We didn't have much to say as we stepped out of the museum's back door, breathing in fresh air that we thought would eternally be lost to us in room 46. We could have called the police, but we knew it would be for naught. Jim and the snipers were long gone. Lestrade would predictably contact us when news of the museum destruction broke, but Sherlock would likely explain it away with the CCTV footage that Moriarty ensured would deflect any blame. This was his battle. We didn't have much to say on the tube, or much to say when we settled back into 221B. John chose to lie on the hard floor and I curled up in his chair as I rode waves of rage and misery that left me shivering, while Sherlock paced between the sitting room and kitchen. Seeing him like this was new to me - he was frazzled and unstable. Nervous? Worried? Ultimately, it was startling.
"I should go see Sarah." John stated tiredly.
"I don't think you should go anywhere."
"Right, you're right. You know what sounds good, though?"
"Tea?"
"Mhmm." He nodded before suddenly slamming a heavy fist on the floor. Sherlock stumbled into the room, his eyes wide and expression laced with concern and confusion. "I didn't get the milk this morning, the bastards…" He faltered, the distress of his afternoon catching up with him.
"Hey, i-it's okay, you're okay," I stammered, "I have some, just wait here."
I made my way downstairs, though a few creaks echoed in my wake.
"It's not really a two person job."
"Sorry." Sherlock apologised. I was caught off guard, apologies a rarity from him even when they were actually called for.
"No, don't be." I insisted sincerely, making deep eye contact to drive home the point.
"I- He could be in-"
"We'll find out together." I would be lying if I said I felt safe in our building now. The promise of future harm and current threat was nothing I could see myself shaking. Not for my sake, really, but more so Moriarty's assurance that Sherlock would be killed left me with what felt like a throbbing hole in the centre of my chest.
"The cat is alive."
"He is." I smiled hollowly, bending down to give him a scratch behind the ears. "You can grab the milk, I'm going to change out of this dress."
Sherlock took a few large strides forward intending to follow me before stopping himself, reminding me of when the mysterious trainers had been placed in my flat.
"Be my guest."
He didn't hesitate, and I heard a few knocks and thuds in my room before he seemed satisfied upon exiting. My eyes narrowed in concern as I took in his restless gaze and fidgeting hands.
"I'm scared for you." I stated sincerely.
"I don't need you to-"
"I am," I insisted, "and please remember there are people that care about you."
"Why are you telling me this?" He asked uncomfortably.
"Because we'd be lost without you if you did anything reckless, like seeking out someone that's rooting for your annihilation. Correction: planning it. I know you well enough to know that you're counting down the seconds until you can see him again. Do us a favour? Please don't rush. Don't push it. I can tell you're scared too and it's- it's freaking me out."
"I'm not scared." He responded slowly.
"You're lying."
"I'm not."
"You won't look at me, so."
"Fine then, I am." He raised his voice. "I was scared when John stepped out in that vest, I was scared when I watched a bullet whizz past your throat, and I was scared when my finger was shaking so hard I thought it would accidentally pull the trigger and set off a bloody bomb. I'm petrified I'm going to wake up one morning and John will be scattered in little bits around the flat, or I'll knock on your door and you won't answer and I'll walk in to find someone has drowned you in the tub."
I couldn't help but smile at the absurdity of our lives. "I'm sorry. No, really. I don't think it's funny." He stared at me quite intensely before breaking into his own grin, "Please don't fantasise so much about my death?" I gave him a soft pat on the cheek.
"Then don't be so accepting of the prospect of it."
"What?"
"When we were at the theatre and the Golem was winding up to knock you out, you closed your eyes. When the sniper's target was in the centre of your forehead, you closed your eyes. It's not that you can't put up a fight, it's that I'm convinced you just won't. For your own well being, might I clarify, because I know you'd stick your fingers in the blender right now if Mrs. Hudson came in and held a knife to my throat and asked you to."
"In my defence, there was no hope for me in either of those circumstances. Shall I hold up a hand to deflect the bullet next time?"
"Oh, and you know what I hated about today?" Sherlock was hardly listening at this point, raking a shaking hand through his hair before his face twisted into proper anger and he pushed an accusatory finger to my sternum, "You had to hold my hand."
"Come o-"
"And now Moriarty's going to use that as leverage. By making him think that I care about you you've put yourself in a stupid amount of danger. Stupid."
"I'm sorry I marred your heartless reputation. You could have ripped your grip away at anypoint might I add."
