I apologize for the wait, I hope you enjoy!
"Right, you can either come in with me or stay out here and rot, I don't care either way."
Isabelle Long looked up from her book to Gloria's scowling face. She often scowled, always distinctly unhappy. Isabelle hastily unbuckled herself and climbed free of the passenger's seat, tucking her book safely near her feet then grabbing her backpack and slinging it over her narrow shoulders, "I'll come," she mumbled, shutting the door behind he after she'd climbed out. Immediately she was greeted by the smell of used gasoline and the chatter of passersby. Gloria rolled her eyes, "Joy," she exhaled, turning towards the enormous stone building and then walking free of the parking lot. Despite her long legs Isabelle had to rush to keep up with her sister, eyeing up the few people sitting (some standing) on the wide stone steps leading to the Museum entrance. Inside Gloria went to speak to the clerk at the front desk speaking tersely and to the point. Isabelle admired the high stone ceiling while that happened, wondering idly if she might visit the gift shop sitting quietly to the left of her (though she had no money to buy anything). Gloria finished and turned to her sibling, "Wander around, whatever." she waved a hand. Isabelle nodded, "O-ok, I'll uh... yeah," she cleared her throat. "Ug, do you ever shut up Izzy? Look, just don't get lost or I'll have the police after me and I don't need that kind of aggravation," Gloria spat in reply that -were it coming from anyone else- might have been considered a joke. She gave Isabelle a shove towards one of the many wide doorways. "Sorry," was all she could do to reply before her sister purposefully marched off.
Isabelle curled her fingers tight around the straps of her backpack, her throat constricted as people walked sedately around her, their necks craned so that they might see things better. Around her the air was still, odorless, save for the perfume of some woman admiring a naked lady statue. In times of stress Isabelle could rely upon places like Museum to calm her down. The same as at the library people thought it rude and unsavory to raise their voice beyond a whisper- and they seemed more mindful of where they walked. She knew somewhere in the Museum Gloria was making her thirtieth attempt at finding a full-time job, and as scary as Isabelle though her sister could be she was likely being turned down because a short freckled girl didn't strike fear into art-thieves. With a pained sigh she continued along her path, no real destination in mind, no art she really wanted to look at. Her feet hurt already and her backpack felt overly heavy making her shoulders ache. Inside she felt empty and silent which displayed quite nicely on her unsmiling face. It was far too hard to be happy. Or to even pretend to be happy.
Blowing a loose chestnut hair away from one of her eyes Isabelle took in the thickly painted canvas of one painting, intending to stop just for a moment. The plan was interrupted by the sound of someone speaking (surprisingly enough) above the usual hushed whisper. "It's truly astonishing how people with no artistic talent have become revered through the ages. Time blinds people."
Isabelle couldn't help but smile despite her soured mood, she wanted to argue the opposite (that even the simplest of paintings were worth their admiration) but the idea of going to a stranger was ludicrous and far beyond her character. "Mike," the father of the group reprimanded halfheartedly, as if he didn't quite know if the comment deserved it. The sound of shuffling feet against the wood floors met her ears and Isabelle sighed. Not even a rebuttal. She shifted the backpack on her shoulder, releasing one hand to shove her braid back over her shoulder from where it'd slipped. The clock in the corner told her that she'd only been there for eight minutes though it felt like ages, her sister probably wouldn't be down to take her home for half an hour yet. She followed the path of the family, not paying any attention to what they were saying until a word somehow made it past her subconscious and stopped her in her tracks.
Sherlock
It had been said by the "anti-admirer", in a voice both condescending and scolding much like a parent might use on their child (more so even than his father before him). Isabelle's wide hazel eyes traveled up from the floor to find the group again. There were four of them (she knew that already) the parents appearing by all means to be a happy couple with the father's arm around his wife's shoulder as they walked. She found Sherlock immediately after. He couldn't have been older than twelve: tall, thin, pale as milk, and with a mop of handsome curly dark hair that perfectly framed his face. He stood before a statue (this one fully clothed) with his whole body tilted so that he might get a different angle at it. Isabelle couldn't hide the befuddlement she felt looking at him, sending that away in favor of the second figure who watched his brother (she assumed them to be brothers, please let them be brothers) scathing words appearing to die in his mouth when he noticed her scrutiny. She would have blushed were she not so stunned by the utter familiarity she suddenly felt looking at him properly. Pale, tall, dark hair, long nose, ruggedly handsome. Alright so perhaps the last one had been a joke on his part but…but if that other boy was Sherlock, and he was Mike. And Mike was Myc, and Myc was... oh God! Could it really be that simple? Isabelle gasped audibly, the air sticking in her lungs like honey. On pure impulse (a whim, what if she was wrong?!) she walked towards the teenager, noting randomly their height nearly matched despite the age difference.
