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mycrofts-sword-gunbrella · 4 years ago

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The Syncode

CH. 6: Plans, Relationships and Shopping

It was nearly midnight and Mycroft was still at his desk, pouring over files and reports. Nothing of seeming importance stood out, and the search was leading nowhere. About to call it a night, his private cell rang:

Julian.

He prayed there was a lead on that end of things, and quickly answered it. Mycroft's eyes widened in disbelief as his cousin relayed the brief communique he'd received from the Cryptology department. He poured himself another scotch from the cut crystal decanter set on his desk.

"It's more than likely the scientists on that island were working on a separate project not related to the atomic testing there," Julian explained, referring to the nuclear tests conducted in the Marshall Islands at the end of WW2. "In fact," he continued, "one of them was a British - Australian. I'm sure you've heard the name: Ernest Titterton?"

"He lived until the early '90's, I believe," Mycroft said.

"Correct. He was involved in the Manhattan Project before the Americans severed their collaboration with the British Tube Alloy project," Julian replied. "After the war Titterton was selected to advise the Naval Research Laboratories in Washington, D.C. on the Operation Crossroads nuclear tests. He was asked to stay due to his expertise in timing measurements, and performed the countdown for both tests at Bikini Atoll. I believe he was also involved with the tests performed on this other island nearby."

The Australian SIS had intercepted messages between Andrena's contacts, learning of movement of her people to and from one of the Bikini Atoll islands. The two main players were the same ones in both Macau and Majuro. Julian had at once focused his research on the history of the islands, as well as the covert projects performed there that had escaped the history books. It was possible everything was tied together.

"And this other project at the Bikini Atolls had nothing to do with nuclear physics? Titterton was a nuclear physicist. Remember, it was a race against the Germans at that time to develop that technology," said Mycroft.

"From what little I can find on it, no, it had nothing to do with it. Yet Titterton worked closely with Vannevar Bush, who was also head of the U.S. Office of Scientific Research and Development and oversaw the Manhattan Project. Most likely it was in part for the war effort. The sheer isolation alone would have made the Atolls the perfect spot to conduct their experiments. Operating under the guise of the Crossroads project gave them an additional cover."

Mycroft rapidly put together all the facts, trying to find a common denominator:

Present - A lone island in the Bikini Atolls and a shadowy person named 'Andrena' who seemed to have top government connections.

Past - Operation Crossroads nuclear tests post WW2, most likely overseen in some way by Vannevar Bush, who was also the head of the Manhattan Project some years earlier. An American engineer and inventor, he had joined the Department of Electrical Engineering at Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) in 1919. Bush was also a science administrator, who during World War II headed the U.S. Office of Scientific Research and Development the initiation and early administration of the Manhattan Project. Emphasizing the importance of scientific research to national security, he was chiefly responsible for the creation of the National Science Foundation. It appeared Bush had his hands in a multitude of pies, and top secret ones at that. So much fell under this man's umbrella that he was more than likely indirectly involved in the Crossroads tests. Mycroft smiled. Vannevar Bush was not unlike himself, and had very much been his American counterpart, answering also to the leader of that country. And what did Titterton, a British-Australian nuclear physicist also involved in the atomic explosions have to do with this secret project at Bikini?

"Do we have any clue as to who the other four scientists were that worked on this secret project?" Mycroft asked.

"Only very few sketchy details, I'm afraid, " Julian replied. "They were masters in their fields, but none involved atomic principles. In fact, their expertise lay in electromagnetism!"

Vannevar Bush also happened to be an electrical engineer. Mycroft shook his head. Each piece of information yielded only more questions. "What could that possibly have to do with the tests conducted on those islands?" he exclaimed.

"It's a mystery, cousin," Julian answered. "All records of it have been scrubbed and destroyed. My contacts within the FBI, CIA and Research and Development have come up with nothing extra that was going on there. The only connection outside involved Titterton, who assisted in the nuclear testing in Australia later on in the fifties and the Manhattan Project earlier. Whatever this Andrena is involved in is obviously more dangerous that what we previously surmised," he concluded.

"Indeed. We were of the opinion they were involved with the Spratly islands, due to what little we could glean from the intercepted messages of their Macau contact," Mycroft sighed.

"This is much bigger and far reaching, I'm afraid," Julian said. He paused. "How is Joanne?"

Mycroft smiled. "She is doing as well as can be expected under the circumstances."

"Good to hear it. I worry about that one," Julian said fondly. "It was my fault," he said, sadly shaking his head. If only he hadn't fallen for the enemy's ploy and called her..

"Possibly," Mycroft agreed, "but what's done is done. We would not have secured Soleimani had it not happened," he said pragmatically. Interrogated with the harshest of Mycroft's tactics, the Albanian had still refused to talk. Learning nothing from him, he was incarcerated in a top security institution for life.

Try as he might, Julian worried constantly about her, even though he knew she was safe with his cousins. "You saw the jewelry I sent with her?" he asked, referring to the writing inscribed inside.

"I did," answered Mycroft. "You think a great deal of this woman."

"I would trust her with my life, yes. She means a great deal to me."

"And yet you sent her to me," Mycroft stated. He had known almost instantly the reason for sending her, and no one else.

"Joanne will be good for you, cousin. Since she will be with you until this business is over, I suggest you get to know her. Take her out a bit, show her the sights. I dare say she would especially appreciate the quieter parks and countryside," Julian added.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "I am afraid you are mistaken, cousin mine. As you have so often told me, caring is not an advantage, especially in our family. A polite host I will be, but nothing more, I assure you. "

Julian's voice hardened immediately. "You are treating her well, I trust?"

