AN: A tiny offshoot of the universe of "The Girl" created by esteemed author Chewing Gum. Unlike her, I feel no need to apologize for some good old British fluff. I will shamelessly take this chance to say I've also started a board about this story's parent fic in the "Discussions of the Master" forum for anyone who's interested.
Walking just for the sake of it had never appealed to Mycroft Holmes. He enjoyed having a purpose about each one of his movements and physical exertion brought no joy to him. There was an activity he greatly enjoyed that he suspected brought his wife little pleasure, however, and this was the reason that whenever said wife wanted to go out walking he could not put up much resistance.
He tried, he could say that. After dinner he had settled himself in the sitting room with the evening paper and made it quite clear that it was too cold out for walking and all he wanted was to was put his feet up for the rest of the night.
And yet not fifteen minutes later he had heard tiny footsteps and had glanced up over his paper to see the girl, coat on and her hair done up in her hat, holding his coat, scarf, and hat out as if she were a dog begging with her leash in his mouth. He had turned back to his paper but had only lasted another fifteen seconds of silence before tossing down the paper, levering himself from his seat, and accepting the garments.
Blasted creature.
It was cold enough to freeze his breath and he wished to be in front of a warm hearth. He knew she did not mind the quiet evenings in the sitting room, he with his paper and brandy and her working on whatever sewing project she was currently on (she went through them so quickly; she claimed her embroidery was no art but she made beautiful things), so why did she chose the coldest days to yearn for a venture to the streets?
His thoughts of displeasure were broken when there was a sneeze to his left. He glanced over to see the girl removing a hand from over her mouth. She was shivering slightly. He frowned.
"Ann, it must be below zero. Why on earth aren't you wearing a scarf?"
The girl looked up to him with a sheepish smile. "This coat is new, I haven't found a scarf that goes well with it yet."
Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "So being fashionable is more important than preserving your health?"
"You make me sound vain when you say it that way..."
His step ceased and he sighed, beginning to remove his own thick, long scarf, the wool knitted tight by her own hand. "You're putting this on. I won't have you getting ill because you're being silly."
She held up her hand, small and pale. "Mycroft, no. I don't want to see you sick! If you miss a week of work the country might fall down around our ears!"
"I think you overestimate my importance, although I am flattered. I'm more hearty of build than you. Much more. I will be fine until we get home."
Her frown, though more adorable than intimidating, was unbending. "You said it yourself when I slipped coming up the walk last week, the resilience of youth is amazing." She paused, first to make certain she had pronounced 'resilience' correctly and then to realize what she had implied. "Not to say that you're old...!"
"Well, I will not see you go cold and you will not see me go cold. Chivalry is on my side," he sighed, expecting her to cave to his logic. She usually did; it was in her nature. "What do you suggest?"
There was a certain spark in her eyes that appeared when she was deep in thought. His brother titled this expression as "Overture to Disaster". When she smiled next, Mycroft would have to agree with him.
People were looking at them. He could feel them, as illogical as that seemed. He had no strong memories of self-consciousness past puberty before he had married but being in near perpetual closeness to such a beautiful woman as his wife always made him feel huge and awkward.
She never seemed to notice, and if she did notice she held such a spark about her that seemed to convey that she did not mind his size or anything else about him. He was not sure if these were true feelings or if she would contort her personality to suit whichever man she had happened to marry.
He liked to believe the first. Denial was not healthy, but nor was the extra weight to begin with.
The scarf was long and currently shared between the two of them, linking around his neck and then a single side going to the left and down to shield hers from the bitter wind that was starting to blow.
She was holding onto his arm, merely smiling up at him as if the weather was beautiful rather than wretched.
"You're impossible," he finally sighed.
She only giggled.