"E-excuse me I don't mean to bother you –feel free to just ignore me- but a-are you... Are you Mycroft Holmes?" she did blush then, her face burning. She hadn't been used to talking to anyone outside of her family, especially after their move to London she'd done her best to keep to herself. The stranger frowned, a crease forming between his lowering eyebrows. Isabelle felt much like one of the many art pieces beneath his scrutiny or a frog being dissected. Right, those to totally fit together! She felt like an idiot to be honest. He couldn't be the one she'd been writing to what were the odds!? Then again the universe did often delight in proving her wrong.
"Yes," Mycroft finally replied slowly, tucking his hands into his pockets, "Do I-" he stopped, mouth still open only a small fraction as comprehension seemed to dawn on him, "Isabelle." He didn't ask. He knew. Isabelle squeaked despite herself and (quite elatedly) rushed forward to hug him, only to rethink it at the last second. He didn't like physical contact - there was no way she would ruin the moment by embracing him! Still the prospect hung over her even as she let her hands fall to her sides, a deep longing to touch him despite everything that'd happened- if only to prove that he was real.
Mycroft retreated a few steps the second she'd moved towards him, perhaps seeking the presence of his parents who were oblivious to their son's discomfort but noticed the display and smiled politely at Isabelle. "Myc, who's this? Mrs. Holmes inquired, searching her over with surprisingly intelligent blue eyes. Mathematician her mind dutifully supplied. Mr. Holmes' were less deep and thoughtful but they spoke of an easygoing kindness. Mycroft hadn't specified what his dad did for a living, but then again she hadn't asked.
"This is Isabelle Long," the eldest son introduced in a horribly bland tone that furthered the ache in Isabelle's shoulders. "The girl you've been writing with? Oh, a pleasure dear!" Mrs. Holmes smiled full force. Isabelle managed to return the favor, though she was fully aware that Mycroft had pointedly stopped looking at her. "If you two want to talk for a bit, we could take your brother through the rest of the Museum and meet you at the front door," Mr. Holmes offered kindly though a touch of confusion indicated that he might not have known of his son's correspondence. Mycroft looked at Isabelle with little care then replied smoothly, "There is nothing we need to discuss," he waved a dismissive hand turning wary eyes upon Sherlock who looked ready to climb a display. Isabelle stared blankly after him. After all that time writing to each other she'd have thought... No, how could he possibly care about her? The prospect of real life interaction had seemed cute at the time, but now that he'd seen her he couldn't bring himself to even look her in the eyes!
Isabelle couldn't stop herself from entreating him anyways feeling desperate and frightened that she might lose one of her only friends, "Mycroft, no, please!" she yelped, "I want to talk. C-can we just talk?" He looked at her, entirely unimpressed, "Why?" he raised an eyebrow incredulously. A million reasons flitted through Isabelle's mind but none of them seemed to find solid ground. She floundered quite obviously for something only to eventually repeat, "I just want to talk... please," she bit her bottom lip, "There are things I w-want to say."
Miraculously something in his gaze softened just a fraction and Mycroft sighed, running a hand across his short brown hair, "For a short time," he conceded. Sherlock looked over at that moment to frown, startlingly colorful eyes filled with reproach. Isabelle ignored him and smiled as best she could under the circumstances, "Thank you," she said sincerely, "C-could we find somewhere more private?" Hm, that sounded far too suggestive for her liking. As they walked away Isabelle thought she could hear Mr. Holmes saying a befuddled, "Have I missed something?" though she was out of range when his wife replied with a said little sigh, "I'll explain it to you when we get home."
Isabelle found a wooden bench in a room devoid of patrons, sitting down in front of a large hanging still-life. Mycroft followed suit, keeping a safe distance from her to the point of nearly falling off the opposite end. The young woman let her hands rest on her lap, staring at her palms. "I...I thought about this moment a couple hundred times," she muttered, "I thought we would meet on purpose though a-and that you'd be wearing the top hat," she smiled gently then added jokingly, "I think this is probably better because I didn't think to wear my petticoats." Mycroft merely hummed in response, not looking at her. "H-how are you, by the way?"
