A Study In Pink: Nothing More To Say
London nightlife was in full swing when Mycroft returned home. Sirens of the emergency services could be heard in the distance; a couple stood underneath a lamp post down the street who got into a taxi that pulled up, taking them to one of London's many expensive restaurants. There was also the distinct chatter of a group, Mycroft could hear, as he approached the lift that would take him up to the floor of his apartment. The group, made up of more women than men, that could be heard all over the ground the floor of the building were all dressed up in their most expensive clothing and were walking towards the front entrance. Mycroft noted that one of the men had put his phone and an apartment key into his blazer pocket and noted that the key belong to one of the 3 apartments on the first floor.
Any other deductions he made of the group before they left his line of sight, Mycroft catalogued on his phone for reference at a later time for security checks and the like. The lift doors were open when Mycroft reached them and William, the Lift Attendant, was at his post reading today's newspaper, whilst Mycroft had been typing on his phone, he had checked the time and noted that William had another hour to work before he could sign off for the night.
Hearing someone approach, William looked up from his paper and acknowledged Mr Holmes with a small smile as Mr Holmes entered the lift first before he pressed the correct floor number then going back to his newspaper, silently accompanying Mr Holmes. "Goodnight, William." Mycroft said pleasantly as William lifted his head from the newspaper when the doors had opened.
"Night, Mr Holmes." William called before the lift doors closed again to return the older gentleman to the ground floor.
Mycroft noted the light visible under the door and discovered that the lights in the entryway had been left turned on when he had unlocked the door and stepped in. After closing the front door behind him, and making a conscious effort to leave it unlocked, he walked further into his home, noting that the door to the master suite was open and the lights turned off, though he could see light coming from the other end of the apartment so knew Priscilla was not asleep in their room. He approached the living room and found Priscilla fast asleep on the sofa. He scanned the immediate area and concluded that she had finished the work she was doing on her laptop, which was turned off and sat on the coffee table in front of her; then she had wrapped the blanket over herself as she idly browsed the television channels looking for something to watch before ultimately falling asleep.
Mycroft picked the remote off the floor where it had fallen and put it onto the table after turning the television off. Once Mycroft was happy to note that nothing else was out of place, he went over to the door that lead that to the cinema room. He sat down in the armchair that he had claimed as his own and turned the system on via the master switch and once the live feed videos had loaded onto the big screen in front of him, he studied them closely in order to execute his plan efficiently.
It did not take him long to find what he was looking for and he had to wait only moments for his target to appear in view of the camera and close enough to the telephone box before he had dialled through to that telephone in order to gain the attention of his target – who had walked away from the box. Not discouraged, Mycroft followed his target through the streets of London until he found the identification code to another telephone that he connected to, but quickly disconnected it when someone else reached to answer it. But it had served its purpose of gaining the target's attention so they were now aware that they were being contacted.
A little further up the same street, Mycroft connected through to a second telephone box in front of his target and smirked when they picked up the phone with a cautious, "hello?"
"There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?" Mycroft answered.
The man in the box looked to his left but was more concerned about the mysterious caller than a camera. "Who's this? Who's speaking?"
"The camera, Doctor Watson, do you see it?" When Doctor Watson looked at the camera, Mycroft had it move until it was facing away from the telephone box. "There is another building on the building opposite you, do you see it?" Again, Mycroft turned the camera away from Doctor Watson once it had been located. "And finally, to the top of the building on your right." Once more, the camera did the same thing as the others; leaving only one camera facing the Doctor. "Get in the car, Doctor Watson."
Thoroughly freaked out now, Doctor Watson watched as Mycroft's black car rolled to a stop directly in front of him. Just as Mycroft had planned. Mycroft's voice emitted from the phone once more, "I would make some kind of threat, but I am sure your situation is quite clear to you." Then the dial tone. Mycroft watched for just a moment longer to confirm that Doctor Watson had entered the car before he shut off the system.
