Author's Note: I just wanted to say a few things here for clarification: Just for the sake of simplicity, John and Sherlock have already been living together for a while even though the beginning of the story is set during A Study in Pink. What else... Oh, I'm trying to keep Sherlock and Mycroft as close to in character as I can, so please let me know how I'm doing! Any creative criticism about Melody would be appreciated as well. Also, anyone want to guess what her "medical condition" is? Leave me a review with your guess, and you'll find out if you were right in a few chapters. I suppose that's about it. Enjoy the story, and don't forget to review (many thanks to those who have)!
Chapter 2
It was well past six in the evening by the time Mrs. Hudson finished finalizing all the minutiae regarding her apartment, and by that time Melody wanted nothing more than to just sleep for the next day and a half. But, a promise was a promise, so somehow she found the strength to lift herself from the couch and go see Liza.
When she passed the door of 221B, still open, she saw John and Mr. Holmes lounging in their respective armchairs, both clicking silently away on their laptops, each completely oblivious of the other. She could not help but think that they had formed one of those rare and intimate friendships, one like hers and Liza's. She smiled, walking quietly past them down the stairs. They were definitely good for each other.
It was still raining outside, and much colder than it had been earlier in the day. Melody pulled her blazer collar up around her neck and hailed a cab. She thanked her stars that the cabbie was not the same old man from before and settled back into the seat. Liza's house was only a ten minute walk from here, but in this weather it was more than worth the funds to just take a cab. Besides that, she didn't yet feel comfortable walking alone in London yet, especially at night. She wasn't afraid, of course, (she knew how to protect herself), but she'd rather not get lost just to cut costs.
The cabbie pulled up to Liza's house, Melody paid him, and she scurried from the street to the shelter of the porch, ringing the knocker. Liza came to the door, accompanied by her guardian German Shepherd, Robert. Melody scratched him behind the ears, stepping inside. She did not take off her scarf of her coat.
"I almost thought you weren't coming." Liza said, migrating to the large, open living room and turning on the television.
Melody all but fell onto the couch, thankful to give her jet-lagged body a rest. "I spent longer looking at the apartment than I expected, and I imagine I fell asleep for a good half an hour after that."
Liza disappeared into the kitchen to grab drinks and reappeared with water for herself and an energy drink for Melody. "Well, you've got good timing. My parents went out to dinner. So, how's the apartment?"
Melody set the Monster down on the coffee table, unopened. Those things had way too many calories, and were disgusting besides. She'd probably just crash when the sugar wore off, anyway.
"Needs a bit of work, but it's nice, and so is the rent. I really appreciate you tipping me off about it."
Liza smiled, nudging Melody. "Where would you be without me?"
Dead, she thought, but didn't speak her mind. Instead, she just laughed and poked her back, in the sides where she was ticklish.
"You remember you've got that job interview tomorrow, right?" Liza nagged, sometimes more like a mother than a friend.
"Yes, at that family owned orchestra studio, I know. I should be home preparing for that, and sleeping," she grumbled.
"At least stay until the news is over." Liza said.
Melody relented, and the blonde turned up the television. She was only half-listening to the stories and weather reports that reeled across the screen, and she was nearly asleep when one story in particular caught her drowsy attention. A wealthy business man had been found dead in his office, apparently from suicide. Wasn't that a strange explanation, though? Why would someone with so much money kill themselves? Work or relationship problems? Still, there was something not right with the whole business, and Melody wanted to look into it more. She committed the dead man's name to memory, intending to do a bit of research on him later.
Now, she needed to go home and get some sleep for her interview the next afternoon.
"I'll call you later," Melody said on her way out the door. "Thank you again, for everything."
Liza waved from the front porch as Melody called a cab and mingled into the damp darkness.
When Melody returned to Baker Street, 221B's door was closed, as was Mrs. Hudson's. She doubted they had gone to bed this early, but she was too tired to care at present. She dragged herself up the stairs, took a quick shower, and dressed for bed. Finally able to remove her coat, she cleaned out the pockets, throwing cash, pocket lint, and the pill bottle into her still packed suitcase, where it would be forgotten until morning. Her scarf was thrown onto the pile as well. The mess bothered her, but she kicked it from her mind, turned out the lights, and slid between the clean sheets Mrs. Hudson had apparently provided while she was out. Melody fell asleep immediately, and she dreamed.