"Fine." He replied, terse and to the point.
"That's uh… good." Off to a great start. Isabelle had indeed imagined their meeting, picturing a slightly different Mycroft Holmes in his suit with his top hat and umbrella, holding a golden pocket-watch in one hand while he looked with intelligent eyes upon the populace (though she'd pictured those eyes to be green rather than dull grey). And to be honest she hadn't been too far off save for the clothing. Mycroft was tall of course and had perfectly combed dark brown hair, and a truly remarkable nose- as he'd vaguely described. Isabelle couldn't for the life of her figure out what his self-defacing comments he'd made in his letters were in reference to!
Mycroft didn't talk to her. In Isabelle's mind they would have been chatting animatedly: him using an upper class accent and about how he so loathed the people below him- the "common masses". Isabelle would have attempted her own snobbish accent for the sake of the game. Instead she was met with silence and the object of her previous friendship looked at anything but her. And deep down she knew exactly why he was being so distant, besides the obvious social awkwardness they both shared. It was her fault.
"I wanted to say I was sorry," Isabelle muttered, "For uh, not writing."
"You have no reason to apologize," he allowed a glance in her direction; "I certainly couldn't blame you for moving on."
"But you could blame me for not saying goodbye," she shot back, digging her short fingernails into the flesh of her palm. Mycroft seemed at a loss for a decent reply which she took as a reason to forge onward, "I'm sorry though, about not writing you back. Not even because I didn't say goodbye. I would've... but I-I didn't."
"Obviously," he snorted, "Miss Long, I feel inclined to ask where this is going."
Isabelle frowned, "I'm apologizing-"
"You apologized at the beginning why should that be your end game?" he countered easily, raising an eyebrow. Frustrated Isabelle turned to him, bringing up her left leg so that she sat on her slim calf, "I didn't think you could possibly be this argumentative in real life!"
Mycroft suddenly smiled, a flash, it was there and then gone, "Why wouldn't I be? Writing to you was real life after all." His words sunk beneath her skin and made her cold. "Real life…sucks."
"Indeed it does," he looked at his fingernails, short and perfectly maintained. Isabelle's were cut with toenail clippers (all the regular clippers had gone missing for one reason or another), awkward and jagged. There lay the difference between them, she mused.
"I am sorry," Isabelle managed, "Really, really sorry. And I'm sure you're going to say that I shouldn't be," she raised a hand to halt the incoming stream of denial, "But that's just stupid." he looked affronted at that but she ignored him, "I told you I wasn't going to leave and then I just...did."
Mycroft had stopped looking at her again, his mouth opening small fractions before he managed a tight, "I'm not hurt."
"I never said that you were."
A beat.
"What I mean is that you should not have to feel bad that you stopped- because I'm not hurt. I recommend you not look too deeply into the comment."
"You should be," Isabelle leaned forwards to gain his attention, cheeks reddening, "I would be. I would have cried and wondered what I did wrong…"
"Did I do something wrong?" he smirked at her just then, allowing her another opening. Isabelle shook her head vehemently, "No! Well, not really." Oh God, she couldn't do this! Isabelle swallowed thickly, "It wasn't you at first. Then it was. And then it wasn't."
"Now I'm confused," Mycroft hummed, just barely moving towards her- at least he seemed less likely to fall off the bench, "An odd occurrence as I'm sure you know."
The tables had somehow turned on them. Isabelle would have found that amusing if she weren't burdened by a sudden strong wave of emotion that she needed to release but really didn't want to. Her hands formed fists atop her slim thighs and behind her eyes burned, "Yeah, I know," she exhaled. Mycroft frowned, "Isabelle-" he began, only to be cut off.
"You know I c-couldn't bring myself to do anything after she died. I mean, I could eat and sleep and stuff like that but I couldn't... cope," she sniffled, hot tears burning behind her eyes.
"Your mother." Mycroft had turned a delicate shade of pink at the first sign of tears, his eyes wide and fearful. In spite of that he managed to move a little bit closer to her. Isabelle took that opportunity (and were she thinking about it she would have felt terrible for putting him in that situation) to press her forehead against his shoulder, wrapping her arms around his neck.
