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Chapter Text

      “That is an unhappy sound for a mechanical contrivance to make, Charles.”

      “A very unhappy sound, sir.  Might I say… dispiriting?”

      “From the tone of your voice, I would deem it apropos.  We commit to rest the body of our dear vehicle and beseech the pantheon of automotive deities to take its weary soul to their bosom.”

      “Amen.  I’ll call for another vehicle, sir, but with traffic it will be awhile before it arrives, unless you want me to prioritize the request.”

Yes.  And for… reasons.

      “No, no that shall not be necessary.  There are a number of ventures proceeding today that are likely taxing the availability of vehicles and those are somewhat critical in nature.”

      “Shall I lend you my Oyster card, sir?”

      “You assume I lack one of my own?”

      “It is somewhat more than an assumption, sir.  I was present when Mrs. Hudson tried to have you take possession of your brother’s to help forestall him enacting another episode of his particular mayhem upon the unsuspecting citizenry.  You looked upon it as if she was offering you the rear half of a cat-mauled rat and only accepted it after you plucked your pocket square from your breast pocket and ensured it acted as a perfect and impenetrable barrier between your fingers and whatever diseases it might carry from the unwashed masses who use public transport.”

      “Oh, what an amusing bit of fantasy you have concocted to entertain us.  Verily, you would make Shakespeare himself admire your witty prose.”

      “Shall I lend you my Oyster card, sir?”

      “……………………….. only if the wait for the replacement vehicle becomes intolerable and a cab is not quick to summon.”

      “Very good, sir.”

Evil man.  But never let it be said that his driver was not fully devoted to his job of seeing his passenger to and from their destination.  And, if for some reason it became necessary to use public transportation, Charles would certainly forfeit his own means and walk back to the vehicle building, despite the distance and hellish weather.  It was positively irritating how well the man excelled at his work.

But, now, there was a far more pressing matter to contemplate than his driver’s unseemly integrity.  It had already been somewhat of a trial to ignore the growing pressure in a certain region, born, most certainly, from the extra several cups of tea he used to calm his temper during his meeting with the Foreign Affairs baboon.  The point, now, had been reached where even his iron will was beginning to rust through and leaks were imminent.  Of course, thinking about that was making the situation incalculably worse.

      “It’ll be at least half an hour for a non-priority dispatch, sir.  That’s their optimistic estimate for reaching this part of London.  I’d say forty-five is closer to the mark.  Are you certain you don’t want me to upgrade the request?”

Yes, and if you had any loyalty you would read my mind and simply do it, without my having to debase myself by throwing a bureaucratic tantrum to secure a potty break.

      “There is rarely such a depleted trove of vehicles and it would be most egotistical for me to add to their burden.”

      “Very well, sir.  Though… might I suggest…”

Since not even a man with his eyes on the road could miss your bladder-inspired rear-seat wriggling.

      “… there are a number of interesting-looking shops that might offer you some distraction while you wait.”

And a convenient toilet.

      “Hmmmm… that is a suggestion of some merit.”

And offers the possibility of a convenient toilet.

      “I’ll phone when the new car arrives, sir.”

      “Very well, then.  I shall begin with that one, I think.  It looks rather… inviting.”

And is the closest to the car.

      “Enjoy yourself, Mr. Holmes.”

Something that was entirely immaterial at the moment since the only enjoyment Mycroft cared about was to be found nowhere near the shops wares and he sent up a small plea to the universe that the person manning the till was an understanding sort.

__________

      “Good afternoon, sir, how can I help you?  Browsing a bit or looking for something specific?”

Here?  What even was this place?  The volume and… cacophony of the stock was ludicrous!

      “Perhaps seeking something to find your lost voice?  I’ve got a brilliant herbal spray that will manage even the most fiendish case of sore throat and whatever laryngitis it decided to bring along to the party as its guest.”

Mycroft turned to have a stern word with the cheeky voice behind his back and felt both the sternness and the word shrivel to dust on his tongue.  He was never a man to be taken aback by physical appearance, but not even he was cold enough to deny that the person in front of him was anything short of stunning.  Especially with the lights from the shop giving his hair a vibrant, silvery glow.

      “I…”

      “Yes!  You are definitely you.  And… oh, got it.  Straight back along that wall, past the cat and the door is on your right.”

      “P… pardon?”

      “The loo!  You didn’t seem quite the type to have come in here with something in mind to purchase and you don’t have the look of a browser, either.  It’s not sweltering out there, when you might be hoping for a moment out of the heat or raining and you forgot your brolly, which I see you have nicely settled on your arm.  Handsome one, too.  So… my guess is…”

      “Past the cat, you say?”

      “Lanky, idle mass of black fur, probably on his favorite chair.  If not, watch your head.  Balthazar has been known to sit atop a shelf and swipe at passers-by.”

      “B… Balthazar?”

      “Don’t worry, he’s friendly enough, even if he’s trying to show you who’s boss.”

Mycroft blinked a few times, then cleared his throat, made what he knew was his ‘oh, how droll’ smile, which was not a handsome thing at the best of times, then made a quick-footed retreat in the proper direction, finding both the cat, who shot him a menacing, emerald-eyed glare, and the loo, which was in far cleaner condition than he’d anticipated though, in fairness, he’d been fully prepared to visit an outdoor privy if that was all that was available.  Even if he’d had to stalk past a veritable legion of villainous felines to find blessed relief…

__________

The world was now a much, much better place…

      “Ah, Balthazar.  I see you remain in place, vigilantly guarding your corner of the shop.”

      “Arse.”

      “W… what?”

      “Mrarse.”

      “Good heavens… you are most adept at vocalization.”

      “Isn’t he?  The miserable part is half the time it sounds like something rude and that’s cost me many an apology and tidy discount to the more prim and proper shopper.”

It was an odd combination, the rough timbre of the man’s voice married with the luster of his hair, but odd did not necessarily equate to unpleasant.  Simply… singular.

      “I suppose the benefit is in the… quaintness… he adds to your establishment.”

      “And the mice he keeps from nibbling the stock.  I have to admit, though, he does tend to be a draw when he sits in the window, since people pop in to chat with him, give him a pet, then decide to wander about to see what a regal feline like him finds an acceptable home.  My regular customers just love the evil thing, too.  Like a goodwill ambassador, in a way, except he’s a demon straight from hell.  A lazy one, though, so no real harm done.”

Mycroft smirked at the cat’s well-timed snort, as well as the shopkeeper’s small ‘pfft’ in retort.

      “I suppose he is also good company for days when visitors to your shop are few.”

      “Absolutely!  And terrible at cards, so I win loads off of him on slow days.  Offsets whatever profit I’m losing because my fine wares aren’t flying out the door.”

Speaking of wares…

      “Yes… might I ask… what sort of shop is this, precisely?”

      “Good question!  Most people would call it an occult shop, I suppose.  Some people say New Age, too, which isn’t as good a fit, but if it makes them happy that’s fine with me.  Magic shop is another one I hear, though I always think that’s best reserved for a place that sells saw-the-lady-in-half boxes and top hats you can hide doves in.”

Mycroft took another look around, this time more closely at individual items on the shelves and in display cases and began to lean heavily in the ‘occult shop’ direction.

      “Most… interesting.”

      “Meaning you think it’s a load of shit.”

      “I feel the smell would be far worse if that were the case.”

Good lord, had he made a joke?  That was highly uncharacteristic.  However, the man was laughing so the aberration was successful, apparently, in its unintended purpose.

      “You’re right!  I’ll make certain to refill my incense stock, though, just in case.  Toss in a bit more of the really strong essential oils in the diffuser to hide the evidence if I experience an unexpected collision with the gods of literal reality.”

      “Invest, also, I advise, in rather sturdy wellies.”

      “I need to make a list!  I’m glad you stopped in today or I’d be caught completely unawares when the Great Shit Arrival began and what a terrible, terrible thing that would be.  Oh!  I suppose I should properly introduce myself, I’m Greg.  Greg Lestrade and this, for better or worse, is my shop.”

So, the owner, not an employee.  How intriguing…

      “Mycroft Holmes.”

      “Now, that’s a truly marvelous name.  So many ways to say it, little inflections, pauses, facial expressions and so forth that can accompany it to make the sound span everything from sinister to angelic.”

Really?  The sinister aspect, yes, which was something he had traded upon countless times, but angelic?  That was not something that had enjoyed even an iota of his contemplation.  Most likely the heavenly gates were already alerted to his future arrival and had specific instructions on what to do in that event.  Instructions which were certainly not in his favor.

      “Truly?”

      “Absolutely!  And… well, look around you.  If there’s someone who knows a thing or two about the power of names and words, it’d be the chap surrounded by books of spells and arcane objects of every sort.”

The man had a point.

      “Then I offer you my gratitude for your highly-intriguing perspective.”

      “Anytime!  You know how I earn a wage now, so might I ask what line of work is privileged to claim you, Mr. Mycroft Holmes?”

Privileged?  Another term that was not entirely one that had ever entered his mind concerning himself.  Though, to be fair, it was appropriate since he had, on more than a single occasion, been approached by other governments and organizations to lend his shoulder to their cause instead of the one he now served.  Choice kept him in place, so… yes, dash it all, the British government was privileged to have his support and all the rewards that flowed from it.

      “I occupy a minor position in the British government.”

The cat’s hack noise sounded far too much like a disbelieving cough for Mycroft’s liking and he accorded said cat a stern look of rebuke, feeling no surprise that the feline simply stared back at him with a profoundly bored expression, since it was well established that felines shared, by some stochastic perturbation of basic genetics, a bevy of alleles with his infantile brother.

      “Government man!  Can you work a loophole in the laws, so my poor shop is exempt from being visited by the Grim Reaper of Taxes?  That bastard lops off a tidy chunk of my profits with his miserable scythe.”

Can I?  Verily, what cannot I do?  Unfortunately…

      “Alas, such is not a pie into which my fingers normally… poke.”

That went somewhat awry at the end.

      “I’d never ask a man to poke a pie that wasn’t his for the poking.  Can’t have you sacked for unsanctioned pie poking; I could never live with myself after that!”

Mycroft marveled that his conversation partner was actually conversing with him, seeming to enjoy it and he was actually participating, in return, rather than providing another uninspired smile and making his way back to the car.  He so rarely conversed with anyone for purely social reasons, given his general dislike of both people and social reasons, however, this was not as mind-crippling an experience as usually it was when he was in a situation that required… being convivial.

      “Might I suggest you consult an accountant to determine if you are adequately capitalizing upon the various rules and regulations to gain the most beneficial tax situation for your business?”

      “That is a very smart idea, Mr. Holmes.  I normally handle that myself, but a professional eye would certainly be of help.  How about a tour of my taxpaying shop?  There’s a lot of interesting things here to see, even if you’re not a believer in the occult or magic and the like.”

The ‘interesting’ label was something Mycroft would have doubted when he first stepped into the shop, but, as his eyes took in the surroundings more fully, began to suspect actually might be true, to some degree.  He had always harbored a fascination for things that would be described by many as peculiar or strange, because they were often far more thought-provoking and, frankly, entertaining than duller, more commonplace objects and activities.

Unfortunately, the sound of his mobile ringing made the possibility of a tour a moot point.

      “Do pardon me.  Yes?  Ah, thank you, Charles.  Most alacritous, indeed.  I shall be but a moment.”

      “That sounds like a no for the tour.”

      “I apologize, but that is certainly the case.  I do thank you for your hospitality, however.  It has been a most enjoyable respite.”

      “Glad to be of help.  Stop in anytime.  We’re open… well, we’re open all hours, given the standard clientele, so… when you want to browse further, you know where to find me.”

Mycroft opened his mouth to politely refuse, but suspected it would be rather rudely obvious and it was a… kinder… option to simply smile, nod and beat a hasty retreat.  This Gregory person deserved a touch more than his standard dismissiveness, if only as gratitude for being there in his hour of need.  Besides that, however… the man seemed a decent sort, not as dreary and tedious as the majority in the vast bowl of tiny-brained goldfish that was the human species, which, in itself, was a profound rarity…

__________

Greg watched Mycroft return outdoors and returned to the counter, so he could keep watching as the tall, elegant man got into a dark, mysterious vehicle… which was blocking traffic by stopping next to another dark, mysterious vehicle… and rode away to his utterly not-minor role in anything.

      “I haven’t sensed an aura that powerful in… fuck me, who knows.”

Greg nodded at the sound of the voice and let his mind linger a moment on the instant Mycroft Holmes had entered his shop and he felt the energy shift to accommodate the new and highly-noteworthy presence.

      “A very intriguing man, that’s for certain.”

      “You mean a very sexy man.”

      “That too.”

      “It’s been a long time for you, Greg.  Does the plumbing even work anymore?”

      “Funny.  I don’t have time to date, you know that.”

      “You have time, you just refuse to make it.”

      “Fair enough… I also haven’t met anyone I might want to shine up the plumbing for anyway.”

      “I do not want to know what is involved in your plumbing-polishing ritual.  I’d gak up a hairball and half my intestines, too.”

Greg looked down at the cat that had leapt upon the counter to join him and do its own bit of watching as Mycroft left the shop.

      “And leave it for me to clean.”

      “I might go back and eat the intestine bit, though.  Nothing wrong with some fresh internals to feed the blood.”

      “You pout if I buy food that isn’t twenty quid a tin!”

      “Because the twenty-quid-a-tin stuff is full of fresh goodness.  Like internals.”

      “Wonderful.”

      “Not as wonderful as your new friend there, though, am I right?”

      “Friend is bit presumptive, don’t you think?”

      “Fantasy friend, then.  The sort of fantasy friend that you do utterly filthy things with in your mind when you’re engaging in a private plumbing polishing session.”

      “Nothing wrong with a bit of harmless fantasy.  Besides, I’ll likely never see him again.”

      “Oh… I wouldn’t be too certain about that.”

Greg narrowed his eyes at the cat who lackadaisically turned, flicked its tail under his nose and jumped off the counter to strut back to its chair where Mycroft’s umbrella was currently resting.

      “Oh, you bastard.”

      “What?  You’re too boring and honest to do it yourself!”

      “That… that is an expensive brolly, you mangy cat!”

      “Which is why he’ll come back for it.”

      “Or send one of his minions or underlings or whatever to do it for him.”

      “Pfft.  You’re absolutely no fun.  Want to wager on it?”

      “No.”

      “Because my precognition is stronger than yours?”

      “Because… you may think life is like a fairytale, but I don’t.”

Balthazar shook his head as Greg simply turned and went back to filling online orders but couldn’t dispute that finding fairytale love had never been his friend’s strong suit.   Too decent and kind for some, too mysterious and enigmatic for others.  He was an odd combination of qualities and had never found the right person who could both see and appreciate that odd combination, even without the little… details… that went along with it.

Maybe this time would be different.  The fact it never had in the past was no reason not to be hopeful that this time was the charm.  Speaking of charms, time to check on the ones they had brewing in the workshop.  Their local ladies cupcake-competition team would be in later to pick them up and making them wait could cost him his traditional cupcake tribute.  One lonely sorcerer and one hungry cat did not make for a happy workplace…

Chapter Text

      “Hmmmmm…”

      “Is that hum for the actual work you’re supposed to be doing or for your super-secret side project that you don’t think I know you’re doing when you’re supposed to be working?”

Anthea was the true demon visited upon the Earth.  Mr. Lestrade’s cat knew nothing of evil compared to her.

      “I was merely giving audible acknowledgement of a piece of information.”

      “Which is now conclusively proven to be part of your super-secret data gathering flurry and not anything concerning the fate of the free world.  Ok, time to share.”

Setting aside her laptop, Anthea leaned back in her chair, crossed her legs and made ‘get on with it’ motions that earned her one of Mycroft’s most dramatic eyerolls.

      “Surely you have more important matters to…”

      “Oh, I do.  However, important and entertaining are two entirely different things and, right now, the latter is winning this horse race and by more than a nose.  Go on, tell me what has your attention completely diverted from the Taiwan issue and making you hum.”

Scenario One – refuse and the remainder of the day would be the most bone-breaking agony imaginable.  Scenario Two – comply and the remainder of the day would be subject to unending nosiness and those enigmatic female smiles that were utterly unfathomable by anyone except another female.

      “Well, what is it going to be?”

      “I am debating.”

      “Let me settle the debate – you want Scenario Two.”

      “How on Earth did you know about that!”

      “Because you always have the same two scenarios every time I catch you out for a silly personal thing and I’m telling you now – the agony won’t be worth it.  It won’t.  Take my very professional and thoroughly informed word for that.”

Behold, Balthazar!  Behold the true might of concentrated evil!  Verily a supervillain would swoop in at some point and spirit her away to use her potency to power an infinite number of nefarious deeds.  Which would place her somewhere other than here… hmmmmm….

      “Start talking!”

      “Fine!  I simply encountered an individual today and was curious about both his place of work and the man himself.”

      “What’s his name?  How handsome is he?  What sort of work?  Does he smell nice?  Dark or light hair?  Tall or short?  Nice dresser?  Large or small frame?  Good teeth?”

      “Good heavens!  Do you believe yourself working for The Daily Mail?”

      “No, because then I’d be asking about the size of his penis, whether he’s kinky in bed and how many of his relatives have you slept with this week.”

      “Fair point.  In truth, it was more the nature of his establishment, an occult shop, and the… normalcy of the man himself.  A genial fellow who was…”

      “Yes?”

      “… surprisingly easy to engage in conversation.”

Anthea hoped her gasp didn’t make it to Mycroft’s ear, because that was something she’d hadn’t heard employer say about anyone since not long after she first began working for him and he made a similar comment about Lady Smallwood, who she had mistakenly thought might have a little something romantic going on with Mr. Holmes.  Of course, it hadn’t taken long to see why that was ridiculous, but… this occult-shop man must be a singular individual, indeed.  Must maintain nonchalance about the whole business or he’d scuttle into his shell like an old crab and hide there with just his stalked eyes peering out.  And glaring.

      “An occult shop, you say?  There are a few about, from what I’ve heard, but I’d have thought they’d be well away from anywhere you might be milling about if you needed to do a bit of shopping.”

      “It was merely a convenient locale in which to bide a few moments while waiting for the replacement vehicle to arrive.  The car was a touch… stuffy and I am not averse to new experiences, if they offer features of interest.”

      “Oh, that was a lucky thing, then.  At least you found a spot of conversation for your troubles.”

      “Yes, it passed the time more agreeably than a stuffy car.  With Charles.”

      “Who didn’t have time to pay attention to you since he was worried about his baby.”

      “Untrue.  He was most solicitous, however, I had no desire to distract him from his duties with idle chitchat.”

      “Of course not, so back to Occult Man…”

      “His name is Gregory.”

      “Ooh, I like that.  Solid and strong.  Like you said, normal.  I wonder if he has a ‘business’ name he uses like Merlin or Nostradamus or something.”

      “I sincerely doubt that as his business documents and advertising list him solely by his given name and not some childish nom de… magique.”

      “A serious business man, then. Very good.  Or… I suppose I should ask if he is a good businessman, which I suspect you can answer because I would wager a month’s income you have his full financial records in front of you and have already passed judgement.”

Foul hen.

      “Gregory’s business is a profitable one, though not by a tremendous margin.  However, I would not have expected such, given its small size and the nature of its wares.  Whereas I realize there are numerous addle-minded individuals who believe in potions and hexes and the like, most people likely visit such an establishment for the occasional unique gift or to satisfy a mote of curiosity.  But, he does earn sufficient revenue to stay current on his financial obligations, pay his taxes and to have purchased the flat above his shop as his home.”

      “Lives above the shop… efficient.  Is… is it a small flat?”

      “From the footprint of his business, I would say so.”

Meaning unlikely to house a family, which could interfere mightily with any future matchmaking plans if this manly interest of Mr. Holmes happened to be the sort who appreciated a finely-filled-out pair of trousers.  Best check, though.

      “Not much room for the wife and kids to run about, then.”

      “Gregory is unmarried.”

Achievement unlocked!

      “Well, that means he has more time to focus on his business, which is a good thing for a merchant.  Must be hard, though, running a business alone.  At least, I assume… I guess he could have employees, so I could be off the mark.”

      “One, from his tax records.  Gregory did note that his was an all-hours business, so it would stand to reason he would need, at minimum, one additional pair of hands to man the till.”

Meaning the man had time to date that finely-filled-out pair of trousers should it beckon enticingly.  Excellent.

      “A body has to sleep sometime.  Unless it’s your body or your brother’s, but I can’t imagine your genetic mutation is too prevalent in the population.”

      “Har de har har.”

      “It’s something you can get Greg’s opinion on when you talk to him next.”

Oops!  There it was.  The narrowed eyes of suspicion.  Hand overplayed like a rank amateur.  Scrumptious bread now removed from lunch-of-enormous-salad as penalty for making such a foolish, foolish mistake.

      “Why would you assume I would again speak with him?”

      “Uh… generally, you don’t go to this much trouble for a person you don’t intend to cross paths with ever again.  Curiosity is one thing, but you’ve been at this for a good hour now and you don’t waste time like that for a whim.  I… I thought that his shop intrigued you more than you let on, maybe because you can’t fathom why a person would want to buy any of the sorts of things he sells.  I do know how you hate a puzzle sitting on your brain.”

There.  That was a cover story par excellence.  If the BBC needed a fiction writer, they knew where to find her.

      “True.  However, my intrigue is not so great that it would draw me back.  That does remind me, however… do dispatch someone to collect my umbrella from Mr. Lestrade’s shop.  I seem to have left it there by mistake.”

What?  No.  No no no no no.  That was too perfect an excuse for you to go back and visit Mr. Magic.  It was so perfect it might as well have been magic itself.  Must capitalize on the magical perfection.

      “That’s a shame since it would have… oh, never mind.”

      “Never mind what?”

      “Anything.”

      “That was rather all-encompassing.”

      “I like to be thorough.”

      “What am I specifically supposed to never mind that, clearly, I should mind and with a notable degree of attention, based on your current degree of nonsense?”

      “I… maybe I was remembering what time of year it was and that you moan like an old man bending over to tie his shoes since… your mother’s birthday looms.”

      “Gadzooks!  I had blissfully shielded my mind from that horror.”

      “It’s the most minor horror in the universe since all you have to do is buy her a gift and see it arrives on time.  I just thought… you’re always miserable trying to find something, so looking in an entirely new place might be the thing for it this year.  Get her something frivolous or funny or something that’ll have her friends intrigued at how exotic a pressie her son bought her…”

      “Oh.”

      “Is that a good oh or a bad oh?”

If it’s not a good oh, I have to move to Plan B, which doesn’t exist so tread lightly, Mr. Holmes…

      “I am not entirely certain, but it is worth considering, at the very least.  Mummy does appreciate something out of the ordinary and Mr. Lestrade’s shop did offer that aplenty.”

      “I wager he’d have some solid recommendations for what to buy, too, for a woman of your mum’s age and lifestyle.  One of those special, herbal creams for gardener’s hands or even a cookbook that uses wildflowers or something.  Candles.  Sex toys.”

      “ANTHEA!”

      “You’re right, she probably has more than enough candles.”

      “Give me strength…”

      “Fine!  Buy more candles, then, but see if he has those lovely ones that have dried herbs and flower petals pressed into them.  Not the sort that conjures a devil, though.  The poor woman already gave birth to Sherlock and that’s enough bringing of blight into the world for any one person.”

Mycroft pursed his lips, but even he had to admit that the point was an exceedingly credible one.

      “Very well.  I suppose it would hurt nothing if I collected my umbrella in person and browsed a moment for a suitable gift.  What on Earth… why did you finger-doodle a heart on your skirt?”

Oops.

      “Because you love your mother and that’s a nice thing to see in anybody.”

      “You refer to your mother as The Gorgon.”

      “That’s because… she’s got long curly hair.”

      “False.”

      “She likes snakes.”

      “Try again.”

      “She has a fondness for stone statuary in her garden.”

      “That was truly pathetic.”

      “It was.  She doesn’t have a garden.  I panicked.”

      “Delightful.  Now… may we return to the Taiwan situation?”

      “I don’t know.  Are you done spying on The Great Zambini?”

      “Spying involves far more in the way of trench coats and exploding pens.”

      “Maybe Houdini has a potion or something to turn you invisible.  That would help with the spying.  A lot.”

      “Who, then, would see my dashing trench coat?”

      “Point taken.  Alright, back to Taiwan, then a late lunch, then you can pick up your brolly from its minder and take your mother’s birthday gift off your personal-matters plate.”

Which, since it was the only item on said plate, would leave the entire thing empty and eager for something new to be laid on it.  Speaking of laid…

      “You do have me curious now, though.  Is there a photo there of Cagliostro?”

      “Hmmm?  Yes….”

Mycroft slid over the photo and Anthea made very certain not to punch the air.  That was definitely what her employer needed to start his tadpoles swimming.

      “I see what you mean about normalcy.  I expected a satanic goatee at the very least.”

      “I believe Gregory’s face is not quite the proper shape to successfully sport such a thing.”

You’ve noticed his face shape.  It’s not much, but that’s more notice than you give the Transport Sec who you still confuse with the man who brings round the newspapers in the morning.

      “Not everyone can pull off the evil wizard look, so no shame there.  Taiwan now?”

      “I suppose we must.  Such a dreary bit of nonsense, though.”

      “Tidy it up in an hour and it’s a white chocolate custard for you.  A minute beyond that and you only get to watch me have one.”

      “Are you issuing a challenge?”

      “A creamy, decadent custard challenge.  Are you man enough for it?

Now assured this bit of work would be completed in twenty minutes, Anthea picked up her laptop and did her own bit of checking on one Greg… ok, peek at the file that was now open on the desk… Lestrade and his shop of wonders.  Gather a few of her own facts and ideas to have on hand if her Mr. Holmes needed a touch of nudging to stay on course.  If there was a course, that is.  If the man was a skirt-chaser, then this would go nowhere fast.  Fortunately, she had a number of appropriate operatives to dispatch to make that determination.  Trench coats weren’t the only official uniform approved for spies.  Heels and a little black dress was a venerable choice countless top-secret missions…

Chapter Text

      “Here we are, sir.  I shall locate a place to park and wait for your call.”

      “Thank you, Charles.”

Waiting the short moment for his driver to exit and open the door for him, Mycroft asked himself for the hundredth time why he didn’t simply send said driver into the shop to fetch his brolly and continue on their merry way.  Such a silly flight of fancy to return to this shop, even if it did hold the possibility of satisfying his yearly obligation to his mother.   It felt… unseemly… to return here, in a way that was difficult to describe.  Rather, perhaps, as if he was Oliver Twist approaching, bowl in hand, to beg for his supper, in this adaptation played by his brolly and suggestions for a gift.  If he chose a different path… there was a respectable-looking establishment a few doors along that might offer an acceptable cup of tea to someone who was hoping to avoid the appearance of incompetence and… drat.

Mycroft Holmes had not always been Master of the Desk.  There was a time, growing dim in the past, where he had played a role very appropriately adorned by a trench coat with an exploding pen in the breast pocket and those still-intact instincts had leapt to the front of his brain to, in less than the blink of an eye, have him pressed against the doorway of a newsagent’s, peeking surreptitiously around the frame.

He had been spotted.  By the cat.  The cat had witnessed the dithering!  And was continuing to stare at his reconnaissance position!  With intent!

      “Pardon me…”

Lovely.  An irritated matron was also, now, intently staring at him.  Admittedly, he was blocking her access to the shop, but did she have to appear so affronted?  Her copy of The Sun was not flying out of the shop on bat’s wings…

      “I do apologize, madam.”

      “A body should expect to be able to go where they please in this country without having to wait for some snooping pervert to finish their snooping.”

      “Oh dear lord…”

Being shoved aside by a member of the public was infuriating, but being shoved aside by a member of the public wearing blue eye shadow and pink plastic parrot earrings was quite another thing altogether.  This day was well and truly besmirched and there was nothing for it but… The cat was laughing at him.  There really was no mistaking that particular bit of body language.  He was being mocked by a creature that licked its own bottom!  Well, that could not stand unaddressed…

Mycroft’s expression hardened, his back went ramrod straight and he stalked straight towards Greg’s shop, smirking as the black cat stopped its supposed laughter, stared at him, stared with wider eyes, then fled its window perch as if it was being approached by The God of Death who it had already met eight times before.

      “What the fuck is wrong with you, you ridiculous cat?”

      “INCOMING!”

      “What are you…”

Greg turned at the sound of bells and smiled widely seeing the formidable silhouette of Mycroft Holmes striding regally through the door of his shop.

      “Mr. Holmes!  Good to see you again.”

Looking for all the world as if you own the world and are in the process of bending it to your will.

      “Ah, Mr. Lestrade… good day to you, as well.  By any chance, did I leave something here during my previous visit?”

      “That you did, sir.  One extremely handsome brolly.  I had several offers for it, actually, but I suspected you’d miss something so fine and take steps to bring it back into the fold.”

Greg reached under the counter and drew out Mycroft’s umbrella, handing it over with another bright smile.

      “Thank you.  It is a particular favorite of mine and I would so hate to have lost it forever.”

Something Greg had surmised from the strong infusion of the man’s personal energy into every part of the umbrella.  If this Mycroft Holmes was the type to believe in magic or be willing to pursue a study of it, he was already well on his way to having created his first focus object.  An umbrella was a bit large for a magic wand, but some of the more poncy types used massive staffs, so the precedent was there.  They usually opted for flowing robes and gaudy jewelry, though, and Mr. Holmes did not, at all, seem the type for that unless he led a very different sort of life once he was finished with his work day.

      “Very understandable.  I’d have phoned later today if you hadn’t popped back for it.  Can’t imagine there are too many Mycroft Holmes’s in the directory.”

      “There are none, actually.”

      “Oh… OH!  I get it.  You’re undercover.  Using an alias.  It’s a good one, I’ll tell you that much.  Don’t worry about me blowing your cover, though.  I can keep a secret better than most.”

Said with a tap on the side of his nose that Greg hoped would earn some reaction from Mycroft.  Rolled eyes did count as a reaction, however, it was not quite the one for which the sorcerer was hoping.

      “Very droll.”

      “Alright, I know it was a bit silly, but your number being ex-directory isn’t nearly as fun as your name actually being Todd Smith or something equally uninspired and Mycroft Holmes is just who are this week so you can foil the drugs ring being run out of the local council office.”

Mycroft cleared his throat and reminded himself that coincidences did occur and there was no possible way the shopkeeper knew of the matter involving this local council and the three resignations it suffered over the past six months.

      “Whimsy, I’m afraid, is rarely part and parcel of my work.”

      “That’s a shame.  My day is filled with whimsy and I don’t begrudge a smidgen of it.  Though, in fairness, it is rather a normal part of the trade and I can’t say I associate government work with whimsy, though some of those talking heads on the telly seem to be brimming with it since they spin the finest of fairy stories when they’re talking about policy.”

This clearing of his throat was more to keep Mycroft from voicing his wholehearted agreement with that particular observation.  If the general public were ever truly aware of how empty-headed were the nitwits supposedly running the country, the revolt would be both protracted and bloody.

      “It does seem so at times.”

      “Which is why I keep the telly on whimsical things whenever possible and avoid wrenching my shoulder throwing my shoe at the bloody thing.  In any case… how’s your day been?  Not too overrun with people complaining about the roads and wanting to know why their mail was a bit crumpled today, I hope.”

Greg nudged Balthazar away after the cat nipped his ankle and successfully, he hoped, hid his wince from the sting.  Yes, he knew he was babbling, but how the fuck did you chat up a person like this?  Mr. Holmes reminded him of one of those ancient kings who carried the weight of his kingdom on his shoulders and used the extra heft to power his swing when he was taking off the head of some cheeky merchant.  Who might be named Greg.

      “Generally, I relegate such things to others more qualified to handle them.  Not quite my area, you see.”

      “Of course, of course… you’re in the animal licensing division, aren’t you?  They tell me I don’t need one for my cat, but I’d like to be certain, just in case.  Hate to have an unmarked van pull up, two beefy blokes with a net hop out and scoop up poor Balthazar because his papers weren’t in order.  What it’d cost me to replace a government van and settle the civil suits from those poor dead lads’ families would send me into penury!”

Mycroft gaped a moment, then felt a tiny smile lift the corners of his lips as he remembered a rather humiliating experience having to capture a cat that had escaped its rather privileged, and influential, owner’s arms and was loose in his office.  His suit had to be binned and the number of plasters and disinfectant necessary to keep him alive in the aftermath was astonishing.

      “I am discovered!  However, barring the classification of your shop changing, I believe you are exempt from the licensing regulations.”

      “Whew!  That’s a relief. You’re an official fellow, so I trust you know the regulations up one side and down the other.  What… what can I do to repay you for this welcome peace of mind?  Want that little tour of my shop I promised?”

There, you miserable cat.  I asked.  I made an attempt, besides babbling, to get the man to linger a bit.  You can let go of my sock now and if you’ve bitten a hole in the nice hand-knitted things old Mrs. Hodges made for me, I’ll be asking her to mind you for the day and we ALL remember what happened last time that happened.  Unless you fancy being dressed up again as a little doll, complete with frock and bonnet, and pushed in a small pram to the market when she needs a spot of milk, you watch yourself and those teeth of yours.

      “Actually, I was hoping for some advice on a gift.”

      “I’d be honored!  Who’s it for?”

      “My mother.  Her birthday is soon to arrive, and she does have an appreciation for things… that is to say…”

      “Weird?”

      “Not as such.  More beyond the range of standard deviation for accepted motherly gift-giving.”

      “So… stepping away from the area of sweets, flowers and a new hat; is that what I’m hearing?”

      “My PA thought you might offer a suitable item along those lines, yes.  An unusual cookbook or something to keep her hands supple during gardening season.”

      “I can do both of those and a wealth of other things besides.  That’s a lot of my business actually.  Not necessarily people coming in for a human skull or a book of incantations, but something made from an herb they’ve heard helps with joint pain or a lovely crystal this or that to set on their desk.  We’ll find something.”

With what he hoped was a confident smile on his face, Greg made a ‘follow me’ gesture and hoped, further, that he could make good on his promise.  His shop was perfect for mum gifts, but a unique man like Mycroft Holmes could also have a unique mum who’d rather torch this shop than own a single thing in it.  Please let that not be the case.  Cleaning up after a fire, using magic or not, was a major pain in the arse…

__________

As much as he hadn’t wanted to admit it, Mycroft had to finally concede that Greg’s shop wasn’t quite the establishment he had imagined.  Yes, there were nonsense items aplenty, but, as the owner had stated, less-nonsensical stock was also to be found and it certainly offered options suitable for mothers who might appreciate something different as a gift, even if it did not summon evil spirits or grant the ability to turn the neighbor into a toad.  Which Mummy would positively have adored.

      “I think you’ve chosen a few winning gifts today, Mr. Holmes.  If she’s not happy with anything, though, I’ll exchange it for something different or you can have a gift voucher so she can choose whatever else she fancies.”

      “I believe Mummy will be most pleased with this selection and I must offer my thanks for your help.”

      “Always happy to give good service!”

Something Mycroft also had to admit, since, in the brief time he was in the shop, several other customers arrived and the owner treated each with respect and regard, even if they departed with only a small purchase of a sachet to hang in their wardrobe to keep away the moths.

      “A credit to your profession, I have no doubt.”

      “Something to tell your friends, I hope.  Always happy for new business.  Take my card, why don’t you?  I’ve got a website for online orders, which a lot of people prefer these days.”

Out of politeness Mycroft accepted the proffered business card but found himself looking at it far longer than he might have expected.

      “Are there… there seems to be something that catches the light…”

      “Good eye!  A lot of people don’t notice that, at least, not under this lighting.  They’re specially-made and not by one of those 5 quid for a box of 1000 companies.  As much business as I do with the casual browser, I do handle a lot of more… serious… customers and they appreciate a more mystical air about matters.  There actually are a few symbols embedded in the card, in silvery script, that they’d look for, but others don’t give a toss about.”

Turning the card this way and that, Mycroft caught quick glimpses of what seemed to be pieces of small symbols or some form of runic script embedded in the otherwise simple card.

      “Most appropriate, I am certain.”

      “If you’re curious, view it under candlelight.  You should be able to see it better that way.”

      “Another nod to the mystical?”

      “Every little bit helps.  Business is very much about image and I don’t want to disappoint.”

      “A worthy policy.  Well, I believe I am done here.  Thank you, Mr. Lestrade, for your assistance.”

      “Anytime.  I… I hope you’ll stop in again.  My stock changes more frequently than you might predict, so there’s always something new and interesting to see.”

      “I shall surely keep that in mind.”

Mycroft picked up the thankfully-plain sack containing his gift purchases and only swore softly under his breath when he passed a shelf and was swatted on the head by his black, furry nemesis.

      “Lovely.  The man already seemed ready to never set foot in here again and you smack him on the head.”

      “Got a hair, didn’t I?”

Greg groaned and walked over to pluck the hair that was dangling from Balthazar’s paw.

      “Why on Earth would you do that?”

      “Oh, I don’t know.  Love spell, maybe?”

      “Wrong.”

      “You absolutely can use hair for a love spell!”

      “You’re not casting any spell on Mycroft.”

      “Spoilsport.  How about a bit of divination, then?”

      “That’s invasion of privacy.”

      “The future isn’t here yet, so how can I invade something that doesn’t exist?”

      “Philosophy won’t get you out of this, you bastard.”

      “You never know until you try.”

Balthazar leapt from the top of the shelf and onto the counter, stared for a moment at the pen sitting next to the till, then casually batted it onto the floor.

      “Why did you do that?”

      “It was violating my territory.”

      “Brilliant.  Can I go back to work now?”

      “You mean doing a little finger waving so the floor is clean and the books are straightened while you have a cup of tea?”

      “Funny.  For your information, I have some orders to place.”

      “So… sitting on your arse in front of your computer.  While you drink tea.”

      “I hope you enjoy a little laxative in your food bowl.”

      “I hope you enjoy replacing all your shoes filled with the result.”

The mutual pffts were absolutely par for the course and Balthazar waited for Greg to go into the rear of the shop to start his tea before frowning at the day’s events.  Not a clear sign either way whether this Holmes person was interested in Greg or not, which was probably why the too-honest-for-his-own-good Greg was a bit testy.  Mr. Fine Coat and Brolly’s energy was miserable to decipher!  There was very old blood running in his veins and, in that very old time, he would have been the king or warlord or tribal chief standing alongside a powerful practitioner keeping watch over their people and land.

There was absolutely no chance this man was some minor government drone or even a mid-level government drone, no matter what he’d like to pretend.  Whereas Greg was arguably the most talented sorcerer in London, he certainly didn’t have cat-level cleverness.  A cat, for instance, would have realized that swatting at someone to steal a hair meant you could also swat someone and leave something behind.  Like a tiny tracking spell.  And how fortunate that Mr. Holmes seemed the type to work late hours because London was a large place for a cat, even one of his majesty, to traverse if it was inclined to do a bit of spying and Greg would certainly not put fresh food in his bowl if he trotted home after the stupid sod was asleep.  No matter how loudly he wailed…

Chapter Text

It actually took a great deal of exertion to leave Balthazar out of breath but chasing through London after Mycroft’s car did a good job of reaching the mark and the cat paused to surveil the scene and replenish its oxygen as Mycroft took an extended time exiting the vehicle, due to an in-progress phone conversation, and a few moments of conversation with Charles before stalking into the building that certainly did not shriek ‘government office building’ into the ether.

Now it was a matter of finding the man inside the building and gaining what information he could to help his romance-impaired boss make progress towards becoming non-romance-impaired.  Which… might not be as easy as he’d expected.  Government buildings were full of busy, distracted people and there was always a door or window ajar to sneak through.  That… did not seem to be the case here.  A uniformed, serious, mature person opened the door even before Holmes had to ring the bell  and there was an air about the place that said other serious, mature people were inside, utterly failing to leave a window cracked or the door to the bins open for an easier sneaking out to enjoy a quick smoke.  But, it wouldn’t do any harm to check.  Luck doesn’t always visit unless you go looking for it…

Bastards.  Everything locked tight as a drum and not a single of the old, moldy gents he could see through the windows even looked in his direction when he howled.  It was possible they didn’t hear him, since the average age of the building inhabitants seemed to be ninety-four, but even a bit of subaural caterwauling didn’t produce the slightest glance in his direction.  They should have felt that, at least!  Rattled their ancient bones a bit or made them itch.  And why was he sensing his prey underground!  Was there a dungeon?  A hidden tunnel?  An ossuary would certainly fit, given the abundance of near-mummies to be found in the variety of comfortable chairs this accursed mausoleum boasted…

This was not going quite the way he had planned.  Not a bit.  However… well, now.  That was a possibility.  A very distinct possibility, but… first a tiny change in appearance might be necessary because… she’s a floofy fancier, if there ever was one.

      “Look at you!  Oh, you poor dear… such a tiny floofy cat. Ginger, too, which is the cutest, in my opinion, which has a lot of merit since… well, I have a few cats of my own which makes me a bit of an expert.  Can I pet you?  Would you like that?  Oh, it seems you would… my name’s Molly.  Do you have a name?  I suppose you do, but I don’t see a collar or tag to let me know what it is.  That’s a shame.  Do you live near here?  I didn’t think any actual people lived near here, but I suppose they could.  You’re too small to be about on your own, though, so I’m worried you got out when you shouldn’t have.  I suppose I can knock on a few doors and see if anyone knows you…”

Bloody wonderful.  A do-gooder!  Well, more of a do-gooder than expected…

      “Why are you scratching at this door?  They don’t allow cats in here, I can tell you.  They scarcely allow me!  It’s only because I know someone… between you and me, Mr. Cat, a very important someone… and they can get me inside, but I doubt anyone in there would have a precious little kitty like you.  They’re a bit… well, if any of them had a cat, it would be one of those enormous ones that just lays there and glares at people without even a single moment in the day for chasing a toy or snuggling on your lap or anything.  Probably a stone cat!  One of those they sell for the garden that the old chap brought inside by accident and never got around to putting it with his posies.”

A pure soul.  Save me, spirits… or anything else listening… from pure souls.  Must manipulate with the deftest of paws…

      “What a cute little mew you have!  Surely you belong to someone who must be missing you ferociously.  I would be!  What’s that?  That mew sounded so sad!  Or hungry.  Are you hungry?  Look at those eyes… those are hungry eyes if I’ve ever seen them and I have seen a lot of them, believe me on that.  Maybe… people can get a bite to eat in there, so maybe they won’t mind if I find a tiny something for your tiny belly.  No… no, you can’t come inside, little moggie.  I’ll bring a dish out here for you.  No… making those eyes isn’t going to work on me.  I’m immune!  Veteran cat owner, if you recall.  No, don’t rub against my leg, it won’t do any good.  No, no wanting a pick-me-up.  Look at you plopping down on my foot, trying to be sad and pitiful so I put you in my purse and sneak you inside.”

That is a surprisingly good idea, Ms. Pure Soul.  Get on with it, will you?  I don’t want that Holmes fellow having a heart attack in his private crypt or wherever he is before I know if he’s suitable for the most lovelorn sorcerer in the city.

      “Oh, that’s a horrid little sound!  You poor thing… you really are hungry, aren’t you?  Probably scared, too, and could do with a little cuddle.  Come on, then, but you have to be very, very quiet and no fidgeting.  You’ve got loads of room in there, so get comfy and I’ll see if I can get you something to eat.  Alright now, here we go…”

Molly settled the cat in her rather substantial purse, then rang the bell, which the doorman allowed to happen since the first time she visited, he opened the door at the moment she was about to press the bell and her shriek of surprise caused a great deal of perturbation among the club members.  No good ever came of perturbation in the Diogenes Club.  Never.

      “Hel… oh.  Right, I’m supposed to be quiet.  But, I can’t really be quiet and tell you who I’m here to see, now can I?”

      “Hushed tones are permitted at the door, madam.  And you are expected.  Do follow me.”

      “Thank you.”

Molly poked her finger through the cracked open top of her handbag, so she could give her passenger a tiny scritch and Balthazar decided being scritched by a pure soul was not the life-stealing experience he expected it to be.  Or that he didn’t have to wear his usual armor of a frock and bonnet to protect him from the thieving pure soul, as he’d had to do in the past.

And surviving was good, since his carrier was going downward in the building, which was precisely where he wanted to be.  Though not, perhaps, in this particular room that seemed somewhat lacking in windows, easily-accessible ventilation ducts, or doors, once the example they’d passed through was closed behind them.

      “There you are, Molly Hooper.  I thought you’d forgotten.”

      “Nope, just found a friend and had to stop and chat.”

Molly opened her purse and pulled out Balthazar who peered at this new person, immediately recognizing a kindred spirit.  Her eyes were both formidable and fiery.  And her arse was breathtaking.  Just like his.

      “Oh my god… if His Majesty sees that he’ll shoot laser beams out of his eyes and explode the silly thing.”

His Majesty could try.  His Majesty would fail.  Did England even have a king?  The person on the telly looked like a woman, but it was hard to tell sometimes.

      “Your whip-cracker isn’t that bad.  He’s nice, actually!  At least… he’s that sort of polite than almost reaches nice, which is better than some people can claim.”

      “Lovely.  Now, can you explain why you have a cat in your purse, that isn’t one of your thirty cats that I’d fully believe you’d tote about with you in your purse, though most likely after made a little bed for it and cut holes for it to look through to see what’s what?”

      “I found him!  Right outside.  It is a him, too, because I saw his bits.”

And found them glorious to what precise degree?  Truly, Ms. Pure Soul, do tell?  Or perhaps Ms. Impure Soul would care to venture an opinion?

      “Ogling a cat’s bollocks isn’t what I asked you here for, Molly.”

      “I didn’t ogle!  They’re a bit large and hard to miss…”

Large is a good start on the glorious praising…

      “… I’m worried that might mean an infection, though.  I suppose I could aspirate a little of what’s in there and run a few tests… oops!  He’s a strong jumper!  Made it all the way to the table in one leap!”

You want to stab my balls!  I’d leap to Wales to save them!

      “Molly… get your new pet and put him somewhere he can’t cause any trouble.  We have work to do.”

      “He’s hungry, though.  Can you have a little something brought down for him to eat?”

      “You want me to ask the chef to prepare a meal for a cat?”

      “Yes, please.  Poor little thing… oh, he’ll need water, too.”

      “If you weren’t my cousin, Molly Hooper…”

      “But I am, Fake-Anthea No-Surname, so you have to do what I say or I’ll tell Gran and she’ll phone you for one of her special little talks.”

      “I’ll set His Nibs on you in retaliation.  Say you revoked his infant brother’s morgue privileges… the rain of fire, blood and pain will be majestic to behold, as will your battered, shredded corpse.”

Was is possible to fall in love at first sight?  Ms. Impure Soul was clearly the stuff of legends…

      “I’ll make certain that Dennis does my autopsy.  He’s very thorough and respectful, too.  Warm hands!  Which, I suppose, doesn’t matter to a dead body, but it’s nice when I give his hand a little pat and it’s not like fondling an ice cube.”

      “CAN we get back to the reason you’re here?”

      “After we get Mr. Fuzzy Wuzzy his food.”

Mental note – never appear as a fluffy kitten again as long as the sun burns in the sky.

      “Fine!  I’ll get him something and you start changing.”

      “You brought that really nice dress and shoes, right?”

      “So green it’s almost black, fits your form like a glove and heels that make those calves beckon all lusty humans in the area to beg for a lick.  Just like mine.”

Mr. Balthazar Impure Soul, husband of Ms. Anthea Impure Soul and proud licker of shapely calves.  Life could be worse…

      “Yes!  This is going to be fun, even though it’s a bit sneaky and I normally don’t approve of that sort of thing.  It’s for a good cause, though, so I can make an exception this time.”

      “Dress, shoes… over there.  I’ll call for that one to be executed…”

      “No!  He’s too cute.”

      “Cute cats don’t have those sorts of eyes.  Anyway, I’ll call for that one to get a bite of something while you dress, then we’ll tidy up your hair and makeup.  I’ve got a car waiting, so everything will stay fresh and sexy.”

The wife noticed my eyes.  After all our seconds of blissful matrimony.  Life is very, very good…

      “Perfect!  Don’t want the poor fellow to think I’m not particularly concerned with hygiene or grooming.  I’m supposed to be seducing him!  Nobody wants to seduce someone sweaty and smelly and looking a fright.  Well, I suppose someone might, because it takes all sorts and that’s actually a wonderful thing that I support very much, but I don’t think it would be helpful here.”

His dark and perfect spouse was also a spymaster!  Oh… oh, this was a visitation by the gods!  Which ones was a bit unclear at the moment, but now and again you could poke about a bit and get them to come out of hiding for a quick chat, so that could be the next bit of business.

      “The King of Monks thanks you.”

      “I’ll take my payment in that lovely vanilla vodka we drank the other night.  It was really good…”

      “Got a bottle waiting, actually.  Now remember… you’re just sussing out if this person has his head easily turned by a pair of breasts or if there’s reason to push forward with the mission.”

Perfect… you are simply perfect, you succulent morsel of deviousness…

      “Brilliant!  What was his name again?  I’d hate to work my womanly wiles on some poor fellow who just stopped in for a book or something.”

      “Greg…”

Ha!  That’s a coinci…

      “Greg Lestrade.”

… dence.  Wait… His Majesty, His Nibs, The King of Monks…

      “Molly, something’s wrong with your cat.  It looks… stuck.”

      “Wuzzers… is everything alright?  Here, let me give you a little cuddle before I get my kit on.”

Yes, fair maiden… cuddle me warmly for dark magic is afoot and it didn’t bother to say a fucking word of hello before it decided to trample through my life.  We could have cooperated from the start!  Apparently, this sleek and sexy beast… when not in the guise of Wuzzers… had allies and luscious ones, at that.  One, already, was his devoted wife.  The other, apparently, was an in-law.  My… wouldn’t Saturnalia… Christmas… be a joyful time this year…

Especially if The King of Monks found his Jester…

Chapter Text

      “Ok, Wuzzy… stay here and…”

      “MROW!!!!”

      “No, you have to stay in the car, alright?  I’ll just be right there in that shop and I don’t think I’ll be gone too-too long.”

      “FMROWRM!”

      “Wuzzypants… I have work to do.  Well, not work, really, because my real work involves dead people and I don’t see any of those lumbering about, which is a good thing, but my just-for-fun work and I can’t do that carrying you.  I’m supposed to be a seductive femme fatale and I’d need one of those white cats with green or blue eyes and a diamond collar if I wanted to carry a cat as a prop for my mission.”

      “MROWROWROWRMF!”

      “Oh…”

Molly dithered in indecision because leaving the cat behind could result in a very destroyed rear seat, if her other cats’ peevishness was any measure, and the driver wasn’t Charles, who could be counted on to keep an eye on the kitten and play with it or get it a treat.  That really only left Plan B and Anthea would be as peevish as a cat because of it, since she wouldn’t use the small, elegant handbag chosen for the mission and, instead, tote her normal purse that had ridden along specifically to hold the cat and an assortment of treats in the side pockets.

      “You’ll have to be quiet again, though, Wuzzers.  I do have a job to do and I can’t do it if this Greg person is too busy paying attention to you.  Ok, in you go…”

Molly signaled she was ready to exit and waited for the driver to let her out of the car, not so much because she enjoyed that sort of thing, but because it allowed her to hand the purse to the driver as she exited, which she wasn’t sure she could do gracefully with the unfamiliar high heels, short and tight dress and heavy purse overbalancing her to this side or that.  With the exit safely made and purse retrieved, she took a moment to check her reflection in the car’s windows, then paused to take a closer look at Greg’s little shop, which wasn’t as dark or eerie as she’d thought, with its flowerbox under the large window, colorful goods showcased in that window and ooh… they were having a sale…

The seductive strut was somewhat unnecessary, since Molly entered the shop and only saw an older woman browsing through a display of essential oils and a Uni-age couple debating the merits of two orbs, one of bloodstone and one of amethyst, for end-of-the-workday rejuvenation.  However, another figure quickly appeared from behind a shelf and Mata Hari knew she had her target.

      “Hello, ma’am.  How can I help you today?”

      “Hi!  I mean… hello…”

Said with tone Molly hoped sounded more like her cousin Anthea than her normal voice, which didn’t quite fit with her honey-trap outfit.

      “… I saw your shop and thought it had… appeal.”

This said with a slight look up and down of the shopkeeper and small lip twitch that, if one was of a mind for it, should inspire the image of sultry kisses.

      “Thank you… I’m so happy my little busi… your purse is alive.”

      “What?  Oh dear…”

Molly sighed at her squirming handbag, which contained a seemingly eager to escape cat and smiled apologetically at Greg.

      “Confess, Madam Sneaker… dog or cat.  Or is it something unusual, like a hedgehog or ferret?”

      “It’s… it’s a cat.”

      “Can I see it?  I love cats.”

      “You do!  Oh… that’s nice.  Very nice.  Wuzzy, did you hear that?  You can come out and meet Gr… this nice shopkeeper.”

Greg didn’t catch the near-dropping of his name because his attention was too fixed on the fact that Balthazar was being drawn out of a stranger’s handbag, wearing a form that he certainly hadn’t left the shop with earlier.

      “This… is your cat?”

      “Well, no, if I’m honest.  I just found him!  I was going to visit my… friend, and there he was, looking so sad and lost and hungry.  Not really an area for a housecat to have wandered off in, so I don’t know… maybe someone abandoned the poor thing.”

      “I see… well, I’m sure he has a good home now with you.”

Balthazar made a ‘ha ha very funny magic man’ face at Greg, which was only decipherable if you were a sorcerer having a long history of being shot that very look by this very cat, regardless of what form it was taking at the moment.

      “Oh… I wish I could keep him.  I have four cats already though… well, three permanent ones and another that visits when she’s tired of the weather or wants some Dreamies.”

Balthazar reached out and smacked Greg’s hand with his paw because his stupid sorcerer should not be giving Ms. Pure Soul such a beaming smile.  Not allowed.

      “It does sound as if you have your hands full.  It’s good to see someone who cares about these little fellows, though.  Are you an animal lover, in general, or is it more a cat-fancying thing?”

      “I love them all!  Mammals, birds, reptiles, fish, insects, worms… they’re all so wonderful.”

Stop smiling, Greg, you prat!  Yes, she’s pretty and yes, she’s nice and yes, she’s funny but… ok, that does make for a very pleasing package, but your energy isn’t responding nearly as strongly to her as it did to The King of Monks and I’ll not have you marauder through our carefully-laid plans just because you’ve met someone to watch monkeys at the zoo with!

      “Wuzzy?  Why do you keep hitting the nice man?”

Because he’s an idiot.

      “I have an idea, ma’am.  Why don’t you let your cat out of the bag and he can roam about the shop?  My cat’s hiding somewhere and they can have a cat conference while you browse.  I may also know someone who would love to have a cute little kitten like that.  A sweet old lady who watches my evil moggie now and again.  She could do with slightly more permanent companionship.”

      “Really?  That would be amazing!  You… you wouldn’t mind?”

      “Not at all.  Anything for a lovely woman with a great heart and a pretty smile.”

Enough of that, you sex-deprived wand-waver…

      “Ow!”

      “What happened!”

      “I…”

Greg looked down to share a glare with Balthazar and decided that a few hours with Mrs. Hodges would do the miserable thing a world of good.  She’d been knitting a pixie cap for her baby grandson and surely could use a model to see how it fit.  And, only yesterday he’d fixed the sticky wheel for her doll pram…

      “One of those random twinges that you can’t explain but remind you you’re not getting any younger.”

      “I hate those!  You’re enjoying a nice bit of telly and all of a sudden you wonder why your toe is being a mischief.  You’d think I’d know what’s what about that since I’m a pathologist and have more than my fair share of knowledge about the human body and the silliness it can get up to when it wants a laugh, but somethings just defy explanation!”

Molly’s large grin turned into a gasp as she realized she’d left her temptress persona in the dust a few leagues back and was chatting with her target like they’d bumped into each other at the market when each reached for the same melon.

      “A pathologist!  That’s an interesting job.  Not many people with the talent or disposition to do that sort of work.  Important work, though.  How long have you been working in the field?”

Balthazar hissed his displeasure, but quietly so as not to upset Molly, and tugged on Greg’s trouser leg to remind the berk he had a shop to run.

      “Oh, would you pardon me a moment?  Looks like someone needs my attention at the till.  Do look about, though.  Lots to see and I’ll be happy to answer any and all questions.”

Molly grinned, then mentally kicked herself that it was her normal grin and not the sultry one she’d practiced in the mirror.  Time for the Phone a Friend protocol…

      “Molly.  Report.”

