Goldfishes, all of them.
His to play with, his to discard.
Caring for them? An exercise in futility.
Yet tonight, sitting alone in his favourite chair, dozing pleasantly among the soft leathery pillows, his mind surprises him lingering on the scent of Not-Anthea's hair.
An heady mix of gunpowder, green tea, toffee scented body wash -a gag gift from a younger cousin he deducted- and lily of the valley.
Contrasting notes telling a tale of –harsh past- training-hit men- life away from England- men and women moving like ants, no care for nature, safety, future, home country, mankind.
Destruction still lingers in the shadows of her eyes.
(hazel eyes- freckled with brown-ochre-green ring around the pupil- grey not cold).
Then the long awaited flight home- to serve him- to protect him.
Estranged daughter –well liked only by the children-teens-distant relations- always on the fringe of family- never again part of it.
A great loneliness not much different from his.
A goldfish?
Perhaps the derogatory term still applies to her…but his mind, his brilliant –traitorous- mind doesn't think so.
A chameleon, his chameleon.
His to play with.
His…to keep?
While the golden, liquid amber light of whiskey burns a clear path down his long white throat, and the buttery soft leather of his favourite chair hugs his tired body, Mycroft Holmes smiles.
An uncertain smile, a little cold, uncertain – unused muscles nonetheless bending to his will (or else!) not nice- satisfied- and closes his eyes.
The chase is on!.