"Hardly, I think my circulation is still on the mend."
"And that's rich, you know, coming from someone that kissed me two days ago." I felt the need to fall into a harsh whisper.
"That? That was nothing, that was instinctual, that means as much as-" He stuttered.
"It was thoughtless, I know! Yet I'm the one that has to apologise for god forbid someone thinking I have any connection to Sherlock Holmes."
"This is why I don't involve myself with people. It's not worth it."
"I think you're just afraid of getting hurt." I felt petulant as I closed my door and changed, half hoping he wouldn't still be in my living room when I was finished but knowing well enough that I'd be crushed if he weren't. Surely enough, I was greeted with the sight of his back as he stood facing my front door, a finger to his chin.
"I've never had friends," He stated, not turning around, "and I'm not sure I like it."
"You're difficult," I started, walking slowly towards him, "you're awkward, you're oblivious, you can be downright cruel," He expelled a long sigh, clearly on edge, "But you're captivating. You're loyal, even if you don't claim to be, you're very funny, even though you're usually not trying, and the days in which I don't see you are out of sorts. If you push me away, I'll stay away. I can't say I'd love it, but I'll respect it because I respect you."
"I never said I wanted to remove you from my life. You and John just make it a hell of a lot trickier."
"I think I have a right to say the same after this week." I said quietly. He laughed at this, rubbing two tired hands over his face.
The days following were all too quiet without the adrenaline fuelled routine we had fallen into. When the news broke of bullet holes in the museum, panic ensued, but it had no hope of going anywhere. Catching Moriarty was like trying to hold water in our hands. Sherlock wasn't depressive or shooting up the walls (yet), but he was agitated and on high alert with no where to channel said energy. There were no good cases. Sherlock would occasionally snap at John, rearrange furniture, go for walks at three AM, storm into my flat with a choice rant about something mundane, and get up to god knows what else when he was alone.
"Did you know-" John started one morning after a sip of coffee, his nose deep in the paper.
"Yes." Sherlock cut him off quickly.
John didn't falter, continuing "That Harrods sold cocaine until 1916?"
"Well it was perfectly legal, so I assume it was at more than just Harrods." I remarked.
"I know that."
"Aren't you a doctor? Why is this surprising?" Sherlock pressed.
"I don't know, I think it's surprising because I am a doctor! Just small talk. Hey, your orchestra thing is in the events column for tonight, and a 'wool yarn' festival in the park… Interesting… Are you still going?"
I clicked my tongue in contemplation, unsure that I felt secure in spending a night at the theatre.
"Yes." Sherlock said simply, assumedly excited for a reason to get out of the house.
"Do you think it's safe?"
"No."
"To clarify, I wasn't asking about the wool yarn festival." John confirmed sarcastically.
"I'm going if you-" I started before a pair of feet sounded at the base of the stairs outside.
Sherlock tensed, his eyes flashing with alarm at the unexpected noise before he righted himself. It was quick, and perhaps he thought it wasn't noticeable, but my gaze lingered on him and my empathy soared.
"Someone said they'll be 'round to fix the windows this afternoon!" Mrs. Hudson proclaimed merrily before letting herself in, "I gave them a piece of my mind over the phone, so don't take it too personally if they seem cross when they arrive. At least they'll be here…" She tilted her head at the sight of a butcher's block in the living room.
"On loan." John supplied with a tight lipped smile. It had 'magically' appeared the previous day, though neither of us had questioned it.
"Nothing too gory, if you please, at least not in the living room."
"Gore will remain in the kitchen."
"I have a leftover biscuit platter from cards night, so I thought I would bring- Evelyn! I haven't seen you in ages." Yes, and it was very intentional, I thought, bracing myself for the inevitable, "Henry has not stopped talking about you. He'd be embarrassed I said anything, but it's beginning to drive me up the wall. He understands you've all been so busy."
"You never mentioned how that went." John stated, sitting up straighter with a cheeky expression. The back of my neck prickled, not wanting to dismiss Henry in front of his aunt but also not wanting to give an honest report of the date's loveliness in my current company.
"It- er, he's incredibly kind. We got along well."
"You don't need me to tell you that he thought the same!"
"That's very flattering." I was having a difficult time making eye contact.
"I'll have him over soon enough, and I'll give you a bit of a warning before-"
"No." I blurted out, my face feeling hot, "I just mean… Of course you can have him over, he's your nephew, but I- well-"
"You'd rather it just be the two of you! Of course. My feelings aren't hurt. I know what it's like to be twenty-something."
