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Chapter Text

Saturday, January 3

Mycroft knew he was going to pay a high price for his decision, but he didn't care; Sherlock was going back to Baker Street. If MI5 wanted him back in his cell, they could bloody well come and get him themselves.

Mycroft wasn't sure what disturbed and annoyed him most: James Moriarty's smirking face on his television screen, Sherlock's agitated silence at the sight, or the fact that Mycroft was going to have to be thankful to some unknown other for a fortuitously timed intervention.

He and Sherlock had barely spoken during the drive back into London. Though the respite from the usual sniping was welcome, Mycroft would have welcomed a distraction from his thoughts as he pondered the failure of his own plan for saving Sherlock from the Kosovo mission. Sherlock's equanimity over his reprieve, as if the events at Appledore had suddenly become irrelevant, presaged an upcoming tantrum now that the immediate danger was over, and Mycroft was not in the mood. So he prepared himself for the expected attack the moment his brother was back in his own territory of Baker Street.

When they arrived, Mrs Hudson launched into her usual fussing, clucking hen routine for a full ten minutes before she finally noticed Sherlock's hints that were leaden to the point of rudeness. She returned to her own flat, unaware of the steady diet of lies he'd fed her since walking in the door. Standing in the centre of the room, leaning on his umbrella, Mycroft watched the performance unfold around him. Still wrapped in his Belstaff, Sherlock whirled from one end of the room to the other, touching things. It seemed a compulsion, an escalating excitation and Mycroft realised that this was his brother expressing his relief. To be home, back at Baker Street and “safe”, with the enticement of another Moriarty-related puzzle to solve. Mycroft couldn't help a sense of foreboding as he watched his brother's disturbing exhibition.

When Andrea's text arrived, informing him he'd been summoned to Downing Street, Mycroft toyed with the idea of ignoring it. But much as he didn't want to, he had to go. Briefing the Prime Minister and members of Cabinet over the new “Moriarty situation” seemed a monumental waste of time in that moment; no one knew anything yet. With a sense of dread he left, receiving no response from Sherlock as he made his farewells.

On his way to Downing Street, Mycroft called Lestrade. After three failed attempts, Mycroft relented and left the man a voicemail, giving him a brief, allusive message about Sherlock's state and asking the man to check up on him later that day, if possible. Then he called John and left a message (Why was no one answering their phones? he wondered), informing John that he had just left Baker Street. He hoped he didn't need to spell out the meaning behind this message: check in on Sherlock.

When Mycroft arrived at Downing Street he wasn't surprised to see Blythe there. Mycroft was glad to see the other man cooling his heels in the corridor outside the Prime Minister's office, as well. The rueful look on Blythe's face confirmed Mycroft's suspicion that Lady Smallwood was already inside. The two men shared a nodded greeting and Mycroft took a seat nearby. They ignored one another in the watchful manner particular to antagonists forced to share close quarters.

Mycroft let the restrained bustle going on around them fade into background noise, and focused his attention on the painting to the right of Blythe's head in order to allow his mind to descend into processing space. Just as his attention was beginning to focus, the door opened and an aide ushered them inside.

The Prime Minister was accompanied by the Home Secretary, Foreign Secretary and Lady Smallwood, and Mycroft was again surprised that Blythe hadn't been included in the previous conversation. He was pleasantly surprised that neither the Prime Minister's Chief of Staff nor the Cabinet Office Secretary were present. In this, he saw Lady Smallwood's guiding hand, and Mycroft hoped the result was that there would be less pandering to politics and a greater focus on actually accomplishing something useful than was the norm in this building. After greetings and preliminaries were dispensed with, the Home Secretary turned to Mycroft. “How is your brother?”

This was not the opening Mycroft had been expecting and he allowed his surprise to show. “As well as can be expected, ma'am. Thank you for asking.”

“I understand you've returned him to his flat in Baker Street.” The Foreign Secretary was trying and failing to sound imperious and Mycroft suppressed a sigh. “He is not a flight risk. Not with the prospect of this puzzle to solve in front of him.”

“Is it really Moriarty?” the Prime Minister asked.

Mycroft barely resisted the urge to snap, “Of course not, you ninny. The man is dead!” Instead, he replied, “Moriarty is dead. Of this there can be no doubt.”

“Who is it then?”

You expect me to know this already? With no data to hand? “It is impossible to tell at this time.”

“GCHQ are tracing the source as we speak,” Lady Smallwood added.

Mycroft nodded, though he kept to himself his suspicions that they wouldn't find anything. “We should not assume a technological breach at this time. The fewer assumptions we make the better.”

“Speaking of your brother,” Blythe interjected quietly. “When he returned sixteen months ago, you assured us that he had eliminated Moriarty's entire network.”

Mycroft glanced over to the Foreign Secretary and the satisfied look on the man's face confirmed one of Mycroft's long-standing suspicions. “If I remember correctly, Sir Edwin, I conveyed to this group my brother's assurances that he had destroyed all of Moriarty's network. And when the Prime Minister asked my opinion on the matter, I replied that I thought it unlikely to be true. We've long had intelligence that pointed to persons affiliated with Moriarty operating in America.” The group followed Mycroft's glance to the Foreign Secretary, who gave a grudging nod in confirmation. Mycroft continued. “Though we still have little more than hints and rumours to that effect. The man's organisation was remarkably fluid, and at times it has been difficult to distinguish between his associates and his clients. If, indeed, there ever was much of a distinction.”

“If I might add, Prime Minister, the tensions between the CIA and the FBI being what they are, we've never been able to receive any confirmation that James Moriarty ever had operations in America,” Lady Smallwood interjected.

“Or this could be someone entirely unrelated,” the Home Secretary mused, almost to herself.

“Someone with a damned odd sense of humour,” the Prime Minister added.

Mycroft shared a tense glance with Lady Smallwood. “That is possible, of course. But I think unlikely.” He turned to the Home Secretary. “The methodology, the focus on media attention, leads me to believe it's someone familiar with Moriarty's methods. Again, we cannot presume a technological breach. Moriarty's attacks against the Tower, the Bank and Pentonville were all facilitated by insiders. They were not, technically, “hacks” of any kind.” He turned to the Prime Minister. “We should have confirmation by the end of the day the exact nature of the attacks, which will give us a better idea of what we're facing.”

Mycroft ignored Blythe's obvious annoyance that he was speaking on GCHQ's behalf, and Mycroft wondered what Blythe knew that he didn't.

“Of course. Best not to fly off the handle. Though it's damned startling to know someone can just come along and take over the entire system.” The Prime Minister turned to the Home Secretary. “We'll have to get someone to look into that, make sure it doesn't happen again. Priority one.”

“Yes, sir,” she responded in tones that Mycroft recognised as her shoving the suggestion to the bottom of her mental Inbox.

The Prime Minister toyed with a folder on his desk. “There is still the matter of your brother—”

“This 'Moriarty situation' does not change the fact of what was decided in December.” The Home Secretary leant forward and spoke before the Foreign Secretary could start; the man sat back in his chair with a frown on his face. “Sherlock has been brought back to deal with this, whatever it is. Once it is resolved, the—” She paused to share a look with Lady Smallwood. “Sentence, I suppose you would call it, will take place then. In some form or another. Though I understand the mission he was sent on today will be off the table.” She turned to the Foreign Secretary for confirmation.

“If this takes more than eight days or so, yes. Things will have moved on by then.”

Mycroft kept his expression neutral under Blythe's unblinking examination, even as his heart sank. “Of course.”

“As this is, as far we know, an entirely domestic matter, MI5 will be leading the charge,” the Prime Minister stated, looking between Mycroft and Blythe.

“Of course, Prime Minister.” Mycroft did not ask any of the growing list of questions forming in his mind. Discretion was the order of the day, especially as his role in the investigation still had not been addressed. The matter seemed designed for his involvement, but it appeared he was to be sidelined.

No one said a word for a few pregnant seconds. Mycroft addressed the Prime Minister. “Has there been any progress on discussions with the Americans regarding Magnussen?”

The Foreign Secretary jumped in, his face colouring a bit at the snub. “They're still blathering on about extradition, as if the crime took place in America.” His faux pas lowered the temperature in the room by a few degrees, Mycroft was amused to see. He glanced back to the man, then back to the now-scowling Prime Minister. “There's no question of extradition. Bloody cheek,” the PM muttered at the Foreign Secretary.

Have they named my brother as the murderer? “Have they made a specific request?” Mycroft directed the voiced question to Lady Smallwood. He'd have liked to direct it to Blythe, but it was not the time to starting testing hypotheses.

“There has been some off the record mutterings, but no official request.”

Mycroft glanced around the room to see who didn't find this information surprising, but the company wasn't of the sort to reveal their secrets accidentally, except perhaps for the Prime Minister. But he was the one person in the room Mycroft had no suspicion of involvement in leaking information to the Americans, solely because he wouldn't have understood the strategic value in doing so.

“They've lost faith in our ability to run our own shop; of course they haven't bothered asking. They'll probably just—” The Foreign Secretary stopped, flushing a bright red as he almost immediately proved Mycroft wrong. Mycroft stilled and slowly released his breath, carefully not looking at Blythe or Lady Smallwood. The Foreign Secretary recovered quickly, though. “Not surprising, after the disaster with the Adler woman. That cost us. Absolute cock up and from what I can see no one has been held accountable for it.”

Mycroft remained relaxed, aloof; on the surface his usual composure remained unruffled, but internally he seethed. The man's meaning: that Mycroft hadn't been held accountable for the Bond Air escapade. He addressed the Prime Minister. “I can continue to pursue the American aspect of the Magnussen—”

“The Americans won't talk to you. Our CIA liaison was absolutely clear on that point.” The Foreign Secretary allowed a hint of triumph in his tones, and Mycroft repressed a sneer at the man's vulgarity, which had earned an outright glare from the Prime Minister and the Home Secretary. Lady Smallwood looked to be suppressing a smile only through her utmost efforts.