Mycroft had already left instructions with Anthea that she was to have Doctor Watson brought to his apartment. He had originally planned to meet the Doctor in a warehouse, playing on Sherlock's view of him as an arch-enemy and dramatising the whole thing to the fullest to get a profile of his younger brother's flatmate; then he remembered something that Priscilla had said several times, 'first impressions count. Always make it a good one.' He had wanted the warehouse because it added to the mystery and would test Doctor Watson's loyalty to Sherlock but realised that he would be playing into Sherlock's game. Mycroft had a minor position in the British Government, why would he need to intimidate the Doctor in a cold, damp warehouse when he can do just the same from the comfort of his armchair? The Doctor would also not be expecting to be taken to an apartment complex in a prime location for the rich to reside, whereas the warehouse would be expected, especially after a game of cat and mouse that Mycroft had just played with him via the cameras; that would ruin some of the effort Mycroft would have put into orchestrating the entire thing.
Mycroft needed to make a statement to Doctor Watson and when in London with a pristine suit and money, why not engage in a power play? Doctor Watson, being ex-army, had experienced life or death already, which meant that he would be anticipating something to happen as depicted in films when one is taken to a warehouse during the night with a mysterious person speaking to you on phones and cameras. No, Mycroft wanted Doctor Watson disarmed. So, the invite had been extended for Watson to visit him at his home.
When Mycroft noted the time, he left the room he was in to stand opposite it, next to the doors to the living area and in direct view of Doctor Watson when he would walk through the front door. Within moments, Mycroft saw the handle turn down as someone applied enough pressure to unlatched the door so they could open it. Watson hesitated to enter the apartment when he saw Mycroft standing at the end of the hall waiting for him. "Do come in, Doctor Watson." Mycroft called. Anthea remained out in the hall and closed the door behind the Doctor so he had no chance of running. Watching Watson hesitate, Mycroft headed back to the room he had just left and waited.
Slowly, Doctor Watson followed after him. Cautious that there might be someone to ambush him. There were no personal decorations he could see lining the walls as he limped further into the apartment and did not feel that he would be welcome to nosy around the other rooms he could see closed doors leading to, so he was unsure as to what the purpose of him being here. With his guard up, Doctor Watson faced the man who shut the door behind him once they were both in the room. "Have a seat, John. Your leg must be hurting you." Mycroft offered, gesturing to the other armchair as he took a seat in his own again.
"You know, I've got a phone. I mean, very clever and all that, you could just phone me." John said in reply, not accepting the invitation to sit.
"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one must be discreet." Mycroft explained. "Hence this place. You don't seem afraid."
"You don't seem very frightening." However, Mycroft could see that Watson had expected a place fit for a torture and not someone's well presented apartment and thus Watson was clearly out of his depth and on his guard.
"Ah yes," Mycroft laughed, "the bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest way of saying stupidity, don't you think?" John didn't comment so Mycroft continued, "what is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?" At that question, John shifted on his feet which Mycroft noted from where he sat, watching John Watson intently. Although, Mycroft did have to applaud John on his honesty as he truthfully answered that he had only met Sherlock the day before. "And since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?" Mycroft commented snidely.
John scowled at Mycroft for the insinuation that he was gay, his sexuality a sore point in his life because he never seemed to be able to have a steady relationship with a woman and now this guy in front of him was the second person today that mentioned that he and Sherlock were in a relationship with one another and it was starting to piss him off. But he didn't correct the comment nor did he react physically. "Who are you?" He demanded to know instead.
"An interested party." Mycroft brushed off John's question quickly.
"Interested in Sherlock. Why? I'm guessing you not friends."
"You've met him. How many friends do you imagine he has?" Mycroft rhetorically asked, both knowing that Sherlock had few friends, none that he would actually call friends, and even more acquaintances that he never kept up with. "I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."
"And what's that?" John asked quickly.
"An enemy." Was the short reply.
"An enemy?"