I slowly sucked in air through my teeth, not sure how to save myself with this one, "Not that either, don't worry. I'd - I'd love to drop by, Mrs. Hudson. Just say when and hopefully it works itself out."
"Lovely." She clasped both hands to her chest, "And John, I wanted to tell you that my telly's fuzzy in the early channels."
"I know nothing about t-"
"And Piers Blackly is retiring from Questionnaire so I'd rather like to see his face in his final weeks."
"Er, sure. I'll stop down there and figure something out."
"Thank you in advance, dear." She shuffled off, leaving the overflowing biscuit tray on the mysterious butcher's block.
"I'm going for a walk." Sherlock stated brusquely, slipping out the door before it had even fully closed in her wake.
John's head flopped back in his chair to face me before he snorted with laughter.
"Shut it." I chuckled and tossed a throw pillow in his direction.
The window installers came to our building before the detective had returned, so I figured I would meander around the neighbourhood whilst my flat was being worked on. It reached a point where I'd determined that he was either really good at hiding, or had entirely left the area.
I felt nervous whilst getting ready, which was new to me in regards to the detective. I had spent time with Sherlock outside of case work, yes, but it was always sporadic and unplanned and unpressurised. Getting ready with intention and knowledge of the night's events inspired insecurity. I pulled my hair into a loose ponytail, the thick waves looking perpetually informal, but I didn't care. I pulled on a poppy-red wrap dress with long sleeves and embroidered details, accompanying it with a black coat and oxfords per my usual. I half expected Sherlock to still be gone when I checked in upstairs, though I didn't quite make it that far.
"Henry." My eyes widened as I stepped into the hallway, his handsome figure entering through Mrs. Hudson's doorway.
"Evelyn." He stated, muffled through the handle of a bag between his teeth, his arms filled with wired boxes and tools. He looked like a human embodiment of the sun, his skin even more tanned than before and golden brown curls still somehow shining in the hallway's dim light. He looked downwards to the bag in his mouth, signifying to me that I should grab it, "Sorry." He laughed, sputtering a few fibres off of his lips before explaining, "Apparently I'm on telly fixing duty."
"John was supposed to do that, but obviously he didn't quite follow through."
"No, it's all right. I'd been looking for an excuse to come over."
"I'm sorry I haven't returned your messages, I-"
"Don't apologise. I know you have a lot on your plate, and I'm sure my aunt hasn't even told me the half of it."
"No, I'm sure she hasn't." I chuckled.
"You look-" His eyes flitted.
"I'm going to the theatre," I explained, my vision fixed on my shoes, "not quite my usual getup."
"- marvellous."
I hoped that my cheeks weren't as red as my dress, "Here, don't keep hold of this armful on my account." I helped him set whatever Mrs. Hudson had him hauling onto her coffee table.
"She was just here." He observed, her absence noticeable.
"Well she can't have gone far."
"What are you seeing tonight?"
"The London philharmonic is playing the Planets by Holst, if you're an orchestra person."
"Not enthusiastically, but that's only resentment from me not having musical talent myself."
"Not even piano lessons in primary school?"
"Cello for a little while. You could say I'm not very accepting of not being instantly good at things. I give up all too quickly." He quirked a grin.
"See, I'm very stubborn, so I naturally played French horn quite poorly for the better part of a decade."
"You're being modest."
"No, not at all, but the spirit was there, I can assure you."
"I'm not surprised." Henry's eyes widened as he caught sight of something behind me, my stomach sinking when I turned to see who was broodingly standing in the doorway. This was far from ideal.
"You must be Sherlock Holmes!"
Sherlock replied only with a glance at the hand that was extended in front of him.
"Er - you're headed to the theatre as well?" Henry asked, retracting his ignored reach.
"Unless plans have changed." Sherlock stated flatly. I was tall myself, but I all of a sudden felt very small beside him.
"They haven't," I assured, taking in his surly expression, "so it's in our better interest to head out, I'm afraid."
"Not to worry. I'll just be here, hopefully with a non-fuzzy Piers Blackly, otherwise I'll be out the job."
"Good luck." I stated with my head poking just past the doorframe, Sherlock tugging me out by my sleeve before anything more could be exchanged. Henry's response trailed off out of range of hearing.
"That was unpleasant." I muttered, pulling my arm away.