The Prime Minister shifted in his chair in his clearest tell Mycroft knew that he was about to begin pontificating. “We need all hands on deck for this. The press is crawling all over it and we need answers now. It's been up on YouTube for hours already. Makes us look a bunch of idiots.” He turned to Mycroft. “Find out what you can at your end.” He glanced around the room. “We need teamwork on this. No squirrelling away intel. I expect concrete answers I can take to the press first thing tomorrow.”

“Yes, Prime Minister,” they all intoned with varying degrees of enthusiasm. The dismissal was obvious and they all stood.

“Elizabeth, I'd like you to stay and take a look at this press statement.”

Mycroft followed Blythe out the door. In the corridor, the Home Secretary was the only one of the three that met his eye as they went through the courtesies before heading in their various directions: the Ministers to the Cabinet meeting room, Mycroft and Blythe toward the exit.

When they reached the bottom of the staircase, Blythe turned to him. “I'll have my staff send over what we have. Interesting times, eh?”

Mycroft's only response was the flash of a thin smile and an entirely insincere expression of agreement, before turning to the door. Andrea waited in the car already and she had the sense to leave him to his thoughts as they made their way back to Whitehall.

Mycroft picked over the plan he'd tried, and failed, to bring to fruition in an attempt to save Sherlock from his mission. One of the more remarkable elements of the situation hadn't been mentioned by anyone that day. Whoever was behind the Moriarty video had known when Sherlock was to have left. The timing had been perfect: after Sherlock's plane had left the tarmac, after everyone had gone through the wrenching enterprise of saying their goodbyes, but before Sherlock had been put in danger. This was a tremendous miscalculation on the part of the responsible party as it meant that Mycroft would know they were receiving information from one of a very small number of people, which in theory would make them easier to identify.

Though, giving it a moment's thought, Mycroft realised that it wasn't so surprising that the “coincidence” of the timing had gone unmentioned; Mycroft suspected that the source of that intelligence had been in the Prime Minister's office that afternoon.

~ + ~

When they strode into the environs of Mycroft's dominion, Andrea began to reclaim her usual role. “Should I assemble the security team, sir?” she asked as they traversed the outermost part of his office.

“Not yet. Though please ask Mrs Fraser to increase surveillance on the Watsons. Two levels, I think.”

Andrea nodded and typed as they walked. When they settled into his innermost office, Mycroft paused, allowing her to take over the burden of the conversation and she grabbed the opportunity, launching into the logistics of next steps: liaison with GCHQ, MI5, and the Cabinet Office; and seconding IT staff to assist Miss Puri, Mycroft's head of IT, to give her more foot soldiers in the inevitable trench warfare of analysis that was coming. When Andrea was done, Mycroft still refrained from joining in the discussion. He knew the arrangements were safe in her hands and he wasn't inclined to share his thoughts on the briefing just yet.

Andrea paused for a few seconds and let a moment of concern show on her face, before asking if he would like her to order him dinner, as it was obvious none of them were going home any time soon.

The thought of food turned Mycroft's stomach, so he declined, with thanks. She waited patiently for another moment, then continued extemporising on the mundane details, leaving him to play a mental game of whack-a-mole. His mind wouldn't settle on one aspect of the situation for more than a second or two before chasing off at the sight of another issue popping its head above ground: Sherlock to Blythe to the CIA to “Moriarty” to Mary Watson and back to Sherlock again.

When his attention returned to Andrea, she was placing a cup of tea in front of him. He must have been distracted for far longer than he'd thought, an inexcusable slip in concentration when he could ill afford it.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to remain calm. “We will need every Met report on the incident available to us.” Andrea cocked an eyebrow at the concept of a Met report that wasn't available to them and Mycroft answered the unasked question. “You will likely find MI5 suddenly much less cooperative than in the past, so your infamous resourcefulness will be required even more than usual.” He paused as she chuckled quietly, continuing to type notes into her phone at a blistering pace, obviously uninterested in the reason why. “Please tell Miss Puri to not waste her time with liaison on the IT side; have one of her deputies take that on. I fear the Prime Minister's request for 'teamwork' will largely be a theatrical exercise rather than a productive one. I want her to focus all her energy on tracing the broadcast hack. GCHQ will waste at least 48 hours faffing about and by then we might not as well bother. It's essential we have an answer tonight; by tomorrow, the scenery will most likely have shifted considerably at this end.

“And you, my dear, I would like to work your contacts in the media. Anything, everything that you can get will be helpful. We need information, rumours, anything at all, that indicates where the 'hack' might have been assisted in-house. We need to measure the boundaries of this before we start mining for details. Have Miss Davies assist you; have her contact the commercial display firms.” Mycroft paused to wonder again at that aspect of the “hack”. Most criminals would have limited their attack to the media, but hacking the large commercial display firms had shown true flair. The culprits must have known what the impact would be of having Moriarty's face plastered all over Piccadilly Circus. That image had been the most shocking of them all, and the footage would be running on the news until the case was solved, Mycroft suspected. “How is this all playing out on-line?”

“Much as you would expect. A lot of conspiracy theories, people claiming they never believed the second coroner's verdict, it's all a cover-up, the usual. In the last half hour or so, your brother has begun trending in association with the case; people are demanding he be involved in solving it.”

“Well, the clamouring British masses are going to get their wish for once. Because apparently Sherlock and Moriarty are as inextricably bound in the 'minds' at the head of the British government as they are in the public imagination. For better or worse—”

As he trailed off, Mycroft sensed a growing hesitation from Andrea. It was obvious she had a question she considered impolite to ask, so he did her the courtesy of broaching the subject himself. “This morning's events will most likely have some effect on our operations for the foreseeable future.”

“Of course.” She paused and looked uncomfortable for a few seconds before asking the question that actually surprised Mycroft. “Do you anticipate rumours that you were responsible for the video?”

That demonstrates an unexpected understanding of counter-intelligence. “From anyone else's viewpoint, it's a logical assumption. Proof, though, will be very elusive.” She wasn't in the least successful at hiding the hint of annoyance that briefly appeared on her face.

“We'll need to get ahead of that rumour.”

“It will be too late already.” He consulted his watch; a ridiculous affectation, he knew, but couldn't help himself. As he replaced it he allowed himself to imagine the conversation that was likely going on at a number of St James' clubs at very moment. “Our first priority is to determine where there was collusion in the broadcast.”

Andrea was smiling down at her mobile as she continued typing. “Would you care for a little wager, sir?”

“Perhaps not. Though I have no objection to the staff opening a pool.”

“Where shall I put down your pound?”

“That would hardly be fair, would it?”

She glanced up at him over the top of her mobile. “No, of course not.”

They exchanged thin smiles at shared understanding of just which media outlet his bet would have gone on.

“Do you really think the Met files will be of any use to us? Or is the request to head someone off the scent?”

“A bit of both. Oh, there might be some useful data, but my hopes are not high. You will not be able to go through Lestrade. Commercial crime is not the responsibility of his division, and until MI5 take it off their hands and reclassify the case in order to keep the press at bay, then the commercial crime unit will have the files. Lestrade will be able to provide you with the name of someone useful.”

“When would you like to meet with Puri?”

“Tomorrow at seven. But I would like hourly status reports from her, as well as from Mrs Fraser on my brother's surveillance. Just a sentence or two, unless something of interest pops up.”

“Won't the Prime Minister expect a briefing tonight?”

“Of course. But as he has placed MI5 in the vanguard of the investigation, they will be responsible for briefing the Prime Minister.” Mycroft didn't bother hiding his amusement at the thought of how that would go.

She smiled, eyes still focused on her phone. “Do you expect that situation to last long?”

Mycroft paused, something at the back of his mind trying to catch his attention. “We shall see. GCHQ are already trying to shoulder their way to the top of the table. Let's let them jostle each other for a few days and see what comes loose and falls to the ground for us to pick up.”

“I imagine the Prime Minister will fail to find the humour in the situation.”

“The perspective offered by adequate distance from the field of play is often illuminating.” She continued to type for a minute or so while Mycroft checked his news feed. “Has either John Watson or Lestrade contacted my brother?”

Andrea finally glanced up from her phone and Mycroft knew what her answer would be. “John Watson sent him a text.”

What? “A text.”

She hesitated. “He asked your brother how he was, and he responded that he was fine. There's been no contact from the Chief Inspector.”

Mycroft locked eyes with her for a moment before she looked away, flustered, and turned her attention back to her typing.

Mycroft stared at his computer screen, his news feed scrolling by, unseen. This is not what you promised, John. Where the hell are you?

~ + ~

Sunday, January 4

Mycroft was not surprised to see coverage of the Moriarty video still dominating the morning's news headlines. Comment from the government having been the very definition of vacuous had, of course, resulted in a fair amount of conspiracy theorising in the lunatic quadrant of the press. Mycroft tried—and failed—to not feel smug at MI5's obvious failure to provide the Prime Minister with any useful information, and the press was taking their pound of flesh as a result. The press' irresponsible scaremongering was unfortunate, if expected, and he knew that a fair portion of his day would be wasted talking the more hysteria-prone members of the Cabinet and Shadow Cabinet off their respective ledges.

As he dressed, Mycroft kept one eye on play-back of the surveillance footage of Sherlock at Baker Street the night before. It confirmed the hourly reports sent to him by Janet Fraser and her team: his brother hadn't left the flat, hadn't had any visitors other than his landlady, and had had no contact with Lestrade or John Watson other than the latter's derisory attempt at verifying Sherlock's wellbeing. Mycroft wasn't sure what angered him more, John Watson abandoning Sherlock in his time of need, or Sherlock for apparently thinking his reprieve from MI6's suicide mission was to be a holiday, considering the complete lack of effort he was putting into the “Moriarty” case.

