Airplanes (Feat. Hayley Williams of Paramore) - B.o.B

Last Christmas - Glee Cast Version

To Sir With Love - Glee Cast Version

Beth - Glee Cast Version

April 8, 1891

Ate healthy portion of porridge this morning with a side of toast and tea.

Took recommended walk around the grounds this morning after breakfast.

I tapped the pen against the small notebook Doctor Watson had provided for me. Keeping a journal of Sherlock Holmes' day to day activities proved to be more bothersome than necessary. Due in fact to his agitating determination to be completely complacent with the directions left for me in regards to the mad-man. If I told Sherlock to finish his breakfast, he did so without argument. If I told him he needed a bath or to shave, he did so. Quickly. This morning I told him he could do with some color and exercise. The infuriating man took a walk around the property and now sat outside on the veranda, lounging in the spring sun.

I would not be so bothered if it were not completely out of character for him! His actions or lack thereof are exasperating to say the very least. I cannot even take argument with anything he has done because he has done everything that I have asked.

Including refraining from kissing me again. Which, to my own horror, I lamented with every fiber of my being. The kiss he forced on me in the library was not altogether unwanted. I admit to wanting it so badly I might have thrown myself at him in another day or so if he hadn't gone ahead and done it.

My body missed his touch. No, I missed his touch. I missed his kiss and the scrape of his stubble across my skin. I missed the tug of his teeth on my lower lip and the slip of his tongue in my mouth. The caress of his hands on my neck and shoulders. The burn of his fingertips as they-

"Naoi, girl, for heaven's sake," my mother's exasperated tone drew me from my reverie.

I blinked looking up at her from the small notebook and the pencil that had gone lax in my hand. "Sorry, what?" I will never admit to my mother that I purposely tuned out her ramblings. There is a correlation between Irish women, red hair and short tempers.

She harrumphed at me, clearly disgruntled. "As I was saying," she gathered the last set of favors for the table settings and set them in the large wooden box by the windowsill. "Your Aunt Ida wrote me."

That was surprising. Aunt Ida had disowned my mother for marrying a Protestant. Completely cut her out of the old woman's will. I sat up a little straighter trying to give my mother the impression that I was listening and interested. Instead of just listening. "What did it say?"

"It said she wants you to visit Pennyworth Manor after the wedding." My mother smacked her hand against a cushion in what I could only assume was an attempt to fluff it. "You are to bring your new husband."

At least here was something I could let my temper fume over. Wasn't it bad enough that every month I had to give Aunt Ida an accounting of my life in order to remain in her good graces? Was it not enough to waste a few hours every month writing out six or seven pages with which to satisfy the old biddy's gossip mongering?

"She hasn't seen me in years; surely she will settle for a visit after the honeymoon." To give me an excuse not to share a bed with my husband any more than I have to.

My mother sat herself down, "She has forgiven me for marrying your father."

I nearly dropped the pencil. I blinked at her once, twice, attempting to digest the words left hanging in the air between us. Aunt Ida had forgiven my mother? After thirty some odd years of absolute silence? I set the pencil and notebook down. "What's wrong with her?"

"Nothing that she mentioned in her letter," my mother told me. "She said that as the years have passed she has missed me very much. She would like to know more about our family, your brothers and their wives and children."

What? I shook my head a little to clear it. What did she say?

There were a great many things Aunt Ida told me in the years that I alternated between attending school and living in Pennyworth Manor's drafty, unfriendly halls. The first of which that she was punishing my mother for disobeying her outright. The second of which that she held no interest in my family beside me. The third being that I could quite possibly redeem my mother's sins by working toward a proper education, being a good Catholic and marrying well. While my devotion to my mother and aunt's religion remained questionable at best (I had never been into a Catholic church before age fourteen), I did garner the education and my current match most assuredly would guarantee marrying well. Exceedingly well.

Had my self-sacrifice redeemed my mother's folly in my aunt's eyes?

Or was the old biddy going senile enough to allow her to forget her anger?