      “Oh, I’m making a mess of everything!”

      “What!  What did you do?”

      “I… chatted.”

      “That was the whole point.”

      “No, I mean really chatted.  Like we were in the queue for a coffee and began talking about the woman at causing a fuss at the counter, then started on about the weather and now it’s animals and… he’s actually very nice.”

      “You are not allowed to fall for him, do you understand?  If I have to extract you from the scene I will, and you can say goodbye to vodka or cupcakes or that new toenail polish you wanted but only I know where to get it for a discount.”

      “I’m not going to fall for him!  But, now… I feel completely rotten about trying to tempt him with my womanly wiles.”

      “I should have done this myself.  You’re too… sweet.”

      “Probably, but maybe he’s the type who goes for sweet.  He… I think he may have been flirting a bit.”

      “Shit.  That’s not good.”

No it wasn’t, in Balthazar’s opinion, which was gaining support as he did a bit of his own spying from one of his favorite observation perches atop a bookshelf.

      “I’m not entirely certain about the flirting, though, because he’s nice and sometimes niceness can be confused with flirting since… it’s sad, but not everyone knows a lot of nice people, so if someone is nice to them, they suspect something else is behind it besides niceness.  Not me, though!  I know lots of nice people, so… I’m not sure where I was originally going with that.”

Balthazar was proud that he was a tangible manifestation of concentrated evil and held the aorta of black wizardry between his teeth but… why wasn’t this woman protected by legions of white magic practitioners and their hangers on!  She was so pure and kind…

      “Oh my god… abort!  Just abort.”

      “No!  We need to know for certain and… there’s loads of really interesting things here.  On discount!”

      “Maybe you can trade your cat for a crystal ball.”

      “Oh, Greg’s taking the cat.  He knows a dear old thing who could do with a spot of company and what’s better for that than a cat?”

      “Everything.”

      ‘You’re just mad because Daisy chewed your shoes.”

      “Ninety quid worth of shoes that looked fabulous on me!  Nothing left but one flappy strap and a few shat out remnants of heel.  I have no idea where the rest of it went.  Hell, probably.  Where your stupid cat came from in the first place.”

      “I don’t think Daisy fancies red.  She doesn’t even like the little red mousey toy I bought.  Didn’t play with it so much as mauled it until it looked like some poor bloke who fell in front of one of those big threshers and basically becomes fertilizer for wherever his bits and pieces happen to land.”

Since this seemed to be going off-script, Balthazar took a moment to peer towards Greg, who was finishing with a paying customer and felt a twinge of indecision about his direction forward.  Greg had been flirting, in Greg’s typically-mild manner, and Molly would probably accept an evening or ten out with him.  It wouldn’t last long-term, but there would be a period of happiness in the sorcerer’s life that he hadn’t seen in awhile and there was very little doubt Molly would be decent to him, treat him well.  Was it fair to snatch that away for a chance at something else?

Seeing another customer approach the till and Molly still arguing for the beatification of cats, Balthazar leapt down and trotted into the shop’s back room, and down the stairs to the workroom, then to the back of that where he walked through the illusion wall to the other workroom and to his own area where his tarot cards were sitting on a cleared section of the floor.  Greg was better at this than he was, but time was of the essence and needs must when the devil, or his designated representative, drives.

Shuffling cards wasn’t easy with paws, but batting cards about wildly was extremely easy and the issue was which card or cards deigned, during the swatting frenzy, to turn themselves face up.  For him, the only card he cared about was the first since he’d been quite firm with his deck about the time issue and his lack of patience for trying to fathom out a larger meaning from a big spread.  Stupid cards had one job – should Greg ply his sad game on Molly or wait for the Man Who Would Be King?

Balthazar flailed about scattering cards hither and yon until one flipped over to bring the maelstrom to an end.  Looking at the card staring at him, rather commandingly, the cat raced over to the old landline phone in the front workroom, knocked the receiver off the cradle and jabbed the number for the shop.  The Emperor!  For his simple question that boiled down to one thing.  Might as well shove Mycroft’s crotch in Greg’s face…

      “Magicae Argentea.”

      “Stop flirting with Molly, you ridiculous twat!”

      “Balthazar?  Why are you using a phone?”

      “Because you really don’t need a cat yelling at you with customers about, you simpleton.”

      “You have a point.  Does this have anything to do with where you disappeared to and why you returned in a customer’s handbag.  A customer I, now, assume is named Molly?”

      “Yes, it does.  She’s a spy.”

      “Ok, you found some old fruit or a half-full bottle of gin someone left on in an alley and now you’re pissed.”

      “Wrong.  I’ll explain later, but do not flirt.  I repeat, you are not to pursue the female.”

      “That sounds a bit seedy the way you say it like that.”

      “It is seedy!  Alright, no, maybe not that, because Molly…”

      “Because Molly what?”

Bathazar yowled and nearly somersaulted in the air hearing Greg’s voice directly behind him.  Damn the sorcerer’s bilocation power!

      “Don’t do that!”

      “Just get on with it.  I do have work to do and this isn’t getting it done.”

      “There shall be no seediness because Molly is the sweet cinnamon-roll cousin to my dear wife who…”

      “Wife?  What are you going on about now?”

      “I have met my intended and she is the darkest, most beguiling of flames and beckons me with an irresistible call.”

      “How can Molly have a cousin who’s a cat?”

      “Don’t be obtuse.”

      “Then I’m lost.”

      “The only important thing, for you, is not to succumb to Molly’s sweet and shapely charms.  She’s a spy.  A mole.”

      “First cats and now moles.  Are you sure you’re not drunk?”

      “She’s here to see if you shag women!”

      “Molly?”

      “It’s… Molly is the tool.  My beloved wields it with utmost delicacy and dexterousness.”

      “So, your wife, who is of either the cat or mole species, wants me to shag her?  I’m worried now you found some poor bastards drugs and threw yourself a bit of a party.”

      “You will not entertain impure thoughts about my Anthea.  Her impurity is perfect as it is.”

      “I think I’m done here.”

      “Wait!  You have to make certain you don’t let her entrap you into a date!  I can already see you thinking about which of your shirts lacks coffee stains and whether the weed patch on your head needs a trim.  You will not become enslaved by her kindness and spunky energy.”

      “Why not?  She’s actually the nicest, most interesting woman I’ve met in… a long time and…”

      “Woman!  That’s the problem.  I’m not saying you have to announce you’re gay…”

      “Which I’m not.”

      “That’s why you don’t have to announce it, but you need to resist the lure of her cheery demeanor and enticing bosom.”

      “I still have no idea why!”

      “Mycroft, of course!”

      “What’s he got to do with it?”

      “Did… did I forget to say that my Anthea works for him and is trying to get the two of you together?”

      “Yes, you forgot to say that.  You forgot to say a fucking thing about that, actually.”

      “My bad.  Anyway, Molly is the test.  You must not fail.”

      “Let me see if I have this straight… I doubt I’ll ever fully have the right end of the stick here, because you’re drunk, drugged and loony, but you’re saying that Molly is here to see if I prefer women, which would make something between me and Mycroft impossible.”

      “That’s actually the whole stick.”

      “And you couldn’t have said that yonks ago?”

      “Uhh… I’m too drunk to remember.”

      “Brilliant.  And… this is Mycroft’s idea?”

      “NO!  It is my Anthea’s plan.  Her talent for subterfuge rivals even mine.”

      “But she works for Mycroft, right?”

      “Yes.  From what I gather, she is his me.”

      “Pardon?”

      “She is the indomitable force that enables him to function.”

      “She’s his assistant.”

      “Your demeaning terminology will be the subject of a future discussion.”

      “Lovely.  Are we done here?”

      “Are you fully inured to the allure of Miss Molly?”

      “I think I have the gist of what I need to do.”

      “Good, then be off with you and… be nice.”

Greg made a rude gesture, then vanished to rejoin with his other self to finish ringing up a tidy sale of two hefty crystal orbs and take a quick look at Molly, who had finished her phone call and was merrily browsing through his small, but unique, jewelry selection.  So… the assistants were staging a coup.  Of sorts.  Trying to shove their bosses together to… date, he supposed.  Probably to make their own lives easier, but… it was a touching thing, nonetheless, to go to all this trouble for two middle-aged men who may be going through a dry patch.  How in the world they planned to physically get them together in the same place at the same time again was another question, but allies were never a thing he tossed aside, so they could continue with their work and whatever would be, would be.

And Miss Molly seemed to be an ally in this, too.  Maybe he couldn’t fall for her charms, but he could encourage her to stop in again for a chat.  Romance was one thing, but a friend was its own reward and he never tossed aside potential friends, either.  Life was too short and too brutal to do otherwise.  Besides… a dear person like that could always use a watchful eye on them and there were few more watchful than his and Balthazar’s…

Chapter Text

      “Hmmm… I admit I didn’t consider the bisexual twist.”

Anthea quickly put down her hand, as she realized she was stroking an imaginary beard like an old Greek sage, but knew that Molly would be too polite to openly laugh in her face over the lapse of sanity.

      “I didn’t either, which is rather shabby since I’ve known more than a few people who are as happy dating a man as a woman.  I’m not certain how open Greg is about it, but we had a very nice chat and… well, not to be boastful… but people do realize fairly quickly that I’m a trustworthy person and they tell me lots they might not tell someone else, because they know their secret’s safe with me.”

      “You shouted ‘Greg’s bi, isn’t that brilliant!’ the moment you walked in here.”

      “Oh.  Ok, that’s true, but you’re sort of me, for the purposes of this mission, since I was working for you, and it wouldn’t have been proper for me to withhold vital information about the target.”

      “That sounded very professional.”

      “Thanks!  Oh, and I met his cat.  Wuzzy is going to be so happy with Bazzer, since they can visit whenever Mrs. Hodges…”

      “Wait.  Greg’s cat is named Bazzer?”

      “No, it’s Balthazar, but that’s quite the mouthful, don’t you think?”

      “A cat named Balthazar… I suppose it fits for someone who sells spells and potions.”

      “And jewelry!  And gorgeous crystals and lovely books and bottles of very mysterious, but very nice-smelling oils.  All sorts of amazing things.”

      “How much did you buy?”

      “I… a little.”

      “Meaning if you try to lift the sacks by yourself, you’ll throw out your back.”

      “No… because I’m smart and know to lift with my legs.  And Greg gave me a very nice price, so I don’t feel terrible about what I spent.  Here, I even got something for you.”

Molly reached into her handbag, which Anthea had noticed was Molly’s regular out-for-shopping purse and actually held the designer bag she’d added to the outfit for that additional splash of sophistication. Which, apparently, was more of a splat than a splash.

      “Isn’t it beautiful!”

Define beautiful.

      “What is it?”

      “A selenite wand.”

      “Wand?”

      “I admit it’s not like what you imagine for Harry Potter, but it’s helpful and healing and… where is it… here!  Greg gave me this little booklet about crystals and stones and what they’re good for. This was the nicest bit of selenite he had, too.  He brought out the whole lot and let me choose the prettiest one.”

Anthea loved her cousin dearly and if she had to live with a strange bit of rock to prove that, she was prepared to do it.  Besides, it looked exceedingly susceptible to having an unfortunate encounter with a duster at some point in the future.

      “Thank you.  It’s… highly unique.”

      “His whole shop is like that!  You’ll have to come with me the next time I visit so you can see for yourself.”

      “You’re going back?”

      “Sure!  It really is a fun shop and the customers are very interesting.  I got to talk to a witch!  At least, that’s what she calls herself, I don’t know if she actually has witchy powers or not, but she knew about all sort of things.  Useful things, I mean, like aromatherapy and herbal medicine and things that do have some scientific basis, so it’s not all turning people into toads and dancing naked.  Though she says they do that, too, the naked dancing part, I mean, but they have to be a touch careful because the constables frown on that sort of thing if they catch you at it.  She said I have something exciting waiting in my future, too, which is positively brilliant since I never have exciting things happen in my life.  Except being a spy, of course, but I wasn’t terribly good at it, so here’s to what’s waiting for me… sometime!”

      “Ahem.”

Molly and Anthea spun around, but only Molly squeaked at the sight of Mycroft Holmes standing in the doorway.

      “Miss Hooper… it appears you have enjoyed somewhat of an adventurous day.  A spy, you say.  Might I ask which country has taken you into their employ?  Or is it, perchance, a private organization?”

Said staring at Anthea who responded with her best bored expression which, Mycroft had to admit, was equally as disinterested and childish as his brother’s.

      “I… that is… want to see Anthea’s wand?”

Molly Hooper was one of the infinitesimally-small number of people who were not directly tied to government that Mycroft tolerated, and not only for the reason that she tolerated Sherlock and kept him occupied much like a child minder with a rather incorrigible and voraciously-curious toddler.

      “Most certainly!  I have often harbored a suspicion that she was endowed with arcane and eldritch powers and now proof flies into my day as if carried by broomstick.”

Molly nudged up Anthea’s hand and Mycroft happily read in his PA’s eyes what she wanted to do at the moment with that wand and where on him it would have to be inserted for her mystical curse to be enacted.

      “Terribly delightful.  And, does this wand factor in, in some fashion, with your work as an agent of espionage?”

      “It… might?”

      “I see…”

Which, to Mycroft’s growing suspicion, he actually did.

      “Might the target of your secret mission be a certain vendor of mystical arts and crafts?”

      “Uh…”

Anthea honestly appreciated how her employer treated her cousin, which, admittedly, was a bit like one would treat a seven-year-old, but it was leaps and bounds better than he treated the rest of the world, so she was content.  However, it appeared to be time to turn his interrogation her way before Molly confessed to stealing the crown jewels and hiding one of the Tower’s ravens under her jacket as she made her getaway.

      “Fine!  I knew Molly would enjoy a shop that sold things like… this… and maybe I was curious about this Lestrade person, so two biscuits eaten in one bite.  Normally, I’d say two birds killed with one stone, but Molly is here, and she doesn’t approve of that sort of imagery.”

      “I don’t.  Not at all.”

Well aware that this was not nearly the extent of his PA’s intentions, Mycroft decided to postpone digging further into the matter since the digging would be wildly more difficult due to Molly’s well-meaning, but somewhat meandering, attempts at explanation.

      “Yes, your love for our animal brethren is very well documented.  Did… I believe the cat’s name was Snaffy and there was an issue with ears?  I do hope that was resolved.”

      “It was!  The poor thing had such a nasty infection and he hated the goo that got squirted in there to help with it, but he’s absolutely fine now and I can give him a little kiss on his head without smelling something dreadful wafting off of him.”

      “Excellent.”

And, with the obligatory asking about relatives over and done with, Mycroft gave Anthea a small glance that said it was time to return to work or, in this case, prepare for intense interrogation about the entire nonsense of the past five minutes.

      “Molly, Mr. Holmes seems to need me for something, so…”

      “Oh!  Right!  And, I need to get into something comfortable, so I can look through all my new treasures.  Cupcakes?”

      “I’ll phone when I’m home.”

      “Yes!  My off days are normally fairly peaceful and a touch uneventful, but this has been amazing!  Goodbye, Mr. Holmes!  I’ll tell Snaffy you asked about him.”

Mycroft kept his ‘how kind of you’ smile on his lips as Molly waved to both him and Anthea on the way out the door of the windowless room, then turned that smile into a ‘now – you’ glare that Anthea waved off with a touch less than her usual level of apathy.  This time her boss actually had a smidgen of a reason to glare.

      “What?”

      “You know very well what.”

      “I used my wand to erase my memory.”

      “Pitiful.  I expect better of a sweets wrapper.”

      “I told you the truth.  I knew Molly would enjoy Greg’s shop, which she did if her now-extinct bank balance is to be believed, and I also wanted a little insight into the shop owner himself.”

      “Why was Miss Hooper wearing a dress I recognize is not one to be found in her own wardrobe?”

      “It’s not illegal to lend someone a dress.”

      “And shoes?”

      “You noticed her shoes?  That’s worrying.”

      “I very well remember the shoes you purchased to attend the party at the American embassy, which cost more than the embassy building itself.”

      “Oh.  Forgot about that.  They did the job, though.  You got what you wanted out of that fatuous Cabinet member.”

      “True, however, they are not quite in line with Miss Hooper’s more practical aesthetic, nor likely desire for podal comfort, so…”

      “Ugh… you’re not going to let this go, are you?”

      “Was your question a serious one or has your wand impaired your capacity for rational thought?”

Anthea knew Mycroft could go on like this forever and the end result would be the same, so she might as well cut to the chase and put her information out on the proverbial table.

      “Greg’s bi.”

      “Your sentence makes absolutely no grammatical sense.  Greg is buying, Greg will buy, Greg’s buy, if you are somehow trying to synonymize buy with a purchased product, but that should be followed by some descriptor, unless you are using the phrase as a declaration, in which case the product should be here for you to indicate by pointing or some other gesture…”

      “Oh my god… B-I not B-U-Y!”

      “That is a prefix!  Verily, you are compounding the confusion.”

if it was anyone else in the world, Anthea would assume they were intentionally poking her rather testy badger, but this was Mycroft Holmes.  He truly was this clueless about a select number of topics, most of which centered on people and the lives of said people.

      “Yes, it is a prefix.  Also, it is a commonly-accepted diminutive for bisexual.”

      “I… why is that relevant?”

Boundlessly clueless…

      “Because, if you decide to, perhaps, get to know Greg better, in a ‘how about a drink and then we make another type of magic happen’ sort of manner, knowing in advance he won’t look at you like you’re loony might be a tiny benefit.”

      “Oh.  Oh, I see…”

I doubt it, but at least you’re on your way there and that counts as progress.

      “I know how much mental energy and time you have to devote to your work and how little that leaves for anything else, so it seemed efficient to simply test the waters to see if any devotion of time or energy in Greg’s direction was worthwhile.  Admittedly, I wasn’t concerned, now, with the possibility of a simple friendship, which was feasible regardless of his sexual orientation but, now, if you choose to explore this path a bit more intently, you’ll be collecting data on both possible relationships simultaneously and, as I said… all hail efficiency.”

      “That… is not the least credible explanation you could have offered.”

      “Not by a light year, but now it’s all out there and you can decide what to do about it.”

Which, from Mycroft’s frown and furrowed brow, Anthea suspected was not a decision he was comfortable making.

      “I shall give that the consideration it is due.”

That could mean he was dismissing everything out of hand or would think about it, just not here, not now and, probably, not quickly.  Again, it counted as progress and, at this point, any further meddling would certainly push him right into the ‘dismissing everything out of hand’ zone.  Further overt meddling, that is…

      “Good.  Now, what actually did you come in here for besides hoping to get a peek at Molly in her pretty dress.”

      “Amusing.  I was hoping to begin preparations for tomorrow’s meeting with my very favorite Cabinet Secretary.”

      “Can we simply phone in sick and miss the whole ordeal?”

      “Given we have used that particular tactic once this month, I suspect we should wait for a later event to again extract it from our collective arsenal.”

      “Oh fine.  First preparation – selecting the special biscuits.”

      “Of course.  One must always tend to the important details at the onset.  How old is our current selection of contenders?”

      “At least six months.  And I poked a few tiny holes in the package of Hobnobs a month or so ago so the musty air at the back of cabinet could truly get in and work its magic.”

      “Excellent.  Tomorrow is already far more appealing.”

And, given the particular Cabinet Secretary’s voracious appetite, the special biscuits would ensure a brief meeting, leaving time for… thought.  The mere idea of pursing anything remotely romantic was nonsensical, however… there was no harm in investigating if the man might have sufficient acceptable attributes to make the occasional shared meal or collegial cocktail a possibility.  He had associated with a rarified few in his life that made such things tolerable and offered avenue for fresh perspectives on aspects of culture, society, politics and such.  He would not use, necessarily, the term ‘friend’ for these associations, a more accurate label was ‘acquaintance,’ however, they had been worth the personal investment to maintain them until they dissipated as such things do in time.

In any case, it was merely a thought at this point.  Nothing ventured gained, but nothing lost, either.  And, many times, the status quo most acceptable and upheaval, of any form, was certainly not to one’s benefit…

__________

Anthea was highly practiced at reading her boss when he first stepped into the office each day, as well as at points during the day and skilled at responding to what she gleaned from those observations.  And what she’d gleaned in the week that had passed between her Mr. Holmes meeting a certain occult shop owner was… it was going to be much longer than a week before they met again.  Much longer.  Like never, unless sheer random chance found Mr. Holmes’s car hitting Greg in a zebra crossing.  It was disappointing, to say the least, but not entirely unexpected.  The chance had always been a small one and, apparently, ‘small’ had been an overestimation.

      “Ah, good morning, Anthea.”

      “Good morning, sir.  You seem chipper today.”

      “Sherlock spent the night in a jail cell, so my day is brightened immeasurably.”

      “That does tend to put some spring in your step.  Any specific charge or general mayhem and anarchy.”

      “The latter.  He was most pestiferous during an investigation and the Detective Inspector had him relocated to stem the tide of the brewing headache which would surely compromise his ability to actually conduct his investigation.”

      “How much will it cost to keep him in that cell for a few weeks?”

      “Given I have no wish to see news of a prison riot erupting during those few weeks, we shall have to reconcile ourselves to his being released this morning and mourn the cessation of calm that blanketed London so cozily.”

      “It was nice while it lasted.  The latest update on the Guatemalan situation is on your desk and I have our consulate in Italy on notice that you will be having a word with them this morning.”

      “Very good.  I believe I shall tend to that first.”

      “With your standard start-the-day cup of tea?”

      “Yes and…”

      “What?”

      “I find myself peckish.”

      “Really.  What do I have to dart out to buy to quash the peckishness?”

      “A chocolate croissant.”

      “You do realize you passed countless bakeries on your way here this morning, don’t you?”

      “Charles was churlish.”

      “Right.”

Anthea stuck out her hand and waited for Mycroft to sigh, count out funds for his treat, count out more funds for her treat, then waited for her to depart before letting his rigidly-controlled aplomb slip a touch.

Last night… he habitually visited Sherlock when he was incarcerated, whether it was in a holding cell or a tidy room in one of the drugs rehabilitation facilities that had clouded a portion of his brother’s youth and, this time, found himself uncharacteristically willing to follow an unexpected whim and had Churlish Charles make a small detour to a certain shop, if only to refresh his memory as to the atmosphere of the establishment and the man who had crafted it.

Who, apparently was not minding his shop this particular evening, given an unfamiliar face was smiling behind the till.  And that had made his mind… engaged.  The first bit of contemplation of the evening had been for why he had given in to his silly whim, at all.  The second had concerned the reason for the authentic twinge of disappointment that had risen from not seeing Gregory merrily toiling away as a merchant was wont to do.  The third, which was really a codicil to the second, concerned the second authentic twinge, this one of delight, seeing Gregory emerge from an eatery a few doors along, with two bags in his hand, return to his shop, hand over one bag to the person at the till, then disappear behind through a door behind the counter.

The entire event lasted but a few minutes, however… two twinges!  That was a personal record for emotional response!  And he could not, in any manner, ascribe to the situation an excuse of novelty, curiosity, dyspepsia or any of the myriad of limp possibilities that had sprung to mind post-twinge to wave away the actual basis of the twinges.  The question, now, was how to proceed.  Ignoring the twinges was absolutely possible and there would be no change in his life whatsoever by doing so.  Exploring the twinges, though, was potentially fraught with peril.

Perhaps that was a teensy overstatement.  It was, more, fraught with the potential for experiencing again what he had thought he had long left behind in his past, when his younger self was more… hopeful… than the older self that stood here now, still holding his sedate and unassuming umbrella and valise.  And that hope had never brought anything but disappointment.  Which, of course, was not pleasant, not gladdening, but certainly not disastrous.  If he chose, and the matter was by no means settled, to take a tentative step in that direction, then the possible negative outcome was more than survivable.

However, he was now of an age where survivable was far more a debilitating thing than it was in days gone by…

__________

      “What… whatever is that skull doing on your desk!”

      “Watching you.”

Not a statement that Mycroft could refute since the offending object was looking in his direction, with eye sockets positively radiant with unknowable intent.

      “I… this is not an area I had hoped to broach today, however, perhaps the time has come.  How many in your family have been diagnosed with mental illness and was it of a treatable variety?”

      “Funny.  Or not.  I think I’ll go with not, so I don’t have to make my foundation crinkle by laughing.”

      “There is a skull on your desk!”

      ‘It’s not real, if that’s your worry.”

      “I surmised that from the fact that it is blue.”

      “It’s sodalite.  Good for thinking.”

Also intuition, but Mr. Holmes didn’t need to know about that.  It was utter rubbish, of course, but even the rubbish notion of enhancing her already formidable female intuition was not something to be shrugged off lightly.

      “Where would you even find such a thing?  I… ah, I see.  You are you again surveilling Gregory.”

      “No, but Molly took me to his shop yesterday and I decided this was the perfect thing for my desk.  Stimulates the brain and smooths arguments, which is godsend, frankly since…”

Anthea waved her hand with a panache-rich ‘voila!’ gesture in Mycroft direction.

      “It is utterly inappropriate for the workplace.”

      “You have a TARDIS on your shelf!”

      “First… it is British institution, deserving both of admiration and presentation.  Second, it is not directly in the line of sight of any who might venture into my space.”

      “Neither is Ignatius.”

      “Pardon?”

      “Iggy for short.  And I’ve got him here, in his Cavern of Mystical Desk Organizers and Tea Mug, so he can spy on the unwary and report to me their foulest secrets...”

Mycroft had to admit that in the two weeks since his PA had gone rogue, she had not engaged in any further chitchat, interrogation or snooping as related to his situation with Gregory.  Therefore, it was possible that the visit to the shop was perfectly innocent, given Miss Hooper’s previously-stated fascination with its wares and clientele.

      “…I wish he could tell me what happened to Greg, though. That has to be a story worth hearing.”

What?

      “Pardon?”

      “Greg.  Looked positively knackered and moved like he was favoring one side.  Molly’s professional opinion was he took a nasty fall down some stairs or had an accident where he was hit by something, like a bicycle speeding down the street.”

      “Dear me…”

      “He said he’d been sick, but pfft.  Even Molly knew that was a lie and she’s terrible for that ‘believe in human honesty’ nonsense.”

Another twinge!  Blast and bedevilment, another bloody twinge!  He had valiantly avoided them for an entire week and now one lands upon his shoulders like a harpy, digging its claws into his flesh.  The thought of an exhausted, injured Gregory… oh, would his twinge generator ever stop its infernal machinations!

      “Well, I suppose we must pay him the respect of accepting his cover story and move along with our day.  To begin, your skull must be removed.”

      “No, and I got one for you, too.”

Mycroft groaned as another skull was drawn from a sack next to Anthea’s feet, this one, he was very certain, sporting a clearly mocking grin.

      “Donate that… object… to whichever local coven is in need of an altar decoration.”

      “I think not.  I asked what was effective for constipation and flatulence and Greg said this stone was top notch.  You’ll thank me the next time your mother sends her famous shepherd’s pie.”

Untrue, but what Mr. Holmes didn’t know certainly wouldn’t hurt him.

      “Perhaps a local theatre company is staging Hamlet and requires a Yorick.”

      “It’s simple clear quartz, so you can’t say it’s too garish for your sad grandfather decor.  Good for decision making, mental clarity, all sorts of handy things like that. Yorick is a good name for it, though.”

Mycroft stared at the crystal skull in his PA’s palm and sighed.  It was a garish thing, but it did have a… whimsical… aspect that he did not particular abhor.  There were even a few flashes of color to be seen, which were interesting, if nothing else.  And it was not large, no more than 3” across, so it would be unobtrusive sitting on a shelf, though in a location where he was not daily gazing upon it’s large, taunting smirk.

      “Very well, I shall accept your gift.”

      “You’re welcome.  Now, you have a meeting in an hour and three hours of video footage to watch before it begins.”

      “Is that all?”

      “Yes, an easy start to the day for once.”

Mycroft nodded and moved to his inner office where he set his new friend on his desk while he removed his coat and removed a selection of papers from his valise.  He had already viewed the necessary footage, since his PA handily put the notification in his ‘want an easy morning?’ folder the night before, so he could focus on other matters to make the afternoon a more tolerable one, as well.

Taking a seat to begin the focusing, Mycroft lifted up the skull from the desk returned the its cheeky smirk.

      “You are supposed to benefit mental focus, are you not?  I shall be monitoring your success and woe be to you should you fail in your appointed task.”

Yes, it was unutterably silly, however… he felt oddly better about his day from the touch of silliness.  And, it was a handsome specimen, now that he looked at it more closely.  The carving was surprisingly well done for what would be an inexpensive item to purchase and there were, now that he investigated more closely, more than a few flashes of color to be seen as the skull was moved about in the light.  It felt rather comfortable in his hand, also, whether in his open palm or when he allowed his fingers to slightly curl around it.

All in all, it was not quite as dreadful as he had imagined and… ooh, that position certainly allowed the various rainbow colors to show proudly.  A much better specimen than Anthea’s boring blue bugger.  The woman obviously had no taste for objet d’… magique.  That, however, could remain absent from her annual performance review…

__________

What an utterly strange day.  Not that the events were strange, but his small amount of whimsy with his skull had noticeably enlivened his imagination and that brought about certain creative solutions which would have sprung to mind, of course, but likely after a more extensive period of time had elapsed.  Magic was a silly thing, naturally, but the power of suggestion was not, he had used it countless times to his advantage.  It was a singular thing, though, to have it impact him, even in a minute way.

      “Do you require any stops tonight, Mr. Holmes?”

Mycroft opened his mouth to say no, however, paused a moment to reconsider the question.  He did not require any stops before returning home, but… perhaps he would welcome one if, for no other reason, than it might eliminate from further contemplation the Gregory Situation, as well as any and all associated twinges.

      “Yes, Charles.  I… I find myself in need of purchasing another out-of-the-ordinary gift and Mr. Lestrade’s shop is likely to offer something suitable for my purposes.”

Fortunately, his driver would not comment on the obvious lie, since he traditionally purchased two gifts per year and one had already been obtained.  As Christmas was not looming…

      “Of course, sir.  Traffic is fairly light for the hour, so we should be there shortly.”

      “Excellent.”

Though, if you choose to take us via Glasgow to give me further time to second-guess myself, that would certainly be appreciated…

__________

Hounds of Hell!

      “Mr. Holmes, are you conscious?  You haven’t moved since we arrived.”

Yes, foul man.  Do you not see that Gregory is, once again, not taking charge of his business?

      “That I am.  Simply ruminating on the nature of my potential purchases and if this is, in actuality, the best establishment for my purposes.”

Feel free to remove your disbelieving gaze from the mirror, soon-to-be-sacked Charles.  I do not need to have my thwarted plans so flagrantly brought into sharp relief.

      “Of course, sir.  Though…”

Mycroft noticed that Charles’s eyes did break from the mirror long enough to look along the street before returning to favor him an inscrutable, and insufferable, expression.

      “Perhaps a look in the window to cement your resolve?  I noticed, also, that the coffee shop up the street seems the sort to take their business seriously and likely offer something acceptable for tea.  A warm cuppa while window shopping is a grand thing on a night like this.”

As with his PA, Mycroft knew when his driver had ulterior motives swirling, however, the time invested to fully uncover them was often time poorly spent, given their priorities and intrigues differed significantly from his own.  To be fair, though, they often produced somewhat fascinating results…

      “An interesting suggestion.  At the very least, I could do with something soothing to drink.”

      “Yes, sir.  I shall find a place to park and await your call.”

Waiting for the door to be opened before exiting to stand by the car, Mycroft briefly considered telling his driver simply to wait as he was not likely to be long, however, Charles was back in the vehicle and driving away before the words could form in Mycroft’s mouth.  Given he had no option, now, but to carry on with his tea purchase, Mycroft strolled forward, agilely avoiding contact with the other pedestrians on the pavement until he opened the door of his destination and nearly collided with…

      “Gr… Gregory!”

      “Mycroft!  Fancy meeting you here!”

You look appalling!  Good lord… Anthea was certainly not exaggerating…

      “Yes… it is rather a coincidence.”

      “A good one, though.  The coffee’s great here, if that’s what you’re in the mood for.”

      “Tea, actually.”

      “That’s great, too.  Are you…”

Greg looked out and noted the pointed lack of a large, dark sedan.

      “… enjoying your beverage here or having it to take with you?”

      “I… had thought of taking it with me so as to indulge in a small amount of window gazing among the local shops.”     

      “Excellent idea!  This is a brilliant area for quality shops.  We get a lot of foot traffic in everyone’s business because people come to look for one thing and meander about seeing whatever else is on offer nearby.  Anything, in particular, on your mind tonight?”

      “Something, again, offering uniqueness for a gift…”

If this was to continue beyond the ‘well, good luck with that’ stage, Mycroft knew he had to, as they say, take the lead.

      “… perhaps in your own shop.  You did say your stock was somewhat fluid, with new items introduced regularly.”

      “That I did!  And it wasn’t a lie, either.  I’d love helping you find something.”

      “I would appreciate your assistance, though, I would hate to take you away from some other planned activity.”

Such as sleeping.  Sleeping for a goodly number of hours, with any manner of pain medication making it the most pleasant sleep possible.  You are favoring a side and that is unquestionably a bruise upon your cheek.  For now, though, a gentle browse through your shop will suffice.

      “Nah, I’ve got nothing on but some telly and there’s no hardship in losing that.  Come on, let’s get your tea, then you can have my full and undivided attention for your shopping experience.  John’s got the till, so I can focus on finding the perfect gift for you.  Maybe even give you a look in the mysterious ‘back room.”

      “Mysterious?”

      “Haven’t you always wondered what lurked and what happened in the private room behind the counter in a shop?”

Point taken.

      “Naturally, so I would be honored to receive the privilege of the proverbial peek behind the curtain.”

      “Alright, then, let’s get started.  And, don’t worry… I won’t try to read your tea leaves.”

      “My sense of relief is profound.”

      “It’s got you curious now, though, doesn’t it?”

Yes.

      “Certainly not.  One does not meddle in forces man cannot fathom.”

      “Really?  Looks like I’ve been doing it wrong all these years.”

Greg’s grin was as large and bright as Mycroft remembered and the British Government braced himself for socializing.  His efforts were, so far, laudably successful, as his companion was as affable as ever and offered the ease of conversation he had noted previously.  At minimum, the notion of an occasional meal or evening of drinks seemed possible.  That, already, was something to note in his diary.  Now, to see what else the future might bring… though, without tea leaves telling the tale…

Chapter Text

      “One cup of whatever this is for you, John, my friend.  I told Margot to sweep up the flotsam and jetsam on the floor and pour a bit of hot water over it all, so this should be interesting if nothing else. Like flavorful. Or non-lethal.”

Mycroft admired the surreptitious rude gesture the man behind the counter gave to Greg and suspected that if there weren’t a number of customers in the shop, the gesture would have both been more vigorous and far more obscene.

      “Thanks, Greg.  You always make me feel so special.”

      “You are special, John.  In all the terrible, horrible ways.  This is Mycroft Holmes, by the way.  I’m going to help him with a few things, so no sending difficult customers my way.  I am officially off duty.”

      “I’ll let Balthazar handle them.”

      “Sounds good.  They buy more when he’s promoting our stock than when either of us do, in any case.”

Greg motioned Mycroft away from the counter while John nodded his agreement with Greg’s assessment of the cat’s salesmanship.  When he wasn’t being evil, the cat was actually very good for business and it was worth the occasional swat to the head, bitten finger or shredded shoe for the extra that flowed into the accounts each month.

      “Lots of new things in recently, Mycroft, so I know we’ll find the perfect gift.  Who are you shopping for?”

Oh yes… forgot about the blatant lie.  Well, it was time Sherlock was good for something besides chaos…

      “My brother.  He has a staggeringly-curious nature and a keen scientific mind.  It seemed many of your wares would offer perspectives and information that he might not encounter in his normal course of reading or investigation.”

      “Ooh!  Sounds like a smart fellow.  I’ve got loads of possibilities for someone like him.  Books written for a more academic audience, uncommon minerals and essential oils, star charts, old formularies… admittedly the last one is for potions and the like, but large sections are dedicated to healing or improving plant growth and other things that I do get researchers like chemists and botanists asking about, so that might pique your brother’s interest, too.”

Surpassingly, that actually might.  At least his purchase-to-cover-the-lie would not be monies entirely wasted.

      “There is promise there, I admit.  Shall we look more closely at a few suitable examples?”

      “Absolutely!  Are you in a hurry?”

Given Charles would make excellent use of the time with his tablet, phone and off-the-books expense account for small amenities during extended waits, time was not an issue.

      “Not particularly.”

Though I shall remain vigilant that you are not overtaxed as… it is difficult to believe you have a erg of energy to spare.

      “Great!  Then I’ll make sure you get a look at everything that might work and if nothing tickles your fancy, we can think about what might that I can order for you.”

      “Dear me, I have never felt so pampered.”

Or aghast at the inanity of an utterance.

      “Prepare for extreme pampering, then!  Special customers deserve special treatment.”

Oh my… if one was of a certain mind, one might interpret that as… inviting.  Of course, if one was of another mind, it was simply good business.  At this moment, his own mind was taking a third tack which was dithery confusion and it was a very good thing that Gregory was already browsing his own shelves and cases because a dithery Holmes was certainly not a desirable Holmes.  Not that he was thinking in terms such as desirable, of course.  It was merely another symptom of the confusion and inanity with which he had been infected.  Perhaps Gregory had a potion or tisane that would be helpful…

__________

Well, well, well… skulls…

      “Crystals, gems, minerals… people love them.  Practitioners and non-practitioners alike.  And who can blame them!  Each one with its own brand of loveliness, regardless of any other attributes they might have.”

      “You seem to have a number carved as skulls.”

      “A particular favorite of the occult-shop buying population. Spheres, wands, obelisks, skulls… they look more impressive, I suppose than a simple polished or rough stone.  I have some special orders, for example, waiting to be collected.  One’s a dragon skull and one’s a raven skull in shape.  I know a bloke who specializes in that sort of thing and he hooks me up when someone has a special urge for something out of the ordinary.”

      “Most… colorful.”

      “Not for everyone, that’s for certain, but some enjoy having a unique piece to show off or just to enjoy themselves.  How colorful is this brother of yours?”

Immeasurably.

      “Oh, quite a bit, actually, but I believe he would balk at a carved dragon or raven skull.  The dragon he would argue is a fantastical creature and not worth his attention, and the raven… he would be far more likely to advertise for a now-deceased raven so that he could practice the process of preparing a skull for display as they do for museum and university collections.  I am not entirely certain if the human skull he possesses was not obtained in the very same manner.”

      “Definitely colorful!  And he’s got an authentic skull, you say.”

      “One he has named Billy.  I suppose… do you have any other human bones in stock.  He might appreciate an additional few examples for his mantle.”

Now that the lie was fully birthed, it might as well grow and flourish.

      “Nooo… that something I don’t stock.  Actual bones of any form, to be honest.”

      “Oh, is there an ordinance prohibiting their sale?”

      “No ordinance, it’s just… while there are certain rituals involving this or that bone that practitioners of … we can use the term white magic, if you like… might perform, they’re far more common for the darker business and… it’s not for me, precisely, to say what people can and cannot do, but I certainly don’t have to encourage it.”

There was a seriousness about Greg’s tone that surprised Mycroft, given the genial manner of the man, and it was especially curious given the topic was obviously a nonsensical one.  Unless Gregory genuinely believed in magic.

      “And… it is your opinion that these dark wizards, or whatever appellation they might prefer, are actually harmful?”

      “I know you don’t believe in magic and such, which is fine, but… consider a person who intentionally seeks to practice rituals and observances that are designed only to serve an evil purpose.  Would you feel particularly comfortable having those people milling about your community?  Maybe they can’t turn people into rats or whatever your mind might imagine that lot could do, but if you hold evil in your heart, nurture it, embrace it… that’s not someone I’d feel safe around the people I care about.”

Given Mycroft had to mingle with individuals like that on what seemed to be a daily basis, he was a bit inoculated to their impact, however… if he thought about someone like Molly Hooper or his brother’s landlady, Mrs. Hudson… no, he would not want any of those particular villains within a continent of such people, magic powers or not.

      “I see your point.  It is not the reality of magic that is the point, it is the intent behind the pursuit of it.”

      “Yeah.  And… well, people are curious, you know?  They like novelties and unique things.  Which is how I stay in business!   They buy something they think is a lark and…”

      “Are you implying that the object would gain some malevolent hold over them?”

      “For some objects, yes, I would think that very thing, but a simple thigh bone from a bloke who was a kind father and worked for the Royal Mail?  No, that wouldn’t be my concern.  It’s more the planting of a seed.  Person buys what they think is a conversation piece for their side table.  They start joking about with it, waving it around, poking at their guests, stupid things like that.  Someone asks where they got it and they say an occult shop.  Well, why would an occult shop stock something like that?  For magic, of course!”

      “And that begins a casual exploration which could, potentially, grow into something more serious.”

      “Yeah.  For most people, it would be meaningless.  But… you know how minds can latch onto a thing.  Be tempted and nudged in a certain direction.  Done slowly enough and with their own conviction that it’s all in fun…”

      “The effect takes hold without them consciously being aware it has occurred.”

      “Basically.  Everyone has the capacity for good and bad.  It’s part and parcel of what they’re born with and how that is shaped as they grow and continue on in life as an adult.  Some people resist influences well, others don’t.”

It was with sincere admiration that Mycroft nodded at Greg’s words, because those words demonstrated a clear understanding of some basic truths of human nature that far too many in positions of power, both in politics and media, completely ignored or couldn’t comprehend if you used very small words and a picture book to explain it to them.

      “A very good point.  So, you avoid having in your shop items associated with the so-called dark arts as a precaution against supplying those with directly evil intent and those would come to see that as a productive path.”

      “As best I can.  Most things don’t lean either way and I do keep a few academic tomes about magic, its history or practice, that have some very pointed and detailed sections about those dark arts, but they’re written for the anthropology or sociology crowd, so they’re dry as dust, in tiny print, and nobody thumbs through more than a page or two without putting them back on the shelves.  Unless, of course, they are part of that crowd, which I do see more often than you might predict.  Students or profs from the colleges doing research about magical practices and the cultures that gave rise to them.”

      “In truth, those might interest Sherlock quite a bit.  He derides the ‘soft’ sciences, but does, on occasion, turn to their findings or theories for some aspect of his own work.”

      “We’ll put that on our list, then!  And Sherlock, you say.  That’s almost as interesting a name as yours.”

Was that flirting?  Or good business?  Or neither?  Why was there no instructions manual for this sort of thing!

      “Thank you.  Mummy will be very proud.”

      “She should be with two colorful sons playing about under her skirts.”

Colorful?  Him?  That had to be flirting!  Or affable banter.  Damnable human interactions!  Why were they so foolishly difficult?

      “I… that is…”

Greg saw the look in Mycroft’s eyes, which was an unhappy mix of confusion and frustration and kicked himself for being so forward.

      “Was that a touch out of line?  I’m sorry if it was.  I… it’s just easy talking to you and I understand if I crossed a line.”

      “NO!...”

Good heavens, man – control the volume of your voice!  Mental and audible…

      “… I harbored nary a thought about that.  It… I was simply taken a moment by the particular gleam of that rather eye-catching sphere and it rather sent my thoughts off track.”

      “Oh!  Good, glad I didn’t offend you.  And, isn’t that a beauty?  Labradorite and a stellar specimen of it, if I do say so myself.  Here, have a better look…”

Greg began to lift the large, heavy sphere and found Mycroft taking it out of his hands, a look of clear concern written in his eyes.

      “Gregory… I am well aware that something has befallen you and lifting objects such as this infernally-heavy sphere is certainly not recommended.  What has happened, Gregory?  I… I am worried about your condition.”

That was far more concern for another person than Mycroft remembered expressing in eons, however, he was sincere and that, oddly, blunted any embarrassment from being so, for him, emotionally demonstrative.

      “Nothing, really.  Little under the weather.”

      “You manifested clear signs of pain when you lifted this and have taken great care to protect your left side as we have moved through the shop.  I have not read a manual of symptoms in recent years, but I do not believe either of those is associated with a common cold.”

      “It’s nothing, I promise.  Just a silly thing.”

      “That statement was at least sufficiently vague that I cannot denounce it with detail, however the vagueness is most telling.  I doubt you should even be standing at this point.”

It was the tiniest of slips, but the ‘it’s all fine’ mask dropped for a fraction of a second and Mycroft saw the full flower of Greg’s fatigue and ache play out on his face.

      “Let us… you said you were amenable to showcasing your mysterious back room, did you not?  Is there, perhaps, a place to sit a moment while we finish our beverages and… chat?”

Which is something far beyond what I ever do, but needs must, apparently, when this particular devil drives.

      “That sounds great, actually.  I can even brew another cup of tea for you if that one’s gone cold.  One thing you can count on with a shop like this – we have excellent tea.”

Mycroft felt a small stab of pride that Greg’s words were accompanied by a clear flash of relief at the thought of a moment’s rest.  Human interactions were damnable, indeed, but they apparently could be stumbled through with some measure of success by even one as unpracticed as him.

      “I would very much appreciate testing that claim.”

      “On we go, then!”

Mycroft set the large sphere back on its stand, making mental note that he was most fortunate his PA hadn’t purchased that for her desk as it would immediately transfix most who approached it via it’s rather peacocky display of color.  On second thought, if the dolts and dunderheads simply clustered around it, like moths at a flame, he could simply sneak away and not have to deal with whatever idiocy they were hoping to bring to his doorstep.  Perhaps something to consider for the future…

__________

      “My… I truly was expecting something far more… mundane.”

Mycroft looked around the large space, which better resembled a witch’s cottage than the stockroom of a bustling business, and hoped his eyes weren’t widened with surprise.  It certainly was not his most attractive look.

      “Told you it was worth peeking behind the curtain!  The stock area is fairly boring, I admit, but this is where we make up a lot of the things we sell, keep items that need special handling or do a bit of experimenting with something new.”

There was even a cauldron!  Perhaps not quite as large as one saw pictured in storybooks, but substantial and actually bubbling merrily away in what he hoped was a properly maintained hearth.

      “Like that?  One of the reasons I took this space was that it still had some features from the proverbial days of yore that weren’t too expensive to bring up to snuff.”

      “I have to ask… is such a dramatic vessel necessary?”

      “Yes, actually.  That particular potion requires extremely long simmering and something heavy, with a rounded bottom so there are no hot spots that might scorch, is the proper tool.”

      “Oh… I had not thought about it in such a… culinary fashion.”

      “It’s also cool looking.”

His tiny snort of laughter shocked Mycroft to his core, however, given there was nobody else to hear it but Greg, he felt far better about his small display of humanness.

      “But of course!  Ambience is, as always, key.  I do hope, however, that is not my tea you have stewing over the fire.”

      “Drat.  You discovered my fiendish plan.  Guess I’ll have to put the kettle on, instead.”

Greg motioned for Mycroft to have a seat in one of the two chairs at the worktable and put fresh water in the very modern kettle from the very modern tap, much to Mycroft’s relief.  He very much supported tradition and traditional methods, however, he had no wish for a visit from cholera today.

      “And what percentage of the remainder of what I see here is for ambience, as opposed to practical use?”

      “Very low, actually.  I do things the old ways when possible, but some things I’ve learned can be modernized easily enough with no ill effects and an easier effort for me.”

It still baffled Mycroft how someone as seemingly intelligent, rational and grounded as Greg could hold a clear belief in the power of magic, but it did not seem to impact much in the man’s life besides his business.  Of course, he had no knowledge of the man’s life besides his business, so speculation was actually a rather pointless endeavor.

      “Here, have a sniff of these and tell me which you’d prefer.”

Staring at the large selection of jars Greg was putting on the table, Mycroft wondered if his new acquaintance should purchase the space next door and open a tea shop. 

      “Heavens… you have quite the variety.”

      “That I do.”

      “Are they intended for some purpose, besides flavor?”

      “Some are, yes.  I do make blends just for flavor, but we do a brisk business in teas for relaxation, digestive problems, mood issues, and a host of other things.  See if one sparks your interest.”

Mycroft wafted the scent of the various jars in his direction and tried not to show that several enticed him in an astonishingly-strong fashion.  Which was an unusual thing as he was terribly fussy about his tea and not, at all, approving of the new oddities that had flooded the various, once respectable, tea providers.  It was almost as unusual as him sitting in a rather rickety chair, in the cellar of an occult shop, with a cauldron simmering a potion, while an electric kettle heated his water for tea.

      “It is a somewhat difficult decision as several are highly intriguing, however, I shall, I believe, begin with this one.”

Greg smiled as he took the selected jar and gave Mycroft an approving smile.

      “Nice choice.”

      “Thank you, I… Gregory.  Your cat is laughing at me.”

There was no other way Mycroft could interpret the cat’s behavior, especially having seen the evil creature do the very same thing once before.

      “What?  Oh, ignore him.  Seriously, it’s the smartest thing you can do because he does nothing that’s not designed to cause trouble.  Balthazar, go up and keep John company.”

It seemed to the British Government that the shop owner and shop cat had a staring contest to determine whether said cat would obey and the laurel wreath was awarded to the shop owner for winning the battle as the cat finally trotted up the stairs, flicking its tail imperiously with its step.

      “Miserable moggie.  Thinks he owns the place.”

      “It has been my observation that is the belief held by most cats for whatever location they call home.  Be it permanent or temporary.”

      “True!  Very, very true…”

Greg set two portions of tea on the table and Mycroft noted that Greg’s was in a heavy, chipped mug and his was in a very handsome cup, with saucer.  Setting himself down next, not even Greg’s formidable will could hold back the small contented sigh from being off his feet for a moment.

      “You appear content to finally be sitting.  Now, as to the reason for your predicament, Gregory…”

      “Oh… thought you’d forgotten about that.”

      “My memory is flawless.”

      “One of those, huh?  Can’t say I’m surprised, with a mind like yours.  And, really, it’s… nothing exciting or fancy, but I’ll give you the story.  I had a bit of a dust-up with some punk and came off a touch worse for wear.  I’m proud to say, though, the thumping I have him was much, much worse.”

      “Gregory…”

      “It’s true!  I may be a little sore, but I doubt he even recalls his name yet, I thumped him so hard.”

      “I am most distressed by this news.”

      “Why?  I’m not planning on thumping you.”

      “Amusing.  I had assumed, from your description, that this was a safe area.”

      “It is!  I was actually… ummm… at a pub in another part of the city.”

      “And the proprietor did not bring this assault on you to a halt?  Phone the police?”

      “It… happened as I was leaving.  You know the story, young punk with enough booze or whatnot in him to feel invincible and he decides that the old geezer walking by looked at him funny.”

      “Is the old geezer you?”

      “For the point of this story, yes.”

      “Very well, do proceed.”

      “There’s nowhere to proceed to.  That’s it.”

      “Untrue.”

      “Pardon?”

      “I have some small talent for knowing when an individual is lying and, also, when they are withholding information.  You are doing both.”

Mycroft was turned so he couldn’t see Balthazar sitting on the stairs, but Greg could.  And bathe in the mockery of the feline’s laughter directed, this time, at him.

      “Ok, I’m not putting every punch or kick out there for inspection, but there’s no need for it.  Little bastard found out what it means to take on someone with more experience in fighting than him and it won’t be a lesson he’ll soon forget.”

      “You have significant experience in fighting.  Again, I am most concerned.”

      “What fellow doesn’t by my age?”

      “A considerable number.”

      “Yeah, ok… let me try that again.  What fellow my age who grew up a bit rough and punk himself doesn’t have experience putting the boot in?”

      “Perhaps… however, I am not convinced that is the entirety of the truth.”

      “Can I buy more conviction with a biscuit?”

Mycroft ran a quick mental analysis of the current data and decided that further pursuit of the issue would not bring an appreciable amount of new information but would likely serve to irritate his companion, something he had no wish to do simply to satisfy curiosity.

      “It might purchase… a smidgen.”

      “I’ll take it.  You get what you grab, as my gran used to say, before she loaded her handbag with the fruit she nicked from the grocer.”

      “At least she pilfered healthy goods.”

      “Always a proponent of good health was my Gran.  Fresh air, lots of fruit and veg, hard work instead of exercise, but if you do enough of the first one you don’t really need the last.  Also a proponent of a stiff drink or two in the evening and something decadent now and again because fruit and veg don’t keep your spirits up as much as a bit of cake or some heart-killing fish and chips.”

      “Definitely a wise woman.  Now, where is my biscuit?  I trust it falls squarely in the category of decadence and is not some vegan, gluten-free mass of parsnip paste and agave syrup.”

      “I’ve got some very high-end shortbread and Jammie Dodgers.”

      “Oh dear, that is quite the conundrum.”

      “Feeling hedonistic?  One of each?”

      “A stellar suggestion.  I can feel the hedonism flowing through my veins this very instant.  It could however be an effect of the tea.  It is truly superb.”

Greg made to hop up, then decided it wasn’t worth pretending and settled for a slow, chair-back-assisted rise to take the biscuits from their cupboard and put two of each, then two more of each, on one of the plates he kept for when one of the local mavens decided to pay a call and check on the ‘nice young men with the witch shop.’  They appreciated a slightly more proper service with their tea and, apparently, so did Mycroft.  That was a positively gorgeous light in those clear, blue eyes right now and he could spare one silly hope that some of it was for him and not just the biscuits…

__________

Mycroft did feel a bit ashamed about how long Charles had to wait for what was supposed to be a quick trip for a gift, however, the two hours had passed in scarcely a heartbeat!  He and Gregory had talked, laughed, debated, shared the silliest of stories… nothing like anything he had experienced with his previous forays into the arena of companionship.  True, he could claim some of that even with individuals in his life now, but there was an ease, a comfort, with Gregory that was a very different, and welcome, thing, indeed.

      “Ok, looks like we have you properly sorted.  I do feel bad for your man carrying it all himself, though.”

Maybe he had bought slightly more than anticipated, including the enormous labradorite sphere that refused to let alone his attention until he simply waved a hand towards it for John to eagerly dart over to collect, along with the handcrafted stand, but hell and be damned his frivolity!  Sherlock would get his books and a few other items, and the rest… would stay safely at home where his nosy PA could not smile knowingly each and every day at his small lapse of control.  The tea purchases, alone, were worth the entire investment, though, and they would definitely remain at home away from thieving, and immaculately manicured, hands.

      “He is most familiar with any manner of portage, so I would not worry unduly.  I… I would like to thank you for tonight, Gregory.  It was both productive and enjoyable.”

Was that stilted?  It felt stilted.  Which was the last thing on Earth he wanted.  How might he negotiate another meeting with Gregory if  he was spouting wooden, stilted dialogue!

      “The pleasure was all mine.  Genuinely, I had a great time.”

That sounded promising.  Or polite.  And the cat was laughing at him again from its attack perch.  Joyful.

      “Excellent.  Then… I suppose I should go.  Your telly awaits.”

      “Patiently and lovingly.  As does my sofa and beer.  Just a common man with common pleasures.  Ummm… one of those pleasures is a good film with someone who would appreciate it.”

      “Oh, that does sound pleasant.”

Why are you smiling at me, Gregory?  Now with a touch of confusion appearing around the edges…

      “Good.  Then… would you consider doing something like that?  With me, I mean, not just toddling off on your own for a night at the cinema.”

Greg had to reach out, with his good arm, to steady Mycroft who actually reeled at the invitation.  Since Greg had never seen someone reel in real life, it was a momentous thing to witness.

      “You… wish me to accompany you?”

      “If you’d like.  There’s an independent cinema not far from here and they do a lot of special screenings.  They’re showing The Raven next Saturday night and, I know it’s a silly thing, but I’ve adored it since I was a kid and I think it’s something you’d appreciate, too.”

      “I… with Boris Karloff?”

      “And Vincent Price and Peter Lorre, yeah.  You might think that sort of film wouldn’t be what I’d want to watch after working here all day, but I love those old horror shows.  The sort that… ambience is the right word for them.  Atmospheric and, in their way, rather innocent.  The sorts of things that seemed frightening and scandalous then feel so quaint now and that adds to the appeal somehow.  I used to be glued to the telly when I was a kid watching those sorts of films and The Raven is such a good pastiche that… you wanna come?  We can grab a bite to eat before or a pint after or just the film…”

He was being asked out.  Here.  In public!  In a rather babbly, but sincere manner.  Alright… must answer and with something other than dry, dusty words.

      “I would.”

Lovely.  You can recite the works of Shakespeare from memory, but you cannot concoct a better response than that.  Clearly, some dedicated practice in the art of assignation-acceptance was in order.

