Dinning with Frogs

15. Tiger Trap

Being in the Diogenes Club is a bit like being underwater, Irene thinks. The quiet in this place isn't an absence of sound but a tangible presence, like a weight of water pressing against her ears. Irene has to take deep breaths and remind herself that she can't actually be suffocated by an atmosphere.

It's interesting, Irene thinks, the very different comfort zones the two Holmes brothers have built for themselves: to compare this highly polished, precisely ordered mausoleum of a gentleman's club, to Sherlock's flat in Baker Street, the kitchen overflowing with dirty dishes and potentially explosive experiments. She wonders if the brother's live their lives in deliberate defiance of one another, or whether the difference in temperament between them is merely incidental - one of nature's little jokes.

Irene doesn't have long to muse on the subject. Before long the door swings open (as smoothly and noiselessly as one might expect) and Mycroft Holmes enters his office. He seats himself at the little tea table by the fireplace, and almost immediately a waiter appears, placing a breakfast tray on the table in front of him. Mycroft carefully picks up the teapot and pours himself a cup. There is a tense pause, as Mycroft takes his first sip of tea, the waiter watching his face in apparent suspense. At last Mycroft lowers the cup slightly and inclines his head to the waiter - a gesture of approval apparently, because the man, visibly relieved, bows and leaves.

Irene waits until the door has closed before stepping out of her hiding place.

"Good morning, Mr Holmes."

To his credit, Mycroft's eyes widen only fractionally before he places his teacup carefully back into its saucer.

"Miss Adler."

Irene smiles at him and walks across the room towards him, brushing the edges of his desk with the edges of her fingers.

"I'm sorry, we aren't supposed to be speaking here, are we? You know I've never been very good at following the rules."

Mycroft smiles thinly. "Not to worry – exceptions can always be made. Please make yourself comfortable. I apologise – if I'd realised you were hiding behind that curtain I would have ordered a second cup."

"Oh well," Irene smiles, settling herself down into the chair opposite him and taking a slice of his toast. "I suppose we will have to make do."

She grins at him and takes a bite of the toast, then drops the bitten piece back into the toast rack.

Mycroft's eyes narrow in irritation. "Well. You are in a rather better state of health than I was lead to believe. I will have to re-evaluate my intelligence gathering strategies. And my security, it seems."

"Oh, that one's easy. The cleaner," Irene explains. "I know her rather well. Well, I know what she likes."

Mycroft sighs. "Ah. Predictable, I suppose."

"Rather,"

Mycroft picks up a piece of toast from the far side of the rack, and begins covering it with a thin layer of butter, fastidiously spreading the fat to the very edges of the bread.

"And so. To what to I owe the very great honour of your presence? I hope you are not intending to try and blackmail me again. I am sure we both remember that it didn't end well for you last time."

"No. As I recall, your little brother came charging in at the last minute with a deduction to save the day. Not so likely this time, is it?"

Irene isn't sure how he does it, but without discernibly shifting a muscle, Mycroft's face seems to harden, dark blue eyes emitting at almost palpable chill.