**Setting context:** *early January, 2000. Sherlock 14 (15 in a few days), Henry 15. Scrap-work not meant for literary critique (any sloppiness is fine). Set in the midst of an enormous backstory project to explain the characters of Sherlock and Mycroft in the BBC show with the fewest number of 'magical genius' tropes, hence ex-KGB dad and etc. Many layers because layers are fun.*

**««**

Henry sat uncomfortably next to his dad, trying not to look as bored as he was beginning to feel. This was his first time tagging along on one of Dad's off-the-books meetings, so of course he had to act the part of a future savvy politician. Just like his dad, and his grandad before him, and his dad before that. Family business. 

No idea who they were meeting with; Dad had said it would be better if he didn't know in case they were intercepted during transit. They'd not been, of course, so Henry had expected to be told, but when he'd asked earlier Dad only gave him a knowing smirk and told him discretion went hand-in-hand with patience. Rubbish old man pseudo-wisdom. Dad loved that stuff.

They'd been told the master of the house would be with them shortly, but it had been nearly ten minutes already. Studying the room had occupied a scant few of these - austere drawing room, large window overlooking landscaped garden, two leather armchairs (currently occupied by Dad and himself) set across from a matching sofa, bookshelves packed with tomes labelled in various languages.

Henry was beginning to grow rather bored. He swallowed a sigh, looked to Dad. Got a strange little conspiratorial wink in return. And finally he caught on to what was happening - aha, he knew this one! Dad had taught him this trick last year during his trade negotiations with the Saudis. Arrive late to show dominance. Dad said it was a juvenile tactic, but effective. Counter it by means of unruffled patience. Henry did his best to live up to Dad's placid example.

Thankfully they hadn't much longer to wait before the door to the study finally opened. Expected some shark-eyed bloke in a three-piece - Dad, basically, with a different haircut. Same as all the rest of his colleagues.

But it wasn't a man in a suit. Instead it was a boy Henry's age.

No, wait, not just any boy… it was *Holmes*? 

Felt a look of confused shock steal over his face as he recognised his schoolmate - a look shared by the bloke in question, who'd frozen mid-step through the doorway.

Holmes looked rather rough, all told. Not that he'd ever seemed *healthy*, really, but Henry couldn't recall having ever seen the bloke quite so pale and tense. He'd broke his left arm somehow during hols, thick white cast supported by a sling. His outfit was a similar basic affair to Henry's — button-up, wool jumper, dark slacks — which had the effect of making him look strangely diminished compared to their school dress. Holmes had always been one of the few boys in their age group tall and slim enough to really pull off the tails ensemble. Accentuated his frame to the tune of elegantly refined, not a kid playing fancy dress like how most of the rest looked.

Not that Henry sat around assessing the fit of other boys' clothes, of course. Never. Just noticed such things incidentally, that was all. Like anyone would.

Suddenly uncomfortably aware of his own stout frame and Holmes' silent scrutiny, Henry glanced to Dad. Found the man had raised a delicate brow over his spectacles as he took in the two of them.

"Do you know this boy, Henry?"

Henry nodded, then cleared his throat to answer more properly. "We board in the same house at school."

"Do you?" For some reason Dad sounded rather pointedly unimpressed. He shifted his focus to Holmes. "Well. What a remarkable coincidence."

Neither Henry nor Holmes seemed to have any idea what to say to this. Dad allowed a tense few seconds to slip by, then relaxed into his chair with a small sigh.

"Out with it, then, boy."

This seemed to remind Holmes he'd been meant to do something. With a tiny wince he shut the door behind him, strode up to Dad, and proffered the thick manilla envelope he'd been carrying. As soon as Dad accepted it Holmes tucked his good arm neatly behind his back and launched into what seemed a memorised message.

"My father regrets to inform you that he is running behind schedule due to unforeseen circumstances. In the meantime he'd like for you to review the provided document and to direct any immediate questions concerning the contents to, er… to me."

He'd faltered near the end as he glanced over and presumably caught sight of Henry's look of horrified shock - his father!? They were at *Holmes'* house? Oh god. If the others found out he'd been here he'd never live it down, he'd be associated with the Freak til the end of time, this was horrific. 

Dad, of course, knew nothing of this context and thus paid no heed to Henry's turmoil. He'd pulled a stack of paper from the envelope and riffled through it, raising a brow once more.

"Your father expects a teenager to advise on an intelligence report?" 

Holmes looked uncomfortable. "Yes, sir. I was, er… involved in the operation. That it's reporting on." 

Dad's brows shot up. He looked down to the report once more, skimmed through a few pages, then made a strange face - disgusted, almost. And perhaps a little angry. 

"God's sake, Siger," he muttered to himself. He shot a look towards Henry which was very difficult to interpret. Then, shaking his head, he gestured towards the sofa across from them. "Have a seat, then. Best make some use of you."

