. “You just hack the Met from time to time when you’re bored.”

Sherlock smiled and sat up. “He came down to London temporarily to work on the Silk Robe case with Lestrade.”

“Silk robe?” John repeated, scrapping his bowl and licking the spoon. His colour deepened. “The, ah, Alpha, Beta, Gamma Case, you mean?”

“One of your less inspired titles,” Sherlock replied, taking an experimental taste of the salad, “hmm.”

The microwave buzzed. John watched Sherlock swallow the yoghurt and dip his spoon back into the bowl before he got up. “I remember him,” John said from the sideboard. He stacked the plates, the bread and the silverware and brought them back to the table. “Up in Camden. I’m surprised he didn’t ask you for an autograph.”

Sherlock pushed his empty bowl aside and reached for the bread. “He was about to when Lestrade sent him away. Rafferty had already shared that he followed all our cases and read both our blogs.” Sherlock leaned back on the sofa with the bread, plucked off a snowy tuft, popped it in his mouth and tore off another bit. John’s eyes flickered between the full lips and the long fingers. “If you liked gingers, I might have had a rival.” Sherlock brought the next piece of bread to his mouth.

John pivoted back towards the sideboard. “Who says I don’t like gingers?” he asked, taking out the tray of moussaka.

“I do,” Sherlock declared, suddenly behind John and reaching around him with a fork.

John barely started. His eyes slid to the side. “Is that why you chose blond for your disguise?”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “Ginger hair stands out too much.” He waved at the moussaka with the fork. “It’s still not warm in the middle.” John slipped the food back into the microwave.

“And it’s not a matter of boredom. I routinely upgrade the Met’s security when I upgrade Bart’s. I don’t want anyone tampering with the data in either system and it saves me time when I’m searching them,” Sherlock said.

“You needed a break from tracking down the diamond trails or have you already done that?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I sent word to Jean-Pierre about the shell companies involved in re-selling them and about the unusual paths some of the pieces of art from the Biennial exhibit have taken, too.” Sherlock dropped into the desk chair and swivelled to face John. “While I was improving the Met’s database I found traces of Mycroft’s hackers.” John raised his eyebrows. “They were cross-referencing details connected to the cemetery case, as expected. I let them proceed.”

“If you could tell they were there, wouldn’t they know you were there, too?” John asked. Sherlock drew his chin back and his brows down. “OK, you’re a master of disguise in the cyber realm, too. I should have known,” John said. Sherlock inclined his head, scowl receding. John tapped his finger against his lip and pointed at Sherlock. “You found something else, something interesting.”

“Good,” Sherlock said.

“You want to tell me. What was it?”

“Mycroft was hacking,” Sherlock replied.

“You just said…” John stopped. “You said Mycroft’s hackers were following up leads in the Met’s database.” Sherlock rested his elbows on the chair’s arms and clasped his hands below his chin, eyes on John. “And that was business as usual apparently,” John continued. Sherlock leaned back in his chair. “Then Mycroft, unknown to his hacker crew, followed them to…what? Check up on them?”

Sherlock snorted.

“No, of course not, Mycroft has underlings for that,” John said.

One corner of Sherlock’s mouth turned up.

“Mycroft was searching something different,” John offered. “Something he didn’t want his staff to know he was searching.” Sherlock tilted his head back. “But it wasn’t because he thought one of them might be compromised?”

Sherlock swivelled his chair to one side. “Possibly that was why he got started. He re-examined a few of the cases they were following up, but…” Sherlock swung his chair in the other direction. “That’s not all he’s been looking into,” Sherlock continued and there was a slight singsong cadence to his voice.

“Oh?” John said, retrieving what was left of the bread from the sofa.

“He’s been reading through Lestrade’s old cases.”

“The ones you worked on together?” John asked, wiping Sherlock’s salad bowl nearly clean with a chunk of bread. He took a bite of it.

“Back before I knew Lestrade. Back to when Lestrade joined the Met,” Sherlock replied, walking towards John, one eyebrow raised.

John made another swipe with the bread and held it up. Sherlock ducked to take it and turned towards the desk chewing. “Wouldn’t he have done that when you first started working with Greg?” John said.

“Undoubtedly,” Sherlock agreed.

“So why’s he doing it again?” John asked and he wasn’t merely indulging Sherlock’s desire to explain. The microwave dinged.

“Greg was injured at the cemetery apprehending a suspect.”

