Of all the rottenest of rotten things to ever happen, this was the absolute, positively worst.
Mycroft was so upset he couldn't even form grammatically correct thoughts.
"Oh stop frowning," Molly soothed, bouncing Charlotte on her hip. "You aren't the only one who wanted to get home today." They looked at the flight list on his laptop. They'd all risen very early, hoping that their flight back home had not been cancelled. As of five in the morning, no plane was leaving the airport until Thursday.
"May I remind you I am due in London tomorrow morning," he snapped. "I have very important plans for that evening that cannot be rearranged again. And this ridiculous-" he gestured to the windows in a very un-Mycroft manner (some would say almost frantic) to the blizzard raging outside their chalet.
"Well it won't do any good fussing now; the flight is cancelled. Let's be grateful they let us know before we left for the airport. At least we can stay here where it's private and warm. Sherlock,"
The consulting detective opened his eyes, stretching from his position on the couch. Gently, Molly deposited Charlotte into his arms. "She's been fed, burped and changed, it's your turn to get her to sleep,"
Sherlock complied, soothing circles onto Charlotte's small back, softly humming in the toddler's ear.
Ordinarily, they would not have brought Charlotte along, but John was having a father/daughter weekend with Rosie, as it was his and Mary's wedding anniversary and he wanted to answer some of Rosie's questions regarding her mother. Mrs. Hudson was also out of town, and could not be prevailed upon to babysit, and Violet and Sigurd were on their annual cruise through Norway. So Charlotte simply went along with Molly and Sherlock, who were doing the legwork share of a case Mycroft had been asked to take care of. Top priority sort of case, very secret, terribly hush-hush, and terribly fancy lodgings. They were, for the time being, comfortably sequestered in a lovely Adirondack chalet in upstate New York. Unfortunately, the night they solved the case and were due at the airport was the same night an awful blizzard swept up the east coast. Weather reports showed it lasting for two days, with snow piling up a little over two feet.
"Two days!" Mycroft whinged, flopping himself into one of the overstuffed wing-back chairs. He rubbed his forehead. "And there's no mobile service on the god-forsaken rock of a mountain!"
"Hmm, yes, you've said before," Sherlock replied. "You really ought to 'let it go'," his eyes twinkled with some wicked mischief, clearly taking pleasure in his brother's beyond exasperated expression.
"If you make that reference to that insipid movie one more time, I will throw you out into the snow bank," Mycroft answered sourly. He'd had to endure watching that ridiculous animated movie three times now. Apparently, Charlotte loved it, and it was specifically for her benefit that Mycroft endured it.
"If you have to make a call, use the land-line," Molly put in.
"Yes, I should love for all of my private conversations to be picked up by every other busy-body on the line," he snapped, irritable.
Feeling something sharp flick his ear, he whirled around in his chair, glaring, expecting it to have come from Sherlock. Instead, Molly held up her thumb and forefinger again.
"As I am the one who spent last night running all over this bleeding back country, visiting four different shops to make sure we've got enough supplies to last this storm, and who just helped you solve this stupid case, and who is also doing the cooking, washing up, and keeping the fire going since neither of you like to get your blessed hands dirty, stop your whining."
Mycroft slunk lower in his chair. He knew she was right. His beloved sister in-law often was in these situations. He also disliked being so unlike himself. He did feel his (admittedly childlike) tantrum was earned, given the week he'd just endured, and the following evening's plans that were completely ruined now.
"He's not built for legwork," Sherlock said, low, so as not to rouse Charlotte.
"Never mind," Molly took a breath, squeezing Mycroft's shoulder. "We're all a little nervous," she looked out at the storm blowing. "I've certainly never seen anything like this."
"I have once," Sherlock offered. "While I was in hiding. Somewhere in the Alps. Cabin I was stuck in had a kerosene heater and only tinned spotted dick."
Molly grinned then. Bending, she pressed a kiss to his forehead, combing his curls out of his eyes. "I promise, no tinned food. A lot of the shops out here actually carry fresh veg, so we can eat proper, so long as we don't mind left overs tomorrow."