Holmes shot a brief, longing look to the door he'd come through, but reluctantly sat down. 

For the next several minutes an excruciating silence reigned as Dad skimmed through the report. Henry tried to catch Holmes' eye (for what, he'd no idea - solidarity? clarification?) but the other boy had fallen to an absent stare off at nothing. As was his usual habit, of course - vacant staring and condescending snark were the only two settings the bloke seemed to have. Thought perhaps he might be different at home; less of the Freak stuff. Apparently not.

Finally Dad huffed another sigh, flipped the report shut on his knee and stared down at it thoughtfully. He looked up over his spectacles towards Holmes, who stared back.

"How old were you?"

Holmes blinked. "Sorry, sir?"

"During the events of this operation. How old were you?"

"Er… ten, I think. Sir."

Dad looked troubled. Henry craned his neck, trying to spot anything which might indicate what they were on about, but of course the typeface on the document cover was much too small.

He settled for asking instead. "What's in the report?"

A pause, whilst Dad looked to be debating with himself. Finally he shook his head. "Nothing I feel comfortable exposing you to at this age, Henry."

Well. That was a bit insulting.

"But he's fine?" he asked (perhaps a tiny bit peevishly) as he gestured towards Holmes. 

Dad made an odd face - sort of sad and exasperated all at once. "No, I don't imagine he is."

Looking back to Holmes, he gave the boy a wan smile. Got the usual stone-faced stare in return, with a touch of uncertain confusion. Dad slipped the report back into its envelope. Another short silence.

Finally Dad spoke again. "Tell me about school, then," he said brightly. "Do the two of you get on?"

"Er… no," Henry replied. "Everyone hates him."

He'd not meant it in a mean way - more just a statement of fact. Felt a bit bad for wording it so bluntly, though. Holmes hadn't really ever done anything to him, after all. Granted that seemed less to do with Holmes himself and more that Henry had been scrupulously avoiding him for the past few years in an attempt to keep his business firmly private, but still. 

Well, at least Holmes didn't look offended. He'd just glanced Henry's way, then dropped his gaze and sat stone-faced as ever, staring at the hardwood. 

"Ah. How unfortunate," Dad replied, tone coming out a bit morose. "Not as much a social butterfly as your brother, hm?"

Dad knew Holmes' brother? From where? Work? Had Henry ever met him? He cast back, trying to recall if any of the faceless, besuited men he associated with boring Dad stuff looked anything like Holmes.

Holmes seemed to be thinking along roughly the same lines. He'd looked up with an intrigued frown. Scanned for clues in the way Henry had learnt to dread - the way which meant he'd soon spill all your secrets to anyone in earshot.

No secrets were spilled, though. Instead he paused again, slipped into another vacant stare.

A few agonising seconds passed before Dad took it upon himself to fill the void he'd created.

"Speaking of your brother, where *is* young Mycroft? I'd think he'd be a sight more keen to sit in on this meeting than you are."

For an instant Holmes' mask cracked - faint scowl, drawn-up shoulders, eyes dropping once more to the floor.

"Mycroft was… too busy to come home this-"

"Look at people when you're speaking to them, Sherlock."

Henry near about jumped out of his skin. As did Holmes, it seemed - he caught the other boy's startled movement from the corner of his vision. Didn't pay him much mind however as he whipped round towards the new voice which had just cut in.

A tall, middle-aged man now stood directly behind the armchair Dad occupied, having seemingly appeared from thin air. Short dark hair combed to the side, beard and moustache trimmed with exacting precision. Grey trousers, crisp buttoned shirt with the sleeves rolled up, loafers, matching belt. Standard father aesthetic, really. Nothing to get worked up over. 

Henry willed his heart to slow. Alright, settle down. This was fine. Just another boring adult. 

Holmes Sr (as Henry presumed) regarded the back of Dad's head with a bland smile. Dad hadn't bothered turning around to face this new arrival - instead he'd been staring intently at the younger Holmes's face, as if studying his reaction. Henry noted this and turned back to see why.

Holmes had gone rigid, staring mute and motionless at his own father. Nothing noteworthy about that, Henry thought; just the bloke's usual reaction to being startled. Holmes always went stock-still and silent on the rare occasion someone got the drop on him. No good way to convey the normality of this response to Dad, though, so Henry instead returned focus to the newcomer.

"Could've slit your throat just now, Arthur," the man said, jovial and upbeat as if this were a perfectly normal way to greet one's colleague. 

"And yet you didn't, unfortunately for all of us."

Dad's tone was dripping with sarcasm. He continued watching Holmes with a fixed, unblinking stare of such intensity it was beginning to make Henry uncomfortable by proxy. Wished he could tell him to lay off. Held his tongue, though - wouldn't want Dad's colleague thinking him impudent. 

"Alas, no. Still enough value in keeping you alive, hm?"

"And that to you as well, Siger." 

