This ficlet is the product of a prompt, too much coffee, and not enough sleep.
Suffice to say...I have no excuse for the pain I'm about to put you through.
When Molly sees the tattoo she's rather taken aback.
He's not the sort of man you'd expect to have a tattoo. Really and truly, you'd expect him to look down his nose at those who sported any kind of body modification, but laying there in his bed she realizes that perhaps there is more to Mycroft Holmes than she's been told by his younger brother.
Mycroft lay on his stomach, arms folded beneath his head, exposing the tattoo to Molly's wandering eyes. It was a lovely work of art. An old fashioned nautical compass lay between his shoulder blades; its needle pointing West instead of North.
"What's this about?" she asks, tracing her finger around the edges.
"I was talked into it," he said quietly.
Molly giggled a bit, dragging her fingers away from the inked skin to card them in the hair at the base of Mycroft's neck. "Oh? Were you terribly drunk?"
A soft puff of laughter escaped his lips. "Something like that, I suppose."
"Who was it? The person who talked you into it, I mean?"
"Someone very dear to me."
"What does it mean?"
"My dear, in my past experience, a woman usually asks all her questions prior to coitus, and basks in the glow of it after. You seem to be going about it the other way around," he said, rolling over onto his back.
Her stomach dropped. "Oh, sorry! I don't know why I do that! I just get carried away and start rambling and rattling off questions and I'm rambling right now so I'll just…stop."
"It's perfectly alright," he slid a hand down her arm until the tips of their fingers met. "My…friend and I had a terrible row. I was on Gap Year when we met. We spent months together. But like all good sons I was supposed to return home and take up my father's business. She could see I didn't want to. She said I needed to choose my own direction in life, that I was 'far too content to travel North with the rest of the sheep.' She had a way with words. She could make a man dizzy with them.
Anyway, we had a terrible row about it. I was called home by Papa and she didn't want me to go. I kept telling her I'd come back and see her, but I don't think she believed me. I don't remember how it came about that we got inside the shop, but I let her talk me into it. Mummy was horrified when she found out."
"What did your father say?" Molly asked softly.
"He was too busy shouting at me for other reasons." Upon seeing the confused look on Molly's face, Mycroft elaborated. "I'd decided not to take up the family business."
"Why?"
"I was going to go back," he stated simply. "I was going to marry her."
"Did you?"
There was a pause. The room was silent save for the ticking of the clock on the mantle and the breathing of its inhabitants. Finally, Mycroft spoke. "No."
"Why not?"
"She died."
"Oh," she said, and started cursing her loose tongue. "I'm sorry."
"It's hardly your fault, my dear."
"I…I guess I should go."
Mycroft was silent again. "If you wish," he eventually said. He watched Molly collect her clothes, dress, and slip out the door.
Pulling on his robe, Mycroft travelled down the hall to his study. There, he poured himself a brandy and opened the bottom most drawer in his desk. From it he pulled a battered old book; dog eared, its spine cracked and its edges worn.
He opened the cover and ran his fingers over an inscription scrawled in a lovely, elegant hand.
When woodland halls are green and cool and the wind is in the West, come back to me, come back to me, and say my land is best.