"Glad we agree."
"No, I don't think we do. You were rude."
"Is that a bad thing?"
"Historically. He's nice, Sherlock."
"He was not staring at your eyes, I can tell you that much."
I laughed incredulously. The dress wasn't necessarily immodest, but it did certainly imply the existence of breasts, yes. The scandal. "That's reaching."
"Far from it." His tense jaw told me that his evening had been fully soured and that he was not enthusiastically interested in speaking with me.
"Don't freeze me out." I pleaded softly as my brows came together. He sighed deeply as he slumped into my passenger seat, wordless as we pulled out of Baker Street, "I figured we have plenty of time to go out for drinks?" I broke the heavy silence.
"Fine."
My hands flexed around the steering wheel, the vibrant sun setting a juxtaposition to the mood inside the vehicle. "What?" I asked flatly, feeling Sherlock scrutinising me from the side.
"You're looking like-"
"Don't."
"What?"
"I'd rather not have hurt feelings tonight."
"I wasn't going to say anything cruel."
"Really? Then my curiosity is peaked."
"No, the moment is gone." He muttered.
We stumbled upon a wine bar near the theatre, which seemed like the perfect place to quietly and discreetly decompress. A rarity. I now found myself making mental checklists of how safe places felt - how likely it was that someone would find us there.
"I've never seen you drink." I observed as we nabbed a table. The space was low ceilinged and dark, covered in deep green tiles and lit only with candles and the odd Edison bulb.
"Correct. I don't have to think on my toes for the next couple of hours." He shrugged.
"Ostensibly."
"He won't be there." Sherlock stated confidently.
"What makes you think?"
"It would be far too expected."
"So was the museum."
"Yes, but that was grand, that was profound, that fit perfectly into the narrative. He likes that. He wouldn't strike without leading up to it. There wouldn't be a stretch of silence like this. Why are you looking at me like that?"
"You said it wouldn't be safe tonight."
"Nowhere is." He grinned with a glint in his eyes.
Sherlock ordered us dark red wine and a plate of olives, which in my mind seemed like the perfect culinary embodiment of him.
"I often think about the fact that I love olives, but I've never tasted one uncured."
"Riveting." His voice was dulled by his glass as he took a sip.
"No, really. It's something I've yet to encounter. That's the sort of thing that keeps me excited about life. The prospect of new experiences. Even if they're mundane."
"Exceedingly so, apparently."
I expelled a long breath at the dryness of the conversation, "I'm sorry. I feel like John bringing up cocaine at breakfast."
Sherlock laughed properly at the mention, his fondness and simultaneous friendly contempt for John a constant amusement to me, and it also seemed to break the ice, "Olives without the brine are horrendously bitter. I'm afraid you're clinging to a fantasy that won't quite pay off."
"But you of all people are a striking example of someone that looks forward to experiences they know aren't going to be positive. In fact, I don't think I've heard you gush over anything that wasn't preconceived to be riddled with unpleasantness."
"In unpleasantness lies unpredictability, and I suppose that's what keeps me excited about life."
I nodded in understanding. "What was school like for you?"
"Please, that's like talking about the weather."
"A British essential then."
He sighed, "I was very bright and my peers were threatened by it, so they were in turn quite cruel. I can't say I was a bed of roses in return, or even to begin with, which is something that took a long time for me to admit. I have improved, if you can believe it."
"Are you implying regret?"
"I refuse to regret anything. I don't have the energy."
Earlier in the week he had confessed to never having had friends, but I couldn't quite believe it. I wanted to ask about friendship, about former flings, about his parents, about his childhood, but I didn't want to pry too hard. I knew he would bristle. I decided to take a back seat in the conversation and see how he steered it, if at all. I ended up having enough time to take four sips before I found out.
"This is not a date."
I was relieved I kept my composure and didn't choke on my drink, "Of course not. We're just neighbours. Friends, as you've admitted once or twice."
"Yes. Friends." He looked at me scrutinisingly. "Date implies romance."
"Indeed."
"I'm not capable of… I - I don't want that." He rolled an olive between his long fingers before driving the point home further, "I shouldn't have kissed you."
"I'm sorry. I know you don't-"
"You've no need to apologise. It was inappropriate. A knee jerk reaction. I was exhausted, I felt passionate about the work, which is what I love, so of course it manifested itself in another notoriously passionate action, and if I could-"
"It didn't complicate anything if you're worried." A bald-faced lie.