Siger, as he was apparently called, chuckled and stepped round Dad's chair towards the sofa. Made some small hand gesture towards Holmes when the boy shifted as if to get up, causing him to instead scoot over to the next cushion, where he sat stiffly upright and shifted back into his statue routine.

"I trust you've had a chance to get acquainted with my youngest," the man said with an odd little smirk, as if sharing a private joke. 
"Indeed," Dad drawled, unimpressed. "You've certainly got this one well-trained." 

Siger had been in the midst of relaxing into a casual lounge against the sofa cushions, and as he did so hooked an arm round his son's shoulders to pull him into a playful side-hug - normal enough, to Henry's eye. Something his own dad might do. But Holmes' startled flinch and baffled expression as he found himself pressed up against the man made it seem like this probably wasn't quite their usual dynamic. 

"Have I?" Siger asked with a laugh towards his son, behaving for all the world like your usual sort of overbearing but well-meaning dad. "Good lord, Sherlock. You've managed to fool someone into thinking you're amenable."

He got no answer besides Holmes giving him a look somewhere between bewildered and petrified. Siger chuckled, tousled the boy's hair, then pushed him away. 

Henry had no idea what to make of this. A sidelong glance at Dad found the man looking uncharacteristically… what, disgusted? Or was it disdainful? He'd curled his lip just a tiny bit, seemed annoyed and angry all at once. What in god's name did that mean?

"Henry, is it?" Siger suddenly asked, cutting into his thoughts. Henry switched gears back to him, tried to ignore Holmes looking rather dazed.

"Yes, sir. Pleased to make your-" 

"Bah!" Siger interrupted, laughing. "No need for stiff formality! We're all friends here, aren't we Arthur?" 

"I suppose that's a word one might use," Dad replied drolly. Difficult to tell if he was being sarcastic. He turned to Henry and gestured to the man before them. "Henry, this is Siger Holmes. I'd list a few credentials, but I'm afraid he's rather the sort where you're better off not knowing."

"Oh, love a good enigma," Siger drawled, smirking. As he spoke Holmes glanced to him, seemed to nervously deliberate with himself, then stood as if to leave. Immediately froze in place when his father cleared his throat.

"Where do you think you're off to?" 

"I-I'm… you told me to go when you-"

"Sit." 

Holmes sat. Instantly. Further away from his dad by a few feet this time, though, with a flash of a nervous sidelong glance toward the man.

Dad raised a brow at the interplay. "Not so fond of this one as you are your eldest, I take it." 

Siger gave an easy shrug, hooking an ankle over one knee. Something in his movements brought to mind a lounging panther. 

"Different children require different approaches. Nothing to do with fondness."

"And nothing to do with turning your spare into an obedient pawn, I'm sure."

"You wound me, Arthur," Siger replied airily. With a wave of his hand he indicated the envelope still resting on Dad's knee. "So, verdict? Should fit all your criteria."

"I've no doubt it does. Not entirely certain how you're expecting me to spin a child acting as primary field asset, however."

Siger made a dismissive noise. "Omit it. No one's going to care to dig into the details."

"Many will care to do just that, as you're well aware."

"And those in a position to find anything of substance will already be familiar with my work. It's a non-issue."

Henry was growing rather lost with the rapid back-and-forth. He turned his gaze to Holmes - hoping he'd find similar confusion to his own, perhaps. Or really any sort of solidarity. Instead what he saw was the bloke looking an odd mix of tense, exhausted, and… bored? Fallen to fidgeting absently with the hem of his sling. Still the same impatient lunatic he'd always been at school, then, despite the surreal direction this meeting had gone. Something oddly comforting in that. 

Dad was speaking again. "And if Mycroft were to find himself in such a position?"

At the sound of the name Holmes perked up - he scrutinised Dad a moment, then looked to his own father instead. Siger, for his part, just snorted in amusement. 

"Threatening to boost my heir's career is certainly one of the more creative attempts at extortion I've heard, Arthur. Do go on."

Dad appeared unfazed. He turned his attention to Holmes, addressing him instead. 

"How much does your brother know of your father's… unconventional operational decisions?" 

Holmes froze. His gaze remained fixed on his father for a beat, then flicked back to Dad, and then, for some reason, to Henry. He could offer nothing but a baffled shrug, of course, to which Holmes furrowed his brow and shifted focus back to Dad.

"Um, I… haven't asked him." Shot a quick look to his own father as if checking his reaction, only to abruptly switch back to Dad with a hastily added, "sir."

Seemed to have been somewhere near the correct response - Holmes' father didn't look angry, at least. He'd crossed his arms in front of his chest, fixing Dad with an unimpressed stare. 

"You realise what your dad's intending, here?" Dad went on with a strange intensity. "He's handing me leverage in exchange for granting your brother political favour. If I accept it will mean I've gained a vested interest in keeping Mycroft ignorant of the situation."

"Bit crass, Arthur," Siger put in drolly. 