By the time he arrived at his office, Mycroft had managed to regain some approximation of his usual composure. He doubted anyone other than Andrea would be able to see his agitation, and as she was already familiar with his many concerns, he wasn't bothered.

Mycroft was glad to see Puri waiting for him at Andrea's desk. The hours at the office showed on her face, but he had no sympathy. She'd been told her hours in his employ would be erratic, and she'd insisted she'd wanted the job anyway. He waved for her to follow him as he passed. Andrea was in his office already, standing in front of his desk sorting files. She greeted him with her usual deceptively offhand manner as he waved Puri to a chair and took his.

“Miss Puri.”

“Good morning, sir.” She paused and drew a deep breath as Mycroft and Andrea watched, their twin expectant faces probably the source of the young woman's nervousness. “Well, so far we've confirmed that it was a mixed attack. Some channels, BBC and ITV at least, and at least one of the larger display advertising companies, were subject to an external hacking, as were the BBC's web sites. We couldn't find any evidence that Sky was hacked, so they had someone on the inside give them access.”

That should shut Murdoch up for a day or two, Mycroft thought. “From where did the attacks originate?”

“We're working on that, sir. I should warn you, though, we may not be able to trace them through all the proxies. Especially if they've used any Asian ones. But we'll keep at it.” She paused and her expression communicated a considerable unease. “May I speak plainly, sir?”

“You're no longer in the services, Miss Puri. Thoughtful, well-informed opinion is always welcome.”

“Of course, sir. Sorry. Um, well. The thing is. I think we need to prepare ourselves for the likelihood that we're not going to be able to trace this. I mean, the problem with tech solutions is that the villains are always at least one step ahead of us. We're always chasing. We're probably going to need intelligence on the ground to crack this. Old school, if you know what I mean.”

Mycroft watched the woman retreat back into her shell a bit, obviously afraid of the consequences of being the bearer of unwelcome tidings.

“Thank you, Miss Puri.”

She glanced at Andrea, who nodded and Puri stood. “Lladislaw and Billie will be on this until we crack it or chase down every dead end as far as we can go.”

“As I would expect,” Mycroft replied in warning tones. He was not happy to see that she was expecting praise simply for doing her job; praise was for success, not mere effort, in Mycroft's book. But she was at least clever enough to catch his meaning. Then he realised it had been a backhanded request for permission to go home, and he turned away so that Andrea would deal with her.

When Puri had been escorted out, Andrea returned, a rueful expression on her face. “She'll learn. This is the first significant incident she's faced since coming over.”

“I did not request a work experience student when filling that position, and there is no time for 'learning curves'. I need her to perform. Now.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Do you have anything to add to Miss Puri's report?”

“Nothing I've heard contradicts what we've found out from our end. The Mail website was hacked, and they took it down as soon as they realised. Which just encouraged the conspiracy nutters. There doesn't seem to have been any attempt to use the chaos yesterday or last night as cover for any other attacks: there were no discernible moves against the banks, the Met, SIS, the government—”

“All for show,” Mycroft mused.

“It's a play against you, sir.”

He smiled at her obvious concern. “Why do you think so?”

She paused and gave him a knowing look, aware that he was giving her one of the tests she disliked so much. But Mycroft had long thought Andrea had considerable promise as an analyst, and he still waited for the day she accepted his mentorship for that purpose. She huffed a little before starting. “Someone wanted our attention, and they wanted the world to see them getting it. They wanted everyone to know what they're capable of, that they can get control over such a wide variety of systems, and coordinate such a broad-based and comprehensive hacking.

“But why Moriarty's face? They could have used anything that would catch people's attention. Because they want the world to believe he's still alive. Hence the similarities to the Tower, Bank of England, and Pentonville attacks. Most people won't believe it, but enough people are suspicious of the government they'll think the second coroner's ruling was a cover-up. The people behind it want to cause chaos, and I think they want to focus attention on your brother for some reason, because he and Moriarty are linked in the public imagination. And a play against your brother is a play against you, sir. The only question is why.”

Mycroft nodded in response to her reasonable, but not exceptional, efforts. “The question is which out of a wide range of probable whys is the correct one. And once we have that, we have the first clue as to the culprit.”

~ + ~

That afternoon, while Mycroft ploughed his way through some of the backlog of work not related to the “Mortiarty” case, Andrea popped her head around his office door.

“Chief Inspector Lestrade has got in touch. He's proposed 7:30 this evening.”

“That's fine. Thank you.” As Mycroft turned his attention back to the most recent Foreign Office report on Yemen, his personal mobile chimed. He was surprised to see it was Sherlock.

Where are you? Expected you hovering annoyingly at the crack of dawn.
SH

Mycroft let off a brief, quiet chortle as he contemplated calling, then changed his mind and typed his reply. It was extremely unlikely that this conversation would contain anything of significance.

Busy. Not everything in the universe is about you, Sherlock.
M

Why am I here?
SH

Now Mycroft let full reign to relieved amusement.

Ah, the supposed consolations of philosophy. Middle age imminent, is it? But then, forty is just around the corner.
M

You'd know about the decrepitude of middle age.
SH

Mycroft was pleased to see the relatively low venom level in his brother's taunts; it meant he was unlikely to be high.

Returning to old haunts?
SH

“The point, finally,” Mycroft muttered as he typed his response.

?
M

Oxford
SH

Mycroft sat back in his chair, mobile and brother ignored as his mind grabbed that piece of data and ran with it.

Oxford. Why Oxford? What, or most likely who was in Oxford? Then a slip of the tongue, a surprise appearance at a meeting, and a passing reference came together in the front of his mind and collectively waved for attention.

Not my decision. Good luck with it, though.
M

Mycroft was not surprised to receive no response. Sherlock would, he knew, interpret this assignment as abandonment (as he did whenever anyone denied him something), but Mycroft knew now that the waters of this case had suddenly become choppier.

The obvious conclusion to be drawn from Sherlock being handed over to Deborah Oppenheimer, of all people, was that Sherlock was to be taken over entirely by MI5. Mycroft would no longer have any oversight of his brother, on the one hand a relief and on the other a source of concern that bordered on the vertigo-inducing. He wondered if MI5 would attempt to bar him from all aspects of Sherlock's work.

From the point of view of someone who didn't know Sherlock well, Oppenheimer could be an inspired choice: handing a drug addict over to a psychiatrist for supervision. What little Mycroft knew of Doctor Oppenheimer's brief, long-past, career as a field operative spoke to an idiosyncratic approach to operations and an almost pathological abhorrence of authority figures. On the surface, the match could be seen as an obvious one, but Mycroft feared that the woman's unconventionality might encourage Sherlock's more dangerous impulses and make no effort to curb his flight into whatever drug-induced fancies caught his attention. The last thing Sherlock needed in his life was someone else who turned a blind eye to his excesses.

However, Mycroft knew that no conventional agent, no matter how skilled or experienced, would be able to keep up with or engage Sherlock's attention, the reason why he'd reported to Mycroft in the first place. So he resolved to fight his instincts to intervene, and—for the time being—watch and wait, and prepare to pick up the pieces should it all fall apart.

~ + ~

Mycroft waved Lestrade into the chair in front of his desk.

“How's Sherlock doing?” Lestrade asked as he sat.

“Much as you would expect. Somewhat manic at the reprieve and yet entirely unchastened by it.”

Lestrade chuckled. “What's next? With Sherlock?”

“Presumably he will be presented with this new puzzle to solve. And once that is done, I imagine MI6 will find some other equally fatal mission for him to take on.” Mycroft didn't bother trying to hide his bitterness.

“He's using again, isn't he?”

Mycroft gave the man a level stare. “Yes, for some time now, I'm afraid. Unfortunately, the political situation is such that I will not be able to be as involved with Sherlock as I would like—”

Lestrade dropped his head into his hands for a few seconds before sitting up again. “We all dropped the ball on that one. We should have known—”

“Do not blame yourself, Lestrade. I knew it was a risk and allowed myself to be distracted, as well. Ultimately, Sherlock must be held accountable for his decisions to return to his self-destructive behaviour. But he will be vulnerable while this case is ongoing, regardless of what he thinks about it as a distraction from his underlying drug problem.”

“I'll keep an eye out.”

“Thank you. I had hoped that you would be able to do so.”

Lestrade nodded and again, Mycroft had cause to give thanks that there was at least one person on the planet besides himself that apparently Sherlock hadn't managed to alienate entirely. “Things are very— No one appears to know what will happen next. Such circumstances often bring out the worst in people. Unfortunately, there are a number of games in play at the moment and Sherlock is likely to get caught in the middle of them. One of my goals is to ensure he doesn't become collateral damage.”

“Someone making a play against you?”

“There are always games in play against me. Don't waste a moment's thought on the matter.”

“Wasn't planning to. I wouldn't bet against you, though.”

Mycroft gave him a tight little smile in acknowledgement. “It is almost a surety that there will be attempts at hampering my communications with Sherlock. I will need means of circumventing those efforts.”

“I've got no problem being go-between.”

“Thank you; that was my hope. However, I anticipate that some time in the next few days you will be ordered to cease communication with me.”

“We'll work around that.”

“You may also be ordered to have no communication with Sherlock. That will be significantly more difficult to circumvent, especially secure communication.”

Lestrade frowned. “Why cut him off from people who can help him with the Moriarty business if that's why they brought him back?”

“The people in question likely feel that isolating Sherlock will make him easier to control.” Mycroft gambled that the man's trustworthiness meant that he had a trusting nature and would swallow the egregious lie. And for the other man's sake, Mycroft hoped he would not have to abuse that trust too frequently before this enterprise was over.