      “Great!  Can… I have your number?  I’ll phone so we can finalize things.”

      “Oh, yes, of course.”

Mycroft thought a moment about which number to provide, then wrote down his personal mobile number on a small piece of paper to hand to Greg.

      “Thanks!  I’ll… talk to you soon, then.”

      “I look forward to it.”

Mycroft had just enough social awareness to recognize it was time to leave and not continue to stand there like an awkward teenager, so graced Greg with what he hoped was a genial smile and left the shop, pointedly ignoring Charles who was standing in wait to open the rear door, tapping his foot in faux impatience.  He wouldn’t have cared if it was real, however, because he had been propositioned!  No, that was not the proper term for such a wondrously proper invitation.  Gregory had deemed him sufficiently interesting to ask out for the evening and… and it was an evening that he would dearly adore.  An old favorite on the large screen, perhaps a cocktail afterwards to sip while they discussed the film in detail… he might, and this was a heady thing… he might have fun.  No… he would have fun.  This he vowed.

Of course, to prevent Gregory from racing away in terror, best start that speaking practice sooner than later because a man who ended thoughts with ‘and this I vow,’ was standing heavily on very fragile ice and Saturday would come much faster than expected.  Time always flew when one was having even the anticipation of fun and his anticipation was at positively giddy levels…

__________

Greg only oofed when Balthazar jumped down on his shoulder, the non-destroyed one in an uncharacteristic act of courtesy that surprised Greg and John both, and remained perched there as Greg sighed and walked them both back downstairs.

      “My dark mistress has bestowed upon you her pompous, but single, employer, surely as a show of devotion to me.”

      “Yeah, that’s it.  Maybe it’s a bribe so you don’t disgrace yourself again if she visits.”

      “Demonstrating my love is not a disgrace!”

      “You spent their entire visit winding yourself around her ankles, begging to be held, bringing her ridiculous gifts… what did you think she was going to do with a sock?... and all you got for your humiliating display was her calling you mangy.”

      “My bride properly pointed out that I had not groomed myself in at least fifteen minutes and looked… shabby.”

      “You sure you don’t want Molly for your Bride of Balthazar?  She adores holding you.”

      “Her bosom does offer a comfortable rest, I admit, however, she lacks the sultry, ebony-dark presence of my Anthea.  She would, however, make an acceptable new owner in the event you meet up with something that can finally do more than break a few ribs and shoulder bones.”

      “Don’t forget the bruised spleen.”

      “John wasn’t sure about that, so stop padding your tale of woe.”

      “At least I was truthful with Mycroft when I said I gave that nasty bastard a good thumping.”

      “And lied about everything else.  First, that demon was six hundred years old if it was a day.  Second, I’ve met punk demons, and that one was more a lumbering thug.  Not a bit of fire or cleverness in its enormous body.  And you didn’t just thump it, you obliterated its connection to this world.  It’ll take a century, at minimum, for it to pull the pieces together to reach back onto this plane, no matter who tries to summon it. Still… you still think it was Moriarty?”

Balthazar leapt off Greg’s shoulder and landed on the workshop table, waiting with far less patience than Charles for Greg to put a few treats out as tribute for him being a cat.

      “If Moriarty didn’t directly summon him, he advised who did.  The tendrils of the spell were still visible and… they reeked of his handiwork.”

       “We don’t need him training another apprentice.  The last one was enough of a bastard.”

        “No, we don’t, but it’s not illegal to take on a student, so I can’t do anything if he’s done that, other than step in when the new bastard crosses the line.”

      “Let’s hope that doesn’t happen on Saturday or your love monkey is going to be furious.”

      “He’s not my love monkey.  Just… getting an idea of where all of this might go or end up or swirl about.”

      “That makes as much sense as your love for 50’s music.  Are you even going to be ready for monkey love on Saturday?  You’re still moving like an arthritic pensioner.”

      “Hey!  Do you have any idea how much energy it takes to knit bones this quickly!”

      “Yes, and I’m appalled at your weakness.”

      “Lovely.  Anyway, it’s just a simple date.  No monkey and certainly no loving.”

      “Simple date?  Wrong.  You haven’t been on a date in a million years and it’s clear he hasn’t either.  My radiant reine wouldn’t go to these lengths if the need wasn’t desperate.”

      “It’s still a simple date.  Two men stepping out for a film.  It doesn’t get simpler than that.”

      “It’ll take you until Saturday to decide what to wear.  That kicks your simplicity to the curb.”

      “It will not.  Though… I may need to do a bit of shopping before then.”

      ‘You’re hopeless.”

      “Yeah.  But, I’m hopeless with a love monkey waiting for me on Saturday.”

Greg did an extremely careful shimmy that had Balthazar snorting with disgust until Greg turned to start another cup of tea, when the cat’s expression softened.  Greg was a cautious man and genuinely didn’t believe that Saturday night would be anything more than a nice evening with a film, a drink and a chat, but… there was a tiny spark of hope in him for something more.  Not much more, because it would probably scare the silly berk, both of them, but maybe the chance for a few more fibers to be woven into the tapestry they were creating.  It wasn’t much more than a few dangly fibers, at this point, but it was a beginning.  And beginnings were called that precisely because there was something that followed.  Now, he just had to make certain that something wasn’t as disappointing as Greg’s usual somethings… a hemorrhoid wasn’t as disappointing as Greg’s usual somethings, so it was a nice low bar to meet for success…

Chapter Text

      “Really?  For me?  Oh, it’s smells lovely…”

Mrs. Hudson took another long sniff of the container of tea Mycroft had given her and smiled even wider.  For all Sherlock’s screeching and snarling, his brother was a good sort.  Pompous and a bit stodgy, but the man did know how to pamper a landlady.

      “I was told, Mrs. Hudson, that this particular tea was a calming one, well-suited for days when the level of stress and discord is particularly high.”

Said as Mycroft looked upwards towards his brother’s flat, which made the landlady giggle in understanding.

      “I’ll be having two cups, then, today as he’s been such a mischief.  Stole my mail for some nonsense about what ink looked like when it burned and now I have a heap of ashes instead of any actual paper.  It’s mostly adverts, probably, and other silly things, but if it’s a notice or something important I’ll never know now!”

Fortunately, though Mrs. Hudson had no knowledge of it, Mycroft had her various accounts and records monitored, and any detrimental issues could be quietly handled without her being bothered with the headache.  It was one of the tiny bits of in-trade payment for allowing his chaotic brother to inhabit her quiet household.

      “I do not recall this being a day of import in the correspondence schedule of the various government offices, so I suspect you have only lost a plethora of mailings for take-away restaurants and discounted prices on gardening supplies.”

      “Let’s hope so.  At least he’ll be occupied for a bit with all of what you’ve brought him.  Such a curious mind… none of it is flammable is it?”

      “I… well, the books…”

      “He respects books too much to burn them.  Sherlock’s a good boy that way.”

      “Then he should be bereft of further materials to quicken an inferno.”

      “Yes!  I can enjoy my new tea in peace.  I already feel more at ease.”

      “Excellent.  Now, onward goeth I to brave the ogre in its cave.”

      “It’s a smelly one today, too, so take a few extra clean breaths before you go in.”

Glorious.  But, this was the reason he began each visit with his brother, when possible, with a small chat with Mrs. Hudson.  Forewarned was forearmed…

__________

      “Potions!  Have you gone mad?  If you have, then Mummy owes me twenty pounds because I said it would happen before your fifty-sixth birthday, but she said it would take longer.”

Actually, Mummy was not entirely convinced that either he or Sherlock was, in any manner, sane at this point, however, since it did not interfere with her tea and scandal afternoons with her friends and she received her mandated weekly phone calls from said insane sons, she was perfectly content with any potential madness.

      “So, you have no desire to analyze what is in these particular formulations to verify they are, as you suspect, fraudulent in their claims?”

      “I… hmmm.  I suppose that is not a completely idiotic suggestion.  Someone should reveal these charlatans for who they are.”

      “Then how fortunate it is that I acquired a diversity of their wares for your inspection.  I believe several of the books, also, document something about these various mixtures, however, I cannot be certain the shop follows the recipes precisely.”

      “It is an occult shop.  I doubt the simple-minded merchants, as well as the clientele, have a reading level above that of a poodle.”

      “Of course.”

      “At least the mineral specimens offer some small sliver of interest.”

The large, natural samples of amethyst, bismuth and malachite had been pounced on quickly when Mycroft drew them out of the sack and unwrapped each slowly to further tantalize Sherlock’s anticipation.  Others may not have realized the rather lofty level of that anticipation, but years of evaluating Sherlock’s expressions meant there was little to nothing that could be hidden from his older brother.

      “I thought the natural formations would appeal to your practical sensibilities.  There are various meanings and uses ascribed to them, however, I shall not insult your intelligence by narrating them.”

Because I have no doubt you shall research that yourself, brother dear, if only to scoff and deride them, as well as find any possible use in or connection to your various experiments and dabbles in criminal investigation.

      “Good.  I have no desire to be put to sleep by your droning voice.”

      “It might serve to purchase for Mrs. Hudson some measure of peace.  Really, Sherlock… violating her mail.”

      “The experiment produced highly useful data!”

      “Did you even check that any of the correspondence was of a personal or significant nature?”

      ‘I… yes.”

      “Meaning, no, you did not.  In the future, if you perpetrate another crime against her mail, kindly ensure that nothing besides the detritus of mercantilism is meeting your matchstick?”

      “Boring.”

      “As boring, likely, as my covering the remainder of your rent when you cannot raise sufficient funds, but we all do what we must in this world.  Now, before I leave, please remember that Mummy’s birthday is looming, and I will not be placing both our names on the gifts I have purchased for her.”

      “I fail to understand why.  How many gifts does she need?”

      “As many as are appropriate for enduring the agony of your birth and subsequent life.”

      “Pfft.  Your birthweight was that of the average adult hippopotamus, so that birth was better described as agonizing than mine.”

Mycroft felt a twinge of familiar irritation at Sherlock’s mention of his weight, which had, at times, been somewhat greater than others of his age, even as an adult, however… he had a date, so hell and be damned his brother’s juvenile jibes.

      “Oh, how deeply am I pierced by the sharpened barb of your wit.”

      “Your only use for a sharpened barb is to stab cheese.”

      “That reminds me… I do need to purchase more of the aged Gouda I encountered a few weeks ago.  A terribly flavorful find.”

      “Oh good… more cheese packing your colon.  Your level of constipation has seemed a touch low of late, so that should bring you directly back to normal.”

      “My, how my sides ache from laughter.  A final matter… I will have delivered to you the incidentals of a matter into which I would like you to peer somewhat closely.”

      “No.”

      “It is a simple thing, brother dear, however, I would prefer it be conducted with a certain level of observation not typically found in those employed in government service.”

      “No.”

      “I counter with yes.  You shall be compensated, of course…”

      “One hundred thousand pounds.”

      “Most amusing.  Kindly do not be as amusing with the messenger who brings the file.  I would hope to discuss your results by Saturday… no, Sunday.  Sunday will do.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and Mycroft brought every bit of expertise in inscrutability to the fore to keep his brother from deducing a single thing from his expression.

      “Why not Saturday?”

      “I remembered several meetings on Saturday and I have no specific idea when I might be able to converse with you about this matter in the detail I require.”

      “That story is as flimsy as tissue paper.”

The hound was on the scent!

      “Good heavens, Sherlock.  I am occupied more often than any human should suffer with mundane meetings and dreary discussions.”

      “None of which you forget.”

The hound’s nose was to the ground!  Time to take bold, preemptive measures.

      “Verily I am discovered!  I have a date Saturday night with a handsome, virile man, which precludes meeting with you and discussing my little issue.”

Triumph!  Sherlock was nearly shrieking with mocking laughter.

      “The mental image is positively revolting, even if it is naught but a pathetic lie.”

      “So sayeth you.  In any case, I shall speak with you Sunday.  Do try and maintain the roof over Mrs. Hudson’s head in the meantime.”

      “I make no promises.”

      “One day, brother dear, her patience and my bank account might not be terribly forgiving of your shenanigans.”

Sherlock’s rude noise was precisely as loud and moist as Mycroft expected and he made certain to have taken an extra step towards the door in preparation.  Then, it was only several more until he had cleared the boundary of his brother’s lair and he was, again, feeling the sweet freedom of the world outside his brother’s lair.  Most critically, any suspicions or further nosy questions about the true nature of his Saturday plans were handily quashed.  The havoc Sherlock would wreak, the sheer level of lunacy he would perpetrate… Saturday would be sufficiently delicate to navigate without the interference of a spoiled toddler with no impulse control.  And, now, of course, he also had to keep this particular information away from his PA.  She had far better impulse control than Sherlock, however, she was fully as tenacious and had a villainous streak that his brother could not match if he tried.  Which he had.  Many, many times…

__________

Intolerable!  These stupid potions… it was not enough that the components he was able to isolate and identify were… not entirely without scientific merit for the uses they were touted, but there were components he was not able to identify or properly isolate and that was not allowed.  Not in the slightest!  This was Mycroft’s fault.  Not only was he the bringer of these frivolous formulations, but he refused steadfastly to provide the necessary laboratory equipment to do a thorough and suitable analysis of any material of merit.  It was like working with equipment Aristotle might believe the lackluster in technological sophistication!

The books Fatcroft purchased might be of help, but… boring.  A quick skimming had revealed a wholly chaotic structure where useful information was inexorably mired in tedious and utterly irrelevant, not to mention nonsensical, detail.  Why could the author not collect it all in one chapter!  Chapter 1 – Everything that is Useful and Interesting in this Otherwise Ridiculous Book.  That would have been both simple to accomplish and incredibly considerate, something the author, apparently, was not.

Where was… ah.  Mycroft could have been considerate, a trait in ferociously short supply, it seemed, and taken his refuse with him after he delivered this rubbish, but this single time, his slovenliness proves useful as the packaging for the rubbish was emblazoned with the name of the vendor from which it was purchased.  And… very convenient.  Open All Hours.  Someone, then, should be available to answer questions.  Of which he had many.  In no manner could the excuse of ‘oh, we’re closing now, sir’ be employed to evade his interrogation, either.  As if he did not recognize that particular ploy when it was implemented.  Proof that the shopkeepers of London were truly a dull-witted lot came from the shocking number who did believe that a workable strategy when he paid them a visit…

__________

Ugh… the scent of simplemindedness.  Or incense.

      “Good evening, sir.  May I help you?”

Former military… interesting.

      “These.”

Sherlock took the various bottles from his pocket and deposited them, one by one, with appropriate intent, on the counter.

      “Oh, yes.  Some of our most popular items.  I hope they were successful for you.”

      “I do not subscribe to your fantastical notions about magic potions.”

      “That’s quite alright, sir, it’s not a requirement for them to work.   Especially if you’ve got a touch of arthritis, which this one is helpful in relieving.”

      “I do not have arthritis.”

      “Ok… what symptoms were you experiencing when you bought this?”

      “I did not make the purchase.”

      “A gift, then.  Oh… one of those silly gifts you give to someone as a joke.  I can exchange it for something else.  It’s… it’s empty, though…”

In fact, as John looked through the bottles, not a one had a drop of its original contents left inside.

      “Of course it’s empty!  How am I supposed to run my tests without actually utilizing the material which I am testing!”

      “I’m lost.”

John’s confusion was interrupted by Sherlock’s bottles plummeting to the floor, one by one, as Balthazar decided that this conversation was stupid and the bottles were invading his personal space.

      “Your cat shares my opinion of your wares, apparently.”

      ‘No, he’s just a pest.”

Which I’m beginning to believe is also something you two share, Mr. Customer.

      “An interesting pest, however, which already puts him leaps and bounds above this preposterous shop.  His eyes… hmmm… they are chatoyant.”

      “Does that mean evil?”

      “No.  It means the color or suite of color shifts with viewing angle.”

      “That sounds fairly evil to me.

Which Balthazar emphasized by biting John’s finger, then knocking over a small display of gift vouchers.  of course, Sherlock smiled proudly at the chaos.

      “I would deem this a most worthy feline.”

Oh good.  Mr. Pest likes the miserable moggie.  Bloody fantastic.

      “Want to buy him?  I’ll make you a very good deal, what with him being second-hand.”

      “Hmmm… it is tempting, however, given his propensity for carnage, I cannot trust that my experiments will not meet the same fate as your childish potions.”

      “Experiments… ok that does fit with what you said earlier about tests.  You a chemist?”

      “My skills with chemistry are unquestionable.”

      “That could mean they’re unquestionably crap, you know.”

      “I… yes, I suppose you have a point.  Let me, then, clarify.  I am enormously talented with chemistry, among a great number of other things.”

      “Lucky you!  Always good to be talented with things.  Things are very important for the function of our society.  Now… why are you here again?”

      “The formulas!  I require the formulas for these concoctions.”

      “Uh… no.”

      “Unacceptable.”

      “Acceptable or not, I’m not giving our product specifications to anyone, let alone you.”

      “Why am I singled out for additional refusal?”

      “Because you’re a bit rude and the cat likes you.  He bit me, so the battle lines are drawn.”

      “I am not rude, I am honest.  And… battle lines… Afghanistan or Iraq?”

      “Pardon?”

      “You obviously served in the military, the clues are numerous and unmistakable, so which is it?”

      “Afghanistan.  How did you know?”

      “Parlor trick.”

      “Really.  That’s your answer.  In this shop?”

Sherlock looked around him for a moment then mentally credited John with another point and that, for once, him calling what he did a parlor trick to preempt someone else denigrating his talents had proven the wrong strategy.  So, he took a breath and outlined in excruciating detail how he discerned John’s military service, including his officer’s rank and injury, though he did make the uncharacteristic concession of pointing out he could not definitively state where the injury had occurred.  Now the shopkeeper could truly call it a parlor trick or a bit of busybodying and things would be back to normal.

      “That… was amazing.”

      “Do you think so?”

      “Well, of course it was.  It was extraordinary.  Quite… extraordinary.”

      “I… yes.  I agree.  I was simply confirming your observation.”

      “Well, it was the truth, confirmation or not.  That truly was inspired, though.  And spot on.  Injury was in the shoulder, by the way.”

      “What was the cause?”

      “I was shot.”

      “Oh.  That… that must have been painful.”

      “It was.  Rather nerve-shreddingly so.”

      “As expected, given nerves were shredded in the process of the bullet moving through your flesh.”

Sherlock’s completely practical tone made John laugh, and he shared his good humor with Balthazar, who he deposited gently on the floor, as opposed to dropping him, after the cat attacked his hand for having the gall to move its position a millimeter in a direction that did not meet with the cat’s approval.

      “I suppose you’re right.  My name’s John, by the way.”

John extended his hand and was a little concerned by how long it took Sherlock to extend his own, as if he was a bit unused to the greeting.

      “Sherlock.”

A strangled squawk preceded Balthazar jumping back on the counter to peer at Sherlock, then peer some more, then begin laughing.

      “Your cat is choking.”

      “Probably a hairball.  He gets those.”

      “Apparently.  Don’t you have a potion for that?”

      “Uh… you know, we actually do.  It’s for general cat health and blended up with coconut oil.  You put a little bit in their food twice a day and it helps lubricate their digestive system, so the hairballs pass through.  Other benefits, too, and we encourage the basics, like brushing their fur to keep the loose hair to a minimum.”

      “A pet groomer would advise the same.”

      “That they would, but it’s our job to give the customer satisfaction and it doesn’t matter if someone else might give the same advice.”

      “It’s not particularly magical.”

      “Depends on what you mean by magic.  If you mean accomplishing a goal through providing the necessary supplies and equipment to successfully leverage a person’s hopes for a positive outcome into that positive outcome…”

      “Boring.  Pablum for the simple minded.”

      “Wrong.  Sometimes people need… the idea of magic.  You can scoff at the idea, but belief in something can work wonders.  People with cancer who go on longer than anyone might have predicted because they genuinely believed in their therapy, whether it was traditional or not.”

      “Ugh… by that argument, everyone in England should already be winners of the lottery.”

      “I’d say you don’t have the same intimate relationship with the lottery people as you do your own body.”

      “Thank heavens.  The mere thought of the bloated bureaucrats who occupy that particular office is enough to reduce my brain to liquid.”

      “Ooh, sound painful.  We do have potions for cognitive function, though, so maybe I can pour a bit in your ear and it’ll keep your goo smart and sharp.  We got some crystals, too, and a few rituals that might help.”

      “The goo-ing has officially occurred.”

      “Balthazar, think we should try and keep his brain active or just leave him this way and use him around the shop?  Always glad to have an extra pair of hands about for opening boxes, packing orders, stirring the cauldron…”

      “Cauldron!  I demand to see it!”

Said with Sherlock’s most strident tone and looming lean across the counter for emphasis.

      “Oh look, your brain revivified.”

      “I must see this ludicrous nod to the even more ludicrous notion of magic spells and potions.”

      “Ummmm… no.”

      “Intolerable!”

      “Very tolerable and for two excellent reasons.  First, we don’t allow customers in the workroom and, second, I actually have work to do and need to stay up here to do it.”

      “I am the only customer in this accursed shop.”

As if by magic, which niggled Sherlock like a flea in his hair, the chimes rang signaling someone had entered the shop and John’s large smile made the niggling that much more annoying.

      “Voila!  Speak of the devil and he shall appear.  Though, for the record, that’s actually Jeff, and he stops in several times a week to top up his cupboards for his own potions and spells.”

      “Does he have a cauldron?”

      “He does, actually.  We ordered it for him.  Fairly small, but he uses it on the stove, sometimes in his yard on the BBQ, so anything large isn’t going to work.”

      “There is nothing at all mystical, arcane or sorcerous about anything you do, is there?  Oh… your cat requires coconut oil again.”

John grinned in agreement with Balthazar’s laughter, and actually drew out a small crock of their special cat health product, set aside for the shop’s resident feline, putting a small dab on his finger for the cat to eagerly lick off.  What he didn’t expect was for Sherlock to stick in his finger for a dab to also lick off.

      “Hmmmm… not entirely unpalatable.”

      “You have no idea what’s in there and you put it in your mouth.”

      “The affection for and attachment to their pets by the lumbering public precludes your using any ingredients that would be, in any manner, harmful.”

      “You do know that not everything one species can safely consume can be safely consumed by others, don’t you?”

      “I will wager that greater than 60% of the purchasers of this tasted it before they gave it to their cat.”

      “That… ok, that’s probably true.  But don’t take that as a general license to eat pet products.  If you show your face at the clinic with stomach pains, I’ll just wave you along to wither and die.”

      “Clinic… oh god, don’t tell me the NHS has taken to employing bone wavers and fortune tellers.”

      “For your information, alternative healing can work successfully as a supplement to the more familiar medical practices for a lot of people.  Also, for your information, I am a doctor.”

      “Of cats?”

      “People, you prat.  I have a medical degree.  I was a surgeon in the army, until…”

      “You were shot.”

      “Basically.  I still do a few shifts a week, cover for someone on holiday, that sort of thing.  Greg and I have a schedule that keeps the shop open, but allows me time to practice medicine, too.”

      “Greg?”

      “He owns the shop.  I have to confess, cover your ears, you evil cat, that he’s about the best boss I could ask for, since he does work the schedule to let me do both jobs and is a great teacher for what you’d call the mystical arts.  It’s a good situation.  Now, if I can only find a better flat in this city than the closet I live in, I’ll be a happy man.  It’s stupidly expensive to live in London.”

      “Yes… that it is.”

Sherlock’s tone puzzled John, but he didn’t dwell on it as his second customer was, as typical, making a mess of self-service area for loose herbs and whatnot.

      “Pardon me a moment, will you?  Do… browse awhile.  Something might strike your fancy.”

Sharing a look with the cat, Sherlock snorted loudly and spun, gazing again at the shop area.  It wasn’t overly spacious, but the organization was smart, so there was a surprisingly large and diverse selection of goods on offer.  The likelihood that anything any here was of more than passing interest was miniscule, besides the potions and cauldron, however, it would be a violation of basic scientific principles to maintain his hypothesis without evidence to confirm it.  And the cat seemed amenable to conducting a tour if its hopping from the counter onto the floor and fixing him with a ‘well, are you coming?’ stare was correctly interpreted.

      “Very well.  I will follow your lead, so long as you only show me items of significant scientific interest.  Absurd examples of your typical hodge-podgery will not be tolerated.”

Balthazar dearly wished he could give Sherlock an example or two of what the shop could offer but decided that it was silly to divulge all their secrets in a single visit.  After all, it was more than evident that this would not be Sherlock’s sole visit to their tidy establishment.  In fact, if the berk wasn’t back before a week passed, he’d be very, very surprised…

__________

      “Well… that comes to £387.42.  Will that be cash or credit?”

Sherlock lightly cleared this throat and ignored John’s falsely-innocent smile as he handed over his bank card.  Perhaps he had found a few items of more than passing interest, however since this was Mycroft’s fault, as had been previously and undeniably established, he could cover the cost when the bill arrived.

      “Thank you, sir.  I hope you had a pleasant shopping experience.  And, yes, I know… the cat is choking again.”

Perched atop the shelves nearest the door, Balthazar was having a grand time laughing it all.  But, as expected, the cat had worked its wonders drawing this Sherlock fellow this way and that right towards the sorts of things that would pique his interest, so John tossed it a catnip mouse, which Balthazar caught in midair and flopped down to begin the rear-paw disemboweling maneuver that humans found amazingly cute to watch.

      “Now, anything else I can get for you?  Besides our business card, that is.  We take phone and online orders, too, if you can’t make it down here for whatever reason.  Website’s on the bottom.”

      “I sincerely doubt that will be occurring.”

      “Well… pays to be prepared in case you change your mind.  It was nice to meet you, Sherlock.  I do hope you stop in again sometime.”

John extended his hand another time and was happy to note Sherlock didn’t hesitate to shake it.

      “Yes, goodbye.”

Sherlock quickly snatched up his two large sacks of merchandise and made a dash for the door, stopping only to glare at the cat who had swatted his head when he was in range.

      “Hitting the customers… nice.  Just so friendly and polite of you.”

      “Got a hair!”

      “Not this again.  Give it to me.  Greg specifically said you can’t take hair or anything else from customers.”

      “MINE!”

John just rolled his eyes as Balthazar leapt from top-of-shelf to top-of-shelf across the shop, then down to the floor to race full speed towards the workroom, the hair gingerly clutched between his teeth.

      “Don’t do anything with it, Balthazar!  Greg’ll have your head and I won’t step in to keep it on your shoulders.”

Balthazar’s rude noise was rather muffled by the hair in his mouth, so he spit it out, made the nose again then crept towards the hearth where he’d hidden the second hair he’d originally plucked from Mycroft that Greg certainly didn’t know about it, since he’d sat on this one while Greg was distracted by confiscating the first, heretofore known as the decoy, hair.

Now, with Mycroft’s and Sherlock’s in his clutches, he could test his theory.  The energy wasn’t as blinding, in certain ways, as Mycroft’s, but if that Sherlock fellow wasn’t related to the Great and Powerful Holmes, he’d be a monkey’s uncle.  The names alone… you don’t have a child named Mycroft then give the other something common and boring like William or Scott.

 And that made life extremely interesting since John… John’s aura was always a hard one to read because the man had a rather spectacular talent for emotional repression, which clouded the picture worse than milk in tea.  But… there certainly had been tiny tendrils of interest reaching out for that enormous curly-haired baby and that was something new.  What was new was interesting.  What was interesting was fun.  He was a cat, so if it was fun, there was a mandate that he must do it.

He’d do it even without a mandate, though.  He was a cat.  He didn’t need a reason, actually, to do anything, let alone something fun…

Chapter Text

      “No.”

      “Why not?”

      “It’s ugly.”

      “You’ve said that about every shirt I’ve tried on, you horrible cat.”

      “Because every shirt you own is ugly.  Why can’t you have taste?”

Greg sighed loudly and took off the latest shirt to adorn his back in the Great Dressing for My Date ritual, and tossed it onto Balthazar’s smugly-sneering head.

      “I have taste.  I… I just don’t like shopping for clothes.  It’s such a waste of time.”

      “You mean you get confused when you walk into a shop and there’s more than cheap trousers and even cheaper button-ups, so you grab the first things your hand hits and race to the till like your arse was on fire.”

      “Wrong.  But… not entirely.”

      “Wear your ceremonial robes.  That should make an impression.”

      “No.  Besides, you put a hole in them.”

      “That’s easy to fix.  Of course, you do look short and fat when you wear them, so that might not inspire a quick blow job in the nice, dark cinema, even though robes are very good for that sort of thing, especially if you don’t wear pants underneath them.”

      “First, that’s completely disrespectful to Mycroft.  Second, I do not look short and fat in my robes.”

      “Fine.  Short, fat and fashion-challenged.”

      “Wrong.”

      “It’s the shirt fiasco again!  You grabbed the first thing you saw, didn’t bother to have it fitted, which is completely in line with your signature look of dreary dad with a highly-embarrassed child.”

Greg flopped backwards onto his bed, uncaring if he squashed his personal troll in the process.  The fact his face got swatted several times, each with increasing petulance, said he needed to work on his aim.

      “What am I going to do?  Mycroft is the epitome of grace, elegance, bespoke resplendence and I look like a dad taking his kids out for some ice cream.”

      “Where you order some mint garbage for yourself to make the tableau all the sadder.”

      “I like mint.”

      “Sad.”

As the days passed and the time for his date crept closer, Greg had felt his confidence twitch, shudder, falter and fail until he was, now, splayed on his bed, surrounded by rejected shirts, with a cat rubbing its bottom against his cheek.  The urge to phone Mycroft and make his excuses was growing by leaps and bounds.

      “Maybe I should cancel.”

      “WHAT!  Reject the gift bestowed by my dark empress!”

Balthazar’s bottom was removed from Greg’s face replaced by a clear display of a paw with malevolently extended claws, which reminded Greg that the cat needed a nail trimming soon.

      “You’d rather I made a fool of myself, so she feels foolish for orchestrating her little scheme?”

      “Hmmm… you actually have a point.  However, neither option is ideal for my Anthea’s satisfaction, so… I suppose I will have to help.”

      “By doing what?  Murdering me?”

      “Tried and failed many times, so no.  Go out, right now, and buy a black pullover.  Solid black, no fussiness.  With your slightly-faded jeans and black shoes, you’ll look marginally acceptable.  If it’s chilly out, you can wear one of your ridiculous scarves.”

      “They’re not ridiculous!  They’re warm.”

      “Which is why you look like you’ve been dressed by your pinafore-wearing wife when you wear one, because she doesn’t want her sweetie weetie to be cold.  However, with a simple black pullover, you have a few that might actually look masculine and not pathetic.”

      “That’s an idea.”

      “It won’t be much of one if you don’t get off your arse to buy the black pullover to wear in the first place.  If you go now, you’ll have time for the 29-hour marathon of shaving, reducing your body odor to a manageable level and taming your shrubbery.”

      “I am not grooming myself… down there.”

      “I mean the hair on your head, not your bollocks.”

      “Oh.  That makes more sense.”

      “Ugh… leave.  Just leave and bring back a suitable reward for my help.”

      “I turned my back for one moment and you stole the bacon off my plate this morning at breakfast.  I think that’s reward enough.”

      “It was overcooked, so the reward was pitiful.  I demand more.”

      “You know where the pan and bacon are, so make all the reward you’d like.  Oh wait, forgot, you can’t.  Boo hoo.”

      “Scoff all you like, but your black shoes are critical to tonight’s sex outfit and what I can do with those while you’re out shopping…”

Greg sighed in defeat and made a mental note to buy the evil cat a new toy or sack of cat treats while he was out.  It was fair, really, because that would be a sex outfit he’d be wearing tonight, even though he was absolutely certain the sex part wasn’t going to be on the agenda.  Reminded him of what he used to wear when he was a little younger and brasher, not as tired and old man-ish.  Younger Greg Lestrade had a sparkle in his eye, fuck-me hair, the wickedest of come-hither grins and the sexual stamina to make good on all those promises.

Old man Greg Lestrade needed reading glasses, fought daily to comb his hair into submission and looked more gassy than sexy when he flashed a grin.  As for the sexual stamina… there were no current data points relevant to that topic on which to base any judgement.  What a prize… but, that hadn’t stopped Mycroft from accepting a date.  And the man certainly didn’t seem the type to accept because he felt bad turning down the old duffer who looked like he’d been left on the shelf.  Even if the old duffer now had a feline crawling onto him and curling into a cat ball on his belly.

      “Get off of me, cat.”

      “No.  Warm.”

      “I have to buy a shirt.”

      “Warm.”

      “It was your idea.”

      “Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaarm.”

      “Five minutes.  Not a second more.”

      “Perhaps.  Perhaps not.”

Tomorrow, he’d really overcook the bacon, so this miserable cat got nothing but a mouthful of stolen charcoal for its thievery.  It’d be worth the retribution-theft of a sock or two for the chance to watch the overly-dramatic death throes of a bacon-poisoned cat.  Life was hard, so any entertainment opportunity that presented itself should be indulged to the fullest.  Especially if it involved vexing a cat…

__________

Atrocious.

Ghastly.

Horrifying.

Dreadful.

Vomit-inducing.

That one was not entirely eye-searing…

      “Are you going to do any work today?”

Villainous woman.

      “For your information, I have completed today’s scheduled tasks.”

      “And the unscheduled ones?”

      “Those, also.”

      “And sent out a little reminder that if anyone tries to reach you tonight it’d best be for nothing short of Armageddon or they’ll not only be sacked but in front of a firing squad at dawn?”

Revealing that he would not be, as was often the case, in his office on a Saturday night had, as expected, unleased the most diligent bloodhound in existence to sniff out the reason for the aberration.  Needless to say, Anthea was the one person to make his life sufficiently miserable as punishment for a refusal to confess, that his reticence on the subject had wilted like a rose on a very hot vine.

      “Dispatched just before lunch.”

      “Good, then everyone will have seen it as they always check their email just before lunch to see what’s on for tonight that sounds fun.  Not that anything on a Saturday night involving anyone in government service can be considered fun, but it’s the most they can hope for, I suppose.”

Au contraire, Madam.  Tonight shall be extremely fun for one person in government service and how fortunate it is that said person is moi.

      “Quite.  In any case, do feel free to consider your day completed and…”

      “What are you wearing?”

      “A grey suit.  Is something wrong with your vision?”

      “Pfft.  What are you wearing tonight?”

      “Something appropriate.”

      “You were sitting there mentally thumbing through your wardrobe for that something appropriate, weren’t you?  Mustn’t have been going well since you looked like you were viewing the entries in a children’s sculpture contest, where the medium of choice was chewed gum and mushy peas.”

      “Untrue.  I had lit upon a rather workable idea, in point of fact.”

      “Tell me.”

      “No.”

      “Who saved you from the pocket square debacle last year?”

      “The only person who believed it to be a debacle was you.”

      “After speaking to the ambassador with whom you were just entering some very touchy negotiations and learning that that they had no idea why the English insisted on wearing such boring and lackluster pocket squares.  You were just lucky I keep an assortment for when you have an accessory emergency.”

      “Along those lines, has Lady Smallwood returned the tie she borrowed for her nephew?”

      “No and for good reason.  I saw the photos.  He looks a lot better in it than you.”

      “Wonderful.”

      “It doesn’t matter, in any case, since you are not wearing a tie tonight.”

      “I… I was not planning on such a thing.”

      “That was a very telling pause.  Please tell me you are not thinking about wearing a suit.”

      “Heavens no.  More a… jacket-based ensemble.”

      “So, jacket, tie, work trousers and you’ll bring along a pen to do his accounts since you’ll look like a banker.”

      “Oh.  That is not entirely the image for which I was striving.  I had hoped for casual, yet respectful.”

      “Ok… ok, that’s actually not bad.  Respectful doesn’t mean stodgy, though, so let’s keep with that theme, but loosen it up a bit so Greg doesn’t think he’s out on a date with his accountant.  Let me think… I would wager, rather a lot actually, that Greg’s an eye man…”

      “What on earth does that mean?”

      “That he notices and appreciates eyes.  So, you’ll need something to make yours pop.  Purple or lavender would be amazing…”

      “Under no circumstances.”

      “Under yes circumstances, but maybe not tonight.  And I’ll keep some of the other more flagrant choices off the table.  Hmmm… you always wear grey and such, so we do need to do something different to show Greg you can let down your hair.”

      “I am not adopting a new hairstyle simply for a film evening.”

      “Stop it; I know you’re not that clueless.  Close, but behave.  Could do browns or creams… but I worry it won’t be enough, since it will be dark, which will reduce their eye-pop support.  Blues can work… but that brown hair/blue eye combination can also be boosted by jewel tones, so a rich cobalt blue or deep green would make your eyes shine and, also, show you’re not allergic to color.  Comfortable pair of tan or taupe trousers would work with that.  None of your fussy shoes, though.  Wear those loafers you keep for walking your mum around the flower festivals.”

All sound suggestions, so it was a shame that Mycroft had not heard a word Anthea was saying since he decided his input wasn’t needed for this conversation and took the opportunity to tend to an email that popped up in his Inbox while he was waiting.

      “Are you paying attention?”

      “No.”

      “Oh my god… leave.  Leave now, so you have time to shower, shave, have a calming drink and I will text you exactly what to wear so you look amazing, yet perfectly respectful of Greg’s invitation.  But, back to letting your hair down… release the curl.”

      “Absolutely not.”

      “Free the floof.”

      “I steadfastly refuse.”

      “You need some help to seem fun-loving, and I can’t think of anything in your personality to do that, so give him a visual indicator.  Liberate the whorl.”

      “And on that nonsensical note, I shall depart.”

      “Remember – garlic on the breath, romance will meet with death.”

Mycroft sighed and rolled his eyes, while snatching up his valise and outerwear in preparation for fleeing the scene of this poetic crime.  What a ridiculous hen was his PA… however, avoiding garlic was not a wholly poorly-given piece of advice.  And… perhaps he could reduce a tad his normal quantity of hair-management product.  Certainly not enough to allow his accursed curl to blossom full flower, however… he did wish to present a more casual image than was his norm.  Something to say that a pleasant evening with agreeable companionship was something he both enjoyed and encouraged.  The fact that he rarely had the opportunity to do either could remain his little secret for now…

__________

Hmmmm… taken in sum, the locale was not particularly abhorrent.  A small venue, however, the exterior seemed well maintained, the advertisement posters were new and presented in cleanly washed cases, the people already mingling about the entrance were of the mature type, so hooliganism of any form, such as mobile phone use or talking, was an unlikely thing.  So far, as they say, so good…

      “Mycroft!”

And good is an exceedingly insufficient descriptor for your appearance, Gregory.  My god, but you are a stunning man…

      “Gregory, good evening to you.”

      “Any trouble finding this little gem?”

Not that this old cinema could approach you in the gem department, sir.  That shirt is the most gorgeous sapphire color imaginable and doesn’t it make your eyes glow even brighter that normal…

      “Not at all.  Your directions were both concise and precise.”

      “I’m glad.  And… if it’s not too forward… you really look handsome tonight.”

Oh dear… that was a compliment. Gregory has already issued a compliment and they were not five minutes into their evening!  Of course, responding to it and not standing here like a dull-wit would probably serve to ensure their evening would last longer than five minutes…

      “Thank you, Gregory and, if I may, I would offer you the same kind words.  Truly you cut a striking figure.  Might I go so far as to declare that a jaunty scarf?”

      “Thank you!  Something to turn away the chill and, I promise, not a pentagram or bat or crescent moon anywhere to be seen.”

What a lascivious wink, Gregory Lestrade.  I do hope to see more of those tonight.

      “Does that mean you are, as they say, undercover?”

      “HA!  That’s it, precisely!  I am an undercover sorcerer entrusted with keeping this silly city safe from things that go bump in the night.”

      “Lawks!  I stand in awe of your power and might.”

      “You’ll be able to sit in awe soon, too, because it looks like the ticket window is opening.  My treat, alright?  I’m the one who asked you out, after all.”

It was utterly foolish to feel a touch giddy at being… treated… however, Mycroft was a firm believer that what was not openly expressed was excused from any and all accusations of foolishness, no matter how merited they might be.

      “I happily accept your gracious offer.”

      “Great!  Let’s queue up, then, so we can get good seats.  Nothing worse than crap seats for a brilliant film.”

      “I wholeheartedly concur.  Do… do we plan to acquire snacks?”

Did that sound gluttonous?  It was not meant to present that way, simply as an overture for instigating a plan of attack to ensure this initial phase of the film-going objective was successfully staged.  Something, now, very much in doubt if his mind could not frame even a jubilant personal event in terms other than those useful for coordinating the downfall of a hostile foreign regime.

      “Ooh, I hoped you were a popcorn man.  Yes, the snacks initiative is a go.”

Apparently, Gregory had a taste for bringing down foreign regimes.  Or, at least, for the vernacular suitable for promoting such a thing.

      “Then, I suggest we divide and conquer.”

      “One man on snacks, one man on seats?”

      “It would be the most efficient use of our available human resources.”

      “I like efficiency.  It’s a useful thing, especially with popcorn and good seats are involved.  I suspect you’ve got a clear and practiced strategy for obtaining those best-quality seats, too, don’t you?”

Gregory has properly noticed my analytical and strategic mind.  Verily, this evening could not be starting on a better foot.

      “You would be correct in that.  Once I make note of the architecture of the space and the orientation of the seats, screen and speakers, I shall be able to place us precisely for the optimal viewing experience.”

      “Then I’ll handle the consumables and you handle the film-watching placement.  I’d say, so far… we make a good team.”

We make a good team? That was pitiful.  Greg Lestrade – Master of the Lame and Limp Sad Dad Dialogue.  Why did he have such bad words?  Mycroft was so eloquent in his speech and he was a caveman.  Admittedly, a caveman with a jaunty scarf, but he definitely needed to step up the vocabulary game.

      “Oh, I say… I… I do find effective teamwork a bracing thing.”

By the lost tomes of Alexandria!  That was puerile.  Mental note to self – do not attempt flirtatious banter lest ye be exposed as a… fuddy-duddy.  Who were the only ones sufficiently tedious to use terms like fuddy-duddy!  Gregory was masterfully flirtatious, and he was as skilled at the craft as a prune.  Efforts much be made, beginning now, to bolster the suave, sophisticated flirtation so the prune could be safely laid to rest.  Which made no sense whatsoever, proving he was destined for eternal prunehood.

      “Great!  I’ve been very much looking forward to tonight, Mycroft, and I have to say, it’s already worth every bit of that anticipation.”

Now, try and remember your young Greg sexy smile, with the hip cock to go with it and try to rise above sad dad status to show Mycroft you’re really happy to be here, with him, and that you’re already hoping this won’t be a one-time thing.  It wasn’t easy to meet someone you felt comfortable with, despite first-date nervousness, and genuinely had a physical attraction to, as well.  it would be so, so nice if this went well.  Maybe it was the best thing, given his line of work, to be alone, but… a little companionship shouldn’t be too much to ask for in this world.  Or maybe it was.  Regardless, he was going to hope for the best, but not be surprised if he got the worst.  Wouldn’t be the first time and certainly wouldn’t be the last.

But he really, really hoped this time would the charm.  Something about Mycroft made that seem almost possible…

__________

Stellar.  What a profoundly stellar experience.  Gregory was an exceptional film-watching companion.  Quiet comments made only when relevant to the film, and all of interest or successful humorous intent, only a single trip to the loo to disrupt the proceedings.  Gregory’s chivalrous offer to purchase fresh beverages during that loo break was another nod to efficiency and courtesy that was greatly appreciated.  He hadn’t had so enjoyable an experience with another human in… far too long a time.

      “Well, that was exactly as wonderful as I remember.   When I win the lottery, I’ll buy a cinema and show all the films I loved as a kid just so I can see them large on the screen as they were meant to be seen.”

      “A most laudable goal, I do admit.  It is a rare and delicious treat to have the opportunity to take a step back into the cinematic past for a proper viewing of a beloved film.”

      “I’ll make certain you have a special seat, extra plush, in the perfect spot for when you stop in for a night of entertainment.”

      “I would be most grateful.  A standing reservation is an exceptional thing of which to boast.”

      “Bank on it, then.  In the meantime… it’s not terribly late.  Can I tempt you into joining me for a drink or two?  There’s a decent pub a few streets along that I like for a good pint when I’m in the area.”

Gregory was extending their evening!  It had not been a certain thing, but it had been a wished for thing that, now, apparently was about to come to pass.

      “That would be most delightful.  Thank you, Gregory.”

      “Alright, then.  This way; it’s quiet there, too, so no worry that we’ll have to shout to carry on a conversation.”

Which was very much to Mycroft’s liking.  A pub, alone, was a stretch of his normal comfort range, but a boisterous one would have been a distinct black mark on an evening that had not yet a single blemish on its record.  It was a singular thing, a night as this, and he had every hope of preserving its memory in his mind.  Especially… Gregory running his fingers through his hair, as he was doing at the moment, was a rather breathtaking sight.  And the man did it so very often…

__________

      “Fantastic… my favorite table’s available.”

Greg smiled and nodded for Mycroft to follow towards a table along the rear wall near the hearth which was as cozy, and private, as Mycroft could have hoped.

      “An excellent choice and, I must confess, a most agreeable establishment.  Too many are neglected or overly garish for my tastes.”

And were filled… people.  Not that this example was empty, far from it, but the space to person ratio was within his range of acceptability and there was not a sports-logo-emblazoned shirt or underage ruffian to be seen anywhere.

      “I know what you mean.  I frequented a few of those, or more than a few, if I’m honest, when I was a lad, but I was stupid then.  Stupid and perfectly willing to drink lager that I’m fairly certain someone had drank before and recycled through the drains.  With age comes wisdom, I suppose.”

      “Thankfully so.  I am taking you at your word, however, that the libations offered here are above that abysmal level of quality.”

      “No worries there.  They have a respectable wine selection, too, if you’ve more a taste for that.  In fact…”

Greg darted over to snatch a card with the wine offerings before the server could get to the table.

      “Here you are.  I enjoy a nice whisky or scotch here, too, when it’s been an especially rough day.”

A quick eye along the listed wines made Mycroft’s normal suspicion of the claim ‘respectable wine selection’ get brushed aside.  Nothing terribly fine, but the choices were perfectly appropriate for a flavorful glass of moderately-priced, good-quality wine.  In fact, he had several bottles of a few of the labels at home…

      “A commendable list, to be certain.  I see several that would make an excellent accompaniment to a robust discussion.”

      “Great!  Let me see if I… where’s… huh.  Wonderful…”

The tone certainly didn’t match the word, so Mycroft’s interest immediately perked to see that was obviously not wonderful in the room.  Not that he could be certain, at first, but he assumed it was the man striding towards them.  The tall, dark and heart-stoppingly beautiful man.

      “Greg.  Greg Lestrade.  Fancy meeting you here.”

The tall, dark and heart-stoppingly beautiful man with a voice that could seduce the most pious and celibate of monks.

      “Marcus.  Lovely.  What brings you out tonight?”

      “Oh, as you well know, I am out every night.  Not always, though, in such a… quaint… little pub.  But, you do meet the most… interesting people when you venture beyond your own little world.  Such as this rather… vital… individual whom I have yet to meet.  Marcus Varnas, at your service.”

What a captivating smile… though a smile that seemed to be trying to captivate, rather than it being the natural state of things.  Interesting…

      “Mycroft.  Mycroft Holmes.  It is very good to meet you.”

      “Mycroft Holmes… what a delightful name and one… I am certain I have heard before.  The reason escapes me at the moment, however, and it is certainly not important.”

      “Oh, well…I suspect you are correct.  I occupy the most minor of positions in Her Majesty’s government, so very little I do can be described as overly important.”

Greg sighed and kicked the vampire prince out of sight of Mycroft’s curious, and somewhat intrigued, eyes and kicked a second time when Marcus didn’t respond to his first kick.

      “Very rude of me, Greg, I do apologize.  Might I bother you for a small moment of your time?  A… matter of business.  I hope you won’t mind me stealing away your companion, Mr. Holmes.  Or may I call you Mycroft?”

Greg kicked a third time and stood to start the process of getting this interruption over and done with.

      “Mycroft, if the tired baggage here is this desperate for my attention, I should probably listen or he’ll never go away.  Excuse me for a minute?”

      “Oh, of course.  Shall I order if the opportunity arises?”

      “Please.  A pint of lager for me, ok?”

      “Very good.”

Greg narrowed his eyes at the vampire and drew him over to the other side of the pub, far out of earshot of Mycroft or any of the other patrons.

      “Thanks for that.  Did you really need to try to seduce him?  Right there.  In front of me.”

      “He didn’t bite… he felt it, but didn’t even nibble.  Curious.”

      “Maybe because he’s on a date.  With me.”

      “Heavens no, the man clearly has standards, so I am the obvious candidate for indulging his lusts, but… he has power.  Rare for one not magically inclined.  Who is he?”

      “Exactly what he said… ok, not exactly what he said, because he’s not a minor anything, but that’s not what we’re here to talk about.  Why are you spraying your stinky pheromones all over my nice night out?   And why are you here, in any case.  A bit downscale for you.”

      “True, but one does what one must, or what amuses one, and John said this was a likely location to find you.”

Shit.  If John steered the berk this way, there was a reason.  And not a happy one, either.

      “What’s the story?  One of yours?”

      “No, not this time.  Though, I do have to thank you for your help with that last little bit of nonsense.”

      “A rogue vampire who killed twenty-three people goes a touch beyond nonsense.”

      “Semantics.  No, this one is on your side of the line.”

      “Magic’s involved?”

      “A fresh face, apparently, in the city.  And one… making a lot of mistakes.  Your recent demon encounter, for example.”

      “Really?  Dark wizard?”

      “Not sure.  From what I gather… he’s new.  To his talent, I mean.  Late bloomer.”

Shit.  Those were a problem.  Sometimes, not often but sometimes, magical talent didn’t manifest until later in life and that led to lots of problems.  Such as summoning a demon… however…

      “Late bloomer that someone’s found, because I sensed traces of that bastard Moriarty all through the spell that summoned that lumbering oaf of a demon.”

      “Moriarty… what an intriguing little fellow.  He would be one to capitalize on a, shall we say, innocent virgin.”

      “Yeah, he would.  Ok, you got a name?  Address?”

      “Perhaps.”

      “What’s it going to cost me?”

      “Well… my mirror visibility charm is nearly depleted.”

      “I… the last one I gave you was good for at least a hundred hours of looking at yourself in the mirror.  How vain are you?”

      “Very.  So, another one of those and.. cough, cough… my throat is ever so dry.”

      “You have got to be kidding me.”

      “Cough.  Cough.”

      “Here?  While I’m on a fucking date?”

      “Oh, don’t play as if you can’t keep everything from your dear Mycroft’s eyes.”

Greg gritted his teeth, but it could take him awhile to get the information another way and… it wasn’t really a big deal if you were familiar with vampires and magic which nobody in the pub actually was except for the two people standing here having what appeared to be a friendly conversation. And that was exactly what the pub patrons continued to see after a quickly muttered spell crafted an illusion of that image while he extended his wrist for the vampire to sink his long, sharp fangs into for an extended drink.

      “Delicious.  As always.  Your blood is truly... inspiring, sorcerer.”

Which was why Greg never visited vampire haunts if he could avoid it.  The more powerful the magic, the more treasured the blood and not even his sad dad presentation could protect him from being hit on by every vampire he met. Which wasn’t actually as brilliant a thing as most people might believe.

      “You’re welcome.  Name and address?”

Marcus sighed mournfully, then took a crisp white card from his pocket and passed it over.

      “Are right here.  My charm?”

      “Is fake as ever.  But, stop in at the shop… give me a couple of days and I’ll have it for you.”

      “Excellent.  As always, mano vyras… it has been a pleasure.”

      “Bugger off.”

Greg dissolved the illusion and honestly felt no surprise that the vampire waited until that moment to lean in and lay kiss on his lips.  Since punching him would have accomplished nothing but making the prat giggle, which he was already doing as he glided out of the pub, there really was no point to it at all.  Besides, he had to save his energy for lifting that greatly disappointed look off of Mycroft’s face… walking forward with a ‘nothing to see here’ grin to get started.

      “Well, that’s done.”

      “I… I see.  You seem to know each other quite well.”

More well than I would like, but some things simply can’t be avoided.

      “I see him about now and then.  Stops in at the shop.  He… he’s in a similar line of work, so we share tips, lines on vendors, goings-on in the area that might stimulate some business. That sort of thing.”

      “I see.”

You’ve said that twice and both with a tone I can’t say isn’t warranted for someone who probably is convinced he just watched me be more than slightly friendly with an old flame.

      “If you’re wondering... he did that… kiss me, that is... to be a pain in the arse since he thinks that sort of thing is funny.  Nothing to read into it beyond that.”

      “No?  I… I suppose I should be honest and say it did appear you might… share some history together.”

      “Uh…”

If you lie outright he’ll know.  His energy is swirling into a net to catch the lies as they come spilling out.

      “… history is the right word for it.  As in, in the past and not the present.  We stay cordial, be of use to each other, business-wise, when necessary, but that’s about it...”

All true.  The fact that the history contains a few raw, wild nights of sex to satisfy certain necessary rituals shall go unmentioned.   And that was in the past.  Except six or so months ago when Marcus split with his latest interest and stopped in at the flat, wanting some pity.  It’s very hard to turn down pity sex with a vampire, especially when you’ve had more than a little to drink and are more than a little lonely, to boot.  But that was it!  Very much it.

      “… besides, I can honestly say I never have invited him to join me to watch one of my favorite films.  Takes a very special person to merit that.  And he’s certainly not got the scintillating intellect, great sense of humor and lovely eyes that you do.”

Come on, Mycroft… smile for me… a little more… yeah, there it is.  And as beautiful to view as ever.

      “I suppose we all have history into which we bump now and again.”

      “That we do.  Oh, and it looks like our drinks are here.”

Greg took a long sip of his ale and felt a sense of contentment wash over him.  Not because of the alcohol, but because Mycroft’s face had lost its look of disappointment and that was a far more valuable thing.  If that stupid vampire had ruined his date, he would have found the prick and hexed him good and hard, so it took a fucking year for him to be able to move again.  And he’d be there when it wore off to do it again.  That would keep him out of the way long enough for whatever might happen between him and Mycroft to have a proper start.

Not that he was thinking long term, of course.  That would be silly!  Not on a first date.  He wasn’t fourteen and thinking that he’d fall in love at first sight and be whisked off to a romance that could burn up the pages of the most torrid romance novel ever written.  Tommyrot.  There!  That was a vocabulary word he could use.  Insert that somewhere into the conversation to prove he wasn’t an intellectual mushroom.  Not a mushroom and not a romantically-addled nitwit, either.  Life was good.  And getting better since Mycroft looked fucking amazing in the firelight, sipping wine…

__________

They didn’t close the pub, but it was a near thing and neither Mycroft nor Greg could find a single reason to mind the late hour.  What a phenomenal evening it had been…

      “Well, Mycroft… this has been great.  Really great.”

      “I concur.  A most pleasant experience from all perspectives.”

      “Would… would you be willing to do something like this again?”

A second date!  Gregory was propositioning him for another evening out!  This was positively the best outcome for their time together.  And a much-desired outcome, as well.

      “I would greatly appreciate such thing.  Shall I phone you to craft a plan?”

      “Sounds good.  I… I’m already looking forward to it.  Both of its.  The call and the night out.  Yeah.  Shutting up now because I sound daft.”

Which, to Mycroft, was a high compliment.  When he was engaged in a matter of work, reducing a person to a dithering mass of DNA was very much his intention, however, this was a different matter altogether, and a highly flattering one, too.

      “Not daft, Gregory, simply enthused.  A sentiment I fully share.”

      “Until… next time, then.”

Each man was highly aware of that scene in romance films where the couple stands there, awkwardly, not sure which one, if either, was going to lean in for a kiss and thought those people were both cowardly and stupid for not taking the bull by the horns and doing what each of them so obviously desired.  Now it was a contest between Greg and Mycroft as to which was the more cowardly and stupid as they stood there, shuffling their feet and wavering between wanting to catch the other’s eye and wanting to avoid it.  It was only through infinitesimal, tentative motions that each moved a little forward until the pretense of not moving forward couldn’t be maintained and they fell into a slow, gentle kiss that settled something into each man’s core that they had no words to describe, but would fight to the death to protect and nurture.

      “Wow… is there anything about you that’s not amazing, Mycroft?  Anything at all?”

      “A question I was preparing to pose to you, Gregory.  It shall be far too long until we again meet.”

      “Then let’s… let’s hope that we can make that meeting happen soon.”

