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Double cross purposes (3/3)

BBC Sherlock

Rating 15 (swearing, implicit het and slash)

Spoilers: none for Series 2, possibly for Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy

Betaed by lucoluco

Part 1, Part 2

Summary: How long can Mycroft keep his deceptions up before someone's life gets wrecked?

Monday 1st February 2010

Mycroft scowled at the text he'd received:

Glad to see you taking an interest in my cases at last, but don't annoy Lestrade. That's my job. SH

He dialled Sherlock's number with slightly shaky fingers.

"Good morning, Sherlock. What have you been up to now?"

"Do you really want to know, Mycroft?" Sherlock's voice managed its familiar trick of modulating into utter suggestiveness.

"I meant, what's all this about me annoying Lestrade? How do you know about that?"

"He spotted you talking to me on Saturday night before you came and interfered with his crime scene. So he asked whether I knew who you were, or if not, what I could deduce. You really must have got up his nose."

"And?" Mycroft demanded.

"And I told him that you were a fussy, interfering civil servant who worried about his weight and had no sense of humour, and that I knew all that because you were my brother. But don't worry, Mycroft, I told him you worked for BIS, not your real employer. The Service's secrets remain safe with me."

"Thank you," said Mycroft and ended the call hastily, before he said anything he might regret.


That afternoon he got a ringside seat at Sally and Anderson's break-up, thanks to the hidden cameras at her flat. It was hardly Mycroft's idea of enjoyable viewing, but Sally was still officially the prime suspect for the Cobra foul-up, so he couldn't ignore the development. He just hoped he hadn't somehow precipitated it.

But it emerged, amid the shouting, that it was Sherlock's fault. He'd made some unsubtle comment about the relationship a few days ago, which had found its way back to Anderson's wife. Anderson had panicked, admitted everything to her, been given an ultimatum and panicked again. Mycroft was almost tempted, as he watched Sally rage at him, to phone her and tell her she was well shot of the spineless rat, she should find someone better. Instead, he sat and watched in his office and contemplated how he could use the event to the Service's advantage. Claim it was evidence of Sally's instability, poor judgement.

Whereas really it just confirmed that Sally was an ordinary, flawed human being, not some desiccated observer of humanity. A woman who always threw herself into the middle of things. What had it been like for her two days ago, going out on a drugs raid to 221B, turning up to a crime scene not knowing how many bodies she might find? Maybe it was the same urge for trouble, for seeking out the messy side of life, that had got her involved with Anderson in the first place.

He had to stop worrying about Operation Squid. It was all a terrible distraction from the things that really mattered. He must focus on the complex web of forces that needed balancing to ensure global stability. Not on the hapless flies who might occasionally get trapped in that web. The trap was set and there was no more to be done. At some point this week – he wasn't sure yet when he would need to do it – a discreet message would be sent to New Scotland Yard about a corrupt policewoman leaking secrets to foreign interests and Sally's world would collapse. But not today, he hoped, let her have a few days more.

Wednesday 3rd February 2010

"I've had a call from Diane at BIS," Anthea informed Mycroft mid-morning. "She says there's a crisis."

The disadvantage of having a PA – his other PA – obtuse enough not to wonder why her boss was so seldom in the office was that she was hopeless at dealing with actual problems.

"What is it?" he asked, his brow furrowing.

"Someone's turned up at the office, insisting he has to speak to you. Says he won't leave until he gets to talk to you in person. A Mr Dai Lester, she said."

Mycroft mentally ran the name through his Diane unscrambler to get an alarming message.

"DI Lestrade. Sherlock told him I work for the BIS, so he must have tracked me down. Right," he said, pulling on his coat. "I'll head over there now, see what the problem is. Can you please review the overnight tapes for Operation Squid, check that there have been no additional incidents?"

As he got in his car, he wondered how many more fallback positions he was going to have to use this time.


The DI sitting in Mycroft's other office was in a scruffy jumper and jeans today – off duty and does his own laundry, Mycroft thought – but the scowl on his face was all too familiar.

"Can I help you?" Mycroft said, as he went in and closed the door. "I'm sorry I've been so hard to track down. I've been tied up in a long meeting about alterations to copyright policy."

"Really?" said Lestrade, leaning back in his chair. "And no doubt, you've got your notes from the meeting all ready to show me. But you know what? I won't believe that, any more than I believe your lying business card or this counterfeit office."