"In his mind, certainly." Mycroft looked away from John in thought as he continued, "if you were to ask him, he would probably describe me as his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic."
"Well, thank God, you're above all that." John quipped. The chime of John's phone startled him and Mycroft watched as he reached into his coat pocket to read the text message.
Mycroft sighed, "I hope I am not distracting you?" John shook his head at the text and at Mycroft's sarcastic question before sliding his phone back where he retrieved it from. "Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?"
"I could be wrong," John began to say, "but I don't think that's any of your business."
"It could be."
John was quick to deny that proposition. "It really couldn't."
Mycroft reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket to retrieve the pocket diary he kept there, "if you are planning to move into," he glanced down at the pages before finding the information he needed, "221B Baker Street," quickly he closed the book and returned it to the pocket it came from, as John had done just a moment ago with his phone, "I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way."
"Why?"
"Because you're not a wealthy man."
"In exchange for what?"
"Information." Mycroft advised the man, "nothing indiscreet. Nothing you would feel uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to."
"Why?"
"I worry about him. Constantly."
John was not impressed by Mycroft's reasoning, because sarcastically he said, "that's nice of you."
"But I would prefer, for various reasons, that my concern go unmentioned." Mycroft said, ignoring John's comment. "We have, what you may call, a difficult relationship."
Once more, John's mobile chimed with the same tone that it had a few minutes ago. Mycroft rolled his eyes at how John took the time to read the message, again, as he had earlier. John's resolve was set with a resounding, "no."
"But I haven't mentioned a figure."
"Not interested." John abruptly said. He was aware that he had known Sherlock 24 hours but that didn't stop him from wanting to not put his new flatmate in danger from the man in front of him who was willing to pay for John to spy on Sherlock.
Mycroft chuckled at this, John's loyalty established so quickly already. His psychiatrist had some use. "You're very loyal, very quickly." Mycroft mentioned out loud; to which John venomously denied. Once more, Mycroft pulled the book from his pocket, "trust issues, it says here."
John quickly realised the importance of that little book, as he now questioned just how much information on him that book had written down. "What's that?"
Mycroft ignored this comment, and continued as if uninterrupted. "Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people? You don't seem to be the kind to make friends easily."
Looking up from his book, Mycroft noted how defensive John had gotten when he had started to evaluate him. "Are we done?" John snapped in question.
Not at all intimidated by John's attitude, Mycroft put his book back into his jacket pocket and stood up, "you tell me." John's answer was to turn around and open the door. "I imagine that people have already told you to stay away from him." Mycroft continued as John headed for the front door, "I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen." Was the blunt statement that had John stopping in his stride.
"My what?" Angry at himself for not leaving, and angry at himself for being so god-damn curious of what that statement meant, John turned back around.
"Show me." To spite the man, John just held up his left hand, doing as he asked but holding his hand close to his person and not out towards the man. What he wasn't expecting was for said man to walk closer, confused, John stepped back in self preservation. With a lot of reluctance, John let his hand be studied. "Remarkable." Was the one word remark, further infuriating John that he was being made a spectacle of. Even if no one was around to watch.
"What is?" John demanded to know. He needed to know why he had just done that. Stayed when the man asked to see his hand instead of leaving.
Evaluating the frustration John was feeling, Mycroft backed away from him as he further taunted, "most people blunder around this city and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes you see the battlefield. You've seen it already, haven't you?" Mycroft didn't wait for an answer as he continued, "you have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks its post-traumatic stress disorder." Mycroft explained as John nodded, unable to deny that, especially if he was right in assuming that Mycroft had that written down in his stupid, little book. "She thinks you're haunted by the memories of your service."
"Who the hell are you?" John snapped. He couldn't take it any more. This man, this absolute stranger just took him from the streets, brought him to some apartment building he's never seen in his life and is now sprouting information only his therapist should know. "How do you know that?" He needed to know because his sessions with his therapist were confidential and for this man to know all of that? He shuddered to think what that might mean.
