Chapter Text
Constantinople was famed for its massive defences. Although besieged on numerous occasions by various peoples, the Byzantine city was taken only in 1204 by the Latin army of the Fourth Crusade.
The decision to kiss for the first time is the most crucial in any love story. It changes the relationship of two people much more strongly than even the final surrender; because this kiss already has within it that surrender. - Emil Ludwig.
January 2013.
Location: Crusader House, Pall Mall, London.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Mycroft told Mrs Lunden, his cleaner, as he walked into his flat in Crusader House, heading through the living room to his office. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”
“No problem, Mr Holmes,” she said. “I’ll be done in five.”
Mycroft smiled at her and went to his office. He frowned down at his desk, picking up books and trying to find the document on the Syrian uprisings. He tutted at his own inability to keep things organised. Thank small mercies for Anthea.
With a shake of his head, giving up on the hunt, he walked out of his office and into the living room where Mrs Lunden was dusting his table.
“The housekeeper would like to know if Mr Lestrade will be staying over this week,” Mrs Lunden said.
Mycroft paused for a moment, considering. “Probably,” he said. “Two or three meals, perhaps?”
She smiled. “Thank you.”
Mycroft nodded and went to his bathroom. He washed his hands and frowned as he picked up Greg’s watch from the cabinet. He must have forgotten to put it on after his shower and before he went to work.
Mycroft took a few steps backwards, holding the watch out in front of him in the palm of his hand. He sat down on the edge of the bath.
It was… nice, he thought, to find Greg’s belongings in his home. To think that the man was comfortable there, comfortable in Mycroft’s life. It wouldn’t stay that way, Mycroft thought, not if Greg knew the truth about Sherlock being alive and the truth about the things he’d kept from him.
But Greg understood secrets. He understood Mycroft.
Greg would leave when he found out about Sherlock. Mycroft was absolutely certain of that fact. But still. Wasn’t it nice to have the man so close for as long as he could?
Mycroft stood up, slipping the watch into his jacket pocket. He opened the cupboard above the sink to find some cream for an insect bite on his ankle when he noticed Greg’s toothbrush lying on one of the shelves. Mycroft kept his own toothbrush in a glass by the sink.
With a small smile, he placed Greg’s toothbrush in the glass beside his own. He couldn’t deny how right it looked. That there were two of them here, sharing a life. Living in rooms in each other’s hearts.
And it was with a sudden tightness in his chest that Mycroft realised there truly was someone in his life. Someone he’d lost once, and the pain of that… No. Greg was back. Greg was his. Greg had no second thoughts about that, and neither did he.
Mycroft licked his lips and pulled out a mental checklist in his mind. Was he happy? Yes. Was he settled? Yes. Did he have any doubts? Surprisingly… no. No doubts, no second thoughts. Was he lonely? Most certainly not.
Greg had filled all the empty spaces in his life. It felt as though he’d always belonged there, with Mycroft, creating memories with him.
Mycroft loved the orderliness of his home. Greg didn’t quite meet his standards of tidiness, and he didn’t always remember to put his dirty clothes in the washing basket. He didn’t always clean his plates straight after meals and sometimes he left coffee stains on the table.
But Greg’s mess made Mycroft feel settled. Content. Where he’d once felt stranded in the middle of a vast ocean, alone, not expecting to be close to another human being for the rest of his life… he wasn’t now.
He had someone. He had Greg Lestrade. He glanced down at their toothbrushes in the same glass and nodded to himself. That was right, somehow. Perfect.
He put some of the cream onto his ankle, washed his hands and walked out of the bathroom. He wandered through his flat until he found Mrs Lunden in the bedroom changing the sheets.
“Change of plans,” Mycroft said when he found her. “Mr Lestrade might be here all week. All month, in fact.”
Mrs Lunden smiled at him. “I will let the housekeeper know.”