John stopped half-way across the room and turned to Sherlock. “He all right?”

Sherlock nodded. “The signature on the papers discharging Lestrade from hospital belongs to one of Mycroft’s doctors.”

John brought Sherlock’s plate of moussaka over to him. “Mycroft has his own doctors?”

“Mycroft has his own everything,” Sherlock replied.

“So is Greg in danger?” John asked, sitting down by the coffee table with his plate.

“Of a sort.”

“Should we warn him?” John asked.

“He’s aware. He told Molly he thinks Mycroft’s bugged his office and that she shouldn’t include any more of my observations in her reports.” John scowled. “If Lestrade could recognise them as mine, Mycroft certainly wouldn’t miss them,” Sherlock said.

“Molly probably didn’t think it would matter if Greg realised,” John said.

Sherlock hit several keys on his computer. “Molly may have hoped to dazzle the new detective sergeant with her brilliance.” Sherlock looked over at John. “She’s seen that it’s an effective technique.”

John turned away. “Maybe she wanted to help get the cases solved.”

Sherlock blew a cooling breath across the aubergine on his fork. “John, most of these people have been dead for decades. Time is no longer of the essence.”

Sherlock angled the monitor towards John. Rafferty’s personnel file was displayed on the screen, a picture in the upper left-hand corner. John brought his plate to the desk, sat on the edge of it. “You know, he was on the scene of that boomerang case. Told me the helicopter had come for me. I didn’t remember when I saw him in Camden.” John tapped his fork against his plate. “If he really did read our blogs constantly, follow our cases...” John glanced from the photo to Sherlock.

Sherlock looked back.

“Do you think he could…”

“If he’s less of an idiot than the rest and if he read my blog carefully enough, then, yes.”

John let out a long breath. “Things aren’t complicated enough,” he said.

“Oh, that’s not all,” Sherlock said, getting up and striding to the sideboard. “Have you ever met Greg’s wife?” he asked.

“Ex, you mean?” John corrected, sliding along the polished surface to face Sherlock again. Sherlock’s fingers fluttered impatiently in the air.

“No,” John replied, shaking his head.

“Seen photos?” John shook his head again. “Attractive, knows how to use it to effect.”

“Like you,” John commented.

Sherlock straightened his shoulders. “Rather athletic. Fairly clever. Not monogamous.” He leaned on the sideboard, pushed off after a moment. “Hair a bit lighter than Molly’s, thicker, highlighted usually. Dark blue eyes,” Sherlock turned back to John. “Rather like yours.”

John looked up and held Sherlock’s gaze. “I don’t think there’s a genetic link between fidelity and eye colour,” John remarked.

“No,” Sherlock said. He stepped closer. John speared a piece of aubergine and held it out. Sherlock took the fork, ate the moussaka and handed the utensil back to John. “They have a child,” he said and walked away again.

“Mm, Greg showed me pictures.”

“Conception pre-dated the marriage,” Sherlock added, across the room again.

“She looks just like him,” John commented. He set his empty plate aside.

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, still in motion. “Not just like,” he scoffed.

“Definitely enough to be reassuring.”

“Is it such a big point?” Sherlock asked. He’d lit on the coffee table.

“History would indicate that that was a yes,” John replied, heading back to the sofa. He sat down and pulled Sherlock’s half-full plate towards him, “of course, people don’t have to guess anymore.” He looked up at Sherlock. He was pacing again.

“She ever proposition you?” John asked. “Lestrade’s wife, I mean.”

Sherlock whirled around. “Molly’s infatuation notwithstanding, not everyone finds me as desirable as you do, John.”

John took in Sherlock’s expression. “Your impromptu visits weren’t so welcome after you said no,” John concluded. Sherlock’s lips compressed. John took a bite off Sherlock’s plate. “Come eat.” Sherlock didn’t move. “She accuse you of shagging Greg?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know these things?”

“Doctors treat STDs,” John replied, “hear a lot about human relationships in the process.” John patted the sofa.

“I didn’t think doctors listened to their patients, thought of them as pre-verbal or something,” Sherlock said, taking a step towards the couch.

“Not all of them wanted to be vets,” John said. “Quite a useful diagnostic tool, having patients who can speak.”

Sherlock dropped onto the sofa. “People lie, omit things,” he said.

John pushed Sherlock’s plate towards him. “Even so,” John said and got up. At the sideboard, he dished out a second serving and turned back to Sherlock who was staring at his plate. “Is it too cold?”