"Yes, well, I'm trying to spell things out for Henry."

Henry jumped a bit at the sound of his own name - he'd been engrossed in trying to figure out what in god's name any of them were on about.
Holmes seemed to have a better handle on the subtext. Rather than confusion, anger, or anything else, he looked… resigned? Dropped his gaze to the floor and sat quietly. A willowy statue.

Siger, beside him, raised a brow at Dad. "If you've quite finished?"

Frowning, Dad leant back in his seat. "I suppose I have."

"Excellent." Siger snapped his fingers, causing Holmes to startle and glance his way. Not bothering to shift his gaze, the man flashed a quick hand signal, which Holmes seemed to understand as an order to leave because he jumped up from his seat with a palpable sense of relief.

"Hang on a moment," Dad called. Henry could've sworn he saw Holmes' face twitch as he stopped short. As if he were fighting not to shout in frustration. 

Siger, too, looked deeply irritated. "Arthur, for god's sake." 

"What?" Dad asked innocently. "I was just thinking perhaps Henry might like to stretch his legs as well. I'm sure you'd love to meet their horses, wouldn't you Henry?" 

Henry gave his dad the most mortified look he'd perhaps ever worn - oh good lord *no* he could not be implying Henry should go off *alone* with Holmes. But Dad's artificially pleasant smile never wavered. 

Siger rolled his eyes. At another snap of his fingers Holmes reluctantly returned from where he'd almost made it to the door.

"Sherlock, take your schoolmate to see the horses."

"Dad!" Henry burst out over Holmes' hollow *'yes, sir'*. Knew not to whinge, of course, but this seemed rather like a special circumstance. He did not want to go traipse about with *Holmes*. 

"Off you go, Henry."

"I don't want to!" 

From the corner of his eye he spotted the Holmes's expressions shift - Siger had gone from irked to amused (clearly at Dad's expense) and his son beside him was giving Henry a look of baffled, almost disgusted disbelief. 

Immediately shut his mouth. Oh lord, he'd gone and made himself look like a spoilt brat in front of the worst possible person to have that knowledge. 

Wordlessly Henry shot Dad one last glare for good measure - just so the man knew he'd absolutely be telling Mum about this later - and got up to stalk off towards the door Holmes had been about to leave from. Flung the door open and couldn't bring himself to care if he were being dramatic about it.

And then, mercifully and terribly, he'd left the room. Into a little hallway opposite to the one from which he'd entered, with a selection of tasteful artwork and a large potted fern in the corner. 

He heard Holmes shut the door on their fathers behind them, and whipped round to fix the other boy with a vicious glare. As if this were somehow all his fault. Well, perhaps it was? He didn't know how much involvement the bloke had with all this. 

Holmes flinched back from the sudden movement. Raised his good arm as if to block, but of course Henry hadn't gone for a blow - wasn't a bloody savage like Edwards or Davies. He'd just meant to show Holmes they weren't about to *make friends* or whatever rubbish Dad had in mind.

Seemed the feeling was mutual, though Holmes looked a bit more wary than annoyed. He slowly lowered his arm when it became clear Henry wasn't meaning to fistfight. Glanced nervously at the door behind his back when muffled voices resumed, then pushed past Henry to move down the hall towards what looked like an exit at the far end. Henry followed. 

A measure of tension seemed to leave Holmes' frame as they left the house. Emerged into the crisp winter air to find a dormant rose garden outside, which they crossed by means of a little stone path winding through the raised beds. Silent as the grave. Holmes had no intent of making small talk, it seemed. 

Should've been a relief, really. But Henry had never been good with stoic silences. Even if they were with one's freak of a schoolmate. Eventually the tension got to feeling like ants up his spine, and he was forced to break it or go mad.

"So, er…" 

Unfortunately he hadn't planned any further than that, and Holmes didn't appear to have been expecting him to say anything. The other boy startled quite badly and gave him a wide-eyed glare, almost like he'd forgot Henry was walking alongside him.

"*Fuck*, Bartlett." They stared each other down for a second, before Holmes seemed to get a handle on himself and shook his head. "What do you want?"

"I… nothing?" Henry admitted awkwardly. "Just… felt a bit awkward? To not be talking at all?"

Holmes gave him a genuinely baffled (if still rather pissed off) look. "Why? We never talk."

Well. True enough. Tough to come up with any rebuttal to that.

They'd turned off the cobblestone path which seemed to lead to the stables, and instead down what seemed little more than an indentation through the foliage. A deer trail or something. 

"Where are we going!?" he finally puffed after what seemed a polite enough time to keep mum.

"To see the stupid horses," Holmes grumbled. 

"The stables were back that way, weren't they?"

Holmes glanced back over his shoulder with a look as if he weren't sure if Henry was trying to be funny. "It's eleven in the morning."

"Yes, so?" 

"Why would pasture horses be stabled at eleven in the morning?"