"What do you mean?" Mycroft said, sitting down at his carefully cluttered desk.

"I'm a detective," Lestrade said, "and, whatever your brother may imply, not a complete ignoramus.  And there are a lot of things here that just aren't quite right. First thing," he added, sticking out his thumb, "is that you turn up at a crime scene in an out of the way bit of London late on a Saturday night, with a bogus excuse for why you were there. Second thing" – a sturdy index finger came out – "you have business cards with a false name on them. Third thing, you're supposed to be working here and yet you're impossible to get hold of. Fourth thing" – Lestrade's ring finger was longer than his index finger, wasn't there some scientific theory about that? – "you're Sherlock's brother."


"If you've got a quarter of his brains, you wouldn't be stuck here as a mid-ranking civil servant, you'd be running the whole department, at the very least. And ordinary civil servants don't have fake IDs to hand, or cover stories. You're something big and secret, Mycroft Holmes, you must be."

"You have no reason to assume–"

"And fifth," Lestrade announced angrily, extending his final finger out, "there's someone spying on Sally."


"Don't lie to me!" Lestrade's hand banged down on the desk. "Did you really think you could play your tricks on an experienced policewoman, someone who's done surveillance work herself? Sally thought she saw something suspicious on Saturday night, when she was leaving Lauriston Gardens.  Got me to take a look around as well for the last couple of days, and I confirmed it. Big surveillance operation, Mycroft, but some of your men need a refresher course or two."

"I can neither confirm or deny your suspicions," Mycroft said, desperately trying to think what to do. Did he dare say anything about Squid or even Cobra? Or could he perhaps imply...

"I am concerned about Sherlock–" he began.

"Don't try and drag Sherlock into this!" Lestrade snapped. "He and Donovan don’t get on, but that’s old news. And don't claim this is something official, that you have any justification for all of this."

"What do you mean?"

"You're someone big," Lestrade said, "far too big to get involved personally with Sally Donovan, even if she was crooked, which she isn't it. I've seen a lot of investigations of police corruption over the years, but this isn't like any of them. This is bloody weird. So I got to thinking why else you might be doing this, Mycroft." The furious tension rising from Lestrade was filling the room, and Mycroft was starting to wish he had a panic button under the desk in this office.

"I don't know what you mean," he protested. Why could he not deal with this, why was his mind turning to jelly?

"Sally Donovan," Lestrade said, "is an attractive young woman, with a certain reputation within CID. Mostly unjustified, but you know how rumours get about. So maybe you thought you could get away with pursuing her, stalking her, Mycroft. Maybe you thought that no-one would worry about what might happen to her. But I do, believe me. So you put a stop to your little games right this instant, or you'll be so deep in the shit you'll never get the stink off."

Cobra was safe, and so was Squid, and the wave of relief was so great that Mycroft shut his eyes for a moment. Then he opened them to see Lestrade's look of utter contempt, and something in him could not endure it, rebelled against so fundamental a lie.

"No," he insisted, "I, I, I admire Sergeant Donovan" – that was true, why had he not realised that before – "but I have no interest in her, not in that way." He had to make it clear to Lestrade, even if it meant exposing himself, a piece of himself. "I feel no sexual desire for her. I am a homosexual and always have been." He ducked his head, instinctively, and felt his stomach knot, the way it always did when he talked about that. And then he forced himself to look up, into furious brown eyes.

"You claim you're gay?" Lestrade yelled, his hands gripping the desk as if about to overturn it. "You think you can play that as a get out of jail card free, do you? Get out of my office, you disgusting piece of shit!"

Mycroft's body had already instinctively stood up and started heading for the door, before he remembered.

"Actually, it's my office," he said, rather shakily.

Lestrade was breathing heavily as well, as he stood up. "OK, I'm going," he announced. "But remember. Stay away from Donovan or I will make you pay for it."

He went out, slamming the door.

Jealousy on Lestrade's part, Mycroft wondered, as he sat back unhappily back at his desk. Or simply protectiveness combined with homophobia? He still felt sick, shocked, as if he wanted to cower away in a corner. He mustn't be like that, must he? He was the British government; it didn't matter what one insignificant policeman thought of him. He went off to the cloakroom, washed his face and hands very thoroughly and then went back to tell Diane he had to go off to Geneva for a couple of days.