He looked at me contemplatively, finishing his glass before pouring another. "I think it did for me." It was my turn to survey him curiously. "In fact I spent days in silent turmoil over the fact that I used the word 'instinctual' in regards to it. That's not how I've operated. That's not how I should be. I can't feel impulses like that."
"The other night you mentioned fending off intrusive thoughts."
"Please don't connect the dots." He shifted uncomfortably.
"There's nothing 'wrong' with-"
"But there objectively is. I can't, for the sake of everything that I stand for and do, jeopardise it with anything of that realm."
"Don't let it be a burden. No one is asking you to do anything. I don't expect anything. Don't resent me for it."
"The thing is I'm not sure if I don't not want to. It's just a matter of necessity." At this point he was thoroughly agitated with himself, downing the rest of his wine, and frowning when he discovered there were only droplets left in the bottle, "I'm getting another cup." He walked stiffly to the warmly lit bar, his shoulders tensed halfway up his neck. I was trying to process the contents of our conversation, and my greatest takeaway was the detective's inner turmoil, which I was certain I'd only experienced the tip of the tip of the tip of the iceberg of.
"We've established what this isn't," I started slowly when he returned, "and I can assure you that it's the least of our worries, so let's just make the most of a night off and enjoy ourselves."
As on edge as we'd been, it was easy for both of us to outwardly snap out of it and compartmentalise. The street was crowded with theatre goers, the air smelling of liquor and expensive perfumes and stale cigarettes. It was invigorating to be in a sea of people. Protected. Normal. I gave my name to will call and was amazed that there were in fact two tickets graciously under it.
"I didn't expect the cabbie to follow through."
"You and me both." Sherlock agreed.
I was also taken aback to see that we were in box seats. The Royal Festival Hall had a couple dozen of them, so they weren't few or far between, but it was still another surprise. Sherlock's pupils were flitting, unceasingly scanning the hall and its occupants, desperately hoping for something out of the ordinary.
"I liked your post about sea algae." I commented from our seats as Sherlock continued to survey the masses. His blog was tediously curated and tended to, his content always surprising me with its specificity and variety.
"I'm working on another about tobacco ash."
"Lovely."
"Boring, aren't they." He observed with contempt.
"I don't know, the women with the bouffant looks rather interesting."
"Please… She's married to the man she's with, not even here on affair business."
"No one stands out to you?"
"Hm. The chap in the second row has a lump near his thyroid. Definitely something he should get biopsied, but he likely won't know until it's too late. That gentleman is walking as if he has a knife holster under his right trouser leg, but I'm not going to get my hopes up. It's a dull bunch. Who else comes to see the orchestra?"
"Yes, who else… I'm heading to the loo before it starts."
Sherlock made no recognition of my speaking as I left the box. Pushing past posh couples and back through the now thinning lobby crowd to the line for the toilets.
"Always dreadfully long, these lines, aren't they?"
My ears pricked up at the familiar voice, in my delight turning to see the old cabbie. I broke out into a wide grin, "I'm so happy you found me. I can properly thank you for the seats."
"Don't mention it. Might I give you a tip?"
"A tip?"
"There's a 'secret' bathroom upstairs, never a line, never a risk of missing the opening. I'll lead you to the door, in fact."
"I'm content to wait, really." My smile faltered a millimetre, now inherently skeptical of anything not in plain, safe sight.
"I insist!" He chuckled, beckoning for me to trail him.
"You've been entirely too generous." We broke past the crowds and a theatre bar and round the corner to a fire exit door.
"I see your concern, Miss. By 'fire exit' it really means 'employee's only,'" He chuckled again, "I won't follow you beyond here. Just take the stairs up to the next door. That will open up to a little hallway with a bathroom at the end of it."
"Cheers." I smiled in return, the door closing behind me and leaving me in a tall, starkly lit stairwell. My skin prickled at the stillness of the space, my discomfort in being alone a weight on my chest. I made quick work of ascending the steps, looking forward to returning to the comfort of my box seat and companion.
My imagination was playing games. Images of Moriarity flashed in my peripherals as I opened the hallway door, as I stepped into the bathroom, as I stood in front of the mirror and washed my hands. Your faith in humankind is laughable Sherlock's deep voice echoed in my head. I felt bare without my mobile, which was sitting comfortably in my coat pocket in my seat.