Mycroft nodded at her. “Actually, Mrs Lunden. He might be staying… indefinitely." He frowned to himself as he realised what he intended to do that very evening. "I’m going to ask tonight if he’ll live here," he explained. "And I… I think he’ll say yes.”
Mrs Lunden nodded. “Very well,” she said. “Good luck.”
Mycroft laughed and nodded, his candidness taking him by surprise. “Right,” he said, stopping in the doorway. “I need to go to work.”
She smiled at him, her eyes sparkling. “Have a lovely afternoon, Mr Holmes.”
He nodded at her and walked out, a smile still on his face.
May 2005.
Location: New York, United States Of America.
Meeting: Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty.
The noise. The din. The constant trivial conversation. The sound of chair legs scraping on cheap wooden floors. Footsteps, the never-ending stomp of footsteps. The clink of glass and china cups against tables. The click of Christian Louboutin heels on the ground. The first step louder than the second, because Anthea had a blister on her left foot.
Mycroft raised his head from where he was gazing out of the window, out over the vast city. His assistant had come from Conference Room One, taking notes at at least a hundred words a minute in shorthand, judging by the indent on her middle finger.
“Nickolay Garzone wants to meet with you,” she said as she reached her boss of just under 12 months.
Mycroft blinked at her. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to know who that was. “I’m sorry?” he asked.
“Nickolay Garzone.” She tilted her head to the side, a frown on her face. “He said he wants to talk to you about a project. One he was working on with Hadrian Kirkcudbright.”
Mycroft pursed his lips. “He was working with Hadrian?” he asked.
“Yes. Apparently.”
“When?”
“In the two months before he was murdered,” Anthea said, taking a seat opposite him and retrieving her phone from her handbag. “I’ve cross-referenced with Mr Kickcudbright’s records. They met twice. And spoke on the phone four times.”
Mycroft took another sip of his tea. It had been more than a year since his former colleague had been found dead in the office at his home with his throat cut.
It had been a brutal murder. Hadrian’s brother had been arrested and charged with the crime. Mycroft wasn’t convinced he was the man responsible. But although Hadrian had been useful while alive, he was dead now and no longer Mycroft’s concern.
“What does Mr Garzone do?” Mycroft asked.
“Officially he’s here as a weapons expert for Russia.”
Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “And unofficially?”
“You’ll know if you saw him.”
Russian secret service then, Mycroft mused. And if Mr Gazone was secret service and dealing with Hadrian, then one or the other was probably screwing the other for information. Or working together, which was an altogether more alarming thought when Mycroft took into account what Hadrian had been involved in prior to his death.
“I’ll meet with him,” Mycroft decided. It would be a welcome distraction from nuclear weapons at any rate...
“The meeting led by Indian Prime Minister starts again at 2pm,” Anthea reminded him. “You have 12 minutes to spare now or you won’t have time until after dinner with the British delegation.”
“And knowing the British delegation, dinner will take approximately three hours and 20 minutes.” Mycroft checked his pocket watch. “If he’s that keen to meet with me, he’ll wait.”
“I’ll confirm it,” Anthea said, turning back to her phone. “You should leave, sir.”
“Quite right,” Mycroft murmured, putting his cup and saucer down on the table. “Thank God this is almost over.”
He frowned as his phone beeped, and he retrieved it from his pocket. One text - his daily update on his brother’s movements. He frowned. “Sherlock’s at Scotland Yard. Again.” He looked down at Anthea. “Would you please find out what they’re charging him with this time?”
She shook her head. “They’re not.”
“What?”
“He’s not charged with anything,” Anthea said, not looking up from her phone. “He goes there of his own volition. Working with someone.”
“Working?”
“Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. Heads up the Homicide and Serious Crime Division.”
“I don’t know the man. Who is he?”
Anthea blinked at him. “That’s all I know. For now,” she added quickly, realising immediately that she'd made a mistake in not doing more research. “I’ll have his details on your desk for when you return.”