"Fire her." Was all the answer John received. "She's got it the wrong way round. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady. You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson, you miss it." John grit his teeth when he realised that the man was completely right. When John read the third text message that his phone received, he left. Unnerved by the experience he just had. A small voice in the back of his head wanted him to have had a creepy, old warehouse experience over this. This made it personal. Intimate. Too many details had been uncovered here that John had not wanted to face but had to because of some man that made him question every insecurity he had of being back in civilian life after thriving in the uniform.
John pulled open the front door, trying not to show how unsteady he was as the man kept staring after him as he walked away. He even forgot that Anthea was his escort because he jumped when she called to him from where she stood by the doors of the lift. "I'm to take you home." Anthea said to him as he got closer. "Address?"
John looked at his left hand briefly, already knowing that his mind had decided. "221B Baker Street. But I need to stop off somewhere first."
Once John had told Anthea where he wanted to be taken, she texted her boss. He received the message but didn't reply as he turned the lock on front door. He went back to cinema room, made sure everything was turned off before closing the door and walking back into the living room where Priscilla had now rolled over so she was curled facing the back of the sofa. More of the blanket on the floor than on her body. Still fast asleep, blissfully unaware of the confrontation which had taken place just a few feet away.
With a small smile on his face, Mycroft walked over to her and sat on the adjoining section of sofa since the unit was a corner sofa. Priscilla had fallen asleep on the smaller half of the sofa with her head positioned inwards to the corner, which was where Mycroft sat. Her hair was loose and Mycroft ran his hand through it, noticing that slight curls appeared in it, the result of being laid on the strands. It was in quiet times like this, when he was in her company that he was reminded as to why he asked her on that first date, and then why he asked her for her hand in marriage.
He had first met Priscilla Baxter when he was 6 years old. Both their parents had taken them to a mutual friend's birthday party. One of Priscilla's older brothers were in attendance and so were her two younger brothers. The three Baxter boys were being nuisances at one point in the party and Priscilla had wandered off in search of a more quieter area when her parents were distracted with their sons. The quiet area she had found was towards the back of the hall the party was being held in and she had found him there. They acquainted themselves with each other and discovered that they lived rather close by to each other when several chance encounters with each other over the following weeks.
At the age of 3, Priscilla was outnumbered by 2 older brothers, her days were already chaotic at home but when her mother had given birth to 2 more sons, she needed a refuge. Mycroft never demanded much, too lazy to make and keep friends. She had asked Mycroft once, if she could spend time with him because he offered peace that she found rarely anywhere else. Mycroft was unable to deny her simple request, and was unable to find fault with her when she simply sat with him, never spoke unless spoken to and never demanded to be entertained. She just enjoyed the company of someone who wasn't constantly moving about.
When Sherlock was able to walk and talk for the first time, Mrs Holmes often requested Priscilla as a babysitter to sit with Mycroft because her oldest son loved to complain when he had to exert too much energy. Because of this, Sherlock had developed an attachment to her because she was a constant feature in his life. Much like she was to Mycroft. She was a daughter to Mr and Mrs Holmes far before she ever took their name.
It was a suggestion by Priscilla's oldest brother that Mycroft take her out to dinner for her birthday one year. It was during that dinner that they had gotten onto the topic of relationships, their parents relationships, the failed attempts by her older brothers and then onto the people around them. Mycroft evaluated several of the couples around them in the restaurant and when he had looked back to Priscilla, she was just looking at him. A slight tilt to her head. "Do you know what comparisons have been made between what you have just said to me about these people and us in this moment?" Of course, at the time, Mycroft had made an educated guess because he had just been evaluating couples but had allowed her to explain anyway.