“Lestrade deserves more than another manipulator,” Sherlock replied, without looking up.

***

“Sir?”

Lestrade put down his cup of cold coffee. “You may as well come in, Rafferty,” he said, “since you refuse to go home.”

Rafferty only opened the door part way and closed it quickly behind him. He had a student exercise book in his hand which he held out; he glanced at the wall clock as he stopped in front of the desk. “It’s only six, sir.”

Greg took the notebook, flipped to the last entry and closed it with barely a glance. “You didn’t have lunch,” he said.

Rafferty shook his head. “I brought a couple of apples with me this morning,” he offered by way of excuse, “and I’ve had several cups of tea.”

Greg pointed at his own cup. “I’ve drunk far too much of that,” he said. “It won’t do for either of us. We need a meal and then to head home.” He hit a few keys on his computer. “We’ll go over your report in the morning.” Greg stood, pulled his jacket off the back of his chair and swept the notebook and a couple pens off the desk with it. “Do you have a favourite place around here yet?”

“Yes!” Rafferty replied. “It’s newer than me, opened up the week after I arrived. If they’re still open when I leave, I get my dinner there.” His eyes flitted to the clock again. “We could make it.”

“What’s it called?” Greg asked, as he stooped to retrieve the fallen items.

“The Cardboard Box,” Rafferty said. Greg’s head appeared above the desk. He raised an eyebrow and set the pens down. “They mostly do takeaway, but they have a few tables.”

“Lead on,” Greg said, gesturing towards the door. He switched off the lights. In his pocket, he closed his hand around his phone.

“Oh,” Rafferty said as they came up from the basement. “I’ve never used this exit. The Box is near the other side.”

“I’ll give it a try another day,” Greg said and started towards the park.

“Oh,” Rafferty repeated and hurried to catch up.

“I still don’t believe it sometimes,” Rafferty said as they turned onto Horse Guards Road.

“Been in?” Greg asked, gesturing towards the small sign by the entrance to the Churchill War Rooms.

Rafferty peered at the notice and shook his head. “There’s so much to see. Places you almost think exist only in books or films and then they’re right in front of you and you’re not sure where you are anymore,” Rafferty said, his gaze moving up the stone steps to the statue and back to the discreet entrance. “Do you recommend them, sir?”

“Depends what interests you,” Greg replied. “There’s something for everyone in London.”

“Yes,” Rafferty said seriously. “I’ve been studying the maps, sir.”

“Walk the streets, too,” Greg advised. “You’ll find places you like, shortcuts to get there. Like one giant foot patrol.”

They passed the Parade, the air still reminiscent of horse. “It’s what Mr Holmes did, isn’t it?” Rafferty said quietly. “Know every building and alley?”

“Yeah,” Greg murmured as they turned onto The Mall and Admiralty Arch came into view.

Rafferty stopped to look about him and Greg halted a few paces ahead to let him. “I used to watch the processions on telly with my nan,” he said. “Her parents lived in London for a few years when she was a girl. She saw the coronation. Stood here, she told me.”

“Filled you with stories about London town, did she?” Greg asked and started walking again.

Rafferty caught up. “She loves the Cotswolds. Still volunteers at Blenheim Palace,” Rafferty said, “in the gift shop. But I think she’s never stopped missing London.”

“She’ll expect you to go to the War Rooms, then.” Greg smiled. Trafalgar Square opened before them. They set off to traverse it. “She’ll be visiting you?”

“As soon as I move out of the bedsit, I expect,” Rafferty said, as they crossed another street.

“You’d best know where everything is before she does,” Greg warned.

Greg had his key ring in hand when he paused in front of the narrow black doors at the edge of the low wall. Rafferty had his mouth open to enquire, when Greg raised his index finger to his lips and unlocked the doors. He let the keys dangle from one finger and took his mobile out, tapped it and extended his hand to Rafferty who had gone all wide-eyed. He fished out his phone and handed it to Greg who was in and out of the tiny, round room with another jangle of keys. He re-locked the door and tilted his head towards the subway.

They came out on the east side of the road and headed up the hill as the bells of St Martin-in-the-Fields began to ring.

Rafferty set down his tray and eyed the writing on the tombstone beneath his feet. “We’re actually dining in a crypt,” he said, taking his seat.

