Mycroft's Goldfish
Mycroft Holmes entered his home, closed the door, and placed his umbrella in its stand. He pulled his phone from his pocket, flipping through the messages with his thumb. Wordlessly, he walked through the house, passed the butler in the hallway, the maid in the kitchen, and even his assistant, Anthea, whom he found waiting in the living room.
"Mr. Holmes?" Anthea said, rising from her chair, prying her eyes away from her phone, but her thumbs continued to text.
"I won't be need your services for the rest of the day, Anthea," Mycroft said.
"Sir?" she said, and Mycroft could hear her smile. He turned around.
"Enjoy your afternoon," he nodded before heading back to the foyer, climbing his grand staircase two stairs at a time.
Entering his bedroom, he was displeased upon finding it empty. The bed had been made that morning and it had not been touched since. A mint had lain upon each pillow, but judging by the indentation, one of them was now missing. Mycroft walked through the door on the right to the master bathroom and saw the mint wrapper lying alone at the bottom of the small waste bin by the toilet.
Mycroft briefly entertained the thought of plucking the wrapper up with his fingers to smell how long the mint had been absent, but he didn't need to make that deduction. He had left for Sherlock's flat over three hours ago and the mint couldn't have possibly been there for more than twenty minutes since he remembered seeing the maid collecting trash from the kitchen.
Before he resumed his search, Mycroft removed his jacket, waistcoat, and tie, hanging them back up in the closet. He was certain Sherlock was clueless about his personal life for the past two years, and although Anthea had guessed, she had never seen his partner in person.
He took his time walking to the library, where he was sure to find there, sprawled out on the floor like a child, his partner with her nose engrossed in a leather-bound book. Mycroft opened the door, frowned, and closed it. The door popped open and Mycroft rolled his eyes, closing it again, and lifting the handle so it would click back into its frame. He would have to have that fixed.
It was certainly a day of games for Mycroft Holmes, but he never assumed hide and seek would be one of them. He finally won when he found a pale, young woman with golden blonde hair, nestled in the reading nook with her arms loosely holding her knees, and leaning against the window to watch the rain. A book lay forgotten on the floor. She raised her head when she saw his reflection in the glass.
"Hello, my goldfish," Mycroft said, with his hands in his pockets as he approached her. He shifted her soft legs, placing them on his lap as he sat down.
"I resent that nickname," she smiled, her blue eyes finally acknowledged him.
"You adore it."
"I endure it."
Mycroft smiled and lifting up her right leg, placing a kiss on her foot.
"How was Sherlock?" she asked.
"What makes you think I saw Sherlock?"
She smirked and leaned forward, sniffing the air in between them. "You smell like his apartment."
"Flat," he corrected.
"I'm an American goldfish; get over it."
"God, help me if the British government ever discovered I was entertaining an American goldfish," Mycroft smiled.
"You are the British government."
"You sound like my brother."
"Improbable. I'm a goldfish," she said, reaching down to grab the book. Mycroft saw the title; it was another one of Agatha Christie's.
"Why do you like them so much?" Mycroft sighed.
"They make me laugh."
"You can deduce the endings, then?"
"No," she smiled, glancing over the book at him. "But I know you can and that's what makes me laugh." She went back to the book, picking up where she left off, as if he was just another pillow in the nook. "Don't you have a country to run?" she asked, skimming her toes over the outline of his phone in his trouser pocket.
"I took the afternoon off."
She smirked, "That's only funny when I say it."
"I'm not joking," he said, honestly, and he enjoyed watching her amusement shift into curiosity.
"…And what would a goldfish do with a Mycroft?"
"Whatever she likes," he said and she grinned. The book fell to the floor and she crawled onto his lap, kissing him. His hands cupped her face and his fingers felt her silky golden hair.
Truthfully, Mycroft sometimes enjoyed living in a world full of goldfish.