The Ambitious Orphan (5 page)

It also came to
her attention that all of them, with the exception of Sebastian,
were fathered by a man whose name began with M. Mycroft fathered
Quentin, A Milton Holmes fathered Livingston, and Edward was
fathered by someone called Morton. It was strange to have so many
birth certificates for men who weren't directly related to each
other.

Amelia had a
feeling that if she looked up the elder Holmes and went back
through the family tree she'd find every Holmes she already had on
her list, and that all these fathers were seven years older than
their generational counterpart. Deciding she had to know one way or
another, she grabbed her coat and packed her notebook into her
handbag.

After writing a
note to explain she'd stepped out to do research, she hurried over
to the British Library. In there would be archives for all the
relevant births and deaths she needed to look up.

Within the hour,
she was talking to a librarian about the Holmes family, and less
than five minutes later she was heading to the section she
needed.

It didn't take her
long to find the right place and begin flicking through birth
records for the area. An hour later she had a complete family tree,
and it was exactly as she'd expected. Each generation of Holmes
siblings, one of them had two sons, always roughly seven years
apart. The only logical explanation was that they were faking lives
to try and go unnoticed.

Given that no one
else lived long enough, and they both stayed out of the public eye,
it didn't even surprise her that no one had really noticed the
pattern. As she found herself somewhere quiet to sit and think,
something Sebastian had once told her came to mind. 'When you
eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how
improbable, must be the truth.'

She knew it wasn't
impossible to live a long time. Science knew how it could be done;
it just hadn't worked out a good way to do it yet. The Holmes
brothers were intelligent enough one of them might have discovered
a way to do just that, keep themselves alive. And given all the
information she'd gathered over the previous months, it was about
the only way she could explain the pattern in their family tree.
Sebastian was really Sherlock and Myron was really Mycroft.

Amelia felt her
heart rate quicken and her breathing stutter as the enormity of
what she'd learnt sunk in. It was possibly the biggest secret she
could ever hope to have, and it changed her entire viewpoint of
them. As she realised she'd just slept with a man over a hundred
years older than her, she had to stifle the giggle that threatened
to escape.

A few seconds
later she was composed again, but the moment of mirth had broken
some of the shock off. She already knew how she had to act. The
secret would be kept by her until it became right to tell the
Holmes brothers that she knew. Until then, she needed to be the
Amelia she'd always been, steady, calm and eager to learn.

Sitting alone in
his study, Mycroft waited for his brother to reply to his message.
Once again, he'd tried to encourage the younger Holmes to send
Amelia back to Bath. It was imperative she went back there before
the end of the day. After several minutes with no reply, Mycroft
rolled his eyes. It was getting childish, and both of them knew
it.

Realising his
brother was going to allow Amelia to stay as long as she wished,
simply because it bothered Mycroft, he gave up and turned on the
small TV in his living room. There were only a few occasions in
which he turned the device on, and today was one of them. He was
expecting a big announcement, and he wanted to see some of the
initial reaction to the news.

An hour later, he
turned it off. Russia had officially claimed the soldiers who'd
invaded Ukraine. They had actually been a splinter group this
mystery man was in charge of, but given the large number of
soldiers wearing Russian uniform, the Russian president had claimed
their actions as his own. It was exactly as Mycroft had
expected.

It didn't bother
him that they'd started a war, but it did mean their time was up.
Within the day, Nesterov and his commander would learn that Amelia
was no longer in Europe but back in the UK.

If she'd been home
in Bath it would have been more useful, but his only hope of
getting her back there was to appeal to her himself, something he'd
put off doing since he'd last seen her. He doubted she'd be as
willing to cooperate as normal. Despite her assurances that she
could look after her own heart, it was evident she was hurting. He
hoped it would fade, but knew the time to heal from something like
heartbreak was different for every person. It was also inherently
unpredictable.