“Thank you.” Mycroft nodded to her before walking through the hotel restaurant and back to Conference Room Two. He took his seat beside the British Prime Minister. He was relieved this conference was almost over. When he took a backward step from his work for MI6 eight years ago, consulting on nuclear weapons with the heads of world governments had not been his ambition.
He had considered doing more freelance work. And office-based freelance work at that. But his life had taken a surprising course, and he’d wound up in Whitehall acting as a Civil Servant in the Department For Transport.
Those who had taken any notice at all of his swift promotions would have questioned his meteoric rise through the Civil Service. He had proved himself to be invaluable. And now he was working alongside the top dogs in the Government, negotiating on diplomatic concerns in a way he was not doing as recently as six months earlier.
After dinner, he returned to his room, taking a seat by his desk and leafing through the paperwork Anthea had left out for him.
Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade was aged 38. He’d joined the police force in 1988. He was trained in firearms, but never licenced to carry one. Then in 1997, he had joined the Homicide and Serious Crime Division and been promoted to Sergeant. He had been promoted again only three months ago to Detective Inspector.
It was a natural career progression as far as Mycroft could tell. He had an outstanding record for the most part. He’d taken three months off for stress reasons in both 1989 and 1997. And a few months off in 1999 after receiving a stab wound to his abdomen. Mycroft was about to turn to the next page in the Inspector’s files when there was a knock on the door. He turned the paperwork upside down on the desk.
Anthea opened the door four seconds after knocking, as was her way. “Mr Garzone,” she said, stepping aside to let the tall, dark-haired man in. She gave Mycroft a faint nod before leaving them alone.
Mycroft stood up, holding his hand out to the man. Mid-40s, married, three children, prosthetic arm, so perhaps office-based now.
“Mycroft Holmes,” Mycroft said as they shook hands. “Please, take a seat.”
“Nickolay Garzone. Thank you for agreeing to meet.” Nickolay sat down on the sofa while Mycroft took the chair opposite.
“How can I help?” Mycroft asked, speaking in Russian.
Nickolay stared at him for a moment before nodding in appreciation. “Thank you,” he said in his native tongue. “You worked with Hadrian Kirkcudbright.”
Mycroft stayed quiet, his face impassive.
“We met before,” Nickolay said.
“I don’t forget a face,” Mycroft told him, unblinking.
Nickolay nodded, hesitating for a second. “Well, yes, you and I didn’t meet, but you met my wife. She works for the Federal Security Service Of The Russian Federation. The British intelligence officers were working on a pact, to share information relating to explosives being shipped from Eastern Europe to the Middle East. You and Hadrian both attended. It was… a few years ago now. In about 2000.”
“I recall,” Mycroft murmured. “What do you want?”
Nickolay glanced down at his hands. “I know things,” he whispered. “Not a lot. But a little bit. I heard you were here and I thought… hoped you could help. Are you taping this meeting?”
“No.”
“You are not as suspicious as Hadrian was then.”
Mycroft frowned. “Don’t mistake my lack of surveillance for me being unprepared. On the contrary. My memory is simply far better than his was.”
Nickolay wrung his hands, looking around the room for a moment before speaking again. “I want to help. I have information.”
“What is it?” Mycroft asked.
“If I give it to you, I’ll be killed.”
Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “Then you want to trade,” he said. “What do you want?”
“My safety in the United Kingdom. And safety for my wife and children.”
“No,” Mycroft said without a single second passing to consider it.
“What?” Nickolay asked.
“No,” Mycroft repeated, his voice firm.
“I have information. Rickard Luck is-”
Mycroft sat up straight, and held his hand up, silencing him. “I don’t want to know what you think you know, Mr Garzone. I think it’s far better that we end this discussion here.” He made to stand up, but Nickolay spoke again, stopping him.
“He’s selling weapons illegally.”
Mycroft stiffened, narrowing his eyes. “And what do you think I should do about it?” he asked tightly.