Greg pulled out a chair and sat. “Seemed a good choice for our conversation.”

Rafferty glanced around at the tables of the other diners he could see between the brick pillars supporting the low, vaulted ceiling. The rumble of their conversations echoed off of it; he leaned closer to hear Greg speak.

From an inside pocket, Greg took the copybook Rafferty had given him in his office. He folded it open to the last entry and ran his eyes slowly down the neat writing on the page. “You can expand on your notes as we eat,” Greg said.

Rafferty took a deep breath and a long drink of water when he finished summarising his evidence to date. Greg added another comment beneath Rafferty’s notes.

“I don’t know how Dr Hooper’s managing to examine so many so quickly and with so much attention to detail, sir. She’s done the work of a half dozen pathologists in the past week,” Rafferty enthused. He speared a boiled potato and bit into it thoughtfully.

Just three, but one of them’s very fast. Greg studied his roast turnips as though he had to select just the perfect one for his next bite. He tried for misdirection. “Hasn’t she asked you to call her Molly yet?” he asked, looking up.

Rafferty stopped chewing and changed colour. He pressed his lips together and nodded.

“But you haven’t done it,” Greg surmised.

“It seems too forward,” Rafferty mumbled. “She’s so accomplished.” He started knocking a Brussels sprout around his plate. His colour was deepening from pink to scarlet as Greg watched. “And pretty,” he added and seemed about to choke. He took a sip of water.

“It’s not forward if you’ve been invited.” Greg turned his gaze on the people leaving for the concert upstairs. Cupid was a dangerous fellow; encouraging Rafferty’s attraction to Molly simply to distract him would be more than unkind. Greg considered Rafferty’s bowed head. The lad seemed to need a nudge in the right direction. “It might seem rude not to,” Greg contiued, deciding that its being a distraction didn’t make it any less real.

Rafferty’s head snapped up. “You think so?” he asked.

“I do,” Greg declared.

After retrieving their mobiles, Greg wished Rafferty a good-night at the steps of the tube and turned to the river. He’d spent enough time underground for the evening. He needed the harsh chill of the air to clear his head.

***

Neon lights stained the turning tide. It was even colder by the water, but laughter and music still welled up from the riverboats. Greg pulled up his collar, buried his hands in his pockets and wished Sherlock and John would finish whatever they had left to do soon so he wouldn’t need to help hide them any longer. By profession, he was both a finder and a keeper of secrets. He knew all the better how to keep them for knowing how to discover those of others, but he’d never needed to keep a secret from someone as adept at unearthing them as Mycroft, never had someone as interesting as Mycroft interested in his secrets before. It was tempting to turn west, to walk past Whitehall Court and check for a light in a high window, but he didn’t. It was the mystery of Sherlock Holmes that had brought his brother to Lestrade’s door, not the little secrets of Gregory Lestrade. Greg pointed his feet east and the let the ring of his shoes on the pavement join the sounds of the night.

***

He stopped at a traffic light, let his fellow pedestrians surge past him, let the tiny green man turn red. The cold was sharper now, a tang of rain in it. It should make him want to hurry. He was more than halfway home. He lingered longer, shifted closer to the corner as more pedestrians gathered at the crossing, impatient for permission.

“I thought you didn’t like walking along the river, Inspector,” a precise voice said somewhere to his left.

Greg looked up at the signal. The little man winked green and Greg closed his eyes on him. You don’t want my secrets, Mycroft. Find someone else to seduce information from. Other people know.

“Join me. It’s warmer inside,” Mycroft continued and his voice was above Greg’s left shoulder.

You got out of the car.

Mycroft leaned down, his breath warm by Greg’s ear. “We’ve made significant progress on our cases. Some of our findings will be of assistance in your investigations.” He spoke softly as befitted the topic.

Just a matter of security.

“Why don’t we discuss it in more comfort?” Mycroft asked.

Why not send me a memo? Greg sighed and opened his eyes. The signal man was red again. This isn’t the sort of information one puts in memos, is it? “Sure,” he said and turned. Somehow Mycroft was already back in the car, the door open. “Why not?” Greg said, slipping in to the leather-scented warmth. The door was shut and the car drew away. I suppose this is really why I didn’t take the underground.

***

“So the same person was behind the murder of all three diplomats,” Greg said, closing the third file. They were the most recent crimes, their trails the freshest, but still the speed of Mycroft’s investigation was impressive.