Just as he was
about to move onto more mundane work, his phone vibrated. He picked
it up pleased to see a message from his younger brother, but
frowned when he read the single word.

Incoming

It could only mean
Amelia, or her and Sherlock, were about to arrive. He assumed it
was likely to be the latter. With a practised efficiency, he
cleared off all the confidential documents from his desk and let
his housekeeper know she'd be needed to provide tea for his guests
when they arrived.

Tea wasn't
something he regularly provided his brother, but ever since Amelia
had left, both Daniels and Mrs Hunter had cast him the odd sad
look, as if they missed her. Mrs Hunter had even asked if she
should leave the guest room made up in case the lady came back. It
was plain to see both of them had thought her presence in the house
a good one, and he was sure she'd bonded with them. She charmed
everyone, it seemed.

A few minutes
later, he heard the crunch of feet on gravel and Sherlock's voice
as he came with Amelia to the door. There was no knock, as his
younger brother had always just walked in, but from the sounds of
the feet as they came along the hallway, his young protégée had at
least hesitated before walking into his house again.

“Good afternoon,
brother,” Sherlock said as he walked into the study. Not waiting
for a reply, he wandered over to the nearest armchair and sat down.
A few seconds after him, Amelia walked in. She stopped as soon as
she saw him, right in the entrance to the room.

Her jaw was firmly
set and a fire burnt in her eyes that didn't waver even with the
hesitant entrance. There was only one thing she could be angry at
him for, and he had no intention of helping her say it. Instead, he
waited.

“Did you know
rescuing me would start a war?” she asked eventually, sounding calm
even though her eyes still blazed.

“Of course.”

“I told her the
same thing,” Sherlock yelled from his chair. He then picked up the
nearby newspaper and began leafing through it. It was just like him
to come just to listen to the possible argument.

“What have you
done to stop it since we got back?”

Mycroft raised his
eyebrows at the question.

“I've done nothing
to stop it; in fact, I've done everything to encourage it.”

“Why would you
encourage war?” She took a few steps closer and let her anger
dissipate enough for him to see the sadness that fuelled it.
Emotion was ruling her. “Why would you encourage the deaths of
innocent people?”

“Because it saved
your life!”

“I've been safe
for a whole week.” She shook her head and he saw water well up in
her eyes. A second later she turned her head from him and walked
over to the window.

“Was there no
other way to save me?” she asked, still not looking at him.

“No. I assure you
we did all we could to rescue you before it got to the point of
starting a war.” Mycroft didn't hide his annoyance at her attitude.
It seemed to make its way through to whatever part of her mind was
still thinking rationally. The last of the anger and dramatic
emotion left her. She walked back to his desk and stood in front of
it looking at him where he sat. Not moving, he let her search his
face.

“My conscience
doesn't like the thought of people dying now because I lived.”

“It was my choice,
Amelia. If anyone should feel guilt for those lives, it is not
you.”

“Can you end it?
Can you stop the bloodshed, now it has served its purpose?”

Again, he raised
his eyebrows. She didn't try to hide her emotion from him,
something she'd never done before, and it was strange to see. She
looked calm and collected except for her eyes. The pain in them was
a thousand times worse than any other look she'd given him since
he'd known her, and he'd seen her in physical pain far more times
than he'd liked.

“Please, Myron, do
something to stop it. I don't want people to die because of me, and
you're the only person I know who could even try to stop it.”

“Will you go
home?” he asked. Her mouth dropped open and even Sherlock stopped
pretending to read to actually listen.

“Are you going to
make helping those people conditional on me going back to Bath?”
Her question came out barely above a whisper.

“I don't want you
in London.”

“Why? And don't
avoid the question.”

“No, I won't make
it conditional, but you know I don't like to be disobeyed, Amelia.
Go back to Bath.” Mycroft held her gaze, watching her think through
what he was asking. She bit on her lip and hesitated.

“Why do you want
her to go back to Bath, brother?” Sherlock chose this moment to
interrupt, breaking the unspoken conversation happening between
them. Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“It's not
something for you to be concerned about.”