"That is good news mother," I told her though I doubted it really was. My aunt could be a manipulative woman when it served her purposes well enough. I wouldn't trust the old biddy further than I could throw her. "Have you responded yet?"

"I did. I sent out a parcel this thick," she made a space between her thumb and forefinger of her right hand and held it up to me, "with news. We used a little of the money left over from…" A flash of guilt crossed her face. "We had a little money left over. I used it to have a photograph taken in town. I sent the photo off with the parcel."

I felt a mild twinge of satisfaction at my mother's guilt. This predicament I currently lived with was entirely my parent's fault. If they had not borrowed so much against the farm they would never have gone into debt. Had they never gone into debt my father would not have gone knocking on Mycroft's door looking for aide in paying the bank. The deal would never have been struck. I would not be marrying a man I don't love. Though in that scenario my parents lost their farm and I would be homeless at the moment.

Mycroft never lorded the fact that he technically owned my parent's farm over me. He never even spoke of it. If he had it would have made it easy to hate him. The very fact that he didn't mention it combined with his attempts at winning me over made it very hard to hate him. As I had months ago, before our trip to London, I felt a mild form of fondness. A little more than tolerance but not so much affection. The word 'friendship' came to mind though he was less interested in me than he was in his books and his work.

My mother was twittering on about her hope of being reinstated into Aunt Ida's will. How she had serious doubts that Aunt Ida had even removed her from it. In my mother's head it was all a stall tactic, a threat more than anything to get her to do as my aunt wanted.

I on the other hand knew better. Still, I nodded politely and let my mother carry on with her speculations. If they made her feel better who was I to spoil her mood?

A careful knock at the door broke my mother's line of thought. Despite the door being left open – something to save my sanity not for a care about privacy – he still knocked. Good lord had the withdrawal from his narcotics alter his personality? Or was he simply playing a game I have yet to learn the rules to?

My mother turned her head to the sound of knocking, "Oh. Who are you?"

"Mycroft's brother, Sherlock Holmes," I told her when he opened his mouth to answer. "I told you he was here mother."

The sharp square of her shoulders relaxed with the crease in her brow. "So you did. Good morning Mister Holmes." Then her eyes go round and large. I can see the wheels working behind her eyes as she connects everything based around the single detail of a name. She looks to me then to him and back again. "Holmes? As in…" her hand flutters as her voice trails off. "Oh! Oh!"

Dear lord. Here we go. I leaned back in my seat, hands folded around the little notebook and prepare myself for the foolish nature of my mother. She has never been a particularly brilliant person.

"Forgive me Mister Holmes! You must think me a fool." No but I certainly do. "I thought it a common enough name," the fluttering of her hand continues like a wild, trapped bird. Is it wrong to find such amusement in your own mother's barmy nature? I think not.

She prattles on, inviting him in, insisting he sit down, asking him inane questions which he answers ever so politely. I keep expecting him to do something, say something that will give me enough reason to kick him out of the sitting room. Anything to allow be to become the taciturn harpy my brothers have accused me of being time and time again. Much to my disappointment he is alarmingly pleasant. Martha brings tea at a quarter past three while my mother goes over the newest replies for the guest list.

"Tell me Mister Holmes, are you married?" The mad woman that birthed me asked him much too cheerfully.

I sincerely wish I had better self control. I really do. But, I didn't. I nearly spat out a mouth full of tea onto a pile of lace doilies. "Mother!"

The mad-woman blinks her large, surprised grey eyes at me, "Naoi."

And I know I'm being completely ridiculous. I know it. Sufficiently subdued I drop my eyes to my lap and pretend to be engrossed in the design on the china. I felt the color rising on my cheeks. Not entirely because I was embarrassed, no. Because I only just realized that I never asked Sherlock the same question. It was not unheard of to marry someone and live separately from them.

The image of the pretty woman in the photograph reared its head in my mind's eye. Were they married and living separately? Had I…oh… The tea suddenly was not sitting well in my stomach. So utterly self involved was I that I missed all of my mother's incessant twittering. I missed his answer.