"First impressions are incredibly important. Several of these couples, you have just told me, have known each other for just a brief moment before they entered this restaurant and you can already tell that they will leave here and never see each other again. We have known each other for years now, Mycroft, and even with you having no desire to develop relationships, you make the effort with me. Why? Probably because I am not an inconvenience. I let you do your thing because you let me do mine. It's a mutual partnership we have formed because of that first encounter we had. That first impression we made of each other because we both wanted a moment of peace and quiet."
Even then it took a few more years before he was able to identify her as his girlfriend, never mind the fact that their families had been calling them an old married couple for a while as it was. She is the affectionate one in the relationship but because she had spent years with him, and knew him well just because she had spent that much time to get to know him, she was never upset with him for being emotionally disengaged.
He adapted to the relationship in other ways, he took her out on a regular basis at a nice restaurant, a different place each time. When she is taken ill, he would spend more time at home watching over her. He is always in the car with her when she has to go places, he is always present when she is taken to work and when she finishes, ready to return home. Sometimes, when court cases are difficult for her, she tended to work hard throughout the day to ensure she has everything perfect for the case and when she comes home, she heads straight to bed. Sometimes she falls asleep as soon as she gets comfortable, other times she just sits at her dressing table, thinking.
In times like that when she wants everything to be perfect and she overworks herself, Mycroft always makes sure he is present physically for her. His presence, she had explained to him once, when he had asked, he provides a stability for her because he is in control of his thoughts. Of his actions. She has to be mindful of her words and how she acts every time she goes to work because as a lawyer, she has a reputation to uphold and sometimes, there is a case that exhausts her to the point that an anxiety develops. Questions as to whether she's done a good enough job, or the thought she she's missed something and that the court decision would have been swayed differently if she had mentioned that piece of information.
Mycroft returned to conscious thought when he felt Priscilla's hand brush his where it had continued to stroke her hair. "Hi." Her voice croaked.
"Hi. Shall we get you a glass of water and to bed?" Mycroft suggested gently. He might not have said 'I love you' much to her over the years but his actions had spoken much more to her than his words ever could.
Too tired to really care, Priscilla stood on unsteady legs and headed down the hall to their bedroom where she crawled under the covers and situated herself comfortably. Mycroft had followed her, with a glass of water, which he placed onto the table at the bedside where he heard a muffled 'thank you' from under the covers. He carefully lifted the covers off her head and laid the cover over her properly. He was about to walk away and head on out but was stopped as he felt one of her hands clasp his wrist. She tugged a couple of times to get him to come closer and managed to get him to bend down to her so she could reach up enough to give him a kiss to his cheek and say 'goodnight' before he left. He returned the favour to her before he did leave.
As he descended in the lift, he received notification from his assistant, Anthea, that she was with the car outside and that the driver was ready to take him to his brother.
Even in the night, where people were more concerned with sleeping in their beds for the night than out on the town on foot with friends, the traffic is as bad as it is during the day. Save for rush hour.
Not too long later, Mycroft's driver rolled the car to a stop near the police vehicles with their blue lights flashing. He got out and waited by the car, watching everybody move about the crime scene, knowing that Sherlock was going to be heading this way.
"Sherlock." Mycroft heard John Watson say. "That's him, that's the man I was talking to you about." Sherlock made a comment to John but Mycroft couldn't clearly hear it.
"So," Mycroft began once both gentleman had gotten close enough, "another case cracked. How very public-spirited. Though that's not really your motivation, is it?"
"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked his older brother, not at all delighted with his appearance.
"As ever, I am concerned about you."
"Yes, I've been hearing about your concern." Was the dry response from Sherlock.
"Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?" Mycroft asked.
"Oddly enough," Sherlock intoned, "no."
"We have more in common than you like to believe." Mycroft mentioned, trying a different approach with his brother this time. "This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer. And you always know how it upset Mummy."
"I upset her?" Sherlock rhetorically asked Mycroft. "Me? It wasn't me that upset her, Mycroft." The snarl was clear for all to hear in his voice.
John, entirely lost to the conversation now, was reeling from that revelation, "wait. Mummy? Who's mummy?"