      “Most certainly.  Goodnight, Gregory.”

      “Goodnight, Mycroft.  Take care.”

Greg started walking backwards to take as long a final look at Mycroft as possible, and only turned around when he bumped into a lamp post, the back of his head taking the brunt of the bump which he sheepishly grinned away to Mycroft’s great amusement.  Now it was Mycroft’s turn to make his retreat, but his began with a quick text to his driver who was waiting somewhere to deliver him home safe and sound.  Which, now that he thought about it, was an amenity he could have offered the man just now disappearing around a corner, though he swore he could still feel Gregory’s presence in his heart.

Which was ludicrous.  He was not a fourteen-year-old, secretly reading Mills & Boon novels and dreaming of the day he would be swept away by a romance of which the bards would sing their finest songs.  What utter tommyrot!  He was a practical, mature man who had seen the very worst of what the world offered and bore the scars and battle-hardened soul to prove it.  However, not even his formidable mind could deny that there had been a connection.  A genuine one.  Which was astonishingly rare in his life.

And it was a connection he was very hopeful to develop.  Now, what did his schedule for the week hold in store… or, more precisely, how could he organize his schedule for the week, so that said development could see its next step forward.  Not that it mattered much.  When Mycroft Holmes willed it, the world obediently bent to his will.  And if it did not, the bill presented for the affront was a staggering one, indeed…

__________

Greg wished he could find a simple incantation that worked as a teleportation spell, because finding a cab at this time of night was never fun, and expensive, as a bonus.  Especially when he wasn’t going the short distance home, but nearly to the other side of London where the address in his pocket happened to be found.  Not the nicest neighborhood, that was for certain.  And not the nicest building in that not the nicest neighborhood, but that didn’t mean much.  Some of the weakest practitioners he knew lived in mansions and some of the strongest lived…. well, like him.  This was a bit below the norm, but everyone had their own story and path in life and magic wasn’t the only factor with a say in the matter.

It took Greg a moment to find the flat in the darkened corridors of the fairly dilapidated building and more than a moment for his knocking to produce any result, though he had used a bit of his own talent to verify that someone was at home and his cab fare hadn’t been wasted.

      “Yeah?”

Lean.  Too lean.  The sort of thin that said meals were a rare and precious occurrence.

      “Philip Anderson?”

      “Who are you?”

      “Greg Lestrade.”

Ok, that little narrowing of your eyes says you know the name, at least.  That could make this easier or harder.  Not sure which, yet.

      “So?”

      “I’d like to talk to you, if that’s ok.”

      “Talk, huh?”

      “Yeah, nothing more.  I heard you’re new to… certain things… and I’d like to chat about that.  If you’d like, I know a few places not too far from here that deliver, so we can have a bite to eat while we chat.  I’ve had a few pints already and something in the stomach wouldn’t be amiss at this point.”

Oh yes, you like the possibility of food.  Well, a bit of something hot and nourishing will be first on my agenda if you just let me through your door.

      “Ok, but remember you’re only here to talk.”

      “Absolutely.  I like to get to know people in the city, people like us, so this is nothing more than a chance to do just that.”

After a long moment, the door was unlatched and opened far enough for Greg to walk in.  Looked like it was going to be a long night, but that wasn’t something unusual in his life.  Getting some food inside him was definitely a good idea, though.  If this Anderson person had another conjured demon lying about, it was best faced on a full stomach rather than an empty one.  They were a proper mischief to vanquish and he’d already lost a good pint of blood tonight, which was more than enough for one night’s adventures… especially when the rest of the adventures were still sitting very fondly at the forefront of his mind…

Chapter Text

Greg looked around the tiny flat and felt a twinge of disappointment that the interior didn’t hold secret riches that Anderson’s personal appearance would never lead a person to suspect.  This level of penury was not what you typically saw with practitioners, but late bloomers did offer up more than their fair share of aberrant data points on the mystical line graph.

      “Cozy.”

The small pfft from Anderson told Greg that this new face was well aware of his circumstances and wouldn’t appreciate attempts to layer buttercream over them in the interests of cordiality.

      “It can be tough to find anything in London, especially if you’re new to the city and coming in with nothing in your pocket but lint.”

      “I could use lint, at least, to start a fire.”

      “Good point.  Anything you’re allergic to, foodwise?  I’d rather not have to spend the time pulling you out of anaphylactic shock just to see my food go cold.”

      “No allergies.”

      “Ok then, give me a moment.”

Greg plucked out his mobile and phoned a very late-night Chinese restaurant he knew.  Excellent food and lots of fresh vegetables to put some additional health in his new friend’s frame.

      “There.  That’s sorted.  So… shall we sit?”

At the kitchen table, since there’s actually two chairs there though one looks about ready to donate its life to be the wood for the lint fire being planned.

      “Sure.  Um… you want something to drink?”

      “Got anything?”

      “Water.”

      “That works for me.”

Greg took the wobbly chair, though he gave it a little bolstering so he could be sure it would hold his weight long enough for their conversation to occur.  Which began as soon as Anderson set two mismatched glasses of water on the table and, himself, took a seat.

      “What do you want, Mr. Greg Lestrade?”

      “Like I said, just to talk.”

      “Out of the blue, this time of night, you stop in for a chat.  That’s not terribly believable.”

      “I just got your address tonight.  I was, if you can believe this, out on a date and your address was passed to me by someone who thought it might be helpful.  Wasn’t about to end my very successful evening out just for our friendly chat but, when it was over, I realized I wasn’t terribly far from here and thought you might keep hours that ran on the late side.  A lot of us do.”

Greg routinely made a point to be as honest as possible, whenever possible, as people with talents were better than average at detecting deception.  So, only one small lie tossed out in all of that blather and it was an easy one to wave off if he was caught out.

      “Who gave you my address?  And why?”

Cautious or paranoid?  The slightly feverish gleam in Anderson’s eyes leaned Greg towards the latter, but not enough for him to prepare for something that would be hurtling his way intent on melting the skin off his face.  Not that he suspected Anderson could do that, though.  It took some fairly rigorous practice and control for that particular spell and this poor bastard didn’t look like he could control his breakfast toast.  And that was likely why his little demon buddy was storming through Islington, rather than a darker reason, because the person in front of him really didn’t seem the type to think putting people in harm’s way was a jolly bit of fun.

      “The why is because you’ve been causing a bit of a fuss and it’s been noticed.  When fuss is caused, people tend to bring it to my attention.”

Greg sighed softly, since it was not a proud or satisfied look that rose on Anderson’s face, but a sad mix of frustration, chagrin and regret.

      “I don’t mean it.  I don’t mean any of it.”

      “It’s hard to summon a demon by accident, mate.”

      “It wasn’t… I didn’t intend it to…”

      “Go rampaging?  Because that is what that sort does when you don’t have them under control.”

      “I know that.  Now.”

      “That’s why you don’t try those sorts of things without knowing all the ins and outs first.  I’ll give this to you, he was an oaf, but a strong one.  Old and strong, which means you’d need a hefty amount of power to call him up.  That says you have the makings of a strong addition to our community with some instruction and guidance.”

The bit of praise, unfortunately, didn’t produce the lifting of mood that Greg had hoped, which motivated Greg to dig deeper.  A powerful late bloomer who seemed terribly poor in both money and peace of mind was something that did not sit well with him.

      “Tell me a little about yourself, Mr. Anderson.  I genuinely do want get to know you better.  We’re a fairly chaotic bunch here in London, but I do my best to know everyone, keep my eyes and ears open for when someone needs a helping hand.  I’ll be honest, you seem like you could use one.”

      “I’m just… getting back on my feet.”

Back… that meant at one point he had been on his feet?  Or was that just an attempt at face-saving since a bit of hard luck was easier for some people to admit to than a lifetime of it.

      “That’s a tough thing.  I know a lot of people who go through rough patches.  Need a job?”

      “Got one?”

      “Let me see what I can do.  Like I said, we’re a chaotic community, but we are a community, the various practitioners and associated folk in London, and that’s a lot of eyes and ears than can get turned towards something when necessary.  I can give you some hours here and there of work, though, at my shop.  There’s certain matters I tend to at night while John’s at the till and he can’t always step in and lend a hand with my business because he’s got customers to tend.”

      “What sort of work?”

      “Preparing the various things we sell; I’ve got an occult shop if you didn’t know.  And I have other matters to work on that my shop assistant can’t always help me with because he’s not got the gift.  He’s great for things the non-gifted can do with the right spells and rituals, but the rest I have to manage myself.  An extra spot of help with that, when necessary, would be nice.  I can’t afford another full employee, but I can cover some hours until you can find something more permanent.”

      “That’s… I’ll think about it.”

However, the gleam that flashed in Anderson’s eyes before he hid it told Greg that whatever Moriarty had offered, it hadn’t been anything that paid any semblance of a wage.

      “Good!  And I will put the word out about full employment.  Even then, though, I’ll be happy to have you in for help.  It’s… it’s a good way to learn, too.  Do things with someone who knows how they should be done properly and can point out where it’s easy to make mistakes.  Good to learn the trade from someone who’s been at it awhile.”

      “I… I’ve got someone I’ve been working with.”

      “Moriarty’s not a great choice, mate, I have to be honest with you.”

Anderson fixed Greg with a stare that Greg answered with what he painfully realized was a picture-perfect sad dad moue of disappointment.

      “How’d you know about that?”

      “That demon you unleashed.  When you get to a certain level of mastery, you can… see the energy of a spell or curse or whatnot and there are clues in that as to who was behind it.  I’ve seen examples of Moriarty’s work before and this had traces of his techniques running through it.”

      “He… Fine, he helped me a little with that spell, what of it?”

      “First, let me remind you of the rampaging bit and the fact that you had no plan or ability to control the demon once it went marauding.  Second…that sort of thing isn’t what you teach someone new to the craft unless you’re wildly irresponsible or simply like to cause chaos.  Did he even bother to talk about controlling the demon before you got all of that started?”

The look on Anderson’s face couldn’t have said a louder ‘no’ if it started screaming like a banshee.

      “Thought not.  You teach a spell, you teach it from start to finish, with all the precautions and possibilities spelled out clearly.  You talk about the consequences and ways things can go very, very wrong… all before you even consider going forward.  I don’t doubt Moriarty knows a thing or two, but I can’t say he’s a person you’d want helping you develop your talent.  Can I ask where you met him?”

      “It… it doesn’t matter.”

Meaning you don’t want to say.  That could be because it’s embarrassing or puts you in some danger.  Might as well find out.

      “Does it not matter because it’s embarrassing or because your telling me might put you in danger.”

      “Danger?  Not likely.”

      “Alright then… what’s the story?”

      “He… he collected me from jail.”

Jail, not prison.  That meant minor and short term, most likely.

      “What were you in for?”

      “Constable got angry I was…”

      “Yeah?”

      “I was looking for something to eat and I don’t think he liked that sort of person on his patch.”

Greg did a quick mental thumbing through his accounts and set a few bookmarks for pages where he could trim and tighten to toss a few more hours of work than he’d planned Anderson’s way.

      “Most of our police are a decent sort, but you do get the arsehole tossed in to make the rest look bad.  I’m sorry about that, Philip.  How’d Moriarty know you were locked up?”

      “He said he’d had his eye on me.”

      “Ok, that’s certainly possible, if he’d caught any wind of or saw you do something magical in nature.  A new face showing talent… people will keep an eye on you.  I rely on that, since I can’t keep eyes on everyone all the time.”

At least, not easily.

      “He said he could help me.  Learn about what I was.”

      “Well, he’s not wrong, I suppose.  But it’s a bit like learning what a policeman does from the berk who arrested you versus someone who actually cares about the people he’s supposed to serve and protect.”

      “There wasn’t anyone else offering.”

      “You’re right and I’m not berating you, if that’s what you’re thinking.  You can only make decisions based on the situation at hand.  You didn’t do anything wrong in that, Philip, not at all.”

      “You don’t want me to work with him anymore, though, do you?”

      “Honestly?  No, no I don’t.  I can’t stop you, though.  There’s nothing that says you can’t associate or apprentice with whoever you want.  The only thing I can say is that it’s my job to keep order in this city and I take that job very, very seriously.  Moriarty stays in the shadows, gets others to do his dirty work and I have had to deal with a few of them, much to their displeasure.”

The small knock at the door broke some of the growing tension and Greg smiled in as friendly as fashion as he could while he rose to go and collect the food.  All in all, this Anderson didn’t seem a bad sort, just a very beaten down and confused sort, which made him a perfect target for Moriarty’s miserable claws.

      “Oh, this smells good.  Help yourself, I ordered enough to feed a primary school because, to my credit, I can beat any of those little buggers in an eating contest, especially when I have a few pints in me.  You’d think all that liquid sloshing around in my stomach might fill the hole a bit, but nope.  It’s magic!  Always room for something more.”

Nudging various containers towards his dining companion, Greg waited until Anderson pulled down one plate and one shallow bowl from his single cupboard and held them up for Greg to choose.

      “Plate, please.”

Because the bowl is larger, and you need to fill it up to the brim thrice before I’ll be satisfied you’ve gotten enough in you to manage until we can see that cupboard with a few groceries in it.

      “What did you do to them?”

Greg actually looked behind him to see if someone had entered the room without his knowing, since Anderson’s question came out of the blue and certainly didn’t relate to the large helping of food the skinny man was spooning into his bowl.

      “What did I do to who?”

      “The people who work for Moriarty.”

Oh.  Those people.

      “A fair bit of damage, nothing that wouldn’t heal though.  Hard to avoid that when you’re in a fight.  For some I had to take further action, not that I particularly wanted to, but I can’t have anyone in our community working to cause harm, any more than the police can tolerate that with the non-talented population.”

      “What are you going to do to me?”

There was more than a slight tinge of fear in Anderson’s voice and Greg, again, put it down to two possibilities.  One was that Moriarty had talked about this very thing, with some or a lot of exaggeration.  The second was that someone had done something to his new friend in the past and that past was not something Anderson wanted to see repeated.

      “Nothing.  That demon business was a black mark, but it wasn’t entirely your fault and my bones mended nicely, so no harm done there.  I won’t be so obliging for another escaped summoning, though, so give that some thought before you go down that road again.  You were very lucky nobody but me got hurt.”

      “I’m… I am sorry.  I didn’t… wait.  Your bones knitted?  There hasn’t been nearly enough time for that.  Are you joking?”

      “Nope.  It’s a handy thing to be able to do, but the energy cost is enormous.  If another beastie had decided to go on a spree, I’d have to have called in help because I was having a hard time even keeping my shop running for a few days after our little skirmish.”

      “Is that… something that can be learned?”

Ooh, is that a spark of interest?  Doubtful Moriarty would be tossing out information on anything but causing mayhem, so it’s good to know you, my friend, might want a little something different.

      “It is, actually.  How fast it goes and how much damage you can repair depends on how strong you are, both physically and magically, but it’s a useful tool in the arsenal.”

Greg calmly focused on his food so as not to appear too eager or pushy in order to give Anderson time to chew a little, both on his own food and the information.

      “Does it matter… how old you are?  To learn magic, I mean?”

      “No.  I’m old and I’m learning new things all the time.  Admittedly, the longer you work at it, the more time you have to discover new things, but I know some fairly old duffers who never put much effort in, so don’t know terribly much, and some young practitioners who rabidly study everything they can, so they have an amazing amount of knowledge, even if they don’t have the power to put much of it into practice.  Can I ask when you realized you were talented?”

The bit of light in Anderson’s eyes vanished and Greg realized that the question might not be as much a toss-away conversation starter as he realized.

      “I… I don’t know.”

      “Huh?  I’d expect that if you were very young when you fathomed it out, but not if you caught on as an adult.”

      “I’m not sure I did.”

      “Did what?”

      “Catch on as an adult.”

      “I honestly don’t know what that means.”

      “I don’t either, sometimes.”

Not at all certain how to approach this odd tangent, Greg flirted with just letting it drop, then decided he’d kick himself later if he let the opportunity slip past him.

      “Can you explain that?”

      “Nothing to explain, really.  I… I’ve seen things all my life.  Things that weren’t there.  Things nobody else could see.  Things would happen, too, and I was certain it was me that did them, but nobody believed me.  I… I can’t remember a lot of things well, but I don’t think I was wrong about all of that.  Some of it maybe, but…”

Greg watched Anderson’s face closely as he spoke and felt an uncomfortable idea thread its way into his brain.

      “When did they put you in hospital?”

      “The first time?  I was eight, maybe.  Standard thing, I suppose.  Observation… let the professionals watch me awhile and ask questions.  Run tests.”

      “And then?”

      “Off and on, after that.  The drugs helped, oddly.  I didn’t see things anymore but… I didn’t feel anything either.  Day after day of being... a bit lost in my own head.  Walking about with as much awareness as a zombie.  Now and again, they’d draw down the medication and I was so, so stupid, because I’d say I saw things again.  Say I made a ripped shirt repair itself and back to Zombieland I’d go.”

      “How long did that go on?”

      “Most of my life.  I’d get released eventually, but my family would only tolerate so much lunacy before they’d put me back in.  The final time I… just didn’t go back home.  Decided that if I was loony, I might as well just be loony.  I never hurt anyone, never was violent or started fires or anything like that.  Never hurt myself, either, so why not just be crazy and go about my business.  Not that going about my business was easy.  It’s not as if people are racing to give a job to someone who startles at a noise no one else hears or asks if others see that tall bloke standing by the door when there’s nobody there.”

      “Sounds like ghosts.  Most of them are harmless, but a few are right bastards.”

Greg caught the slightest narrowing of Anderson’s eyes and wondered if anyone had ever just said to him outright that ghosts were real.

      “They don’t talk much.”

      “Some do.  Some are as chatty as the nice old ladies who visit my shop after their Wednesday knit-and-sip at their local.  You may have to build a relationship with the apparitions, though, before they’ll open up to you.  There are ways to banish ghosts or, conversely, bind them to a location, as well as other ways to make their lives… deaths… miserable, so they often do as little as possible to cause a fuss when a suitably strong practitioner crosses their path.”

      “Oh… I suppose I’d stay mum, too, in that case.”

      “But, it doesn’t help when nobody else can see them and you’re asking for their name or complimenting them on their hat.”

      “No, it doesn’t.”

      “How’d you finally decide that you weren’t mentally ill?”

      “I’m still not entirely certain about that, honestly, but… I decided to get some… corroborating evidence is the best word for it, I guess.  I couldn’t do that for what I was seeing or sensing, but I could for the things I was actually able to do.  Show someone a pencil, say, then, out of their sight, do something to it, like make writing appear or change its color then show it to them again and see if they recognized the change.  I did that a lot, because I couldn’t be sure that I wasn’t physically doing something like just getting a different pencil and being too delusional not to know it, but… I couldn’t deny the truth forever.  Started to try and change the things I saw, too, or at least notice when what I did made something change.”

      “How?”

      “I can see what Jim called an aura and I’d do things to see if I could change it for someone. Maybe tell a joke, though I’m not particularly good at it.  I’d make note of what I did and what change occurred.  Then I’d try again at a different time and see if the same change occurred.  I looked for patterns.  Did a joke do something different than telling an upsetting story and were the results consistent.  I could still have been making it up in my head, but… it made me believe that I hadn’t been loony all along.”

      “That’s pretty amazing, actually.  Very scientific.”

      “I used to want to be a scientist.  I suppose I never lost the drive, though I never could begin to pursue that dream.”

The perfect Moriarty victim.  Reassure him he’s not loony, admire his talent, offer to show him wondrous things, make him a powerful man.  It wouldn’t be long before Moriarty would thread in tiny, subtle messages that the power and wonder would be very effective for paying back, with interest, the people who’d made his life a misery.  Then, extend those messages to include people he’d never met but, obviously, were standing in his way of even greater things or who weren’t worthy of the things they had, so they needed taking down a peg or two.  Villainous stuff, but not at all unique or shocking from that manipulative bit of nastiness.

      “It’s a good mindset for our type of work, too, though.  Practitioners craft their own spells, devise their own rituals and using that scientific method whatsit is a good way to go about it.  Methodical, detail-oriented, taking careful notes about results… it’ll be very useful to you.”

      “You can make your own spells?”

      “Absolutely.  The little things you were doing like changing a pencil’s color is making your own spell.  Magical talent has existed long before there was easy communication with anyone besides the people in your village, so people had to create their tools without the benefit of knowing what anyone else was doing.  Take five different books and you’ll find spells for the same sorts of things, but differing in what they need to work.  There are some common threads and, again, that’s where that science-y brain comes in handy to notice and make use of, but there’s no single way to do much of anything.  Admittedly they may have greater or lesser effectiveness, but you take my meaning.”

      “That… that sounds interesting.”

      “Some practitioners make it their life’s work.  Studying spells from different people, cultures and eras so they can gain a greater understanding of magic as a whole.  Some work to refine spells to make them stronger or create books with their own to share with others.”

      “It seems I have a lot to learn about the world of magic.”

      “I’d say so, but not as an insult.  Anyone would have a lot to learn if they were just stepping into it the way you are.”

Another few long moments of silent eating occurred with Greg smiling slightly at the large second helping that was being deposited into Anderson’s empty bowl.

      “Moriarty says you fancy yourself the King of London.”

The sorcerer’s smile grew larger, as much for the ridiculousness of the statement as for the show of trust from stating that information plainly.

      “If I was a vampire or member of a number of other groups, he might have some possibility of being right, only because that lot do have kings and such, but it’s bollocks for us.”

Though other titles and nonsense did apply, but this wasn’t the time for any of that.  Never was the time for some of it, but his job did come with its fair share of benefits to balance the irritations.

      “I think he meant you were pretentious.”

      “Probably.  He’s a touch subject to projection, so it stands to reason.”

It was a small thing, but Anderson’s tiny snort of laughter gave Greg more hope that he wasn’t going to be lost to Moriarty’s machinations or slip through the cracks without realizing his potential.

      “Not a bad observation.  For a not-King, that is.”

      “I have one now and then.  More water?”

Greg stood and reached out to accept the glass Anderson held up and filled both from the tap that he was resolutely ignoring as a likely source of uncountable disease vectors.  He’s have a small glass of something suitable when he got home, though, just in case.  It would be a terrible shame to eat all this tasty food and have it race out of his system in one night, along with everything else happily inhabiting his colon…

__________

      “You sure you don’t want these two?  I’ve got more than enough cold takeaway in my refrigerator right now.”

Waggling the two unopened food containers enticingly, but as nonsensically as he could, Greg very much hoped Anderson would refuse, but knew he had to do whatever he could to protect the man’s dignity.

      “Ugh, no.  I can’t even think about food right now.  It was good, though.  Very good.”

Said with an unintended look that expressed how clearly Anderson wanted to keep those two containers but refused to appear any needier than he already was.

      “Alright, then, take this instead.  It’s my card.  I work days and John works nights.  Stop in sometime and take a look about; see if it’s an atmosphere you wouldn’t mind working in or visiting to learn more about the trade.”

      “I will, I appreciate, too.  Both the offer and the food.”

      “You’re welcome.  See you again soon, I hope.”

With a genial smile, Greg, walked towards the stairs and Anderson’s eyes stayed on him until he was fully out of sight.  The sorcerer was not, not at all, the person he expected but that was a good thing.  He hadn’t hidden his intentions or tried to pretend he was an affable chap when it wasn’t the case, the way Moriarty had tired when they first met.  Honesty wasn’t high on his list of virtues, but it was on the list and Greg won a few points in that category tonight.  He’d wait a few days, though, before visiting this Magicae Argentea.  Couldn’t appear too eager.  He may not have much, but he did have his pride.  Not so much pride that he wouldn’t accept whatever hours of work Greg could offer.  The rent here was due in two weeks and he didn’t have it.  Not even close.

Maybe that few days could be shortened.  Two days was enough, surely, to maintain a necessary level of pride.  Starting now.  Which meant day after tomorrow.  That wouldn’t look desperate.  Just anxious to learn, which was always a good thing in anyone’s eyes…

__________

Once he was outside on the pavement, Greg used his foot to draw a sigil on the ground and muttered a few words before reaching into a food container, picking up a small piece of chicken, and dropping it onto his artwork where it disappeared without a trace.  Now, it was a slow, meandering walk along the empty street and into a darkened alley where he waited to hear the heavy sound of large paws padding towards him.

      “That was quick.  Hunting nearby?”

The enormous pale-furred wolf nodded and bared its teeth as if to say that if this wasn’t important, Greg would serve just as well as anything else for a meal.

      “Lovely.  You need to see a dentist.  In any case, here, have a sniff.”

Greg set down the food containers and held out the small bit of notepaper he’d snatched from the bin when Anderson was putting away his share of the food so the wolf to learn the man’s scent.

      “His name’s Philip Anderson and he lives in that building over there, second from the corner.  Keep an eye on him for me, nothing more than making certain he’s not bothered.  Moriarty’s been trying to latch onto him, so let me know if that bugger’s skulking about, too.”

The wolf peered out from the alley to gain sight of Anderson’s building while Greg dumped out the contents of his food containers onto the ground, which quickly attracted the wolf’s attention.

      “Hope you like Chinese.”

It was hard as fuck to read the expression of a wolf, especially one who pointedly made it difficult because it was a true and proper bastard.  Of course, the expression wasn’t any easier to read when the wolf was wearing a very different face, though the blue eyes and scar were two things both man and wolf shared.

      “Stop in at the shop tomorrow during the day and I’ll have more of that flea treatment ready.”

The wolf growled menacingly but being a werewolf didn’t bring with it a magical protection from all the ails of the canine population, so the growl was more to satisfy principle than express genuine irritation.

      “That won’t win you a spot on Britain’s Got Talent.  Completely off pitch and so garbled I couldn’t even identify the tune you were trying to sing.  Now, eat and see that Anderson fellow is kept safe.  I’ve got to find a cab.”

An obliging nod to the right had Greg giving the wolf its own nod, this one of gratitude, before he stepped out of the alleyway with the sounds of food being greedily gobbled accompanying his exit.  If he was lucky, and his furry friend wasn’t being an arse, he’d find a cab in this direction and finally make it home.  Where he could see a rollicking eighteen seconds of sleep before he had to take over from John at the shop.

Fortunately, he had coffee aplenty and mornings were usually a bit slow so there was time for his chemically-promoted energy to work its wonders.  True, there were countless potions to keep his energy high, but none tasted as good as coffee.  Most tasted like spoiled milk and foot fungus, but not all.  Some tasted much, much worse…

Chapter Text

Door 1 – Door 2 vector targeted.  Vector appears clear.  Stride pattern FeatherLight initiated with speed at Max + 7…

      “You can’t run from me!”

ANTHEA!

      “You are skulking behind the coat stand.  Positvely shameful.”

      “I was lulling you into a false sense of security.  Which worked.  Don’t think I don’t know you’ve been avoiding this office all morning, like an enormous cowardly baby.”

      “Utterly untrue.”

      “You stopped to chat with the Transport Minister!”

      “We had business to discuss.”

      “No, you didn’t, and you’ve said time and again that conversation with a corpse is both livelier and more intelligent than speaking with him.”

      “I… I concede that much is true, however the rail situation is of paramount importance.”

      “You live in hopes that entire transportation mechanism meets a gruesome death so it’s harder for your mother to pay you a surprise visit.”

Damn his PA and her flawless memory!

      “Your hysteria is, as always, ludicrous.”

Anthea stalked to her desk and lifted her skull to add its condemning stare to her own.

      “Iggy and I have a difference of opinion.  He says you’re in hiding because your date was a complete failure and you’re embarrassed to admit it.  I say you’re in hiding because your date was a complete success and you’re embarrassed to talk about it.  One of us is right – who is it?”

      “Neither.  The correct choice is that my personal business is not something I wish to share, and your histrionics is nothing more than infantile nosiness.

      “It was a flop.  Iggy wins the chocolate.”

      “Your skull is incapable of eating chocolate.”

      “Which makes it worse.  It’ll sit there, in front of his smug smile, taunting me all day.  Remember, this is your fault, so prepare for the fallout.”

Mycroft’s rolled eyes accompanied him into his office where, as expected, his PA followed to continue her interrogation.

      “So, which parts of the date were a crashing failure and which were simply sad morsels of disappointment?”

      “I am ignoring you.”

      “You did that yesterday when I left messages on your phone and computer.  Were you weeping?  Curled in a small ball on one of your plush rugs, weeping softly from the pain of crushed hopes?”

      “The creative writing class you sat with Ms. Hooper has certainly paid dividends.”

In truth, embarrassment had been a visitor yesterday, only in the sense that he had somewhat floated on a cloud of both relief and contentment at the outcome of his date.   He had hoped it would go well, that there would be a general enjoyment of the time that might lead to another pleasant evening, but none of his predictive analyses had forecasted such a deliciously-delightful experience. And to end it with a kiss… he was not unfamiliar with the protocols of dating and a kiss, of such soul-enriching tenderness, combined with the eager seeking of another meeting... the indicators could not be stronger that their date was a…

      “Are you dead?”

Your shrieking in my ear might render me such, yes.

      “Good heavens, no.”

      “Could have fooled me.”

Mycroft opened his mouth to reply but closed it again with a snap seeing Anthea waving his pilfered pocket square about like a flag of liberation.

      “Very well… we enjoyed an exceedingly pleasant evening of a film, followed by drinks.  It was as relaxing and entertaining an experience as one might hope for an introductory assignation.”

      “Introductory assignation?  That’s too many syllables.  You’re hiding something.”

The keenness of her perception with respect to gossip was incalculable!  Which bone shall the bloodhound be thrown…

      “I am hiding nothing.  Ultimately, the details are irrelevant beyond, taken in sum, they were sufficiently enjoyable to warrant both Gregory and me agreeing to another evening out at a later time.”

      “A second date!  Good, that’s good.  That’s very good, indeed.”

      “You are not a supervillain, so kindly stop rubbing your hands together in evil-scheming glee.”

      “No.  It’s fun and it’s merited.  Any idea when Date 2.0 is going to happen?”

      “Not at the moment, for I have yet to discuss the matter with Gregory.  The assumption, however, is that it will occur sooner rather than later.”

      “Better and better.  First order of business today is arranging business so you may have an evening free this week.  There are a few embers glowing you should probably stamp out now, so you have time for Gorgeous Greg.”

Yes… proactive was boundlessly better than reactive, even when a romantic evening was not at stake.

      “Very well, return your skull to his lair and let us tend to those matters first.”

      “I’ll bring him.  He can play with yours while the flesh-wearing humans work.”

      “That is nonsensical.”

      “It’s mean, you know, to hoard all the happiness for yourself not leave behind even a scrap for a couple of lonely skulls.”

Mycroft’s anguished groan was music to his PA’s ears and she merrily skipped along after him into his office, keeping her skull in her hands to continue the pestering of her boss.  Which was what she did every Monday morning and this one would be no different, despite the Hermit King successfully exiting his cave and not being seared to ash by the rays of the sun.  All must be perceived as normal so as not to spook him back into that cave to continue moldering.  With a second date on the horizon, moldering must be kept to a minimum for the sake of all involved…

But, a maximum of planning must occur.  First dates had a bit of wiggle room in them since you had that giddy anticipation putting a rose-colored sheen on things, but that was gone by Date 2 and you were working more with reality than before.  Little things not noticed or waved off the first time come into focus now, so this had to be taken seriously and overseen by a skilled professional.  There was only one person here that qualified, so it was her duty to help the hermit plan a second date that would showcase his best features, keenest skills and keep him interested in the goings on, so he didn’t get bored and become pedantic.  Given he’d medaled in pedantry at school, the last one was paramount…

__________

Anderson stood a moment and looked at the exterior of the shop that might be something of a gateway for him and found it was a bit more inviting than he’d expected.  Not that he had much of an expectation for the appearance of an occult shop, but he’d assumed black would be involved somehow.  With a few skulls or bats or moons or something else from the Halloween line of shop décor playing a role.  That being said, the owner of the shop could have been mistaken for a dad about to set off for the school run, so perhaps he needed to bin his assumptions and expectations since they seemed complete bollocks.  Ok… time to see if this particular path was one he might be able to walk…

Why was that cat in the window laughing at him?

      “Doctor Strange!  You’ve got a customer.”

Greg peeked out from the stock area just in time to see his potential employee hesitantly open the shop door and peer inside as if making a final decision whether or not to enter.

      “Anderson!  Good to see you.”

      “Hi.  I… uh… I thought I’d stop in to see your shop.”

      “Glad you did.  It’s my pride and joy, at least for some days.  For others it’s my headache and reason to drink, but that’s the way it is, I suppose.  It’s a good location, though, for people to find me or leave messages, as well as buy a few things once their business is done.  Come in, I’ll show you about.”

In an impressive show of neck dexterity, Anderson avoided the swat to his head being aimed by Balthazar who hissed at having his fiendish hair-stealing plan foiled.

      “Your cat seems…”

      “Evil?”

      “I wasn’t going to put it quite like that.”

      “You should.  And if you’re decide to work here you’ll painfully learn why there’s no use mincing words for that foul and furry fiasco.”

Balthazar waited until he had jumped from his perch onto the counter and walked directly under Greg’s face before he released the perfume of this morning’s breakfast into the air.

      “Ugh… there’s something wrong with you.  And I don’t just mean in your colon.”

      “Does he live here?”

      “Basically.  He lives with me and I live…”

Greg pointed upwards towards his flat and Anderson gave a nod of understanding in return.

      “Convenient.”

      “It is.  Like I said, it’s a good place for people to reach me, whether I’m at the till or not.”

      “Does that happen a lot?”

      “Yes and no.  It comes in fits and spurts.  I’ll have a few normal months of being Greg the shopkeeper, consulting with the local practitioners about this or that, then it’ll be a few weeks of lunacy.  Someone’s causing trouble, maybe, or it’s one of those periods when the barriers between this world and others grows thin enough for something with enough willpower to push through.  Keeps things lively, though.  Balthazar, mind the shop while I give Anderson here the tour.”

Greg sat patiently through having his hand attacked until Anderson plucked the cat off the counter and set it on the floor.

      “How long until he takes his revenge on me for curtailing his assault?”

      “Don’t make any plans for tonight.”

      “Good, then I have free time to contemplate my navel.”

      “That reminds me of a story.”

      “Why do I suspect it’s not a happy, jolly one?”

      “It’s not… that bad.”

      “Right.  I did see Alien, you know.  Are we talking that level of ‘that bad’ or something else?”

      “Oh.  Well, then you already have the basic outline, so no need to belabor the details.  Let’s start with the shop floor itself.  Guaranteed to have nothing to prompt a rather ill-tempered sea goblin to make a surprise appearance in your body cavity, which was one of the details I plan not to belabor.”

Anderson honestly had no idea if Greg was or was not joking, so settled for a ‘yippee’ grin and followed the sorcerer to view the merchandise.  So far, though… this was looking good.  Good in the sense that he didn’t feel out of place or that someone coming through the door would look at him strangely.  In fact, as someone did walk through the door and Greg paused to be of assistance, they didn’t pay him any mind, at all.  And that was… nice.  The cat trying to steal his shoelaces was another matter, however.

      “I need those, cat.”

      “I need them more, human.”

Somehow, a talking cat just fit in so well that he wasn’t even going to question it.  If sea goblins existed, why not a talking cat?

      “Tell Greg to buy some for you.”

      “I want these.”

      “Too bad, they’re mine and actually do a decent job of keeping my shoes on my feet.”

      “I want those, too.”

      “My feet?”

      “Your shoes.  They are particularly redolent and will surely attract any manner of rodent for my entertainment pleasure.”

      “First, my shoes don’t smell.  Much.  Second, I will not be party to animal torture.”

      “What torture?  Do you have any idea what rodents learn in this city?  What they can show you that would shock a demon?  A sex demon, especially?  When I say entertainment, I mean entertainment.”

      “Oh… well then, maybe I can let you have these when I can buy new.”

      “Very well, we have a pact.  Do not break it.”

      “Fine.  And… maybe I’ll be here now and again for you to remind me, just in case.”

      “Another minion for my legion.  Excellent.”

      ‘How big’s your legion now?’

      “Vast.  It is vast.”

In another part of his life, Anderson would have been very convinced this was part of his psychosis, but now… talking cat, goblins, magical powers… just another day in the life.  A life that just might be taking a turn for the better.  Not that he’d say that out loud.  With magical powers comes a healthy belief in the power of the jinx and that wasn’t something he could afford now.  Not when he was on the verge of being able to, someday, be able to afford a new pair of shoes so the cat could have his rat-hosted peep show…

__________

So, in one morning he’d learned more practical information than he had from a few weeks of suffering Moriarty’s supercilious orating.  Some people were good teachers and others weren’t.  Greg was one of the good ones…

      “Well, that’s about it.  Likely not as arcane and eldritch as you probably expected, but magic, like anything else, is really just hard work, which usually isn’t benefitted by pointy hats and a Hammer Horror soundtrack playing in the background.”

      “There’s a cauldron.  That’s fairly eldritch.  And I know a shop or two that could probably provide old vinyl of some appropriate music.”

      “Well, if you wear a pointy hat, try not to have it be one of those the little girls wear when they want to be princesses.”

      “Why not?  I think I’d look quite fetching in a pointy, sparkly hat with a pink or lavender bit of cloth at the top that blows in the breeze.”

      “I don’t have an attire policy so feel free to wear what you like, but I won’t recompense you if Balthazar goes more nutty than usual trying to steal it off your head.”

Anderson’s reply was cut short by the door bells ringing and Balthazar going nutty, hissing and launching himself at the new arrival who caught him midair by the scruff and left him to dangle while he used his free hand to remove his sunglasses and shoot a ‘tired of his shit’ look at Greg.  Who simply shrugged and took the cat, banishing him to the rear of the shop, where a series of rude noises and eye-watering words indicated Balthazar’s opinion of the exile.

      “Expected you yesterday, mate.  Got your potion ready to go.”

This time it was the new arrival who shrugged, and Anderson took the whole scene to mean the tall, blond man with the scar across his face was a familiar visitor and well aware of the nature of the shop and the man, as well as cat, who ran it.  He didn’t look like an occult shop regular customer, though.  He looked like one of those fellows the Bond villains had on hand to send off to murder a few government officials so they could be replaced by androids.

      “Chatty as always.  Phillip Anderson, this is Sebastian Moran.  He stops in now and again for erectile dysfunction help and collect the little doll frocks my neighbor sews for his teddies.”

Anderson snorted, but whistled in admiration as Sebastian drew a small card from his trouser pocket and flicked it perfectly to smack Greg directly between the eyes.

      “Ooh… I suppose teddy collecting doesn’t mean you can’t have impressive aim.  Good to meet you, Sebastian.”

Extending his hand wasn’t something Anderson often did, but he decided he should likely start if he was going to be out in public more often than his previous norm.  The fact that this new face stared at his extended hand as if it was a festering, disfigured mess at the end of a zombie arm didn’t inspire him with a lot of confidence, however, in the continued success of his leap into civilization.  Eventually, though, Sebastian gave the zombie hand a shake and that confused Anderson even more as it tingled with an energy he’d never felt before.

      “Uhh.. yeah.  Yeah, very good to meet you.  I… oh, yes, ummm…”

Greg laughed and congratulated his… hopefully… new apprentice on sensing something different about their visitor.

      “Uh oh, Seb.  Looks like you’ve been rumbled.  You see, Anderson, our friend here has his own relationship with the mystical forces and good for you picking up on that.”

It was a silly thing, but it was a wonderful feeling to have had an ‘acting odd’ moment and have it not do anything more but gain him some useful information about that acting odd moment.

      “Oh.  Well, good.  Are you… I admit I don’t know the right terminology yet, but a wizard or witch or warlock or whatever?”

Greg gave Sebastian a look that said any response was completely up to him and, to be honest, Greg was more than a little curious as to what the extent of that response would be.

      “No.”

The typical Sebastian extent!  Greg couldn’t claim surprise, as announcing you’re a werewolf wasn’t something to take lightly, but he could hope that, one day, Sebastian might use a few more syllables when protecting his secret.

      “Oh… alright then.  Everyone’s got their own… thing, I suppose.  It’s still very nice to meet you, though.  Do you stop in often?”

The senior sorcerer in the room wasn’t sure what was amusing him more… Anderson being awkwardly, but sincerely, friendly or Sebastian’s clear confusion that Anderson was still trying to talk to him after he’d used his ‘fuck off, I’m a lone wolf’ tone.  You couldn’t buy this sort of entertainment, even with a television license.

      “No… sometimes.”

Greg made a thumb’s up sign behind Anderson’s back and grinned widely at Sebastian’s scowl.

      “Good.  I’ll have a face I recognize, then.”

Sebastian cut eyes at Greg who was beginning to puff up a bit as he realized his pitch had, apparently, done its job.

      “You work here?”

      “Ummm… well, now and again.  Not yet, but soon.  Hopefully.  Just a few hours whenever Greg needs some help.  Not a proper job, that is to say, but something to do.  That’s always nice.”

This cut of Sebastian’s eyes held something Greg couldn’t quite decipher, but he had no doubt that he’d have a visitor scratching on the illusion-hidden door to his workshop tonight to do the deciphering for him.

      “Huh.”

Anderson opened his mouth then closed it again since he had absolutely no idea what to say.  Which made it a good moment for Greg to capitalize on Anderson’s decision to step away from the little misery that was Moriarty.

      “And with that erudite reply, Sebastian, I have your bit ready to go and, Anderson, do you want to get started today with a few things?  I have a matter or two I’d like to tend to and I could certainly use the help.”

      “How much?”

Greg wondered a moment why Anderson’s voice had changed, then sighed and looked in Sebastian’s direction.

      “Enough to make a most-of-the-day matter into a part-of-the-day one.”

      “Not help.  How much is the pay?”

That was a question Anderson found very interesting and turned a hopeful look in Greg’s direction to encourage an answer very much in his favor.

      “I… ok, fair question, and the answer is I’m not exactly certain because I haven’t done the number work to put a set per-hour value on the time, but it’ll be an honest wage for honest work, that much I can promise.”

Greg weathered Sebastian’s typical ‘yeah, right’ stare, but narrowed his eyes slightly when the tall, surly werewolf crooked his finger to motion Anderson over, then leaned down to whisper something in his ear.

      “Greg can make gold!”

Fucking wonderful.

      “Uh… about that…”

      “Do you have to start with lead, because that’s what you always hear, turning lead into gold, but I suppose another similarly dense material might work.  Does it have to be a metal?  The implications of transmutation on that scale are enormous!  I mean you could…”

Anderson’s excited babble rolled off into decidedly non-monetary areas, which Greg appreciated, and it distracted the novice sorcerer from the long series of gestures Greg made at Sebastian’s grinning face, which quickly lost its grin as the werewolf suddenly ran at full speed towards the loo.

      “Oh.  That’s worrying.”

      Must be a touch of the stomach flu.  In any case, yes, you can turn lead into gold, but it’s a brutal process and it gets a bit suspicious when a bloke is gadding about London foisting off unmarked lumps of gold in seedy places that are the only people who will accept unmarked lumps of gold unless you’re one of the glitterati who probably do that sort of thing all the time because being a rich twat does have its benefits.”

      “Ah… didn’t think of that.”

      “Yeah, it’s shit when reality intrudes on a nice fantasy.”

      “It is.  It really is.  But, yes, I don’t mind helping today, if you need a pair of hands.”

      “Great!  I have a couple of charms to prepare and a fertility-enhancing potion to brew.  All good things to get your feet wet in the more mundane aspects of the work.”

      “That doesn’t sound mundane to me.”

Compared to filling a werewolf’s bowels with water, they’re a touch mundane, but that can be left unspoken for the time being.

      “Let’s get started, then!  I’ll have you start setting up a few things while I tend to Sebastian, if he’s still alive, then show you how to lay some groundwork spells for the charms.”

      “What if a customer comes in?”

      “I can hear the door from the workshop and it’s not a bother to pop up and see to them.”

Especially when there’s two of me available to ring up a sale.

      “Alright… I have to admit, this is going… more smoothly than I… well, I can’t say expected, because I didn’t know what to expect, but it’s certainly seeming like something I’ll enjoy.”

No magical abilities were necessary to interpret Anderson’s smile and Greg mentally prepared himself for the task of ushering a new practitioner into the world.  Never an easy task, to be sure, but a rewarding one and, frankly, the more good and decent magic workers there were in London, the better it was for everyone.  Magical and non-magical alike.

      “Your fucking cat is attacking me on the toilet!”

The day just kept getting better and better…

__________

Ok… Sebastian checked for rabies and sent on his way.  One potion simmering to be bottled tomorrow, two charms successfully crafted, one new apprentice inaugurated and paid appropriately for his time, plus a healthy stream of customers making the till sing merrily.  This glass of fine whisky in his hand was very richly deserved.

So, of course his mobile had to start ringing.

      “Greg here.”

      “Ah, Gregory.  I hope I am not calling at an inopportune time.”

I would not be calling now, in point of fact, were it not for the threat of emasculation by my PA that made the act a self-preserving one.  Her fingernails were capable of perpetrating any manner of unspeakable acts…

      “Not at all!...”

Really, whisky and Mycroft all in one place?  At least in a virtual sense?  What had he possibly done to deserve this?  Probably something best not spoken of, but you get what you grab, and this was all very grabbable stuff!

      “… I’m just sitting back with a bit of telly, so this is a very welcome change.  How are you?”

      “Well, thank you.  Surprisingly so, given a rather boisterous day.”

Sherlock on a rampage, his PA pointedly asking about the status of his underpants and a certain Eurasian country competing with Sherlock on the rampage front.  Not a day for the weak-willed, to say the least.

      “Ooh, sounds exciting.  I helped make a baby, and a few other things.”

      “P…Pardon?”

      “That didn’t sound good, did it?”

      “No.”

      “Right, let me try again.  I worked on a fertility-boosting potion for a customer, as well as a few other things.”

      “Ah, yes, I see.  A noble endeavor, I have no doubt.”

      “If you want a kid, I suppose, otherwise it’s a bit pointless.  But, it’s actually a good potion to teach a few useful skills and I had my new apprentice helping me, so it did double duty.”

      “Apprentice?”

      “Uh… yeah, I know that sounds pretentious, but that’s the term that’s used.”

Student for John, since he’s not magical.  Apprentice for Anderson because he is.  See!  It’s actually informative to separate them, not that you can hear my thoughts Mycroft, but I have no doubt you’d be very impressed by my logical, nigh on academic, argument.

      “Each trade has its own vernacular, therefore, it makes a form of sense.”

A rather odd form, Gregory, but I shall credit you the point.

      “Thanks!  So it was a productive day all around.  Tomorrow looks to be the same.  I’ve got a group class in the afternoon and those are always interesting.”

      “Class?  What… a magic class?”

      “Not this time, precisely.  It’s a gardening class.”

      “Have you changed professions?”

      “Nope, though it’s tempting some days.  I grow a lot of the herbs and other botanicals we use, so I offer a class here and there on how to grow them, time the plantings, what to plant with what, and things like that.  I try to have a little something for everyone, from the people with a bit of property for a garden, to the allotment folk, to the people who can only do a few pots of this or that in their house or make use of a window box or two.”

      “Good heavens… I admit I did not expect such a… strategic plan.”

      “I want it to be helpful to as many as possible.  We do other classes, too, leaning more towards the magical side, like using the tarot or wand craft.  They all bring people to the shop, though, gives them a chance to learn something new.”

      “And purchase some supplies in the process?”

      “You know, you’re right.  I never thought of that.”

Mycroft rarely chatted on the phone and more rarely still found himself laughing during a phone conversation, but the rules were very different, apparently, when he spoke with Gregory the Magnificent, master of the macabre.  And gardening.

      “I am happy to be of service…”

Was now a good time to approach Gregory about their next meeting?  It felt like a good time, but his instincts were lamentable for matters like this.  However, fortune favors the bold…

      “… along those lines, somewhat… I was hoping to invite you for a rather bookish experience, perhaps on Thursday evening?”

That it only took myself and my PA an hour to think of as a unique happening that would be of interest to you and me both for our second outing.

      “Sounds good so far, what are you suggesting?”

      “I have a small amount of influence with the British Library Board…”

In that I have had more than a few removed from their position, so the rest are well aware of my interest in the function of the venerable institution.

      “… and I can arrange for us access to some of their more esoteric and restricted collections.  They have a most impressive gathering of mystical manuscripts and associated documents and I thought they might hold some interest for you.”

Interest?  If Mycroft had any idea how interested he was he’d probably mistake it for sexual excitement, which might not be a bad thing, but it would be a touch forward, so his mental erection needed to keep itself in check for the moment so he could actually stammer out a reply.  The rumors about what was in there were both tantalizing and frightening.  The perfect combination!

      “I’d love that!  I’ve heard talk about how big and diverse the library collections were and that there was stuff in there that… well, let’s say they don’t let the public muck about with.”

      “Quite a bit of that is public-prohibited, actually, but I do hope little is contained that will, shall we say, usher about the end of the world should the title page be read aloud.”

      “Ummmm…”

      “Oh dear…”

      “You can lay a trap in a book like that, though it generally doesn’t wave in the Horsemen of the Apocalypse and strap on feedbags for their horses while the chaps get on about their business.”

Except for one or two that should, at present, be safely hidden away and guarded as if life on Earth depended on it.  However, it was generally understood that it wouldn’t be that much of an Apocalypse if a few reasonable people decided to work together to do some pushing back.  Of course, that didn’t stop his own mentor whinging about it whenever his back was being a mischief.  Having to regrow every bone in your spinal column that was disintegrated while being one of those reasonable Apocalypse stoppers was, admittedly, a tricky business and fraught with potential for little niggling mistakes, but the man certainly didn’t have to have him rub on the pain balm, now did he?  If Greg Lestrade was going to rub a hairy back, there better be dinner and drinks involved beforehand, which miserly old Gregson certainly didn’t offer up willingly.

      “Very good to know.  Therefore… I take it you are willing to accompany me?”

      “Absolutely!  Thursday, you say?  That’s perfect, actually, because I’m taking over for John tomorrow night to give him a chance to go to a lecture about some medical thing or another and Wednesday is…”

Yeah, can’t talk about Wednesday since Mycroft would assume insanity from announcing it was the quarterly meeting and drinks night for local fae that he, by tradition, had to attend and he had to remember to bring crisps or stuffy old Maureen would give him a look and spend the entire evening being passive-aggressive about him arriving without his contribution to the festivities.

      “… a little get-together with some friends that I promised to attend.  Thursday works very well for me.”

      “Excellent.  I am, I admit, most anxious myself, given… I do have a rather embarrassing affection for books.”

      “An affection I share, so no embarrassment there.  Rainy days, when the shop is slow, is perfect for reading.  I always have a few books here by the sofa, too, for when I have the opportunity to read.”

A man who read.  In Mycroft’s opinion, there were few more significant selling points for a romantic relationship that a true appreciation of the written word.  He would make a point of proffering his gratitude to his PA, who happily hacked into the British Library’s full, and encrypted, catalog to ascertain if there were any particularly-enticing items to inspect.  Perhaps an extra ten minutes for lunch tomorrow.  That she took as long as she pleased, in any case, would, in no manner, diminish the graciousness of his gesture.

      “Then, as they say, we have a plan.”

      “And a brilliant one.  Really, that is a fantastic suggestion and I’m already fidgeting at the idea of what we might find.”

With a memory spell at the ready so every bit of any intriguing spell or ceremony goes straight into the brain.

      “As am I.  Well, then, I shan’t keep you from your relaxation.  Thank you, Gregory.  I look very forward to Thursday.  Say seven o’clock?  That should provide us sufficient time to indulge ourselves most shamefully.”

      “Perfect.  I’ll see you then.”

Greg was happy Mycroft hung up first, because he was the cliched how-to-end-the-call? ditherer when it came to social things and being a ditherer was not the impression he wanted Mycroft to take away with him tonight.  What a stupendous opportunity!  Not only the access to what had to be a mind-blowing collection of rare volumes, but the chance to look through it with someone who would value them, if only for their historical importance.

And, of course, just to spend time with Mycroft.  Someone who he was connecting with in very good ways.  After another few dates, maybe some new good ways  of connection could be explored.   Mycroft would be unbelievable in bed.  Didn’t need magical talent to know that.  Just watching the man move was enough for confirmation.  Knew his body, used it to his advantage…

Ok… needed to be ready, just in case.  Underpants… deplorable.  Bed linens… worse.  Flat… putrid.  Pause a moment, maybe the last one wasn’t wholly true, but Mycroft seemed the type to prize tidiness and there was nothing tidy about this hedgehog den.  Starting tomorrow, the Clean Up Your Shit and Buy Underpants initiative would begin.  Maybe he could call Anderson back in and do a quick bit of training on running the shop, so he could nip out and find acceptable underpants and sheets.  And another date outfit!  Something serious and scholarly, as befitting the situation.

Should he get a pipe?  They looked serious and scholarly.  Probably couldn’t smoke it in a library, though.  Maybe he could just chew on the end to look contemplative.  Or ridiculous.  Probably ridiculous.  Did tobacconists still exist anymore?  Maybe he could stop in and try a few pipes for visual impact.  Which was not loony, no matter what his rational brain was telling him.

Let’s see… where was Anderson’s number?  It would take forever to find a good pipe, so starting early was paramount…

Chapter Text

      “Brrrrring…”

John frowned at the phone on the shelf behind the counter and wondered why it was that the phone always rang when the shop was packed with customers and sat there silently smirking at him with the shop was empty?  He could have used the useless sorcerer’s help to manage this lot, but he’d finally pushed Greg out into the night to go for a few at the pub, on him, as a little extra ‘thank you’ for staying late so he could hear that talk on new surgical techniques for leg injuries.  He’d seen more of those than he ever wanted to see in the Army and a few of the things he heard tonight would have made a substantial difference in healing time and level of post-surgical limb use if he’d had that knowledge when working on the poor solider on his table.  However, it was also knowledge he could use now, if he ever dove back more fully into medicine, so it was a good experience overall and Greg did him a big favor by covering the hours.

Of course, he did, before the Great Pushing, have to listen for half an hour to Greg’s mix of excitement and insecurity about his next date with Mycroft.  Which sounded positively brilliant, truth be told.  What he’d give for access like that… fortunately, Greg would be carrying a memory spell in his head, so he’d absorb everything he saw and could let it flow back out at a later time to examine more closely.  Of course, the bastard would also have to drink a camouflage potion beforehand, so his talents were concealed from certain texts that might be lurking about in the shelves.  Some magical books were actually, well, magical and could detect when a practitioner, especially a strong one, was about, which would lead to some uncomfortable conversations with his date as the damn thing leapt off a shelf to attach itself to the person who might free it from its life of leisure and put it back into active use.

However, none of this was helping him pick up the phone and see what the caller wanted.

      “Magicae Argentea, how can I help you?”

      “I have a number of items that I require you deliver.”

He knew that voice…

      “Sherlock?  Is that you?”

      “Why would I be anyone else?”

      “Because they’re richer than you?”

      “Pfft.  Monetary concerns are for lesser minds.”

      “And poor people.  Now, given we’ve established it’s definitely you, let’s move on to my second point.  We don’t deliver.”

      “Yes, you do.”

      “Terribly incorrect, old nut.  Sorry about that.”

      “Was than an accent you were affecting?”

      “Trying to.  That’s my Jeeves and Wooster voice.  I use it when someone’s being a twat.”

      “I am not a twat.  I am a customer placing a phone order.  You stated clearly that is a service you perform.”

      “We do take phone orders and I will happily take yours now.  Got a pen in hand ready to go.  Along with your address so I can ship your package to you.”

      “Ridiculous.  That is both inefficient and intolerable.”

      “It’s very efficient, actually. The cost of a delivery service is larger than my or Greg’s wage for the time it would take to pack up the items and see them posted.  As for intolerable… I have no idea what to say about that except tolerate it.”

      “I require my items now.”

      “Oh, well then.  That’s a nasty bit of bad luck, old bean.”

      “Your mockery is unappreciated.”

      “I’m not mocking.  I’m just using my twat-battle voice to commiserate with your dire fate.  Besides, I know very well that you’re perfectly ambulatory and can come here to the shop if your need is that pressing.  Otherwise, you wait the day or so for your package to arrive.  We don’t inflate the cost, if that’s your concern.  You tell me what you want, and we’ve got a chart here for estimating what it will cost to post to your address.  Greg’s hoping to get it all computerized one day, but that takes time, which neither of us has to spare.  And, when we do have it to spare, we don’t want to spend it fiddling with the shop computer.”

      “I cannot leave my flat, so you must deliver my items.”