"Are you OK, sir?" Anthea asked when he got back to his real office. "You look a bit ruffled."

"I've just had a rather difficult encounter with DI Lestrade," Mycroft said. "I was not, not expecting his reaction to me."

"I'm sorry, sir," she said. "I presumed...I mean, you have read the briefing notes about him for Operation Squid, haven't you? It did make things very clear."

He hadn't read the notes, of course, because Squid was all a lie. "Don't worry," he said. "I must have overlooked something. I'll just go and refresh my memory."

"There are some messages you need to answer, as well," Anthea said.

"Later," he said, and retreated into the inner office. He felt tempted to lock the door and never emerge again. What on earth was wrong? Who could he not get on top of this matter? Time to get back to the files perhaps. He wouldn't go wrong with them.

John Cornwell had written this briefing, hadn't he? He recognised the man's style immediately; you could always rely on him to provide a pithy summary of a man's career. He skimmed rapidly through the pages. Working class background, undistinguished school career. Lestrade had only really got his act together in his late twenties, when he finally passed his detective exams. And then the killer paragraph:

Lestrade's academic record was undistinguished, but he proved to be an intelligent and skilful investigator and was rapidly promoted to sergeant and then inspector. Officially, the main reason for his failure to progress further is due to doubts about his professional judgement on sensitive cases, doubts exacerbated by his association with Sherlock Holmes from 2005.Reading between the lines, however, the real sticking point is Lestrade's long association with the Lesbian and Gay Police Association. He was a founder member in 1990, and has not been shy of raising complaints about homophobic incidents within the Met. I suspect it is this attitude rather than any personal inadequacies that remains the main obstacle to further promotions.

There would be a section on his personal life, Mycroft thought, flicking through the report, there always was.  He found it, and the usual list of recent sexual contacts. Except that Cornwell's report was scanty:

No current relationships identified since late 2008 and break-up with Dr Hans Steiger. Possible occasional sexual encounters with previous partners. No evidence of regular cottaging, attendance at sex clubs, use of commercial sex providers. Blackmail risk can be regarded as low.

Mycroft read the whole report through, just to be sure. To check that this competent, attractive, unattached gay man did not have some glaring personal flaw. So, to sum up, for the last however many years, he had been unaware of the existence of this infinitely eligible man, because he'd been too stubborn to take an interest in Sherlock's work. Until now. Unfortunately, following recent events, Lestrade believed that Mycroft was an unscrupulous stalker of young, black women who told lies about his own sexuality. It was...extraordinarily frustrating.

His confidential phone began to ring.

"I've got Jennifer Murchison from IT Angels on the line for you again," Anthea said. "She's been phoning on and off all week, but she won't tell me what it's about it. I presumed she was just touting for business, but she insists she needs to speak with you."

Of course, thought Mycroft, as Anthea put her through, she has the evidence now that implicates Matheson. If I'd got it before I'd met Lestrade, if I'd only looked at his file, if, if, if...Goodness, he was wool-gathering. What mattered now was getting the truth about Operation Cobra and then he could just forget about Operation Squid. A few misjudgements, but no real damage done to the country.


"We've found the Cobra leaker," he informed Anthea, a few hours later. "In fact, the Cobra traitor. So Squid can be put to bed, as it were."

"Very good, sir," Anthea replied cheerily. "But Sid Paget will be disappointed. He's just found us a Russian connection.

"What?" Mycroft demanded. Anthea passed her Blackberry over.

"Live feed of Sally Donovan and an unidentified Russian on the South Bank," she said. Mycroft watched as Sally stood by the river near the bookstalls and talked enthusiastically to a tall, dark, beaky-nosed young man.

"Belarusian, not Russian," Mycroft said, after a few sentences of the man's accent, "and judging by his shoes, an illegal immigrant rather than a student." He was a good-looking lad, though, and going by Sally's animation, she was attracted too. "I suppose he's better than Anderson," he added doubtfully.

"Three or four nights of rebound sex," Anthea replied confidently. "Boost her morale and teach him a few lessons."

From the way they were looking at one another, Mycroft suspected it was going to be much sooner than the evening when they ended up in bed together. If they even waited till they could find a bed. Good job that he could call off the surveillance now. Why did people get so carried away by their lust? It turned them into complete fools, however intelligent they were normally.