“Really?” Sherlock
finished walking up to stand beside Amelia, and then tucked his arm
around her shoulder. “If she wants some help from me with her
corset in the mornings I'm not going to say no.”

“Sebastian!”

“Don't be vulgar.”
Mycroft gave his younger brother a pointed look, pleased that
Amelia had exclaimed at the remark. She wasn't sleeping with him
after all.

“He kicked you
out, Amelia. Where you go afterwards is up to you.”

“I'm aware,” she
said, shrugging out from underneath his arm. “Would you please wait
outside, Sebastian? I'd like to talk to your brother alone.”

It was Sherlock's
turn to roll his eyes, but he did as she asked, and Mycroft waited
for her to say whatever it was she intended to voice. For a few
seconds she looked at him.

“You know he has a
point. You did make it very clear you don't want me here any
longer.”

“Then stay in a
hotel. If you really won't go back to Bath, let me find a hotel for
you.”

“Anywhere else but
with your brother?”

Mycroft nodded.
She let out a small chuckle and then came around the desk to him.
In response, he stood, but she reached out for his arm before he
could put any distance between them. After studying his eyes for a
second, she lifted herself onto her tiptoes and pressed her lips up
against his cheek, lightly kissing it.

“I shouldn't need
to tell you again, Myron. You should have known I meant it the
first time. I chose you over your brother many months ago. You have
no reason to be jealous, even if Sebastian would like to make you
so. But he is right. You did ask me to leave, and you can't dictate
whom I see and then push me away yourself. Either you want me for
yourself or you don't.”

Without thinking
about his reaction, Mycroft lifted his hand and tucked a stray
strand of hair back behind Amelia's ear, brushing his fingers
against her cheek as he did so. Her eyes widened a fraction but she
held still and waited for him to respond.

“Do you trust me?”
he asked.

“Of course. You
travelled all the way across Europe to get me back.” She gave him a
lopsided grin and he felt the corners of his own mouth twitch
up.

“I'd appreciate it
if you went back to your own home in Bath.”

“It's not because
you're jealous, is it? At least not entirely that.” He nodded, now
she was understanding him. “If it's really important, then, yes, I
will go back, but I don't think I'll feel safe. They know where I
live. They followed me back from Scotland.”

“You should always
face your fears, Amelia.”

“I know, but I
should also choose when to. It doesn't help me overcome a fear if
it's still so scary it's debilitating. I don't think I'll sleep
much, alone in my own house. That only makes it more
dangerous.”

“You won't be in
any danger.” He looked her in the eyes, wanting to reassure
her.

“Okay, I'll go
back tonight. I need to get some clean clothes anyway, but if I
don't sleep I will come back to London tomorrow.”

“No, if you think
you won't last more than one night, go tomorrow.”

“Are you going to
explain why?”

He shook his head
and looked away. A second later she kissed his cheek again.

“Well, you'd
better bloody well keep me safe this time, Myron.”

She gave him a
small smile and went to leave. As she did, they both noticed Mrs
Hunter standing in the doorway with a tray of tea for three.

“I didn't want to
interrupt,” the older woman said, redness creeping into her
cheeks.

“It won't be
needed now, thank you,” Mycroft said.

“Sorry,” Amelia
added and hurried away. He listened to the click of her heels on
the wooden floor and then sat back down behind his desk. Mrs Hunter
brought in the tea anyway and simply laid it out for him alone.

Once she'd
retreated Mycroft let out a sigh. Somehow, Amelia had upset his
entire routine. Her request wasn't entirely unexpected. Few people
could start a war and cope with all the guilt associated with the
deaths. But her confidence in coming to him and asking him to sort
it out was unexpected.

The closeness
between them in the last week had changed her reaction to him. She
had an extra boldness. Thankfully, it didn't seem to have tempered
her desire to understand him and do as he asked.