      “Child minding for someone, are you?  Well, bring the tot along!  We’re alright with having kids in here, as long as they’re well-behaved and the parents pay for whatever gets broken or eaten.  Usually the biscuits we keep under the counter to entice the children keep the latter from happening, but it’s amazing what a toddler thinks looks tasty.  Maybe it’s just a chewing thing, though, while they’re teething or just what to chew on something for the fun of it, like a dog with a toy.  We try to keep that sort of thing on the high shelves, but it boggles the mind what the little tykes will grab and gum when their mum or dad isn’t looking.”

      “There are no children here.”

      “Oh… sick then?  We still don’t deliver, but if you tell me what symptoms you’re experiencing, I can give you some advice on what to do to feel better.”

      “I am not sick.  I have an experiment in progress and I must observe the progress carefully.”

      That’s… ok, that’s a new one, but I can understand it.  We do a lot of experimentation here for new products and it’s not something you can just walk away from on a whim.  We still don’t deliver, though.”

      “JOHN!”

      “If you didn’t have everything you needed for your experiment, you shouldn’t have started it, should you?”

      “I do not need these items for this particular experiment.”

      “Then why are you loony?”

      “I am not loony.  I merely thought of a new experiment I wish to conduct when this one is concluded.”

      “Then, when you’re done with what you’re working on now, you tidy up and come to the shop to buy what you want for your next project.  See?  Easy and efficient.”

      “Wrong…”

As Sherlock began to enumerate a list of what was wrong with John’s plan, John rang up two sales and helped a man choose a new ceremonial altar cloth.  Sherlock, it seemed, believed there was a lot wrong with his plan, but it was probably for the best to simply let him talk it out of his system than try to counter the points in question.  Which, for the record, were loony.

      “… and I have yet to begin to delve into why this policy is profoundly anti-science and clearly promoting the deconstruction of education, though I will concede the current state of education in this country is deplorable, at best, and there is little remaining to deconstruct, even by the most educationally-hostile shop guidelines.”

      “Well, let’s save that for another day, shall we?  For my part, I’ll offer that, first, we don’t deliver.  Really, that’s the end of it, but I’ll add on that I’m the only person working, so delivering isn’t possible, even we did offer that service.”

      “Find a street urchin to mind the till.”

      “Since this isn’t Oliver Twist, and its near midnight, I’ll have to say no.”

      “How am I going to get the things I need!”

If a body looked in the dictionary under the word ‘persistent’ they’d find Sherlock’s picture as an illustration to underscore the written definition.  A different picture was used for the word ‘loony,’ in the spirit of variety.

      “Roll back the transcript to when I told you to come to the shop when you’re done with your current hullabaloo.”

      “My experiment will not be completed until nine in the morning, at the earliest.”

      “You mean when you might expect a shop normally to be open?  Even one not open all hours like ours?”

      “Ah, so your work hours extend until then.”

      “Our work hours are all hours, so yes.  I’ll have what you need set aside with your name, so Greg will know…”

      “Who is Greg?”

      “My boss.”

      “I thought his name was Graham.”

      “It’s not and I’ve said it enough for you to know that, meaning you’re just being peevish.”

      “I am not being peevish.  It is not my fault that his name is astoundingly common and easy to forget.”

      “As if John is something unique and flamboyant?”

      “You are inane.  What if I arrive and Graham is incapable of providing the service I require?”

      “Greg owns the fuc… flaming shop and is perfectly capable of picking up a bagged order, handing it to you and taking your money in return.  Your imaginary street urchin could do that, though they’d likely steal the money rather than put it in the till to count with the day’s receipts.”

      “Unacceptable.”

      “I have no idea why, but good on you keeping your feet to the path and not veering off it one tiny bit.  Now, since I do have real customers in the shop…”

      “I am real customer.”

      “Since you haven’t ordered anything, no, you’re not.  I’m beginning to think you simply phoned because you were bored and wanted someone to harass so you were a bit less bored and I won the lottery.”

      “Untr… very well, there is a modicum of merit to your assertion, only because the ordering and delivery of my highly necessary goods would have been some small break in the tedium, however, my need to see my list filled and delivered is paramount and stands unmet, so I am revoking that credit as penalty for your scurrilous refusal to do your job as a merchant.”

      “I’ll live.  Now, if can get back to being a merchant…”

      “Why doesn’t Graham hire more help?”

      “GREG isn’t a rich man and the shop can’t afford it.  Actually, though, he did just bring on a bloke for a few hours a week to help with the back-of-shop end of the business, but even that was a bit of a stretch.”

Though it would be worth every bit of cash Greg tossed poor Anderson’s way.  The man dearly needed it and too often Greg saw no sleep for a couple of days because of having to mind the shop, handle alone the aspects that required magical talent and perform his other functions for the denizens of the city.  An extra pair of talented hands was going to be something of a blessing, financial pinch or not.

      “Phone that person to deliver my goods.”

      “Pointing out, yet again, that it’s near, make that after, midnight.”

      “How is that relevant?  You are an all-hours shop, as you like to proclaim.”

      “And we don’t deliver.”

      “Also not relevant, compared to the severity of my situation.”

      “Goodbye, Sherlock.”

      “Wait!  If… if I am forced, due to your almost-criminal intransigence on this issue, to wait for my items…”

      “Yes?”

      “Then you may deliver them once Graham has relieved you for the day.”

      “Uh… no.”

      “I counter with yes.”

      “First, for the trillionth time, we don’t deliver.  Second, my plan upon being temporarily relieved of command, is to get a bite to eat, then do a bit of research on the topic of the lecture I attended tonight.”

      “Boring.”

      “Not at all, actually, if you’re a surgeon.”

      “Very well.  It is a tremendous inconvenience to me, however… I will prepare breakfast for you when you deliver my order.”

John shook the handset of the phone a moment, then shook his own head because the first shaking hadn’t erased the obvious auditory hallucination that had entered his ear and settled into his memory.

      “What?”

      “Have you become hard of hearing?”

      “I… no, but…”

But what?  It was now extremely obvious that Sherlock’s need for whatever was on his mystical grocery list was only part of the reason he called and… how often was it, John Watson, that someone phoned to chat with you?  Or suggest meeting for a meal?  Yes, there were strings attached, but they didn’t feel very stringy at the moment.  Wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to take a step to, potentially, have a friend in London.  Besides Stamford, that is, who was on a schedule that normal people generally enjoyed so getting together for a coffee and a chat was something that happened only rarely.  If nothing else, it was bound to be entertaining and there was always room for that in his life.

      “…but if you order anything heavy, don’t expect me to carry it because bugger that.”

      “Sloth is not a virtue.  Now, be aware that I will not accept any substitutions for the materials I require.  First, let us begin with the dried herbs…”

John smirked and used one hand to take notes and the other to shove Balthazar away from the basket of impulse-purchase items on the counter which happened to contain a number of catnip toys that their customers bought in droves because Greg’s special catnip was enormous fun for the cats and the owners who got the fun of watching their cats inhabit a hallucinated world of joyful cat wonder that kept the felines very happy for a few hours after playing with their new treasure.

      “Ok… you, apparently, want me to package up the entire shop and bring it with me.  Are you certain you need all of this now?  There have to be thirty things on this list.”

      “Do not omit a single item.  I will inspect thoroughly when you arrive.”

      “Fine!  Not a problem.  Give me your card number and…”

      “You may use the card number on file.  Deliver to 221B Baker Street.  Do not be late.”

John’s ‘You don’t have a card number on file!’ was a shout into the void as Sherlock had already terminated call, which also rendered his intended follow-up of ‘We haven’t decided on a specific time!’ a moot point.

      “What a bastard.”

      “Your boyfriend?”

John made a soft rude noise at the cat who was now winding it’s tail under his nose, hoping for a sneeze that would give him just cause to launch a truly elaborate attack on John’s fingers.

      “Funny, stupid cat.  And no talking when there are customers in the shop.”

      “Fine, then I won’t tell you who your phone pal actually is.”

John screwed up his face and snatched the cat off the counter, stepping into the rear of the shop where he could hear the ‘please ring bell for service’ bell but the customers weren’t likely to hear them speaking.

      “Alright, I’ll play along.  Who do you think Sherlock actually is?”

      “Not think – know.  What’s his surname?”

      “Holmes.”

      “And that’s not enough of a clue?”

      “There are scads of Holmes’s in London.”

      “Not one with a name like Sherlock.  An unusual given name.  Who might have siblings with an unusual given name and, by happy coincidence, the surname of Holmes.”

Balthazar had an annoying habit of making him feel thick, so feeling thick now wasn’t much of a surprise, however some small flicker of insight began to glow in John’s brain and he gasped slightly when it grew to a full 10,000-watt searchlight.

      “Wait… are you saying Sherlock is related to Greg’s Mycroft Holmes?”

      “Brothers.”

      “Are you certain?”

      “I had hairs from both of them and there’s no doubt about it.”

      “You have got to stop stealing hair.”

      “Why?  They’re useful.”

      “Invading people’s privacy is wrong.”

      “But interesting, you have to admit.”

      “I… you’re evil.  But, I suppose it’s not really a huge coincidence or shock that Sherlock is Mycroft’s brother.  Greg said Mycroft stopped in once to buy his brother a gift, so they probably had the conversation about where it was purchased.  Now that I think about it, Sherlock first visited here with a pocketful of empty potion vials and I bet if I check that order, I’ll find Mycroft bought them.  Those would be a good gift for that prat.  Interesting Sherlock didn’t mention it.  That he was Mycroft’s brother, I mean.”

      “Greg’s never mentioned that Sherlock is Mycroft’s brother and you think when you brought up his visit and said his name, that would have raised the topic.”

      “True… do you… Sherlock has to know Mycroft’s dating Greg, right?  The conversation must have come up at some point, especially if Sherlock’s visited the shop though, admittedly, I think he’s only been here the once and that’s when I was working.”

      “Perhaps.  Perhaps not.  Regardless, you must capitalize on this.”

      “What?  What nonsense is in your head now?”

      “Imagine what you can pry out of Greg now that you have a connection to his pompous paramour’s baby brother.  The possibilities are endless!”

      “Then why can’t I think of a single one?”

      “Because your creativity is stunted.  I shall instruct you in the ways of leveraging assets, young padawan.”

      “You hated those Star Wars movies.”

      “Only the blasphemous ones.”

      “Ok, moving on.  I have to get back to work, so go and see if Greg’s home to bother him instead.”

      “He’s home, I felt him enter the building.”

      “Then go and annoy him for awhile so I can do the job I’m paid to do..”

      “I’m having enough fun annoying you.  Though… hell and be damned.  One ringie dingie…”

John scowled at the cat, but quickly replaced it with a smile as he moved to help the customer who’d dinged the bell on the counter.  Balthazar was a monumental pain in the arse, but he did have useful information, at times.  Not that it made any difference that Sherlock was Mycroft’s brother, but it was… interesting.  Greg said Mycroft’s energy was staggering, though wholly of the standard-human type, and now he was wondering about Sherlock’s.  There was an incantation he could use to help him see that sort of thing, but it was a bit tricky to work and he’d just lectured the evil cat about privacy so he’d by a hypocrite to use it.

Of course, if he was magically talented, he would see it as a matter of course, so, looked at a certain way, this was just a tool to help overcome discrimination based on his non-magical state.  Which was indescribably disrespectful to people who genuinely experienced discrimination, but Balthazar’s self-centered wickedness was obviously contagious, so the cat was clearly to blame. At least, that would be what he told himself if he actually performed the incantation properly and retained the fingernails on his hands, otherwise, nothing to see here… nothing at all…

Chapter Text

      “Really?”

      “Admittedly, it’s Balthazar’s ravings, but his evil lunacy isn’t always wrong.”

Greg nodded and gave John a there-you-go smirk at his somewhat lackluster surprise at the news.

      “Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes…  I have to admit when you mentioned him before it never clicked, but… small world, I suppose.”

John returned Greg’s nod as he hoisted the large sack of Sherlock’s yet-to-be-paid-for purchases and reminded himself that if he had to tackle Sherlock and steal his wallet for this order to be paid for he’d do it and do it willingly.  Already between him and Mycroft, several of the shop’s monthly bills were happily paid for with a few pence to spare.

      “Didn’t click with me either, but it’s funny nonetheless.  I have the late-night brother and you have the business-hours brother dogging our heels in their own special ways.  Speaking of late night, you look like shite for having gotten in at a not-abysmal hour.”

      “Getting in is not the same as getting to sleep.  Sebastian decided to try and claw through my door for one of his conversations that I have to somehow telepathically read in his head because he can’t be arsed to say more than three words aloud.”

      “And telepathy is not your strong suit.”

      “No.  Not that I mind, though, since I really don’t want a rummage around anybody’s head, mine included.  But, he did say that our boy Moriarty paid Anderson a little visit, was shown the door in fairly short order and looked none to happy about that fact.”

      “Unhappy enough to do something about it?”

      “Sebastian followed him to a café where he got one of those fancy bits of cake and tea, then did some shoe shopping.  Moriarty’s got something wrong in his head, no doubt about it, but that doesn’t sound like the actions of a man planning imminent revenge which, frankly, he could have enacted on the spot.  Seb’s staying on watch for awhile, though, just in case I’m wrong.”

      “That’s good news, then.  It’s not as if Moriarty doesn’t have his teeny claws in other people, so he hasn’t lost his only potential apprentice.”

      “Anderson’s supposed to stop in today for an hour or so and I’ll feel him out about it all while he’s sorting through the new shipment of quartz points.”

      “Yes!  Thought I was going to have to do that.”

      “It’s good practice for him and it’ll let me see how well he can detect their levels of energy.”

      “Testing the man on his second day of work?  That’s harsh, Greg.”

      “On my second day as Gregson’s apprentice, he tossed me into a bonfire.”

      “Lucky thing you tan so easily.”

      “Oh, I tanned.  Couldn’t smell grilling meat for months after that without gagging.”

There were times John was depressed he didn’t have magical talent and there were times he was elated.  This was a nice example of the latter.

      “I’m leaving now before you tell me what happened on you third day.”

      “Probably a good idea.  Have fun with Mycroft’s brother.  Don’t forget he owes us money.”

      “He’ll pay.  Not to mention, you can rat on him to his brother if he tries anything sneaky.”

      “Very true.  I’d rather talk about other things with Mycroft, though, than his having a shady character for a brother.”

      “Somehow, I suspect he already knows that.”

      “Yeah, probably so.  Geniuses are good at picking up on the little details…”

__________

Alright… hmm.  Nice building.  Why they’d let a maniac like Sherlock Holmes live here was a bit baffling, but maybe he was locked in the attic most of the time.  Well, let’s see if the person who answered the door looked at him with pity, suspicion, scorn or amusement when he said who he was here to visit.

      “Oh, there you are, dear.  Sherlock’s been all in a bother waiting for you to arrive.”

John looked at the happily-smiling, older woman who answered the door and decided that ‘amusement’ was the closest of his predictions to her actual expression.  Actually, she seemed genuinely glad he was here.

      “Good, that’s… that’s good right?”

      “It is, though, I do have to admit for some people that might not be the case.  Come in, come in… breakfast is almost ready but I’ll bring up a little tea now.  Sherlock’s told me a bit about you and I wager you could use it after a long night.”

      “Sherlock said he was making breakfast.”

      “And you believed him?”

      “I did.  When did I become this stupid?”

      “Not for me to know, I’m afraid.  Now, straight up the stairs and don’t… we’ll you seem a bit like a tidy man, so don’t be put off by the clutter.  Sherlock says he’s got a system for it all, which I suspect is a bit of a stretch of the truth, but he might be a touch self-conscious if you mention it and… well, it’s something you can work on changing later, isn’t it.”

Mrs. Hudson gave John a welcoming pat on his arm, then hurried off to put the kettle on while John narrowed his eyes a little in confusion before starting up the stairs where he was confronted by a smell that was unfortunately as bad as some of the potions they cooked up in Greg’s workroom, which was thankfully enchanted so aromas couldn’t waft out to send customers racing for the door.

      “What… what are you doing in here?”

Oh, and Mrs. Hudson was right about the clutter.  Luckily, she wasn’t wholly right about him being a tidy man as he was alright with a bit of mess about a flat.  This flat was near to approaching his upper limit, however.

      “Ah, John.  My experiment took an unexpected turn and lingered longer than I expected.”

      “Are you burning hair in here?”

      “Yes, among other things.”

      “I was actually joking about that.”

      “Oh.  Nonetheless, you were correct.”

John walked further into the flat which, now that he had a better vantage point, could see was a decent size, despite the clutter, and the location certainly was respectable.  The rent had to be punishing, so there would be no crying poor about paying for the latest order of their fine wares.

      “I receive a special rate from Mrs. Hudson.”

      “Pardon?”

      “The rent.  You were thinking about the magnitude of the rent.”

      “I was, actually.  It’s a nice flat; you’re lucky to have something like this given… well, given a lot, but I suspect your experiments and such benefit from the space.”

      “True.  Also… there is another bedroom associated with the flat that is useful for storage.”

      “Wow, that’s a lot of space.  Absolutely a lucky find.”

      “The location is convenient.”

      “Very true, as well.  My flat isn’t near anything that a human might actually find useful or entertaining.  So, want to inspect your hand-delivered package, Your Highness?  And cross my palm with the suitable amount of gold?”

      “Gold is an idiotic standard of wealth.  Beyond a few scientifically-interesting properties, it offers nothing of worth in trade for the goods received.”

      “Paper money can’t be much better, though, I suppose you could use it as kindling to get a fire going in an emergency where you couldn’t, instead, use it to get a nice room at an inn that had a pub with a cozy fire already waiting for you.  I’ll happily take it in exchange for your stuff, though.  Or a bank card.”

      “Later.  At the moment, you have the much more important task of refilling that flask with xylene.”

      “Please tell me you’re not going to splash that on any burning hair.”

      “I… fine.  I will postpose that particular trial until your anti-science negativity has been cleared from the flat.”

      “It’s not anti-science to not want you to burn down the flat!  That would be positively criminal and not just because it was… legally criminal, which is enough of a reason on its own.”

      “Ah, so you… approve of the residence.”

      “Yes, it’s a nice flat and I sincerely doubt your landlady would appreciate seeing it destroyed by your looniness.”

      “You are concerned about Mrs. Hudson’s feelings.”

      “I am concerned about Mrs. Hudson!  Burn down her property and maybe her, too.  Yes, that is a definitely concern I have right now.”

      “That’s because you’re a good man, Doctor Watson.  Not like this horrid thing.  He’d see me without a roof over my head and not shed a single tear.  At least, until he wanted tea and a biscuit, then it’d be a flood of them.”

John grinned at the pouty schoolboy scowl that rose on Sherlock’s face and began to understand the foundation of why Sherlock had a special rate under Mrs. Hudson’s so-far-intact roof.  A rate that seemed a very special blessing after John took a sip of the tea Mrs. Hudson had brought up and poured into two delicate cups.

      “I’d be weeping over the loss of a good cup of tea, myself.  And this is one especially good.  Just the thing after a busy night.”

      “Sherlock said you sell witchy things, that has to be fun.”

      “It is!  We get a very interesting assortment of customers and that certainly keeps things lively.  And, I have to admit, that our wares are far more entertaining to talk about than, say lettuces or belts.”

      “I’ll have to stop in sometime and see for myself.  Always happy to see and learn new things!  I already know I like the tea Sherlock’s brother bought there.  Wonderful stuff.  I hoard it, though, so that’s why you boys didn’t get any for yourselves.”

      “You’ve tried our tea?  I don’t feel too smug boasting about that because even I know we do an amazing job with those.  We take a great deal of care and pride in making our tea blends and I honestly think it shows..  Did Mycroft buy any of the Crimson?  That’s one of mine.”

      “Yes!  Oh, and doesn’t it remind me of…”

      “Red?”

      “Yes!  I have no idea how you do it, but I smell it, take a sip and that’s exactly the only way to describe it.  I adore that that one.  Yours, you say?”

      “WAIT!!!!”

Sherlock’s bellow had Mrs. Hudson jumping a bit and John glared at his breakfast companion with his best annoyed-Captain’s expression.

      “Was that necessary, Sherlock?”

      “How did you know my brother’s name?”

      “I know your brother’s name because I know your brother.  Met him, at least.  Nice fellow.”

      “No.”

      “What?”

      “Mycroft is not, as you say, a nice fellow.”

      “Sherlock Holmes, don’t say evil things about your brother.  He’s nice enough for someone with his job and he certainly sees you aren’t tossed out of here when you have one of your little accidents.  Be a dear and try to remember that he loves you and, if you can’t do that, then write a note to remind yourself to not be so horrid.”

      “No, Mrs. Hudson, I will not because horrid is the best from me Fatcroft deserves.”

Mrs. Hudson snorted and, as she left to get the rest of breakfast ready, resolved that Sherlock’s portion of breakfast would have the one scone that she’d accidentally squished a bit before baking so it looked a bit… ill.  He’d get the message.

      “Why on earth do you call your brother Fatcroft?  He’s lean as a whippet.”

      “You obviously need spectacles, John.”

      “Your landlady is right – you’re horrid.  Doesn’t matter, though.  Greg’s not opposed to either.  Leanness or plumpness, I mean.”

      “Who is Greg?”

      “Oh my god… my boss!”

      “You meant Graham.  In any case, why would it matter what Graham thought about Corpucroft?”

      “Uhhh… they’re dating?”

      “No, why would you say that?”

      “Because it’s true.”

      “Wrong.  Mycroft does not date.”

      “Yes, he does.  He dates Greg.”

      “Wrong.  Graham is, presumably a human, and humans turn to stone if they come within three steps of Mycroft.”

      “GREG is human…”

Albeit a somewhat special one.

      “… and he dates your brother.  Well, they’ve had one date and have another tomorrow night.  You genuinely didn’t know?”

      “Mycroft is not dating.  His microprocessor would never be able to run the necessary algorithms for successful human interaction at that level.  Which acts in addition to, not in replacement of, his physical repulsiveness, droning voice and lice.  You are obviously mistaken.”

      “Your brother… there’s no way a man that meticulous has lice, so I consider that proof you’re off your nut over the fact that, first, Mycroft has an active dating life and, second, you weren’t in the loop for that information.  Which, seeing your reaction, I completely understand.”

Sherlock turned the full force of his observational power on John and scowled that he couldn’t find a trace of a lie anywhere.

      “This is disastrous.”

      “What, the tea?  I thought it was excellent.”

      “Not the tea.  Fatcroft is fornicating.”

      “Ugh, that sounds… filthy.  But, I don’t actually think that’s the case, because Greg would have let it slip if that happened on their date.  He thinks he’s suave and inscrutable about things like that, but he’s not.  Not at all.  He’d need lessons just to be considered bad at it.”

      “The contemplation of coitus is sufficient to make me vomit.  And bring about the destruction of the universe.”

      “Can you be anything but a snotty toddler about your brother?”

      “No.”

      “At least you’re honest about it.  And here’s Mrs. Hudson with what looks like an amazing reward for your honesty.”

And a highly-welcome reward for John’s stomach.  One heaping plate of delicious-smelling food was what his body needed at the moment.  It’s what it needed at any moment, really.  Quality cooking and an appreciation of hefty portion size was always a welcome blessing in his life.

      “Sherlock was honest?  That does deserve a reward.  Well, here you are, and I’ll bring up more tea to accompany this nice food down your neck.  I’ll make something especially pleasant if… John, isn’t it… if John agrees to, shall we say, replenish my supply?”

John Watson was inherently incapable of refusing a request by nearly any woman, but a kindly, coquettishly-smiling woman was near to Kryptonite for his mental fortifications.

      “I’ll be happy to.  Maybe sneak in something new to try to broaden your horizons, too.”

      “I’m very much in favor of horizon-broadening, so make it as witchy as possible.”

      “I’ll double the eye of newt and triple the tongue of bat.”

      “Lovely, that’ll brew up nicely on a cold winter’s night.”

John grinned at Sherlock’s snort and continued to enjoy his breakfast while pointedly ignoring Sherlock’s lecture on the idiocy of both witchcraft and Shakespeare.

      “You are ignoring me, John.”

      “That I am.”

      “Why?”

      “This bacon is far more interesting.”

      “I am more interesting than a pig!”

      “I can’t make that particular assessment since I haven’t had breakfast with a living pig.”

      “That… very well, I must acknowledge the point, however, I stand by my assertion that I am more interesting than a pig and, as a genius, the weight of my opinion is far greater than that of the average person.”

      “Geniuses do seem fairly opinionated, that’s true.  This is really good… you’re lucky to have someone like Mrs. Hudson to cook for you.”

      “She doesn’t.  She is cooking for you.  Some nonsense about being hospitable to guests or the like, I paid scant attention to her nattering.”

      “Oh, leaves you to your own devices, does she?  Can’t say I blame her.  Maybe you could buy her flowers or sweets or something and win a bit more of her favor so you get a nice meal now and again and don’t have to eat the hair you’ve been burning.  With or without the xylene drizzle.”

      “Mrs. Hudson is notably susceptible to bribery…”

      “Got cash?  We can probably work a cash to tea to food bribery pipeline.”

      “Graham can demand cash from Mycroft.”

      “Do you do anything on your own?”

      “Whyever would I want to do that?”

      “Good question.”

__________

      “Such a nice man.  Oh, Sherlock, you have friend, don’t you?”

Sherlock watched through the window at John walking away down Baker Street after their long morning of breakfast and discussion his current experiments, and thought a moment before answering Mrs. Hudson’s rather gleeful question.

      “I have no need of friends.”

      “That’s a ‘yes’ if I ever heard one.  Your brother has a suitor and you have a friend.  This is day I never thought I’d see!  It’s too early for a tipple to celebrate, but I’ll have two later to make up for it.”

      “What do you think of John, besides the irrelevant niceness?”

      “Hmmm… he’s a smart one.  Polite, but not so much it makes him seem a bit… wet.  Good sense of humor.  Good appetite, too, which is always a sign.”

      “Of what?”

      “Character.”

      “I… I shall not argue for I highly doubt I shall be able to make heads or tails of your side of the debate.”

      “That probably true.”

      “So… you…”

      “What, dear?”

      “Nothing.”

      “Try again.”

      “You seem to… approve of him.”

      “Oh.  Oh… Sherlock Holmes. What are you planning?”

      “Nothing.”

      “You’re so cute when you lie and since you lie all the time, that makes you an adorable little thing.”

      “I am taller than you.  Much taller.”

      “Only in certain ways.”

      “Such as height.”

Mrs. Hudson’s girlish giggle made it hard for Sherlock to implement his super scowl, so he was highly relieved that she used the opportunity to quickly clear the dishes and hum her way out of his flat.  Besides, he had exceedingly important matters to consider and distraction was counterproductive to the thinking process.  There was the John issue, for one, then…

Mycroft.  Who was, obviously, having some form of unseemly middle-aged mental breakdown and a reproduce-then-die urge much like a portly salmon.  That was potentially detrimental to a host of things such as the continued function of the free world, more importantly, fulfilling his agreed-upon share of Mummy-managing.  It was a situation that must, however, be handled delicately.  Clearly, his brother was teetering on the edge of personal destruction and it would take only the tiniest of pushes to send him over that edge and straight into the nearest bakery.

Fortunately, there was an exceptional one within fleeing distance of Fatcroft’s office…

__________

      “Iggy… I sense a disturbance in the Force.  Nod if you agree.”

Anthea lifted her skull and made a nodding motion with it, setting it back down on her desk only a moment before Sherlock burst into Mycroft’s outer office with a typical look of affronted annoyance splashed across his face.  A face which splatted against the inner office door since Anthea used her magic button to lock it tightly.

      “That was positively fiendish!”

      “Yet you fall for it every time.  Did it ever occur to you, Sherlock, to simply walk in here calmly and ask if your brother is free for a chat?”

      “Ridiculous.”

      “You deserve ten door-bloodied noses.”

      “Ha!  My nose is not bleeding.  This time.”

      “Mr. Door will get another chance.  There’s always another chance for Mr. Door since you’re… you.  Now, what do you want, Sherlock?”

      “That is a private matter between me and Her Majesty.”

      “Funny you say that, since your brother is visiting with her later today.”

      “Old women have lots to gossip about, I’m sure, however, I have questions for him that must be answered.”

      “No, he’s not making you the Chief Scientist of Britain.”

      “He should.”

      “Not even as a Christmas gift.  Now, toddle along and…”

      “I demand information about the awakening of his libido.”

      “I… ok, I’d like that, too, so I can’t blame you for it, but, for your information, Mr. Holmes isn’t in at the moment.”

      “Untrue.”

      “Very true.  He has a meeting in his office in… a little over an hour, so if you want to wait until after that, he has ten free minutes before the next item on his agenda.”

Sherlock ran an eye over Anthea’s features, irritated, as usual, that she happily did the same to him, and came to the frustrating conclusion that she was not lying.  Or maybe she was.  And she didn’t care if he knew or not.

      “Very well.  You will act in my brother’s stead.”

      “I usually do.  Several members of the financial sector believe Mycroft Holmes is woman because they’re more easily managed by a sultry female voice on the phone than by a man’s.  They send amazing Christmas gifts, though, so it’s totally worth bothering with their nonsense.”

      “Mycroft’s voice can only manage a battalion of baguettes, so I suppose it is a smart strategy.  Continuing on with my original purpose for being here, I demand all details about his relationship with Graham.”

      “Greg.”

      “No, his name is Graham.  John confirmed that today.”

      “John?  John.  John John John John.. that rings a bell… oh!  That’s the other fellow who works at Greg’s shop.  You know John?”

      “We are acquainted, yes.”

      “Interesting.  In any case, details are few at the moment, truth be told.  Your brother and Greg have been on one date, a successful date, at that, and have plans for a second one.”

      “And the fornication?”

      “Would be none of your business even if it had happened yet.  Which it hasn’t, but I have a wager with my skull that Date 3 could be a very lucky one for all parties involved.  Date 2 is a scholarly and bookish affair, though, and that does get your brother’s humours inflamed from time to time.”

      “Hmmmm…”

      “Something wrong?”

      “I am here, so the answer to that is a resounding yes, but if your question concerns any additional wrongness… perhaps.”

      “Want to share?”

      “No.”

      “Let me rephrase.  Share or your brother learns how £ 1000 vanished from his account when he was busily doing some on-site crisis management in Greece.”

      “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

      “You may not, but the security footage from the bank certainly does.  I’ll give you credit for sussing out the new teller, but I’ll subtract the credit for thinking your brother would ever stand in the queue at the bank.  Or anywhere.  Queues give him hives.  He just strolls into whichever office is the largest and gives them their marching orders.”

      “Yes, but the manager would certainly have foiled my plan.  It was a calculated risk.”

      “Nice job on the suit and air of quiet menace, though.”

      “Thank you. “

      “Now, anything else?”

      “What do you know of this Geoff person?”

      “Funny.  And, I know a lot, actually.  The dry details of a person’s life and I have met the man, too.  Good fit for your brother.”

      “Why?  Is he deceased?”

      “No, or there would have been a death certificate included with his file.  And he would smell somewhat foul, which would certainly put off potential customers and prevent his business from being the thriving thing it is.”

      “Then explain why...”

      “Why he likes your brother or your brother likes him.”

      “Both.”

      “Alright.  They’re similar in age, have things in common, communicate well… the standard slate.”

      “But…”

      “Yes?”

      “Mycroft is best described as a Dalek made of cake and this Gordon person is… normal.”

      “What’s wrong with normal?”

      “It is… common.”

      “I can get a thesaurus, too, you know and play the synonym game.”

      “The cake Dalek is about as diametrically opposite in position from common as the universe can possibly tolerate without imploding.”

      “Opposites attract.”

      “That is true only for electrical charges and magnetic poles.”

      “Wrong, and I have far more experience in this area than you do.”

      “You are mistaken.”

      “I have read your file, you know.”

      “How dare you!  I have a file?”

      “It’s thick as a politician’s skull, too.  So, bow to my expertise and acknowledge that… it’s a good thing.  If you’re genuinely curious, wait until they have their second night out and ask how things are going.  I think he’d appreciate you taking an honest interest.”

      “I cannot take an honest interest, because I am not interested in the slightest.”

      “You embarrassed yourself there, just so you know.  Remember not to contradict yourself so blatantly next time or people will think you are one of our thick-skulled politicians and nothing good can come of that.”

Sherlock snarled but accepted the rebuke with rare good grace because he had certainly lost track of things a bit and the reminder was a just one.  Anthea, though, was still as villainous as his brother, in Sherlock’s eyes, and deserving of no actual mention of her scored point.

      “I pity your lack of sense and reason.”

      “Yeah, ok.  So… time to take yourself home for your nappy change?”

      “No.”

      “If I give you five quid will you go away?”

      “Ten.”

      “Five or my gorgeous shoe up your skinny arse.”

Sherlock’s enormous put-upon sigh was accompanied by an extending of his open hand to receive the £ 5 note Anthea extracted from the Mycroft-provided fund for sending his brother on his way with a minimum of fuss and bother.

      “Goodbye, Sherlock.”

      “Notify Cakecroft that I will demand a report of his activities on…”

      “Friday.”

      “Friday.”

Whirling towards the door, Sherlock pocketed his cash and stalked away, feeling oddly satisfied by the meeting.  Nobody was more fiercely protective of this brother than Anthea and if she was content with the situation between Mycroft and Gladys, then… it might not be as horrifying a thing as he predicted.

From Mycroft’s perspective, having spied on the conversation after seeing the emergency door lock signal flash on his monitor, oddly-satisfied was very much the theme of the moment.  Sherlock was clearly curious and concerned about the turn of events, which had been kept from his ears to prevent an eruption of body parts that would take ages to sew back into human form but… perhaps that had been the wrong approach.  Could it be his little brother actually cared whether he was happy with his new romance?  It was devilishly difficult to know for certain without a direct interrogation, as opposed to his remotely-gained intelligence, however… such might be the case.

Well, the situation was certainly taking on new levels of complexity and by leaps and bounds.  Sherlock’s interest in his personal life and an apparent new association with Gregory’s employee.  That was most unexpected.  And actionable.  Which would begin with the touch of one tiny button.

      “Anthea?”

      “You could come out here to talk to me about your brother.”

      “That would require I rise from my chair and I am finding myself far too weak of limb to accomplish the task.”

      “I’ll bring the pastries and tea in a minute.  Now, what else shall I bring with your little nosh?”

      “Whatever information you can gather on John Watson, currently employed at Magicae Argentea and formerly a member of our military.”

      “I’m already on that, so I should have something for you by the time you finish your break.”

      “Good.  Gregory speaks highly of him, however, circumstances now warrant a closer inspection.”

      “Are you going to kidnap him?”

      “Of course not.  Kidnapping implies an individual taken against their will.  I shall make it very much in accordance with Doctor Watson’s will that he accept my gracious invitation.”

      “Very polite of you, sir.  For that, I believe there may be a particularly-succulent morsel coming your way soon.”

Mycroft was happy he was not using the video feature of their intercom, because Anthea surely did not need to see him rub his hands together in glee.  And, regardless of the nature of the information she acquired, he would tease from Gregory what personal insights he could on his employee.  Sherlock had seemed most comfortable using the man’s given name, which was unusual, and that implied a connection had been formed.  His brother was as replete with friends as was he and if there was a chance to nudge the good doctor further into Sherlock’s sphere, then the nudging would certainly take place.

Fortunately, if there was one person in the world highly skilled in the use of the strategic nudge, it was the fellow sitting in this very chair, anxiously awaiting a plump, palatable pastry…

Chapter Text

Kidnapping certainly had its uses, but, as Mycroft pondered the situation, sometimes other methods were equally effective.  Given the Gregory situation, which was absolutely not to have its foundations shaken by an angry and offended report by an employee, the lure of other methods grew in appeal to the point that Mycroft decided not to return home directly after work but to pay a visit to a certain shop which, at this very late hour, should see a certain individual manning the till with another certain individual otherwise occupied.

      “Oh, Mr. Holmes.  How are you tonight?”

      “I am well, Doctor Watson, and I hope the same is true for you.”

      “It is, I’d say.  Steady stream of customers, with the buyers outnumbering the browsers.”

      “Very good, very good, indeed.  However, I was more inquiring about your non-work life.”

      “Oh!  Thanks for that.  It’s going well, too.  Introduced to some very useful new surgical techniques yesterday, the library had a couple of books I’ve been hoping to read back on the shelves… can’t complain.”

      “Excellent, truly excellent.”

      “So, what can I help you with tonight?”

      “And how is Doctor Stamford?  I hope he, also, is well.”

John’s genial smile faltered slightly as he replayed Mycroft’s words in his mind.

      “How… first how do you know Mike and, second, how would you know that I know Mike?”

      “Information is a useful thing, Doctor Watson, would you not agree?”

John narrowed his eyes, then clucked his tongue and nodded his head as the neon sign lit up in his head.

      “How quickly did you learn about me visiting Sherlock?”

      “As quickly as it took him to race to my office to confront me on a certain bit of information he obtained concerning me and your employer.”

      “I… yeah.  Yeah, alright, that was me.  I honestly didn’t think he wouldn’t know about you and Greg, though, in hindsight, I can understand exactly why you wouldn’t tell him, since he’s a raging loony, but… it slipped out while we were chatting.  I hope he wasn’t too much of a bother.”

      “As much of a bother as one would expect from a raging loony.”

      “I’m sorry.  Really, I apologize.  Did you kill him?  Are you here to make me dispose of the body as punishment for my loose lips sinking your ship?”

      “That idea did occur to me, however, the matter was handled in a slightly different way and is, now, water under the proverbial bridge.  I was more interested in the visit itself.  The fact that you called upon my brother personally.  You have only one actual friend in London, who you rarely see, yet you take time to visit Sherlock, of all people.  That is a remarkable thing, wouldn’t you agree?”

      “Uh, no.  He placed a large order and asked if I’d deliver it, since he was busy.”

      “I see.  Very… business-minded of you.  And if I was to request similar service?”

      “I… ok, you already know we don’t deliver, don’t you.”

      “Gregory and I had some small discussions concerning his business practices, yes.”

      “Ummmm… I was going in his direction anyway?”

      “Wrong.”

      “I was interested in Sherlock’s experiment?”

      “Perhaps.  Do tell, what was today’s level of lethal aroma and how utterly nonsensical were the tests being performed?”

      “Ok, you know about his experiments.”

      “A great deal and you may take as fact that whatever you experienced today is the least of the mayhem he can create when he follows his scientific urges.”

      “Lovely.  Oh, one moment…”

Mycroft smiled and stepped aside for the young man standing in wait to pay for what appeared to be a moderate-sized goblet and plain pottery bowl.

      “… alright, back to being interrogated.”

      “If I were to interrogate you, Doctor Watson, I can assure you, you would not be smiling.”

John had no real idea what Mycroft did for a living, but he believed to the depths of his soul that statement was painfully accurate.

      “Back to our… friendly chat?”

      “Much better.  Now, I am most curious as to what would prompt you to make the journey to Baker Street to hand deliver my brother his various purchases.  I admit his infantile demands can be most strident and raise the blood pressure to levels hitherto unknown to medical science, however, I would have assumed you to be a man with a greater than average capacity to withstand such a barrage of nonsense.”

      “It wasn’t a bother.”

John, at least, had the good sense to look as embarrassed by the limpness of that reply as he actually felt.

      “Be that as it may, someone who you have met but once makes a dictatorial demand and you oblige.  You can see how that might pique my interest.”

      “Hoping for the job of my therapist, are you?”

      “Ms. Thompson is more than adequate for the task, though you rarely anymore make an appointment to see her.”

John had felt a cold wind blow through him before in his life, but never one with quite such a frightening bite.

      “How do you know about her?”

      “I know many things, Doctor Watson.  Many, many things… however, if you are concerned, they are not things about which I feel obliged to inform Sherlock.  Not that he would care, but there is no reason, during the normal course of events, to spread about the details of a man’s life like butter on toast.”

      “Is that supposed to be a threat?”

      “Not at all!  Merely an assurance, should one be required.  I cannot help but feel that your foray into Sherlock’s malodorous den may not be an isolated example.  Care to comment?”

      “No.”

      “Very well, it is not obligatory.  Nevertheless, do be aware that my brother… he sees the world from a different vantage point than most.  And acts accordingly.  Choose carefully, Doctor Watson, before you continue further along the path of… association.  You have seen many battlefields in your life, John.  Are you prepared to enter another?”

John’s small sniff was accompanied by a look that Mycroft grudgingly admired for it certainly wasn’t one of submission or defeat.  If the good doctor did wish to, perhaps, befriend Sherlock, then he must be prepared for what such a friendship would entail.  Which was not something for the faint of heart.

      “Enjoying your turn as a Bond villain, Mr. Holmes?”

Mycroft smiled an enigmatic smile and wondered how John would react to knowing that the various ‘secret’ service divisions within the government had many a manipulated photo of him as a villain from the James Bond universe.  A selection of which were created and distributed by someone who would remain nameless, though she answered to the appellation of Anthea.

      “Very droll, indeed.   Oh, do pardon me, madam.  I did not wish to obstruct your transaction.”

Mycroft graciously moved out of the way, so the customer could pay for her supply of candles which, from the labels, Mycroft knew were made in-house.

      “I think our conversation is finished, anyway, Mr. Holmes.  Why don’t you browse a bit, though?  Might as well get something since you have to pay to leave anyway.”

      “I do?”

      “Two hundred and eight-seven pounds plus change.  Sherlock somehow forgot to pay for his purchases this morning.”

It was a small bit of revenge, but John happily drank in Mycroft’s loud sigh and rolled eyes as he began to draw out his wallet and count out the necessary cash.  It was good to know, though, that as much of a baby brother as was Sherlock, Mycroft played the big brother role with just as much fervor.  Two very atypical men with a very typical sibling relationship and that, somehow, made it easier to not feel a bit of dread that Mr. Unknown-Role-in-Government Holmes was going to send some serious-faced secret agents to make his life a misery.  Sherlock was enough misery for one person’s life, thank you very much…

__________

Greg felt foolish but, in fairness, he didn’t mind that since he was feeling foolish for being at the British Library a full thirty minutes before he was supposed to arrive out of fear of being thirty seconds late for his date with Mycroft.  He was looking far too forward to this to start the whole business on a bad foot.

Speaking of bad foots…

      “What the… spectacles?”

The vampire prince peered over his studious, yet scandalously expensive, spectacles and grinned impishly.

      “All the better to affect an academic look, don’t you think?”

      “You are not an academic. I’m not sure you know how to spell academic without using a ‘k.’ “

      “One must blend in with the environment.”

      “It’s a library.  Small children visit libraries.  Can I look forward to seeing you in a nappy next?”

      “If that excites you, then by all means.”

      “Why are you at the library, Marcus?  This early, especially.  There’s still some sun in the sky.”

      “One of the many benefits of my position, and our association, is that I can spit in the face of the sun, as you well know.”

      “You tried to dart out for chips once at noon and needed a king’s ransom of my special burn cream to heal.”

      “Fine.  Maybe it’s a spittle dribble more than a full spit, but the principle applies.  And you got half the chips, so fuck off.  To answer your actual question, though, I was engaged in a bit of historical research.”

      “That’s a lie.”

      “Not at all!  I was hoping to purchase a small amount of property that caught my eye and simply wanted to delve into its history to ensure… well, a number of things.”

Which Greg knew could range from it being a former brothel, which would appeal to the vampire’s sense of humor, or former use as or being the location of a center of magic, which might pose a problem for those who were subject to being affected by that sort of thing.

      “Want me to check it out?”

      “Well, I wasn’t going to ask… until tomorrow, that is.  But, yes.”

      “Lovely.  Text me the address and I’ll see if there’s anything you need to worry about.”

      “So kind of you.  Actually, it’s not too far from your interesting little business venture, so I doubt it will take you long to… do whatever it is you’ll do.”

      “Meaning you won’t be there to help.”

      “And possibly disrupt your concentration with my good looks and charm?”

      “Arse.  But… let me see what I can do.”

      “Well, we both know how creative that can be when you have a mind for it.”

      “Would you… none of that sort of thing when I’m… shove off.”

      “Not now!  When you’re what, Greg?”

      “Can’t hear you.  Gone deaf.”

      “Let me see… you’re actually dressed…”

      “I’m always dressed.”

      “Not as if you put any thought into it.  Your fashion sense will never approach acceptable, but tonight… not bad.”

Greg scowled at his own small surge of pride because fuck that vampire.  But… Marcus was the sort that fashion designers chased down on the street to model their clothes, so the pride wasn’t entirely misplaced.  And he’d dressed himself!  No feline assistance whatsoever.

      “Thanks.  Now, fuck off.”

      “No… your hair is combed, you’re not in rags, you shaved and… oh, used that soap I particularly like.  Is your date with the same person or someone different?  And why are you having it at a library?  Are they elderly?”

      “Funny.  Yes, I’m seeing Mycroft again tonight and he very rightly thought that I’d appreciate a look behind the scenes here.  They have a collection of material near and dear to my heart that I’ve been wanting to peruse forever and peruse it we shall.”

      “Ooh, I’ve heard rumors.  You will keep an out for…”

      “Yes, if there’s something relevant to your interests, I’ll let you know.”

      “Perfect.  Though… wait… ah, yes.  Yes, that is where I heard it.”

      “Heard what?”

      “Your date’s name.  I attended a function, this politician, that philanthropist, etc. and someone mentioned the British Library had to replace yet another board member.  This prompted the question about what said sacked board member had done to anger one Mr. Mycroft Holmes.”

      “Oh.  What… what does that mean?”

      “That your date is staggeringly rich, staggeringly powerful or staggeringly both.”

      “He said he has a minor role in government.”

      “Staggeringly powerful it is, then.  At minimum.”

      “I suspected he wasn’t being quite honest for that, but I can’t fault him because I haven’t really been honest about myself, either.”

      “Will you?”

      “Depends on what happens between us.  If this works out, I won’t be able to hide things and I’ll have to tell him.”

      “Won’t that be fun.”

      “Oh, laughs aplenty.  Shouldn’t you be leaving?”

      “Ooh, somebody doesn’t want his date to catch him talking to a fabulously-handsome man wearing a very serious pair of spectacles.  In any case, yes, I should be leaving because I do have a dinner to attend.  Family business.”

      “Please tell me your father isn’t in London.”

      “I wouldn’t be in London if he was.  The old bastard has been in a vile temper lately.  Witch troubles, but that’s ever the case with him.”

      “Then he needs to stop trying to burn them at the stake.”

      “It’s not as if he succeeds.  I think they like him trying, though.  It keeps him busy and keeping old people active is helpful, so they say on the news.  Witches like to be helpful, from what I’ve gathered, so their little games continue.  Besides, what else is there to do in the gods-forsaken nowhere that he lives?  I’ve told him, get out of that drafty fucking castle and buy a nice villa somewhere warm, but will he listen to me?  No.  All I get is a lecture about tradition then another on why my wearing color means he’ll never have grandchildren.”

      “To be fair, that yellow jacket you own makes my sperm shrivel in second-hand embarrassment.”

      “It’s not yellow, it’s goldenrod.  And… I binned it.  Shopping online while drunk isn’t a good idea.”

      “No, it’s not.  So, about that should be leaving business…”

      “So testy tonight.  Better take a pill or something for that before your date arrives or my revolting jacket won’t be the only thing making your sperm shrivel.  I’ll hear from you tomorrow about my property?”

      “If I get the chance.  You’re not the only thorn in my side, you know.”

      “I bet I’m the biggest one.  If not tell me I am anyway, because my ego is actually large enough for that to be important.”

      “You’re the biggest thorn in my side.  Go away.”

      “Always a pleasure, mano vyras.  Enjoy your date.”

The vampire gave Greg a peck on the cheek, then sauntered away while the sorcerer sighed and checked his watch.   That nonsense killed some time, as well as brain cells, so now he only had fifteen minutes to wait.  Which was more than enough time for a pigeon to shit on his head, a surprise rainstorm to hit or the need to piss to reach crisis level.  At least he didn’t have to worry about visits from annoying vampires.  That was already checked off of his potential catastrophes list…

__________

      “Ah, Gregory.  How good it is to see you.”

Greg turned at the sound of the familiar voice and smiled brightly.  Mycroft was precisely on time and looking like a gorgeous dream come true.

      “Mycroft!  Good to see you, too.  I’ve been excited for this all week.”

      “As have I.  A shared adventure is something to be cherished.”

      “As are books.”

      “Most certainly!  And, tonight, we have both.  Shall we?”

      “I’m more than ready.  Quick trip to the loo first, though?”

Something Mycroft was going to suggest himself, since he’s spent the past half hour riding through the streets of London because sitting at home waiting to leave for his date was making him too nervous to breathe and just being in motion within sprinting distance of the library had been a preferable option.

      “An excellent suggestion.  I would hate to have a… pressing concern… limit our enjoyment of our evening.”

Greg was always of a mind that good relationships had shared understandings, and this was one he could certainly put on that list.  It was nice to have a list besides his catastrophes list with an item checked off for the night.  That certainly boded well for things to come.

And, since Mycroft seemed to have the run of the institution, finding a convenient location to make themselves more comfortable was a quick affair, followed by a slate of introductions between Greg and library personnel, one of whom escorted them into the recesses of the collections to a rather large room, with several smaller rooms branching off on both sides that held the items there were there to see.  Not that Greg needed an escort to find this treasure trove.  He could feel the books, scrolls and artifacts calling to him every time he stepped inside the British Library and that call only intensified the closer he got to their carefully regulated location.

      “Oh my, Gregory.  This is… astounding.”

Greg nodded but wished with all his heart that Mycroft could see just how astounding it really was.  See the wisps of magical energy floating through the room and glow of illuminated writing on the spines and covers of many of the books.  This many powerful texts in one place was dangerous, but someone had designed the cataloging and storage system to diffuse the build up of synergistic forces.  Probably one of his predecessors.  It would need some revising and tidying at some point, though, or there’d be trouble, but there was time to see a knowledgeable, willing someone work their way into the library personnel structure and put things to right.  Accomplishment!  Already the visit was justified and not only because he’d probably be the one to have to deal with any potential problems that erupted when the wrong sorts of books were within insult-hurling distance and those insults took on a slightly more physical shape than silently-shouted words.

      “I agree.  I’d heard there was a lot here, but… this is a lot.   Got your gloves on?”

Mycroft proudly held up his gloved hands, the gloves being provided by the library and a little extra bewitching provided by Greg so Mycroft wouldn’t be affected by the influence of any of the books and wouldn’t provide the spark of force needed to help one of them get up to mischief.  Mycroft’s personal human energy was great enough that it paid to be cautious.

      “Alright, then.  Let’s get started…”

Greg could only hope that his eagerness wasn’t as ridiculous as it felt when he lunged towards one book that had already caught his eye, but since Mycroft’s lunge for another tome was just as comical, he decided that it really didn’t matter either way.  And there was no possible way they’d look through all of this tonight.  Which meant more outings to read, memorize, learn… and spend time with Mycroft.  Really, this was what you found in the dictionary when you looked up the word ‘perfect’…

__________

Mycroft Holmes did not believe in magic.  Mycroft Holmes did not believe in hocus-pocus or hoodoo or spirit communication or any of the tommyrot pushed by the robe-wearing, crystal-peering mystics.  However, it was more than apparent that many people though time did, and took it very seriously, as well.  The books, the ones he could read, were not mad, feverish treatises on the subject… at least not all were… and it was fascinating to read through detailed, coherent passages which, if you read enough of them, had a strange logic to their narratives.  Things began to make sense, in an odd way, to the point where he could see patterns, sense connections that were verified in some other text through which he browsed.  Fascinating…

More fascinating still, though, was experiencing all of this with Gregory, who was positively transfixed and laser-focused on his inspections.  It seemed almost criminal to interrupt the man to ask a question, though Gregory answered eagerly and with a depth of knowledge that was… he certainly needed to find another word than fascinating, but it was!  Gregory presented as a typical, albeit majestic and delightful, shopkeeper, despite the nature of his wares, but tonight… he was as erudite and informed as any of the doddery old scholars at Oxford who had been working in their field since Elizabeth I was on the throne.  The languages the man could read, the sigils he could decipher… could one be sexually excited by mental ability?  Apparently one could because his libido certainly was shining its shoes and combing its hair in preparation for a fine evening once they were done here…

__________

      “Heavens… Gregory, do take a look at this.”

Greg shook his head to clear the memorization spell from the forefront of his mind, so he could concentrate on actually communicating, then immediately wished he hadn’t.

      “Oh… that’s an ugly fellow.”

      “Amusing.  He looks exceedingly like you.”

That’s because it is me and fuck the world.

      “Really?  You think so?  That’s not my nose.”

      “That is absolutely your nose.  And your eyes.  The curve of your cheek.  Maybe a touch wide of chin, but it is a drawing, after all.”

Now the fucking fae were trying to ruin his date!  Stupid faeries and their premonitions.  Why couldn’t they keep their busybody selves to themselves?  And why write it down?  In a book, no less.  With drawings!

      “What does the text say, Gregory?  I am most interested in this…”

Of course you are, Mycroft.  And there’s that lovely aura of yours weaving the familiar net to catch my lies.  It’s good at that.  You should be proud.

      “Apparently, this homely chap supposedly will be a sorcerer of the realm.  Doesn’t say which realm…”

All true, though I know which realm but am not under any contractual obligation to share that information at this time.

      “… and protector of the great city…”

Which is an arguable point since, some days, London is a bit crap.

      “… from the forces of darkness and evil.  Standard stuff, really.”

      “What is the date of this text?”

      “Ummmm… let’s see…”

And make a few more ummm sounds as I pretend to look about for a date when I’m really trying to convert the fae calendar into ours and I’m balls at maths.

      “Looks to be 1710, if I’m reading this right.”

And my sums are correct.

      “How astonishing.  Will be a sorcerer of the realm, you said?  The person who wrote this was making a prediction?”

      “I…”

Should have thought faster and said is a sorcerer of the realm, but my brain is old and slow and I can’t blame maths this time, though I really would like to.

      “… guess they are.  Not uncommon, really.  Like that Nostradamus fellow.  Have some dream and write it all out, thinking you’ve had a vision of the future.  The ‘60’s wasn’t the only era where people fancied their mind-altering drugs, either, so a mushroom here or undigested bit of potato like Scrooge and who knows what the mind tosses out.”

      “What an astounding find!  Gregory, you were foreseen centuries ago… quite the honor, I must say.”

The honor bit is debatable, but so is the astounding, since there’s a few predictive texts scattered about with a certain face besmirching their pages, but none are in London for you find, as best I know, so yippee.

      “What’s that saying about monkeys and typewriters and Shakespeare?  My monkey must have had a bit of charcoal and an eye for facial anatomy.”

      “I am photographing this, sans flash to safeguard the document, but I can lighten it afterwards.  A treasured keepsake and a most unexpected one, at that.”

How nice.  Greg Lestrade now lives on Mycroft’s phone.  Actually… that is nice.  Stop being negative, brain.  Look at how happy Mycroft is taking his snaps.

      “Excellent.  I shall, of course, provide you with a copy of the finished product.”

      “My cat will probably shred it.”

      “A digital copy.”

      “That works.  Shall we continue on?”

      “Yes, and I shall keep a weather eye out for additional renderings of your noble visage.”

      “And burn them.”

      “Pish tosh.  I would never stoop to burning a book.  I would simply add them to my digital photo album.”

      “And burn it.”

      “Begone, foul spirit.”

Though said in jest, Mycroft’s stentorian order was something that Greg felt strongly enough that it made him step back in surprise.  It wouldn’t banish a foul spirit or have much impact beyond being a ‘what the hell’ moment, like having a bug crash into your face, but it was an extremely formidable display for a non-magical person and made the previous assessment of ‘staggeringly powerful’ a certainty.  Whatever Mycroft did in government, it wasn’t pushing a pencil… he was in something high-level and significant.  Nothing else was possible.

      “Yes sir, right away sir.”

Mycroft laughed at Greg’s repeated bowing as he walked away backwards towards the book he’d previously been examining, then took another look at the photo on his phone and the drawing that inspired it.  What a marvelous thing to find, hidden away in a musty old tome.  And how pleasant it was to feel… surprised.  Surprised, whimsical, excited… he experienced those so rarely, with surprise being the more common though only in the manner of failing to predict how utterly stupid was this or that person in government, theirs or another.  This was a jubilant surprise and… no, Mycroft Holmes did not believe in magic, however, if he carried on with the whimsical theme, he might allow himself to hope this was an omen.  A good one, at that.  Good enough that he was now, in the confines of his mind at least, proclaiming that not only would a third date exist, but it would come on swift wings.

Or, at least as swift as his and Gregory’s schedules could be made to properly align…

__________

      “That.  Was.  Amazing.”