Words lodged in his throat as Mycroft realized his cousin hadn't yet learned of the film room incident, nor that the attack at the hotel was exacerbated due to a miscalculation on his part. Most likely even his brother had thought that maximum security had been put around the hotel. Assigning only the bare minimum for protection, Mycroft was glad that Sherlock had been there - the alternative was unthinkable. He hadn't expected their adversary to consider Joanne a threat, much less even know about her.

The small pause was all it took.

A blistering tirade proceeded over the line as Julian swore up a storm, searing his cousin's ears a hot shade of pink. In no great detail, Mycroft described his embarrassing lack of oversight and severe underestimation of their enemy's resolve, as well as the scene in the film room and Joanne's calm reaction. He didn't mention the tears in her eyes.

"Bloody hell Mycroft!! I gave her my word that she would be safe you, that she could trust you!" Julian paused, catching his breath. "What were you thinking?!"

Not one to be stuck for words, Mycroft was speechless in the face of his elder cousin's anger. What could he say? Julian was right.

Julian went on. "Of course she would appear steady considering her condition, look at the practice she's had of hiding emotions all these years." The anger subsided as he realized that he had also snapped at her on occasion. "I am sorry cousin. The Holmes temper does nothing to help our relationships, does it?"

"And what exactly is your relationship with Miss Hartwell?" Mycroft asked.

"I.." It was now Julian's turn to be at a loss for words. "She is a good friend of mine, nothing more," he said, his composure and steely reserve intact once again. "I mean for you to get acquainted and become friends; and in time, possibly something more," he announced. "I am adamant on this cousin, and will hear no argument."

"And what is her opinion on the matter? Have you asked her?"

Julian sighed. "No I have not, nor do I intend to. What she thinks at the moment is of no consequence. As for the earlier incident - make it up to her. Take her out for a meal. Make her happy, Mycroft. For me. That's all I ask."

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Why is this so important to you? We do have slightly more pressing matters to hand, cousin mine. This new threat and their involvement in the Pacific islands?"

Julian wasn't to be dissuaded. "I am only looking out for your welfare and Joanne's, Mycroft, especially that of your happiness."

"I am happy enough, thank you," Mycroft replied coldly. "If Miss Hartwell is not, then I am afraid there is nothing I can do to remedy that."

"You are content enough at work, I'm sure; but I meant in all aspects of your life. Admit it cousin, you are lonely, as is Joanne. And yes, you can indeed remedy that. For the both of you."

Mycroft was more than a bit irritated that he had in fact felt an almost kindred connection with Joanne Hartwell - and something else that he didn't care to examine too closely. He'd known her only one day, after all. This wasn't something he would admit to Julian, however. Bringing the topic back to their current problem, he said "Relationships notwithstanding, I believe a trip to the Marshall Islands is in order."

There was silence as Julian considered this. Joanne would of course have to accompany them, and he said as much. After the events at the Lanesborough, there was no way she could be left alone in London. Although they had nabbed the assassin, Julian had no doubt their adversary had more lined up to finish the job.

"You do realize we would be going right into enemy territory, cousin. Andrena will no doubt have operatives waiting. Miss Hartwell will be, I believe, in even more danger there," Mycroft stated.

"She will be with yourself and Sherlock," Julian intonated. Hearing the surprised silence at the other end, he added "I recommend that your brother go along as well. Both of you will be needed on this, I'm afraid."

"And no doubt as extra protection for Miss Hartwell," replied an amused Mycroft.

"Quite so, cousin. Handpicked agents will of course be sent as a vanguard to scout for any danger before your arrival, of course," Julian said.

"Naturally, though no doubt Sherlock will beat them to it," Mycroft replied. "He does love his legwork," he said as he tried unsuccessfully to withhold a giant yawn.

"Ah, it's well after midnight there. We will continue this conversation once we have more information. In the mean time, surveillance will be maintained on the known contacts out here in the Pacific." A note of questioning disbelief crept into Julian's voice. "How the blazes can they only trace her contacts' side of the conversation?" he wondered. "They were pinned down easily enough!"

"We believe it to be some kind of new technology unknown to the government at the moment," Mycroft answered. "From the one ended dialogue we have heard so far, it would appear that she knows a great deal regarding it. They are interested in acquiring the data that was being experimented with, after all."

Something else occurred to Mycroft. "Since the only things we know of the scientists are their shared background in electromagnetics, I will conduct a search of my own in regards to this person. It is quite possible she also has a similar background."

"That make sense. Again, it depends if she is working for someone, in which case it is they who have that knowledge. Either way, it's a place to start."

They hung up, with a date set for one last communication to discuss in detail the logistics of the Holmes brother's pending trip to the Marshall Islands. It would be done entirely in Syncode, sent as Morse code in the Latin alphabet on a predetermined shortwave frequency. Both owned HAM radio receivers, and due to their positions within the government, needed no official license to operate them. This would provide extra layers of protection for communiqué between the three Holmes men, wherever they happened to be. If all went to plan, they would be on their way to the Marshall Islands in two weeks time.