“Not the same individual, but the same organisation. We have the person who killed the two who were on holiday together and he is proving most cooperative,” Mycroft clarified. “Any connection with the dead banker remains elusive.”

“But you think there is one?” Greg asked.

“Not necessarily. It could be the organisation we’ve identified and Wilkes’s killer simply know of the same, rather exclusive, body disposal service.”

“Mm,” Greg murmured and stared out the window. The car turned south and crossed the river. The lights were strung farther apart here. They hadn’t circled round to his flat as he had thought they would. Richmond was a much darker borough than Westminster. “Where to?” Greg asked. “Crime scene?”

“No,” Mycroft replied. His briefcase was open on his lap. He deposited the files inside and snapped it shut. “There is someone I would like you to meet.”

Greg was watching Mycroft’s reflection in the glass. It suited him to be viewed that way, at one remove. “An interrogation?” Greg guessed, although it seemed implausible Mycroft would need any assistance in that area, unless there was a connection. Someone from the Met?

“A little, perhaps,” Mycroft said. “Of the polite variety.”

It made Greg turn, but Mycroft leaned forward to place the briefcase on the floor at that moment, his expression lost in the motion. The car paused. A gate opened, a fairly ordinary ironwork gate between stone posts. Greg couldn’t see much of the walls. He ran through the gated communities he knew in the area, couldn’t pinpoint one. He wasn’t called out to Richmond often. The car rolled through and down an avenue, the sky mostly obscured by overarching branches. The head lamps lit their massive trunks. Oak, perhaps.

“Safe house?”

“Very,” Mycroft replied and took out his phone, tapped on it. A light glimmered through the trees. The car turned left, curved through the woods. Round a bend, the old trees gave way to a stand of birch, their bark bright in the headlamps. One more turn brought them to another set of gates, set in smooth walls. The gates were already opening, light glinting off them.

Greg turned his head as they passed, couldn’t tell much in the dark through the tinted windows. Polished steel?. He looked forward and saw a structure made mostly of glass throwing light over shrubs and low trees and a fountain shooting arcs of water over a metallic tangle of curved shapes.

“Not what I would have expected,” Greg said.

“Mummy’s first husband was an architect. The design was his farewell gift to her,” Mycroft said as the car rounded the fountain.

“A considerate ex,” Greg said.

Mycroft shook his head. “It was completed shortly before he died,” Mycroft explained. “’To remember me’ is engraved on the foundation stone.”

“Oh, sorry,” Greg said. The car came to a stop.

“No need, Gregory, I never knew him and your assumption was a reasonable one,” Mycroft replied.

Greg watched Mycroft’s graceful exit from the other side and an image of him fencing came to mind and then another image followed unbidden. Greg opened the door quickly and stepped out into the fresh air. “So this is where you grew up?” he said over the top of the car, looking up at the four-storey central portion of the house which seemed to include an atrium full of plants. He tried not to attach any conventional significance to Mycroft’s bringing him here.

Mycroft shook his head and gestured towards the woods behind them. “We spent most of our time at my grandfather’s house. Mummy worked here when she needed more light or more solitude than two children permitted, but we stayed over sometimes, if the sky was doing something noteworthy. It’s well-suited to star-gazing.”

“Is your mother an architect, too?” Greg asked walking around the car and wondering if it were too bold to enquire so directly.

“She dabbles in it, sculpture, too, and music, but her field is mathematics,” Mycroft replied, heading towards the house when Greg reached him. “My father’s an astronomer. You can see the connections.”

Mathematics an element in all. Father still alive. Sherlock never mentioned him, but then Sherlock hardly ever mentioned his family, tried to avoid the one relative Greg had known he had. He glanced sideways at Mycroft. The family resemblance wasn’t strong, the height, the light eyes and the fair complexion mainly. And the brains. Although that dig John had put in his blog about Sherlock not knowing about the solar system, didn’t fit in well, unless there had been a third marriage as well as a second. But they have the same surname. They stopped before the door. It was glass, too, overlaid with silvery metalwork in the shape of a tree bearing different fruits and hiding different birds. An affair? A cuckoo in the nest? Greg reached out and touched one of the birds. He could hear Mycroft tapping on a keypad. Under Greg’s hand, the door opened. In his mind, he heard Sherlock’s voice telling him not to think, that it was putting him off and Greg wondered how much of his musings had been apparent to Mycroft.