Greg’s head was reeling from the hours they’d spent in the collection and he was actually surprised he still retained the ability to think well enough to form words of more than one syllable.

      “I agree wholeheartedly.  Such an enlivening and thought-provoking experience.  I am positively chomping at the proverbial bit to return for a second examination.”

      “When?  Seriously, when.  You tell me, and I’ll pack food and a nice bottle of whisky to keep us company.”

Gregory was on board with another date!  Their minds were laudably synchronistic.

      “That can easily be arranged, perhaps on a day where we can have an earlier start.”

      “Yes!  Oh, that’s brilliant.  And… we… well, we can do other things, too, if you like.”

That implied… Gregory was proposing additional dates.  Beyond the agreed-upon three!   This was a stupendously-successful turn of events!

      “I would be delighted.  I am greatly enjoying our time together and would appreciate further opportunities to indulge myself with your company.”

      “Then want to start now?  Or continue with the current now?  It’s late, but not so late that there aren’t a few pubs open for a drink and quick bite if you’re hungry.”

      “I would welcome both after our endeavors.  I feel somewhat like a schoolboy who has devoted hours to revising for an exam and finds himself craving something edible or potable as a reward.”

      “Then we shall award ourselves kingly.  I know a nice place not too far from here if you don’t mind a walk.”

      “The night seems most conducive to a stroll.  Mild, clear… the more cacophonous sounds of the city calmed to a gentle hum…”

Greg grinned at Mycroft’s words and knew in his core that Mycroft’s house was likely a very richly appointed thing, with plush rugs, thick draperies and heavy wood so the sounds of the world dimmed to nothing once he stepped across the threshold.

      “You’ll definitely like this pub, in that case.  Off we go?”

      “Lead on.”

Greg skipped like a seven-year-old for a few steps, then giggled like one, too, while Mycroft sedately strode up to meet him and cock an eyebrow at the tomfoolery.  Which, in truth, had pleased the British Government to no end.  His companion’s arse was a thing of beauty when engaged in the act of skipping…

__________

      “You’re right, Mycroft.  A picture-perfect night for a stroll.”

      “I’m somewhat relieved that my praise of the weather did not inspire some contrarian response that prompted a blizzard to descend upon us.”

      “Weather’s a bastard like that.  You have an off day and beg for something dark and rainy so you can curl up with a good book and, instead, it’s brilliant sunshine mocking you through the window.”

      “A diabolically-cruel disappointment.  I do enjoy a long rainy afternoon with a good…”

Greg’s mind did notice that Mycroft stopped walking the same moment he did, but didn’t process it fully since the rest of his brain was on alert from the very strong presence he was sensing up ahead, most likely in the alley to their left.

      “Hmmmm…”

      “Uhhhhhh…”

      “Gregory, do wait here a moment.”

What?

      “What?”

      “Please, wait here just a moment.  I believe I… let me see…”

Mycroft began to walk forward and it took Greg’s still racing brain a second to realize it was sitting in a body that was continuing to stand there like a mannequin while its date was, apparently, off to investigate.  This would not do.

      “Hold on, Mycroft.  Let me check things out, alright?”

      “I think not.”

      “I think yes.”

      “Gregory… I am, first, well trained in self-defense and, second…”

      “Second, I’m not shabby with that myself, so let me take a look ahead and…”

      “I shall not risk your safety, Gregory Lestrade.”

      “And I won’t risk yours, Mycroft Holmes.”

Both men glared at each other and threw up their hands when the other didn’t back down, which was followed by an in-stereo creep forward to the looming alley for a careful look around the corner to see what their senses were telling them might have a taste for ruining their pleasant night.

What neither was expecting, though Greg might have expected it a bit more than Mycroft, was an enormous, slightly luminous creature with spiraled horns that had in its platter-sized hands a young woman that Greg recognized as a witch from one of the local covens.

      “Gregory…”

      “You’re not crazy or hallucinating.”

      “Oh good.  Less for me to worry about.”

      “That’s nice.  Any chance I can convince you to run screaming from here and not look back?”

      “No.”

      “Didn’t think so.”

      “Very well… stay here, Gregory, while I…”

      “No, Mycroft… this is my area.”

      “Whereas I will concede, though I may have a mental fracture upon later reflection, that this seems… magical in nature, the selling of books and crystals does not count as valid credentials for engaging in… mortal combat with a creature of supernatural persuasion.”

      “Oh, those aren’t my only credentials.”

      “No?”

      “Ready to be amazed?”

      “If the situation warrants it.”

      “Fair.  I’ll put on the best show I can.”

      “Gregory!”

Greg stepped into the alley and drew in a breath.  Another fucking demon.  On date night!  Whoever summoned this cock-blocker was going to get a right thumping when he had a free moment.

If he survived, that is.  This one was bigger than the last one.  And uglier.  And he didn’t have two people to safeguard last time, either.  Oh well, Mycroft couldn’t say their dates were boring.  And he probably could plan an amazing funeral for overworked and underpaid sorcerers, if the situation arose…

Chapter Text

Greg took a long look at the demon and was a bit puzzled by what he observed.  First, it was a demon.  Not that they were rare, but London saw one every six months or so, at best, and those generally weren’t running amok, so his involvement was limited to paying a call on the summoner to remind them about the seriousness of potential amok and that they should send the demon back to its realm as soon as possible because they were tricky bastards and found ways of escaping their binding spell to accomplish the aforementioned amoking.

This was two amok crises in a pitifully narrow timeframe and that was unusual.  More unusual was the traces of the summoning spell that lingered on the beast.  There were signs of that miserable shit Moriarty in the mix again, but… not the same as with Anderson’s attempt at being a demon master.  It had been clear, in that case, that Anderson simply followed a ritual Moriarty had laid out for him, but this… this was taking a tool from Moriarty’s bag of tricks and manipulating it into something new.  Something personalized to this particular practitioner.

And Moriarty wasn’t one to appreciate that in an apprentice.  He liked his minions predictable and controllable.  So… someone who had some association with the little fucker, but either severed it, like Anderson, or never stepped fully into an apprentice’s role.  And he’d not heard of anyone like that milling about the city.  Not that he’d heard of Anderson immediately, either, but it was strange that there were two people out there he’d missed.  Ultimately, none of this was helping him with the immediate problem, but it was certainly something to investigate once he was done here.  If he wasn’t dead, that is.

      “Gregory!  If your credentials are limited to standing still and staring, then kindly come back here and let me handle matters!”

Thank you, Mycroft.  Both for your concern and for providing the necessary arse kick to set me in motion.

      “You stay where you are.  I’m… just readying myself.”

Greg drew in a breath and used the moment to decide on his first strike.  With some demons, you could actually distract them with conversation, but this species wasn’t known for its interest in intellectual discourse.  So, moving straight to Plan B.

Which made Mycroft’s mouth drop open as he watched the nearly blinding violet-white ball of energy fly from Greg’s hands and impact the demon’s large, horned head.  The shock made the demon snarl angrily and drop the woman in his hands, who fell heavily to the ground.  Dragging his dropped mouth behind him, Mycroft’s legs made an executive decision to launch forward and race past Greg, while the demon’s attention was focused on the person who had just interrupted his fun, to grab the dazed woman’s arm and pull her out of the alley and to safety, where she kept running, something that suited both Mycroft and Greg very nicely.

All of which Greg’s brain registered and filed away as a profoundly sexy bit of bravery by his date because now was not the time to think about sexiness but, if he survived, later would be a very good time to think about it.  A lot.  Now, his brain could think about the fact that Mycroft had just cleared a major problem out of his way since he didn’t have to worry about hurting the witch while he gave the demon a thumping.  And… he had less worry about having to actively protect Mycroft, who did seem fairly capable of looking out for himself.

Realizing his captive had escaped, the demon let out a roar and pounded a large metal door so it gained a deep, fist-shaped impression that quickly found three siblings joining the family.  Another would have been added to the collection except the demon’s attention was brought back to Greg who had sent another energy ball its way, this one tinged green and resulted in the demon howling loudly and contorting its body as if in pain.

      “Run along back to whoever summoned you and this ends now.”

The demon snarled, baring an unsettling mix of tearing and crushing teeth, and Greg translated it into the usual response he got when he gave a brutish demon the chance to scamper off and pout instead of continuing on.

      “Ok, then.”

This next barrage wasn’t a single ball of power, but a thousand tiny motes of it, all swirling around the demon, laying little bursts of energy wherever they touched and lighting up areas of the demon’s exposed skin with a harsh sting that would certainly not be damaging, but would be distracting so Greg could concentrate on preparing a larger spell that involved, as Mycroft watched, a number of complex gestures and drawing patterns in the air that were visible as glowing threads of different colors, all of which weaved an intricate tapestry that exploded towards the demon like a launched missile and blew the creature back a full ten feet to crash into an unyielding brick of a wall erected when things were built to last.

Mycroft gave a small cheer which quickly died as the demon retaliated with an invisible blast of force that knocked Greg off his feet and had him rolling along the ground to finally stop very near the spot where he’d left Mycroft to watch the show.  Which was going about as well as Greg had expected.  He’d done this often enough to know what to expect.  The variation was mostly in the level of power the demon possessed and this one, unfortunately, wasn’t a weakling.

Getting to his feet, Greg sent a quick spell forward that did nothing from Mycroft’s point of view, but temporarily blacked-out the demon’s point of view and started him flailing for the now-unseen enemy that had stolen his sight.  This gave Greg the opportunity to send another spell forward, this one to attack not the demon himself, but the magic that had summoned him and acted as an anchor keeping him in this realm.  Snap the tether and it’s easier to send the creature on its way.  Though, ‘easier’ was a very relative term…

As the demon’s vision began to return, it quickly returned its gaze to Greg, who was busily preparing the next spell in his attack, and followed it’s instincts for basic combat to grab the closest thing on hand, which happened to be a metal post he tore from the ground, and sent it whirling towards Greg who almost dodged it in time.  The ‘almost’ bit meant it slammed his shoulder and not his head, though the sickening crack as newly-healed bones snapped in protest of their mistreatment was not a welcome consolation prize.

With a muttered ‘fuck, not again,’ Greg diverted some of his energy to dulling the pain enough to continue fighting at peak capacity and choked off a shout as he quickly tested the mobility of his arm.  Dulling was not a precise synonym for numbing.

      “Gregory!  Can you not defend yourself?”

Yes, Mycroft, I can, but every bit of energy that goes towards defense comes from offense and getting this bastard out of here is more important than me having to heal up afterwards in the comfort of my flat with lots of beer and telly.

      “I’m alright!”

Except my shoulder isn’t really willing to move and preferring to play dead, so I’ll have to invest some energy into zombifying the fucking thing and that means more damage to heal later.  What a great date this is turning into!

      “Does the creature have any vulnerable areas?”

Oh good.  Mycroft wanted to give it a bollocks kick.  Well, it was a nice gesture.  Actually, it felt good to be supported while he was being mangled.

      “Maybe the eyes or…”

Greg never made it beyond the ‘or’ because Mycroft got to his small, concealed pistol first to unload the clip with pinpoint accuracy into the demon’s left eye.  It wasn’t a powerful firearm but when used strategically could do a lot of damage.  Such as enraging a now one-eyed demon who was feeling a creeping bit of worry from the sensation of bits of metal lodged in its admittedly not-very-useful brain.

      “Oh… thanks.”

      “You are most welcome.  Now… do something.”

Strangely, the brief moment of banal conversation cleared Greg’s own head a bit and he took advantage of the demon’s disorientation by sending forward long ropes of energy that wound around the demon’s legs so it’s halting motions caused it to trip and fall to the ground with a heavy thud.  It was a bit childish, but it gave Greg the necessary moment to use his functional and zombie arm to weave another gesture-based spell that erected a magical cage around the demon which, if it worked as expected, would continue to shrink in size, along with its prisoner, until it winked out of existence in this particular plane of existence.

Working as expected, however, did not include the demon somehow using the spell-based energy around his legs to short-circuit the new bit of magic which, as an additional benefit, freed his legs so he could rise, rip a door from its frame and hurl it at Greg, who succeeded at dodging, this time, by leaping out of the way and thudding loudly on the ground.

      “Gregory!  Roll right!”

Not hesitating a single second, Greg rolled to his right and avoided having a demon’s foot come crashing down onto him.  A foot that had talons on the ends of its toes that could gut a person like a fish.  Jumping to his own feet, Greg noticed a high-speed projectile colliding with the demon’s remaining eye and conceded that Mycroft’s aim with a shard of brick was as good as his aim with a firearm.  Unfortunately, the brick didn’t have quite the effect and the eye remained in the game, turning towards the source of the irritation with a pointed gleam.

Greg felt no small amount of pride that Mycroft returned the demon’s glare full force and punctuated it with another hurled bit of masonry, which Greg gave an extra burst of speed so that it nearly traveled through the demon’s hand, which had been held up to shield its vulnerable eye.  Unfortunately, that also gave the demon his own handy projectile that he dug out of his flesh and sent racing towards Mycroft who caught it in the flesh of his thigh.

      “MYCROFT!”

      “Focus, Gregory.  Remain on his blinded side and… do your worst.”

Growling under his breath, Greg ran further to the demon’s left side, but his bilocated self moved right which garnered a greater share of the demon’s attention and kept him distracted a moment for the sorcerer to fling what appeared to Mycroft’s eye to be actual lances of power, which penetrated the demon’s torso and made the creature sag to its knees.  The next moment was difficult, however, for Mycroft to follow since three events happened at once.  One was the right-side Greg flinging a large ball of blinding energy that was designed to do exactly that – flash blind the demon so that the second event could happen, which was the left-side Greg crafting a spell that enrobed the demon in a thick shimmer of deep red energy that had the demon beginning to quiver with a strange, unrhythmic vibration.  The third event was the left-side Greg being launched into the air by the demon’s own last bid to win the battle, and slam against a wall, his head crashing sharply with the brick before he fell in a heap at the back of the alley.

As Mycroft ran forward as quickly as his injured leg could manage he noted that the right-side sorcerer had winked out of existence the moment Greg hit the ground and it was only a few seconds more before the demon appeared to erupt in a shower of particles, none of which remained visible after the initial flash of light that accompanied the disintegration.

      “Gregory!”

Mycroft looked for obvious signs of life and felt an enormous rush of relief that the sorcerer was still breathing.  Hesitant to move him, for fear of neck or spine injury, Mycroft gently pulled open an eye to check Greg’s pupils, then wiped away the small trickle of blood from coming from Greg’s nose before softly tapping his cheek to stimulate some form of response, which came after a few moments in the form of a loud groan and fluttering of Greg’s eyes as he tried to find his way back to the conscious world.

      “Gregory, try not to move.  I will have an ambulance dispatched immediately.”

      “N… no.”

      “Yes.  I have no idea the degree of your injuries, but am certain they fall squarely in the dire range of physical insult.”

      “Oh, they are.  But… no ambulance.  I… I need to go home.”

      “Eventually, that will occur, but only after you are discharged by the doctors.”

      “John…”

      “Doctor Watson, yes.  I will have him meet us…”

      “No, take me home… John… John will know what to do.”

      “What to do?  Gregory… Gregory, is John aware of your… secret?”

      “Yeah and he… he can help.  Got one of your… cars?”

Mycroft battled the urge simply to ignore Greg’s words and get the man to the nearest hospital, but wavered given the entire situation did not seem to be one with which Greg was unfamiliar.  And if they often ended this way, or even occasionally ended this way, he would likely have a protocol in place to manage the outcome.  Hopefully, that protocol would stretch to addressing the rather distressing situation that was his own leg.  How fortunate they had yet consumed any alcohol, for the blissful effects could potentially make the already-worrying bleeding much more of a pressing concern.

      “Very well.  However…”

      “Just… get me home, Mycroft.”

With a quick nod, Mycroft made a quick call, using the correct code so that his request was not only first on the list, which it always was, in any case, but the dispatcher would plan the route and tend to any pesky traffic signals or other botherations that might slow the vehicle’s trip.  Watching Greg’s eyes close and not open again despite a few more small taps on his cheek, Mycroft place a second call, this one to John for nothing if not additional reassurance that this was the correct decision.

      “Magicae Argentea.”

      “John, Gregory is injured and asked to be brought back to his flat.  Do you concur?”

      “I… how was he injured?”

      “In a battle with a creature of supernatural origin.”

John blinked at the phone in his hand and let the full ramifications of that sentence race through his mind.

      “Oh.  Ok… how injured is he?”

      “One arm is certainly broken and… he suffered a terrible fall from a notable height after impacting a brick wall.  He only regained consciousness for a short time.”

      “Then, yeah, get him here.  I’ll phone Anderson to cover the shop and get some things ready for when you arrive.”

      “Very well.  We shall be there shortly.  Is there anything I can do in the interim?”

Normally, John would have said no, but Greg going unconscious was fairly rare even after a nasty battle, so the possibility of head injury was rearing its ugly… head.  And, the person doing the asking was Mycroft, who had a bit of an edge over the average person Greg might escort out for the evening.

      “Ummm… yeah?”

      “Are you uncertain?”

      “Well… how comfortable are you casting a spell?”

      “Are you serious?”

      “I am.  You… I think you can do it.  Most people wouldn’t be able to without training, but I think you might have a chance.  It won’t hurt to try, at least.  It’ll… protect him a little so if something is very wrong, like internal bleeding or a neurological injury that transport could exacerbate, they’ll stay steady for a short while.  Long enough to get here, at least.”

      “What must I do?”

      “Is there any water nearby?”

      “No.”

      “Not a problem.  Spit on a finger and draw this design on Greg’s forehead.”

John described a relatively simple symbol that Mycroft copied faithfully then had Mycroft carefully repeat a series of words three times before tracing the symbol again with a fresh bit of spit.

      “Is there a sign should I observe, John, if this has worked?”

      “Check his eyes.”

Mycroft quickly lifted an eyelid again and gasped that Greg’s eyes had shifted from brown to green.

      “They are green.”

      “Good.  And bad.  The good is the spell is working, the bad is there was something for it to actually work on.  I need to get ready.  He’ll be safe to transport, but… take normal care.”

      “I will, John.  Goodbye.”

Mycroft terminated the call and took a moment to reposition, so he was sitting on the ground rather than crouching which was making his leg bleed all the faster. And it would give him a more comfortable position from which to… think.  Not that he particularly wanted to at the moment, but he would need to and for many reasons.

      “Dear Gregory… we will see you healed and well soon.  Then, I believe we need to have a little chat.  It is exceedingly rare that the world offers me any surprises, but you have gifted me with a bevy of them tonight.”

The least of which was how in creation was he able to cast a spell.  There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy… many more things, indeed…

Chapter Text

Mycroft suspected, now and again, and that his driver slept in the car, so he was ever available when necessary.  However, seeing him step out of the large vehicle at the mouth of the alley made Mycroft extremely happy for the atypical sleeping habits and committed him to purchase Charles whatever supplies were necessary to make his mobile bedroom as comfortable as possible.

Especially since Charles accepted none of his well-meaning but knowingly-foolish offers of help carrying Greg to the car and getting him settled.  That Charles also accepted none of his well-meaning but knowingly-foolish refusals of help getting his leg fitted with a makeshift bandage was less of a joy, however, Charles in no-nonsense mode rivaled his own no-nonsense immovability, so resistance was something of a Sisyphean struggle for which he had neither the time nor energy at the moment.

      “We’ll be at hospital in…”

      “To Gregory’s shop, Charles.”

      “Making note that you also have suffered a head injury, sir.  Is there anything else I should know to inform the doctors on staff?”

      “To the shop, Charles.  This is a battle I have already fought and lost, though the loss was, in hindsight, a beneficial one as… as it is the correct decision.”

Charles honestly didn’t care if he lost his job because he made the right decision that Mr. Holmes or another person simply didn’t like or agree with, because sometimes it took a perspective outside the immediate bubble to see the truth and act upon it.  If, though, Mr. Holmes had genuinely analyzed the situation, as opposed to acted on impulse or emotion then… regardless, he could always change his mind if the latter was actually the case.  It was highly doubtful that Mr. Holmes would be physically capable of mustering much resistance to being dragged to hospital, though getting him into a hospital gown might require a brace of burly men.  Or one standard hospital matron.

      “To the shop, it is, sir.  However, I will be standing by continually until satisfied that your beneficial loss is as beneficial as you claim.”

The possibility of someone learning of tonight’s events and the further events that would be necessitated because of them was not to Mycroft’s liking, but he had always acted on the principle that you expected the worst and planned accordingly, knowing those plans might never be called into action.  If this was somehow all a mass delusion, then a car and driver who would take appropriate action was a resource he couldn’t afford to toss aside.

      “Very well, though… I would remind… no, I would ask that you treat anything you see and hear as confidential.  Extremely confidential.”

      “Of course, sir.  Not even Ms. Anthea will be apprised of any details.”

That really was the highest level of secrecy possible, so Mycroft was content.  And that contentment was savored for a moment as a small, cool island in the large, hot sea of pain that was his leg, now that the adrenaline was wearing off and his body was helpfully providing an in-depth status report.  This was going to be very difficult to explain in a manner that did not raise questions, but he was nothing if not exceptionally-talented at the weaving of credible explanations for inexplicable matters.

But, that was a worry for another time.  The only worry now was for Gregory and not a mote of attention would he spare for anything else.  He had to hope, though, that his worry was sufficient a contribution because it seemed he had very little tangible assistance to offer.  Not a feeling he enjoyed, but one he might have grow accustomed to if Gregory oft behaved as someone ripped from the pages of a fantasy novel, though the blood and pain were real and not constructs of ink and a writer’s overheated imagination…

__________

Charles pulled the car to the curb squarely in a No Parking space and quickly moved to open the door, nearly colliding with a thin, bearded figure who was darting over to do the job himself.

      “Sir?  May I help you?”

      “Oh… I’m… I’m the one here to help, actually.  Greg, that is.”

Trusting his instincts that the person trying and mostly failing to smile confidently and genially at him wasn’t a threat, Charles opened the door and directed his new friend to assist Mycroft while he went to the other side of the car to tend to Greg.  Mycroft was slightly less trusting, however, since the driver had two good legs to use for defense and he was reduced to one.

      “Oh, I see.  And you are?”

Mycroft further hesitated accepting Anderson’s offered hand, given that hand seemed to be consciously trying not to tremble in what could be nervousness, worry or drugs-related issues.

      “Philip Anderson, Mr. Holmes.  Greg’s… I help in the shop.”

And was supposed to be minding the till, from what Mycroft remembered, but a quick look through the shop window showed a tall, blond, rather severe looking man doing the task instead.

      “Very well…”

Finally accepting the necessary hands-on help, Mycroft heaved himself out of the car, having acquired a near arthritic stiffness from even the short ride, then turned attention to a Greg-toting Charles who was moving back to the pavement side of the car, sporting a look that was easily interpreted as ‘Where to, sir?’

      “Lead on, Mr. Anderson.”

Mycroft had expected to go through the shop which, in hindsight, was evidence his brain wasn’t fully recovered from the mental bludgeoning of the evening, but was assisted, rather unsettlingly, into an alley which, after a long look at Charles and a nod by Mycroft, Anderson continued along to an expanse of solid masonry where he made a gesture, then put a foot through with the caution to Mycroft and Charles to be careful on the steps.  Steps that Mycroft only saw once he had put his head through the not-solid masonry and which lead downward to a door to the basement of the shop that Anderson opened after a few muttered words that acted as a key.  The casualties and their porter were then led through the work area Mycroft had visited before, though he’d not had the good fortune to have his tour extended through another formerly-solid wall to their final destination, that being a second work area, this one now boasting a large and highly ornate circle drawn in the center.

The artist was just setting down his chalk when they stepped through and he motioned Charles to lay Greg down in the center of his artwork, making note of a small cushion to place under Greg’s head.  Anderson helped Mycroft to a chair, then stood by John while John helped him through an incantation that made the air shimmer for a few seconds along the perimeter of the circle.  Once that was completed, John turned attention to the other combatant who his brain had been doing its best to remind him was not looking much better than the man on the floor and was very much awake to feel every bit of it.

      “Alright… let me take a look at that first.  You should have told me you were injured, too, Mycroft.  This looks… bad.”

And John was an expert on what was and was not bad in terms of injury.  Seventy quarts of blood staining a pair of trousers was one very useful bit of evidence for the level of the badness.  Along with the fact that more was slowly dripping onto the stone floor.

      “Inconsequential, at the moment.  Kindly focus your attention on Gregory.”

John waved off Mycroft’s pomposity and took a moment to peek beneath the bandage.

      “Yeah, ok… Greg’s on hold for a moment while I tend to this.  You were lucky that an artery wasn’t severed, but… what is in there?”

Something that made Mycroft suddenly a little queasy now that he thought about it.

      “A sample of London’s finest brickwork, married with an unknown vintage of demon blood.”

      “Oh… definitely tending to you first.”

John moved immediately to doctor mode and did a quick examination that had some features Mycroft recognized and others that were unique to his experience, such as a close examination of his fingernails and having his shirt raised to view his back.  The questions were also of the same vein, ranging from the status of his vision and feeling lightheaded to whether his teeth were tingling or was he craving the taste of mercury.

      “The good news is I don’t see any immediate signs of poisoning and they usually appear fairly quickly, so I’ll assume whatever sort of demon you encountered was just a bruiser and not a venomous species.”

      “And the bad news, Doctor Watson?”

      “You’ve got a slug of brick in your leg.”

      “Yes, that does qualify.”

      “It’ll have to come out surgically, but I can do that here.”

      “Mr. Holmes, I am beginning to feel the need to exercise my executive-decision emergency exit protocol.”

Mycroft smiled softly at the sternness of Charles’s tone and that the man wasn’t letting either what he had seen or heard muddy his mission.  Some people were utterly undone by the smallest perturbation in their perceptions and then there was his driver who had witnessed a terrifying assortment of reasons much of what happened in government was hidden from public view and never so much as batted an eye.  What was the discovery magic was real compared to that?

      “Despite appearances, Charles, Doctor Watson is a certified physician and not one who has self-applied the title to bolster his ego or assist in the selling of his snake oil and magical charms.”

John gave the driver a small nod and made clear note of the look in man’s eyes that enunciated a clear message about the importance of Mycroft’s welfare and the driver’s certain and painful retribution should that be, in any way, compromised.  It wasn’t often that Captain Watson squirmed under someone’s glare, but this one was doing the trick.  The ‘ok, message received’ throat clearing would be another in his collection of things never spoken of in this life or the next.

      “And, as an actual doctor, I’ll give you something for the pain, Mycroft, and get the bleeding stopped for now, then do the excavation work after I’ve checked on Greg.”

      “Very well, but do make haste.  I… I am most concerned about him, John.”

A sentiment apparently shared by someone else who made a screeching leap into the room to howl and scratch at the edge of the magic circle until John gave Anderson instructions how to open it temporarily to let Balthazar though, where the cat made a long circuit around Greg’s prone body, sniffing, patting and making long, plaintive yowls before gently curling on Greg’s chest and purring loudly.

      “Good heavens, Doctor Watson, remove that cat immediately.”

      “Silence, human!”

Mycroft gaped at the evilly-staring cat, but found he couldn’t muster much surprise over the existence of a talking cat.  His supply of surprise for the day was well and truly gone.

      “You, feline, are impairing Gregory’s breathing.”

      “I am healing him.”

      “You are using him as a source of warmth.”

      “Do not deride my methods.”

      “Mr. Holmes, has your brother been turned into a cat?”

Mycroft and John both found themselves laughing at Charles’s small joke, if only to release some of the tension that Greg’s still-unconscious state was keeping at an uncomfortable level.

      “No, but I shall ask Gregory if he can perform such a feat for I feel it might be a useful strategy when Sherlock is being especially nettlesome.”

The fact that the answer to the request could be ‘yes,’ was something Mycroft’s brain deigned not to chew upon with any appreciable fervor.  All remarkable aspects of the evening were being shown to a comfortable suite in his mind, provided with refreshments, and politely asked to wait until they could be given further attention.  Besides, John’s sticking him with a very non-magical hypodermic was far more attention getting.  How such a small needle could make him wince given the agony that was his leg was utterly unfathomable.

      “Ignore him, Mycroft, though, for the record, Balthazar generally doesn’t perpetrate any truly harmful offenses.  Oh yes, the torn flesh, bitten fingers, shredded socks… but he holds his evil below the lethal level, if only to keep us alive to continue the torture.  Now, this will help with the pain and Anderson will kindly smear on a little rather stinky paste onto a fresh bandage that will quiet the bleeding.  While that’s happening, I’ll see about Greg.”

As Anderson busily mixed a selection of herbs with a few spoonfuls of a pale yellow goop, Mycroft focused on John, who was taking out a silver mirror and murmuring words over it just out of Mycroft’s range of hearing.  He then said a few more words, these louder and more emphatic, before carefully stepping over the circle’s edge to begin his work.

      “Might I ask, John, what you are attempting?”

      “Strangely, something very much along the lines of what I’d do if Greg was in hospital.  Do a basic physical exam, checking for both external and internal issues.”

      “And, it is a minor thing, but why was the villainous feline excluded, but you freely crossed the circle’s boundaries?”

      “For precisely the villainous reason.  Balthazar… let’s just say he tends to set off black magic alarms and bring the gates slamming down.”

      “Blatant discrimination!”

      “Hush, cat. Thank you, John, I believe I understand and I appreciate the effort to keep Gregory safe.”

Though Mycroft was not as appreciative of Anderson shakily approaching him with scissors, so a quick glance to Charles had the driver intervening to do the necessary cutting of the trouser fabric to better expose the wound area while Anderson handled the non-sharp duty of dabbing the skin somewhat clean and applying the new bandage with its frosting of something that would normally have both Mycroft and Charles wrestling the perpetrator to the ground for the assassination attempt.  The smell alone would kill a wild boar at thirty paces.

      “Ummm… this is Greg’s and John’s special formula, Mr. Holmes.  It’s dreadful to smell, but the bleeding will stop fairly quickly.  Greg has a customer with clotting issues and this works very well when they have a cut.  I saw it!  So… yes, this is good stuff despite the smell.”

Mycroft had decided that Anderson’s nervousness was akin to what he had seen when some new assistant or junior minister had to participate in a meeting with individuals far higher in position and having far greater experience.  A mouse among the hawks.  With the mouse having to lead a discussion on the political ramifications of forming a hawk-raven alliance given the current anti-corvid sentiment within their feathered citizenry.

      “Thank you, Mr. Anderson.  You did an excellent job with the… distribution.”

Yes, Charles, that was the tone I generally reserve for speaking to Miss Hooper, but the poor man certainly would benefit from a few words of confidence.  So, kindly stop smirking and return to… looming.

      “Oh, thank you, sir.  There’s so much to learn and… well, I’m doing my best.”

Mycroft smiled his ‘very good, Miss Hooper’ smile, which was blandly genial, but seemed sufficient a response to forestall further verbal commitment on his part.

      “Philip, if you could check on the potion I’ve got brewing and… Charles, was it?... if you could lend a hand a moment?”

Mycroft gave Charles a small nod, prompting the driver to lose his jacket and hat and begin rolling up his sleeves as he carefully stepped over the circle boundary and knelt near the squatting John.

      “Thanks.  What I need from you…”

      “I will not be moved!”

      “… is move the cat, then help me get Greg’s outerwear off.  Try not to wince at the state of his underpants, which are probably not a sight for sensitive eyes.”

      “Doctor Watson, might I ask…”

      “Physical exam, Mycroft.  Just like going to your own physician, but I also need some bare skin for a bit of artwork, non-permanent, so don’t worry he’s getting a tattoo, and this will also make it easier to see inside.”

      “P… pardon?”

John grinned and tapped the mirror on the ground next to him.

      “My own device.  Not an original idea, but I’ve worked hard to improve the spells, so it’s a proper diagnostic tool.  It doesn’t let you visualize things quite like standard medical technology, but gives you information on what’s wrong and where, soft and hard tissues, alike, so it’s a bit of a Swiss Army knife.”

      “Oh… interesting.  Why did you not use it on me?”

      “You’re not magical.  It creates a sympathy with the magic in a sorcerer, witch, fae, vampire…”

      “Good lord!  They… exist?”

      “Faeries and vampires?  Oh yes.  Lots of other things that go bump in the night, too.  You’ve fallen into the deep end, Mr. Holmes.  Hope you like to swim.”

John’s cheery smile had Mycroft’s mind briefly flitting with the idea of having the man’s taxes audited but decided against it in the spirit of camaraderie.  Or, truthfully, in the spirit of very much wanting a trained medical man easily accessible to Greg given the rather violent reality of his life.  Having Doctor Watson languishing in prison for the glorious nitpickery the tax collectors could manipulate when suitably motivated would not accomplish that feat…

__________

Mycroft watched closely as John worked, first drawing symbols with a pale, white-silver fluid on Greg’s body, which Mycroft also watched closely for said body was nothing short of glorious to his mind, then used the mirror to examine every square inch of Greg’s still-unconscious form.  Then, a little of the newly-prepared potion was dripped into the sorcerer’s mouth and the mirror scanned over him a second time, after which John set it down and sighed.

      “Well, John?”

      “Ummm… we’re back to good news and bad news, but I’ll start by saying he’s not dying and nothing is beyond repair.”

The sag of relief John saw in Mycroft’s frame only spotlighted how worried Greg’s date had been about his welfare.  At some point, he’d get more information about the date, prior to the surprise ending, and he suspected Greg would be positively giddy about it.

      “He’s got an assortment of bruised organs, but none immediately preparing for failure so no tasty snacks for Balthazar, his arm and shoulder are snapped like twigs, but ribs came through fine this time… can’t, unfortunately, say the same about his skull.”

Mycroft’s posture returned to bolt-upright and rigid and he shot a look at John that said the order to speed Greg to hospital, regardless of any other complicating factor, was rising quickly.

      “Calm down… even with a non-magical person, a skull fracture isn’t necessarily as bad as you’d imagine.  Basal fractures and a few other issues aside, they usually heal well with a minimum of fuss and the victim suffers a headache and not much else.”

      “Is that why he remains unconscious?”

      “It may be contributing to it, but I think it’s more… he’s drained.”

      “Drained?”

      “Like a battery.  Greg battled one of those fuckers not very long ago and was just bouncing back.  What’d he do tonight?  Magic-wise I mean?”

Mycroft described the battle as best he could, not knowing the proper vocabulary for Greg’s actions.

      “… and there could have been a plethora of other actions that I simply did not notice or was not able to notice, of course.”

      “Yeah, that’s a lot.  And in a short time, too.  Normally, Greg would prolong an encounter, so he could moderate his energy use, but it sounds as if speed was important, so… he overextended.  A person may be able to do a 5k run in full sprint, but they’ll be a mess by the end of it.  No permanent problems, don’t worry about that, he’ll just need rest to heal and build up his reserves.”

      “I see.  I suppose, that is not a truly devastating diagnosis, taking the long view.”

      “And you’re right.  Before you ask, yes, he can be killed, yes, he can be permanently injured, though it’s terribly hard to accomplish, but Greg and other sorcerers are hardier for some things than the rest of us.”

That piqued Mycroft’s curiosity, especially given John’s burgeoning connection to Sherlock.

      “The rest of us?  You are not…”

      “Magical?  No, not at all.  Anderson is.  New to the game, but he’s got magical talent.  I don’t, but that doesn’t mean magic is entirely off limits for me.  It’s just harder, a lot harder in some cases, and there is a great deal I simply can’t do at all or nearly at the scale of someone born with the talent.”

      “Ah.  Is that why… I was able to perform a spell on Gregory?”

      “Yes, actually.  Normally, that would have taken a lot of practice and training, but…”

John paused and looked hesitant, mostly because Greg could do a much better job of explaining it, but since Greg wasn't available, the lazy sod…

      “… first, I had the impression you were very detail-oriented and meticulous.  The symbols you drew and words you spoke have to be done very precisely or it won’t work.  Second… being non-magical is like being magical… there are degrees of it.  Or not, since that’s not quite the right idea.  It’s more that there are degrees of human energy, which sounds wrong because magic practitioners can be human, too.  But… you know how some people are more powerful than others?  I’m not talking about position or money, but personal power that exists no matter what you do for a living or how much money you have.  The person that everybody stops to listen to when the speak.  The one who steps right into positions of command, even if it’s just organizing a flower sale for the church.  Some people have power.  It’s not magic, but it is power.   The strongest, most consequential sorcerers have both, but the non-magical can use their human power to make doing the magic we can do easier.”

And your level of power is staggering, Mr. Holmes.

      “And… you are saying I…”

      “Are you going to embarrass yourself by asking if you’re a powerful man?”

No.  No, that would be foolish.  However, it was an intriguing point and one certainly worth reflecting upon in the future.

      “No, I was simply going to remark on how unusual it is, therefore, to see magic not practiced more freely.”

      “Really?  I think you, more than anyone, would realize the chaos of that happening.”

Yes, he could and Mycroft frowned that his attempt to save face further besmirched it.

      “You are correct.  I suppose… I am simply not at my best right now.”

That much John believed and he stood, thinking a moment, before organizing both Anderson and Charles into a crack medical team to work on gathering necessary supplies, both magical and traditional, in preparation for both Greg’s and Mycroft’s treatments.  Then, seeing the oddly sad sight, lifted Balthazar, who had spent the past several minutes sitting just outside the circle never taking his gaze from Greg’s form, and replaced him on Greg’s chest.  If Greg’s condition suddenly took an unexpected turn, there was little doubt the cat would sense it and alert him while he worked on Mycroft.  Besides… warmth and comfort had their own healing properties, even if the recipient wasn’t conscious to notice…

__________

Medical procedures had never been an area of pressing interest for Mycroft Holmes, so viewing the surgery to remove the brick from his leg was somewhat unsettling, though the various efforts John had taken to mask the pain were doing their job and doing it well.

      “Ok, that’s you sorted.  I’ll do what I can to speed along the healing, but you’re not Greg, so it won’t happen nearly as quickly.  I’d use crutches for a few days to lessen the strain on your leg and I’ll prescribe some additional painkillers to see you through the worst of it.  When Greg’s awake and regaining his energy, he can do more, but I’d ask you to refuse his help, which he’ll undoubtedly offer, for at least a couple of days.”

      “I shall not do a thing to further stress Gregory.  Might I inquire, though, how long it shall be before he regains consciousness?”

      “Hmmm… Balthazar?  Anything to say on that score?”

The cat reached out a paw and batted Greg’s nose, which twitched in response.

      “Another hour or so.”

      “There we have it.  We’ll move him up to his flat before then, but I’d rather not take him outside the circle until the last possible moment.  It helps concentrate the healing magic and protects him from outside forces.  Not that I anticipate any of the later, but it’s always possible someone catches wind of Greg being vulnerable and tries to get at him.”

      “Then leave him there, if he is in danger.”

      “Once he’s awake, it’s not as much of a worry and Greg being comfortable so he may actually stay off his feet for a bit is more important.  A pants-clad, peevish Greg will make nobody happy.”

      “He shall receive the full rest he requires, worry not.”

The adamancy of Mycroft’s tone made it difficult for the three other people in the room to not give him a knowing smile, though Balthazar laughed loudly and with a great deal of knowing, but it did make John wonder how well Greg was set up for an overnight visitor.  And what was the state of his sty.  Mycroft seemed to be a very tidy man…

      “Ok… well… I’ll see what I can do to cover as many hours in the shop as possible, since Greg doesn’t like it to close if there’s any possible way to avoid it, but…”

      “I’ll help.”

John smiled at Anderson, but wondered if Greg would smile since the sorcerer being off his feet, again, meant certain things wouldn’t get done and that translated into products not being made which further translated to lost sales.  But, they certainly weren’t strangers to lean times for one reason or another.

      “Great!  Let me talk to Greg about what he can absorb right now for wages and…”

      “That is not a concern, Doctor Watson.  Do what you must to maintain the function and profit of the shop and I shall see the initiatives funded.”

Anderson cut eyes towards John and John sent a ‘well, there you have it’ shrug his way.  Not that John minded, of course.  There was little doubt Mycroft Holmes was a wealthy man in the particular stratum of wealth where paying a week of shop wages was roughly equivalent to funding a new tie for himself.  Maybe less.  Probably less.  Mycroft had nice ties.

      “That would be a great help, thanks.  I’ll put a schedule together.  Sebastian might be willing to put in a little time, too…”

Anderson saw Mycroft’s confused look and helpfully pointed upwards, smiling at Mycroft’s little nod of acknowledgement.

      “Whatever is required, John.  Gregory would be most upset if his business suffered due to his situation.”

A situation that, Mycroft had been mulling, was very likely this severe because of him.  Would Gregory have engaged in such a fast and ferocious battle if he was not present?  Potentially, given the presence of the young woman, but he could have made himself absent after pulling her from the scene and allowing Gregory the peace of mind that there were no bystanders to protect.  Ultimately what was done was done, for whatever reason, but he could certainly see that the man’s suffering did not extend to a financial downturn.  Heavens knows he was suffering sufficiently as it was.

      “If you have a moment to provide the prescription, Doctor Watson, I will dart out and have it filled so Mr. Holmes has his medication readily on hand.”

John nodded at Charles and it just registered fully in his brain that another non-magical person was now privy to their little secret.  However, he also suspected that if Mycroft trusted the man’s discretion, that trust was well placed.

      “That would certainly help.  I don’t keep more than an emergency supply of potent stuff here, as any doctor might, and what I’ve given him will start to wane a bit before morning.  I’ll put antibiotics on the list, too, though the poultice that's over the injury site also helps ward off potential infection.  It’s not foolproof, though, so a two-pronged attack is smart.”

While John moved to grab his prescription pad from his bag and Anderson began tidying the various bits of used this and dirty that laying about, Mycroft took a deep breath and let his brain begin processing data to plot a course of action.  For the immediate future, that is.  Gregory would need care, that much was certain.  Yes, there were individuals, apparently, who were prepared to offer as much help as possible, but… he felt a strong urge to be a vital component of whatever might be required.  So, he would need clothing, toiletries, his laptop, and…

… to create a story that would satisfy Anthea, who he would need to rely upon, as always, to maintain the smooth function of government regardless of his personal state at the moment.  It might be only for a day or two, but any absence from his office was looked upon with suspicion and her demands for explanation were both clamorous and saturated with the foulest forms of extortion.  Oh well, it would not be difficult to use his time tonight to put into the appropriate location a police report concerning some form of accident or ill-fortune to support whatever story he might concoct.  Because she would check.  She would not be Anthea if she did not and being Anthea was an especially helpful thing at present for one demon-mauled bureaucrat and his…

That damnable book!  Oh, Gregory… sorcerer and protector of the great city… you do have some explaining to do, do you not?  Well, rest assured I shall be present to hear every word of it and know well that every word is precisely what I expect to hear…

Chapter Text

      “Ugh…”

Mycroft looked up from his laptop at Greg’s gurgle of resurrection and smiled gently at the man who looked very much as if he was waking up from a long night of revelry involving excess quantities of food, drink and roguish mischief.  He had made himself as comfortable as he could in a chair by Greg’s beside and was filling the time with work and concealing the details of his night from Anthea.  Charles had dutifully filled a bag with necessities for him to spend the night, and a few more if necessary, so he could provide what assistance he could to the one person in the building more injured than his own sad self.

      “Remain calm, Gregory.  You are in your flat, in your bed and John has already taken steps to advance your recovery.”

Greg kept his eyes closed and let himself take a deep breath and reflect for a moment on this tidbit of information.  First, it was given in Mycroft’s voice.  That was interesting as it implied he was either hallucinating or Mycroft was in his bedroom.  At this point, it was even odds either way.  Second, the implication by the hallucinated or real voice was that he’d been completely unaware of John working on him.  If disembodied voice was a hallucination, then that could be a lie and he was still in the alley, waiting for the demon to bring an abrupt end to his tragically misspent life.  If said voice was Mycroft, then he’d been out a long time, which was worrying, but not preparing to meet a violent death, which was the opposite of worrying, so… he’d been going somewhere with that, but his brain had wandered away and got lost in the weeds.

      “Might you be able to take some water?  John was clear that you must stay hydrated.”

Brain shuffles to the edge of the weeds and peers out cautiously to have a go at thinking again.  This, his brain decided, was real.  His hallucinations surely wouldn’t disappoint him by being so boring that they’d bring up hydration and have it spoken about in tones a person might use with some poor old thing who needed a bit of encouragement when they had a confused moment.

      “Beer?”

Mycroft let out a long, relieved breath and cleanly excised a measure of his concern to consign to the dustbin.  Only a sliver, though, because there remained an enormous number of concerning issues to address, though, admittedly, he hadn’t had beer as an item on his list.

      “I think not.”

      “It’s got water in it.”

      “As well as alcohol and suffers a paucity of nutrients, neither of which is advised, given your condition.”

      “That sounded very professional, Doctor Holmes.”

      “You are gravely injured, Gregory, and must take due care.  Let us begin with water and use more potent potables as motivation to follow John’s instructions so you improve to the point where you may have a beer of your choice.”

Greg started to make a loud rude noise, then winced at the pain in his head, and continued on softly, but with added duration to preserve the original sentiment.

      “Behold!  Already the idea of your small treat is bolstering your vigor.  Here, I have a glass of cool water at the ready as well as a straw to help you drink.  Now, do not turn your head, I shall facilitate your drinking.”

Mycroft was surprised at the supply of straws on hand in the kitchen, but it pointed, unhappily, to Greg being often in need of a bendy straw to manage drinking while reclining.  Or the man simply liked straws.  He did seem to have a rather whimsical side that might find such a thing amusing.  It was heartening to see, though, that sense of whimsy confined to things like straws and the few framed film posters on the walls.  The rest of the flat was satisfyingly mature and sedately masculine, both being characteristics of dwellings… and men… that had his unwavering approval.

      “There.  This shall remain close by, so do notify me when you again require it.  What else… the temperature of the room?  Is it comfortable for you?”

In truth, Mycroft had no idea what one did while acting as nursemaid to an injured party, at least, not beyond the immediate care necessary to see the injured party to safety and hand them over to more appropriate hands.  The longer-term matters were something of a mystery, but he was determined to see this one through to the final page.

      “It’s fine.  I’m… you…”

      “Pardon?”

      “I… had thoughtus interruptus.”

      “That was not helpful for clarification.”

      “Didn’t really help me, either.  My brain slipped off the rails a moment because it remembered what happened to you and that… I know you didn’t bleed out and die, because ghosts can’t fool me, even with my head being a little fuzzy, but… are you alright, Mycroft?”

Which was a thought now dragging Greg’s brain further out of the weeds because… Mycroft had been hurt.  Not a tiny ouchie, either, but a nasty sort of hurt that made people squirm and cringe in their seats when they saw it happen in a film.

      “John kindly tended to my leg and provided a most agreeable quantity of pain medication, so I am not experiencing undue discomfort.  A few days with crutches and another few with copious rest for my leg, will see me well on my way to putting my little scratch behind me.”

      “Scratch!  You took a brick in the thigh!”

      “Pish tosh.  Merely a sliver of masonry.  Naught but a memory.”

      “Look at you trying to be chipper and pithy.  That either means your leg is far worse than you’re saying or I’m far worse than I’m feeling and you’re trying the jolly-along technique to keep me in good spirits while I die.”

      “Somehow, I suspect you would know if you were in imminent danger of death.”

      “Uhhh… yeah.  Probably so.  My head feels a bit deadly, though.  And my arm… how many pieces is it in?  Are they all still attached, or did a few fall out along the way?”

      “You retain ownership of the entirety your appendage, though the continued attachment to your torso is mostly attributable to the stalwart actions of your soft tissue as the bones are rather unwilling to perform their appointed duties.”

      “Yeah, I knew it when it happened.  Splintered like a dry-rotted beam hit by a speeding lorry.”

      “Yet… I saw you continue to use that arm during battle.”

      “Oh… ok, true.  About that, I… did what I had to do.”

Greg had endued more unpleasantness in his lifetime than he could even remember, so he shouldn’t be squeamish about much in this world, but imagining what was going on under his skin as he forced the splintered bones to continue to work made his stomach roll.  Some things are just gross…

      “You used magic?”

Greg made a face Mycroft generally associated with men whose partner just caught them eating the last piece of cake when said partner had already staked a claim on it, complete with a toothpick-supported sign that said ‘Hands Off!  This Means You, Kevin!’

      “I… yes.  There are certain spells I knew I’d have to use and they’re gesture based.  Some spells use one hand and arm, but others need two operating together, so I dulled the pain and gave it some help to stay moving.”

      “That would have resulted in a significant amount of extra damage to the tissues.”

Hence the grossness.  Glad he and Mycroft were so complementary in their thinking.

      “True, and it did, but… we won!”

This look was one Mycroft generally associated with men named Kevin who, having been caught eating the last slice of cake, was claiming a moral victory by saving their figure-conscious partner the additional calories.  Life went downhill for Kevin after that, but Greg still had hope.

      “Yes, we did, however…”

      “What else is on my buggered-beyond-belief list?  My handsome face doesn’t feel rearranged, so I am hoping that’s one worry I don’t have on my plate.”

Mycroft glared at Greg who did his best to communicate with his eyes that he was a guileless, childlike man whose simple brain couldn’t manage conversation with any greater depth than the day’s sports results, so let’s stick to easy, concrete things, what say?  Nobody wants to end up like Kevin, do they?

      “Very well.  In sum, you suffered the expected assortment of abrasions and contusions, as well as general internal perturbation and… a fractured skull.”

Even Greg had to concede there was no way to be a silly arse about a fractured skull and not seem… well, like a silly arse.

      “Lovely.  That does explain the headache, though.  John seem overly upset about it?”

      “No, which I do admit, left me uneasy, if only because… well, there is little worse sounding than a fractured skull.”

Again they were thinking alike!  That was nice… and he’d take all the nice he could get right now because his body wasn’t giving him any nice, whatsoever, to speak of.

      “If John’s not calling in more experienced healers, then it’ll be alright.  I trust his judgement.  I’m still worried about you, though.  That was a nasty wound.”

      “It has been dealt with and if you trust John’s judgement, then extend that trust to his work on my little scratch.  I would suggest, in adition, you provide a word of thanks and encouragement for your Mr. Anderson.  He seems… as if he could benefit from it and he was most helpful through the proceedings.”

      “Anderson stepped in?  Well… good for him!  John guided him through things?”

      “Yes, though it was apparent that without John’s help, the man would have had little idea what to do.  He seemed somewhat overwhelmed by it all, but carried on, nonetheless.”

      “He’s new at all of this and I doubt he’s ever seen any healing work, let alone participated in it.  That was actually a good learning experience, though.  Lots of new techniques to learn and having to practice working quickly and precisely.  I’ll have to have to quiz him later to see how much he retained.  Poor man probably thought he was done with exams when he left school, but life’s all about surprises, some better than others.  I’m fairly generous with my expectations, though, so I suspect he’ll earn his credits.  If I were him, I’d bribe me, though, just to be certain.”

Something had been scratching that a corner of Mycroft’s brain and he had been working behind the mental scenes to attribute it to a specific source.  It had taken a few moments, but he felt he had found his answer.

      “Gregory… how much… energy… are you using to maintain your current level of, shall we say, joie de vivre?”

There wasn’t any of the cheeky little boy in Greg’s eyes as he looked back at Mycroft and he finally nodded when he realized Mycroft wasn’t likely to let the issue lie.

      “Probably more than I should be.  I… I didn’t want you to worry.”

      “I will worry regardless, so please do not do yourself further harm.  Rest, Gregory.  That is what you need most at the present time.”

After another sharing of pointed looks, Greg sighed loudly, and Mycroft immediately noticed the difference in the man.  It was as if the sun had lost half of its brilliance.

      “I hate feeling weak.”

      “So do we all, however, there are times we cannot ignore the situation.”

      “You’re ignoring your leg.”

      “No… I am heavily medicated.  It is doing the ignoring for me.”

Greg laughed weakly and remembered just in time not to shake his head and roll his eyes.  His own poor, broken melon wouldn’t thank him for it.

      “John’s good for that.  You talked to him, I take it.  About… things.”

      “Yes, about things.  The good doctor has been most informative and very helpful with my understanding of… well, a large number of startling matters.”

      “Which you… I suppose you have questions.”

      “I do, but not ones I feel I need to pursue at this point.  John has been most accommodating with information and any questions I have he can answer, no doubt, until you have had time to reinvigorate.”

Greg could see, in full, living color that Mycroft was nearly bursting to find out more about what he’d seen and learned tonight.  His aura was reaching out like an octopus to ensnare him with long tentacles of extreme curiosity, but those tentacles stayed just at the edge of gaining what they wanted because Mycroft put this old sorcerer’s welfare as a higher priority than satisfying his lust for knowledge.  That was… he didn’t know what that was, but it said good things about how Mycroft felt about him.  The man didn’t seem the sort to squander things like compassion and sentiment.  Besides, he had questions of his own and not nearly enough energy to dig for answers.  Questions like why was Mycroft carrying a firearm and how he could hold his own, so to speak, in a battle with a demon.  And those were only the most recent ones!  A long talk, with both of them feeling well enough to have that long talk loomed large in the future…

      “Fair.  I’m not feeling very invigorated at the moment, truth be told.  Beer would help with that, though.”

      “I suspect and will verify with the good doctor that beer does not possess healing properties suitable for your various infirmities.”

      “Completely untrue.  It’s the elixir vitae.”

      “It is not.  Especially not the sort of beer I have observed in your kitchen.”

Shit.  Mycroft had seen his crap beer.  Any illusion of him being a genuine man of taste and sophistication was officially shattered.

      “Ok.  You have a point.”

      “Consider it an incentive that if you are a good patient, I shall purchase for you something worthy of a celebratory drink.”

Given Mycroft was a genuine man of taste and sophistication, Greg was more than eager to snatch at that particular brass ring.

      “I like that idea.  You have the best ideas in the world, Mycroft, you really do.”

      “Then we have an accord.  Now, is there anything that I should report to John about your condition?  He did wish to be kept informed.”

Everything hurts and I long for death.

      “Nothing really.  Nothing at all.”

No!  Don’t grab my lies you fucking aura!  Miserable mystical octopus…

      “You are lying.”

      “I am?”

      “And doing a terribly poor job of it.”

      “Oh.  Should I try harder?”

      “Gregory…”

      “Truth – I feel like shit.  Truth – this isn’t unusual or unexpected.”

Exactly what Mycroft had already surmised, but hearing and watching Greg say it himself confirmed, to his own mind, that more was not being held back.

      “But it is useful information and precisely the sort of thing that should be reported to John, so he is aware of your current status and has a benchmark for further evaluations.”

      “Yes, Mum.”

      “I do look most fetching in a colorful frock.”

Greg giggled softly, and his brain shifted to a gear it hadn’t used since he woke.  That was the ‘date’ gear.  They’d been on a date, a wildly successful one, before it all went to hell in a lovely handbag to match Mycroft’s frock.  And Mycroft was here.  Still here.  Keeping a watchful eye on him.  Meaning Mycroft hadn’t been put off by what happened or what he’d seen and experienced.  Further meaning… good things.  Very good things.  Extremely very with a dollop of cream on top good things.

      “Gregory, are you trying to dance?”

Must remember not to shimmy in bed when, first, you have something attached to you only vaguely called an arm and, second, a not-blind person is in the room to see you do it.

      “Ummm… no.  Scratching my bum on the bed.”

That came out of his mouth?  Longing for death even harder now…

      “I advise that you not do that again.  The jostling is certainly not advised for your condition.”

      “Man has an itch, man has to scratch.”

      “Verbalize your need and I will tend to the scratching for you.”

If sweet, sweet death is upon me, let it be accompanied by a bum scratch from Mycroft.

      “Even my bum?”

Mycroft glowered for a second, then let a smile creep out onto his lips that would have set Greg’s brain into the gear above the ‘date’ gear, which was the ‘post-date-filthy-sex’ gear if a single piece of equipment involved in the post-date filthy sex was operational at present.

      “Most especially your bottom.  Once, of course, John approves a range of motion that allows you to roll onto your side so I might reach it.”

Mycroft was the master of practical and sexy, which was a combination that had Greg’s wholehearted endorsement.

      “Fair.”

      “In the meantime, I will make my report to John.”

      “And then?”

The words slipped out faster than Greg could stop them, but he was able to hold back the ‘you’re not leaving, are you’ and, to his mind, salvage a wafer-thin slice of dignity.

      “And then, I will return to matter on which I was working, and you will continue to rest.”