Henry had no answer for that - he'd never actually spent any amount of time on an equestrian property or around horses. Dad hadn't ever had time to arrange it and Mum considered animals too dangerous and unsanitary for her precious boy. So he'd more just admired the concept from afar. Slightly galling that Holmes had the good fortune to have been born into a life Henry could only dream of. 

Before Henry could get to brooding over this, they popped out the shrubs and trees to the side of a fenced pasture where several horses were grazing in the shimmering winter sunlight. Henry couldn't help a tiny noise of awe; a half-dozen or so mares and geldings, most in varying shades of bay or chestnut with a lone, striking dapple grey which raised its head curiously towards them.

"Oh, they're brilliant!" Henry exclaimed as he rushed up to the pasture fence like a giddy child - god, how he wished he could live here. What a fantastic thing to just be able to go out and ride your very own horses every day.

Holmes gave an unimpressed scoff. He'd perhaps been about to say something in reply, but the dapple starting to trot their direction caught his attention instead.

"Piss off, Cicero!" he snapped at it, flinging his good arm as if to try to drive it away.

The horse (a gelding, Henry could now see) paused and turned his head as if to get a better look at them. A searching beat later he gave his mane a quick shake and closed the distance to the fence, where he proceeded to put his face directly in front of Henry and nuzzled him as if asking to be patted. This was, of course, delightful.

"As soon as he figures out you haven't got any sugar cubes he's going to bite," Holmes informed him acidly.

He'd backed away as the horse approached, and had now begun to walk off along the fence towards a tree growing partly entwined through the slats. Henry's attention was dragged away from his new equine friend for a moment to watch as his schoolmate awkwardly climbed up in order to reach into the crook between two branches. Nearly overbalanced, not being able to brace himself with the cast, then hooked a leg over instead and was able to successfully retrieve whatever he'd been after.

A sudden pressure on Henry's arm startled him - he whipped round to find the horse had transformed from a wondrous delight into a very large animal with its mouth around his forearm.

"Ah! Wh- oh god! Why!?" 

Tried to pull away but it was like a crushing fist holding him firmly in place. Visions of shattered bones danced horrifically through his brain as he met the beast's lone visible eye. 

"Piss *off*."

Holmes' voice was suddenly coming from somewhere just beside, and, confusingly, above him. As a leather shoe appeared from nowhere Henry realised the other boy had walked along the top of the fence like a tightrope and was pushing the horse's head away with his foot. 

Cicero gave an angry snort and mercifully let go. As he did so he whipped his nose up trying to nip at Holmes' leg, but Holmes seemed to have anticipated this and quickly shifted balance to hop off the fence on Henry's side. With an insulted shake of his mane Cicero turned and trotted off back towards his fellows. 

"Told you," Holmes grumbled. He flopped down beside a fence post as if having to stop a bloodthirsty horse mauling someone were the most normal thing in the world. 

Henry shakily sank down to a seat on the grass next to him. Released the death grip he'd clamped round his wrist. Skin a bit red, but all his fingers moved and nothing felt broken. Released a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. 

"Why did he do that?" he asked. Felt oddly betrayed. Horses were supposed to be… well, he knew they weren't all gentle, but he'd never imagined they'd just up and bite you for no reason. Especially not a gelding. 

"Because my brother raised a pig instead of a horse." 

Henry looked back over his shoulder, saw the dapple had turned his aggression towards another horse before being corrected by a yellow mare.

He was torn, now - part of him burning with jealousy with the thought of being allowed to raise one's very own horse. Another still rattled by the sudden brush with danger. He let out another shaky breath and felt his heart slow down by degrees. 

"Hey, er… Bartlett." 

As he blinked and turned back he noticed Holmes had a small plastic box in his lap, presumably the thing he'd just pulled from the tree. He frowned down at it, confused, then back up to Holmes. The other boy was watching him carefully. 

"You don't… hate me, right?" he asked. Before Henry could think how to reply to such a bizarrely out-of-place question, Holmes seemed to cringe a tiny bit and rushed to explain himself. "That is, I mean… I know you prefer the shunning approach, and that's fair, so I try to keep out of your way, and I think I've done a pretty good job so far? Or at least I haven't pissed you off yet, so you don't actively want to bash my head in. Right?"

Henry stared at him, baffled. He'd not actually considered the possibility that Holmes might be aware of Henry's scheme to avoid him. A thousand tiny instances now tumbled through his memory - every time he'd entered a room and spotted Holmes leaving the other direction, sitting down and vaguely noticing Holmes shift to another seat or table, the clipped words and dropped gaze those rare few times they'd no choice but to interact. 

The revelation seemed almost unfathomable; the Freak was an indiscriminate force of destruction, some feral hazard haunting the boarding house, cut loose after Micah Allen had gone off to uni and no other older boy had claimed him. A landmine you stepped around and whispered over.

Landmines weren't meant to keep themselves out from underfoot.