Mycroft settled down to composing the e-mail that would expose Matheson, reveal his deceit in smooth, calm, devastating paragraphs. But a few hours later, as he refined the presentation, tweaked the final few words, the image of Sally Donovan and the Belarusian came back to him. The sheer directness of her gaze at the boy, the honesty of her lust. He remembered that feeling and he suddenly wanted to recapture it: the heat and tension of sitting across from someone and counting down the minutes until you could get them naked.

He looked at his watch. He couldn't send the e-mail this afternoon: it had to reach the Station Chief in Islamabad when Matheson was still safely in Washington tucked up in his bed – or somebody else's. The best time to send it would be seven a.m. tomorrow and that would also give him a chance to double-check the tone of it. Which meant that he probably didn't need to do any further work this evening.  He phoned a number that even Anthea didn't know.

"Is anyone available for tonight?" he asked the helpful, understanding voice at the other end. "I know it's short notice..."

"I don't think you've met Mark Ryan before, have you?" the reply came. "He joined our agency a few weeks ago. Mid-twenties, very presentable. Where would you like him to meet you?"


Mark was tall and slender, with a blond crew-cut, and a gentle, slightly dreamy air. He sat in the restaurant and made inoffensive, intelligent conversation about a recent trip to Belfast and the advantages and disadvantages of e-book readers. A postgraduate student, Mycroft deduced, and something in his suit and his manner suggested Victorian constitutional history. London was more expensive than he'd expected, or was it that his parents were being unhelpful about a few unexpected bills? Still a bit nervous about becoming an escort to pay for his studies, but with a natural talent for quiet sensuality. He knew already how to gaze into a client's eyes admiringly and listen to their woes, while playing with his wineglass with one long, well-shaped hand. Concentrate on those hands, Mycroft thought, what they might do. Don't get distracted by the thought of a chunkier hand banging on a table to emphasize Lestrade's fury, and those deep brown eyes, and...

"What would you like to do after we're through here?" Mark asked, as he followed Mycroft in ordering coffee but no dessert.

Get drunk and tell you about Operation Squid, Mycroft thought. Get you drunk and have you tell me about yourself. What you care about, who you care about and why you're prepared to spend your evening with a boring civil servant.

"I'm not sure," he muttered, as he drained his own wineglass, and his mind raced through ever more implausible scenarios. Take you to the toilets right now and have you fuck me. See if you know where to get some drugs for us both. Set you up in a flat and fund your studies if you give up being an escort and stay with me forever. Let me lie in your arms naked and describe to you what it's like to be a spy, and have you tell me that it doesn't matter if I wreck people's lives because I'm serving my country.

"If there's anything unusual you want," Mark said, "I know a very discreet hotel. And I've brought a few toys along." He was smiling slightly nervously, boyishly, at Mycroft. A nice young man with a single smart suit and a briefcase full of sex toys. How do I tell him that what I really want is a burly detective with greying hair and a grumpy attitude?

Still, that was the point, wasn't it? Mycroft Holmes from the BIS didn't have to tell Mark Ryan from the extremely discreet agency anything at all. And he'd paid up front...

"I think I'm a bit tired, actually," Mycroft announced, "Been in meetings all day. And I've got to get into the office early tomorrow, for some important business. So we might leave things for tonight."

"Of course," Mark said cheerfully. "But if you want to get in contact again, please do so. It was a pleasure to meet you sir, and thank you for the meal." He got up and shook hands with Mycroft – a carefully controlled handshake, firm, but not too firm – and left. Back to his own lover, Mycroft thought, or his books, or to wander through London, enjoying himself. I could find out who you really are, Mark Ryan, and what makes you tick, if I wanted to. I could know your life. Understand it. Ruin it.

I am getting morbid, he thought, as the waiter brought the bill. Still, tomorrow he could put Operation Squid to bed, and get back on an even keel.

Thursday 4th February 2010

Mycroft got to the office early, rechecked his draft e-mail and then sent the evidence of Matheson's misdemeanours off to a dozen inboxes across the globe. He smiled a slightly smug smile. All that remained was to tidy up a few loose ends. Above all, he owed one person an apology.

He trusted he was right about where he'd find Sally Donovan, because he didn't want to get Surveillance involved in the business. He had a good idea of her routine now, but it was always possible that she might have changed it. When he reached the dingy cafe, though, she was already inside, having breakfast. As usual, he envied her the metabolic rate that allowed her to do so.