The wind picked up suddenly, beating against the house. While the electricity hadn't gone out yet, Molly wanted to keep a fire going, on the off-chance that they did lose power. She heaved a sigh. "We'll need more wood in a little bit."
"I'll go," Sherlock sat up, careful so as not to jostle Charlotte, and gently, gently set her in Molly's arms. "Here, she's nearly asleep as it is."
"Axe is on the woodblock, use the hatchet to start it, don't just wing it-"
"I know," he called over his shoulder, shrugging into his coat.
"I don't fancy driving you through this storm just because you lobbed off your big toe," Molly replied glibly. "Put on the boots by the door."
Sherlock struggled into the oversized boots, succeeding finally in tugging them on. "Will there be tea?"
"There will always be tea," she kissed him, then stepped away, shielding Charlotte from the blowing wind as he opened the door. "Go on, before you let the bought air out!"
Mycroft sat, still sulking, until suddenly Molly was depositing the baby into his arms. He stiffened at the unexpected child in his arms, then loosened his limbs somewhat, cradling her properly.
"She's nearly off, just see that she stays asleep while I fix breakfast and put something in for dinner."
He waited until Molly was out of earshot before sinking back down in the chair, propping his feet up on the footstool, curling and uncurling his sock-feet.
"I don't mean to make a fuss," he said conversationally to Charlotte, who fluttered her eyes briefly, on the precipice of sleep. "It's just that I had a very important meeting in London tomorrow, specifically with my personal assistant, who happens to be my soon-to-be-fiancée, well, if she agrees, that is." He sighed heavily, resting his head against the back of the chair. "I'm unable to call her, not that I'd be so gauche as to propose over the phone of course. But I'd made reservations specifically for tomorrow night that could be moved to a more convenient date if I had a phone." He thought wistfully of the planetarium. Anthea had an affinity for that sort of sentimental thing. He had originally planned to take her there after dinner at her favorite restaurant. Now it looked as though he'd miss it. Another sigh. He turned to look at the baby in his arms, who had at last succumbed to sleep. "And then of course there is concern for you. You aren't old enough for these extreme temperatures." Carefully, he stood up, minding he didn't jostle her, then started upstairs to the nursery.
"As far as being trapped goes, I suppose it could be worse," he murmured quietly, settling Charlotte down in the crib. "One doesn't always have a fully stocked chalet, complete with nursery to wait out a storm. And while I'd much prefer the company of a certain woman back in London, I suppose I should be pleased to have yours." He waited another five minutes, hand over her chest as Charlotte went on sleeping. Once satisfied that she was warm enough, that she was comfortable and not in any danger, he switched on the baby monitor, checked the temperature of the room on the wall panel and slipped back downstairs.
He found Molly in the kitchen adding vegetables to a stock pot. He set the monitor down on the kitchen island where it could be heard.
"I've already got the giblets and bits in it, so we'll have a nice broth to drink," she said over her shoulder. "I thought we'd have a Sunday roast early this week," she nodded to the oven. Mycroft peered in, seeing a fat hen slowly roasting, vegetables piled around it, browning in the juices.
"One is never disappointed when you man the ovens," he acknowledged.
Molly snorted, laughing. She handed him a mug, which he took, studying the contents with a frown. Marshmallows floated to the top, and a rich chocolate scent wafted up out of the warm mug.
"It's a snow day, Mycroft," Molly said, leading as if he was supposed to know what she meant. "Snow days require lots of cooking and baking, and hot chocolate."
He sipped it, face almost contorted in a wince, waiting for the saccharine-sweet taste of powdered chocolate mix. Instead he was pleasantly surprised to find a rich chocolate taste melting over his tongue, with a hint of cinnamon and star anise.
"I made good hot chocolate, don't worry," she said, seeing his expression.
"Yet you ruined it with marshmallows," he put in, quirking an eyebrow.
"Oh shut up and drink it,"
Setting the mug down, Mycroft reached over the sink and fetched a bottle of brandy hidden there.
"Where-ever did you smuggle that from?"
"A liquor store," he answered, before adding a generous shot to his mug. Molly nudged hers nearer and he poured another finger into her cocoa.
"I'm sorry, by the way," Molly said suddenly.
"What?" he glanced up from replacing the cap to the brandy bottle.