Mycroft was soft and warm through his layers and he smelled vaguely of cleaning supplies and peppermint candies which she found oddly soothing. He didn't move to put a hand on her back or say anything to comfort her- but he also didn't attempt to move away either which might be considered a win. "I'm such an idiot!" she sobbed, "I th-thought everything would be alright but nothing is ever- ever alright!"
"Uh," was all Mycroft said for a good three minutes filled with Isabelle's tears, "What you're feeling is common but not true. Alright is subjective for instance: we could be alright if you want us to be." His words settled inside of her like warm honey. Isabelle pulled back and wiped at her eyes with her sleeve which disgusted her bench companion, "You mean that?" she sniffled. Later she would find the whole ordeal entirely embarrassing, but she was commonly embarrassment to her surviving family so really it was nothing new. "Of course I mean it," Mycroft scoffed, swiping a hand casually across his damp shoulder, "What reason would I have to lie?"
"I... Thank you."
It took some time for Isabelle to come free of her grief, Mycroft offering as many comforting phrases as he dared without sounding emotionally involved. Isabelle sighed one last time before allowing a happy smile to grace her features, there was always a high after a low. "So I never asked, what are you doing here? Uh, in London I mean," she turned enough so that she faced him directly, their knees just barely touching. He didn't object, only swallowed thickly and replied, "I had an important interview to attend and my family decided to come with me in some form of vacation just to make my life harder," he huffed. Isabelle's smile turned into a grin, "And you dutifully agreed?" she couldn't help but mock him just a little. He narrowed his eyes at her, "Precisely."
Ug. Isabelle remembered staring at the first part of his letters, frowning at the word "duty" as though it would come off the page and attack her. It suggested to her any moment she spent with her mother in the hospital was purely out of duty and not love, something she had to do rather than wanted. That Mycroft might feel like that was a good excuse for her to stop and run away. What kind of friend would only care for her because he felt he had to? But then, she thought that someone like that would be truly marvelous to be around. They needed to be there for you. Conflicting opinions had her silent for longer than necessary wherein Mycroft took it upon himself to stare at her.
Isabelle blinked, "Sorry, thinking," she cleared her throat. "Do you zone out like that often?" he crossed one long leg over the other in one casual movement that very nearly knocked him over. "Not often," she objected, "Just sometimes. It's better than thinking aloud, isn't it?"
Mycroft hummed, "Tell that to my brother," he quirked his mouth into a tight smile filled with subtext, it was shame Isabelle couldn't read it without her magical subtext glasses. "I didn't even talk to your brother and already I understand why you're having so much trouble," she told him. Mycroft sniffed disdainfully, "I was hoping you wouldn't be sucked in by his charm," he choked on the word. Isabelle snorted, "I'm not that gullible. Probably. Maybe," she laughed which -as she was led to believe- sounded like a donkey mixed with a choking elephant. Mycroft's smile grew (how odd) until he found purchase to join her with his own oddly breathy and far more toned down laughter.
It was of course at that moment Isabelle's bubble had to be burst.
Gloria Long approached looking far more annoyed than she had before, her own narrow shoulders tensed. Mycroft's knee immediately pulled away from Isabelle's and he placed room between them again, his grey eyes turning upon her sister. "Izzy come on we need to go. Leave your boyfriend and let's go," distaste crossed her features as she looked over Mycroft. Upon further inspection the same could be said for him though. Isabelle hesitated to ask, "Did-did you get the job?" which earned her a death glare, "What do you think? They probably saw you with me and decided anyone related to you must be an idiot," Isabelle cringed at those words but allowed them to pass over her, seeing the wrought despair that briefly passed over her sibling's face. They needed that money. If Isabelle weren't so bloody useless...!
"I see, and your lack of employment couldn't possibly be out of your own failings because-?" Mycroft interjected, standing to his full height. Gloria was short and skinny; standing next to him she appeared even smaller. That didn't make her any less formidable though. "Because I'm not an idiot like Izzy, but then again no one is."
"Isabelle is hardly stupid either, my point is already proven by your insistence towards the contrary," Mycroft smirked. Isabelle couldn't help but blush at the firmness he put behind using her full name. Still, the argument would only end badly and the last thing she needed was for Gloria to be more upset! "Mycroft," she placed a hand on his arm which caused him to turn surprised eyes on her, "I need to go," her heart felt squeezed. He hesitated then nodded, "Of course," he shrugged off her hand and stepped back.
