Strangers in the Night
You must understand that Mycroft Holmes was not, nor had he ever been, a fanciful man. Even as a child, his feet were firmly planted on the ground and his mind contained only facts and truths. He left childhood dreams of swashbuckling pirates and adventures on the high seas to his younger brother.
No, Mycroft Holmes was one of those people who believed only in what was either tangible or scientifically proven, which is why he was so rattled at the moment. He couldn't believe what he'd just seen. In fact, he refused to believe what he'd just seen, but his eyesight was perfect and there was no rational explanation that he could come up with to explain what had happened.
Despite Sherlock's many comments to the contrary, Mycroft took care of himself, both mind and body. Witness the personal gym he'd set up in his home; facilities that he made use of four times a week on a strict schedule. Recently, though, he'd tired of running miles on the treadmill staring at nothing more than the wall of books in front of him. Deciding that he needed a change of scenery, Mycroft had taken to walking the two kilometres between The Diogenes Club and his home. The neighbourhood he passed through was one of those rare ones that seemed almost untouched by the passage of time. The stretch of grand Georgian-style residences now glowed pink in the setting sun. The street lamps, converted from gas but maintaining their distinctive look, were starting to light the wide sidewalk. Looking around, one could almost believe one had travelled back in time to the turn of the previous century.
Mycroft Holmes passed these houses often and never gave them any thought, as he was usually caught up in the problems of the day: elections in Korea, unrest in the Middle East, rumours originating in Russia or the US. Today, though, was different. Today, Mycroft had been able to leave his work at the office; the only thing he had left to organize was the 5:30 a.m. teleconference scheduled for the next morning.
He moved at a steady pace, the heels of his brogues clicking decisively on the pavement, as the shadows lengthened and night began to fall. He was about half-way home, lost in his thoughts, when he realized that it was growing colder and that one of London's famous, but now rare, fogs was starting to rise. Picking up the pace, Mycroft turned up the collar of his overcoat and pulled his gloves from his coat pockets.
The fog was rising quickly, so quickly in fact that it took less than two minutes for it to become dense enough to muffle the sound of his footsteps. The normally-bright street lamps were now wholly inadequate to illuminate Mycroft's path. They were shrouded in fog and the light was dampened to a sickly-looking glow that surrounded each lamp like a halo. The stygian blackness that filled the space between each lamp was unnerving, but Mycroft refused to bow to anything as plebeian as anxiety.
The houses themselves began to disappear in the murky darkness, only to loom over the businessman as he approached and then passed each building. Their shadowy doors and dimly lit rooms brought to mind the gaping maws of carved jack-o-lanterns.
Peering through the vapour in an attempt not to trip over unseen objects in his path, Mycroft realized that he was alone on the street. No pedestrians crossed his path, no cars drove by and the stillness was rather unnerving. The usual hum of the City had disappeared as well. He was wrapped in a blanket of silence and shadows and could hear nothing other than his own breathing.
Then, just ahead, a figure began to take shape through the fog. Definitely female, the person was not very tall and was draped in a dark cloak. As Mycroft approached the still figure, he was surprised to see that rather than a cloak, the young woman was wearing a long, severe-looking black dress with a white bow tied at the back. As she turned to face him, Mycroft saw the bright white of an apron that covered her from clavicle to hemline and on her head she wore a small cap with ribbons cascading down. Dressed as she was like a servant, the woman looked like she could have stepped out of an episode of "Upstairs, Downstairs" (one of Mycroft's secret, and guilty, pleasures).
Must be heading to a fancy dress party he thought as, ever the gentleman, he nodded to the costumed woman. The young woman stepped out of his way and then bobbed a quick curtsey to him.
He was continuing on his way when something clicked in his brain and he realized that she had actually curtseyed … to him. Surprised by her action, Mycroft stopped and turned back towards the woman. She was already moving away from him, though he could hear no sound of her footsteps. Then, without warning, she was gone.
Mycroft blinked, then blinked again and hurried towards where he had last seen the strangely-dressed woman. The fog was thick, but not thick enough to hide in. There were no doorways she could have entered or passageways along which she could have turned. She had simply disappeared. One moment she was giving him a curtsey and the next moment she was gone!
Mycroft could feel the hairs at the nape of his neck rise and a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature flow through his veins. The logical portion of his brain was telling him that there had to be a reasonable explanation for what he had seen, or thought he had seen; the animal portion of his brain, though, was screaming, "Flee; run away!"
Shrugging his shoulders and giving one last glance around, Mycroft turned his steps towards home once again. And if he walked the familiar route faster than he ever had; if he kept glancing round to see if he was being followed; if, on returning home, he tripled-checked to ensure that the doors were bolted and turned on a light in every room, who would take fault with his actions?
Mycroft was never a fanciful man, and he certainly didn't believe in ghosts, but one can never be too sure of what's out there, can one?