Margaux sat at her desk inside her small office which was hidden down a rarely-visited nook of the university. She took a break from marking coursework, placing her pen down on the mound of papers and stretching out her fingers to ease her aching hand. Her favourite song began to play from her laptop. She leaned back in her chair, humming softly and allowing her mind to wander, for just a moment, into nothingness; no worries, no commitments, no memories or feelings. Just music.
It wasn't long before a knock at the door concluded her moment of peace. She sat upright and turned the volume down on her laptop.
"Yes?"
The heavy wooden door opened with a creak and into her office stepped Mycroft.
"Oh no, what's happened?" She sighed.
"Am I not allowed to pay you a visit?" He replied dryly.
"You're allowed. But you never do. Which is why the sight of you in my office is, quite frankly, a bit unsettling."
"Fair enough." He glanced around the room. The cluttered shelves and mismatched furniture were enough to raise his blood pressure. He decided to remain standing. "I've tried to have you brought to me, but Anthea informs me that you refuse to get in the car."
"Because normal people send texts, Mycroft, they don't have their assistant pluck the person off the street," she replied. "What can I do for you?" She picked up her pen and returned to marking her students' work.
"I…" Mycroft closed the door before continuing. "I came to offer you a job."
"If it's to spy on your brother then absolutely not."
"Sherlock is already… well-monitored."
Margaux raised an eyebrow.
"No, actually, for once this has nothing to do with my exhaustingly difficult brother," he continued. "There are many… things… that happen behind the scenes, without which the country would either crumble or explode into outrage. Things we don't even tell Her Majesty."
"I gathered that after almost being killed by Jim Moriarty, yet somehow being admitted into hospital for a 'fall down the stairs'." She air-quoted.
"Precisely." He stepped further into the room, examining a shelf of knickknacks as he spoke. "A large, well-oiled machine is required to make these missions run as smoothly as they do. Private autopsies, a removal or… 'reinterpretation' of evidence, a–"
"Ah okay, so you're asking me to leave my job here… to help you cover up government conspiracies." She couldn't help but laugh.
"Well you don't exactly want to be a teacher for the rest of your life, do you?"
"What's wrong with being a teacher?"
"Nothing. But is it what you… want? Isn't it exhausting having to juggle such a structured job with raising a child?"
"Well I've been doing it just fine for almost two years now. I hope you ask your male employees that question too."
"Of course. But you understand why I ask that of you in particular; what with Vaughan's father being rather… unreliable."
"He's just distracted with his new girlfriend," Margaux replied matter-of-factly, brushing her hair out of her face with her fingers. "It's fine. I don't suspect it'll last long."
"His new… girlfriend?" he felt the sudden urge to sit, almost dropping to the armchair beside him.
"Mhm. I hear he's rather smitten." She enjoyed watching his face twist into utter confusion.
"I'm not convinced he comes with that feature," Mycroft replied.
Margaux smiled, a laugh escaping under her breath. Though, she didn't know what she found funnier; the idea of Sherlock being smitten, or the fact that he was so easily able to mimic it.
Suddenly, it was no longer funny.
"Why are you offering this job to me?" she asked.
"Because we need someone who's good with the forensics."
"I'm a forensic psychologist, an investigator, not a pathologist."
"No, but you were an external specialist for Scotland Yard for several years, so I know you could turn your hand to pathology with your hands tied behind your back. Your level of expertise is unmatched."
"my 'level of expertise' is no higher than any of the other people you could hire for this job."
"No need to self-deprecate, Margaux. I'm not here to stroke your ego; the fact is that you are extraordinary."
"No, Mycroft. I'm not. I know the notion of 'average' is hard to comprehend for a Holmes. But I'm of the same calibre as hundreds of others in my field. I'm intelligent, yes. I'm skilled, yes. But that doesn't make me extraordinary," she said bluntly.
"I heard you solved a case when my brother could not. Does that not make you remarkable?"
"Hm, perhaps the fact that my intelligence stands five-foot-six inches tall in a bra and mascara makes it seem more remarkable than if it were to be stomping around in a long grey coat and a pair of size 11 shoes."
"He's a size 11?" replied Mycroft, purposely missing the point.
She rolled her eyes and sighed before continuing. "My achievements in forensics are not exceptional because I'm a woman. And my beauty is not contrary to being clever. I'm not a novelty. And I'm not interested your job offer. Sorry, Mycroft."
She returned to the papers on her desk, waiting for the witty retaliation.
"Shame. I was looking forward to spending time with you," he said, a hint of sarcasm lined his words.
"Well you know what I'm going to say to that, don't you?"
Mycroft reached for the door handle, waving his other hand at Margaux dismissively. "Yes, yes, I know."
"If you ask me, it's in your best interest to build a relationship with Vaughan now, before Sherlock gets a chance to put his version of Uncle Mycroft in the boy's head."
Mycroft let out a small laugh in the back of his throat before walking out of the office and closing the door behind him.
Margaux exhaled. Her encounters with Mycroft were always fleeting. Yet they always, somehow, left her feeling like she needed a lie down.
III
Margaux shuffled up the aisle of the hot, crowded bus. She grasped the closest pole, smiling politely to the woman she was reaching across, and took a firm stance as the bus began to move. She wished she never sold her car; maybe it was time to invest in a new one. She could feel her hair sticking to the back of her neck and her bag kept slipping off her shoulder. With every stop, she contemplated getting off, going to Mycroft's office and accepting the job. But her pride kept her in place, wedged between two passengers until the bus creaked to a halt at her stop.