In response to Henry's silence, Holmes shifted and bit his lip for an instant, as if worried he'd overstepped. Henry realised he'd been staring and shook his head. 

"Um, no. You're fine." He paused, reconsidered his wording, winced. "Well, I mean you're not fine, you're… *you*. But I've never wanted you dead or anything."

There, better. Sort of.

He was subjected to a long, searching stare. Finally Holmes huffed a short sigh, and from the box revealed a pack of fags and a lighter. 

"Well, if you change your mind on that," he mumbled around the cig as he set to lighting it. "... ratting me out for this would a great way to do it."

He let his head thump back against the wood of the fencepost and sat staring dully into the overcast sky. 

A silence stretched past. Uncomfortable as the last had been, but Henry did his best not to give in to breaking it. Didn't take a genius to realise Holmes was running on fumes. And besides which he'd had a point earlier - they'd gone years not speaking to each other, what could be awkward about keeping that up? Weirder trying to chat, really. 

Instead he turned his head and watched the horses. The dapple dashing about after another male. Same mare from before stepping in. One of the bays ambling up alongside her as if to help. He smiled. Horses were brilliant, random biting or no.

"Cicero, Étoile, Auberon, Zephyr, Vadim."

"What?" Henry asked, giving a confused look for the random string of words. As he glanced back he found the other boy had shifted to be sat more sideways, watching the horses along with him.

"Their names," Holmes clarified. By his dull tone it didn't seem like he was trying to be friendly; more just sharing information for lack of anything better to do. "Vadim's the big dark one, belongs to Father. The chestnut and the other bay are Auberon and Zephyr, and Étoile's the catty bitch who just bit Cicero in the arse. Those are all Mum's. And Cicero's my brother's, obviously."

“Oh. Which one is yours?”

Holmes gave absolutely no hint of emotion as he replied with a flat, “None of them. I hate horses.”

Hadn’t said this with venom or scorn or much of any emotion at all. Just a statement of fact.

Henry blinked, found absolutely nothing to say to that, and instead looked back towards the pasture. Cicero had returned to bothering the other horses, apparently no worse for recent correction. The yellow mare - Étoile, apparently - gave him another warning snap when he got too close.

Quiet settled between them again. Holmes carried on smoking, head tipped back against the fencepost and eyes fixed somewhere in the overcast sky, grey clouds reflecting off grey eyes. Seemed content enough with the silence. Henry tried to be as well.

His thoughts made their way back to the drawing room. Intelligence report. Holmes being involved in 'an operation' when he was ten. Primary field asset? Dad had called him that, hadn't he? Said other stuff too. Well-trained. Obedient pawn. All that usual Dad-rubbish about leverage and political favour and stuff Henry ordinarily let wash straight over him. Had this time too, mostly. Except for the bits he hadn't. The bits about Holmes. Because it had all felt a bit... well, oddly on-brand, hadn't it? Like he'd been aware somehow. Familiar in a way like... 

Ah! The flash of Holmes raising his arm to block earlier, that little thought of Davies. Right, yes!

“Davies!” Henry exclaimed without meaning to. Then, because he caught Holmes giving him an annoyed sidelong look, quickly elaborated. "He was right, then, was he? About you being a spy?"

No answer. Holmes continued to stare sidelong for a beat, then shifted his gaze back up into the clouds as if Henry hadn’t spoken. After a few seconds he huffed a tiny sigh, took one last drag from the cigarette, stubbed it out against the side of the box, and immediately set about lighting another one.

Henry waited. Holmes got the ember going, leant his head back again, stared up at the sky... and said absolutely nothing further. Well. Fine, then. Henry hardly needed permission to carry on working through the revelation. 

“Started that rumour up back in first year, didn't he? About you being a spy or some rubbish. Said the others ought to stay away from you, and that whole business with Allen being a- what had he called it? Catastrophic production of compromising leverage?" 

Holmes bit into the filter of his cig at the mention of Allen, jaw visibly tightening, but volunteered no information. Henry frowned and soldiered on. “So... Davies was right, then. You really have been spying on the whole house.”

Holmes stared unhappily off into the trees.

“No.”

Henry blinked. “What? What do you mean ‘no’?" He made a small, frustrated noise. Typical Holmes, christ. Either talking a mile a minute or dead silent, not a single setting in between. "Then what was all that talk back at the meeting? Dad called you a ‘primary field asset’. I know what that means, Holmes. I’m not an idiot.”

“Debatable,” was all he got back for that. A tired reflex more than any sort of actual insult.

Henry glared, but before could gather his thoughts for another barrage, Holmes drew deeply on his cigarette, sent the smoke streaming towards the sky and let his head thump back against the fencepost.

“I have... orders," he added, sullen and quiet in a way that made Henry's stomach do an uncomfortable little flip for reasons he couldn't fathom. "... to collect passive intel on select individuals."

