She just assumes he doesn't realise she's more watchful than he believes. She has noticed the way he clings to that violin though, as if every note is a gasp of air, singing a tale of tragedy. One that eases her weary mind at night despite the mourning in every vibrato.

While he laments, she doesn't have to hear the screaming inside her head, doesn't have to relieve every awful detail. She can stare at the ceiling and slowly remember.

Which oddly enough, he hasn't pried into her stay at the asylum. In fact, she doubts he's sleuthing anything on her. She's seen none of it. What he does do, however, is keep her mind occupied on other things.

Like today. For whatever reason, he's brought her to a quaint coffee shoppe. From the corner which they sit, she can observe the entire room, but no one seems to notice she exists. Not that people ever really look outside of their own bubble, and for that she's glad.

Blinking, she looks down at the blueberry muffin warming her hands. She knows she should eat since her last meal was three days ago. She assumes that's why the brother brought her here. Though, she isn't entirely positive since she can barely nibble on anything.

Instead, she continually finds herself growing more curious about the brother. He's been rather mute apart from composing the melancholy melody on his violin she's intrigued by.

Biting her bottom lip, Cora watches as he focuses on his mobile, thumbs quickly flying over the little keyboard. He has to assume she won't eat and he's not asking her for information, so what is his end game? Why does he keep treating her like a dog that needs walking?

Is it wrong she wishes he would just lambaste her like he normally does?

With that thought, however, she is curious about how Mycroft and the brother can read people so well. She does like watching them do it when she's not on the receiving end. Tapping her finger against the muffin, she wonders if…

"Will you do that thing?"

Blinking, he pauses and looks at her as if she's not supposed to be at the same table as him. "Thing?"

"Your um… You know where you deduce or...observe the people around you."

"No."

Her face wrinkles as he continues to text. She shouldn't be surprised, but truly she is quite curious since it's something she cannot fathom.

Glancing to her, he sighs and she assumes she must look like a poor, ragged puppy he plucked from a dumpster. "Tell me what you notice about the man near the door."

Her eyes widen slightly before she looks at the line of people gathered there. "Which man?"

"You tell me."

Popping a piece of muffin in her mouth, Cora scans the crowd. Chewing, she wonders which would interest the brother. His choices are never obvious and most of the men appear to be headed to work. There's nothing interesting in that. Nor the few who seem to have come from a morning at the gym.

One finally catches her eye, however. An older gentleman seated with his back to the window and a newspaper in his hand. On the table before him is a coffee and a croissant.

"He comes in every day and reads the paper," Cora says. "He then heads off to his bank manager position. He's a man who works hard to save money for retirement. His plan is to one day afford a cottage outside of London."

"I didn't ask for romantic novel ideas."

She looks at him.

"The man only comes when his wife has gone to her bridge club," the brother explains as he continues to text. "She doesn't approve of his coming here, because he's to watch his weight due to his heart condition. The croissant is a restraint, but the coffee is mainly cream, so he doesn't entirely stick to his regimented diet—"

"Poppycock that you know all that from a look," she objects. "It's not possible."

"Look at his shoes." She glances over to see scuffed up penny loafers. "What self-respecting manager would wear those? Or that shirt?" She eyes the button up flannel shirt. "He'd dress far more eloquent if this was a daily routine. His trousers have excess fabric. He was a larger fellow, recently lost the weight and hasn't been able to afford a change in wardrobe."

Cora blinks and looks at him, eyes wide. "Do it again."

He looks up from his phone with the most curious look she's ever seen. He seems to search her gaze for something and apparently sees whatever he's looking for. "Take another bite of your muffin."

Cora obliges as he sips his coffee and inclines his head toward the room.

Chewing slowly, she looks around wondering which one would interest him. Most people seem to lead uneventful lives. However, she bets the barista has seen something things. "She likes her job, but she's exhausted. You can see the smile reach her eyes when it comes to the customers, but she also has bags under them which say she probably doesn't sleep as often as she'd like. She doesn't like her boss. Every time he walks past there's a sadness in her eyes."

"Closer," he acknowledges. "Her name is Matilda; she has three children and her husband was killed in a train accident two years ago. She loves her job and should honestly manage this place since that waste of a man sits back while all these people need to be helped. She's overwhelmed but you'd never hear her take it out on a customer nor anyone, really."

"How do you know all that from looking at her?" Cora leans back and pops another piece of muffin in her mouth.

His eye catches hers and there's a smirk. "I don't. I come here for coffee and she likes to talk."