***

Bright sunlight filled the room as Joanne slowly opened her eyes. The large four poster had proven quite comfortable. She realized for the first time that she'd managed to sleep the whole night without once waking up. Perhaps it was the new surroundings that did not have the memory of a traumatic event attached to it, unlike her apartment. Most nights were spent only half sleep, as though her body was determined not to shut all the way down in case another fire should break out. It didn't help that her neighbors would literally run down the stairs in the middle of the night. There were times when Joanne wanted to call out from her window and ask them this. Why did they run? Where were they going in such a hurry at that late hour? For a brief moment, Joanne wondered where she was before remembering the attack at the hotel and Mycroft's offer to bring her home, albeit temporarily while the flat next to his brother's was being prepared.

Pulling the last change of clothes from her duffel, an unpleasant thrill of anxiety raced through her. Mycroft had told her to be ready early for a shopping excursion with his assistant. A 'missed alarm' alert appeared at the top of her phone screen. Oh no. And he had given her the phone back just for that purpose with a promise not to use it to make phone calls. Not that she had anyone in her contacts list except work, her parents and the fish sitters. She was surprised no one had awakened her. The sun was already making its way toward the midmorning point in the sky. Joanne hurriedly finished dressing and made her way downstairs, pausing at the landing. Where would she find Mycroft? More than likely in his study she thought, remembering Olivia's earlier words. Apparently he never went into the kitchen. Finding the solid door shut, she gently knocked.

"Enter," came the muffled command.

She found Mycroft at his customary place behind the desk. "You're finally up," he said drily.

"I'm so sorry, Mycroft! I know you said to be up early. I didn't hear the alarm. Guess I was more tired than I thought," Joanne said sheepishly. "I'm sorry about the shopping thing.."

"Pardon? Did I say that it was canceled?" He indicated a chair in front of the desk. "It's just as well, actually. Sherlock's contact had something come up last night, and was only able to finish the security on it an hour ago. Anyway, I expect you needed the extra sleep, considering yesterday's events."

"Ah, well that's good. You said we were going to stop by his place to get it before Anthea takes me out." Just thinking of the endless hours trying on of clothes made her exhausted. She was glad for the simple leggings and t-shirt that could easily be shed in the dressing rooms.

Again, Mycroft had the uncanny habit of reading a person's micro expressions. "Have you eaten? I expect you will need your energy for it."

Joanne got up to go. "I'll have a gander in the kitchen. Maybe there's some leftovers."

"You will do no such thing," he said as she reluctantly sat back down. "I will be ready in five minutes. Do you have the phone with you?" he asked, extending a hand to retrieve it from her.

"Yeah, here," she said, handing it to him. "I did use it for reading my commentaries, though. Hey! I got your message, too - I accept your apology," she said, referring to the poem he had told her to read the night before.

Though the usual unassailable composure remained intact, she noted a faint blush to the tips of his ears. Joanne hid a smile as she looked down at her lap. It was obvious to her that this man loved, no, craved, compliments and statements of appreciation. Remembering his parent's lack of attention to him as a child, it was no wonder. She vowed to do so often. As important as Mycroft Holmes was in his work world, he was still very much undervalued as a person, especially by his family. Joanne vowed to make up for it in some way, however small.

"Yes, I thought you might discern the meaning behind it. My methods are not always understood by most people, goldfish that they are," he stated loftily.

That they are, Joanne mused. Did he not consider her a goldfish, then? It was her turn to color a light shade of pink.

"Did you read any more of the poems?" he asked. "As I said, you may borrow them from the library anytime you wish," he reminded her.

"Of course, and thank you," she said. Her dad was especially fond of poetry, though Joanne had never gotten into it. This wasn't something Mycroft needed to know, however; she wanted to build a rapport and find some kind of common ground with him. Perhaps she would browse through a few and hopefully take a liking to one of the authors. She was glad they shared an interest in film noir at least, though Joanne wasn't keen to visit that room again any time soon. "I did not read any more afterwards, I'm afraid. Strangely enough, it was in your voice that I heard the narrator! I fell asleep right after the last line."

"I am glad that my voice has an anesthetic effect on you," Mycroft stated mildly.

"Hardly. It is calming though." Joanne closed her eyes. "Very soft and soothing, and not unpleasant."

If anyone else had said this, Mycroft would have known instantly they were lying, or more likely, bribing him with flattery. Remembering the effects that audio and other stimuli had with Miss Hartwell during their first encounter, he had no doubt that she was telling the truth. A little more than his ears suffused with color as he lowered his head to study a file that lay open on the desk, hoping she didn't notice.

Joanne did, however. Her medical background had trained her to notice the slightest change in a patient, which worked for her in any situation. The extreme polarities of this man were astounding, whose character vacillated between cold, formidable and downright sinister to sweet, vulnerable and at the moment, somewhat bashful. Mycroft Holmes was like a multi faceted diamond, reflecting a full spectrum of colors from every angle. Joanne was drawn to him, and wanted to explore each plane and prism of this jewel that sat before her. She shook her head at the direction of her thoughts. Haven't had my coffee yet, she reasoned pragmatically.

She walked over to the windows that overlooked both the front and side of the house. The place is perfect for bird watching, she thought. It was a pity she would only be here one more night before moving into the flat next to Sherlock's. Shrubbery, trees and hedgerows grew in thick abundance here. Even from where she stood, Joanne could see various birds flitting in and out among them. They were different here, and there were no hummingbirds in this part of the world. Still, there were a few she could name, having watched bird cams that were scattered about England, as well as British nature shows. The Blue and Great Tits were here favorites. Sighing wistfully, she wondered what her own birds were up to.

Mycroft mistook the sound as a sigh of impatience. "In a hurry, Miss Hartwell?" he asked, looking up from the laptop.