Henry frowned when no further information seemed cued to follow. “... what’s that supposed to mean?”

Holmes took another drag. "It means Davies misunderstood the scope of some overheard ops chatter."

And that was that. An enigmatic statement and a puff of cigarette smoke.

Henry waited several pointless seconds to be sure, then let himself flop back against the fence with his arms crossed. "Fine, then. I'll work it out on my own. Select individuals... so you only spy on certain people? Right, makes sense. Boys whose fathers know yours, I'd wager?”

He looked sidelong at Holmes, hoping for some reaction, but predictably got nothing but the usual non-response, an empty stare off at nothing.

Henry ignored yet another flip of his stomach. “Davies, then," he started with. Observed the non-response. Then added, “And Edwards?”

A guess, that one had been. Holmes gave it the tiniest huff of a sigh, which really didn't tell one way or the other if it had been right or just an expression of Henry being tedious. Perhaps both. Henry cast about for other names to toss out. Plenty of boys in Holland had fathers in politics, finance, or the diplomatic service, but he'd no way of knowing which might have business with Siger Holmes specifically. Hell, Henry'd not even known his own dad did until today, so... oh. Ah, right.

He kept his focus on the side of Holmes's face in profile as he tacked on the best, or possibly worst, guess of the lot. “... me?” 

That got something. A very tiny something - just a frown, a glance further afield off through the nearby copse, a furrowed brow. But still. Most response he'd seen so far. He thus carried on.

“I'd have to be a target, right? From who my dad is.” Stating as much sparked a peculiar little mixture of satisfaction and unease, and another terrible flip of the stomach. Then something else occurred to him which mixed in a good dash of confusion, because, “But, wait, you avoid me, so-”

“-so you might come to the conclusion that I don’t always do as I’m told,” Holmes finished for him, cutting over whatever nonsense Henry hadn't yet managed to articulate. He tapped the ash off his cig with rather more force than necessary and shot Henry a flat, challenging stare, as if daring him to make something of it.

Henry wasn’t sure what to make of it at all, and thus simply stared straight back for the few excruciating seconds before their stalemate was interrupted by a whistle.

Sharp, bright, cutting through the still winter air. Henry jumped about a mile and whipped his head around to look for the source. Found nothing and looked back to find Holmes had frozen.

Not startled, exactly. Not like Henry had. He'd simply locked in place like he had earlier in the drawing room, cigarette motionless between his lips. A brief beat later his expression tightened, and a flash of distinct irritation crossed his face as he looked towards the house, followed by something angrier when he turned away again, took the cig from his mouth and tapped it despite the ash having yet to rebuild.

Henry watched him stare down into the grass, jaw working faintly, as if caught in some tense internal argument. Finally he let out a sharp huff and unfolded long limbs from the half-curled ball he'd been sat in, hefting himself up with a fence-slat assist. This then shifted as Henry watched into a practised-looking stubbing out of his cig, tucking away the filter, an awkward hop to toss the bundle back into the fork of the tree where he'd got it from.

“What was that?” Henry asked in the midst of this endeavor, moving to stand himself. 

Holmes brushed the dirt from his trousers as he turned back around. “They’re done with their meeting.”

This was not strictly speaking an answer, of course. But Henry's urge to point that out died in his throat as he found himself being stared down by a sharp grey gaze he'd spent the entirety of his school career thusfar trying very hard not to find himself pierced by. 

Henry tried not to fidget, tried a little glare, a glance back towards the house. So they were headed back then, right? 

For an uncomfortable moment Holmes looked as if he might speak. Then it passed; he broke off the stare, shook his head, and whatever words he might have been considering were folded back up and tucked away as tidy as the fags had been.

“Come on,” was the only residue he offered.

The walk back to the house was as awkward as the trek away from it had been. Ahead of him Henry watched Holmes do his affective shutdown routine in real time. Always got like that after a smoke; back at school the bloke would disappear a few minutes, return to the hall or the common room smelling of tobacco with all his usual coiled tension burnt away to a disaffected husk.

No complaints on Henry’s part, of course. No one in their right mind would complain about Holmes dulling his own knife-blade wit on a bit of nicotine. Though it did mean the walk back was yet another awkwardly silent affair apart from a second, more insistent whistle from somewhere nearer by than the first. 

Both their fathers were waiting when they returned to the rose garden. Siger stood smiling benignly in that way Henry tended to associate with an adult having just done something they considered funny but which invariably wasn’t, and Dad was a few feet further off looking as if he’d just swallowed a lemon.

“Ah, there we are! See, what did I tell you?” Siger said genially, turning to Dad, who scowled at him whilst rubbing at his ear with the hand not currently holding a manilla envelope.

“Yes, Siger, very impressive. You’ve raised a border collie.”

Henry scowled slightly—bit rude, Dad, god. Glanced over to Holmes, but he didn’t seem to have registered the insult. That or just didn’t care. He’d trained focus on his own dad instead, watching expectantly.