"Come on," Gloria ushered her sister towards the door. Isabelle cast a glance back at Mycroft who waved with one hand in a very "I don't care" sort of gesture. She cared though, she cared a great deal. Then a thought struck her and she knew she had to go through with it. Isabelle slid her backpack quickly off her shoulders and unzipped the top. She rooted through the junk, paper, pencils, an old history book that she'd not yet read, a candy wrapper, and an empty plastic container she'd once held juice in- until she found what she was looking for. "Wait!" she called after Mycroft who had already begun to walk away and rushed towards him. He stopped and turned, "Ye-es?" Isabelle held out a sealed envelope with his address on it, "I wrote you a letter; I figured that I might send it someday but I guess this is better..."
Mycroft hesitated to take it as though it might burn him though eventually pale fingers connected with similarly pale paper. He pursed his lips as if making his own difficult decision then leaned towards her and placed a gentle kiss against her thin cheek, "Goodbye Isabelle. I will be returning to London on the fifteenth for a follow up interview." He didn't suggest that they meet up again, though Isabelle assumed that was what he meant. She nodded, "Goodbye." With that they parted ways, Gloria uttering a rude, "Pompous arse," towards Mycroft's retreating figure.
Isabelle had no idea if he would write her back. She wouldn't blame him if he didn't. And whether they would actually see each other was an even harder question to answer. She would just have to wait and see.
Mycroft's return home pulled a sigh of abject relief from his lungs. The entire time he'd longed for his own bed and his desk, and the comfortable old chair in front of the fireplace where he could read for hours on end with a cup of hot chocolate sitting on the side table waiting to be consumed. Surely a three day visit to London had been an enjoyable enough experience and he wouldn't hesitate to go back again. The entirely unexpected ending where upon a whim Mr. Holmes had decided to visit the Museum and they'd come across Isabelle Long- that, he decided, was a mixed bag.
The eldest Holmes brother wearily climbed the stairs and found his bedroom, moving aside the "Knock Before Entry" sign so that he could properly turn the doorknob. His room, completely empty and organized, greeted him like a warm hug (which he decided weren't the worst thing in the world-though he placed them high on his list of annoyances beneath rubbery bacon). Mycroft stepped inside and closed the door behind him, turning to his desk which he'd had his father shove into a corner. With one smooth motion he removed the envelope from his rear pocket, a crease formed in the middle where he'd folded it to make it fit. With a put upon sigh Mycroft settled into his chair, using a letter opener to open it. He didn't dare think about the other letters which he'd kept within the lowermost drawer of his desk, several times wondering if he should have just thrown them out in a less than comical manner. He set aside the letter opener and pulled a collection of notebook paper (torn quickly from the book, she didn't even bother to pull off all the little tabs) free. Something made him stop to take in Isabelle's sloppy handwriting, her pen was dry and the ink faded in a few places- gone over to excess when she attempted to fill the gaps and leaving a few accidental holes in the parchment.
Finally he began to read:
"Dear Mycroft,
I didn't eat your letters, I didn't put them in a bottle rocket, and I didn't bury them. In fact they are sitting in a box underneath my bed along with all the others. Sorry to disappoint you.
To tell the truth? I'm sorry I didn't write you back so much sooner. Really sorry, I mean it! A lot happened to me all at once and I was overwhelmed I guess.
See, my mum died. -And I spent all my time mourning her and trying to get myself together, you know? Maybe you don't. But I'm sure you'd try to understand it- you're like that (and no, I'm not trying to butter you up). She was one of my only friends which sounds ridiculous but it's true. She gave me advice, helped me with projects, laughed at my jokes… Anyways I could come up with a million excuses for not writing you back, but none of them would make too much sense. They don't. Because if there was anything I should have done it was to write to you about what happened! Like I said in earlier letters you're sympathy means more to me than...anyone's! So, I'm sorry for that. The problem is that I did come up with so many stupid excuses as to why I shouldn't write you. Why would I write to a person that thought that love was stupid and pointless?! Wouldn't that only make things worse? I've finally come to the conclusion that that isn't true and I was just being silly. I've always been silly, ridiculous, stupid... but I'm feeling much better now. (haha)
Do you bake often? I mean there must have been a reason for you to take notes of what your mother was doing. I haven't cooked a day in my life except for that one time I made a burrito in the microwave. Yeah, it wasn't great. Anyways, I think it's sweet that you tried to talk to her about me. It makes me feel so much more guilty about abandoning you... Oh it just hit me- You must feel like I abandoned you! I hope you don't mind that this letter is just one steady stream of whatever comes to my mind first. I'm sorry I made your mother touch your shoulder (rolls eyes) I personally would have found it comforting- but hey, everyone's different.