“If you will not help me then I will die,” Nickolay said, his voice trembling. “My wife. My children. They’ll kill them all. You don’t want that on your conscience.”
“I have far worse things on my conscience, I’m afraid.” Mycroft paused. “For curiosity’s sake, how did you find out about Rickard Luck?”
“My parents,” Nickolay murmured. “They lived in the South Ossetia region of Georgia. In the Tsitelubani village. Or they did.”
Tsitelubani. Mycroft had only become aware of incident in Tsitelubani 15 months ago, but even now, the images from the reports made his blood turn cold. Unarmed men, women and children killed because Russia wanted to declare sovereignty over those lands.
Weapons manufacturer Rickard Luck had sold those weapons to the Russians. High-tech, expensive and untested weapons, not the sort to be used on innocent people. Rickard Luck wasn’t responsible for the atrocities, not directly. He wasn’t responsible for the cover-up either. But those weapons were not fit to be given to any country. It was a puzzle piece in an enormous jigsaw. Part of Operation Indigo, which Mycroft had been working alongside Hadrian Kirkcudbright on.
“How did you know about it?” Mycroft asked.
“I was involved in the cover-up.”
Mycroft nodded. “I see.” He sighed. “I’m sure you deserve more than what I am about to say. I can only apologise. But I cannot allow you a safe haven in the United Kingdom. When the Russian Government learns you betrayed them, then our Government will struggle to negotiate with them more than we’re struggling already. If we can prevent another Tsitelubani, then I think that’s the most important thing. I’m sorry you wasted a trip.”
“It needs to come out,” Nickolay muttered. “The weapons. I didn’t sign up for these cover-ups. What he’s doing is indefensible.”
“Then you are an honourable man,” Mycroft said, standing and extending his hand. Nickolay shook it.
“Are you not an honourable man, Mycroft Holmes?” Nickolay asked, studying him.
Mycroft paused for a moment. “Goodnight, Mr Garzone,” he said instead of answering the question. He watched as Nickolay walked out of the room, dragging his feet in silent defeat.
Mycroft sat back down at his desk. He turned on his laptop and began to check his emails. He hesitated for only a moment as he considered Mr Garzone. He was wiling to give up his country and Government so easily. And anyone willing to give up Rickard Luck’s name was sure to find themselves in trouble very soon.
With a shake of his head, Mycroft expected Nickolay Garzone had a few months left to live if he kept shouting his mouth off.
When Anthea appeared at the door, Mycroft only had to look up at her and say: “watch him.”
She nodded, and left him to it.
Location: London, United Kingdom.
London.
A city full of optimism, even among the broken homes and council-run estates. Even when the gangs shot their own, there was an air of hope about it. For the eternally-optimistic, it was a city where things could only go up, not down.
Never mind the state of the economy. Never mind, for pity’s sake, that London was no longer the centre of the world because ‘Great’ before ‘Britain’ was only true on paper. Because now it was ruled by America and China and anywhere else with more money and buying power. But Britain continued to punch above its weight, and that thought only filled Mycroft with pride.
Because a weakened economy and no longer having an empire didn't matter. Because in London, it felt like the centre of the universe.
Upon arriving back in the capital, Mycroft took a step into the Coeur de Lion office in Mayfair. Sixteen desks were lined up in one room, eight on either side. Laptops and safes were placed on each one. The room was dark, the blinds drawn to keep it from prying eyes on the other side of the road.
Here it was. The unofficial secret offices, funded by Mycroft himself, ready to fill with employees of his choosing.
He allowed himself a content smile as he surveyed the room and heard Anthea’s footsteps behind him. “Is everything to your liking, sir?” she asked.
“Better, in fact,” he murmured, running his fingers along one of the dark wood desks. “I think we’ll be quite comfortable here.”
“I agree,” she said. “The staff will start at 6.30am tomorrow.”
“And the computer systems?” Mycroft asked.