Mycroft nodded towards his laptop which Greg now noticed and stared at a moment because it reminded him that he had work to do, too, and, also, that it meant Mycroft had seen the laptop brought to his flat.  Which implied Mycroft wasn’t planning a quick getaway.  There was a lot of happy thoughts to grow from that bit of fertile soil.  Normally, he healed up on his own, with the occasional visit by John to check on his progress, but… having Mycroft here was comforting in a way he couldn’t quite describe, but valued, nonetheless.

      “Oh no, the human is still here.”

Greg didn’t need to turn his head to know who was speaking and easily shot his rude gesture in the direction and height of the invading cat.

      “We agreed that you would leave Gregory to rest for…”

Mycroft checked his watch so as to be precise.

      “… a further hour and fourteen minutes.”

      “I was bored.”

      “Boredom does not abrogate our agreement.  Paragraph two covers that in some breadth.”

      “The entire negotiation was based on Sir SagsaLot being crippled and weak and pitiful.  Two out of three of those aren’t true, so I consider the contract null and void.”

      “Untrue.  Gregory is still very weak and the term ‘crippled’ is a most malleable one, easily molding to fit this particular situation.”

      “I notice you didn’t argue the pitiful bit.”

      “I do not waste time on nonsense.”

      “Then why are you nannying Greg?”

Balthazar’s shrieking and hissing were far more dramatic than necessary when Greg eked out enough power to toss the cat out of the room and shut the door behind him, but if he had to be evicted, Balthazar was not one to let an opportunity for drama stroll by without snatching it.

      “Gregory… that took a visible toll on your well-being.”

Mycroft glared at the ashen-faced sorcerer, who mustered the strength to make his best sad puppy face, with a wobbly lower lip tossed in for extra punch.

      “I believe the term ‘pitiful’ must now be fully seated as a final member of the unholy trio of your physical condition.”

      “Mean Mycroft.”

      “Would you, for the next occurrence, simply ask me to remove the cat?”

      “He might kill you.”

      “Is… I feel rather strange asking, however…”

      “Could he?  Probably.  He’d likely just maim you, though.  Can’t mock the dead.  Well, you can, but it’s not as much fun if they can’t hear you.”

      “Ah.  You previously did, however, mention ghosts.”

      “Shit.  You’re right.  How’s your haunting skills?”

      “Stellar.  Ahem… I wear the chain I forged in life, I made it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free-will, and of my own free-will I wore it.”

Mycroft’s anguished face and raised hands of sorrow had Greg laughing, which was its own magic for raising both his spirits and his energy level.  Apparently, Mycroft Holmes was very good medicine for his poor, battered body and soul…

      “I’m convinced!  And… yeah.  You can move the cat next time.”

Not an admission Greg wanted to make, but it’s shouldn’t have dragged him almost back to sleep just to give the bastard cat and one flimsy door a magical shove.  He was at that frightening almost-invisible deep red line when your phone was two heartbeats away from leaving you disconnected from the world and if his body had to disconnect him from that world for a few hours to show him the error of his ways, it appeared very willing and able to do it.

      “Thank you.  That might, just might, warrant a chocolate reward.”

      “Chocolate?”

      “Very.”

      “Gasp.”

      “I concur.”

      “Now?”

      “I shall obtain it in a trice.  First, let me speak with John.”

      “Could you make that half a trice?”

      “I shall do my best.”

Greg winced slightly seeing Mycroft reach down for the set of crutches that Greg had failed to notice and carefully stand to make his slow way out of the bedroom.  HAD to remember that he wasn’t the only injured person here and, in truth, Mycroft had the worst of it because, after a few days of rest, he could accelerate his healing and very likely be back to normal before Mycroft’s leg could support the man for a long day on his feet.  Unless, of course, he did something to help with that.  Which he could do and without a great deal of effort.  It was actually easier than healing himself, because healing himself used his own energy, but giving Mycroft’s healing boost used Mycroft’s energy, instead.  Of course, he had to expend that initial infusion of power to get the ball rolling, but it wasn’t something he couldn’t manage with a minimum of fuss.

Especially if the fuss was for Mycroft.  Who, after two dates, was voluntarily taking care of him.  That said something.  Could be pity, but pity didn’t sound nearly as nice as attraction, affection or any other delightful ‘a’ words.  Like arousal.  That was a good one.  He’d keep that one in mind, especially since Mycroft might, must might, be bringing back chocolate…

__________

      “So… we meet again, human.”

Mycroft looked down at the cat, who was fixing him with a look that would have been called a sneer if it was on a human face.

      “Given you are outside Gregory’s bedroom door and I would have to exit at some point, the situation is a highly predictable one.”

      “You know what’s not predictable?”

Balthazar moved slightly so Mycroft could see what he’d been sitting on.  Which was Mycroft’s mobile.

      “Where did…”

      “I am the night!”

Grabbing the mobile in his teeth, the cat raced away towards the conveniently-open door to the flat and Mycroft heard its feet padding down the steps towards the shop.  That cat… now that he thought about it, he had only noticed the animal after it spoke, not before.  The nefarious feline… his mobile had been in his jacket, which was slung over a chair in the bedroom.  What else had it stolen?  Probably his wallet.  It’s what Sherlock would have done.  Marvelous.  Now he had to retrieve his phone before the foolish creature mobilized the military to invade Disneyland Paris or have forty cases of premium cat food delivered to the shop.  All of which, again, Sherlock would do.  Well, he had his ways of dealing with his brother and they would probably translate well to feline form.  And as loudly as Sherlock howled in the clutches of agonizing revenge, so would the cat.  Though, to be fair, Balthazar would likely be somewhat louder…

__________

Yes… his magical hacking skills were more than up to the challenge.  Now… where… ah.  There.  How nice that smartphones were so easy to operate with taps.  You could do anything!  Make a call, send a text or email… to anyone in the world.  Say, for point of argument, a dark vision of perfection that would certainly want to visit her poor, injured employer wherever he may be found.  And bring dinner.  Which should be steak.  Or lobster.  Or both.  He’d skip his meals tomorrow to make room for the bounty his beloved would bring…

He’d deserve the bounty, too, since he’d be out and about keeping an eye out for potential problems.  News that Greg was hurt would travel through the community, as it always did, and that could inspire someone brash or stupid to try something Greg generally frowned on.  Fortunately, even when Greg was on his back, there were eyes and ears to catch the early signs of trouble and engage some secondary lines of defense to kick that back down until Greg could put the final boot in, if necessary.  It wasn’t an easy life being the sorcerer’s invaluable and irreplaceable assistant, but everyone had their part to play in the grand scheme of the universe.  And if his part gained him steak and lobster from his sultry seductress, he certainly wouldn’t complain…

Chapter Text

Mycroft checked a final time that Greg was asleep, then tucked his crutches under his arms and made the slow journey to the kitchen, which wasn’t physically far from the bedroom, but with said crutches and the fiery pain in his leg that pain medication had abandoned, even a short distance took an age to traverse.

A quick rummage through the cupboards gained him nothing but a scowl since there wasn’t anything to be found for tea, meaning that Greg’s supply had been exhausted, that he brought from the shop only what he needed for the moment or that the man was far more wedded to the lure of coffee than he had anticipated.  Regardless, it left him without something to… do everything that was necessary at the moment to restore his sense of humanity and that was not a situation that sat well with him.

Not that sitting was particularly pleasant at the moment.  One forgot how affected was a thigh by the simple act of sitting until said thigh was a howling beast of pain roaring up from its tortured den to remind you.  No tea and a leg hellbent on bringing about the destruction of the rest of him through the sheer intensity of its displeasure with its own life.  But, since he did have his mobile returned from the foul feline…

      “Magicae Argentea.”

      “Ah, John.  You remain at your post.”

      “For a bit.  Anderson went back to his flat to shower, but he’ll be back soon to take over for awhile.  It’s a lucky thing he’s available, since covering the shop when Greg’s… sick… is always a problem.”

Mycroft made note that customers must be nearby and found the information a bit jarring, as he’d completely forgotten that, at the heart of his matter, was an actual shop, with customers, a till, stock and all the other trappings of mercantilism.

      “Do take what steps are necessary to keep the business running at peak efficiency, John.  If you require temporary personnel, simply ask and I will have someone suitable brought in for the day.  Or night.”

      “Thanks, I’ll remember that.  How’s Greg doing?”

      “Somewhat fussy when he wakes, but that has been a rare occurrence, fortunately.  He is taking a great deal of rest, much of which is actual sleep.”

      “Good.  That’s absolutely the best thing for him right now.  And you?”

      “I also agree that the best course of treatment at present is for Gregory to have as much rest as possible.”

      “Funny.  How’s the leg?”

      “Still attached, therefore, I give the situation a passing mark.”

      “Meaning the meds wore off and you’re in agony.  Take more.  You have lots.”

      “I shall, however, there is a matter far more vital to my overall wellbeing.”

      “Which is?”

      “Tea.  Or, specifically, my lack of it.”

      “Got it.  Greg tends towards coffee, especially in the morning and simply darts downstairs if he wants a bit of tea in the afternoon or evening.  I’ll bring some up for you in a moment.”

      “Thank you, John.  Once Gregory wakes, should I attempt to coax him to eat?”

      “I doubt a lot of coaxing will be necessary, actually.  He should have bread up there, he always has bread, so a bit of toast and jam will certainly do no harm.   Ooh, looks like I’m needed.  Take your pill and I’ll be up shortly.”

Mycroft hummed a moment in celebration of his upcoming tea and began to verify the presence of the necessary supplies and equipment to prepare toast to accompany the tea.  Of course, he could simply make arrangements for a delivered breakfast, however, he was actually taking satisfaction from managing this situation on his own.  He was never one to shirk from a challenge and taking on this particular one was proving he had skills that ventured outside the arena of work.

Which he would deal with accordingly today, in the limited manner available.  His PA was fully capable of managing alone for the day, though, there was little doubt that Anthea was already curious about their brief phone conversation this morning.  It wasn’t altogether uncommon for him not to be forthcoming about the reason he was not to be present in his office on a particular day, however, she had seemed… suffused of a greater curiosity than normal for such a mundane thing.

Perhaps… yes.  Yes, of course.  Today would, under normal circumstances, be the day after his date with Gregory.  Admittedly, it still was, in a technical sense, however it was colored with a very different hue than expected and the one she was expecting was some shade of tawdry red to signify an event or series of events that should not be discussed in polite company, though Anthea would want to discuss them in great detail.  Yes, that certainly was the root cause of her tone this morning, as well as her insufferable nosiness.  Well, let her imagine what she will.  It would give her something to occupy her time today after she barricaded the door against panicked bureaucrats and settled into a quiet day of work…

__________

      “A trained chef couldn’t do better, Mycroft.  This is great!”

Mycroft rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop the tiny smile emerging on his lips at Greg’s praise.

      “It is toast, Gregory.”

      “You wouldn’t say that if you knew how easy it is to fail at toast.  I can tell you all the ways because I perpetrate them regularly.”

Watching Greg happily eat his breakfast, sitting up in bed, though propped with pillows and under orders to lay back down again when he was finished eating, Mycroft looked closely for signs Greg was overexerting and trying to hide it, but saw none.  It was clear the pain still existed, but the hours of rest had certainly put a little color back into his companion’s cheeks.

      “Then I am happy my culinary skills pass muster.  I must admit that John was critical in the crafting of your coffee.  He seemed a better source of expertise on the matter than me.”

      “John does know how I like it.  Black and strong enough to strip paint off the wall.  I do want to know, though, how your leg is this morning?  Or, I should say, how is it after this few hours since I last asked you how your leg was feeling?”

      “Doctor Watson’s pharmaceuticals are performing admirably.”

      “And when they’re not performing?”

      “I… it is a slightly different matter.”

Whereas a painful leg was a mournful thing, Mycroft truly didn’t understand the sudden downward cast of Greg’s eyes.

      “I’m sorry, Mycroft.  I should have redirected that stupid piece of brick before it got to you, but I was too slow.”

      “Gregory… I pride myself on quick reflexes and I was not quick enough to move position.  I sincerely doubt you could have responded in time to change the inevitable.”

      “You’ve never seen me snatch a dropped chip before it reaches the ground.”

      “Hilarious.  This was not your fault, Gregory.  It is the fault of… the demon was summoned, correct?”

      “Yeah, and I have to find out by who.”

      “Because it is your job.”

The note in Mycroft’s voice had Greg slowly turning his gaze towards the man who was looking at him with a knowing gleaming in his eyes.

      “Uhhhh….”

      “The book, Gregory.  That was you.”

Stupid faeries.  But, it wasn’t as if there was any more cat to let out of the bag…

      “I could say no, but you’d know that was a lie and… well, I suppose there’s no point in keeping things from you anymore.  Yes, that was me.  Didn’t know that book existed, to be fair, or I’d have shoved the bloody thing to the back of the stacks.  Some fucking faerie had a premonition and was kind enough to not only write it down, but to provide illustrations.”

      “It was a touch vague, as all are such things, I believe.  Might you be willing to provide additional detail?”

      “A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…”

      “I have seen Star Wars, Gregory.”

      “Really?  Did you like it?  It’s one my favorites, actually.”

      “Stay on target.”

Greg laughed at Mycroft’s pitch-perfect mimicry then took a large bite of his toast.  Mycroft was amazing, he really was.  And you don’t reward amazing with cowardly deflections.

      “Alright.  I keep an eye on the city.  For issues involving magic, I mean.  If people have a problem or know of one, they bring it to my attention.  Seek my help or advice.  I keep touch with the practitioners and have a feel for what’s what in London, so I can read the change in the winds when something might be going awry.”

      “Are you… a leader of some form?”

      “No, not really.  But… yeah, sort of.  Not leader, maybe, so much as representative.  When there’s an issue involving the magical community, sections of it, at least, it’s me who is expected to deal with it and the one who is held to account if problems arise.  When there are issues that affect more than one community, it’s me that shows up to whatever meeting or ritual that’s needed to keep things running smoothly.  I’m the one people talk to, negotiate or argue with when the magical side of London is involved.  And, yes, it’s me who does a lot of the fighting to protect London when it’s required.  The big fighting, that is.”

      “I see… do you have…subordinates?”

      “Nope.  At least, not officially.  If I need help, there are people I can ask who I can more or less count on, but there’s no organization or recruits or anything like that. It’s basically just me.  That’s the way for what you’d call my position.”

      “Is it hereditary?”

      “No, though there’s no rule against it.  When the current poor bastard gets too old or dies, then someone new takes over.  There are traditions and practices to determine who that will be but, in truth, the city decides.  Places, especially old, established ones, have their own magic.  There have been sorcerers who tried to do the job and… it sounds strange, but London wasn’t having it, and someone else had to take the reins.”

Greg had been watching Mycroft’s expression and was both happy and puzzled that his story hadn’t produced more of a reaction.  However, the former was greatly overbalancing the latter since scaring off a person he sincerely hoped he’d see a great deal more of was not on today’s approved list of activities.

      “Merit-based, then.  Interesting.”

      “I suppose.  You do have to be strong in talent for the job.  Someone with less power, for example, wouldn’t have been able to shove that fucking demon back into its closet.  At least, not without another practitioner or two throwing in their help.  You have to have some people skills, to a degree, too.  There’s a lot of… agreements, arrangements and understandings that’s go with the job, formal and informal both, and you have to keep a cool head with cooperative ventures and alliances.  Be… diplomatic isn’t the right word, because that’s not really a strength of mine, but… people have to trust you.  Believe you’re a man of your word.  You have to mediate differences of opinion or misunderstandings, sometimes acting as a judge to sort things out and that can be tricky, given the people or beings involved.  And I have to run my shop because there’s not a wage for any of that, so…”

Greg started to shrug then was rudely reminded by his body why that was a profoundly stupid idea.

      “There is no compensation for your service?”

      “No, not monetarily, at least.  There are other things… a genuine sense of accomplishment, satisfaction from helping people who need it, the chance to do and experience a lot of interesting things, the legacy of being remembered as… someone who made a difference or tried to, at least.”

      “Hmmmm…”

      “Is that a good or bad hmmm?”

      “Neither, truth be told.  Is it part of your work to conceal the existence of this magical community from the rest of the world?”

      “Ooh, that’s a pointed question.”

      “Verily.”

      “Well, yes, it is.  Part of the job, I mean.  Not as much of it as you might believe, though.  Practitioners and the assorted other denizens of the community…”

      “Like faeries and vampires?  John mentioned the latter.”

      “Those and others are certainly a part of it.  In any case, we all do an exceptional job of self-policing because… well, nobody wants to be a lab rat on some government dissection table or kept in a cage for the rest of their lives for some scientist can study.  Information does leak out, but it’s never taken seriously as any person, even a journalist, who tries to report that magic is real is laughed off.  That doesn’t mean we don’t stay vigilant, though.  A fucking demon like the one last night would be hard to laugh off, for example.”

      “Those sorts of events… are they common?”

      “No, not in the slightest.  The one last night… it either got away from someone by accident and they’ll get a stern lecture from me when I find out who they are, or they let it go deliberately and they’ll… well, they’ll get more than a stern lecture.  Shit… I have to check on Sarah.”

      “Sarah?”

      “The witch the demon snatched.  Could be coincidence, since she doesn’t live too far from there, or could be something else.  I need to see how she’s doing in any case.  I don’t think she was hurt, but…”

      “I noticed no injuries beyond several cuts and reddened areas that are likely sporting bruises today.  But, given your position, I understand why you would want to reach out and verify that yourself.”

      “I’ll put out a few other lines, too, for information.”

      “I fear you may be moving closer to overtaxing yourself, Gregory.  I admit you seem much stronger today, however… please take due care.”

      “I will.  And I am stronger.  I heal much quicker than the average person, even when I’m not hurrying it along.  I’m not ready to be up and about, but I’ve got more zip and zing than I did.  That’s why I want you to focus on yourself and not on me.  I’ll be fine, but I’m worried about you.  And speaking of you…”

      “Must we?”

      “We must.  Why in the world did you have a gun on our date!”

      “Ah.  Yes…”

      “That was not informative.”

      “No, I concede it was not.  I suppose, however, since you have been forthcoming…”

      “I came forth like a champion.”

      “That you did.  To answer your question, then… I routinely carry a weapon if I shall be out in public… without a security detail of some form.”

      “My tax money stretches far enough to provide security details for minor government officials?”

      “I may have slightly understated the degree of my standing.”

      “I suspected that, I have to admit.”

      “It is not a fact I announce readily for… well, for a variety of reasons, however, I would, at some point, have given a clearer picture of my role in things.”

      “Well, I can’t blame you for that, and I don’t.  You meet someone and, even if you think there’s something there, you really don’t know how it’s going to go, so you don’t toss about your secrets like you’re old friends.  Can I hazard a guess that you’re higher up in government, though, than you even let old friends know?”

Mycroft’s newly-discovered intelligence kink surged up and begged him have his schedule completely free on the day this happily grinning man was fully cleared for any and all acts of sexual debauchery.

      “Higher is a… it is not as precise a word for what I am.  Broader is closer, perhaps.  Some might say integral, however, I would not boast such a thing.”

      “Because you’re a very humble man.”

      “My humility serves as an exemplar for all those who aspire to a life of modesty.”

      “I’m honored to be in your presence.  This not-integral position of yours, is it hereditary?”

      “Scamp.  And no, though I did come to government service through an uncle.  He thought it might be a good place to utilize my, shall we say, unique talents.”

      “Such as marksmanship?”

      “That is the product of many hours of practice though I will admit to having naturally keen aim.  In my youth, I led a somewhat more active life, which was not really to my taste but necessary at the time.  Now, I can restrict my physical exertion to opening my desk drawer to see what sorts of biscuits I may on hand for my afternoon tea.”

      “That’s why your arm looks so sculpted and muscular.  I was wondering about that.”

John paused outside the bedroom door and smiled for a moment.  Greg sounded happy.  For a decent, kindhearted man, that shouldn’t be notable, but Greg spent a good bit of his time worried or hurting, so simple, happy times came less frequently than one might expect.  And, given Greg’s abysmal history for romance, this was a double victory and one worth celebrating.  When the stupid sorcerer wasn’t a collection of broken pieces, that is.

      “Knock, knock time for a prostate exam.”

      “Mycroft, protect me!”

      “Gregory, I have full confidence in John’s medical decisions.  Prepare to lose your trousers.”

      “I’m actually confused about how I feel now.”

John simply grinned at the shared middle-aged giggles and tried to remember if Greg ever mentioned seeing anyone who knew the truth about him.  Maybe he had, but it was hard to imagine anyone being as comfortable with it, especially so quickly, as Mycroft Holmes.

      “Maybe that will keep your ridiculous mouth shut for awhile, then, while I see how much damage you and Mycroft did to yourselves while I was keeping you out of penury.  Anderson’s back and he’ll cover today.  We may have a few deliveries, but I told him to sign whatever they shove in his face and I’ll handle the unpackaging and inventory work tonight.  He can bloody well do the stocking tomorrow, though.  And the dusting.  I think Anderson actually likes doing the fuddy duddy things, so this could be a very good arrangement.”

      “Wait… I can probably take the day tomorrow, so there’s no use having Anderson… why are you both looking at me like that?”

Now John and Mycroft were looking at each other, with John smiling a smile that Greg didn’t understand, but Mycroft certainly did, much to his annoyance.

      “Gregory, you need rest, not work, to properly heal.  Allow yourself the time you need.”

      “By tomorrow, I’ll be able to sit my plush posterior behind the till and smile at the customers as well as anyone.”

      “So can Mr. Anderson.”

      “Who I have to pay for his time, unlike myself.”

      “Money matters will sort themselves properly, I have no doubt, so kindly take a full measure of rest so you do not prolong the time you cannot conduct business personally.”

      “Money doesn’t sort itself, Mycroft, you have to do the sorting yourself and myself says I’ll be back in the shop tomorrow.”

Mycroft hadn’t wanted to broach a certain subject until, perhaps, it was an after-the-fact matter, however, the universe had another plan in store for him, it appeared.

      “I have already pledged to see covered fully whatever undue expense is incurred due to your incapacity.”

      “What?  I mean what does that mean because I didn’t understand a bit of it.”

      “It means Mycroft told me and Anderson that he’d foot the tab for the extra hours.”

Mycroft scowled at John, who was having a great deal of fun, the way anyone has fun watching a couple gear up to a spat, knowing they’re not part of it so they can simply eat their popcorn in peace and enjoy the free entertainment.

      “No.  No, and in case I wasn’t speaking clearly, no.”

      “It is a minor matter, Gregory, and one about which you should not trouble yourself.”

      “It’s my shop, so I’ll bloody well trouble myself if I want to!”

Greg started to rise from the bed to have the argument on his feet, but was quickly finger wagged and ‘oh no you don’t you bastard’-ed into changing his mind.

      “It is your shop, Gregory, there is no denying that fact.  However, this is a situation where… it is not an unprecedented thing for a person to offer assistance to one who has a need.”

      “You help a bloke move to a new flat, yes, you don’t pay his staff’s wages!”

      “Gregory, I shall be blunt.  I do not wish to, but I feel it is necessary.  Your staff’s wages are most likely less than the cost of many of my ties.”

John beamed brightly at having correctly estimated Mycroft’s level of fat-cattedness.

      “That… really?”

      “I have exquisite ties.”

      “You do.  That is true.  But… I’ve got my pride.  It’s not an ego stroke to have someone cover my expenses.”

      “Perhaps, but pride goeth before the fall and this fall would be as damaging to your health, I fear, as the one that brought you your painful cranium.”

Greg fumed and seemed content to fume, so John nodded for Mycroft to pull up the leg of the loose pants Charles had found for him to wear, so some good could come from the quiet interlude.

      “Ok, this looks… I was going to say good, but let’s not kid ourselves.  It looks appalling, but the level of appallingness is what I’d expect if you weren’t showing early signs of flesh-eating bacteria or plague.  That’s not a prediction for the future, though, so keep to my instructions and don’t cut short your course of antibiotics.  And don’t stress the leg.  There’s a lot of damage to heal and if it doesn’t heal well, that could mean long-term problems that you don’t want.”

      “Thank you, John.  I will pay close heed to your advice.”

      “Good.  Now, I’ll change the dressing on this and…”

      “I’m going to pay you back!”

Mycroft and John looked over at Greg who looked exactly as he did a moment ago, a tight-lipped, pouting misery, despite the unprompted outburst.

      “I… if you wish, Gregory, I have no objection.”

      “May not be right away, but I’ll pay back every bit.”

      “I have no doubt you will do so if that is your chosen course of action.  I feel confident John will have a record of the hours worked by each individual, so that any extra wage cost can be properly determined.”

      “Fine, then.  John, you heard him.  I want everything on the record so I can wipe the slate perfectly clean.”

      “Ok, though it’ll be the only thing clean in this flat.”

This time, Greg was strong enough for a properly-loud rude noise and felt good about giving it.  However, a tiny secret part of him was feeling some relief that he didn’t have to worry about running the shop for a few days.  He had his limits, wider-than-normal though they may be and, like anyone, pushing them was never fun.  And, the older he got, the less fun it was.

Besides, this might give him a little more time to spend with Mycroft, who certainly wasn’t going to be scampering off to work himself for a day or two, either.  Maybe, if he asked nicely, he could convince Mycroft into spending some or a lot of that free time here.  It wasn’t an exciting place for an extended date, but there were films to watch, books to read, conversations to have… he could certainly use the time to learn more about Mycroft’s actual work and Mycroft could learn the same about him.  Now that he was aware of the world of magic, there was no doubt Mycroft would want to learn all there was to know about it and wasn’t it fortunate that he was in a medical ward with a person who was very well versed in the subject and more than eager to share the knowledge with a willing ear…

__________

Rested?  Check.  Medication working?  Check.  Fed?  Check.  Watered?  Check.  All matters of personal hygiene and comfort tended to with minimum of embarrassment?  Check, though using a little magic for the last one was a hotly negotiated list item, but he was not about to have Mycroft handle anything remotely related to a bedpan.

One full day of malingering neatly tucked under his belt?  Check.  And what a day it was.  Naps, of course, but also quiet day with Mycroft’s laptop being used as a telly to watch a few films and a lot of chatting about simple things that were light and fun and made the day the relaxing sort of thing they both needed.

      “AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!”

Balthazar shooting into the room to jump on Greg’s bed and sit posed like he was starring in a cat food ad was, honestly, not the strangest thing either man had seen him do, but it was the strangest in the past hour, so it merited some interest.

      “Cat, what in…”

      “If either of you are naked… well, too bad, I’m coming in anyway.”

Mycroft froze at the sound of the voice, but it took Greg a moment to catch on.  The catching-on moment was when Anthea strolled into the bedroom carrying two large sacks that seemed to perplex the males in the room except the one wearing fur.

      “Now, you, Royal Highness, will begin by telling me why you thought you could lie and get away with it.  You will follow that with an explanation for your command to bring dinner when you know I would already have sniffed out your ridiculous lie and this would just make me consider putting laxatives in every dish as a reminder not to lie to me.  That cat is strange but absolutely right to laugh at you.”

Mycroft scowled at the sniggering Balthazar and promptly removed him from Greg’s bed, sighing when the cat simply jumped back, this time onto his own good leg, so as to contort precisely and position his bottom as close to Mycroft’s face as possible.  It was like having a loaded gun pointed at you when you knew the gun owner was very willing to pull the trigger.  At least, though, Anthea had turned her glare on Greg, so Mycroft only had to fight for his dignity on a single front.

      “And why are you in bed looking terrible?  Again.  The police report that horrible liar placed in the system about a car accident is completely phony, and insulting, as well, because it wasn’t even especially well done, so I want to know what happened to make you look like a lukewarmly reheated plate of lackluster death.”

      “Uhhhh….”

      “Brilliant.  You.  When the cat stops farting at you will you say something to, at least, try and earn enough goodwill that you don’t return to an office that’s been painted hot pink.  And I do mean an office, not the walls or the ceiling, but every single thing in there including the rug.  And your TARDIS.”

      “As… as you perceive, Gregory was most foully injured last night and I…”

      “Why is that cat avoiding one of your legs?”

      “I assure you that…”

      “He’s taken pains to avoid any contact with it and, now, he’s gently patting your leg and giving me ‘oh Anthea, he’s hurt, pity him’ eyes.”

      “He certainly is not… he is.  Lovely.  In any case, it is a cat.  Who can fathom what occurs in their minds?”

      “Molly.”

      “I concede the point, however, given she is not here, we shall continue on in ignorance.  Now, turning attention to the savory-scented sacks you are sporting…”

      “You get dinner only when I get the truth.   And it had better be a very good truth, because this is a very good dinner.  Though, I’ve never known you to be a lobster lover, Mr. Liar Holmes.  It wasn’t easy getting steak and lobster, but I’m happy to walk out with it if my truth isn’t just as succulent and juicy.”

Mycroft’s confusion soared until Balthazar hopped off his leg to begin rubbing himself on the bags, sneaking a stuck-out tongue at the British Government for good measure.  He had been foiled by a cat.  And for the cost of a single meal.  That was rather demeaning, which only served to boost the severity of the necessary revenge to be enacted sometime in the near future.

      “Gregory, if you already have not surmised, this is my PA.  I am not certain if she mentioned that fact when she previously visited your shop. She is also the nosiest and most bothersome person in London.”

Greg wisely didn’t reveal that he knew Anthea’s identity or her actual intentions in visiting the shop with her cousin Molly.  Some secrets were fine to keep secret until you were old gents wearing warm jumpers, doing a turn through the flowers at your retirement cottage in the country.  Not that he was thinking that far ahead, of course, but… it had been a really nice day…

      “An excellent customer and an exceptional PA if she’s bringing food.  And taking none of our shit.”

      “You, beat down and rather smelly man, might survive the night.”

Greg lifted his good arm and took a sniff, reminding himself that quickly running a wet flannel across face and bollocks wasn’t a proper substitute for a good shower.

      “Hurray?”

      “Yes.  Now… either of you.  Truth.”

      “The truth was in the report.  Gregory was injured in a rather nasty collision…”

      “So he’s not ‘sick’ this time like the last grand lie event on his part?”

      “Gregory is… a man of…”

What Greg was died on Mycroft’s lips at the sound of the soft knock on the bedroom door, which was accompanied by two sets of eyes peering around the door, which was now, apparently, open as an invitation for the world to stop in for tea.

      “Oh look, it’s Anderson and Moran, the Snoop Brothers.  Why are you spying on me?”

Anderson took that as Greg’s ok to step into the bedroom, with Sebastian following, then immediately snatching the hissing, yowling and claws-extended cat out of midair, without so much as blinking an eye.

      “Cat’s gonna die, Greg.”

Anthea thought that was certainly possible, given the wild attack was still ongoing which might cause a heart attack or stroke, if cats were prone to that sort of thing.  The fact that the large, blond man was also holding the cat in such a way that snapping its neck wouldn’t be difficult, and looked like he was contemplating that very thing, increased the probability to even odds.

      “Don’t kill my cat, Sebastian.  He’s loony, but… that’s all really.  I’ve got nothing better for his defense.”

Balthazar had some prime commentary ready for that wholly unsatisfying defense, but remembered Anthea was in the room and that he was acting like an unhinged loony, which was not an attractive look, and she wasn’t aware yet of his gift for scintillating conversation.

      “Sebastian, I think you might be hurting him.”

The worried tone in Anderson’s voice did two things.  First, it drew a quiet sigh from the tall werewolf before he set the cat down on the floor.  Second it drew an inferno of curiosity from Greg about why the tall werewolf would sigh gently and set down the evil moggie.

      “One bite and he’s dead.”

Sensing that one bite might be coming, Anthea reached into one of the bags and pulled off a morsel of a still-warm steak and tossed it on the floor to distract the potential murder victim.

      “GREG!  You horrible shit!  I ask one little favor and you completely ignore me, which…”

Marcus strolled into the now overly-cozy bedroom and stopped short seeing both the number and diversity of people enjoying Greg’s drab décor.  Well, most of it was drab…

      “And who is this, might I ask?  I thought I was the most beautiful thing you ever had in your bedroom, Greg, but I was very, very wrong.  Marcus Varnas, at your service, my lady.”

Anthea didn’t have the chance to either shoot down the vampire or let him carry through with kissing her hand because he was now too busy to notice either way, what with Balthazar launching an even more vicious assault than he had on Sebastian.

      “You will not touch my bride, you fiend!”

Mycroft looked over to Greg, who was wearing an even better long-suffering expression than he could ever muster and decided that this evening might just be another on their ‘oh good heavens what now’ list.  Already they had a list!  Admittedly it was a list of evenings gone staggeringly wrong, but anything to share as a couple was something to be treasured…

Chapter Text

      “Fucking cat!”

Anthea rarely had moments in her life where she had no idea what to do, but a raging cat attack… a raging talking cat attack… especially one this raging and on the heels of a previous raging attack was leaving her a little dumbfounded.  And a check of the expressions on the faces of the rest of Greg’s bedroom party wasn’t helping matters.  The first person the cat tried to maim was merrily grinning at this new round of savaging.  His friend looked terrified. Greg seemed not to care particularly.  Mycroft appeared to be contemplating intervening and wondering why others more capable, such as the tall, blond grinner, weren’t stepping in to do it themselves.

That analysis took roughly a second. In the second and subsequent few seconds, she stood in shocked awe at the fury of the assault and… paused.  She was absolutely certain the cat had gotten in a long, deep scratch on the hand-kisser’s face.  But it wasn’t there now.  And there had been visible damage on the hand and… hmmm.  There was the faint remains of the gouge, but it was… going, going, gone.  No longer there at all.  Ok, that was strange.  Stranger even, maybe, than a talking cat.  Maybe.

      “Gregory…”

      “Uh… Marcus can handle this, Mycroft.”

Neither Mycroft, Anthea or Anderson had any idea how, at least, not until the new arrival suddenly sported fangs to rival that of the cat and hissed with a frightening ferocity.

      “Ummmm… Sebastian…”

Anderson knew there were things in the world he had yet to discover, but he didn’t expect to find one in Greg’s bedroom.  Especially one that only made his new, quiet friend chuckle softly and smile a very satisfied smile.

      “Sir, do you want to weigh in on this?”

No, Mycroft did not, no matter how pointedly his PA was glaring at him.  And, speaking of glaring, what had happened to Marcus’s eyes… that was the deepest, most venom-laden crimson he had ever witnessed… they were nearly obsidian, with a volcanic glint…

With the population of the room being utterly useless, Anthea realized it would be her, as usual, to ride to the rescue.

      “Balthazar… you’re embarrassing yourself.  Stop it, now, or forfeit any lobster you probably think you’re getting from these bags.”

The time interval between Anthea’s words and Balthazar unhooking his claws and teeth from Marcus’s quickly-repairing flesh was not measurable by any modern timepiece.

      “My beloved offers me the finest of food to accompany my drinking in of her dark, exquisite beauty.  Truly, I am… oh shit.”

Balthazar’s brain was finally able to hack through the residue of his jealous rage and remind him of a little fact that he had lost sight of during his lapse of decorum.

      “You’re still strange, cat.  But, you’re also right.  I am a dark, exquisite beauty and one who is now going to get an explanation for why you talk and this one looks like a vampire when he’s fighting off crazy, apparently jealous, cats.  Who would like to volunteer to fill in the gaps?”

      “Stupid vampire couldn’t fight off a cat.  That’s great.”

 Greg smacked Sebastian on the leg, but the werewolf just grinned wider, making a rude gesture at the snarling Marcus when Anderson whispered ‘He’s a real vampire?’ in what the fledgling sorcerer probably thought was a surreptitious fashion.

      “Watch your tongue, puppy, or it may not remain in your mouth.”

Now it was Sebastian’s turn to snarl, which lay over a deep growl that reverberated deep in Anthea’s core while she marveled at his own eye shift, this one towards something that reminded her of nature videos… and horror movies.  Wonderful.  All they needed was a witch in the room and it’d be Hammer Horror night…

      “Don’t call me puppy, leech.”

      “Leech!  You want to see bloodletting, I’ll be happy to oblige.”

Greg had zero doubt that a fight, a bloody and violent one, was primed to erupt, because it was the sad norm for these two morons, but rather than let it rage until they just tired each other out, he decided to step in and save the innocent, slow-to-heal bystanders from an accidental mauling.  Taking a very deep breath, he murmured a few words and smiled weakly as a thunderclap sounded so loud it rattled the windows of the building and made Greg hope there’d been nothing expensive and breakable sitting close to the edge of a shelf in the shop.

      “Now that I have your attention… fuck off the both of you.  No f…fighting in my flat.”

The in-stereo ‘he started it’ didn’t surprise Greg, who simply rolled his eyes and avoided meeting Mycroft’s because he could feel Mycroft’s disapproval at the expenditure of energy warming his skin with its toasty wrath.

      “I don’t care; I’m ending it.  And, no, I’m not erasing any memories, so you’ll have to live with your idiocy being remembered by everyone in this room.  That goes for you, too, Balthazar, so stop laughing.  I haven’t forgotten you’re the one who actually started all this nonsense.”

Mycroft was happy to see the cat’s contrite face join that of the other two who, apparently, were a vampire and… could it be a werewolf?  He, that is, not it.  That was probably considered impolite whether one was fully human or not.  At the moment, though, Anthea wasn’t particularly concerned with politeness.  Basic information about what in the hell was going on was a much more pressing concern to her mind.

      “I’m still waiting for my answers and if any of you think you’re making it out of here without me being fully satisfied with those answers, you’re as foolish as most of you look right now.”

Except, she had to admit for the thin, bearded man, who looked confused more than foolish.  And there had to be a story behind why he kept looking up at that Sebastian character with a mixture of things in his eyes that was very hard to disentangle, but wariness was certainly one thick thread amongst the rest.

      “I… I would like some answers myself.”

Anthea nodded supportively at Anderson, who looked like he could use an ally, poor thing being a little on the trembly side at the moment.

Marcus shook out his hair, running a hand through it to ensure his longish black locks presented exactly as he desired to woo the fair maiden.  Though the maiden bit probably shouldn’t be said aloud because she looked the sort who could do more her heels and fists than the stupid cat with his claws and teeth.  What a treasure…

      “Very well, since that one looks like a frightened rabbit, the mongrel is more than a bit stupid, Greg is… I have no idea what’s wrong with him, but he looks like halitosis made human and Mycroft there… he probably has money to count.  In any case, let me introduce myself… again.  Marcus Varnas, heir to the Varnas line, prince of…  the vampires of this ludicrous island and a massive swath of Europe and Scandinavia, though not the really cold parts because fuck that, at least until Father finally gets his bony arse off the throne, which is murder on his bony arse and I get to hear about it almost as often as his latest failure to burn one of the local witches.  But I digress.  Just focus on the vampire prince and my unquestionable sexiness for now.  Anyway, that surly mass of dull-eyed dog breath is Sebastian Moran, werewolf that no pack, even the most raggedy and flea-ridden, would have as a member.  His little chum… I think Greg found him on the stoop or something like that.  Baby sorcerer, in any case.  Greg himself, when he’s not looking like death having a nap, is an old sorcerer, watches over this little city as best he can with help, of course, from me.  Balthazar there is a festering mass of infantile irritation stuffed in a moth-eaten cat suit someone stole from the world’s most incompetent taxidermist.  He’ll tell you he was birthed in the fires of hell and nursed on the foul milk of the darkest demons, but wave a fluffy ball in his direction and witness the sad, pitiful truth.”

      “You do love the sound of your own voice, don’t you, Mr. Prince of Vampires.”

A treasure…

      “Only one of the many things I love about myself, dear lady.  And I will be happy to discuss, and demonstrate, each and every one to your… satisfaction.  What say you and I leave this primary school Halloween play and go somewhere with wine, candles and small bites of food that we can eat with our fingers.  Or feed each other with our fingers.  Fingers and mouths will be involved and in the most delightful ways imaginable.”

Before Anthea could answer, Sebastian grabbed Marcus by the collar, strode to one of the bedroom windows, threw it open with his free hand, and tossed Marcus out, and closed the window post-exit.

      “Idiot.”

      “Lovely, Sebastian.  You know he’ll make my life miserable for that, don’t you?”

Sebastian just shrugged at Greg’s lament, then gently pulled Anderson away from the window where the sorcerer had been looking in hopes of not seeing a bloody aftermath.

      “Is that meat in those sacks?”

Anthea huffed at werewolf, but reached into one of the bags, opened the container and held up the steak she’d already raided for Balthazar’s nibble.  She felt no surprise that Sebastian took it and popped the whole thing in his mouth, contentedly chewing while Balthazar began yowling the most pitiful, mournful yowl he could muster.  For his trouble, he got a lobster tail stuffed with crab that he was happy to eat messily off the top of Greg’s dresser.  With that done, Anthea sniffed and turned to fix Mycroft with… a look.

      “Mr. Holmes… I blame you.”

      “WHAT!  I… I have done naught but sit here.”

      “Exactly.  You sat there and have been sitting there not informing me of any of these little facts.”

      “I… had no idea of them myself until, partially, last night.  The remainder, today’s information, is utterly new to me.”

      “Really, then why… oh.  Oh, he is very dead.”

      “Who is dead?”

      “You know who.  He answered the call out last night listed under your name.”

He had to phone Charles as soon as possible.  If the man hurried, he might be out of the country before Anthea descended on him.

      “I have no doubt Charles would have duly informed you, however, I allowed him a free day today owing to our rather late hours… conducting business.”

      “Uh huh.   You, in the bed.  Is this business the reason you look as destroyed as the last man who tried to lie to me?”

      “Ummm… yes, ma’am.”

      “Tell me.”

      “We fought a demon.  And won!”

      “Brilliant.  What’s the damage?”

This said facing back towards Mycroft who was reminding himself exactly why Anthea was his PA.  She might have an ‘oh my god’ moment at some point, but not when there were important matters to tend to.  Such as putting a room of bothersome people very much in their place.

      “A somewhat substantial wound in my thigh.”

      “Length of debilitation?”

      “Several days on crutches, then light use for a goodly number more.”

      “Ok, that could be gunshot or stab wound, which would bolster your reputation, or a pulled muscle from jumping when you saw a mouse in your kitchen, which would not.  We’ll go with a vague version of the former for the official unofficial story and some leg-wrenching business that coordinates with your pathetic police report for the official official story.  Now… could someone let in the vampire?”

Given Anderson was the only one who seemed happy Marcus hadn’t met a sad fate, or was simply amused by the sight of the vampire, hovering outside and scowling at them, he did the job of opening the window so Marcus could stick a leg through and make his way back into the room.

      “That was your fault, Greg.”

      “Told you, Seb.”

Sebastian shrugged and took the remainder of the bags from Anthea to begin rooting through them for more food, passing Anderson the second lobster tail and some bread, which Anderson ate using a napkin for a plate after sitting carefully on the edge of Greg’s bed.  For his part, Greg was wondering how his night of quiet recuperation had become a larger party than he’d ever hosted in his flat, let alone his bedroom.  But, sometimes the only way out is through.

      “Mycroft, hand me my mobile, will you?”

      “For whatever reason?”

      “Food.”

Sebastian’s ‘good’ was roundly ignored, but Greg mentally ticked up the quantity he had planned to order from the little Chinese restaurant a few blocks along that was happy to deliver right to the door of his flat by sneaking up through the shop.  Very useful when it was all he could do to limp his way the few steps from sofa to door to collect his dinner.

      “And, if you’ll help me, we can actually move this information-sharing session out of here and to a larger arena.  Like my sitting room and kitchen.”

      “Gregory, is that wise?”

      “I get the sofa.”

Mycroft frowned, but conceded that reclining on a sofa was not significantly different than reclining in a bed and the sofa was approximately the same number of steps away from said bed as the loo, which had already greeted Greg several times today.

      “Very well.  Place your order and… Anthea, I presume you are remaining?”

Balthazar used only a small amount of magic to leap from lapping the last of the buttery lobster essence from the dresser and precisely land on Anthea’s shoulder to purr loudly and rub his face in her hair.

      “As long as nobody rubs their stinky faces in my hair again.”

Balthazar gasped at the jab, but didn’t fight Anderson lifting him off Anthea while whispering in his ear ‘ladies probably don’t like the smell of crustaceans in their hair,’ and setting him on the floor.

      “Very well.  In the spirit of disclosure, and the potential for… future encounters, I will invite Charles to attend our little tete-a-tete.  You will, of course, forestall enacting any desired revenge until a later time.”

      “If I have to.”

Marcus sidled up to Anthea for his own whisper, one which made the sides of Anthea’s lips twitch into a brief, wicked smile that had Mycroft pining for simpler times.  But, looking again at Greg, he summarily waved away that particular wish.  Simpler times would not include a man as tantalizing as Gregory Lestrade, and he very much liked times that included both him and Gregory in them.  They certainly could do without this rather riotous supporting cast, however, soon enough, they would, again, be alone to rest and take pleasure in the joy of each other’s company.

Of course, this riotous supporting cast did include some highly interesting, and potential useful, characters that he would very much like to speak with again, at length, at some point.  One did not waste potential resources; Uncle Rudy was always adamant on that point and it had served him well throughout the years.  Not that dear uncle would have anticipated resources of the supernatural kind.  Then again, maybe he would.  The man was certainly one with his own secrets and highly skilled in keeping them…

Chapter Text

Mycroft looked around Greg’s the small sitting room and marveled at what he saw.  One powerful mage, one novice mage, one talking cat, one vampire, one werewolf, all happily eating takeaway directly from the containers, but nothing was as astonishing as his driver, in faded jeans, a paint-splattered t-shirt, trainers and messy hair, sitting on the floor merrily consuming his weight in the excellent Chinese food.  The man had taken his ‘Please make haste to Gregory’s flat, uniform not required’ somewhat to heart.

      “I think that’s fascinating, actually.  I can’t draw a believable-looking rock, so I admire anyone who has artistic ability.”

Thank you, Mr. Anderson, for plumping my driver’s ego.  He positively shall be insufferable for days…

      “I appreciate that, sir, thank you.  It’s a relaxing hobby that I can exercise even when I have a free moment during the work day, with the various drawing apps for tablets and phones.  Many are rubbish, but there are a few good ones and it helps pass the time when I’m waiting several hours for my passenger to choose what tea they want to accompany the muffin they haven’t decided upon yet because they all look lovely except that strange vegan gluten-free one that reeks of something a caveman might have mashed together for a thoroughly-disgusting brunch.”

I only said that once, Charles, and, as you well know, it was properly on point for that ghastly thing.

      “Once I’ve gotten a proper job, the first thing I want is a mobile, not only so I can actually communicate with the few people I know but because… there seems so many fun little things you can do with it.  Like drawing or taking photos or playing a game or two.”

      “I’ve got loads of games on my devices.  I can recommend a few when you’re ready.”

      “That would be very helpful, thank you.”

Greg gave the back of Sebastian’s head a kick, both since it was placed within easy reach of his foot and because he’d heard the subaural growl the werewolf was beginning to emit.  He had no idea what the man was upset about, but it was Sebastian, so an actual, logical reason wasn’t in any manner necessary.  Besides he had other matters on his mind, matters that his shared look with Mycroft confirmed was a mutual one.  It wasn’t precisely his role in their society to act as a job centre for unemployed sorcerers, but he needed to make a real start on finding Anderson some steady, paying work.  It seemed Mycroft might be willing to lend a hand with that, so it might not be as hard to accomplish as he’d anticipated.

      “I should get a driver.”

Mycroft had a world of ideas about what the vampire should get, starting with away from his PA, but decided to keep his list to himself.  For now.

      “You do not need more to inflate your self-importance, Marcus.  There’s barely room enough in here for us with that hot-air balloon hovering about, too.”

      “You’re ugly with envy, Greg.  Or just ugly.  It’s hard to tell.  Fancy a change of pace, Charles?  Night work, excellent benefits, since you’ll be chauffeuring me, and we’ll find someone to create a truly fashionable uniform for you.  Something daring and mysterious, I think.”

      “Hmmmmm… that’s an interesting offer.  I’ll give it some thought.”

      “CHARLES!  You… blackguard.”

      “Daring and mysterious, Mr. Holmes.  That’s difficult to ignore.”

Mycroft fixed his driver with a steely glare that Charles held fast while he continued to use his chopsticks, with exaggerated slowness, to place morsels of food in his mouth.  Anthea had a wager with herself about when Mycroft would huff, snort or otherwise acknowledge his opponent’s show of will and lost her imaginary five quid when he pfft’d a full three seconds before her predicted time.

      “I see.  This is the sunglasses and newspaper argument again, isn’t it.”

      “I am not that petty, sir.”

      “You are and we both know it.”

      “A man should be able to enjoy his job.”

      “You wanted to wear sunglasses and carry a newspaper under your jacket so attendees at the intelligence summit thought you were… packing heat.”

That Marcus and Sebastian both nodded approvingly did not brighten Mycroft’s day.

      “I was acting as your bodyguard that day, sir, since half of the poor buggers in government service were home with flu and it was me or the lad from the mail room you said likely couldn’t perform a successful tackle on an elderly budgie.  It was only fitting that I looked the part.”

      “You currently look the part of a man in the dole queue, so tread lightly.”

      “I always do, sir.  That’s why I’m told I am an incredible dancer.”

      “Ooh!  Now, you have to come and work for me.  I adore dancing.  Vertical or horizontal, I’m fantastic at both.”

Charles smothered a grin at Marcus’s grin, directed squarely at Anthea, who simply rolled her eyes in response, but he credited the vampire for trying.  Truthfully, he had no idea what sort of man might appeal to the Almighty Anthea but, he honestly couldn’t rule out it being the vampire sort.  It actually suited her.

      “Stay away from my empress, bloodsucker!”

Anderson wondered how long it would be before he could do things like freeze a leaping cat in midair and hoped it would be soon because Greg shouldn’t be exerting himself like this right now and it was actually a pretty cool use of power.

      “Mycroft, could you set Romeo down… right next to your chair?”

      “Gregory… that was utterly unnecessary.”

      “I don’t need Marcus pouting at me again.”

      “Being pouted towards does not tire a person.  Using your magic does.”

      “You haven’t seen one of Marcus’s power pouts yet.”

      “They are spectacular, Mycroft, let me assure you.”

      “Shut it, Marcus.”

      “I feel a power pout coming on, Greggy…”

It was finally Sebastian who reached up and grabbed the cat, unfurling his tall body from the floor to move across it with his frozen-cat handbag and take a moment to arrange Balthazar so he was on his back with his legs in the air.

      “Funny, Seb.  I have to live with him, you know.  Go eat an egg roll.”

      “Ok.”

While Sebastian snatched more food from the enormous pile on the sofa table, Greg muttered something and made a small gesture with his index finger which accomplished two things simultaneously.  The first was a very brief flash of orange light around the cat and the second was the cat unfreezing and realizing it was imprisoned within the circle of power Greg had established around it.

      “Unfair!”

      “Want some chicken, you evil mog?”

      “Less unfair!”

Greg motioned Anderson to set several large chunks of juicy chicken in the circle to pacify the prisoner for a few microseconds.  Then he smiled weakly at Mycroft and added this new look of displeasure… and worry… to the list for what would certainly be a future conversation on his health.  Marcus took notice of both men’s expressions and rubbed his mental hands in glee.  Greg deserved someone who could scowl him into a tiny, quivering ball when he was being a berk.  Actually, he needed someone like that.  Greg was stupid.  Brave, dedicated, good-hearted, but stupid.  Pushed himself too hard, put himself in harm’s way more often than was probably necessary… Mycroft seemed exactly the type to make sure thick-headed Greg realized his thick-headedness and, maybe, get him to do something about it.  However, that wouldn’t stop him treating Greg exactly as he always had in the past.  It was far too much fun…

      “If you think, Greg, that saving me from a non-threat erases your not checking out my building today, you’re wrong.  I still want it looked over.  Can Baby Wizard do that?  I’ll toss him a quid or two to buy a razor, for his trouble.”

Another menacing growl from Sebastian earned him a quizzical look from Anderson who interpreted it as a desire for more food, though there were still two perfectly good egg rolls in the carton the werewolf was clutching, and prompted Anderson to hand the werewolf another carton, this of very spicy pork, while he mulled over Marcus’s question.

      “Oh… Greg, is that something I can learn?  Whatever ‘checking out’ means?  I’m happy to be of help, especially if I have the chance to learn new skills.”

One of Sebastian’s two, lonely egg rolls now lived in Anderson’s mouth, having been pushed there by the werewolf, himself.  Not that Anderson minded much.  Abundant, high-quality, free food was something he was happy to take full advantage of when it crossed his path.

      “Ummm… right now, I’d say that you can certainly check for ghosts or other manifestations, but it’ll take some training to look for deeper things.  Spells woven into the construction, how the architectural configuration might have been manipulated to draw in dark magic and those who work it, outright curses, accumulation of negative energy that doesn’t actively manifest, but has chronic effects on people who live there... that sort of thing.  When is the latest you need this done, Marcus?”

      “Gregory, have you no concern, whatsoever, about your welfare?”

The three non-humans in the room shook their heads, and not even a mournful way.  More a ‘nope, he doesn’t,’ casual sort of fashion that bothered Mycroft greatly, because it indicated they had passed the mournful stage long ago and were fully in the ‘just another day of Greg doing something daft’ mindset.  Which was not to his liking.

      “What’s the address?”

Now Mycroft was frowning at his PA, who was pulling out her mobile, licking her fingers clean and starting in on the login procedure for some rather high-level access, which Mycroft knew from the specific motion of her fingers and the virtual keystrokes they represented.  And, once the vampire provided the property address, he understood why.

      “Ok, survey maps, architectural blueprints, ownership and tax records, leasing records, police/fire reports, insurance documents… it’ll take longer for a prowl through the newspapers for articles and background information on the builders, architect, owners, people who leased or used the property, neighbors, etc. but no more than a day or so.  I can get utilities records, too, quickly enough, usages and maps for where various lines run, with respect to the building.  Can you do something with any of that?  Weather information is available, but depending on how far in the past you’d want to look, that’s a lot of data, though if you have specific search parameters it can be narrowed down.”

The male members of Team Muggle smiled smugly at the slightly dropped-jaws of the magical contingent of the party.  Putting a data-collection problem in Anthea’s line of sight was nearly as bad as putting it in Mycroft’s.  The various information networks better be ready for a pounding because it was coming and coming hard.

      “My beloved is truly an enchantress… and an incomparably beguiling one…”

Anthea chucked a hunk of beef at the cat, feeling only slight surprise as it passed cleanly through the energy field, then turned attention back to Greg who was just shaking off the information avalanche.

      “Uh… yeah, that’s all useful, actually.  There are signs I can look for in all of that.  It’s not a guarantee, but I can draw a reasonable conclusion, especially if Anderson can nip out and have a look for a few things I’ll point him towards.”

      “Alright, I’ll gather it all and put it in the cloud.  You’ll get an email with the access code.”

      “Thanks!   My personal email address is…”

      “You’re so cute.”

Greg’s mobile dinged its ‘new email’ alert and he checked it only to give Anthea the satisfaction of seeing his face when he read the subject line which, being ‘All Hail the Queen,’ fell very much in line with what he expected.

      “Great.  But, really, thanks.  There are times I have to look for stuff like that, for this or that reason… could you show me some tricks?”

      “No, because you don’t have clearance, but I’m amenable to cooperating.  For a fee.”

This growl was from Marcus, though it was a very different sort than Seb’s particular variety and stretched into a purr that had Anthea waving him off with one hand while she continued to type and tap with the other.

      “You have my gratitude, also, Anthea as this may, just may, convince Gregory into taking the rest he requires.”

Mycroft’s own mobile dinged a moment later, this with the high-priority message alert, and he rolled his eyes at the ‘Brace for my bill’ staring up at him from the screen.

      “Lovely.  In any case, it is… heartening to see that the various… communities within London can pool their resources towards a common goal.”

      “As long as that goal is me, I’m fully on board.  I hope to close this deal quickly, Greg, so find your reading specs and start revising.”

      “Let’s see… Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs records… is that Marcus with a ‘c’ or ‘k,’ Mr. Vampire?”

Marcus gave Anthea an overexaggerated gasp and ‘I am betrayed!’ clutch of his heart, while Balthazar laughed loudly, but Mycroft was very aware of the tiny mote of ‘oh dear’ in the vampire’s dark eyes.  Apparently, vampires did pay taxes and cheated on them as would any other citizen.  A handy thing to know…

      “I’ll look things over as quickly as I can, you bastard, and… Anderson, can you dart out there tomorrow, maybe after you’re done in the shop?”

Sebastian’s ‘no’ was drowned out by Anderson’s enthusiastic ‘yes!’

      “Tomorrow night will be fine, Greg.  That’s not a problem.  It’ll be fun, actually.  Rather like I’m a Ghostbuster or something.”