They stepped into the atrium and his eye was drawn upwards, all the way to the roof of the house, black with night sky. The other floors looked on from open balconies to the area where they stood. Definitely not suited to small children, Greg thought and remembered Sherlock’s cavalier attitude towards heights. Greg glanced back at the entrance. Beyond the fountain, the darkness was impenetrable. Greg scanned the atrium, noted the passageways leading off it, the plants trailing over the doorways and up to the balconies. “It feels like an oasis,” he said, “or the safe place in the circle of firelight.”

“Thank you,” a warm voice with a slight accent and on the deep side of feminine said from somewhere above them.

Greg’s eyes darted upwards to find it. Smoker? Drinker? He heard steps on stairs.

“A spontaneous response is the highest praise,” the voice continued from behind him and the smile in it at the compliment was clear. The voice didn’t have the undertone of someone who thought one of her sons had died by his own hand.

Greg turned and knew that his eyes widened. Her age was wrong. She didn’t look much older than he was, her dark, wavy hair only lightly streaked with silver, her eyes seeming the same colour as the vines on the wall, the evidence of her favourite expressions only lightly etched in her skin. Mycroft was speaking to their side and Greg heard Mummy and his own name among the words. When the woman Mycroft identified as his mother held out her hand, Greg took it automatically, raised it, still looking at her and pronounced himself enchanted, just as Mycroft had done, but he saw little of Mycroft in her except the sharpness of the nose and the shape of her brow.

“Enfin, Mycroft, you bring me someone of whom Sherlock approved,” she announced as Greg released her hand. She tilted her cheek for Mycroft to kiss. “And I can see why.”

Do you all read people at a glance? Greg was fairly certain it wasn’t his fashion sense that was being commended. The tense of the verb didn’t escape him, but he would stake his reputation on his conclusion that she knew about Sherlock. The rest of her comment made him wonder if it wasn’t only Mycroft who meddled in his brother’s affairs.

He’d exchanged pleasantries while they had a brief tour of the house and Mycroft and his mother had conducted another conversation in allusions and ellipses. They were standing back before the fountain when Greg realised that the silver circles and ovals of the fountain’s sculpture were orbits, with a small globe at the centre, enamelled in greens and blues. Along one of the metal bands around it, an orb with golden spikes shifted position slightly as he watched. It occurred to Greg that the architect might have known about the astronomer before he died.

“Another time, mon cher,” Mrs Holmes said. “My flight is very early.” She turned to Greg. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Inspector,” she said, letting him take her hand.

“The pleasure was all mine,” Greg replied. He followed her gaze to the sculpture. “The tension between the modern style and the outdated view of the universe intrigues you?” she asked.

“It does,” Greg admitted, looking back at her.

“It’s a recurring motif. You will find it at the old house, too,” she said and smiled.

Greg discarded his jealous architect theory and nodded.

***

Once more, they were beneath the canopy of oak. “No suspects to interrogate, then,” Greg said.

“No,” Mycroft replied. “I thought you might join me for a late supper.”

“You haven’t eaten,” Greg concluded.

“Not since lunch,” Mycroft replied, “and that was a working lunch.” He patted his stomach. “Not the best for digestion. I prefer to consume little at such times.”

“The trains will have stopped running,” Greg said and immediately regretted everything about the statement.

“My driver can bring you back to town after supper,” Mycroft replied. He paused and what must surely be the old house came into view. Several hundred years old at the least was Greg’s guess and not in a gated community, but its own park. Truly, he should have known. “If you wish, he can drop me and take you back directly.”

“No, no supper sounds great,” Greg answered and thought his stomach might be confused at the variety of the evening fare.

“Your injury doesn’t pain you anymore,” Mycroft stated rather than asked and Greg thought he’d probably known from Dr Susana almost immediately after his follow-up visit.

“Yeah, it’s healing well. It wasn’t deep anyway.”

“Canal water is full of pathogens. Secondary infections are often more problematic than initial injuries,” Mycroft remarked. “It’s still too soon for strenuous exercise.”

Greg’s body responded to this observation with a jump in heart rate that rather surprised him, but why else had his footsteps become progressively slower on his walk home?

“Would you still be interested in viewing the collection of rapiers and other blades?” Mycroft asked.

Greg chastised himself for feeling disappointed that it was merely fencing that was on Mycroft’s mind. “A family collection or your own?” Greg asked, evenly.

