ReaderMagnifique requested that I post this chapter today, so I decided to sit down and actually write what I was supposed to write - not something in the far future. Thank you for being a great reviewer every single chapter!
I will try to update soon, a part of the next chapter is already planned, but I always try to get at least a thousand words per chapter. Well, maybe it'll be like with this one, where I wrote a lot more than originally planned.
Anyway, enjoy!
I wipe the tears from my eyes and gratefully take the offered glass of water when the coughing finally stops.
Only seconds later I realise what I have seen and I look up to Mycroft with wide eyes.
My first instinct is to look away, quickly thank him and leave the room. But this is the nicest he has been to me in a while, and I want to know why.
Mycroft is already dressed in his usual three-piece suit, not a fleck of dust on it, not a hair out of place. He stands in front of me, looking down, a look of mild concern on his face.
"Are you alright?" his voice is calm, but sounds genuine. I nod tightly, just once, and continue to look at him silently. What does he want?
"I don't mean just now." Narrowing my eyes, I think about what he means. He knows that physically I am fine, just as he knows how I've been mentally the last few weeks.
"What do you want?" The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, but they don't sound harsh or strong. I sound scared, and I see in Mycroft's eyes that he notices it too. His blue-grey eyes darken - is that guilt? - and he looks away once, then quickly refocuses his gaze on me, crouching down so I can look him in the eyes properly. He is a bit smaller than me now, and it makes me feel safer.
"I have found myself mistaken." These words surprise me, and obviously Mycroft as well a bit, as he looks a little lost for words, until he continues.
"After you shot Sherlock, I felt as if I had finally realised the truth; your fondness towards me, so I thought, could not have been true. Anthea's-" he says the name with barely any reaction, just his eyes harden a bit, "-betrayal set the ground for this belief and your apparent betrayal only helped.
Maybe I should thank Daunt for what he did, he opened my eyes for me."
I can only stare at him, not quite sure what to make of his apology, and he looks right back at me.
"I'm sorry, Kiara, for how I acted and how I treated you in the last twenty-six days."
It feels strange, him apologising for it. After all, his assumptions were logical and understandable, to a certain point. Then, something falls into place in my mind and I understand.
"Mycroft, you... I don't want you to forgive me because I nearly died two days ago." He looks unimpressed, but I know there's more under his mask.
"You did die, Kiara." I cannot help but roll my eyes at that, it's so typically the Mycroft he was to me before I shot Sherlock thatI have to fight the smile.
"Okay. I don't want you to forgive me because I died two days ago and then was resuscitated. I want you to forgive me because you understand my reasoning, why I did it how I did it."
Mycroft nods, and I am glad that he doesn't directly answer to that. I don't know whether I would have believed him, and even though it seems there is another change in our relationship, it's on shaky ground anyway.
I feel a pang of regret when I consider the probabilities of being as close to him as I was before again. It's nearly zero, and it hurts to have lost that easy companionship with him, but I don't regret shooting Sherlock in order to save Irene. At least Mycroft seems to be willing to talk to me again.
We fall back into our routine quickly. Sherlock, Mycroft and I search for leads in his study, we eat the posh food Mycroft buys – or rather, which his staff order and serve – and Sherlock teases him about his diet.
They are closer now. The still annoy each other, and sometimes don't talk to each other for days – even though that's rather Sherlock, Mycroft just rolls his eyes – and sometimes Sherlock plays the violin so violently that even I flee. They still have arguments and keep up their charade that they don't like each other. But they're working in the same room peacefully, even sometimes helping each other, which means more than words.
But Mycroft still keeps his distance to me. Not a cool distance, even though I thought so the first few days, but rather thoughtful and almost a bit shy.
I understand this peculiar behaviour more than a week later, nine days after I told him I want him to understand, to be exact. It's a bit after seven, just after dinner, and I am too tired to work, and, as I explain to Mycroft and Sherlock in a stricter tone than necessary, I do want to have a life beside this – or rather, a bit of relaxation and fun.
Sherlock and Mycroft, being the workaholics they are, just nodded and got back to work, taking the new files which Mycroft managed to download from my network-app with them.
It is a bit disturbing how much Mycroft's house feels like home by now. When I first moved in I had felt uncomfortable, being in the same building with Father's sworn nemesises. It hadn't taken long too reach the conclusion that even if they broke their side of the deal, they wouldn't gain anything. I wasn't a bargaining chip against Moran, I didn't know that much about the network and that what I knew I had already promised to tell them, and I wouldn't mind.
It was either working with them and destroying the network with them or not at all – because I had realised the size of what I was planning to do.
I would never have thought how close I would get to them. That I would call them both my brothers, a lot older brothers, but brothers none the less. Most of the time they were even less annoying than real brothers, from what I have heard and read about them. Mycroft is a bit overprotective and Sherlock is a bit rude, but they are both very capable to do what is necessary and I see them both as the closest to family I have, next to Irene, but she is slowly slipping. The last time I saw her was after I shot Sherlock, and I have changed since I last met her, really spent time with her.
It suddenly hits me that if Father was alive, I'd never have met them. Never in this way, I would never have met them as friends.
A second realisation flashes through my mind, that if Father came alive right now, I would follow him. I would go with him and fight with him and against Sherlock and Mycroft, but it would break my heart. It would break my heart and I would kill myself before I had to kill either them or Father.
My feet move without me noticing and suddenly I am in front of my room, coming out of my thoughts, reaching the present again.
It's dark inside, the curtains half closed, the floor messy and clothes and my belongings everywhere, just as I left everything. It looks like no one has been in my room after me, but there has been. The elegant white card on the bed betrays the intruder. Looking around the room carefully, checking for signs of danger, I slowly walk towards my bed.
When I finally see the card I release a relieved breath. The cursive handwriting is familiar, and only Sherlock and Mycroft sign their letters or texts like this.
"I understand. MH" I whisper the words out loud, a smile forming on my lips.
He understands. He knows exactly how and why I shot Sherlock, and he can see the necessity in it. He understands what I went through and what I had to do.
The expensive fountain pen which lies on the desk since I moved in now finally has a purpose. It feels nice in my left hand and I decide to keep it. Mycroft won't mind, I'm sure, rich as he is he can buy hundreds of them.
Father often said it was strange that even though my left hand is my dominant hand, I use my right hand to shoot. I'm okay with my left, but really aiming is only possible with my right hand.
The ink is dark blue as I quickly draw some lines on a spare paper, getting used to the pen and how it writes, before I take up Mycroft's card. It would be embarrassing to misspell or smudge the ink when this is so very important.
I needn't have worried. The pen moves over the paper easily and the swift, flowing lines don't betray my nervousness or shaking right hand.
Knowing that Mycroft is still downstairs, I walk over to his room, blowing on the ink carefully. I don't want it to smudge now, or to colour his blanket when I put it there, his words facing up, my words on the other side.
When Mycroft comes into his bedroom, it's already very late, shortly after one. He could hear Kiara's quiet breathing when he went past her room, the deep and slow breaths showing that she was asleep.
Turning the lights on only barely, not so light that it will hurt his eyes, but not so dark that he can't see anything, he moves further inside, only to stop when he sees the card on his bed.
Why is it there? He can see his own handwriting, otherwise it looks mostly untouched. Did Kiara not accept it? Willing his heart to slow down, he gingerly picks it up and turns it around, reading what's written on the other side.
Thank you.