"Huh? What do you mean?" she responded, a look of confusion on her face. Brightening, Joanne realized Julian had had a similar reaction to her body language when she was deep in thought. "No, not at all. I was just watching the birds outside, and wondering what mine are doing. They do have nice ones here, though. Your yard is perfect for it. Bird watching, I mean. Should put up a few feeders."

"Hardly. They make a mess," he said dispassionately. "The seeds would attract rodents, no doubt." Mycroft resumed his typing.

"They don't at my place. I keep it swept up. Then again, I live on the 2nd floor, so the rodents can't climb up. Did have a pesky squirrel for a while, when the old neighbors were there. They had a bamboo screen it would climb up.." She trailed off, assuming he'd stopped listening, and turned back to the windows and stuffed her hands into the large front pocket of her hoodie.

Unbeknownst to her, Mycroft heard every word, and filed away those little facts for later.

Finished, Mycroft stood up and closed the laptop. "Are you ready?"

"Yep. Going to Sherlock's first?" she asked.

"No. Since we both have not eaten yet, might I suggest a stop along the way? There is a nice little bakery that I frequent near Vauxhall in East Kensington. It is on the way to my brother's. It will have to be take away, I am afraid," he said apologetically.

"Ahh nice! I assume they have coffee? Would go great with a donut." Her stomach growled at the thought.

A pained look crossed Mycroft's face at Joanne's choice of words. "They are not donuts," he said with a sniff. "Maitre Choux serves éclairs, buns, profiteroles and other assorted pastries. Donuts, I assure you, are not one of them," he finished imperiously.

"Well, they sound good, whatever they are. Only thing I recognized were the éclairs. Love those!"

"Yes, well. Let's go, shall we? I daresay my assistant is waiting impatiently to show you the shops. She spends a great deal of time there when not on duty."

Oh no, Joanne thought. Remembering the smart outfit Anthea had worn the day prior, it stood to reason that she had an eye for tailoring, as did her employer. Unfortunately, it probably wouldn't be the grab and go kind of shopping she was used to. She hoped the coffee at that bakery was strong.

Wilson had brought the Bentley around to the front where he greeted them, opening the door for them both. He and Joanne made the usual small talk, while Mycroft made a few mundane business calls along the way. Texting a reply to his brother, he appeared withdrawn, almost apprehensive.

"What?" Joanne asked.

"Nothing really," he said vaguely. "I only ask that you not be surprised by anything you may find in my brother's flat."

"That bad? Welp, he can't be any worse than my neighbor. He's a bit of a hoarder, and not the best housekeeper."

"Sherlock's housekeeping skills are sadly lacking, yes, though that's not exactly what I meant," Mycroft said enigmatically.

Joanne's eyebrows raised in surprise, but said nothing.

Wilson soon brought the car up snugly along the curb in front of the Maitre Choux, a chic looking upscale bakery with rows of brightly colored pastries displayed in the window. Joanne had never seen them decorated in such a fancy way before. Most likely there would be sticker shock at the prices.

The Maitre Choux didn't disappoint. She couldn't afford even the cheapest offering. Not on a regular basis, anyway.

Mycroft ordered his usual. Joanne couldn't decide, and finally settled on a rich looking éclair and the strongest brew of coffee available. Mycroft of course insisted that the box looked quite empty with only the two items. He instructed the man behind the counter to fill it full. Back in the car, she had to admit it was indeed one of the best she had tasted. "Oh man! These cream puffs are awesome!" she exclaimed indelicately around a mouthful of cream.

"It is an éclair, not a cream puff, as you so eloquently put it," he said, biting fastidiously into a brightly colored cake.

"Eloquence was never one of my strong points," she retorted with a laugh, thoroughly enjoying it. "Mmmmm..."

Mycroft looked sidelong at her. "Obviously."

Though the rest of the ride was short, Joanne couldn't help but notice the poorly concealed covert glances he cast her way. "What?" she asked.

"You, have, um.." For the second time that he could remember, Mycroft was at a loss for words, and not sure what to do. He settled on taking the handkerchief from his pocket and holding it up to her.

"Oh! I have some on my face. Where is it?" she asked, dabbing everywhere and not finding it.

"Here, let me," he offered.

Joanne held still, watching wide eyed as he gently removed the bit of custard from her cheek. For one hot moment, Mycroft envisioned that it was his tongue and not the kerchief brushing the cream away. Unconsciously, he licked his lips with a hunger that had nothing to do with food. Shocked, he drew back as though scalded, surprised at the myriad of thoughts and images that seared his mind. A warm, though not unpleasant sensation spread throughout his lower belly and went straight to the groin. Mycroft's face burned as he looked away from her out the window in sheer embarrassment and frustration. What was it about this woman that upset and bewildered him so?

Joanne was mesmerized at the range of raw emotions that passed in rapid succession across his face. At first almost comically focused, the look on Mycroft's face as he went to remove the offending article changed abruptly into an intense, almost greedy longing as she watched the sensuous lips part, the tip of his tongue darting out to lick his dry lips. She wondered if he could read the same need that was reflected in her own eyes. By the way he rapidly shrank from her, it was clear that he had, and was ashamed at the brief but embarrassing lapse of control on his part.

Joanne glanced up at Wilson, who's expression remained inscrutable, his eyes straight ahead on the road. She wondered exactly how many other women had occupied the space in which she now sat. How experienced was Mycroft Holmes in romantic encounters and, dare she ask, love? A bitter wave of jealousy washed over her that she quickly quashed. It was none of her damn business, and in a few months time she would be back home, alone again with her geese. Still, the resentment lingered as she pictured Mycroft with a woman of his own class and refinement together in the back of the Bentley, sipping Dom Pérignon from the crystal champagne flutes.