“A technician will confirm it’s all working this afternoon.”
“We don’t have time to settle in,” Mycroft reminded her. “These are professionals, and they will expect the best.”
“Consider it done,” Anthea said. She turned and walked into her own office, located beside Mycroft’s own.
He opened the door to his room and stepped inside. It was dark, as it had been when he first saw it. He’d intentionally kept it that way, glad for it to be free of natural light, so he could lose himself in his work, without worrying about the time.
The portrait of the Queen had already been hung behind the antique desk and everything was just as it was supposed to be.
Seven months in the making, and finally his office was ready. And aside from the staff, only the Heads of MI5, MI6 and GCHQ knew about… this. It had no name, no address, no traceable phone number.
Everyone here officially worked for MI5 or MI6. Only they didn’t, not directly. Mycroft turned on his computer for the first time and began to send some emails.
Two hours later, Anthea knocked on his door. “Mr Danny Finck to see you,” she said. “He’s the IT man.”
Mycroft nodded to her and stood up, following her out.
A young man (father-of-one, former cryptographer, once a smoker), with sand-coloured hair and a blue suede jacket, stood with his hands behind his back. He flashed a shy smile, extending his hand out. “Danny Finck,” he said with a well-managed stutter, shaking Mycroft’s hand. “It’s a pleasure.”
Mycroft nodded. “Mycroft Holmes,” he said. “Welcome.”
Danny grinned and nodded towards one of the computers. “Ready to see my baby?” he asked. “I’m calling it Watchtower.”
Mycroft frowned at the name, and took a seat beside him at one of the desks. “And you developed this yourself?” he asked.
He watched as Danny logged in, going through three stages of passwords before everything opened. “I started working on it as soon as your staff contacted me,” Danny said. “It’s exclusive to this office. Three levels of security to get in, and I’ve locked every backdoor I could think of. This is the most secure computer programme in the world.”
“That’s a very bold statement,” Mycroft murmured.
“You’ve started a bold project,” Danny replied with a crooked smile.
Mycroft watched as Danny clicked onto an icon called Watchtower. It launched a programme with a list of locations.
The Houses Of Parliament. The MI5 base at Thames House. Baskerville. Each had a coloured box beside it - green, yellow and orange.
“It’s a simple enough system to use,” Danny said. “We get feeds from every hospital in the country. Every school. Every council and Government building. Every science facility, prison, police station… you name the thing, and we got it.”
Mycroft frowned, his eyes scrolling down the list. “I see,” he said, although he wasn’t sure he fully appreciated the extent of it yet.
“These colours?” Danny asked, the cursor hovering over them. “They’re alerts. Green is a stable, normal day. Red is for urgent, serious emergencies. We’ve got a yellow warning here under Hospitals…” Danny clicked ‘hospitals’ opening up a list of every one in the country. “Southampton General Hospital has a case of MRSA, so it tells us it’s on yellow status at the moment.”
“How on earth is this data all in one place?” Mycroft asked.
Danny grinned. “Got permission to link every Government database in the country to Watchtower,” he said. “So, here’s how it works. One doctor diagnoses a patient with MRSA and puts it into the patient’s NHS records. Those records link into one big NHS system. That links to Watchtower. Ping. MRSA is yellow alert under Southampton General Hospital. If a doctor finds something a lot of more infectious? You’re looking at oranges and reds. Even if it’s only suspected, it pings up.”
“How do you propose we use this?” Mycroft asked.
“To me, someone needs to monitor this 24 hours a day. They need to check every yellow alert, because every yellow could escalate to oranges and reds very quickly. But for you? You can set up your computer to ping up with reds and oranges. It’s adaptable. If you have a particular member of staff you want to focus on prisons and only prisons? You can lock them out of everything else.”
Mycroft nodded. “Yes, that’s ideal.” They may have given their lives to the country’s security, but it didn’t mean they needed to know everything.