"I thought Greg warned you off," Sally announced, as Mycroft gingerly sat down opposite her. He hoped she wasn't going to start throwing things at him, but instead she merely scowled at him for a moment and then returned to her fry-up. He felt oddly uncertain how to start the conversation, and he ended up just sitting there in silence, watching her eat, waiting for her next move.

"Or have you decided to see how common people live?" she asked, a few mouthfuls later. "They do a mean bacon sarnie here, by the way."

"No thank you," Mycroft said. "Although the coffee does smell good."

"Cheaper than Starbucks, as well," Sally said, and looked up at him fiercely. "Look, I've got to be at work in twenty minutes, so can you cut the meaningful silence crap and tell me why you're still stalking me?"

"I'm not," Mycroft said. "I've called my people off. And I must apologise for the whole thing. You...you were a decoy. A smokescreen to conceal where my real interests lay."

"Oh," Sally said, looking curiously up at him, as she took a long swig of her coffee, and then she smiled unexpectedly. "So, did you get your man?"

Maybe it was the Belarusian boy that had cheered her up, he thought, she seemed so much more approachable today.

"Not quite yet," he said, "but it can't be long now."

She smiled again, and then said, "No hard feelings then, and good luck." She paused and then added: "I asked Sherlock about you, after Lestrade found out you were his brother."

"Did you?" Mycroft could hear the haughtiness creeping back into his own voice in those two syllables.

"Yes," she said firmly. "He said you were a patronising git with a devious mind. I reckon there must be some good in a man who can get up Sherlock's nose that much. Was he a pain as a kid?"

"Appalling," he said, smiling back at her. Sally had almost finished her plateful now. He was impressed, if a little alarmed, at her...appetite. He hoped the Belarusian knew what he was getting himself into. But he couldn't just leave the situation like this, he suddenly decided. He had to offer her something in recompense.

"You know, Ms Donovan–"

"Call me Sally," she said. "Seems appropriate, given how well you know me."

"Sally, if you were ever interested in changing jobs, the Service is always looking for good people."

She looked at him curiously for a moment and then asked, "You just trying to up your diversity statistics?"

"No," he said. "You're bright, brave, level-headed. You don't have the temperament for a desk job – you struggle with your paperwork – but we have jobs out in the field you might find interesting. Challenging."

He could tell from the way she fumbled with her fork that she was going to turn him down. And then he watched as something occurred to her. She had a plan, the quick flick of her eyes over his face told him.

"You know all about me, don't you?" she said. "You've been watching me, listening to me."

He nodded.

"So maybe you should tell me a bit more about yourself," she said. "Show you trust me."

She wanted to level up the power imbalance a bit, did she, get some juicy nugget of information about him she might use as a potential weapon? Sensible course of action, obviously.

"What do you want to know?" he said smiling. "I can't guarantee to answer, of course."

"What do you do in your spare time?" she asked.

"That's not the question I expected."

"You learn a lot from people's hobbies," she said. "And it's not top-secret information, surely, if you spend your weekends in the Ministry of Sound or paintballing."

"I'm afraid I'm far more predictable than that," he said. "I have to work most weekends, but when I have free time it's normally either concerts – classical music – or, far too rarely, theatre or the cinema. Very middle class, I'm sure you'd say."

"What film stars do you like?"

"Antonio Banderas, Daniel Day-Lewis, Colin Firth. Ian McKellen, of course..."

"What about actresses?" She smiled her cat-like grin up at him. "Or don't you go for women?"

He was slipping: either Sherlock or Lestrade had told her he was gay.

"Barbara Stanwyck," he said firmly. He saw Sally trying to place the name.

"Oh yeah," she said at last. "She was in westerns, wasn't she? Why her?"

"She was a woman, not those bland girls they put on the screen nowadays. Intelligent, passionate. Liable to double-cross you, of course, but there's something appealing in that as well."

She was grinning openly at him now, at the tiny revelation. Think of it as a trade, Mycroft told himself, just enough to pique her interest, to show he wasn't just a grey man in a greyer suit.

"I need to think," Sally said. "I don't...I'm not sure if what you’re after is feasible. But, if I want to get back into contact with you, how do I do it?"

"I'll give you Anthea's contact details," Mycroft said. "My PA."

"You trust her?"

"Yes," Mycroft said. "You can talk freely to her."