Neither had a chance to speak again as they arrived just then at Sherlock's flat. Unsure of what to say, Mycroft decided it was better to move on and not bring it up. "As I mentioned earlier," he reiterated, having now fully regained his unassailable demeanor, "do not be surprised by what you may find inside."

No more surprised than by your ravenous expression just now, she thought silently.

"A dead body?" she joked instead. Anything to distract her from the memory of that penetrating gaze a moment ago.

From the solemn look he gave her, she wondered...

The stairs to Sherlock's apartment were dark and steep. Joanne made sure to hold the railing all the way up as she followed behind Mycroft. Her thoughts still on that silent but heated exchange in the Bentley, she couldn't help noting the firm outline of his posterior in the tailored pinstripe trousers. The material stretched taught around firm thighs, outlining every muscle as he climbed the steps in front of her. His light fragrance of cologne and aftershave trailed behind him, as well as the subtle scent of the man himself. It was all she could do to clear her head and face Sherlock Holmes, who stood at the top of the landing watching them both with silent bemusement. Joanne knew at once he could read the expression that was clearly written on her face; she could only imagine what his brother saw on Mycroft's.

The bare minimum of greetings were dispensed as Sherlock walked over to his laptop and resumed typing, apparently in the middle of writing an article for his blog. He noncommittally indicated the phone on the table that his brother and Joanne had come for. Mycroft at once picked it up and began ascertaining and testing the various security functions while peppering his brother with questions regarding the specs.

While they were otherwise occupied, Joanne was left to her own devices as she took in her surroundings. Mycroft was right. The place reflected an air of neglect as dust motes swirled about the room. Stacks of papers and miscellaneous objects lay scattered on the floor in old wrinkled boxes, while books and magazines sat haphazardly in their dusty bookcases. Joanne noted a scientific and yet macabre theme to the décor that lined the walls, shelves and mantle. There was no doubt that the skull perched above the fireplace was real, as were the framed insect specimens. She found the detailed prints of the plants interesting; they reminded her of those in the nearly 200 year old natural medicine books she had acquired from EBay, describing all sorts of herbs and plants, accompanied with hand painted drawings of each. Joanne smiled, thinking how much they had in common in that respect: Both were lovers of the eclectic and obscure.

"... from the ice box."

Joanne looked up from the row of books she was currently inspecting to find the Holmes brothers watching her. "What? Sorry, wasn't listening," she apologized.

Sherlock motioned impatiently towards the kitchen. "Patches. In the ice box."

Huh? What patches? Joanne looked inquiringly at Mycroft, who appeared more than a little apprehensive, though he said nothing and looked down at his feet. Ah. Another character assessment, then. Very well, she thought gamely and headed towards the fridge. She opened the top door of the unit.

A severed male head stared sightlessly out at her on it's tray between a bag of frozen tamales and a roll of sausages. Next to the latter lay the pack of nicotine patches. The head resembled an uncanny likeness to the long dead Italian opera singer. Raised in a medical family and having worked most of her adult life around gruesome sights, the surprise of finding it there was less disconcerting than the possibility of cross-contamination with the food. Still, Mycroft had warned her.

"What's Pavarotti doing in the fridge?" she asked evenly.

"I'm measuring the coagulation of saliva after death," replied Sherlock in a bored tone. "Who is Pavarotti?" he asked, looking up only briefly from his typing, gauging her reaction. Mycroft had put a hand over his mouth to stifle a small smile as he looked up at her. Apparently Joanne had passed the shock test.

She tossed the patches over to Sherlock. "He was an opera singer. Guy in there looks just like him. You really don't know who he was?!" she said, shaking her head in disbelief. Sherlock merely rolled his eyes as he applied a patch to his arm.

Medical curiosity won out as a thought occurred to her. "The head's in the freezer. How do you expect to get an accurate measurement if the saliva's frozen?" she asked, genuinely curious.

"As long as the mouth remains closed, the process will continue unaffected."

"You're not worried about cross-contamination? You got food in there."

"You do have a penchant for stating the obvious. Where else was I supposed to put it?"

Mycroft watched with mild amusement as the two discussed the finer points of the experiment and the intended possible outcomes. A calculating gleam appeared in his eye. Here was someone who was unfazed by Sherlock's unorthodox way of living, and in fact, seemed quite comfortable with it. He was glad she would soon be moving next door to his brother. With John gone and happily married, Miss Hartwell would be the ideal person to look out for him when Mycroft was occupied with other things. As long as they didn't become anything more than friends, that is. An unfamiliar knot of jealousy rose up from somewhere inside of him - Mycroft dismissed it as nothing more than heartburn. He glanced at his brother. Although Sherlock showed no overly friendly inclination toward her whatsoever, he had suddenly become animated as they discussed his various experiments. Joanne for her part showed only the interest of a working colleague. She appeared to be as nearly scientifically minded as Sherlock. Their heads bent over the laptop, his brother explained to her in detail the aspects of some prior experiment involving a case he had completed a week ago. Joanne listened intently, adding her input on the medical parts that she was familiar with. The dull burning flared, becoming uncomfortably acute. Although he considered himself the greater intellect over his brother, medicine was a topic that Mycroft grudgingly admitted his brother excelled at more so than he.