“Some of both,” Mycroft replied, and there was a hint of enthusiasm in his voice. “Adding to it is a small indulgence I can occasionally allow myself on my travels.”

“Any umbrellas in the mix?” Greg probed and was rewarded with a smile.

“A few.”

***

“Your daughter’s back at university,” Mycroft said over brandy.

Greg nodded from his seat on the other side of the fire. Around them, metal scabbards and bare daggers reflected the flames from walls and cabinets. It was a magnificent collection and each time the tap of a fingertip or the tilt of his head had betrayed Greg's admiration for a particular blade, Mycroft had taken it from its case or its mount and demonstrated a remarkable precision in the throwing of it. Greg's fingers had itched to challenge the performance. With the right type of knife his aim was deadly, but throwing would have pulled at his wound. He washed down his impatience with more brandy.

“Do you have any commitments this weekend?” Mycroft asked.

“Do you?” Greg replied and the thwarted urge to challenge came out in the question.

“None of which I am currently aware,” Mycroft said. “Of course, we both know how that can change.”

There was no light in the room other than the flames and the wings of the chair threw shadows over much of Mycroft’s face. Greg had only the words and tone of voice to go by and there was a cautiousness in both.

“There are a number of spare bedrooms, you could take you pick, if you cared to stay,” Mycroft continued. “And the driver on call could put the car away.”

“I’ve been keeping the poor sod up?” Greg asked.

“No, there is always a driver on call in case I’m summoned,” Mycroft said. “That possibility never goes away.”

There was a slight rattle at the window from a gust of wind. “There’s mother nature telling anyone inside to stay put,” Greg said, finishing his brandy and setting it on the side table. “Do I get a tour of the bedchambers, then?”

“Definitely, your choice should be well-informed,” Mycroft said and stood. He brought the decanter and his glass with him to Greg’s chair and refilled Greg’s snifter. “Any predilections to guide our path?” Mycroft asked. “Eastern or western exposure? Soft or firm mattress? A fair view or lack of draught? They are mutually exclusive, I’m afraid.”

Greg stretched his arms and stood. Mycroft hadn’t moved from pouring the brandy. Greg arched his back and rolled his shoulders and looked up at Mycroft. They were standing very close and the height difference was more obvious than it usually was. “Let’s start with your room, so I can have an idea of the standard,” Greg said. He was definitely feeling the alcohol. “I’m ready.”

Mycroft set down the decanter. It brought them slightly closer, without yet touching. Greg inhaled the sea scent of him. When Mycroft straightened, he held out Greg’s glass to him and said, “This way.”

***

They were in a turret near the top of the house looking out over the park. There was a bright half moon and an answering glimmer from the curve of the river that formed two sides of the estate’s boundaries. The room hadn’t been used in years, its furniture covered in dust sheets, but the view had been worth the extra flight of stairs and the long, winding corridor.

“So this was your world as a child,” Greg said, watching an owl glide above the trees.

“When we weren’t abroad or staying in town, yes,” Mycroft replied.

“Do the walls go all the way around?” Greg asked.

“On the land,” Mycroft replied. “The old wall along the river, with barred water gates, was taken down to improve the view. You can still find the foundation, if you look, the lower portions of the gates’ arches.”

“Did you play at defending it when you were boys?” Greg asked. The wind had died down, but the cold air continued to seep in around the windows. They didn’t move away, the brandy still warm in their stomachs. “Play at keeping everyone safe inside?”

“Sherlock liked to defend the riverbank, considered it his own Barbary Coast,” Mycroft said. He moved behind Greg and pointed over his shoulder. “There. Can you see the red and white lights?”

Greg craned his neck to see through the bare tree tops. “Yeah, what’s there, a dock?”

Mycroft nodded and Greg felt Mycroft’s cheek brush past his ear. “And a small boathouse,” Mycroft replied and let his hand droop over Greg’s shoulder. “It didn’t seem so small, then.”

“No,” Greg agreed. The owl’s silhouette flitted across the moon. Greg tilted his head back to follow it, nudged against Mycroft’s shoulder. The bird dived, some quarry spotted. Greg rested his forehead against the cold window glass. The owl had disappeared among the trees. “Ever wonder if we’re still just pretending that we keep anyone safe?”

Mycroft leaned forward, his cheek brushing against Greg’s hair, his arm briefly tightening across Greg’s chest. “Safer might be the best we can hope for,” he said.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~