"That you missed your date with Anthea,"
For a moment, Mycroft couldn't speak. It was not often that these waves of sheer disappointment came over him, he knew there would be other opportunities, perhaps better ones. It was everything he disliked though: a perfectly elegant plan, timed down to the very minute he'd go on bended knee, and suddenly everything was flung to the winds and it was all out of his hands and there was nothing he could do.
"There will be other times," he said at last.
"I know," Molly brushed carrot peelings off her hands, looking at the cutting board for a moment. "It still isn't fair though." She glanced again at the landline, the curly cord was overstretched and hung down all the way to the floor. "You know I bet that cord could reach the downstairs loo," she offered.
Mycroft studied her for a moment, then set his mug down, still looking at her, he went to the telephone. Picking up the receiver, he hefted it, testing the elasticity of the cord, then wound it once around his hand, made his way down the dimly lit hall to the bathroom with the sliding door. The cord protested, but did not detach. Satisfied, he shut the door, then sat down on the edge of the bath. He wondered how many teenagers sequestered themselves away here, having to stretch the poor cord out. He silently thanked them for doing the work for him as he dialed Anthea's number.
"Hello?"
He breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank heavens, I was hoping you'd answer. I'm on a landline."
"Mycroft!" relief apparent in her voice, the phone crackled as she heaved a sigh. "Please tell me you all aren't going to try and fly in this weather."
"If I thought it could be managed, I would in a heartbeat," he replied.
"I'm glad you're staying put. You'll all be snug as a bug where you are. You are still at the chalet aren't you? I can't track your phone at the moment, wherever you are is a dead zone."
"Yes we're still at the house," he replied tiredly. He scanned the ceiling of the small bathroom. "I suppose I should be glad."
"I'm glad you're there. It will be much nicer for Charlotte. It's at least private. Lawks, can you imagine if you tried to make for the airport? Or if you had to be trapped two days at a terminal?" both of them pulled a face at the thought. Two days delay was bad enough, two days, with a baby, in a dirty, smelly terminal amid dirty, smelly travelers who were just as short-tempered would be unequivocally worse.
"As usual my dear, you are correct," he conceded. "Though I am more upset that I cannot keep our date for tomorrow evening. It was quite an event I had all planned out."
"There will be other times Mycroft," Anthea soothed. "I'm just glad you're safe. Would you like me to make any calls for you I can reschedule the restaurant if you like."
"No, no, I can fix it," he answered. "I can reschedule everything for the end of the week, if…that suits."
He could tell she was smiling on her end. He shut his eyes, recalling that particular smile she always saved for him. An entire week of being unable to contact her but for a spotty text here and there. Mycroft wished very much that he was back in England, in his own home, in his own bath, (preferably with Anthea).
"Friday would be perfect." There was a pregnant pause, before she took a breath: "I've waited this long, Mycroft, I think I can manage three more days."
Bowing his head, he sighed. "Thank you, my dear."
"I love you, Mycroft,"
"And I, you."
He waited until he heard the dial-tone before he got to his feet, opening the bathroom door again. Unwinding the cord from his hand, he hung up the receiver.
"You got hold of her?" Molly asked, a little too brightly, which meant that she knew he had.
"She sends her well-wishes, and is glad we are all safe."
"Do you feel better, now that you talked to her?"
"Some," he acquiesced. "Where is Sherlock?"
"He just came in," Molly nodded to the pile of wood dumped near the fireplace, not yet stacked, a trail of snowy prints beginning to melt leading upstairs. "He went to change. The woodblock is on the side of the house with all the drifts."
Mycroft bent and carefully stacked the wood where it could dry properly before sitting down again.
The rest of the afternoon passed fairly quietly. Sherlock dozed on the sofa, reorganizing his mind-palace. Molly puttered in and out of the kitchen, every now and again opening the oven, playing single card games at the table and plying both Holmes brothers with mugs of cocoa. Charlotte eventually woke up with a cry, and Sherlock was off like a shot, hurrying to fetch her.
Dinner was eaten and the dishes loaded into the dishwasher. Molly was tired and so Sherlock followed her upstairs when suddenly they heard the strangest noise.