      “Whazzat?”

Sebastian with food in his mouth was only slightly less garrulous and intelligible than Sebastian without food in his mouth.

      “You… you don’t know the Ghostbusters?”

The fact Anderson looked genuinely shocked drew out a ‘oh shit’ expression on Sebastian’s face and the fact that he glanced at Greg for help said a lot about how clueless he actually was.

      “It’s a film, Sebastian.  I bet… I have a DVD of that somewhere about, the original, sequel and reboot, and I believe I remember a player in your flat, Anderson?”

      “I do have one!  It’s old, but it does still work.”

      “Then why don’t you take those away with you tonight and you can educate Seb here on what he’s been missing.”

Because Sebastian seems, strangely, to like you, which puts you above 99.9999999999999999999% of the universe, so if it’s possible for you both to make a friend and have someone to do things with, then it’s the job of Greg Lestrade, Child Minder Extraordinaire, to make that happen.

      “That’s a wonderful idea!  I adore those films.  Sebastian… would you like to watch some films at my flat?  Any night is fine, I’m not really busy, at all, so when you can spare the time…”

      “Tomorrow.”

      “T… tomorrow?”

      “After you bust the ghosts for the leech.”

      “I am not a leech, you arse-sniffer!”

      “Not yours.  It stinks.”

      “How dare you.”

Sebastian simply tapped the side of his nose a few times to the accompaniment of Balthazar’s uproarious chortling.

      “Oh, it’s on, fleabag.”

      “Yep.  It’s on your arse and it stinks.”

As Marcus’s fangs lowered, Greg decided it was time to disperse the crowd, so any carnage took place elsewhere and spared his flat collateral damage.

      “Alright, I think the party is officially over.  Everyone take what food you want and make your way calmly to the nearest exit.”

Charles dove over Sebastian’s long arms that were corralling the remaining takeaway containers and grabbed a few, holding them over his head like trophies.

      “I’m good.”

Not to be outdone, Anthea elbowed Sebastian in the ribs and used his distracted wince to grab a full container for herself and one half-full one that she set down in front of Marcus, though one prawn was extracted to toss at Balthazar before the cat died of apoplexy.  Charles smiled widely at the various messages being sent and made a mental wager with himself as to how well each food recipient interpreted the messages.  He had no clue about them, himself, other than Anthea did nothing if not for a precise, calculated reason when it came to food sharing.  Or when doing anything, for that matter.

      “Now that my staff has robbed the proverbial bank… I shall not be in the office tomorrow but shall consider myself available for more important matters that can be managed by phone or computer.  A courier can deliver documents, if need be.”

      “Charles can deliver them.  He has nothing better to do.”

Given his choices were to remain assigned primarily to Mycroft or be placed back into the general driver pool, Charles decided the Anthea-assigned duty was getting his seal of approval.

      “That I can, sir.  Or… anything you might need.  Neither of you are terribly ambulatory, at the moment.”

Mycroft was very aware that the phrase ‘while the cat’s away, the mice will play’ was wholly in play here, however, since he was also very aware that this would not, in the slightest, impair the efficiency of their, or his, work chose to allow his mice their wedges of cheese.

      “Very well.  I will consider your employment extended to encompass additional services for the duration of my locomotory impairment.”

Anthea mouthed ‘cheesecake’ at the driver out of Mycroft’s range of vision and Charles added a visit to a bakery tomorrow to his yet-to-be-determined additional services.

      “Then I shall await your or Ms. Anthea’s call, sir.  Mr. Lestrade, thank you for the lovely evening, it has been… quite the experience.”

Bidding everyone quick goodbye, Charles hoisted his containers and made his exit just as Anderson was standing to make a start on his.

      “This was definitely a nice evening, Greg.  I’ll stop in tomorrow after John relieves me and you can tell me what to do when I look about Marcus’s property.  I’ll get the DVD’s then, too, in case you want to watch them tomorrow now that they’re on your mind and really are a lot of fun, which is good when you’re feeling poorly.”

Anderson smiled, then gave a slightly awkward wave to everyone else in the room before starting to back towards the door and nobody was particularly surprised that Sebastian heaved himself and his armload of food off the floor to follow after him.  Without an awkward wave or any form of acknowledgement to anyone in the room.

      “My lady, might I offer you a ride home?”

Balthazar’s hissing and spitting was predictable and ignored by Anthea who pointedly also ignored Marcus.

      “Mr. Holmes, stay off of your leg or there will be consequences.  You, Dumbledore, make certain he stays off his leg or you will learn about consequences.”

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      “Good.  Vampire… you said you don’t have a driver.  Do you have a car?”

      “I do.  And it’s nearly as sleek and gorgeous as me.”

      “Then you can drive me home.  When we arrive, I will leave the car.  You will stay in the car.  If you’re lucky, and behave yourself, you might… might… be allowed to watch me walk towards my door.”

Marcus wasn’t sure if he’d ever been offered so little and been so delighted about it in his life.

      “We have a deal.  Greg… don’t die.  Or, if you do, leave me the deed to this space and your cottage in your will.  Mycroft… you poor bastard… yeah, that’s all.”

Marcus leapt up and snatched Anthea’s jacket off the kitchen chair it had been arranged over, then held it up as she donned it and gave her hair a flick when she was garbed to her satisfaction, which Marcus chose to believe was his reward for a job well done.  The woman knew precisely how to flick her hair, too, a skill many tried but at which few truly succeeded.  And, of course, she stalked out the still-open flat door first, so he had to hurry to catch up.

      “My queen!  Do not abandon me!”

Greg released Balthazar from his circle and used more power to close the door of the flat so the cat couldn’t dart out to follow Anthea.

      “You’re not going to spy on them, you bastard.”

      “Spy is a harsh word.”

      “Accurate, though.  Go down to the workroom and cast the cards.  That’ll tell you well enough how far that ridiculous vampire isn’t going to get tonight.”

      “That’s true.  I feel certain my sultry seductress will not succumb to his flaccid charms, but how far he’s willing to press those charms is something I must know.”

      “Why don’t you start on a protection amulet when you’re done with that?  Some little thing she can wear on a chain under her clothes so if Marcus tries anything caddish, he’ll learn the error of his ways.”

      “That’s… that’s not a terrible idea.”

      “Go read the cards first and you can start on the amulet tomorrow.  I’ll let Anderson know what you’re doing, so he won’t yell when he sees you stealing things.  However, he will know what you’re allowed to steal, so don’t press your luck.”

The cat made a rude noise, then ran to the door of the flat, which opened slightly for him to dart through.

      “It’ll take him forever to plan and create a protection amulet and he’s balls with them, in any case.  He’ll stay busy, but it won’t lead anywhere.  He always manages to make something that’s the size of a saucer and makes fizzy noises at random intervals or something equally ludicrous, so I’ll be surprised if Anthea even lets it stay in her flat.  It’ll probably keep pests away, though, so that could be useful.”

      “I… I am beginning to think I should request some form of protective item be made for you.  More of a self-protection item, however, since I am becoming convinced you are your own worst enemy.”

Greg smiled a ‘yeah, that’s not a bad idea,’ knowing smile and started to rise from the sofa only to be told by all parts of him what a blindingly idiotic idea that was.  He was an idiot, though, so it was fair.  He definitely shouldn’t have used that much power tonight, even though it was fairly pathetic in the grand scheme of what he could do.  Was he trying to show off to Mycroft?  The man had watched him battle a demon, so there’s really no higher to climb on that particular scale.  Maybe trying to prove that he wasn’t as battered as he appeared.  But, Mycroft already knew fairly well his level of battered.  And fried.  Hoping to show that he could do simple, little things and power could be as boring and normal as… no power?  That didn’t even make sense.  Was he just an idiot?  Yeah, Occam’s Razor.  Simplest solution is probably the right one.

      “If I could explain why I was a bit stupid tonight, Mycroft, I would, but I can’t.  I can say I’m sorry, though, and I am.  I shouldn’t have worried you like that.”

      “For that much, I do thank you, Gregory.  And, in truth, I have conducted myself in a similar manner on this or that occasion.  Refusing to take proper care when I believed the situation warranted the self-neglect.  Or, I simply refused to acknowledge the weakness and carried on as if I had something to prove, if only to myself.”

      “That… yeah, that’s a familiar song.  Forgive me?”

      “We shall see...”

Though the twinkle in Mycroft’s eyes told Greg that the seeing would happen sooner than later.

      “… now, however, we should return you to bed.”

      “Don’t wanna.”

      “Gregory Lestrade, I will not tolerate any churlishness.”

      “Churlishness, schmurlishness.”

      “I… I have no idea what to say in response.”

      “I’m dastardly that way.  I have to admit, though, I’m impressed that neither you, your PA or your driver really batted an eye at all of this tonight.  Most people would be rattled, at the very least, but you lot were like this was just another normal day in the life.  Is it really that weird in government service?”

      “You have no idea.”

      “Glad I’m well out of it, then.  I have enough weirdness in my life as it is.  But… that was an amazing thing Anthea did with just her phone.  All that information with a few taps of her fingers.”

      “It is… part and parcel of the work I do that I have access to a certain depth and breadth of information; information that is often needed quickly, so efficient paths of access have long been learned, established and maintained.”

      “It made my mind whirly, I’ll admit.  Information in my world isn’t so freely accessible.  Or given.  There’s lots of secrecy, for good reasons as well as selfish, so it can be time consuming and require a bit of diplomacy to wrest a spell or location where a certain plant is grown away from someone.  Let alone really secret things, like burial sites, real names…”

      “Names?”

      “Certain spells can be cast only if the practitioner knows the real name of the person they’re going to attach it to.  It’s pretty common for mothers in the various magic communities to give their kid a name only they ever know and give it before any other, it’s the first and real name, to protect the kid from those sorts of spells which, invariably, are nothing but trouble.”

      “Fascinating.  What about those of us in the non-magic communities?  Does this render us vulnerable to that sort of thing?”

      “No, because there’s not the same sort of name link between you and, say, what we see for the elves.  It’s a different thing, from a magic perspective, so even someone with as unique a name as yours isn’t really at risk from those sorts of spells.  Of course, you’re still at risk from scads of others, but that’s why the community stays vigilant for practitioners who are risking exposing the rest of us by being evil or incautious.”

      “Another thing learned!  I feel very much like Mr. Anderson.”

      “HA!  Oh, he’s eager, that’s for certain.”

      “And you are expending energy maintaining your bonhomie again, aren’t you, Gregory?”

It was a good thing, likely, that he couldn’t hide things like that from Mycroft.  Even when he didn’t think it was a good thing, it was probably for the best.

      “Oops.”

      “I suppose you were relatively quiet during your gathering, so I shall not chide you overmuch.”

      “I appreciate that.  I’m chiding myself enough for both of us.  I really do need to get some sleep.”

      “Then let us get you to your bed so you can make a start on that.”

      “That does… ummmmm… leave the question of you.”

      “Was that supposed to make sense?”

      “Yes, but I’m not surprised I failed.”

      “Care to try again?”

      “I’m not one to rest on failure, so trying again like a champion.  The question I made a dog’s breakfast of asking is about you and sleeping and bed.  I know you were awake last night, but that cannot be the case tonight, since you need your rest as much as I do.”

      “Ah, I see.  Not a problem, from my perspective.  There is the sofa, upon which you seem most comfortable and I am not unfamiliar with the experience of crafting a makeshift bed for a night spent on the floor.”

      “What!  No.  Have you looked at my floors?”

      “Yes and…”

      “You’re reconsidering, aren’t you?”

      “I suspect I can find some form of oilcloth to lay betwixt me and the floor to repel the various vectors of plague and insanity.”

      “Mycroft…”

      “Verily, my ability to procure the even most esoteric of items is very well known.”

Filing that away for the times a spell or extended ritual required something esoteric.  Which was often.

      “How about leaving your driver to continue home and not gad about London getting penicillin or a plague-doctor’s mask and turn attention to the fact that I’ve got a big bed.”

      “I… Gregory Lestrade!  We will not be having relations while you are injured!”

Implying they would be having relations when he wasn’t injured.  Goal!  And the crowd goes wild!  Oilcloth for everyone!

      “What a filthy mind you have, Mycroft Holmes.  Which is a good thing, in my humble opinion, but I was actually thinking it’s large enough for two people to sleep, just sleep, and do it comfortably.  Or as comfortably as my old mattress can manage.”

      “That cannot be well-advised for your situation.”

      “I don’t see why it wouldn’t be advised.  I doubt you throw punches in your sleep.  In fact, I suspect you’re one of those that scarcely moves at all when you sleep.  Go to sleep in a position and wake in exactly the same one.”

      “Hmmmm… I do confess that describes me well.”

      “I knew it.  You probably see so little sleep in your job that your body just shuts down when it gets the chance, like an android with its switch flipped to off.”

Mycroft’s tiny grin was truly one of the handsomest sights Greg had ever seen.

      “When I was a young man, a very young man, I used to envision the life of an adult where I did not have to rise early each day for some obligation, school, in this case, but could, instead, linger in bed with a book, an activity that might see me through the day so that, come nightfall, I was still in pyjamas and not a bit caring that such was the case.”

      “And now you’re just happy that the sleep you do see that day isn’t in your suit, at your desk and the tea you can find to try and reinvigorate yourself when you pry your eyes open is weak and disappointing, so you feel all the worse for drinking it.”

      “A most astute analysis.”

      “Which means you’ll take the other side of the bed tonight, won’t argue about it, will sleep in your one position all night which won’t disturb me in the slightest, and get strong, excellent tea in the morning.”

      “That is rather a lot of meaning.”

      “And all of it correct.  I shall now commence the rising process and we shall proceed towards the bed.”

      “Most definitively stated, Gregory, however, I am unconvinced that you can commence the rising process without some form of block and tackle system and a sturdy sailor to pull the requisite rope.”

Mycroft was the smartest man in the world.

      “True, I’m in agony and stiff and will probably cry like a little boy who’s dropped his ice cream but, dammit, I’m doing this.”

      “Might I suggest this, then, as an alternative.  I will phone John and ask him if you might have one and one-half doses of your pain medication so that you are better able to sleep, and we shall watch a half-hour of television or listen to the radio while the medication takes effect.  Therefore, you will be more comfortable both rising and moving to bed, as well as settling into sleep.”

Smartest man in the universe.  All of them!

      “That’s smart.  You’re smart.  I wish I could brain like you.”

      “With your medication, your brain might have opportunity to focus on more than discomfort.  Such as grammar and vocabulary.”

      “Brain focus good.”

      “Oh dear, we seem to be treading the boundary of dangerous waters.  I am phoning John.”

While Greg made faces, each more foolish than the last, Mycroft simply rolled his eyes and smiled indulgently.  He had no idea why all of this was so easy when he’d had abysmal luck with romance in the past, but Mycroft Holmes was not a man to look a gift horse in the mouth.  Well, yes, he was, but some horses received special dispensation…

Chapter Text

Anderson was used to walking in silence with Sebastian because silence seemed to be Moran’s natural state of being and, frankly, it was a relief not to have to try and carry on conversations sometimes.  Not that he was asocial or awkward… entirely… but he’d spent so much of his life trying to avoid people, to avoid conversations that he’d become used to not doing those things and working his way back from that set of habits was proving a little harder than he may have expected.  Now, though, silence wasn’t bringing him relief.  It was highlighting what the previous silences had allowed to remain unsaid…

      “Sebastian, why didn’t you tell me you were a werewolf?”

Some people mistook Sebastian’s natural inclination towards quiet for lack of intellect.  In that, they were profoundly wrong.  Sebastian was a smart, clever man who simply didn’t feel the need to prove it and was more than happy to let other people blather on and on with copious amounts of their own proof that, unlike him, they were idiots.  Therefore, he’d anticipated this question was coming his way and wasn’t blindsided when it arrived on a quiet street when he had bags of takeaway in both hands.  What he hadn’t entirely anticipated, however, was the look of genuine hurt on Anderson’s face as the question was asked.  Ultimately, though, it didn’t change his response.

      “Didn’t want to scare you.”

Sebastian gave his answer while staring straight ahead along the pavement, not wanting to see whatever new emotions might skitter across Anderson’s face from his words.

      “Are… are people usually… is that the normal reaction?”

And here was another thing Sebastian didn’t anticipate.  He’d expected Anderson to be a bit insulted about being considered easy to scare, maybe grateful for the consideration inherent in wanting not to distress him, but he didn’t predict that particular reply.  And it was something he wasn’t sure how to address.  Normal?  That implied it was an issue that was raised frequently.  Or, at least, with some degree of frequency.  Which it wasn’t.  The local pack knew who he was because werewolves know other werewolves on sight.  Or, more accurately, on sniff.  You knew when one was around long before you actually saw them.  Some of the magically talented were good at spotting werewolves, too, but not too many of them, surprisingly, lived in London.  The various people he did work for certainly had no idea who he was, only that the jobs they wanted him to do were done quickly and thoroughly.  Greg knew… but there was a reason for that.  John knew, too, because that fucking cat had one of his stupid meltdowns and let it slip when John was there to hear it.  That was ok, though, because John could be useful.  In wolf form, he could heal almost anything, but in human form… knowing an Army doctor who was used to patching up a diversity of wounds and injuries definitely had its benefits.

      “Sebastian?”

      “What?  Oh… yeah.  I suppose it’s normal.  Wolves are scary.”

      “No, I wouldn’t say that.  I’ve never seen one in the flesh, so to speak, but from what I’ve read and seen in a few nature programs, they seem smart and loyal.  They’re beautiful animals, too.  I wouldn’t say scary, unless you’re talking about the fictitious ones on the telly and in films where they try to make them scary.”

      “Yep.”

      “Oh.  I see what you mean.  Those aren’t real, though.”

      “People are stupid.”

      “I… well, I can’t say that’s not true, precisely, but I’d say they’re liable to fall into stupid patterns of thinking, even when they’re actually quite intelligent.  It’s due to emotions, I suspect.  Light that fuse and the brain toddles off for a cup of tea and lets the fire rage.”

      “Same result.”

      “True.  I’m sorry, though.”

      “That they’re stupid?”

      “No, that you’ve experienced people being scared of you.  It’s not… well, it’s not a good feeling, that’s for certain.”

Sebastian sighed and reminded himself that the shit he’d endured in his life wasn’t the same and, in some ways, not as insidious as the shit Anderson had endured and Anderson wasn’t nearly the cold bastard that he was so the shit sloughed off with a quick shower and a stiff drink.

      “Talk.”

      “I… aren’t we?”

      “Talk about what it feels like.”

      “Oh… what’s there to say?  I understood it; I still do.  You say there’s some fellow standing in the corner of the room and everyone can see with their own eyes that it’s not true.  Things happen, physical things, I mean, and people begin to worry about their safety when you’re about.  Nothing I ever did intentionally… I simply had no idea how to do or not do anything and… the anything happened now and again all on its own.  I just wish…”

      “Yeah?”

      “I wish… people had been more kind.  I honestly do understand it all, being put away, being kept on the fringes but… well, it’s in the past and that’s that.  I just wish, now and again, that there had been more kindness, that’s all.  It would have helped.”

Sebastian Moran considered himself many things.  Most were things other people might not score as positives, but he didn’t care what they thought.  One thing he never considered himself, though, was kind.  Fair, yes.  Contemptuous of cruelty, sure.  Always ready to bring a swift and painful end to people to took advantage of the vulnerable, the ones who couldn’t fight back… absolutely.  But kind?  Maybe he could fake it…

      “Better now?”

      “I’d say so.  Greg and John are… well, life would have been much different if I’d known them before now.  Even Mycroft is kind, in his own way.  At least, he doesn’t go out of his way to make me feel… like I’m a bad person.  The vampire treated me like everybody else, too.  No special silliness for me or leaving me out of things… in a way, it was nice.  I was part of something, included.  Nobody was giving me strange looks or whispering when they thought I wasn’t looking.  Not only because I helped with Greg, either.  It’s… it’s something I’ve wanted but never found.  And I have a friend!”

      “Who?”

      “Uh, you.”

      “Oh.  Yeah.”

      “I’ve wanted to ask… why did you offer, not really offer, per se, since you just did it, but why did you see me home that first time we chatted in Greg’s shop?”

      “No reason.”

      “That’s a strange thing to do and not have a reason.”

      “Whatever.”

Anderson narrowed his eyes and thought a moment.  He greatly enjoyed spending time with Sebastian but… it had always struck him as slightly odd that a man like that would so quickly befriend someone like him.  You couldn’t miss the looks Sebastian got in the street, from men and women alike.  Lustful, admiring, scared, but in the way you were scared of any powerful and menacing looking person.  Which, now that he had the thought could be a good or bad thing, but it wasn’t quite like being scared of a werewolf because people were making judgements based on things that weren’t real compared, perhaps, to actual experiences from their own lives.  And, to be fair, Sebastian encouraged that along with a few pointed scowls and glares.

      “I’d like the truth, please.”

      “I like potatoes.”

      “Try again.”

      “Why?  It’s the truth.”

      “I’m looking over Marcus’s property alone tomorrow.”

      “No.”

      “Sorry, not an option unless I get my truth.  Let’s hear it.”

      “No.”

      “You know you’ve made it clear that you’re hiding something important, don’t you?  And that refusing to tell me is… well, it’s rather insulting.  I did think we were friends and friends don’t lie to each other.  That’s not entirely true, though, because it’s ok if you tell someone you like their new shirt though it’s actually ghastly when they love it dearly, but not about things that really matter.”

This species of Sebastian’s sighs was one Anderson recognized as his friend preparing to listen to him though, perhaps, he’d rather not, all things considered.

      “I saw you home because… it’s what Greg wanted me to do.”

      “What?  What does that mean.”

      “What I said.  Greg wanted me to… keep an eye on you.”

Anderson stopped walking and gaped at Sebastian’s broad back, at least for as long as it took for Sebastian to realize he was now walking alone and turned to establish the reason for it.  Then wished he hadn’t.  Anderson looked appalled.

      “You’ve been spying on me?”

      “No.”

      “Then I don’t understand.”

      “Greg was worried about you.  Thought… you might be in danger.”

      “From who?”

      “Moriarty.”

      “Oh.  Oh… that’s…”

      “Yeah.”

      “Why didn’t Greg, or you, just tell me?  Was it… didn’t Greg trust me?”

Appalled and hurt was a miserable combination…

      “Didn’t want you doing anything… out of the ordinary.”

      “Because it might make Jim suspicious?”

      “Yeah.”

      “But… he didn’t seem too upset when I said I decided not to apprentice with him.”

      “He’s hard to read.”

      “You know him?”

      “By reputation.  And…”

      “Yes?”

      “Greg’s had me spy on him.”

      “I see.  So… you’re not actually my friend.  You’re just doing Greg a favor.”

Sebastian once took the head off of a man’s neck and that head hadn’t looked as despondent as Anderson did right now, even when it was lying on the ground staring at its former body.  Walking back the few steps to stand at Anderson’s side, Sebastian gave him a nudge with one of the bags of food and tried to remind his face what it meant to smile at something other than another person’s well-deserved misfortune or a very successful bit of particularly-clever violence.

      “I’m not keeping an eye on you anymore.”

      “Meaning?”

      “I do stuff… because I want to.”

      “Really?”

      “Yeah.”

      “Ok… that’s… good.”

It is, because the appalled, injured expression was gone and something like a smile was taking it’s place.

      “Yeah.”

      “Well then… on we go.  And tomorrow should be fun, too.  A real bit of sorcerer’s work then some great films.  Do you like popcorn?”

      “Got meat in it?”

      “Uh, no?”

      “Then, maybe.”

      “If I put extra butter on it, will that be meaty enough?”

      “I like butter.”

Anderson smiled and reached into one of the bags, opening a container to grab a cold piece of spicy beef and hold it up for Sebastian to slurp into his mouth.  It seemed the appropriate thing to do, for some odd reason.  Friends did silly things together.  Didn’t they?  He’d never really had friends, so was a tad lacking in expectations and norms for interacting with one.  It seemed to be going well, though.  And he was enjoying it immensely.  Tomorrow night should be a great deal of fun and he’d make a mental note to tidy a bit, not that he had much to make things untidy, and see he had at least the barest essentials for a film night.  Nobody had spelled out his wage schedule, so it shouldn’t be impolite to ask for his pay tomorrow to fund those barest essentials.  It was doubtful the two tablespoons of butter he had remaining in the refrigerator was going to be sufficiently meaty for even a handful of Sebastian’s popcorn.  And the popcorn he had remaining in the container wasn’t likely sufficient for a handful of Sebastian’s handfuls.  Maybe he could ask John for a loan…

__________

      “Well…”

      “Well what?”

      “Like the car?”

Anthea made her sniff as disinterested as possible, but it certainly wasn’t her best showing, given she was being chauffeured home in a very nice BMW by a vampire, who claimed to be a prince in addition to his general bloodsucking nature.  That… was a lot to take in.

      “It’s acceptable.”

      “It’s my toddling-about car.”

      “Looks like one.  You have others, I take it.”

      “Scads.  Or slightly less than scads, but so close as to make no real difference.  A number of them are mostly for appearances sake, rather than driving sake, because some people are very susceptible to and easily manipulated by appearances.”

The vampire should not be scoring valid tactical points.  It wasn’t fair.

      “True.  Do you actually do anything worth manipulating people over or just sit on a throne and count money all day?”

      “Wouldn’t that be brilliant!  I’d look magnificent in full Crown Jewels regalia with stacks of gold and banknotes surrounding my regalness.  But, alas, I do have to do something.  Not much, admittedly, but I putter about with this and that to keep the vamp community in line and not doing their best to muck up things for themselves or others.  Keeping Father happy, too, which is more work than anyone, especially someone as gorgeous and interesting as me should ever have to suffer.  Regardless, I am very efficient at doing my this and that, so that leaves me all the time I… or anyone else… might want to have a bit of fun.”

Fine, Lugosi, you have the right sort of face to actually make a sexy smile look sexy and not pathetic.  That’s rare.  Damn.

      “Cluedo?  Old Maid?”

      “I do enjoy a rousing game of Monopoly, but I cheat, so there’s little doubt who ends with the bank in their pocket at evening’s end.”

      “I specialize in crippling cheaters.”

      “You shag them so hard their legs don’t work anymore?  Please tell me that’s your favorite technique.  Actually, I’ll just picture it in my mind and resign myself to sacrificing the choice properties and all my papery cash for a leisurely hour of the sort of sex that not only leaves my legs non-functional but sets my superb Egyptian cotton sheets on fire.  Which is ok, because I have lots.  Sheets don’t last long with me, for all manner of delightful reasons.”

You’re loony, vampire man, but there’s something beneath the loony that’s probably given more than a few people a highly unpleasant surprise when they underestimated you exactly as you expected them to do.  That’s… intriguing.

      “I’ll have to find a new strategy.  You seem to heal fast.”

      “I do!  Which makes any happy marks on my pristine, alabaster skin not even a minor worry.  If you were worried, that is.  I wager you enjoy your slave boys wearing their marks for a nice long time, vixen that you are.”

      “Do you think about anything other than sex?”

      “That wasn’t a no, don’t think I didn’t notice.  And yes, I do.  Lots of things, all fantastic and amazing and easy to share.  They’re better if you share, actually, so let’s say I simply pick one thing on my loooooong list and we get started?”

      “There’s my building.”

      “Shit.”

      “Is that on your list?”

      “Near the bottom, in the ‘not so fun to share so keep this fucker to yourself’ section.  It’s a tiny section, though.  More of a footnote than an actual continuation of a list.  I’ll pick something from higher up for our next outing which will be…?”

      “When and if I decide I need an extra helping of loony in my life.”

      “Tomorrow, then.  Got it.  I’ll clear my schedule.  Poof!  It’s cleared!  It’s good to be rich.  And royal.  And spectacular.”

Anthea rolled her eyes but mentally paged through her own schedule to verify that she had time this week… no, next week, which was much smarter… for something fun.  Small fun, but expensive.  It was almost a certainty that Marcus could get a table at any restaurant in London and, perhaps, seats for one of the sold-out shows she’d been dying to see but unwilling to pull the necessary strings to gain her own ticket since those strings had far better uses for other things and it didn’t do to overstretch strings when one could help it.  Besides, her curiosity was piqued and that would niggle until she could fathom out this jackanapes.  Who was surprisingly more entertaining than she imagined.

      “I’m leaving now.”

      “And do I get my reward?”

Make a show of thinking… it’s not going in his favor… going more poorly in his favor… settle into ‘what does it matter since he’s, at best, a pesky fly’ mode…

      “You do.  This single time.”

Anthea stepped out of the car and pointedly didn’t notice Marcus scrambling over to the passenger’s seat to stick his head out of the open window like a dog getting a breath of air as he watched Anthea walk with greater-than-normal slowness to her building, key open the door, then flick her hair once before disappearing inside, never once looking back at her escort.

      “She is astounding.  I wonder what flowers she likes?  Fuck it, I’ll send a whole flower shop’s stock.  Something will have to work.  Unless she’s allergic.  Shit.  Humans can screw anything up.  However…”

Vampires had their own share of tricks up their sleeves, magic-wise, and Marcus called up one of his to give himself a general direction to point his car and continued using his innate GPS system to slowly narrow down his intended location, something he could only do if he’d interacted with his target recently, which he had, so hurray for him.   And, lo and behold… there it was.  How nice that that side of the building was darkened and not facing any of the other buildings on the street, so his singular method of entering would go completely unnoticed…

__________

Inspiration came from a lot of directions and sources and anyone who didn’t feel inspired by a gathering of fantasy-novel characters and felt the need to act on that inspiration simply lacked a soul.  Or, at least, that was going to be his excuse for being a bit slow tomorrow morning which would probably arrive with zero sleep to his record.  Of course, it would be hard to sleep anyway with that banging going on.   Was an owl or something knocking on his window?  One of the Queen’s ravens?  Oh… it was a vampire.  Lovely.

Charles reached over to his work table and grabbed a piece of charcoal and his sketch pad, writing a few moments before holding it up over his easel for Marcus to read.

      “Funny.  I hath not permission to enter?  Who says hath?  Constipated people, that’s who.  And I don’t need your permission, so there.  I do need you to flip the latch, though, because I don’t want to break the glass and risk damage to my shirt.  It costs loads.  Not that I can’t afford another one, but the owner of the shop where I bought it is irritating and I don’t need any of that in my week.  Oh joy, another sign… you saw Salem’s Lot.  Good for you.  I did, too, and, for your information, I am not a creepy little boy and, for your further information, if I’m ever that creepy I’d want someone to stake me because that was fucking disturbing, and it takes a lot to unsettle a vampire.  My uncle Petras does look like that Barlow chap, though, which infuriates Father since Uncle is tall, bald and malevolent-looking and Father… isn’t.  But enough of the family gossip… open the window, Chuckles, or I’ll hover out here talking to you all night until you go insane.  I can do that, you know.  Secret vampire powers and all that.”

Charles looked around him a moment and found a rag that was easily torn and with appropriately-manly wadding, turned into two cozy bundles to nestle in his ears.

      “You are an evil man, Charlie.  They say my sort is evil, but ‘they’ never met you, did they?  No, they didn’t, lazy fuckers.  Open the window so we can chat.  Pretty please?  I’m not even hungry, so you don’t have to worry about your blood being sucked out.  But, if you want to offer, out of courtesy or pity’s sake, do feel free.  Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease………”

Charles had known the vampire only for a few hours and that was more than enough for certainty the creature of the night would spend every minute until the sun rose wheedling at his window.  Anthea’s cheesecake offering was officially in danger.  She obviously hadn’t fastened Marcus’s leash tight enough around his neck and for that, she would pay.

      “Don’t you have a home to go to?”

      “A fabulous one, but it doesn’t have what I need.”

      “A straight jacket?”

      “You and, for the first time in my life, I don’t mean that in a sexy way.”

      “I’m flattered.”

      “You should be.  Or not.  Really, you shouldn’t be, come to think of it.  But I’d definitely shag you if you didn’t smell of paint, which tickles my exquisite nose, so don’t be insulted.  You can have a little wash up when we’re finished talking and we can shag then.  How’s that?”

Dealing with the vampire was still leaps and bounds easier than dealing with many of the buffoons in government, so Charles couldn’t say this was the most ridiculous encounter he’d ever experienced and honestly wasn’t certain what that said about his life choices to date.  Deciding that the only way to end this nonsense was to officially start it, one paint brush was set aside, one body rose from its stool, one window was unlatched and thrown open and one vampire moved with practiced daintiness into the flat.

      “Ooh, it’s a real artist’s flat, isn’t it?  Messy and horrid in that marvelous way they have about them.”

      “You’re too kind.”

      “I notice you’ve dropped the ‘sir.’ “

      “My house, my rules.”

      “I like that.  I have a similar philosophy, but I suspect my rules are a lot more fun than yours.  Have any weed?  Artists always have that lying about.”

      “No, I don’t have any weed.  Does that even work on vampires?”

      “Mildly.  Like a glass or two of wine for a human, but who doesn’t like a glass of wine?  I know I do.  Lots of glasses, actually.  Got any wine?”

Knowing his grandmother’s ghost would certainly tut-tut if he lied and said no, and now growing concerned that her ghost actually could be floating about to do the tut-tutting, Charles sighed and retrieved an unopened bottle of wine and two glasses.  He hadn’t planned on drinking any more tonight but drinking seemed the very best way forward at the moment.

      “Ooh, this is good.  I’d expected far worse, but this is nice.”

      “Life is too short to drink bad wine.”

      “You, my good man, are wasted as a chauffeur.  Unless you’re mine, of course, which would be a dream job for anyone.”

      “I’m content.  The wages are good, as are the benefits.  And I normally work for Mr. Holmes, so there is always something interesting to color my day.”

      “Mycroft’s interesting is anyone else’s boring, so I’ll keep reminding you about how sweet your life could be if… when… you vault over to the dark side.”

      “Is there an actual reason you are here or is this a sad attempt to tempt me into a life of fairly-ludicrous evil?”

      “My evil is tremendously ludicrous, I’ll have you know.  In any case, no, that’s not why I’m here.  I want to pick that clever little brain of yours about the oh-so intriguing Ms. Anthea.”

      “No.”

      “Wrong answer, no goldfish in a sack for you.  We’re friends, Chaz, so I know you want to help me with this…”

      “No.”

      “Is your brain stuck?  Have more wine and lubricate the synapses.”

      “Anthea is her own person.  If you want to learn more about her, ask.  If you do it politely and with genuine interest, I suspect you’ll get some form of answer.”

Which may or may not be true, given the security concerns she has to mind, but the little things could see the light of day, such as her favorite flavor of cheesecake which would now not be arriving tomorrow to brighten her day.

      “I don’t want what she’ll tell me, I want what she won’t.  The really important things that she won’t reveal because it would make job too easy.”

      “What job?”

      “Capturing my prey.”

Charles’s eyes hardened to a steely glare that gave Marcus one of the strongest cases of ‘oops’ he’d suffered in a very long time.

      “Anthea is nobody’s prey.  Time for you to leave.”

      “No!  Wait… wait…”

It was a hazard of Charles’s work to have occasion to interact with Sherlock Holmes but on a few of those occasions he’d had the opportunity to see the detective realize when he’d made a terrible mistake with his words.  His childish arrogance would slip, and you could see the actual person beneath the mask.  Marcus was looking much the same right now…

      “… You’re right and that was dreadful of me to say.  I didn’t mean it, honestly.  I was hoping for a few tips to… make an impression.  The right impression.  I always make a good impression, don’t get me wrong, but this person’s good is that person’s…”

      “Frivolous?”

      “That’s not the most flattering… or insulting… way to put it, so I’ll take it.  I do tend to keep a certain type of social company, for a variety of reasons, and dear Anthea doesn’t fit the mold so… I’m a bit unsure how to proceed.  Normally, I’d ask Greg but he’s got other things on his mind.  And in his bed.  So, Charleston… lil’ help for a very old and dear friend?”

Charles watched Marcus’s mask slip back into place, but it had been down long enough to earn the vampire a second chance at a touch of goodwill.  He honestly had no idea what the social life of a vampire was like, especially one as fatuous as Marcus, but he had a few suspicions and at least some of them would ensure Marcus found himself on the wrong end of one of Anthea’s campaigns of misery, which would culminate with the fool learning exactly what a pair of heels and a well-thrown punch could do when necessary.  And, strangely, he suspected the vampire would take pains to see that unhappy fate didn’t befall him but, if it did, he’d honor the sentiment and that would be the end of that.  However, if his impression was incorrect, he knew of another set of fists that would gladly add their opinion to Anthea’s side of the argument and this set also drove large, heavy cars that easily did astonishing amounts of damage to living creatures.  Unliving ones, too, most likely.

      “What were you thinking about?”

      “Flowers.”

      “Not a bad start.”

      “Ten dozen or so long-stemmed red roses.”

      “That’s a bad start.”

      “Really?”

      “Cliché, overdone… Anthea does appreciate the bold gesture, but… it needs to be unique, too.  Special.  Shows you put thought into it and didn’t just leap to the most expensive option, though an expensive option would not go unappreciated.”

      “See!  This is why I need you, Chazzerson.  You have the inside track.  And I adore this, I really do.  What a delightful challenge.  Fantastically-expensive, but unique and special.  The perfect thing to sink my fangs into.”

      “Good to hear it.”

      “So, what do I do?”

      “Sink your fangs into whatever’s convenient and get on with your thinking.”

      “That’s what you’re here for.  The thinking part, at least.  Though… you do have an alluring neck, I will confess.  We’ll talk more about the fang-sinking part later, after we’ve had our wine and you’ve gotten the paint smell off of you.”

Charles stared at Marcus, who was grinning happily and reached out for the wine to fill his own glass nearly to the brim with its blessed and brain-numbing nectar.  It was going to be a long night…

Chapter Text

Mycroft checked for the fifth time that Greg was sleeping and took an extra moment to pull the blanket up higher on his chest for additional warmth.  Nothing should disturb the poor man’s rest, he needed it too desperately and, having slept a night in the same bed, Mycroft had to wonder how much genuinely-restful sleep Greg saw in a week.  The pain or long nights of work aside, he sadly suspected the bouts of clear distress he witnessed as his poor Gregory suffered a nightmare were not an infrequent occurrence.

Given the sorcerer’s life, though, such a thing was not entirely unexpected.  He suffered his own periods where the mental stresses gathered strength and punched through the calming veil of his rest to set the demons free.  Part of him hoped that his reaching out to provide a small soothing gesture being sufficient to send his bedmate back to a quiet sleep was a good sign of trust and, perhaps, affection; however, part of him wondered if such a gesture was so pitifully rare in the man’s life that anyone’s act of compassion would have given the same result.

For his part, sleep had not easily come, despite being more comfortable in a bed than he’d known in a very long time.  Far too much had occurred for his brain to allow him time for silly activities such as sleep, but laying quietly next to Gregory had not only allowed him to intervene during an upsetting dream, but also to do a large quantity of thinking.  Not nearly enough to process the entirety of his recent experiences, but sufficient to organize matters in his mind so that issues could be addressed in an orderly and productive fashion.  Which was his first intellectual step whenever he was presented with a gargantuan situation outside his immediate experience.  It was not often he was presented with such a thing, but it did occur, and this was a stellar example of the breed.

Magic was real.  Not just magic with respect to Gregory’s powers, but the whole universe of creatures associated with a magical world.  Vampires, werewolves… a fairy tale had been merrily playing out in the world and he’d had no inkling of its existence.  Everything that tantalized his interests as a boy with the innumerable horror novels and films he consumed were real.  Not simply real, but living alongside him throughout his life and he’d not suspected a thing.  The tax and voting rolls were filled with individuals who were not human!  Or, perhaps they were.  Were vampires and werewolves simply a subspecies of the human race?  After consciously interacting with a representative of each group, his instincts said they may not appreciate being brought beneath that umbrella, however, he would verify with Gregory before contemplating the matter further.

For now, though, there was another matter to tend to and that one was sufficiently draining to put all other considerations on hold.  Perhaps he should have let the accursed cat keep his mobile…

      “Finally!  Why have you been ignoring me, Fatcroft?  I require an exemption from your ridiculous hazardous materials laws and access to a suite of substances necessary for my experiments and you choose now to pretend that my birth never occurred.

Pretend, no.  Dream about with a disquieting regularity, yes.

      “Despite your belief to the contrary, Sherlock, you are not connected by an umbilicus to either my mobile or my bank accounts, so there are times that my immediate attention cannot be secured.”

      “I have left thousands of messages; therefore, your claim of immediacy is refuted on its face.”

      “And, given I was not informed of an emergency by either your use of your emergency call number, let alone the police or hospital, the need for my attention was not pressing and I tended, therefore, to matters that were.”

      “My needs are always pressing, far more than your discovery of a new bakery or ongoing love affair with your aged tailor.”

Love affair… what a blissful combination of words…

      “Most amusing, brother dear.  Now, to address your demands – no.”

      “Intolerable!”

      “Yet, I suspect you shall tolerate it sufficiently well for continued existence.  Now, if that is all…”

      “Certainly not.  Where are you?”

      “At a place you are not.”

      “You are not amusing, Mycroft, so kindly do not embarrass yourself with the attempt.  You are not at home, nor at work.”

      “I take it you have personally visited both locales.”

      “Yes.”

      “What remains of my personal possessions?”

      “Items that failed to interest me or anyone who might trade them for cash.”

      “Lovely.  Goodbye, Sherlock.”

      “No.  You are not at home, not at work and are not phoning from a vehicle since I can hear none of your driver’s characteristic odiousness assaulting the phone line.  You PA, as usual, was resoundingly unhelpful for everything, and smug about the fact as an additional insult… where are you?”

      “Sherlock, I am often away for extended periods due to matters of work.”

      “For which you take your luggage.  You have not.”

So, Sherlock was worried, not simply aggrieved.  Interesting.

      “True, however, matters arise quickly and I must, at times, make do with what I can acquire from my environs.”

      “What matters?”

      “Emergencies that require a rapid and proximal response, so I lack the time to return home to pack a bag.”

      “You do not sound as if you are embroiled in one of your nonsensical emergencies.”

      “Untrue.  I am gasping for a cup of tea and do not have one.  That certainly qualifies as an emergency.”

      “Pfft.  Your inanity is boring.”

      “Which also indicates a profound lack of emergency.”

      “Then why will you not divulge your location?”

Because, Sherlock, I have not put my mind to crafting a cover story that will satisfy you.  Explaining my injuries will be sufficiently difficult, let alone Gregory’s, since you will likely see through the vehicle collision in a trice and that will only inflame your suspicions to a greater degree.  However… I shall not be able to keep you entirely in the dark and if this is properly spun…

      “Very well.  If you must know, I am with Gregory.”

      “Why?  Is he being served with a balsamic drizzle and roasted potatoes?”

      “You, also, are bereft of wit, brother, which makes ours the most humorless family in England.  In any case, your question has been answered, so if I may…”

      “You may not.  Why are you with Graham?”

      “His name is not Graham and I am with him because it pleases me to be here.”

      “Unlikely.  He, perhaps, is more boring than you.”

Oh Sherlock, if you only knew how wrong you were…

      “I find his tedium a stellar match to mine and, thus, we are content.”

      “I see.”

      “Do you?   Huzzah!  Am I now freed from this conversation?”

      “No.  I must know how your new, sexually-conjoined state affects me.  I will not tolerate my wants being ignored when you choose to wander off to have an unseemly, middle-aged itch scratched by a doddery shopkeeper.”

Doddery?  The man bested a demon in mortal combat, you silly boy.  However, that does provide highly agreeable cover for this situation and, most likely, for others when itches are most certainly being attended to by the most vigorous and torrid of scratchings.

      “On this particular issue, your wants will be ignored in their entirety, since they are both ludicrous and staunchly against the health and safety concerns of the general public…”

      “Boring.”

      “… Nevertheless, my situation with Gregory shall, of course, occupy a measure of my time and attention and you must adjust accordingly.  I shall, of course, remain available to you, however, I would not advise further unannounced visits to my home, lest you witness something that would surely turn your hysterical self to stone.”

For I am most hopeful of entertaining Gregory in my home, with the amenities it provides beyond, even, my joyfully-large and comfortable bed.

      “My disgust nearly erupted out of my mouth.”

      “Next time, perhaps, you will meet with success.  Goodbye, Sherlock.”

      “Wait!  I have far more to say about your neglect and saggy-scrotumed sexual fantasies.”

Mycroft terminated the call and considered asking Greg to perform some magic to create an app that would turn Sherlock into a toad with but the touch of a jaunty icon.  Mayhap he could learn to do so himself… one spell had already been successfully performed, so why not another? Actually, that topic of conversation was one he was eager to explore, though without the specific amphibian leanings.  He did magic.  Mycroft Holmes performed an actual spell, replete with mystical symbols and incantations.  It was a heady thing to contemplate.  What else could he do?  Not that he had an abundance of time for lessons or practice, but he certainly had a desire to explore further the possibilities of this hitherto unknown talent.  Fortunately, he knew an exceptional teacher and one who would likely be very happy to take his instructor’s fees in trade…

__________

      “That sounds like fun, actually, Philip.  If I wasn’t working, I’d love to go with you.”

John meant that, too.  Snooping about looking for nasties in some old building… he’d done some work with cursed objects and was getting fairly skilled at detecting them, but to take on something larger would be a challenge he would relish.  At least Anderson could have the fun and report back.  This time.  Next time, Greg’s lazy arse could mind the shop while he joined the ghostbusting party.

      “I’m very excited for the chance, that’s for certain.  It’s… it’s nice to know Greg has confidence in me to do something like this.”

      “I’ll give Greg credit, he’s always willing to give someone a chance.  Good at helping you understand what went wrong if you fail with it, too.”

      “That’s helpful to know.  I’m going to do my best though, so fingers crossed!  Sebastian is coming with me, so maybe he can give me some ideas if something goes wrong.  I’m not sure what… his sort… can do for magic, but I’m sure it’s useful, whatever it is.”

John smirked at the careful phrasing, given there were customers in the shop and, also, that Anderson was content to go on a secret magical mission with a werewolf in tow.  Sebastian hated doing almost anything a normal person enjoyed, so this was somewhat a noteworthy event on both counts.

      “Sebastian can be extremely helpful for certain things…”

Like killing people, maiming people, crippling people, giving people angry looks and carrying things that are a tad too heavy.

      “… so I’m certainly you’ll make a great team.  As for this fine establishment, we should see a delivery this afternoon of glass containers and other packaging, so give it a look to see that it’s all there and nothing’s broken before you sign for it.  Now and again, we’ve had…”

      “Where is Mycroft?”

John’s ‘fuck me’ groan was lost on Anderson who was regaining his composure from having a stern-faced man lean over his shoulder and nearly shout in his ear.

      “Sherlock… you are an infant.  Philip Anderson, may I present the infant brother of Mr. Mycroft Holmes.  Baby Holmes, this is Philip Anderson, one of our shop associates.”

      “The only people foolish enough to work here are you, Graham and the mentally diseased.”

      “I am not mentally diseased!”

      “Your cognitive impairment would prevent you from being an appropriate judge of that.”

      “I… you are very rude person.”

      “Why is that relevant?”

Anderson opened, then snapped shut his mouth, having no idea how to respond.

      “Anderson, ignore him.  Not only today, but every day for the rest of your life.  Sherlock, why are here, yelling about your brother?”

      “Because he is here and not elsewhere.  Oh look, your cat is attacking an elderly widow…”

John knew not to look, but he did anyway and missed Sherlock darting towards the back room, but Anderson was better positioned and did a credible job of blocking the detective’s rampage through the stockroom.  The resulting slapping-hands war was merrily watched by John and the customers, alike, until Anderson performed an inspired slap up instead of down and propelled Sherlock’s own hand into his nose.

      “John!”

      “Sherlock, you can’t invade the shop and root about looking for your brother.  For your information, I will personally attest that he’s not hiding among the packing materials and refill supply for our dried herbs.”

      “I spoke with Mycroft and he confirmed he is with Geoff.”

      “And, if you notice, Greg isn’t here, so neither is your brother.”

      “I suspect he is in Geoff’s flat, which, I believe, is above this shrine to superstition.”

      “Ok, true.  But, if they’re not expecting you, then you aren’t going to barge in on their morning.  Hold on a moment…”

John nodded to Anderson to mind the till while he pulled out his mobile to phone up to Greg’s flat, feeling no surprise when Mycroft answered.

      “We’ve got a situation in the shop, Mycroft.”

      A dire one?”

      “Very.”

John’s tone was mightily toneful and Mycroft sighed softly in understanding.

      “With dark hair and a practiced scowl?”

      “Got it in one.”

      “Marvelous.  I put the odds only at 40% that Sherlock would immediately move towards the shop when our call was concluded.  He has, in this, exceeded my expectations.  I presume he is demanding to be allowed to visit Gregory’s flat.”

      “That’s the long and short of it.  Want me to toss him out on his ear?”

Sherlock’s affronted squawk was audible through the phone and Mycroft savored that highly entertaining mental image for a moment before sadly sending it into oblivion.

      “Nothing so forceful, I think.  However, Gregory is only now stirring, and I would rather not have Sherlock here until I have ascertained the status of Gregory’s heath and prepared him for the landing of the typhoon upon his proverbial shores.”

      “Half hour?  Forty-five minutes?”

      “The latter would not be amiss.  It would allow me time to see Gregory with what he might wish for breakfast and his beloved coffee.”

      “Not a problem.  I’ll keep your brother occupied, then Sherlock can come up with me when I pop in to check on things.”

      “Thank you, John. This is much appreciated.  And I should confess that Sherlock has not been apprised of either my or Gregory’s physical condition.”

      “Want it to stay that way?”

      “Yes, for the moment, else he will be positively rabid to scrutinize the situation himself, if only to gloat over my incapacity, and will be horrendously-difficult to manage for our negotiated respite.”

      “Mum’s the word.  We’ll see you soon.”

John pocketed his mobile and clapped his hands together to signal the moving on of the day was ready to begin.

      “Sherlock, we are leaving.  We’ll return later when your brother and Greg are accepting visitors.  Anderson, we’ll be having a spot of breakfast at Angie’s if you need me.  Want me to bring something back for you?”

      “No, thank you.  I had beans on toast and that keeps me humming.”

And was cheap enough even for his depleted budget to manage in hearty abundance.

      “Alright, then… Sherlock, you are accompanying me for breakfast while your brother and Greg have loud, unbridled sex and, maybe, shower before we pay them a visit.”

      “I’m going to be sick.”

      “Looks like I get your breakfast, too!  Lucky for me, you’re paying.”

      “I have no money.”

      “If I throw you to the ground and steal your wallet, how big of a lie will I find that to be?”

      “I will pay for half of breakfast.”

      “And it’ll be my half, because if it’s yours, you’ll demand a free cup of water and grin smugly at me while you do it.”

      “You are a suspicious man, John.”

      “But a correct one.”

      “No, for I was going to demand free tea, not water.”

      “Thank you for your honesty.”

__________

Mycroft breathed deeply and gently patted Greg’s leg before rising to answer the door where John was knocking to announce his and Sherlock’s arrival.  The fact that the door was not being pounded upon as if being battered by a siege machine was a tiny clue that Sherlock was not, in fact, the knocker.  It had been a cozy morning for him and the sorcerer, even with the various levels of agony for various areas of injury and not even Sherlock’s riotous presence would dim that warm light.  Hopefully.

      “Ah ha!  You are discovered!”

Sherlock took one commanding step into the room and pointed his finger directly in Mycroft’s face to emphasize his words.

      “Sherlock… John, did my brother consume a quantity of stimulants during his breakfast?”

      “Nope, unless they were tucked into the sausage he stole off of my plate because he was too cheap to order anything for himself.”

      “This is a hovel.”

Mycroft sighed and wished the imaginary stimulants had run a longer course since they offered an entertaining diversion from his brother’s standard discourse.

      “Hey!  I like my flat.  Nothing hovelish about it.”

Well done, Gregory, defending your home from the evil goblin souring the air with its noxious presence.

      “Hovels are the expected dwelling for elderly believers in witchcraft and supernatural claptrap, so I fail to see why you would take offence at the statement.”

      “I… ok, that’s not the worst point you could have made, if you lived your life watching crap telly, so I won’t have John toss you out onto the pavement.  Come in!  Enjoy the hovel in its full and glorious glory.”

Sherlock began to walk further into the flat, then realized that his focus upon Mycroft’s exasperated face and the condition of Greg’s flat had kept his attention far from a very important and hard to miss detail, the latter aspect stinging like a swarm of angry wasps.

      “Why are you using crutches, Lardcroft?  Have you become unable to lift your elephantine bulk without the help of external support?”

Greg and John might not be experienced enough to hear the undertone in Sherlock’s voice that spoke both to his shock and his concern, but Mycroft was, and he made very certain to let neither his recognition nor his appreciation of them thread into his own voice as he responded.

      “I believed them to be fashionable.  Alas, Gregory tells me that I was misinformed.”

      “Pfft.  It is physically impossible for you to approach any state of appearance that might be termed fashionable, so kindly reveal the real reason and your inevitable shortcomings that brought it to pass.”

Mycroft moved back from the door to make his way the short distance to a seat and slowly settled himself upon it, while Sherlock continued to glare from across the expanse.

      “Shall you stand for your entire visit, brother?  If so, kindly make use of your verticality by retrieving for Gregory a glass of water.  I was preparing to do it myself before your arrival sent it out of my thoughts.”

Sherlock’s scowl was a mighty one, but now that he was alerted to his brother’s situation, he made certain to scrutinize Greg and that scrutiny both confused and worried him further.

      “You look, and smell, like an unwashed zombie.  Why?”

      “Zombies probably have a hard time finding a public shower, let alone having the time or materials to sew back on the bits that fall off when they scrub a bit too hard.  Can’t blame the poor buggers for lower-than-standard hygiene.”

Mycroft’s snort of laughter made Greg feel very proud and Sherlock’s eyes narrow with even greater suspicion.  Knowing the direction this would ultimately go, Mycroft decided an intervention was required.

      “If you must know, Sherlock, we were involved in an accident that merrily bestowed its mayhem upon us both.  Gregory received a larger portion than myself and, since I was also ambulatory, albeit to a lesser degree than my norm, I have remained to assist him in his recovery.  Voila!  Your mystery is proved a tale of banality with nary a zombie to be found.”

      “A… accident?”

That his brother was unable to camouflage his concern this time made Mycroft’s heart grow three sizes larger within his chest.

      “I was remiss, perhaps, in not notifying you, however, my attention was fully on Gregor’s welfare and, further, I did not wish to worry you with such a petty matter.”

Sherlock glared harder, then took the moment to find a glass in Greg’s cupboard, filled it with tap water, and set it down on the sofa table in a position Greg could reach it.  He next set himself down in Greg’s last empty chair, leaving John to perch on the arm of the sofa.

      “Details.  I demand details of your condition.”

      “Very well.  I sustained damage to my leg that shall require some time to heal, but heal it shall.  Gregory… he is enduring damage to his arm and shoulder, as well as a head injury that renders him somewhat a devotee of the prone position for several days before he might sit upright for any period of time.”

      “That, in no manner, satisfies the definition of ‘details.’ “

      “Yet, it is sufficient.  If you wish to examine my injury, I will permit it, but Gregory shall not be distressed by your curiosity.”

      “I will inspect your malingering, however… have you informed Mummy?”

      “Ah, no.  Nor is it my intent to do so, as she would simply worry for a situation that shall soon pass into the realm of memory.”

      “I shall make that decision once my inspection is completed.  And… John.”

      “You intend to inspect John?  I do hope your plan is to conduct your examination in private.”

John cut eyes at Greg who was smiling widely at the brotherly back-and-forth.  Which, in John’s opinion, was a very good thing since Sherlock came bundled with Mycroft and it didn’t seem as if Greg would be bidding Mycroft farewell anytime soon.  They made such a… cute couple… which was a tad ridiculous at their age, but nice to see, nonetheless.

      “John will verify that your whinging is exactly as overwrought and attention-seeking as I fully anticipate.”

      “I see.  In that case, prepare to weep, for John has overseen both my and Gregory’s recuperation and is well aware of the nature of our injuries and the precise degree of whinging and moaning that is appropriate for the situation.”

Greg’s feeble, pathetic groan punctuated Mycroft’s speech and earned an irritated hand wave from Sherlock as his reward.

      “John… you failed to disclose any of this.  And you villainously stole my money to feed your traitorous maw, knowing you were withholding from me vital information.”

      “Yeah, that’s true.  But my maw is a lot happier now than it was before my villainy, so I’m alright with it.”