“They're idiots if they think that.”

“Let me assure you, Lestrade, that they are nothing of the kind. Misguided, yes. But most definitely not idiots.”

“Still—”

Mycroft held up a hand to cut off the other man's arguments. “I am more concerned about any efforts to keep Sherlock from the Watsons.”

“I thought you weren't— Well, you don't like John and Mary.”

“My personal opinion of the Watsons is irrelevant. As you know, I've always had concerns about John's influence on Sherlock; the man has been a mixed blessing, to say the least. And the less said about Mary Watson the better. No, cutting Sherlock off from John Watson could cause him to fall even deeper into his addictions.” And John Watson abandoning his promises in less than twenty-four hours does not speak highly of his concern for Sherlock, Mycroft thought to himself, then continued. “He is still— He has yet to adjust to the changes in his life since the Watsons' marriage. He is an expert in denial, as you know. Further alienation on that front could worsen his state of mind. And if that happens, MI5 will deem him irrevocably broken and discard him. I cannot allow that to happen.”

“Yeah, if they don't let him work the way he wants to—”

“He will not refuse to work on this case. No, the lure of anything that might be related to Moriarty is too strong. But he must have access to the people that he trusts. And that includes you, Lestrade. Not just John Watson.”

“I'll do what I can. But how do we keep the channels open if he's being controlled that tightly?”

“We try to ensure the leash is kept as long as possible. Sherlock will do everything in his power to sabotage our efforts, and there must not be so much as a hint that I am trying to direct things or—”

“Or Sherlock gets his flounce on.”

And he won't be the only one. “Yes. A colourful, but not inaccurate description.”

“I'll do what I can.”

“I know. And I appreciate it more than I can say. But if you're pressured to leave Sherlock alone, you must. You are not to endanger your position at the Met. And there will be many people outside the force involving themselves behind the scenes.”

“Wasn't planning to.”

“Good.”

Consensus reached, they watched each other across Mycroft's desk. Lestrade was his usual slightly rumpled, relaxed self, unflinching under Mycroft's examination. Mycroft rarely allowed himself to wonder at the tremendous luck of Sherlock's becoming attached to the man. While Sherlock considered John Watson his one true friend, Lestrade was the man who had undoubtedly saved Sherlock's life. On more occasions than he knew, often without even knowing he was doing so. But one of the many things Mycroft hoped for in this enterprise was that Lestrade came out of it unscathed. And from a purely selfish point of view, the thought of Lestrade—the only person other than John Watson that Sherlock would accept help from—out of his brother's life almost paralyzed Mycroft with fear. He'd come to rely on the man too much, though he acknowledged that he had little choice.

“Have you seen the Watsons since Christmas?” Mycroft broke the uncomfortable silence.

“No. John's been avoiding me. Probably afraid of blabbing something about what happened at Appledore.”

“That does not surprise me. Well, him finally acknowledging his appalling lack of skills in dissimulation does surprise me. He's a stubborn fellow. But I fear that the events of Christmas have had a considerable effect on John. I think it may force him to reassess his relationship with Sherlock. He has always vastly overestimated Sherlock's coping skills and underestimated his capriciousness. I think Christmas opened his eyes somewhat to the Sherlock we both know, but whom John has never seen.”

“John's probably already got a raft of excuses and justifications all lined up.”

“Perhaps. In the immediate aftermath, I agree. But now that he is home again with his wife, with the child's arrival imminent, I think his perspective will change. I hope that he does not pull back from Sherlock entirely; my brother would feel the loss keenly and we know all too well what his response would be. Has been already.”

“John would never abandon Sherlock. Especially if he thought he was in trouble. Mary, too.”

“I like to think John would manage the matter with at least a little delicacy, but what I know of the man indicates that is extremely unlikely. If he is presented with the choice between his friendship with Sherlock and the safety of his family, well, you know as well as I on which side the choice would fall. As it should.”

“I hope you're being too pessimistic.”

“I learnt many years ago not to place any faith in 'hoping for the best', Lestrade. Preparation and dedicated action are much more reliable allies.”

~ + ~

Monday, January 5

“He's not doing well, is he?”

Andrea's sympathetic tone surprised Mycroft; she'd never before hidden her disdain for the Prime Minister when it was just her and Mycroft in the room.

“No one's given him any information, and he's never been able to hide his anger when people question his judgement. He's too accustomed to pronouncements, followed by unquestioning obedience.”

The two of them watched the scrum in front of No10 wind down, with none of the participants satisfied. The BBC reporter's wind-up comments about the complete absence of substantive information about the broadcast hacking two days before began to shade into the pedantically vituperative. And to Mycroft's dismay, if not his surprise, the commentary turned to Sherlock. About how he had yet to comment on the “Moriarty situation”, and how no one was willing to confirm or deny that Sherlock would be involved in the investigation.

“Your brother hasn't gone out since he returned home from the Watsons' last night.”

“Yes, and promptly de-bugged the flat again.” Mycroft didn't want to think this was the result of anything other than Sherlock's ordinary pique. He tried to not see behind it the desire to hide ongoing drug use. Not that Sherlock needed that excuse to subvert his brother's efforts to keep watch over him, but Mycroft couldn't help but imagine it.

He glanced at the time displayed on his computer screen. “Please ask Miss Puri to come in.”

When the three of them were settled around Mycroft's desk, Puri launched into the report of her team's progress since the previous afternoon.

“Well, the obvious choice of source would be China or Russia, but my instincts are, um.” Puri paused to gather her thoughts and Mycroft wondered why she hadn't done so before she came to him. “There's no economic advantage here, so that pretty much rules out the Chinese. There's no state or commercial secrets at risk. The method doesn't correspond to anything we've ever seen from the Russians, but of course that's not decisive. It could be a new group or a breakaway splinter of the Russian army or the mafia, but we've never received any intelligence that that might be going on over there. And again, no money in play that we can see, so that pretty much indicates not the mob.” She paused again and Mycroft wondered if she'd finally come to the end of her stream-of consciousness blathering. He'd have to speak to Andrea about giving the woman instructions on better preparation for meetings. “This is going to sound weird. But my instincts tell me this is Americans.”

“Americans.” Mycroft's heart sank.

“Yes, sir.”

“Why?”

“The— the sense of humour, I guess. I mean, it's like— A fraternity prank. That kind of humour, or maybe trying to pass itself off as just a prank. A stupid prank that doesn't do anything but get attention for itself, so you can brag to your friends, 'Hey, look what I did, I'm all over the news,' type of thing—”

Mycroft held up his hand to stem the torrent of nervous verbiage. He turned to Andrea.

She shrugged a little. “It's a good point.”

“That American endeavour is characterised by stupid pranks?”

“Jackass,” Andrea replied.

“I beg your pardon.”

“Nothing, sir. An American television program.”

Mycroft glanced between the two women as they shared a look. “Ah. Popular culture.”

“We don't have any hard evidence yet, sir. And we might not get it, at least not without help from the Americans. Even if we track it to their front door, it might just be another proxy. They'd have to confirm it originated there.”

“Thank you, Miss Puri.”

The woman stood and gave them each a nod and left. Mycroft turned back to Andrea. “Do you concur with Miss Puri's assessment?”

“I think her instincts are good as a general rule; that's why I recommended her for the job.”

“Yes, but her data-gathering leaves much to be desired.” Mycroft returned his attention to his computer. His curated news feed scrolled along one side of the screen. “What's the popular view of this?”

Andrea consulted her phone. “The chatter so far is mixed. Some rather wild speculation but no consensus yet in terms of which direction the conspiracy theories will go.”

“How much of the chatter is about Sherlock?”

“About thirty-five percent so far. Trending upwards, though. It's not helping that he's refusing to speak to the press. They're desperate to make a story out of it, so they're digging up the old Rich Brook nonsense as filler, but it's gaining some traction. We should see some coalition around two or three principal conspiracy theories by the end of the day. One will likely focus on your brother. This should dominate social media originating in Britain for another 24 to 48 hours, unless there's a major celebrity event to distract the public sooner. It will die down soon regardless, unless there's another event that appears to be linked to Moriarty.”

“And if that happens in the next 24 hours, there will be widespread panic.” Mycroft watched events unfold on the computer. A message popped up. “Do we know yet what approach the Prime Minister will take in his next press conference?”

“No word yet, but it will likely be the usual. Downing Street has been close-mouthed about it all. There's been no gossip at all from that direction.”

Of the two possibilities, that Downing Street had finally managed to get their staff to keep their mouths shut, or that they'd been ordered to keep Mycroft's office in the dark, Mycroft suspected the latter to be more likely. It was starting. The cutting-out that he'd seen start on Saturday afternoon in the Prime Minister's office. Someone was trying to take advantage of what they perceived to be his vulnerability. He was going to have to put a stop to that, or every enterprise he began in an effort to save Sherlock and get to the bottom of the “Moriarty situation” would be stillborn.

“Do you concur with Miss Puri's entirely unsupported analysis of the source, based on the 'sense of humour'?”

“It is tenuous—”

“It is not tenuous, it is useless.” Mycroft knew he shouldn't snap at her; it wasn't her fault that Puri was not performing to expectations, even if Andrea had recommended the woman for the position.

“Have you heard anything from your CIA contacts?”

“People are being remarkably closed-mouthed about anything to do with Magnussen.” Chasing after his former colleagues to request assistance with tracing the source of the broadcast hack was going to be seen as begging, and Mycroft was not looking forward to having to do it. But he couldn't leave it to Blythe; the last thing Mycroft needed was the man gunning for his job to get direct access to some of his most valuable contacts.