Do you believe that I used you? That lied to you? I don't know, maybe I did. But if I send this letter to you would that change? I want us to be friends Mycroft, I want us to go back to what we were- but I wouldn't blame you if you didn't want to write me after this. I could kick myself for lying to you like that. I promise it wasn't a lie at the time I guess it was just a promise I thought I could keep only to realize everything was fighting against me.
To answer all the questions you asked in your other letters:
1- You know, I have no idea. I've never idolized anyone from history so I hadn't thought about it. I probably should.
2-Not writing you back immediately? Um, letting my boyfriend slip through my fingers while my mum was in the hospital? Eating that microwave burrito? Oh so many things. I deeply regret not talking to my dad more, even though I was only about five years old when he died.
3- After all that's happened I would kill to listen to your ramblings and learn all about your infuriating superiority complex! (that's a thing right? If it isn't, it is now with you around haha) That's how desperate I am, I actually missed the "I'm so much smarter than everyone" parts of your letters.
4- I would turn into a bird and just...fly.
5- I've never seen a ballet, opera, or a play! Have you? I was never interested I guess, plus we've been er- "busy" as of late. Maybe someday I will and I'll realize just what I'm missing, but until then...nope.
So that's all. I would have replied to your first letter but I kind of wanted to start over. Make something new, talk about anything and everything we haven't discussed before! And like I said, if you don't want to than I'll just forget it. I deserve it. But I hope you will because I miss having someone to write to, someone I can tell things because I am so lonely. I'm not telling you what to do but I recommend taking this letter and making a cootie-catcher (Look it up) with it, you're probably better off.
Anyways, I've said all I had to say I guess. I miss you, and I'm sorry, and all that. Please write back soon!
Yours truly, Isabelle Lillian Long"
Mycroft let the paper slip from his fingers and fall to the surface of his desk, an inexplicable smile on his face. Of course he couldn't write her back. It…it would only lead to more disappointment. He had of course been disappointed to the point of upset (but not hurt thank you very much). How could he go back to their correspondence as though nothing had happened? With the promise of more discomfort and even eventual heartbreak (of all things) how could he do something so patently stupid?!
Mycroft sighed to himself, collecting both paper and pen into his hands and setting aside Isabelle's letter to provide space. He thought for a moment then sloppily sketched out a picture of a couple bedecked in Victorian garb, but decidedly scrapped it. There was no chance he could escape it. Mycroft Holmes was horrifically sentimental. He could only hope that time might change that fact. With a sigh he collected another blank page, thought for a moment, and began to write.
"Dear Isabelle Long
I have decided after much deliberation (look it up) to write you back. I don't know if I will be able to continue this for very long, but I endeavor as I always do. If the prospect of my sudden disappearance troubles you I highly recommend you take this letter, put it in a bottle, and send it out to sea."
Fin.
This took way longer than I expected it too. Even though I planned to make it long and maybe a bit wordy, SHEESH!
- Why a museum? I think this was influenced by my trip to Chicago (never again *shudder* the city is not for me) to see a Van Gogh exhibit with family and friends.
-Why aren't they adults? Because I think Mycroft would have completely shut Isabelle out if he were an adult. *Shrug* I didn't want too much time to pass, I think he's about nineteen and Isabelle seventeen? Not sure. I'm lazy.
-Why did Mycroft only kiss her on the cheek dangit?! Because I'm a jerk. I couldn't fit it in without it feeling out of character Lol, as much as I wanted to.
Anyways, I hope the interaction was good enough. I wanted humor and angst to mix, not sure it worked.
A big thanks to: Aubrey Cortez, Red (Guest), Siresin, Losthompson, TheAsylumEscapee, TwoHeartedMarauder, Fan Gals, and lastly (but not leastly), theskylarksings- for leaving reviews! I especially love theskylarksings review which they put in the form of a letter to Mycroft. It totally made my day!
Please leave one last review, even if it's to tell me that this last chapter stinks. Just tell me why it stinks, ok? XD