A forceful sigh that was half resentment, half impatience escaped him. Neither looked up from the screen. "I am sorry to interrupt your terribly engaging conversation," he said caustically, gripping hard the umbrella handle, "but I believe Miss Hartwell has somewhere else that she needs to be." His tone indicated that he wasn't sorry in the least.

Sherlock cast his brother a look of annoyance. Joanne instantly realized the source of Mycroft's irritation and felt a deep stab of guilt. The man stood off by himself near the empty fireplace, left out of their conversation, and one that Joanne had no doubt he knew little about. Engrossed as they were in the details of the case, the reason she was there had totally slipped her mind. That reason now stood across the room glaring silently at them.

Pictures from Julian's photo album flashed before her: A lonely and forgotten chubby red haired boy with freckles, yearning for his parent's attention as they coddled his baby brother. In another, it was Mycroft's fourteenth birthday, but the focus of his parents was Sherlock, who had immediately begun assembling the telescope that was his brother's present. It appeared they were encouraging him in his endless quest for knowledge. It wasn't the telescope that Mycroft dismayed over, but the love that their parents lavished instead on his brother. In yet another and possibly the saddest, the Holmes family were at the beach, where Mycroft had placed a pudgy hand on either parent's arm, silently begging to be noticed as he looked earnestly up at them. Once again, both were aware of only Sherlock as he engaged in one of his antics. Both gazed over the top of their eldest son's head, as though he weren't there at all.

And here she was, repeating the same with the adult Mycroft. She couldn't blame him for sounding rude. His expression and body language told her everything: underneath that acerbic veneer was the same lonely little boy in the photographs. As much as she was warming to Sherlock in a fraternal sort of way, Mycroft came first. Joanne wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of the day with him. Shopping was the last thing she wanted to do.

The umbrella tapped impatiently on the hardwood floor.

Finished with the laptop, Sherlock stood up. "Take a look at my blog sometime," he said as he flopped down lazily on the couch. "Bored," he murmured.

Mycroft showed no pity for his brother as he looked pointedly at Joanne. "Let's go. Anthea's waiting for us next door."

Joanne cast one last look at Sherlock, who had petulantly turned on his side toward the wall , ignoring them both. It seemed his childhood habits had not entirely disappeared. Smiling, she followed Mycroft back down the stairs who took them two at a time, anxious to be out of his brother's apartment.

Outside, they turned and entered an almost identical entrance right beside Sherlock's. The numbers above this door read 223B. Apparently they were on the odd numbered side of the street which seemed fitting, somehow. This time, it was Mycroft who ushered Joanne up the stairs as he followed closely behind. She had no doubt he was probably ogling her backside in the same way she had his. Joanne was thankful for the miles put in around the large neighborhood block and park. Though she couldn't say the same about her large chest and not so firm belly, the legs were possibly her best attribute.

Following close behind, Mycroft agreed as he appreciated the long supple limbs encased in the tight cotton material in front of him. Every detail of each movement was outlined as his eyes traveled from the slender calves to the shapely but well defined muscle of her thighs. Her bottom was no less appealing, as were the soft curves of her hips which deepened at the waist. Mycroft inhaled the lingering scent of her jasmine soap, resolving to ask her later about the brand and where she had procured it. A sudden image of them engaged in the shower surrounded by that scent rose unbidden in his minds eye. It wasn't altogether unpleasant.

On reaching the landing, Mycroft opened the already unlocked door. "This will be your new 'home from home', as it were. There are of course a few minor details to attend to, and it should be ready within two days."

Anthea rose from the couch with her ever present blackberry. "Have a look around," she said. "It's amazing what they have done with the place in so short a time."

They quickly toured the rooms. Joanne wasn't sure what details Mycroft was referring to. The flat looked ready to move in as it was. Possibly the only jarring thing was the unsightly garden area just outside the French doors of the bedroom; it looked more like a vacant lot. No matter, as she had spotted a garden center only a few blocks down the street on the drive over. It would give her something to do, at any rate. She looked forward to adding bird feeders and houses. Possibly even a fountain bath. Remembering his earlier distaste of the things, Joanne didn't mention this to Mycroft. In a large city like this, she had no doubt there would be rodents, and not the grey, fuzzy tailed kind. She'd just have to make sure to keep the space below the feeders swept more frequently than was done at home.

Anthea was finishing up a text as they came down the stairs. "Ready?" she asked as they headed back outside. No doubt she had more important things to do than take Jo shopping. She and her employer had a country to run, after all.

Mycroft walked toward the Jag that was parked behind the Bentley as Anthea climbed into the latter. "Don't have too much fun, now," Mycroft said as the suited driver closed the door behind him.

Still feeling bad for neglecting him at Sherlock's, Joanne walked over to his door. The tinted window rolled down. "Yes?"

"Mycroft," she began. An apology had been on the tip of her tongue, but looking into those questioning, clear blue eyes wiped her mind completely blank. "I just want to say thank you. For everything."

The fair brows shot up in mild surprise. "Whatever for? As I stated earlier, the British government and our nation are deeply indebted to you. It is a mere formality, and I daresay, a necessity," he said, taking in her faded hoodie and worn sneakers with a critical eye. "Now. Off with you!" he said gruffly as the window rolled silently back up.

Joanne caught the hint of a smile as he looked away, as well as a light flush around the tips of his ears. She watched her reflection move across the dark, highly polished window as the Jag pulled away from the curb and carried him away, most likely back to Whitehall.

"Where to, ladies?" Wilson asked as Joanne climbed in beside Anthea.