Again, he couldn't help being angry at the ingratitude. Yes, the CIA had paid him handsomely for the work he'd done for them over the years, but he didn't think professional courtesy too much to expect, as well.

~ + ~

The behaviour of the staff was, as always, impeccable. Courteous, of course. Deferential to the most infinitely refined degree of calculation, based on a set of unwritten professional algorithms known only to the staff. Mycroft himself had never cracked in all his years as a member of the Diogenes Club. Even his finely tuned observational skills were unable to discern any difference in how he was treated. As soon as he entered the library, though, he knew the word was out. Blythe had ensured that Sherlock's actions and Mycroft's failure to stop them were known across the highest level of government and the usual Diogenes climate of restraint was overlaid with a noticeable froideur the moment Mycroft entered the room.

As he took a seat near the centre of the room and picked up a copy of The Times, he felt his heart sink. Of all the things Sherlock had taken from him, this loss would be the most significant. The prospect of being deprived of his sanctuary, the place truest to his heart and nature, even in the short term, was more painful than Mycroft would have suspected.

To anyone not familiar with the capriciousness of power and the delicate undercurrents by which it was communicated, nothing would appear to be out of ordinary: a room full of middle-aged and older, formally-dressed gentlemen silently reading. But the shunning would start here, with a chill in the library. Then would come the whispers in the committee rooms. If the fall-out from the Magnussen situation wasn't resolved soon, even his membership would be at risk and the loss of it didn't bear thinking about, especially considering his dependence on the site for his most-used unofficial base of operations.

It was a deliberate affront. The kind of behind the scenes assault that had brought down many seemingly unassailable men before him, demonstrating the classic play of the political operator. But Mycroft was beyond (even if perhaps in his methods not exactly above) politics. A realisation came to mind that brought a faint smile to his face. Blythe was playing Mycroft's game. Not only did the man want Mycroft's position and power, he wanted to claim Mycroft's masteries as well. Mycroft leant back in his chair and snapped the newspaper open, a thin smile appearing on his face for a moment. They would see if the mimic was up to the standard of the master. The headache that had been clamped around the back of his head since that morning's meeting with Blythe and Lady Smallwood began to ease.

As he appeared to make his way through The Times, the principal components of his mind worked on the various issues confronting him, most particularly the fallout from the Magnussen situation. Now that the “Moriarty” panic was beginning to subside, he could focus his attention again on Sherlock and the threats to him.

Mycroft knew that he was going to have to broach the subject with some of his old contacts at the CIA, many of them the very men that had been willing to sit back and watch Mycroft and MI6 deliver Sherlock straight to them. For there was no doubt that they would have picked him up in Kosovo within 24 hours of Sherlock arriving there, to be whisked off to a black site for torture and possible execution. The irony of it had not been lost on Mycroft, considering the work he had done with the CIA facilitating the development of some of those very sites. As his eyes roamed over the tiny black text and his body went through the motions of turning pages, his mind flowed over the game-branched possibilities of approaches he could make, forcing himself to focus on the tiniest details of each branch in order to stave off the seductive rage that threatened to distract him. None of the alternatives were ideal. Some of them he eliminated as likely collaborators in the plan to place Sherlock under rendition. At the far edges of his consciousness he forced himself to ignore the crawling anxiety in the pit of his stomach.

One corner of his mind he allowed to work on the issue of his likely surveillance by the CIA. It had been so long he could barely remember the last time he'd been prey rather than hunter and if the circumstances had been different he might have relished the novelty of it. The fact that no one on his staff had brought up the matter of surveillance with him did seem to hint that either his staff was being remarkably lax with his security (unlikely), were allowing themselves to be overly distracted by the “Moriarty” business (slightly less unlikely), or that one of the senior members of his staff had strayed (unfortunate, possibly quite destructive, but somewhat likely). Mycroft liked to think he screened his staff well, but it was never possible to forecast the future behaviour of anyone with complete accuracy, especially people as intelligent and ambitious as the ones he hired.

As he sat in the comfortable club chair, Mycroft let his consciousness expand outwards into the room: the slightly fusty smell of newsprint, leather, furniture polish, old money, and ambitions banked down for the evening. The familiar cocoon and armour.

It was all connected: Moriarty, Magnussen, MI6, the CIA, Sherlock, and every mundane but important issue; each represented a node on the spiderweb of Mycroft's working world. And at the centre of it was the Diogenes, his real workplace and sanctuary. He would not give this up. Not without a fight.

~ + ~

Tuesday, January 6

Another meeting with his staff resulted in nothing more than another case of frustration. While the rest of them filed out of Mycroft's office, Andrea remained behind. She'd brought him nothing that morning. Nothing that spoke of the signature attention-seeking immaturity that characterised the video and the dead man that it purported to represent. Mycroft stared out the window as Andrea waited.

“What is your estimation of the truth in what the Met has given us?” Mycroft turned his attention to her.

“I think it's likely true they don't know anything. They have no motive to play down any incidents. It's always in their interest to exaggerate threats.”

Mycroft wondered when she'd decided he had developed an appetite for the obvious. “They're most likely following MI5's lead on the matter.” There. That would serve her right. She didn't quite manage to hide the flinch as she ducked her head down, pretending to check her phone.

“Of course.”

The true peril of being at the centre of the web was being cut off from all directions at once. Mycroft refused to believe they were in free-fall. Not yet. There was no point in discussing it, even though his mind would not desist in spinning out the scenarios of why and how it would be happening. Knowing that data existed, knowing that it was being withheld from him, ordinarily annoying in the extreme, would soon become dangerous.

“Sir. There is always the possibility that nothing has happened.”

“Of course. Considering the party responsible appears to be aping Moriarty's methods, and the man's insatiable desire for attention, I can't imagine there will be much doubt about when they act again.”

“And there's been nothing of interest.”

“Only crime, intrigue, and human folly in their usual abundance. But nothing that appears related, no.”

Andrea looked up from her phone. “Should I set aside time in your calendar for your brother?”

Such an innocuous question, Mycroft thought. So pregnant with potential minefields. “Not at the moment.”

They watched each other for a second before she dropped her gaze back to her mobile. “Of course, sir.”

Mycroft forced himself not to imagine he heard disappointment in her voice. He wondered if she had deduced his suspicions. She must have known, though, that her slip before the New Year about Deborah Oppenheimer would not go unnoticed. He tried to prevent his mind from becoming too attached to the notion that perhaps the slip had been intentional. That it had been her way of letting him know that she had been approached, offered an opportunity to stray, and that by letting him know, she was telling him that she had declined it. Because down that path lay the blindness of self-deception, fatal in his line of work.

Regardless, someone had told her that Oppenheimer would be at that meeting in December and Mycroft wanted to know who and why, if for no other reason than that he wanted to know who in the security services was in the habit of gossiping about Mycroft's business.

But until he had some sort of proof that there was a leak in his security, he had to continue on as if he suspected nothing. And seeing Andrea so set down upset him for some reason, so he extended an olive branch.

“Has Mrs Fraser's team managed to get back into Baker Street yet?”

“Not since yesterday.”

Sherlock had, of course, removed all the surveillance cameras (three sets in four days, Mycroft mused) immediately upon returning from the Watsons' the previous evening. With more than a hint of Schadenfreude, Mycroft suspected that Sherlock and Mary had probably removed all of MI5s bugs in the Watsons' flat, and Mycroft could imagine Blythe fuming over the loss of his surveillance capabilities.

Mycroft had the sneaking suspicion he would, by necessity, have to become accustomed to being blinded in this way, as well. He tried to convince himself, again, that it didn't necessarily mean that Sherlock was still using. But what Mycroft had managed to observe of Sherlock's behaviour since Saturday had not reassured him. Sherlock's initial excitement had transformed into an alarming lethargy, and Mycroft hoped that it was only Sherlock's upcoming meeting in Oxford that was the cause. For Sherlock had always vociferously resisted Mycroft's efforts to have him work more closely with the security services. Sherlock's situation, shoved unceremoniously into the arms of MI5, would be more than enough to send him into a tremendous sulk. Mycroft could only hope that Sherlock's anger would burn brighter than his despair, for that might keep him sober in the face of the changes that were about to happen in his life.

~ + ~

By the time Lestrade showed up, Mycroft was exhausted. The constant briefings, trying to keep an eye on Sherlock while blind half the time, and worrying about the consequences of John Watson being so standoffish with Sherlock, all while watching his own authority begin to slip away, was beginning to take its toll.

Andrea's confirmation of what Mycroft had gleaned from his text conversation with Sherlock two days before weighted heavily on his mind. While the manoeuvring behind the scenes that had resulted in Blythe's choice for Sherlock's new handler were child's play to navigate, the reality of what that choice meant only added to Mycroft's worries. Not that he was surprised to see Blythe make a play against Sherlock as an indirect attack on Mycroft; if the roles had been reversed, Mycroft would have done exactly the same.

As Lestrade gave him a brief update on the goings-on at the Met in relation to the broadcast hack (nothing of any use), Mycroft nodded and questioned and with a small part of his brain observed and engaged. The much greater part of his mind was reviewing everything he knew about Deborah Oppenheimer, most of which he'd had Andrea dig out of the various archives after her first mention of the psychiatrist in December.

Eventually, Lestrade didn't have anything left to say and the man was surreptitiously glancing at his watch every minute and a half.

“I'm sure if you contact your friend, she won't mind if you're a few minutes late.” Mycroft tried to sound kind, but Lestrade's look across the desk told him just how wide of the mark he'd been.

“Not tonight.”

Mycroft wasn't sure if the statement was a request to not bring up Lestrade's personal life, or a simple correction of fact. Based on the man's tone, Mycroft assumed the former.

“And no one at the Met has had contact with Sherlock?”