Cora cracks a smile because there's clearly some sense of humour in him that she's missed. "You really are an arse."

His smirk remains as he looks at his phone. "I've been called worse."

"Psychopath."

"High-functioning sociopath if people would care to do their research."

"Except…" And she thinks better of saying what she's observed. Clearing her throat, she chews another piece of muffin and tilts her head. "Why did you want me to choose those people?"

"I didn't," he replies and sips his coffee. "You chose what you thought I wanted which tends to be your M.O. and most certainly why Mycroft employs you as his assistant. In any case, I can read anyone in here."

Except that isn't entirely the truth. "But you've read me wrong, otherwise you'd know my name is Cora."

His brow furrows slightly. "Did I? Or do you not know your name isn't Cora?"

R҉͕̣e̢̙̦̗̮̮͈̞p̶͕̞͚̻̣͉̜e̟͙͇͎͚͞a̗̻̝͎̗t̤͚̖̙̪̫ ̲̥̪A̝̩̟͖̣̬f͕̭t̥̼͍̬̀e̹r̪͍̮͎͟ ̳̪Me̫̹͚͕̜͠

Freshly painted nails weave through long locks of hair. Shifting, ankle boots settle on the desk as he walks into the office. His eyes widen as he quickly shuts the door.

"You shouldn't be here."

A smile curves upward. "And I wouldn't be, except a little birdie told me that you're already pushing for Danny to be Prime Minister."

Walking a few steps closer, he sets his briefcase in one chair before settling with his umbrella in the other. "That's not true."

"Don't lie to me, Mycroft." Fingers tap against the armrest. "I did you a favour and this is how you repay me? By jumping the gun?"

He shakes his head. "Belfaust has been well aware and onboard since the beginning. That's why he was maneuvered into position. He knows what it will take in order for the party to be solid. That is why we're doing this."

"No, that's not why we're doing this. It's why you came to me. I am indifferent to your political affairs."

"Except when it suits you? Am I correct?"

The stare he receives has him biting on his lip from the grievous error he's made.

Fingers stop tapping. "I suppose you can relax. As far as politicians go, I only offered to help because I do rather like Danny and Amy. I've always found them to be honest. They've done nothing heinous to climb ranks—which is rare in this world—and both of them do really want the best for the people."

He nods as he crosses his legs. "They are. But you assume there will be an attack."

"Allegedly."

Leaning forward, his eyes narrow. "Allegedly isn't good enough. I refuse to raise the terror alert—"

"When has my intel ever been wrong, Mycroft?"

The subtle growl is enough to send him cowering again.

"Forgive me," he says. "I just don't need Edwin questioning."

There's a smile as feet shift from the desk. It's moments before freshly painted nails run up his arm as they head towards the door. "You know, Mr Holmes, you could be clever enough to tell dear Eddie who gave you the valuable intel. I'm sure he'd just love that."

Mycroft looks down as gentle laughter fades from the room.

R҉͕̣e̢̙̦̗̮̮͈̞p̶͕̞͚̻̣͉̜e̟͙͇͎͚͞a̗̻̝͎̗t̤͚̖̙̪̫ ̲̥̪A̝̩̟͖̣̬f͕̭t̥̼͍̬̀e̹r̪͍̮͎͟ ̳̪Me̫̹͚͕̜͠

O ye men who dwell in the streets of broad Lacedaemon. Honor the festival of the Carneia…

The December air is brisk against her skin as she looks at the building looming before her. Westminster Abbey stands there, in all it's glory, condemning her for every action she remembers and those she doesn't. It also condemns her for blaming Mycroft, because while he's certainly kept everything from her, it's not as if he would actually kill her.

Fingers fiddle with the ends of newly exposed blonde waves. Slightly frizzy and in desperate need of a cut, the hair is something she's not quite yet accustomed to. Maybe once she was but…

But she's come to doubt everything she's ever believed this side of hell. So many frizzy, split ends that are in need of a pair of scissors and a skilled hand. So many questions, so few answers. Yet the only thing that bothers her is the why. Why won't Mycroft explain this disaster to her? Why does he keep secrets? Why doesn't she remember?

"Six years?"

Blinking, Cora looks up to see the brother standing next to her. She's slightly impressed because she was nearly positive he was sound asleep when she crept out of the flat at half-past two.

"I am correct, aren't I?"

Rubbing her arms to slow the chill, she tilts her head. He doesn't seem upset with her—though she questions why he did choose to follow when he discovered she was missing. What does he have to gain? After all, he's been focused on whatever mournful tune his violin's been singing.

