Warning: This chapter contains some strong language.
The receptionist seemed rather shocked to see her, barrelling through the grand wooden doors and landing with a skid just inches away from the desk. Tears that had fallen during the cab ride over had dried, leaving a steely expression in their wake.
"I need to speak to Mycroft Holmes." Faylinn demanded, leaving no room for questioning or ambiguity. Her palm lay flat on the table top as she had decided that this format was less intimidating than a fist. Her wrath would be reserved for Mycroft and not taken out on a clueless bystander - even if she was a civil servant.
Despite the woman's best attempts to upkeep her 'customer service smile', Faylinn did not stray from the tangle of anger and sadness and frustration that was growing inside of her chest.
"No problem. Let me call his office for you now." Faylinn's fingers now drummed on the glossy wood surface. The rhythm became faster and louder as the woman narrowed her eyes in response to the words of whoever was on the other end of the line (presumably Anthea). The receptionist placed the receiver back down, not looking at the cradle but at her client.
"I'm sorry, but Mr Holmes is not available at the moment. If I could take your name and your number then his team can contact you to arrange a meeting?" Ah, Mycroft's power complex was evidently still going strong. She looked around to find that she had no one to share an eye roll and a knowing look with. The cryptographer failed to reply or give her contact details, as she was already surveying the foyer for an alternative. A man and a woman - a minister and his adviser - crossed the room and she recognised them immediately to be her free entry ticket. He was making some sort of joke. She laughed hollowly at it. Clearly after a promotion, then.
A blueprint already drawn in her mind, Faylinn thrust her hands in to the pockets of her long black trench coat, smiling innocently at the woman behind the desk. Any minute now. The clip of the unknown adviser's heel approached her, then passed her. Faylinn counted the strides with a slight nod of the head, as she would do if she was watching a horse being ridden towards a fence or trying to get to grips with a particularly challenging piece of piano music. In her pocket, the nail on her ring finger was slowly skewering the pad of her thumb. 5...4...3...2...1...
The click of the key fob was her cue. As the chatting work partnership marched through the doorway, she half walked, half jogged to catch the glass as it swung shut. The couple seemed not to notice. Or care. She squeezed past them on the narrow corridor, heels pounding like the heartbeat she could hear in her ears. There she was, strutting down the corridors of power - under different circumstances, Mycroft would be proud.
Anthea's desk was left abandoned, paperwork littered. Her handwritten notes trailed off midsentence.
Praying that her memory had not failed her (stumbling in to a store cupboard at this point would prove to be rather anti-climatic) she flung open the door.
"Can someone please tell me what the hell is going on?"
Anthea, a one woman cabal whispering in the government's ear, was first to react to the intrusion. She went in to auto pilot upon hearing the door handle click, moving her head from its position just inches away from Mycroft's, hair brushing against his temple and eyes laid on the same pixelated, low quality CCTV footage. She now stood three feet away from her boss' throne, just over his right shoulder.
Mycroft greeted the whirlwind of energy and rage that battered through the doorway with an archetypal level of contempt. His frown transferred seamlessly from the puzzling video on his monitor to his sister; his look was disapproving, but somehow knowing. He had been expecting her, apparently.
Waiting for the fight that the adrenaline rushing through her veins told her to expect, she breathed hard, body tensed, fingers curled in to fists. Her eyes flicked from Mycroft to Anthea and then back again. Mycroft seemed to translate the message immediately when he spoke over his shoulder.
"Could you excuse us for a moment?" He turned to face forwards again. "I have a matter I need to discuss with my darling sister."
The intentional placing of the word 'darling', not favoured at the best of times, only served to make her expression dirtier. This was something she was not afraid to show off to Anthea, who was scuttling across the room towards her. Faylinn was unmoving, using her own body as an obstacle, forcing the other woman to squeeze past her in the doorway. Fucking civil servant.
Sighing under the weight of the day and the size of the frown that his sister was wearing, Mycroft beckoned her forwards.
"I suppose you'd better come in then."
Unusually obedient, Faylinn allowed the door to slam behind her. She did not, however, approach the desk as Mycroft has intended. She stood in the void between him and the door, treading the regal red rug and lurking in the shadow cast by the only light in the room (his angle poise lamp). The muffled altercation between Anthea and the building's security prevented a silence from blanketing the room. They listened, despite the fact that each word was indistinguishable from the next. Both weighed up their next move. Each individual calculation seemed to be completed simultaneously, as the siblings' words clashed in mid air. Realising the futility of continuing, both paused mid sentence.
Faylinn constructed the question Mycroft had been on the verge of asking, making the shapes with her lips but not permitting any sound to escape. His apathy simply fanned the flames, causing her to erupt.
"Do I know? Of course I bloody know. The whole fucking world knows." she exclaimed.
Upon hearing this, Mycroft administered a well known look, one telling her to mind her language. It was promptly ignored; Faylinn knew that the Rubicon had been crossed.
"And you let me find out via Twitter? Fucking Twitter. This is a new low Mycroft, even for you."
The government official rose from his chair and rounded his desk in a few brisk paces. He leant against the wood, fully aware that the fuse was lit and all he could do now was sit and watch the fireworks. Insults, well crafted but full to the brim with anger, initially bounced off his impenetrable facade; they all formed part of a lexicon he knew too well, all units of language that had passed Sherlock's lips at one point or another. They took on a new life when coming from her, however. The context meant that some found their way in to the rarely found chinks in his armour.
