New Chapter! Please, please review, they are actually so important to me! They really help me write better! Feel free to leave predictions!
Nearly two and a half years and twenty-six languages later and Isla still felt like she was nothing but Mycroft's glorified personal assistant. And it wasn't as if she wasn't qualified. She'd past every course, every challenge thrown at her with flying colors, had the unrestrained confidence of every instructor that she was entirely over qualified for fieldwork. And still, she was stuck in London, without even her own flat, as Mycroft viewed that as contrary to her objective of 'staying dead,' though she knew he was simply massively over protective after Yemen.
She sighed, pushing open the door to the shop, her eyes roving over the hundreds of expensive suits. The man behind the counter completely ignored her, as she expected. She pulled out her phone and dialed, holding it against her ear as she rifled through the racks. Mycroft answered on the second ring.
"Hello?" he said, sounding perturbed.
"You talked to Ahmet, then?" she replied, the corner of her mouth twitching up. "I told you he said-"
"Yes, yes, now what is it that you want?" he said, cutting her off. She rolled her eyes, annoyed.
"How's the diet going?" she asked, comparing two tuxedos.
"If you called simply to be petulant-"
"I'm picking up your tux for the Ministers' Ball, and I need to know whether you went down a size."
"No."
"Satin lapels?"
"Yes."
"Waist coat?"
"Yes."
"Three or five buttons?"
"Five."
"Really?"
"Fine, three," he said with a sigh. "And while you're out, stop at Selfridges. I have an order waiting there under-"
"Yes, yes, I'll have it all done. I'll be back around four, I'm stopping over to see Sherlock."
"Isla-"
But she hung up before he could finish. Now she was not only doing Mycroft's shopping, but his date's too. She made a mental note to stay out late tonight. Or to not go home. She had already walked in on Mycroft and one of his lady friends and that was indeed uncomfortable enough.
Isla paid for the tux and left, grinding her teeth. She hung it in her car and climbed inside. Mycroft preferred to use a service, but she loved driving herself. It was the only time she really felt free anymore, absolutely in control. She had stupidly thought that this whole thing, this whole, dead, not really, thing would leave her freedom, but really it had just taken it away. Well, Mycroft had done that. It was hard to be free when you lived with your thirty-eight year old brother. A brother who never let you out of his sight and not-so-secretly taps your phone just to make sure you don't do anything stupid.
She pulled into a spot outside Selfridges and got out, locking the door behind her. A doorman pulled open the door for her and she nodded at him before crossing directly to the customer service desk.
"May I help you?"
"Yes, I need to pick up a dress under Holmes."
The woman behind the counter typed quickly before shaking her head. "Nothing was ordered under Holmes."
"Perhaps Harrison?" Isla asked. The woman surveyed her, one eyebrow raised before typing once again.
"We have one black evening gown under that name."
"That's the one."
"It's already been paid for, so I'll need to see some ID."
"Yes," Isla said, pulling out her card. She handed it to the woman without a second glance. She peered at it suspiciously before handing it back, along with the dress. Isla left without a second glance, placing the dress next to Mycroft's tux. She dialed her phone as she climbed into the driver's seat and pulled into traffic.
"Sherlock?" she asked as soon as he picked up.
"You know I prefer to text."
"Well I'm driving. And I'm almost there." There was silence at the other end of the phone. Isla sighed. "You forgot, didn't you?"
"I've been on a case."
"I'll be over in twenty then."
Sure enough she arrived twenty minutes later on the dot with a bag of Chinese food in one hand, several newspapers in the other. She didn't bother to knock. Sherlock rarely remembered, or cared, to lock his doors. It had always been a problem when they had lived together. She placed the bag on his kitchen table, careful not to disturb whatever it was floating around in the beakers surrounding Sherlock's microscope. Then she crossed the messy, overflowing room to yet another, though this one did not contain a fridge, instead a grungy looking Sherlock draped in a dressing gown. He was staring at the wall, his hands under his chin, a look of utter concentration on his face. So, of course, she only had one option.
She hit him in the head with her stack of newspapers.
"What are you-?" Sherlock spluttered, glaring at her angrily. She ignored him and flopped down next to him on the couch, putting her feet on the table.
"I brought Chinese food," she said. She stared in the direction Sherlock had been fixating, finding a muddle of photographs and numbers. Then she turned back to him, taking in his appearance. "You need to go and eat. Now."
"You're one to talk. You've lost nearly a stone and Mycroft hasn't told you off."
"Just go eat."
Sherlock got up, glowering and retrieved the bag, bringing it back into the sitting room. He opened it up and pulled everything out, handing her a pair of chopsticks. She shook her head, digging into her coat pocket. She pulled out a cigarette and put it in her mouth. Sherlock took it and stuck it behind his ear.
"Hey!"
"I know what you're doing and it's stupid. We've already been through this."
"Whatever," she said, taking the chopsticks. "What's new with you?"
"I've been working on this set of murders in Chelsea. Three dead, all exsanguinated, no hands, no feet, faces and teeth removed."
"Sounds like something the Russians might be involved with. It's too clean for the Italian Mafia and it seems like they were placed to send a message. It's those photos over there, right?" she said, pointing to the ones Sherlock had been staring at. He nodded. "See who can see the bodies from their windows. I'll tell you if I hear any chatter."
"I'll check it out," Sherlock said, digging into the food. He ate with zeal, confirming that he, as he so often did on a case, was going off food. She too ate, but with less enthusiasm. He was right, of course that she'd been going off meals, and he was right that she was doing it to seemingly add some control to her life. She hated when he was right.
They ate in silence, Sherlock still surveying the crime scene photos. Isla didn't mind. If she was honest, she missed him more than she would ever admit.
"When did you get that?" Isla asked, noticing a skull on the mantel piece. Sherlock glanced over, his mouth full.
"I don't know, a few months ago?"
Isla took her cigarette from behind Sherlock's ear and lit it, inhaling deeply. Sherlock raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. She was glad. She got enough of the guilt trips from Mycroft, even though he too smoked. It was an odd phenomena, one that she believed stemmed from their mother's abhorrence of the practice. And Mycroft was loath to upset mother.
"Isla!" Mycroft said from the doorway. She jumped.
"For the love of God, Mycroft," she said glaring at him. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Mycroft ignored him. "Isla, it's nearly six, we need to go."
"Just take the clothes out of my car. I'm going to crash here tonight," she said tossing him the keys. Which he dropped.
"You are?" Sherlock asked.
"You have a problem with that?"
"No. Actually, while you're here, you may as well look at some samples I've been compiling. I'm creating a database of ash-"
"Isla, didn't you listen? You're coming to the Minister's Ball tonight too. I've set everything up and you're running late."
"What?"
"I tried to tell you on the phone," he said pointedly. She almost regretted hanging up on him. "I think you're ready to do some field work."
Sherlock laughed. "Oh right, that's definitely proper field work. Sitting next to your brother dear for the whole night while he watches you like a hawk and crusty old men hit on you. Why on earth would you ever want to do that?"
"I've got you a sample of ash," Isla said, handing him the cigarette. His face fell slightly as she got up and followed Mycroft. "See you Sherlock," she called over her shoulder.