"What was that?" Molly asked, still sleepy-eyed but curious.
"It sounded like an engine," Sherlock said.
"Not a very big one, either," Mycroft added.
"Like a snow-remover?"
"Not that small," Sherlock and Mycroft both went to the window.
Suddenly, there was a muffled knock on the door.
Surprised, Mycroft looked at them, then unlatched the door. A well-wrapped figure shuffled in, shutting the door after them. Gloves were removed first, and Mycroft gasped. He knew those hands very well. The helmet was removed, and Molly stared, shocked at the sight before them.
There stood Anthea! She wore a snow-suit, thick boots, and her hair was pulled back in a tightly woven braid, now dripping wet from the snow. She struggled with the zipper, finding it was jammed with ice. With a huff she gave it a good tug, and it gave way, snow showering the floor as she shrugged out of the snow-suit and boots.
"What…how-?" Mycroft was at a loss for words (a rare occurrence).
"I saw the weather report last night around eight, caught the last red-eye from London to New York, drove from the city as far up as I could. The back roads haven't been touched, so I borrowed a snow-mobile from a couple of nice lads on a farm."
"When I called earlier-" he began, frowning.
"Oh I still had service," she answered with a wave of her hand. "I had only just passed Saratoga Springs when you called me."
Mycroft stared at her beaming face. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, hair dripping wet from the melting snow. It took quite a bit of self-restraint not to kiss her then and there.
"You're soaking wet," he managed. "You ought to change and have a warm bath."
Sherlock suddenly cleared his throat. "Yes, well, we'll say goodnight," he bent, pressed Anthea's cheek quickly. "Always a pleasure, see you in the morning."
"Yes, goodnight," Molly followed suit. She hugged Anthea quickly. "I'm so glad you're here!" she whispered in her ear, eyes shining at the PA before she slipped her hand in Sherlock's, hurrying upstairs to their room.
"I don't suppose you'd like to join me?" Anthea asked suddenly. "For a bath, I mean. I did just ride ten miles in an awful blizzard to be with you."
"My dear woman," Mycroft smiled gently at her, his eyes warm and shining at her. It was all he could say, but Anthea understood what he meant.
Before she could take a step, he bent, and lifted her into his arms, regarding her with a good deal of affection and tenderness that Anthea felt down to her toes. Yes, the cold ride had certainly been worth it. Happily, he carried her upstairs to his own room and shut the door behind them before bringing her through to the adjoining bathroom. There he cared for her, savoring each small task.
Satisfied that she was not frostbitten, and that her core-temperature was now at a normal state, he brought her to bed, and placed her on the end of it before he knelt down at her feet.
"I'd planned a much better setting than this," he said, digging through the end table drawer. "But needs must, and I'd rather not wait another moment, though I'll kneel down, if it's all the same to you. I promised myself I'd get on my knees," as he spoke, he held a velvet box. Pressing the button, it clicked open, revealing a lovely sapphire and pearl engagement ring. "It isn't the ring I saw you eyeing last month," he murmured. "I did try to find that one, but apparently someone had outbid me. This was the nearest I could find to the style-"
He was cut off by Anthea kissing him as if their lives depended on it. When they finally came up for air, she smoothed his mussed hair, that one errant curl that never wanted to smooth down no matter what.
"I take it you approve," he said, somewhat breathless, cheeks tinged a terribly charming shade of pink.
"What do you think, bubeleh?" she grinned, and he fought to suppress a smile at her favorite nickname for him.
"I think I should like to see this ring on your finger, and never again in this dratted box."
The ring fit perfectly, and together they climbed under the covers, curling up in each other's arms. They spoke softly of the week's events, how much they'd missed each other, and when they wanted the wedding to be. The wind howled outside, pounding on the windows.
"Do you know I think this storm is going to last longer than they say it is," Anthea said after a lull in conversation. Mycroft was beginning to fall asleep.
"Hmm?"
"They said on the radio it's looking like it might last until Thursday."
Mycroft wrapped his arms around her waist, drawing her nearer to him, curling his legs up behind hers. "That's a shame." He smirked, pressing a kiss to her neck.
Anthea giggled softly, snuggling deeper into his arms. Whoever said blizzards were all bad?