The dad in question—Siger—smirked and snapped his fingers. Holmes responded exactly as he’d done back in the meeting room, posting himself alongside like a dog come to heel. Stone-faced and silent.

Thankfully Dad had no such expectations of Henry (and would've got an earful from his wife should he ever dare). He took the much more normal approach of walking over to his son and giving him a reassuring pat on the back.

"Lovely having you, Arthur." Siger's chipper tone didn't remotely reach his eyes - they were sharpened steel, boring in like twin knifepoints.

"Always a pleasure, Siger."

Henry wasn't sure what the etiquette was. Had the thought, perhaps, that he should bid Holmes farewell. A sort of mirror of their fathers?

"See you at school, then, Holmes."

Holmes blinked, shifting out of his marbled stoicism just long enough to give Henry the ghost of a baffled frown. Glancing to his father, he looked back and tried a small, "Er… yeah. Bye."

A hand on his shoulder snapped his face back to the marble. He flicked his eyes up to meet Siger's with a strange, almost nervous-looking expression - one Henry unfortunately got no chance to analyse, because Dad was suddenly leading him off by the arm.

At a brisk pace they headed down a different path than the one to the stables - a side-route round to the front of the house where they'd left the car. Dad certainly seemed to know his way around the place.

When they'd got far enough from the others to seem out of earshot Henry took a breath, meaning to launch into every question he'd had building up inside him over the past hour or so, but Dad shushed him. Absolutely out of character - Dad never shushed him - so out of sheer surprise Henry held his tongue.

Only once they'd got safely to the car and pulled off towards the main road did Dad deign to speak.

"I'm sorry, Henry. I hadn't meant to expose you to that."

Henry snapped his mouth shut from having been about to unleash a torrent of questions. Dad seemed… tired? Or frustrated, perhaps. Hard to be sure. 

"Expose me to what?" he asked instead.

Dad huffed a small sigh. "Siger's… methods, I suppose. When he suggested you tag along I assumed he must have something planned, of course, but I'd not thought-" He cut himself off with a shake of his head. Made a small, angry noise. "The absolute menace, parading his ruddy trained dog about like he thinks I'll be intimidated. Bah."

Again with the dog stuff. Henry gave him a slightly annoyed look. "Bit rude, isn't it? Calling a bloke a dog." 

Dad shot him an exasperated glance. "That's all the boy is, Henry. Just a brainwashed animal."

Couldn't help a disgusted look Dad's way. Wasn't even sure what he was disgusted *by*, to be honest. Supposed it just felt wrong, didn't it? Dad's words against the image of Holmes sat quiet by the fencepost. Or staring him down with that unsettling gaze. Or the stupid little lip bite. Or-

Or... everything, really. All the little moments collected off two years' cohabitation. How often Holmes seemed to time his snark to draw their strict House Master's ire off younger boys. How he was always willing to work through maths or science problems with anyone who asked, even lads who'd been awful to him. His odd service of helping people find lost items, which he claimed not to be of kindness but because it was marginally more interesting than schoolwork. The way he'd flush pink and stammer whenever Allen spoke to him back in first year. None of that seemed like the behaviour of a brainwashed animal.

"I don't think that's true at all," Henry eventually replied, upset for having to confront his dad's sudden turn to callousness. 

Dad sighed. Stared straight ahead at the road. "Perhaps not. But there's little to be gained by empathising with a child who poses a danger to your wellbeing."

"You sent me off alone with him," Henry pointed out peevishly. 

"Yes. To send a message that we weren't about to be cowed by juvenile theatrics, and to get you out of the room. And, upon learning further details, I now understand that to have been a much larger risk than I'd thought. This is all part of the job, Henry. You refine your strategy as new facts come to light."

"What new facts came to light?" 

"Nothing you need to be concerned with."

Henry huffed. Knew from experience being pushy wouldn't do much good, so he grumbled to himself and stared out the window instead. Watched fields and trees slowly give way to rows of tidy houses. 

"Henry," Dad spoke up again after some time. Henry shifted his gaze off the passing landscape. "I want you to avoid that boy as much as possible. Don't get near him, don't speak to him, don't even look at him if you can help it." 

"I already do that."

"Excellent. Keep it up, then." 

Henry frowned, looked away. Easy enough to just agree and move on, but something was bothering him. 

"Wouldn't it be better to… you know, try to get him on our side? Like be a bit more friendly? I wouldn't mind, he's not all that bad once you-" 

"No, Henry," Dad snapped over him, uncharacteristically stern. "I don't want you involved with that boy in any capacity. As far as you're concerned he doesn't exist."

"Why?"

Dad gave him a stern glare - the sort of look which said Henry needed to trust his father for his own safety. Didn't see that look often, and to date it had always proved warranted.

Henry swallowed and, reluctantly, nodded. 

"Alright, Dad… he doesn't exist."

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