The stream of abuse continued. Sparks flew with every stamp of her feet, every ostentatious gesticulation. Whilst Mycroft was capable of portraying anger with a stern glance or a carefully placed phrase, his siblings were definitely dramatists. They shouted. They roared. As a bystander to this process, the eldest noted that the trait was something that Faylinn seemed to have acquired with age. Sherlock, on the other hand, was seemingly born with an ability to use the world as his own personal theatre. Having overcome the brief distraction of familial analysis, Mycroft chose a lull in her monologue in which to interject.
"If you could just let me explain, all will bec-" His conciliatory statement was soon drowned out by further shouts.
"You know what? I don't even want to hear it... You knew, Mycroft. You knew and you can't even deny it. You knew what he was going to do, that he was capable of doing it and you didn't stop him. You didn't stop him!"
I encouraged him, Mycroft thought. The final sentence, louder than anything that came before, made it clear that words would no longer be enough. She launched herself at him, throwing fists and palms and elbows in his direction. The force behind them was calculated as to not cause real damage, but his gut began to take harder and harder punches and he was forced to swerve an elbow to the face.
With reflexes that he assumed had been lost upon entering his fourth decade on earth, Mycroft grasped her right wrist. After a scramble and a kick, he held the left one too. His long, thin fingers and slightly clammy palms encircled her wrist bones easily. When she continued to fight, he crossed her arms over each other, holding them in front of her chest. Their eyes - both a cool shade of blue - were locked in a stalemate.
"I know it feels hopeless now, but soon enough -" He spoke quietly, in hope that her own volume would align itself with his. His endeavour was somewhat successful, but her tone remained to be bitter. Her nose wrinkled in contempt.
"Fuck off. You of all people are in no position to tell me about feelings." The pitch of her voice betrayed her before one more bid for escape. She shook her right hand violently, but nevertheless Mycroft's vice like grip ensured that freedom would not be obtained.
He swallowed thickly, the most powerful tool in his arsenal made ineffectual by the constant protests and interruptions. He considered his next move: could he tell her, or perhaps more importantly should he? Not for the first time, Mycroft had stumbled in to a completely unique situation, one for which no case studies or reference points could be found. Fortunately, the decision was taken out of his hands.
The elder, taller man saw him before she did. Mycroft visibly straightened, glancing at Sherlock just long enough to gain his consent. He had to be sure, because such a haphazard reveal had not been planned. Faylinn halted her protest, seeing the flick of his grey blue irises towards the darkened corner of the room. She turned on the ball of her foot, able to exploit Mycroft's momentary lapse in concentration. Their hands still did not detach, however, leaving the two siblings caught in a tangle of limbs.
There was silence. With Faylinn's arms and legs completely limp, Mycroft was now responsible for holding her upright as opposed to restraining her. He couldn't see her expression, but Sherlock was evidently trying to tackle it with a reassuring half smile.
"I think that's quite enough cat fighting for one day, don't you?" The inky haired detective chuckled, fracturing the brittle coldness between them. He stepped in to the puddle of light created by the small, utilitarian grey desk lamp.
"You bastard!" The phrase was not much more than a shriek, a slur fuelled both by anger and by disbelief. Having untied herself from Mycroft's grasp, she lurched forwards, repeating the scream, only to be reined back in by the eldest brother before her wrath could be expelled on a second human punch bag. She flung her weight around again, taunted by her fleeting taste of freedom and the amused smirk of the middle child.
He held her forearms as before, although this time he pinned them behind her back, cuffing her with his own pale fingers. He was careful to avoid the chunky watch she wore on her left wrist - a twenty first birthday present from himself and Sherlock, opened a week late upon return from Cambridge (Msc degrees and birthday celebrations are incompatible she had proclaimed). The sleeves of her trench coat collected in the nook of her elbows, her shoulders having escaped altogether, revealing the emerald green blouse underneath. Simultaneously smart and dishevelled.
Sherlock stepped forward, his hands held out in front of him as if to prove his innocence. This was a diplomatic move that had the potential to result in his imminent death (for real this time, judging by the fury burning Faylinn's cheeks). This was an unexpected complication; considering what his morning has consisted of, the world's only consulting detective had not expected to be fearful of his own little sister.
"Faylinn that is quite enough!" Mycroft commanded, shouting after suddenly realising the ridiculousness of the position he found himself in. After all, 'LAZARUS' had not yet been concluded. There were still obstacles regarding the body and the legal paperwork to be overcome. Knowing how stubborn each and every brain cell occupying the small dark office could potentially be, the eldest brother took matters in to his own hands. He could not afford to waste any more time.
"You have ten seconds before every single government document you have ever owned mysteriously becomes invalid. Your passport, your driving licence - everything. The same goes for your credit cards. Let me tell you, it'll be a long walk back to Cheltenham." The threat, purred in to her ear in a tone that indicated there would be no room for manoeuvre, made the wriggles and the stamping subside. No threat made by Mycroft Holmes was empty. "Now, when I let you go are you going to behave like an adult?"
She nodded, stoically avoiding looking at her remarkably 'not dead' sibling - instead, she chose to look at the ceiling. Her human handcuffs were eventually unlocked. Just for one second, Mycroft could have sworn that he saw Sherlock flinch. He had no reason to worry, however, as the youngest seemed to have regained the necessary discipline over her actions and was now restoring order to her outfit. Her brothers stared at her expectantly. Faylinn spoke in a measured way and the effort this required was evident on her shadowy, drained features.
"I'll ask again... Can someone please tell me what the hell is going on?"
A/N: Please review if you have time! Thank you for reading. I appreciate it a lot.
I'm sorry this is a day late, but what with the trailer and all...