“You know no one's contacted him. Until he gets out from under MI5, no one at the Met's going to risk pissing them off, so they're going to steer clear. Even then, no one at the Met is going to work with him, possibly ever again, not with his history.”

“Someone doesn't want you involved.”

“Well, technically, it's commercial crime, so not our division. But based on the scale, we could claim it, but that would have to be approved above me.”

“And you don't want it.”

“Don't want anywhere near it. This stinks of politics, so no way. It's a career-killer, a case like this. And for what? You're never going to catch who did it.”

Mycroft gave the man a small smile. “An astute observation, Chief Inspector. Politics imbue this case to its foundations. And I'm afraid those politics will touch Sherlock in ways that will significantly hamper his ability to investigate it.”

Lestrade sighed and settled back into the chair; he was apparently reconciled to a long delay to his liaison. “Secret squirrel civil war?”

Mycroft couldn't help a chuckle. “Something like that.”

“And Sherlock caught in the crossfire.”

“Sherlock has been positioned deliberately in the crossfire, I believe in an effort to hamper his effectiveness.”

“Why? Isn't he supposed to solve it?”

“You're thinking like a policeman, Lestrade.” At the other man's grimace, Mycroft continued in what he hoped were mollifying tones. “That was not meant as a criticism. You believe that when a threat arises, all should pull together to neutralise it and apprehend the culprit. That is the policeman's viewpoint. That is not the mentality of the politician, as you know. And as you know, politics drives Whitehall as much as it does Westminster.”

“So someone's using Sherlock to have a go at you.”

“Not the first time, and I regret to say, probably not the last.” Mycroft paused and let the other man take that in for a second. “Sherlock's plan to murder Charles Augustus Magnussen, however politically useful in the long run has, in the short term at least, left a number of people politically vulnerable. People who do not appreciate outsiders upsetting their carefully-constructed stratagems. And in this country we do try to pretend to our allies to not be savages, at least in our own territory. Sherlock has upset a number of apple carts with that act of what I'm sure he considers 'clean-up'.”

Mycroft watched Lestrade stare at his hands, clenched together on his lap. “And they're going to send him away again after he solves this video thing?”

“That is the current plan.”

Lestrade returned to staring at his hands. After half a minute or so, he met Mycroft's eyes again and Mycroft was not surprised to see sadness on the other man's face. Mycroft had never understood his brother's ability to attract so many sentimentalists to his cause; they were always disappointed in the end. But he said nothing as Lestrade continued to struggle for a response.

“And this political thing that's going on, someone wants to make sure Sherlock doesn't solve the hacking case. He's not going to deal with that well.”

“No, he will not.”

“He's going to need to feel productive. If he isn't allowed to work—”

“I was hoping you would be able to assist in that regard.”

“I can't bring him in on any Met cases.”

“I realise, yes. Cold cases, if challenging enough, could act as a stop-gap.”

“Until you sort out the political stuff so he can work on the hacking case.”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, I could probably swing that. There's a few really tricky older ones I've always wanted him to take a look at. Perfect opportunity, now.”

“Might I make a suggestion?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“The James Robichaud murder.” On hearing the name, Lestrade looked surprised, then suspicious. Mycroft could tell he wanted to ask how Mycroft knew about that particular case, but restrained himself and Mycroft wondered again at how this man had achieved his current position with his poor sense of discretion. Perhaps standards among policemen were just lower. “I'd appreciate it if you could send that one his way, as well.”

Lestrade's expression shifted to almost sullen and Mycroft hoped his suspicions as to why were incorrect. “Why that one?”

“I believe it may be connected to another case in which Sherlock was involved. Beyond solving James Robichaud's murder, I would like Sherlock to verify or disprove that possible connection.”

“All right; I can throw that one on the pile.”

“And I hope I don't need to tell you, no cases with any political implications, Lestrade.”

The man gave Mycroft his best “Despite what you and your brother think, I'm not a complete idiot” look, and Mycroft replied with a thin smile in acknowledgement. “I have one other request.” Mycroft tore a page out of his pocket diary and wrote a name on it, folded the paper, and handed it to Lestrade. “Please enclose this in one of the files. You should perhaps not read it yourself.”

“Passing notes in class. Always ends in tears,” the man said with a rueful smile as he tucked the paper into his pocket.

“But in this case, I play the role of teacher.”

“Bit of a step down from God, I bet.”

“You have no idea,” Mycroft replied, allowing a hint of humour into his voice, to send the man off home with a stronger sense of hope than Mycroft was able to acknowledge himself.

~ + ~

Wednesday, January 7

Why him, and why now?

Mycroft scanned the most recent “analysis” in The Times of the broadcast hacking, expecting little more than another stage in the progress from the media-induced panic through confusion and moral anguish to fake protestations of offence at the government's inaction. While he wasn't surprised that the press had decided to turn their knives in Sherlock's direction, he was dismayed at the tone of it: an attempted assassination of Sherlock's character amid just-this-side-of-slander accusations of fraud and delusional narcissism even greater than those his brother actually possessed.

As Mycroft pored over the article, he was dismayed to see the events of Saturday presented in the worst possible light for Sherlock. He was accused, in essence if not explicitly, of having concocted the “Moriarty video” himself, finding a way to hack into the entire broadcast system “with the assistance of allies in the government and the Metropolitan Police Services” in order to create wide-spread panic solely in order to seek greater fame for “solving” the case. It was a recycling of the accusation Sgt Donovan had made against Sherlock in the disappearance of Ambassador Bruhl's children, which had lead to Sherlock's fake suicide. Mycroft couldn't help but think that if this was what The Times had descended to, perhaps Sherlock was right and Mycroft should start getting his news from Twitter, as well. He brought up The Guardian site and as he read their daily report on the lack of progress in the investigation, he noticed a similar shift in tone from the previous day. They obviously sensed the public mood was turning and the press was baring its teeth. Regardless, Mycroft mused, that afternoon's briefing was going to be interesting

And so it turned out to be.

The lack of progress by MI5 on finding who was behind the broadcast hack had made the Prime Minister particularly red-faced and peevish. Mycroft contented himself with sitting back and watching Cartwright from GCHQ lead Blythe a merry dance. While Mycroft agreed that Cartwright's point about MI5's inferior resources and expertise was not without merit, there was no question of allowing GCHQ anywhere near leadership of the investigation. The paperwork alone would cause it to grind to a halt in less than a day.

So as the posturing and politely restrained chest-thumping reached their crescendos Mycroft asked, in the most benign tones he could muster, “Have you been able to determine which companies were attacked with the help of insiders?”

Every head turned as one to the end of the table where he sat, hands folded on his lap, his expression as placid as his tones. Across the table, Lady Smallwood's left eye twitched as she fought to retain her usual perfect composure.

“I distinctly remember saying 'no hoarding intel',” the Prime Minister finally replied, in the sulking voice that always made Mycroft fantasise about setting the man on fire.

“Until this morning, we had only rumours, not 'intel',” he replied, whispering a hint of contempt over the last word. “We were not able to confirm the rumours until today, and I thought it best to inform the entire group together. More efficient to keep everyone on the same page.”

“And from where did you receive this information?” Blythe asked, the words as honed as the blade Mycroft knew the man was desperate to plunge into his career.

“From the companies themselves. Traditional intelligence work showing its worth,” Myrcoft added, directing the last words to Cartwright, whose scowl darkened. “Not that bulk intercept doesn't have its place, but—” He gave the tiniest shrug. “Sometimes good old-fashioned legwork still gives the most useful results.”

He could tell that Lady Smallwood was maintaining a straight face only through the greatest of efforts. Even Blythe smirked a little at Cartwright's discomforture. On this (probably the only) point, Mycroft and Blythe were in perfect agreement.

“So they volunteered this information, that their own staff helped the hackers in the door?” the Home Secretary asked, obviously sceptical.

“On the condition of anonymity, of course. The press love nothing better than getting one over on their competitors, and this information would ruin more than a few careers.” Mycroft turned to the Prime Minister. “And would embarrass friends of the government.” Mycroft watched, secretly gleeful, as the realisation of who he'd been talking about popped into the brains of the people around the table, from Blythe and Lady Smallwood first to Cartwright and the Foreign Secretary last. Mycroft was surprised to see the Prime Minister catch on as quickly as he did; but then, Mycroft suspected that Murdoch was never far from the front of the PM's mind.

“And yet you still kept the information to yourself,” Blythe said, still making exploratory jabs at the armature of Mycroft's argument.

“Rumour, not information, until today. In this climate, spreading rumours as fact is highly irresponsible. Don't you agree, Prime Minister?” It was a slightly desperate ploy; Mycroft didn't expect much success with it, and he wasn't wrong. The PM's expression did not waver from “disgruntled bully”. “And we didn't want to cause an uproar by releasing the existence of these rumours to the press until we had confirmation.”

“Your staff have been busy,” the Foreign Secretary drawled, finally joining in the conversation. “Doing MI5's job for them. I hope this means your real work isn't—”

Mycroft couldn't help bristling at the accusation, but he directed his answer to the man nominally in charge of the meeting. “If I remember your words correctly, Prime Minister, this matter was to be 'top priority' for everyone.”

The man didn't reply for a few seconds, during which time he shifted in his chair, his expression increasingly contorted. As if he were attempting to add three four-digit numbers in his head, Mycroft thought.

“Yes, and you were also told that MI5 was leading the investigation. You should have passed on any and all information immediately. We can't have you haring off on your own, getting into god knows what. Bad enough your brother's got us into this mess with the Americans; we don't need you getting everyone riled up even more than they already are.”