Clearing her throat, she speaks softly. "I'm not sure I understand what you're asking."

"Molly thought it odd certain movies and songs seemed foreign to you," he explains, hands in his coat pockets. "I'd wager six years you were gone. Seems to account for the timeline. It was there tragedy befell you. It's why you refuse to draw attention to yourself, why you were so uncomfortable in the Halloween outfit—"

"I do recall you being uncomfortable with that outfit as well!" Cora snaps, only to pause as she wonders why she's defensive. She doesn't actually want to fight with him. She just wants…

She's not sure what she wants anymore.

And that's a scary thought because she was almost certain she knew. She could swear she knew exactly what she wanted out of life and this…

Well…

This is not it.

Sitting in the cold outside Westminster Abbey with no home and no clue as to who she is or what she's supposed to be is not where she thought she'd be at thirty-three. It's not a place she hoped to be, wished to be, nor dreamed to exist. Looking back, she doesn't know where everything went so wrong.

"Explains the abuse you allowed from Cunningham's son. The pills you take. Why your ex-flatmate didn't really know you."

"I've been friends with Genevieve for years." And she again questions why she's defending herself. What's the point? Does it really matter? Is this truly worth it?

"Except when you were missing. Did she ever ask? Did she care? Friends, apparently, are supposed to do that sort of thing. Why didn't you run to her after the fire?"

Her gaze drops to her fingers because she doesn't need to tell him. No, he's reveling anyway. He knows she hasn't been honest, and she knows it's open season because of that dishonesty.

"Mycroft didn't rescue you, did he?"

The gentle tone he takes causes her teeth to chatter as a lump forms in her throat. How is he not ripping her to shreds? How is he asking about that?

"Which would account for why my brother has done everything now to protect you, to care for you, for reasons still no one but himself can be certain. He knew you were kidnapped, held hostage, and he failed to get you out. Am. I. Right?"

"No," she exhales as her emotions begin to unravel like a spool of thread. The truth is Mycroft provided her a job, a place to live, and whatever safety he could provide. Despite not saving her from hell, he's done everything to give her a life back. Or whatever semblance of a life she can find.

Cora finally looks up at the brother and cannot fathom the minute softness in his gaze. "I'm certain Mycroft believed I was dead. Even if he had known at the time, I'm not sure he could have found me. I don't even know where I was, and I haven't the slightest idea how I escaped."

"Something my big brother hasn't been able to solve," he says with a tone just a tad too pleased. Shrugging off his greatcoat, he sets it around her. "I'll take the case."

The warmth makes her shudder before it begins to heat her chilled skin. "So, because there's the possibility of gloating, you want to solve the case."

"Heightens the stakes."

Shrugging off the coat, Cora rises from the bench and hands it back to him. "No thanks."

He looks at her, one brow raised in amusement. He then shifts the coat around her again. "The mystery is tempting enough even if my brother wasn't involved. A person forgets their real name, a mysterious player is attempting to kill them, and it all relates to disappearances or deaths that haven't been solved. The fact Mycroft can't unravel it only makes it Christmas."

Cora looks up at him, the warmth of the coat taking away the chill from her bones. She hasn't done anything to deserve it…the jacket nor his assistance. "Look Santa's helper, you don't have to assist me."

"You're right," he agrees. "However, given how…unhappy Mycroft was about your little vacation, I would wager something in your past is connected to Addy Lambert."

Cora nods. She can feel her nose flare as she swallows back tears. "Someone kn…" She clears her throat. "Someone knew I was going to the asylum before you asked. I… I received one of those American Girl books. Meet Addy. The same thing happened when I met Molly. I got that book."

There's a slight squint of his eyes as if he didn't expect to hear that.

"And…" She shudders and pulls the coat tighter. "And Addy was killed for it."

That seems to surprise him as well since he stiffens slightly. However, he doesn't seem affected by the death at all. Merely curious about how that piece fits together in the psychotic puzzle she's living.

She takes a breath in light of his silence and reveals another tiny fragment of what she witnessed. "So was another girl, Samantha. Killed, I mean. I didn't get a book on her, but I can only assume…"

"Given that information, Felicity is also dead."

Cora nods. "But I don't know her. Or how I got her killed."

"How did Samantha die?"

"There are some things people shouldn't witness." She gives one final glance to Westminster Abbey before turning and walking away.


ReadingBlueWolf hopes this chapter gives you have a moment of reprieve from the chaos.

She also hopes you are safe.