It was Anthea who answered. "The Burlington Arcade, please," she said excitedly. Gone was the demure professional agent/assistant. Instead, a new sparkle appeared in Anthea's eyes as she excitedly began describing the various boutiques there. This was a side of her that only close friends and family got to see. It was clear Anthea had planned their excursion down to the last detail as she ticked off on her fingers a list of each shop they would visit, with a break somewhere in between for lunch, or possibly dinner depending on when they finished. It was obvious from her exuberance that she rarely had the time to get out and do this. Most likely Anthea ordered her things online. To get out and about like this with another woman was probably quite a treat for her, Joanne thought. .

The streets were bumper to bumper with traffic, as were the sidewalks with pedestrians jostling each other for the limited space. "I hope there's no long lines at the stores," Joanne said doubtfully as she observed a few store fronts that indeed had customers trailing out their doors.

Anthea smiled almost gleefully. "I don't think that will be a problem. We are to meet the Head Beadle, Mark Lord in front of the Arcade. It has been arranged for him to accompany us for any questions you may have."

"Beetle?!" Joanne exclaimed. "Can't wait to hear the history behind that one!"

Anthea laughed, which sounded like the tinkling of little golden bells. It was the first time that Joanne could recall her doing so since they'd met the previous day.

"Beadle!" she said, still giggling. "The Beadles are a police force. In fact, they are the smallest in the world! I will let Mr. Lord explain all of the history. It really is quite fascinating. Ah! Here we are."

The Bentley pulled up in front of a large stone building with a long open hall traversing the length of it. Sunlight streamed through the glass ceiling supported by steel girders. Shops and boutiques lined both sides with a red carpet laid out along the entire length. This brought back the memory of the small red carpet at the foot of Julian's Gulfstream back in Washington. She wondered if this was just a coincidence. Although somewhat modernized, it retained most of its Victorian air - it was like stepping back in time. A tall portly man dressed in Victorian guardsman attire stood at the entrance beside a wrought iron gate. Smiling jovially, he beckoned them inside.

The first thing Joanne realized immediately was the absence of shoppers. It appeared totally deserted save for the staff in front of their shops and some serious looking security. They had the entire arcade to themselves.

Again she was reminded of Julian, how on their first outing he had made sure that the entire section of the upstairs floor of the restaurant was empty so that they could speak in private. This was obviously Mycroft's doing judging by the extra police that were present. These were not the Victorian dressed beadles, but armed formidable looking military type, as well as a few plain clothes secret servicemen. It appeared that he was taking the threat to her safety seriously now, though Joanne thought it was a bit over the top. Anthea had been right - there was no need to worry about lines, or 'queues' as the English called it.

He enthusiastically waved a uniformed arm toward the long hall. "Come in, come in!"

Joanne looked from the man to Anthea who followed a step behind her. "How did Mycroft manage to clear out the public? This must be costing the shop owners big time."

Anthea smiled knowingly. "He has his ways. They are well compensated, I am told. But you're right. Our time is limited to three hours, though I think we can finish well before then. The arcade is merely our first stop." Anthea looked more than enthusiastic about this.

Joanne groaned inwardly and wondered how they would make it out of this huge place in under three hours. It would take that long just trying on each outfit.

Before they got down to business, Mr. Lord gave them a quick tour as they walked, explaining the history of the place. No doubt Anthea was more than familiar with every shop they passed. Joanne figured this was Mycroft's way of introducing her to the city that was so close to his heart. Her ears perked up when the Head Beadle mentioned the threat of crime.

"In the late 1800s, however, the Beadles were in a constant battle against ne'er do wells. This is why whistling is banned from the arcade – because it was used as code between pickpockets."

This was good to know, she thought. It was probably still true out on the streets.

"Clucking is also disallowed," he continued, "after prostitutes rented the rooms overhead and used the sound as they waved red handkerchiefs to attract the attention of men below. Singing, or any kind of 'merriment' – that is, drunkenness – was and still is a definite no-no."

Joanne grinned. "Wow. Sounds like a colorful history for sure!"

Mr. Lord rattled off other various tidbits regarding the arcade: "Notice the marble floor has a slight incline - this was so the ladies didn't need to raise their long skirts. And did you know that hurrying, opening umbrellas and singing are banned? Officially, the only person allowed to whistle in the arcade is Sir Paul McCartney!"

Anthea reluctantly apologized for the short time they would have to spend here. "Unfortunately, there are a few other places that we need to stop at. However, I promise you we will enjoy every minute of our stay here!" Anthea made good on that promise, as she purchased several items for herself, as well. The jolly man beamed.

It turned out that Mycroft had sent Joanne's measurements to the managers of select shops at both the arcade and the other department stores they would be visiting that day, saving them the time of having her try on each garment. Like his cousin, he had somehow judged her numbers exactly. How did they do that? Joanne silently shook her head, not sure she really wanted to know.

Luckily, there was no need to browse each shop. Anthea had a predetermined list of them that she meticulously checked off once they had left. All Joanne had to do was select the piece of clothing or outfit that appealed to her, and it was a done deal. If she liked something that they did not have in her size, it was ordered and would be sent directly to Mycroft's home. She tried to find only the cheapest, but like the pastries at the Maitre Choux, even the least expensive item would break her bank. It wasn't that she couldn't afford one or two good shirts, having built up a small nest egg over the years. Joanne just didn't see the point of spending in what she thought was a reckless manner. It was too much. She was glad Anthea allowed her to buy multiple mix and match items to cut down on the overall cost, though it wasn't by much.