The room was deathly silent and everyone around the table quite pointedly did not look to Mycroft for his reaction. For a split second Mycroft did not know how to react. He had been scolded. By the Prime Minister. The least powerful person in the room thought he could get away with schooling Mycroft Holmes on how to run an intelligence operation. He could barely countenance the fact that he'd just been “put in his place” by the slack-jawed, ape-brained, pig-fucking nobody, the up-jumped spad, who assumed he could kick Mycroft in company and face no consequences. And in that moment, Mycroft had to acknowledge that right there and then, the feckless pig-fucker was probably correct. But Mycroft knew he wouldn't always be, and it was that thought that held his tongue and for a moment turned his eyes to flint, as a subtle reminder to the half-witted figurehead that nothing in the world spins faster than the wheel of political fortunes.

~ + ~

Thursday, January 8

When he entered Lady Smallwood's office, Mycroft was glad to see that she was alone. After he took a seat, she poured tea and they exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes. Mycroft expected Blythe to appear at any moment, but it seemed that he was to be spared that indignity, at least. For he knew what this meeting was going to be about: how exactly he was going down. At least the woman had the good grace to give him the news to his face rather than letting him deduce it from the slights and snubs of others and the subtle, inexorable decline in his authority.

She put her cup and saucer on the low table between them and gave him what he assumed she hoped was a look of sympathetic concern. “I imagine I don't have to tell you why I wanted to speak with you, Mycroft.”

“Perhaps clarity from the outset might be best.” There was no way he was going to let her weasel out of it; she was going to have to say the words.

She pursed her lips slightly, knowing exactly what he meant. “There have been a number of conversations over the last few days about to what will happen with your brother.”

“Yes.” Conversations I have not been a party to. Wonderful.

“He's been assigned to one of Sir Edwin's people. Someone he considers completely trustworthy.”

“I don't believe trustworthiness is the principal factor in determining who Sherlock should work with, if you want to get anything useful out of him.” He waved a hand at her consternation. “But I'm sure Sir Edwin knows best how to manage his operations.”

She knew him well enough to know what he meant by that, of course, and she gave him a look that communicated a sort of maternal disappointment. “You must stand back from this, Mycroft. At least in the short term, for your sake as much as his.”

“Yes, I know.” He took a sip of tea and forced his irritation down into his gut, to take up residence with the fear and disappointment that had been fermenting there since Christmas. “Who will be handling him? Or am I not allowed to ask?” he continued when he saw her expression change.

She twirled her teacup around in its saucer for a few seconds, avoiding his eyes. “Deborah Oppenheimer.”

For the last few days, Mycroft had wondered if anyone would have the decency to admit what would happen with Sherlock, even though Mycroft already knew the main points. “Ah. I thought that might be the case.”

She had obviously been expecting a different response from him, and she looked relieved. Mycroft's estimation of her declined a few degrees, if she thought he would be happy with his brother being assigned to a virtual amateur who hadn't worked in the field for more than twenty-five years and had never distinguished herself when she had. He was also disappointed that she thought he hadn't managed to deduce this for himself already, based on the psychiatrist's presence at the meeting where Sherlock's fate had been decided.

“You don't think much of the arrangement.”

Mycroft couldn't tell if the statement had been meant as a question, but decided to treat it as one. “Not particularly. She's reasonably intelligent and her—” He paused to refill his teacup from the pot on the table between them. “Idiosyncratic sense of humour might keep him entertained for an hour or two. I'd have thought he deserved better, considering everything he's done for us. All of us.” He flashed the woman a quick, piercing look that she caught and appeared to interpret correctly.

“Yes, well.” Mycroft was glad to see she looked slightly abashed. “I believe the consensus was that if he's to be effective in dealing with this situation, his handler must be able to cope with his particular—” She paused and gave him an apologetic look. “You know better than anyone that no regular agent would be able to work with him, keep him on track. Deborah is, if I'm to be frank, a strange woman. The hope is that her perspective on things will make her a more sympathetic partner for Sherlock. The matter was the subject of considerable debate.”

“I don't doubt it.” He gave a quiet, wry chuckle at the thought.

“You've been working on tracing the video?”

Mycroft started at Lady Smallwood's voice. “Yes. With only moderate success. There has been no appreciable progress since my last briefing.”

She sighed. “I wish I understood the technology better. But there's only so many hours in the day. Best left to the youngsters who understand it all.”

“There are a number of possibilities we're pursuing.”

“As I would expect.” Lady Smallwood sat upright in her chair and pulled her shoulders back in a gesture long familiar to Mycroft. She was summoning reserves to prepare for something distasteful. “There has been interest expressed in some quarters about you taking on another project. Now that you won't have your brother under your wing.”

“Oh.” Mycroft didn't like the sound of this, but was not surprised. After all, his descent needed to be accompanied by at least a few kicks to allow the middling orders to feel they were getting something out of it. “In some quarters” likely meant Blythe, and anything he sent Mycroft's way was sure to be the definitive poisoned chalice.

“You know that the Morans' divorce is almost complete.”

Mycroft's heart sank. “I had heard that she initiated the divorce after his arrest. I haven't given it any thought since, I must admit.” Not much, anyway, beyond gleefully speculating how Blythe's people had somehow managed not to get a single scrap of useful information out of the woman regarding her husband's activities over the last twenty years.

“There is still some interest in ensuring she remains in England.”

“I can't imagine why. I was under the impression her professional interests had evolved considerably over the years and she was no longer considered a priority.”

“Yes, there had been a consensus developing that we would allow her to go home if she wished once the divorce was final. But opinion changed this week, as you can imagine. We'd prefer now to keep her close and it would be best if she were convinced to remain where she is.”

Mycroft suddenly had a terrible premonition of where the conversation was going. “I don't imagine she plans on going anywhere until her children are independent. The girl must be only fourteen or fifteen, though the boy would be at university by now, I believe.”

“Some people feel she might have some value in future investigations. And she's a loose end. You know how the government feels about loose ends.”

He gave her a non-committal half-shrug that he hoped expressed a barely-repressed disdain for the very idea of Christina Moran's possessing any possible future value to the British government, military or intelligence services. The slight, dismissive wave that accompanied it, he was glad to see, was accomplished without his hand shaking at all.

Lady Smallwood took a sip of tea and placed the cup and saucer back on the table. She gave him a level stare and waited for him to make the call. Mycroft mused that she would be waiting until the End of Days for him to come forward and volunteer for this particular mission. She was damned well going to have to order him.

Mycroft crossed his legs and folded his hands in his lap. He gave her a level stare back. He occupied himself during the wait with speculating again how Andrea had known that Doctor Oppenheimer had been at the meeting where Sherlock's fate had been officially decided. He allowed himself to hope that it had been Lady Smallwood that had let that information slip to his assistant, rather than someone with more malign or unknowable motives. Andrea was a remarkably resourceful young woman—one of the reasons why she was Mycroft's assistant—but he wasn't comfortable with the fact that he didn't always know where her information came from. Which meant that he didn't know exactly who in the government and Intelligence services she was talking to, and therefore the identities of any potential suitors for her loyalties.

Lady Smallwood drew his attention back with a sigh. “I believe you knew her at Oxford.”

“Who?”

“Mycroft.” She tried another one of her not-very-quelling glares.

“We had a friend in common.”

“There was more to it than that.”

“I'm sure I have no idea what you mean.”

She paused and he was glad to see she was uncomfortable. And so she should be, to his mind, considering what he was sure she was about to order him to do. “Mycroft—” She sighed. “I cannot believe we're having this conversation,” she said, more to herself than to him. “We— That is— The government—”

Mycroft knew he shouldn't gloat at her discomfort and a tiny sliver of his amusement must have shown on his face as her expression shifted from embarrassment to a dismayed disappointment. “It has been decided that you are the best person to try to convince her to stay in Britain.”

“And how am I to accomplish that?”

“Mycroft—”

“Offer her money? Threaten her life? Threaten her children's lives?” Despite himself, Mycroft was beginning to relish the game of cat and mouse, though he knew he'd pay for it in the end.

“For heaven's sake—” Mycroft allowed her to pause and he took a sip of tea while she collected herself. “We'd imagined an approach that was less stick and more carrot.”

“I see that the active tense has returned to the conversation.”

“Can we perhaps refrain from straying into the wonders of English grammar and stick with the matter in hand? Christina Moran must be convinced to remain in Britain for the foreseeable future. I believe you have— Experience—” The woman looked mortified; she'd talked herself in circles around what he was making her spell out, and she obviously had no idea how to simply say what was needed.

“Again, Lady Smallwood, I fail to see what this has to do with me. Or why I, in particular, must be involved. It's been more than twenty years since I've spoken to the woman, but my recollection is that she's reasonably intelligent. Perhaps a direct approach from a senior figure, a woman perhaps.” He made a vague gesture in her direction and her expression closed off suddenly. “Might receive a better reception.” Mycroft suppressed a wave of laughter when he realised the implications of what he'd just said. Though he did allow himself to indulge in a thin, disinterested smile.

When she continued her tone was entirely business-like. “She knows you. The two of you have a shared history.”

“If you know that, then you also know that the one thing guaranteed to send her packing onto the next flight back to Canada is me showing up on her doorstep.”

“You can't know that. Not after twenty-three years.”

“Lady Smallwood.” He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. “Christina Moran has every reason in the world to despise me. And there is not a thing anyone can do about it.”

“Except you.”

“I—” He paused to collect his thoughts. His amusement with the conversation was gone and he was suddenly exhausted. “I like to think of myself as a man of some significant abilities. Wooing women is not one of them.”

Her shoulders sagged in relief that she hadn't, in the end, had to say the actual words. “When did you last try?”

He forced himself to not flinch at the casual thoughtlessness of that remark. “And how is entering into a liaison with the wife of a man who has been on our watch list for two decades supposed to improve my lot?”

“Ex-wife.”

“Irrelevant.”