"Mother." Sherlock politely clarified. "Our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft." Goading his brother, Sherlock turned to him, "putting on weight again?"
"Losing it, in fact." Mycroft smiled, proud of himself for willing himself to do so and succeeding.
Poor John, "he's your brother?"
Sherlock, at this moment in time, was at wits end with Mycroft's presence. "Of course he's my brother."
"He's not-?" John trailed off. In the face of two stoic men, John couldn't help but feel slightly inferior to them and certainly did not want to know what happened when he pissed them off by insulting them.
Both Mycroft and Sherlock turned to him in question but Sherlock was the one to ask, "what?"
"I don't know," John shrugged helplessly, concerned that he might have offended the man he was now introduced to as Sherlock's brother, "criminal mastermind?"
"Close enough." Sherlock droned. Clearly not offended in the least for his brother's honour or pride.
"For goodness' sake." Mycroft politely cursed. Annoyed that Sherlock refused to show the appropriate respect for the job he held for Queen and Country. "I occupy a minor position in the British government." Mycroft clarified for John's sake.
"He is the British government," Sherlock had to add, "when he's not too busy being the British secret service or the CIA on a freelance basis. Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home, you know what it does to the traffic."
Before John followed after Sherlock, he just had to ask Mycroft, "so, when you say you are concerned about him? You generally are concerned about him?"
"Yes, of course." Mycroft held no shame in admitting that. "His sister cares too but it seems he appreciates her efforts more than mine and I'm the one related by blood. Goodnight, John." Mycroft nodded a final time to John before getting back into the car.
John followed after Sherlock when he realised that the conversation was over and that the lady from earlier really did not care at all for him. "So dim sum." John said when he was close enough to Sherlock.
"I can always predict the fortune cookies." Sherlock smugly informed his companion. A grin set on his lips.
"No you can't."
"Almost can. You did get shot though."
"Sorry?"
"In Afghanistan. There was an actual wound." Sherlock clarified further.
"Oh, right. Yeah, shoulder."
"Shoulder! I thought so."
"No you didn't. You have a sister?" John asked, if Sherlock could change the topic of conversation quickly, why couldn't he?
Sherlock stopped walking at John's question. "What?"
"Mycroft, he said that you appreciate your sister's care more than his own and he's your blood sibling? Or something." John clarified. He watched as Sherlock turned back to face the black car of his brother's, which was still sat where it had parked.
Sherlock turned back to John before he continued walking, "I am surprised he mentioned her. He hardly ever talks about her to others, finds it disrespectful to discuss her when she's not present."
John looked at Sherlock as he began to explain but John still didn't understand, "who is she?"
"Priscilla Holmes. She's my sister-in-law. Mycroft's wife."
"What?"
~ End of Chapter ~
Goodness gracious. This chapter took me six hours to write, well nearly six and a half, but that's a technicality. I had to come back to it the following day to proof-read it because I was so tired after I had written it out – there were quite a few things that needed to be corrected because of my sleep deprived mind.
I'm not overly sure how I feel about this chapter overall but I deemed it okay to post, at least. I am the author, you are the reader, you don't know of all the sentences I've back-pedalled on because they weren't quite right. You won't ever see the changes I've made as I wrote this chapter. You see the final product, you have an unbiased view. Sometimes, that's all it takes. A fresh view of something to find the final product you've been searching for.
I am aware that some of you are going to dislike this chapter immensely and I apologise for that, that I have ruined your expectations of this story. However, I am still going to post chapters to this story because no matter how bad a story is, it can't be left unfinished. Too many times have I found a story that hasn't been completed for quite some time and I refuse to let one of my stories go to the way side just because it got some bad press.
The only way one can improve, is if they take the criticism they have received and adapt to it. One does not have to completely change, but no change what so ever means no progress.
I hope to see you on the next page, but if I don't, I hope to see you again some other time.
Happy reading,
Goofball.