"Why after your brother so kindly gave my husband a loan enough to pay our creditors on the farm…" My mother told him as if it were something he already knew. Strange that she should show me how guilty she felt over promising Mycroft my hand in marriage while she showed Sherlock none of the same. In fact she seemed quite proud of herself for brokering a deal for my freedom to a man nearly twice my age.

There was a distinct click of china on china as my mother prattled on. Though it did not come from her direction. Venturing a glance at him yielded a kind of despondent sadness within me I hadn't felt for nearly ten years. It was almost like finding Becky's broken body covered by leaves and haphazardly thrown branches. Except he wore nothing on his face save triumph. He finally knew why I had to wear his brother's ring and why I was going through with this farce of a wedding. Why I could love him and want him but never, ever have him.

I pushed my cup and saucer away. "Forgive me, I feel ill." With that I left.

Because I just did not have it in me to cry in front of him.

Little did I know that Sherlock Holmes could be quite charming to those he desired information from. My own mother admonished me while speaking her praises to his personality while I helped her clean up the mess the third floor sitting room had become. I listened to her with lips pressed tightly together, aggravation beginning to simmer in the back of my mind as she spoke. Her hands flitted as she moved. Occasionally waving at me, pointing at me, fluttering toward the door. Apparently I had been very rude in excusing myself earlier. My departure had disappointed him.

Imagine that. My departure had upset him.

"He must have already known," my mother insisted. She picked up a basket from the floor and placed it near one of the windows. "I am sure that Mycroft would have shared his financial investments with his brother of all people." She sounded so much like she was trying to convince herself of the idea. Her mouth turned up at the corners as she gently tugged at the gauzy material keeping the contents of the basket together.

I said nothing in response. Instead I kept on neatly folding the ribbons that would eventually be tied around the flower arrangements. I did not nod my head in agreement or make any sound of assent. My focus remained steadfastly on the work before me. Pick up, fold in half, fold in half again, and set down in the pile. Pick it up. Fold it. Fold it again. Set it down. Up. Fold. Fold. Down.

"Naoi!" My mother's shrill exclamation drew my attention.

Praying to keep my patience in check, "yes?"

"Honestly," her fists settled on ample hips, "I do not know what has gotten into you these days."

For one breath I thought about confiding in her. An overwhelming desire to share it all with her. To tell my mother everything starting with the day they told Mycroft I would be his wife. I felt my lips part, air passing through my lips, words forming on my tongue.

"He is your brother-in-law," she continued, either ignoring my reaction or too self involved to notice. "Or at least he will be. You should make the effort to get to know him. He knew so little about you." She huffed a deep sigh, "he is attempting to learn about you Naoi. I think you should do the same."

My lips clamped shut. Jaw tightened to the point that the bone and my teeth ached. All thoughts of confiding the truth of the last several months in the woman that birthed me faded faster than anything I could have imagined. I questioned how sympathetic she would be toward Sherlock if she knew that he had once had his hand on my naked breast. That he had often kissed me within an inch of scandal. That I knew exactly how it felt to have his body against mine.

The idea of flinging my disloyalty to my fiancé as well as to her and my father in her face sent a thrill of dark, sadistic humor through me. I smiled grimly at her and said through clenched teeth, "I shall endeavor to do as you wish mother."

Placated she went on talking.

I didn't listen. I didn't care. I returned to the short pile of lose ribbons. Up. Fold. Fold. Down.

Almost a month since the last update I know. But you know what? I've been writing my Harry Potter story for almost 11 years. It's over 100 pages and not done. Perspective.

Short chapter. Yep. From now on they'll be shorter.

I'm watching The Last House on the Left. Because I love when the parents stick it to those bastards.

I joined Twitter. You can friend me by clicking my homepage link.

Edit 9/18/11 - This scene at the end was originally cut because it undermined the rest of the chapter. Now, looking back I feel that it's a much needed scene between Naoi and her mother that lends to the next chapter and to Naoi's personal growth.