She sighed. “I understand your concerns.”

No, you really don't. “But consider them irrelevant. You are expecting me to take on an astonishing amount of risk.”

“How much do you value your career?”

So it had, in fact, come to this. Mycroft thought it refreshing to hear her say the words. “I'm to be downgraded to Met undercover operative?”

“Don't be ridiculous. Aren't you— Curious?”

She was prying, unforgivable in his opinion and out of character for her. He could only surmise that she was desperate. Why was she desperate? Who was putting pressure on her? It couldn't really be about the Moran woman, could it? She simply wasn't that valuable any more. The only possible reason was that someone thought she had information about her husband's past “business associates”. Did Blythe think there had been a connection between Moran and Moriarty? Lady Smallwood's reference to “this week” certainly implied so.

Mycroft filed himself a mental note to get one of his staff to go over the transcripts of her interviews to see if anything seemed potentially interesting. Assuming, of course, that he still had access to them. And get on to one of his contacts at the Crown Prosecution Service.

“Mycroft?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“I know you do not want to do this. I know this brings up painful memories for you. But you are the best person for the job. A win of this nature will do your reputation a world of good right now.”

“Yes, thank you.”

They sipped their tea in silence for a minute. “You aren't interested in clearing this up, then?”

“Clearing what up?”

“This, whatever it was that happened. At Oxford. It's the only black spot on your record, you know. Do you not want to be rid of it?”

Mycroft was puzzled by the comment. Sherlock's assorted adventures had left their mark in various places, and Mycroft had always assumed that they had never done his own record any good. Either this wasn't the case or Elizabeth Smallwood was trying to get a tremendous and not very well conceived lie over on him. He did rather think the latter. She was getting the intent, squinting look around her eyes which he had long known was her tell for when she was desperate for you to believe her.

“Do you have an idea of how you'll approach her?”

“I haven't yet agreed to take on this project of yours.”

“Are you refusing?”

He didn't respond. Any possible reply could only be either trite or self-destructive, neither of which he would condescend to.

Lady Smallwood interpreted his silence correctly, as Mycroft knew she would. “We're in agreement, then.”

It was the most he could do to not fling his teacup across the room.

~ + ~

As his car made its way back to his office, Mycroft pondered the situation. He had to admit it was the perfectly crafted blow. Whoever was responsible could not have chosen better than to dig up Mycroft's greatest professional blunder and throw it in his face, and force him to confront the possibility of having to give up everything in his personal life that he valued in order to keep the career he'd spent his life building. It was a master stroke. A bold, brilliant move worthy of Mycroft himself; that was one of the many reasons why it was so infuriating.

~ + ~

Friday, January 9

Mycroft watched the surveillance feed from Baker Street, glad for the likely temporary reprieve for his equipment budget.

The previous evening, Mycroft had just turned on the feed as Sherlock returned home from his meeting with Lestrade. To Mycroft's surprise, Sherlock hadn't immediately proceeded to remove all the cameras that Mrs Fraser's excellent team had replaced while Sherlock was out. And after reading Mycroft's note, tucked into a case file by Lestrade, Sherlock had looked straight into a camera and given a mock salute with the slip of paper. Mycroft had resisted the impulse to salute back, and he assumed the continuing operation of the cameras was Sherlock's way of giving thanks for the information and the preparation time that it allowed him before his meeting with Doctor Oppenheimer Friday evening.

The cameras had not, however, provided much of a relief in the end. Mycroft saw nothing other than the unedifying, and worrying, view of Sherlock doing not much of anything. And still alone. Where was John Watson, Mycroft wondered again. If his absence indicated the standard of care he practiced, it was a wonder the man had not yet been struck off.

Mycroft was tempted to call Lestrade and get the man's opinion on Sherlock's state of mind. But the report he really wanted was Andrea's. Unlike anyone on Mrs Fraser's team, Andrea knew Sherlock and had seen him at his worst; this knowledge would inform her observations. And while Lestrade's judgement was ordinarily sound on matters within his limited experience and worldview, Mycroft found the man admired Sherlock too highly to see him clearly at times like these.

As Mycroft refreshed his tea, his thoughts ranged back to his previous evening, the ridiculous meeting with Lady Smallwood, and the unexpected and unwanted new millstone around his neck. Christina Moran. He didn't quite know what to think about Christina hovering around the edges of his life and work again, though he had to wonder whose idea it has been to send Mycroft after her. Lady Smallwood had access to the knowledge of Christina's role in his past, but he couldn't imagine her being so spiteful as to waste Mycroft's time in this way. Blythe would not have had access to Mycroft's file, so unless the Foreign Secretary (who, in theory, did have access to it) had passed it along, the Foreign Secretary was Suspect No1. Mycroft hadn't thought his opinion of the man could fall much lower, but apparently he'd been incorrect.

Mycroft's thoughts on the former Lady Moran and who had been responsible for digging her out of his past were interrupted by Andrea's arrival.

“Good morning, sir. You're early.”

“Good morning. I wanted to get a head start on those Davos reports.”

She only nodded in reply as she took off her coat and settled into her usual chair in front of his desk.

“And how did you find Sherlock last night?”

“In fair spirits, I think. A bit agitated, but nothing out of the ordinary for him.”

“Yes, Lestrade sometimes has that effect on him.”

“The Chief Inspector gave him some case files. Cold cases, from the looks of them.”

“Lestrade and I discussed that earlier this week. Did the broadcast hacking come up?”

“A bit. Sherlock asked him about the Met's response that first day. Lestrade got a bit shirty with him. Is he really not going to be involved in the investigation?”

“Lestrade? No, he won't be involved.”

“They talked about the cold cases a bit. Sherlock was his usual charming self; apparently Lestrade has a new girlfriend and was getting a bit of grief about that. Sherlock seemed upset about it for some reason. Then they left; they weren't there an hour.”

“Yes, I did see that on the surveillance report.” Mycroft toyed with his teacup and before he could ask the question at the front of his mind, Andrea answered it.

“He looked sober when I arrived. He had two drinks. He looked—well, actually.”

Mycroft didn't bother hiding his relief. “Thank you.” She watched him for a few seconds and he couldn't tell if the concern on her face was for him or Sherlock. “Did they discuss the Watsons at all?”

“No. That's a little odd, isn't it?”

“Perhaps not.” Mycroft mentally berated Lestrade for forgetting to bring this up with Sherlock. “He visited the Watsons earlier this week, and it's unlikely Doctor Watson will be working with Sherlock at the moment. According to the surveillance reports, he's working quite long hours at the clinic.”

They both paused and Mycroft watched her mull a question over. While he couldn't read the words of it in her mind, its presence shone on her face as if she were illuminated from within, and he wondered at her curiosity. He knew Andrea did not care for Sherlock, and had no interest in him beyond the affect Sherlock's situation had on Mycroft's life and work. He thought she might be trying to come up with some way to ask if he already knew Deborah Oppenheimer was to be Sherlock's MI5 handler. That thought revived his unease from before the New Year about the possible sources of Andrea's knowledge regarding the psychiatrist, and what that mean for Mycroft and Sherlock.

“Have you heard anything about how the CIA learnt your brother was responsible for the Magnussen killing?”

Mycroft knew he hid his suspicions well, because almost the moment after she asked, she appeared to regret having done so. It unnerved him slightly that she kept bringing up such a sensitive topic on which he had never invited a discussion. He couldn't help but wonder who was behind her efforts to enter the lists in a game for which she had no training and little experience. Was she being used by someone willing to sacrifice her to achieve their own ends, or were her ambitions diversifying?

He gave her a thin smile that he was sure would tell her absolutely nothing. ”I wasn't aware you'd changed your mind about branching out into analysis.”

“No, no, sir. I just—we still don't really know what the fallout is going to be from that.”

He gave her a conciliatory sigh that he hoped would cause her to relax and let down her guard. Mycroft was not in the mood to chase down this problem right now, as well, but he couldn't let it just pass. A man had his pride, after all. “I think until this 'Moriarty video' business is put to bed, the Magnussen situation is being held in abeyance. What happens after that will likely depend on the resolution of the former.” He gave her a little shrug that he knew she would misinterpret as diffidence, and so would drop the matter. He was not surprised that she made her excuses to chase down Puri for her most recent progress report. Or progress out of his employ reports, as Mycroft had begun to think of them.

Andrea's departure left Mycroft with his thoughts for the few minutes until his meeting with the Shadow Chancellor. He was curious about Sherlock's meeting that evening with Deborah Oppenheimer. The woman had never been responsible for an agent before, and it had been almost thirty years since she had been in the field herself. Baptism by fire, he couldn't help thinking with a grimace. Only time would tell if this would work in their favour or not. Regardless, the real question around the Doctor had nothing to do with her qualifications, and everything to do with her orders.

As he looked back over the preceding week, Mycroft could barely believe it had only been six days since the drive to the airfield. The most challenging week of his career, and it presaged many more like it. At least until he managed to clear some of the detritus off his agenda. Or Sherlock stunned them all by solving the “Moriarty situation” from the dank environs of Baker Street.

Later that evening, watching Sherlock's surveillance feed for any clue to his state of mind after returning from his first meeting with Deborah Oppenheimer, Mycroft allowed himself to ponder the week's events in all their horrifying glory. It had been years since anyone had taken a serious run at him. Now that a little time and distance had allowed his fear and anger to transform into the adamantine logic of analysis, he was almost amused by the novelty of the sensation. The adrenaline rush of fear elicited by something other than Sherlock's self-destructiveness. And unlike the tedium he was usually required to endure in his efforts to keep the British government functioning, he acknowledged that this might turn out to be a worthy challenge. It had been too long since he'd tasted the blood of a defeated foe, and he was looking forward to reacquainting himself with the pleasure.