Even though she wasn't allowed to pay for anything, it still went against the grain. Only a few outfits were needed for her extended stay here, but it felt like she was purchasing a wardrobe for the entire year. It was early summer, but Anthea had her buying winter clothes as well.

"Did Mycroft tell you to get me a whole years worth of clothes?!" Joanne asked, shaking her head at the prices. Even the cheapest piece was in the triple digits. She couldn't imagine this kind of lifestyle on a daily basis, and more than felt like Julia Robert's character in 'Pretty Woman'.

"He told me to use my judgment, so naturally I calculated for your stay here in the foreseeable future. Oh, we can't forget the accoutrements, can we?" she said, heading over to the jewelers across the plaza.

"No! Anthea, I'm serious. No jewelry. His cousin Julian got me an entire set from Cartier. Anyway, I don't wear the stuff. I hate things around my neck. I'm sorry, I have to put my foot down on this one."

She looked about to argue, but changed her mind at the look of determination set on Joanne's face. "My employer will be most displeased."

"I'm sorry about that, but I can't. If he wants me to wear anything like that, it will have to be what I already have." Joanne shook her head. "Clothes are one thing, but that.. uh uh."

Changing tactics, Anthea led her over to the perfumeries. This was more doable, Joanne thought. Perfume and scented soaps were her particular weakness. Though she tried to be careful and buy only a couple, Anthea insisted on selecting more than she would ever use in a year. They were only finishing up at the arcade, and still had more to go.

Meeting Wilson outside in the Bentley, Anthea directed him to various other shops and department stores. At times, she would look around while the sales staff were busy with Joanne and acquire a few more pieces for herself. Anthea couldn't remember having this much fun in a long time. It was refreshing.

They had a quick lunch at a small but pricey café in Mayfair. Joanne was beginning to have a fondness for the little finger sandwiches. Although small, they really were quite filling.

The next stop was The Royal Exchange, where Anthea encouraged Joanne to purchase even more scents and soaps, among other things.

Joanne was shocked when she was led to the lingerie department at Harrods's.

What on earth would she need that for?

Anthea smiled. "You never know," she said elusively as she picked out a few risqué numbers for Joanne.

"Anthea! I can't wear those!"

"Of course you can. See, she has your exact size!" Anthea said, indicating the staffer who was helping them.

"Wait. I understand that Mycroft gave my measurements to the managers of the shop's we went to. He sent them to the lingerie department as well??" Joanne blushed a furious red.

Anthea smirked. "Oh no, that was me! Mr. Holmes wouldn't know anything about these particular kinds of garments."

"Dark colors look good on you," said the floor assistant who held up striking blue silk piece edged in black lace. It was followed by a similar one in red. Other more modest nightwear and underthings were also purchased.

The Royal Exchange was the last stop, and had also been temporarily emptied of customers. Unlike Harrods's which had been crowded with people Anthea explained, these type of open spaces like the arcade were not as densely packed, and therefore made it easier for a shooter. Joanne noted the same amount of security here, too.

More accessories and shoes were purchased at a leather shop, including a new wallet to replace her tattered one and a few leather handbags at Anthea's prodding. Joanne didn't tell her that she would more than likely stick with her backpack when not wearing the trendy clothes. Leggings and a T-shirt were more her style, as she preferred comfort over fashion. While Anthea examined the leather belts a few shelves away, a pair of calf length Italian suede boots caught Joanne's eye, which she immediately put back on seeing the price. Nearly 2,000 pounds! For one pair of shoes!

It was only when she unpacked everything back at Mycroft's that she found them in the bag. Who knew Anthea could be so sneaky?! The sharp eyed agent missed nothing.

One boutique owner had made ready a small table with champagne and pretty little cakes in their honor. Joanne felt like royalty indeed, and wondered what Mycroft must have told them to cause this kind of deferential treatment. He had either threatened or paid them well. Joanne suspected a combination of both.

A knife lay beside the plate. Why on earth would anyone use a knife for a little thing like this? Each one was barely the size of her palm. Picking one up, Joanne was about to bite into it, when Anthea lightly slapped her hand, causing her to drop it.

"Hey! What'd you do that for?!" For a brief moment, she wondered if the cake was poisoned in a way only Anthea could see.

"No. That is not how tarts are eaten in public. Use the knife," Anthea said as she demonstrated cutting her own into four sections.

The pieces barely fit on the fork, Joanne thought. "Really? They're tiny! Why not?"

Anthea delicately nibbled the nearly invisible morsel. "This is London, dear. What you do inside the home is one thing. When you are out in public, one uses utensils, no matter the size of the food."

A small frown appeared between Joanne's brows. "Was this yours or Mycroft's idea? This is a lesson in etiquette, isn't it?"

"You catch on fast. I understand what my employer sees in you" she said, taking a sip of champagne. "You're in our world now, so I suggest you get well used to it," she said as the Blackberry buzzed.

Jo sat back and resumed cutting the micro cakes. "Well, when in Rome I guess. But if it were up to me, I'd hold the dang things! Much easier, and faster."

Anthea looked up from the phone. "There is one more stop we need to make before I take you back to Mr. Holmes."

The look on her face didn't bode well for Joanne. "Where to?"

"I've just been informed you will be in need of clothes more suited to a tropical climate," Anthea said, reading the rest of the message on the Blackberry. A mix of fear and disbelief furrowed her brow.

"The timetable has been moved up. It appears you will be on your way to the Pacific Islands before the end of the week."

#fanfic #bbc sherlock #Mycroft Holmes

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