She walked down the busy London high street as her meeting with Mycroft played on her mind, stirring equal parts pride and regret, anger and guilt. She turned sharply into a newsagent's and headed straight for the counter to buy a pack of cigarettes. Afterwards, she stood outside the shop, lighting up and taking a long drag. She exchanged an accidental glance with a man sitting on the steps, noticing his tired demeanour; a sleeping bag rolled up beside him, a polystyrene cup of coffee in his dirty hands. He looked away quickly, worried he was making her uncomfortable. But instead, she took out another cigarette and offered it to him. It was a silent exchange, like a smile across a noisy crowd or the squeeze of a hand in a doctor's office. He placed it between his lips as she bent down and lit it before saluting him kindly and continuing her walk down the street.
She checked her watch, 2:50pm, she was going to be late for Vaughan. Again. She mapped out the fasted route to the nursery in her head, turning down an alleyway in an attempt to cut her journey in half. The alley was cobbled; slick with oil and rainwater that dripped from drainpipes. Ahead, two men huddled together talking quietly, their faces hidden by dark hoods. Instinctively, she fixed her bag on her shoulder as she approached them, avoiding eye contact.
"Excuse me," she said quietly, trying to step around them.
They shuffled aside, allowing her to continue walking.
"Margaux?" A familiar voice echoed from behind her.
She turned around to see a pair of glacial blue eyes peering at her from underneath a hood.
"Sherlock?" She asked in disbelief.
"What are you doing down here?"
"What are you doing down here?" She countered sharply, looking around the dingy alleyway before taking a clearer look at his face.
His skin was sallow and dull, stretching over sunken cheeks. His unkempt hair fell limply in his eyes from underneath his hood and his eyes darted around her face, searching for a point to focus on yet never settling for more than a few seconds.
"You're high," she said.
"I'm…" he glanced to the other hooded man before turning back to Margaux. "It's for a case."
"A case? Right, so this guy's your business associate, is he?"
"I'm Gary. I mostly do weed, coke and morphine," said the other man chirpily. "But I know a guy who can do you a good deal on pills–"
"It was sarcasm, Gary," she interrupted.
"Margaux, I assure you, there is a reason for all of this. I am fully in control," said Sherlock.
"You haven't bothered to see your son since the wedding, and you're telling me it's because you've just decided to start using again? That doesn't seem like control, Sherlock. I mean, you can't so much as come to my flat for dinner because you've been too busy… Too busy…" she couldn't think of what to say. "Too busy snorting coke off Janine's tits!"
Sherlock's eyes widened in shock. As did Margaux's, and Gary's. Sherlock stifled a laugh which annoyed her even more.
"It's not funny."
"I know," he said, suppressing a smirk.
Margaux took a deep breath. "You know what, Sherlock, I've had a crappy day; I don't need this right now," she said before continuing her walk down the alleyway.
"Where are you going?"
"To pick up Vaughan from nursery. You remember Vaughan, don't you? He's about this tall, dark hair, blue eyes, kind of looks like you?"
"What kind of question is that? Of course I remember him."
"I think she was using that sarcasm thing again, mate," said Gary.
III
The long summer day faded into a cool night. Margaux poured herself a glass of gin, checking on her sleeping toddler once more before finally retiring to the couch. She flicked through TV channels absentmindedly, glancing occasionally at the papers stacked on the coffee table. Perhaps marking her students' work would be easier with a touch of gin in her system. Her thought was interrupted by a buzzing in the hallway. She jumped up and made her way to the intercom near her front door.
"Hello?" She said, holding her finger down on the button.
"Hi Margaux, it's Janine and Sherl!"
Sherl? She almost gagged.
"Oh, hi, Janine. Is there a problem?"
"Nah, just thought we'd stop by."
She reluctantly buzzed them into the building, leaving the door ajar and retreating back to the couch. They got to the flat moments later; Janine's bright white smile accompanied by a bottle of wine and Sherlock on her arm as they stepped into the living room. Margaux pointed her in the direction of the kitchen, sending her off to pour the wine, before glaring at Sherlock from across the living room. He sat down on the couch opposite her, crossing one leg over the other.
"What the f–"
"I tried to stop her," he interrupted. "But she insisted."
"Why on earth would the three of us ever 'hang out'? Why?" she whispered through gritted teeth.
"Lovely wine glasses, Margaux," said Janine as she walked into the living room and sat down next to Sherlock, placing a hand in his lap.
"Thanks…"
"I hope you don't mind us turning up like this. It's just, he said he ran into you today and that you mentioned he hadn't seen little Vee in weeks…"
Little Vee. Margaux clenched her jaw.
"And I just felt so guilty that I've had all this amazing time with Sherl," she placed her hand on his face and gazed into his eyes. "I just kind of felt responsible… for him not getting to see his son."
"Sure. Well I mean, Sherlock's a big boy. He's perfectly capable of coming to see him by himself, y'know… during the day… when he's awake."
Sherlock glanced at Margaux, igniting one of their silent conversations. However, this one seemed more of a silent telling-off. 'You're being rude, Margaux. Stop it. Now.'
She sighed "But I'm sure he'll be happy to know his Daddy was here."
Janine smiled.
They didn't stay much longer, to Margaux's relief, but it was long enough for her to notice how Sherlock had Janine enchanted; utterly convinced of his love. She noticed how his warm, affectionate smile would drop whenever she looked away, how he seemed reluctant, just for a second, before touching her. But she also noticed how convincing he was, how naturally the role of the charming boyfriend came to him, how easily he could mould himself to whatever she desired. She wondered if she had also been the victim of a false smile, a reluctant touch. Janine was part of Sherlock's current case. But Margaux couldn't shake the memory that she, herself, had once been nothing more than 'just an experiment'.