~ Shelter ~

For the 'Storm' prompt

Life is bare, gloom and misery everywhere

Stormy weather

Just can't get my poor self together

I'm weary all the time

Mycroft Holmes pulled into the drive of his home (dreamlike, almost unreal in the grey, foggy morning: strange, but probably understandable given the events of the last twenty-four hours). Braked to a stop. Shut the car off. Sat there.

It was nearly nine o'clock, and by rights he should have gone straight to his London office to begin the arduous task of arranging for Sherrinford's emergency reinforcement and, ultimately, its complete renovation. It was likely that most, if not all, the staff would need to be replaced. Hopefully the cadre of MI5 agents would suffice, temporarily. The ones who'd… rescued him.

Euros.

Even now he found it difficult to fathom how easily he had been taken in.

Once again she'd proved him a fool. A failure.

Stupid.

Human.

There was a difficult road ahead. His mind touched briefly on revealing... thefacts… to his parents. But then he recoiled.

Not yet.

He knew he was more than a little overwhelmed, and bone weary - he did not have Sherlock's capacity for going without sleep for days on end. Or without sustenance, for that matter.

When had he last eaten?

A grim chuff of laughter shook him as he thought of the meager offerings he knew to be currently on hand in his pristine kitchen.

Well, his housekeeper would be here soon. He would send her out for a few things.

He took a deep breath.

The habit of years was strong, so he hardened his resolve. Firmed his mouth. Lifted his chin.

Got out of the car.

He walked slowly toward the house… rest was what was needed… he would think later… what was that light in his study?

He stopped on the walkway for a moment, frowning, then gripped his umbrella and strode quickly on, a great deal of his weariness vanishing at the thought that someone had had the audacity to break into his home - for the second time in forty-eight hours! (The Clown… Sherlock wrestling with him on the beach… his own ignominious terror…)

He entered almost silently, heart thudding, leaving the door ajar, and walked slowly to the open double doors of his study.

And gaped - thankfully an inward reaction, for the most part.

"Hello, Mycroft," said Alicia Smallwood.

She was standing by his desk, quite composed, elegantly put together as ever, not a hair out of place.

It reminded him suddenly - forcibly - that he'd been wearing the same suit for the last twenty-four hours.

What with that, and the weariness, and the lack of food, it was possible that there was some excuse for him to blurt unthinkingly, resentfully, "What are you doing here?"

The corner of her mouth lifted, just a little. "I thought," she said, rather gently, "that perhaps you could use a friend."

A friend. Oh my God. He opened his mouth, to deny it. Thank you, no. I am quite...

But of course he wasn't quite, was he?

She spoke again, motioning toward the coffee table that lay in front of the sofa under the window. "I've made tea - and those pastries are from Ottolenghi Belgravia, fresh this morning. And I've brought some eggs, if you want some. I'm quite a good cook. Had lessons."

He just stood there staring at her, at a loss for words, which was so unlike him that it made him feel even more of an idiot. At a loss for words… and everything else.

She was coming toward him, an odd expression on her face. Pity? No. Not precisely. Sympathy maybe. Some concern.

Fondness?

She stopped in front of him. He could smell her perfume… a new scent, she no longer wore Clair de la Lune, for obvious reasons.

She said, "It will be alright, Mycroft."

"Will it?" he managed in return. He had his doubts. Very strong doubts.

But she said, "Yes. It will." And she reached up to take him in her arms.

This was unprecedented. Awkward, to say the least. I'm not lonely…

But… maybe he'd lied to Sherlock on that occasion, too.

His arms were about her now, almost of their own volition. She was slight, but she had a backbone of steel as he well knew. The skin of her cheek soft as velvet.

He closed his eyes, letting thought fade.

He eventually murmured, "What perfume is that? It's lovely."

He felt her smile. "Just Chanel. I haven't worn it in a while."

He moved back slightly, to look down at her. "It suits you."

She was still smiling. "Thank you."

And his pocket buzzed and vibrated, his mobile phone bringing him back to the present.

She released him so he could answer it.

But it was only a text. "It's Sherlock," he told her. He took in the words: She's forgiven me. -SH

"Is he alright?" Alicia asked.

Mycroft found that he could smile. "Yes. He is." His smile grew broader, realizing that Sherlock must have gone straight to Molly Hooper's home after wrapping things up at Musgrave.

Maybe things really would be alright - and grandchildren would do much to assuage his mother's wrath.

Unworthy thought.

He laughed a little.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes," came the voice of his housekeeper from the doorway, sounding cheery but a bit concerned.

He turned. "Mrs. Jennings," he said. "Good morning. I'm giving you the day off, I'm afraid. With pay, of course."

"Oh! Why… thank you, sir!" Mrs. Jennings' round countenance beamed. "My little girl's in a play at her school this morning, and she'll be that chuffed to see me there!"

"I'm glad of it," Mycroft said. And he actually was, strangely enough.

"Will you be needing anything at all before I go, then?" Mrs. Jennings asked.

Alicia spoke. "I'll take care of him."

Mrs. Jennings nodded, and replied, "That's good. Very good."

A conspiratorial look passed between the two women, yet Mycroft was far from offended. On the contrary.

"I'll just be going, then," Mrs. Jennings said. "Have a pleasant day, Mr. Holmes."

"Thank you," Mycroft replied. "Tell your daughter to… er… break a leg."

His heart was strangely light.

Mrs. Jennings chuckled. "I'll do just that," she said, and took her leave.

They heard the sound of the front door closing.

Alicia was looking up at him. "The tea is still hot, I believe."

Tea. And pastries - my God, he deserved some fine pastries.

"How long can you stay?" Mycroft asked her.

"As long as you want me to stay," Alicia said. "I meant what I said to your housekeeper."

He took a deep breath - almost a sigh of relief.

Alicia said, "Come and have some tea, Mycroft."

She took his hand in her own that was so small and fine-boned. But there was strength there, too, strength and much warmth as well.

It was unexpected. Unlooked for. But so very much appreciated.

~.~