When I stepped back into the hallway, the click of my door shutting was followed by an echo below. Though it wasn't an echo by definition at all. My breath caught as I heard a single step, followed by no more.
Was it an employee there to tell me off? The cabbie making sure I found it? The Golem? Worse?… My presence was undoubtedly already known, so I shifted forward enough to glance down between the flights. An austere man was standing with his arms crossed in front of the exit. Ironically, he looked more threatening than anyone I'd contended with the week prior, but he didn't strike me as dangerous.
"I know I'm not supposed to be in here, I'm sorry." I called down. He didn't look up.
"I don't care." Echoed back.
"You don't work here?"
"No."
"Who are you?"
"Can't permissibly say."
"Are you blocking me from leaving?" I inquired further, his position in front of the door unmoving.
"We're waiting for someone."
"We as in you and I?"
"No one else is in here."
"You're not going to hurt me, are you?" I asked, my exasperation outweighing any numb fear at this point.
"Just don't try anything funny."
"… Can I join you down there?"
He shrugged stiffly. My eyes didn't leave him as I stepped slowly down, oddly having felt more unease when I was the only person on the staircase.
"Someone is aware I'm in here." I made known.
"He did it per our instruction."
"Really? How..." I trailed off curiously. The man's expression was unchanging from what I could see, as he had black sunglasses on (to match his black hair and ear piece and smart suit). He exuded power but not menace, though I still feared getting too close.
After a few minutes of expectantly staring into his dark lenses, I took a seat on a step. "Respectfully, sir, I came in here so I wouldn't miss the beginning of the show."
"Not much longer."
My stomach turned at the prospect of whatever we were awaiting. The fact that theatre goers were metres away through the door making me feel all the more helpless. I considered shouting, but figured that would unfortunately be considered funny business. The minutes wore on, the orchestra surely having taken off at this point and Sherlock likely excited by my disappearance as it was more mystery and intrigue than he'd experienced in a whole week.
"This is locked, don't try." The man gestured behind him and broke the extensive silence after pressing a finger to his ear and before walking down the stairs to open another door. I stood up, on the defence, hands clammy but feet firmly planted.
"I would have sicked my less serious man on you but his wife just had a baby."
I finally exhaled at the voice that carried up the walls, my tension dissipating, "It's you."
"Arthur didn't tell you?"
"We're not supposed to disclose that, sir."
"For heaven's sake, you've been informed she's not a threat." Mycroft Holmes chastised gruffly, extending a hand to shake mine. My fear that the cabbie was villainous was thankfully soothed, though how Mycroft wrangled him tonight was beyond me. "Happy to be seeing you again. My apologies for the scare tactics and pageantry. Not my directive," He side eyed his guard, "but you know as well as I do that these streets can be minacious. Arthur means well."
My brows came together, "Always a pleasure, but I think we both know I'm very urgently pressed for time. Why here? Is something wrong?"
"No, not in particular, I just have blanks that I request are filled in. Blanks that take the shape of the British Museum."
"I take it your brother hasn't told you."
"We're in a bit of a spat."
"Is that why this meeting isn't taking place in 221?" I couldn't fend off an impatient look at the door.
"Yes." He confirmed casually.
"You obviously knew we weren't in. Why not John?"
"We tried. He was out too, so I figured I'd make my way here in hopes that our night wouldn't be a complete waste, if that also explains my tardiness," Mycroft gestured to the window in the door before his guard took the hint and held his black suit jacket over it, "In case Sherlock is on the prowl." He checked his watch and smiled politely and expectantly at me before I gauged his expression and broke into a telling of what transpired at the museum. Perhaps Sherlock didn't want him to know? But at this point I was literally cornered and not yet apt at successfully lying to a Holmes.
"No sightings of Moriarty since, I presume?" Mycroft confirmed when I'd finished.
"Not for me." I sighed, "I don't mean to be rude-"
"Don't worry, you'll have a minute to spare until Jupiter."
I frowned, helpless frustration at missing nearly half the suite all consuming at this point. I then wondered aloud, "How did you know that was my favourite?"
"I can tell you're a person of taste… and my brother told me, I'll confess. I won't take the credit. We'll make up for this disturbance, Evelyn, don't hold a grudge for too long, however tempting."
"I can't make any promises."
"I don't expect them," Mycroft smiled cheerfully, taking my extended hand this time but then pulling me in a few centimetres closer, "But I'll ask for one; be patient with him."
My lips parted to respond before closing them and nodding with utmost sincerity.