"OK," she said. "I think maybe you do need my help. I'll get back to you, but I gotta go now." She scrambled up, shook his hand, and left.

Friday 12th February 2010

Mycroft was surprised that Sally had requested another meeting, but the cover story was impeccable: a screening of Double Indemnity at the BFI. He wondered if that was her idea or Anthea's. He just hoped Sally wasn't going to try to recruit him into murdering someone for her. Unless it was Anderson, of course, which would be tempting.

He was only just in time for the screening – the Italians being difficult, as usual – and he slipped into the cinema already slightly flustered. Then he had to push past half a row of mildly-aggrieved middle-class people in semi-darkness to get to his seat. It was only when he had sat down that he turned to his left. And saw, not Sally Donovan in the seat beside him, but DI Lestrade.

Lestrade, leant across and opened his mouth – he's going to arrest me, but for what? – and whispered rather warily: "I was starting to think you weren't going to come, that this was some kind of weird joke on Sally's part."

Mycroft's mind had now seized up completely. Lestrade here, not Sally. Was he...was she...what the blazes was going on?

"Is it always like this, going on a date with a spook?" Lestrade went on, "You don't even approach me directly, you use Donovan as a – what was she called it? – a cut-out , a go-between. I was half expecting you to insist I had to greet you with a password."

It was absolutely imperative, Mycroft decided, that he confirmed his position before saying anything. He pulled out his phone.

"You can't use that! The film's just about to start," Lestrade protested.

"Confirming my position," Mycroft gabbled, as he frantically texted Anthea: What is happening?

"They know where you bloody well are, there's probably half a surveillance team watching this cinema," Lestrade said.

Mycroft's phone vibrated with Anthea's reply: It's a date. What happens is up to you. A moment later, a second text appeared: Sally has better gaydar than her boss. We've had a useful exchange of information.

Operation Cobra, thought Mycroft. Operation Squid. Who had said what to whom and what did everyone know? His hand fumbled on the phone, starting to tap out a message. And then a firm hand came out to clamp over it and the keypad.

"Switch the phone off," Lestrade – Greg – said firmly. Mycroft did so. The hand stayed where it was. He could feel its warmth seeping into his own flesh. He looked round into the darkness, and saw patient, intelligent eyes staring back. You didn't need to grab someone's hand to stop them texting. You certainly didn't need to come to the British Film Institute on a date if you didn't want to. Anthea, Sally, Lestrade – they were all completely wrong about Operation Squid. Or – put it another way – completely right.

He hadn't planned this, but he didn't need to. Somehow everything had fallen into place. He tentatively reached out and put his left arm round Greg's shoulders. Greg relaxed and leant back into his seat against it, and it felt good. And then they started to watch together as lust led Walter Neff off the straight and narrow into deception, treachery and death.


( 5 comments — Leave a comment )
Dec. 21st, 2011 08:45 pm (UTC)
Purring over your sig pic before I ever read a word. :)

Thanks for the response to my comment so I could know that this was up and come here straight away when I got home.

Mycroft's voice is so right. I love that the spy got bested somehow but is willing to give in. Dreamy Lestrade, his dossier made me weak, lol.

I love everything about this one, the voice, the tone, the intricacy, the character dev of not just narrator but all sub characters. esp. enjoyed Anderson getting the boot and Sally having a big breakfast.

Still enjoying the Sally/John from earlier.

Thank you!
Dec. 21st, 2011 10:17 pm (UTC)
Oh, perfect! So many great details, and the rendering of Sally Donovan as a character in this story is especially well done, believable (even in this AU context), and highly entertaining to read.
Dec. 24th, 2011 09:42 am (UTC)
I've been writing a lot of Sally recently - I'm starting getting more confident at doing so - there will be another short piece on her in the Christmas present fics up later today. I think she is a very interesting character, despite her faults, and I hope we get to see more of her in S2.
(Deleted comment)
Dec. 24th, 2011 09:44 am (UTC)
Glad you enjoyed the TTSS refs - there's also Ricki Tarr's successor lurking in there somewhere. Of course, the hope is that the Service/Circus is not quite such a mess with Mycroft in charge as in the early 1970s, but that may be optimistic.
Dec. 21st, 2011 11:30 pm (UTC)
This was wonderful! I love this Mycroft so much, and Sally, and Anthea, and well, all of them. Thank you!
( 5 comments — Leave a comment )