Danny grinned at him. “So? Thoughts?”
“You’re the only one who knows how to programme this, correct?”
“Yep.”
Mycroft paused for a moment. “Are you looking for a job?” he asked.
“Are you offering?”
“I’m not allowing you to work anywhere else,” Mycroft said with an amused smile. “You’re a cryptographer by trade.”
Danny blinked at him. “Um. Well I-I-I-yes. I am. How did you know?”
“Do you prefer working with computers?” Mycroft asked, ignoring the question.
Danny nodded. “Mm. Always. Since I was a kid.”
“I like this programme,” Mycroft informed him. “It’s good, but it’s not perfect. We can do more with it. Link into other programmes.”
“Yeah, I agree. I was thinking it would be brilliant to have maps and CCTV feeds. There’s a lot we can do with this.”
Mycroft smiled and stood up, holding out his hand. Danny shook it. “I’ll have Anthea set up an office for you,” Mycroft said.
Danny nodded. “Thanks, Mr Holmes.”
Anthea looked up from her phone and nodded to Danny. “I have a room that will be perfect,” she told him, leading him to another office.
Mycroft left them to it, settling down to his computer to double check Danny Finck’s records. He’d been working for MI5 ever since he left university. And he was intelligent, dealing in mathematics, codes and computers. He was the ideal addition to Mycroft’s team. With a pleased smile, Mycroft sat back in his chair.
Yes, this would work out nicely.
Sherlock was still spending time with Detective Inspector Lestrade at various crime scenes. From drug addict to following around the officers of the law. It made very little sense as far as Mycroft was concerned.
Mycroft had sent a few of his cars to monitor Sherlock in the past few weeks, and although he knew Sherlock hated the surveillance, giving in and making contact with Mycroft was the last thing he wanted to do.
And so he tolerated it.
It was a pleasant day when Mycroft sat in the back of the car, reading over his files. His car pulled up outside a warehouse, a white tent hiding the dead body outside.
Sherlock was stood protesting with one of the Metropolitan Police’s Sergeants. DI Lestrade emerged from the tent a few moments later, pulling off forensic gloves.
Mycroft watched as the grey-haired man (aged 38 from memory, although turning prematurely grey) folded his arms as he spoke to Sherlock. But although his brother was acting up, Lestrade had a soft grin on his face, even while he was scolding him.
Sherlock held his hands out and Lestrade passed him some forensics gloves, allowing him access to the tent.
Lestrade turned his head. He looked straight at the car, raising his eyebrows. Mycroft knew he couldn’t see inside, and he took a moment to study the man. He was comfortable and in his element, but observant enough to have noticed the car in the past few weeks.
“Go now,” Mycroft murmured.
Moments later, he was driven away from the scene.
The next day, before work, he stepped into his nearest church hall and put a cross beside the Conservative Party on his ballot paper.
Though outwardly he would have no preference for who was elected the next Prime Minister, he hoped change might be in order.
By the time he arrived at the office, 16 staff were in place. Hand-picked and on occasion, bribed and threatened, they were some of the finest minds in MI5, MI6, GCHQ and the Civil Service. Among them was one former soldier, a former police officer and a number of the best minds in British espionage. And Danny Finck might as well have been Steve Jobs and Bill Gates combined in one computer-genius brain.
Mycroft nodded to them as he headed for his own office.
Anthea’s assistant, Loretta, brought him a tray of tea. He sat down and cast his eye over his emails, already split into categories. Urgent, priority, agendas and personal. A separate section dealt with emails already read and responded to by Anthea, though they were placed in Myroft’s inbox too, in case he needed to keep an eye on things himself.
He turned to the personal emails first. One was simply the information detailing Sherlock’s movements. He had been spending a lot of time at New Scotland Yard. And Mycroft could not comprehend DI Lestrade’s motives. There was only one thing for it…
He turned to his laptop and sent an instant message to Anthea.
Take me to New Scotland Yard.