Christmas music drifted gaily throughout the house, and Melody could see morning snow falling outside through the windows. She was in the living room, but it was empty. The live Christmas tree was beautifully decorated with hand-painted ornaments from her childhood and a star on the top, all the presents still perfectly wrapped. Her vision flashed, the events of a day spanning little more than a second. It was nighttime now, and police and ambulance sirens blasted right outside the front door. The tree had been knocked over on its side, its ornaments rolling all over the hardwood floor. There was blood spattered on the walls, pooled on the otherwise pristine wood floor, even the ornaments and the tree were bloody. Without looking, she knew the rest of the rooms looked similar. She knew what had happened here, but her mind made her relive it anyway.
Time skipped again to earlier that same day, before the incident. Even though it was Christmas day, Melody was at work. She was too devoted to her patients to take the day off, even though it was her own practice and she scheduled her appointments. She was working with Will that day, and she was glad to find that he was progressing well. Still, she couldn't help but feel uneasy, even worried. Not about Will, but something else that had been bothering her for some time now. She didn't want to believe it, and so as she had been doing for all these months, she ignored it and shoved it to the back of her mind. She owed her focus solely to her patients, not her own insignificant problems.
After finishing up her appointment with Will, she finished up working with the rest of her patients and left work early for the day. Her parents had been begging her to come visit them for the holidays, please, Nate was coming, too. She would have liked to stay home and just get some rest, but she figured she better make the 45 minute drive to her parents' house or she would catch hell for not coming for the rest of the year. Her older brother Nate was already there when she arrived, and so was his girlfriend Liza, too. Melody's boyfriend was out of state visiting his own parents in the hospital, so he was absent.
They talked until Melody's mother finished making Christmas dinner, and then they all ate gathered around the gorgeous oak dining table in the dining room. There was laughter, jokes, and general happiness among all present, and the little worry Melody had had on her mind all day was gone. Liza couldn't stay for unwrapping presents, so it was just Melody, her mom, dad, and brother in the living room around the Christmas tree. They never got to open the presents.
Nate said something, and Melody screamed…
Melody woke, and everything was gone. Her parents' house was replaced with her own familiar apartment, and a loud banging on the door replaced the sound of Christmas carols and screams. The ex-psychiatrist fumbled through her suitcase for her bathrobe and scarf, tying them both tightly around herself so that none of her body except for her toes was expose. She didn't care that her hair was frizzy and spiked up to kingdom come when she answered the door.
She didn't know who she had been expecting, but she was relieved to find that it was just John.
"Are you okay?"
Melody shuffled uncomfortably on her feet. Dear God, she hoped she hadn't been sleep-talking. "Yes. Why?"
"You were screaming." John said, gently.
She shrugged, and said nothing, her hand instinctively pulling her scarf closer around her neck.
"Night terrors?" he asked. His voice was sympathetic. Of course it was, why was she surprised? Despite his innocent face, Melody could tell that John Watson had seen his share of things as an army doctor.
She nodded.
John clapped her on the shoulder. It was oddly comforting. "Bring you some coffee?"
She nodded again. "Be down in a minute."
Melody did not say thanks or goodbye as she closed the door. Her voice failed her. She didn't have time for that now though; her interview was at 11, so that left her about an hour and a half to get ready and take a cab. She went through her morning routine without much thought, relying mostly on muscle memory. She dressed in formal business attire—a black pants suit, with a fancy white dress shirt underneath, her trusty blazer, and, of course, her scarf. She didn't wear makeup—she never did—or jewelry, but she did at least slip on some heels. After fluffing her curls, putting a white pearl headband on, and grabbing her violin case and sheet music, she was ready to head downstairs to 221B. She hoped Mr. Holmes was in, for she desperately needed a distraction right now.
The door was open, so Melody let herself in. The parlor was slightly cleaner than it had been yesterday, and there was no longer the scent of bromine. Mr. Holmes was in the chair reading the paper, still in his pajamas, and John was in the kitchen.
"Good morning, Mr. Holmes," she greeted.
He didn't even look up from his newspaper.
"Don't mind him." John said as he came out of the kitchen bearing two cups of blessed coffee, handing one to Melody. "He gets this way."
She thanked him and took her place on the couch from the day before. The steaming warmth flowing into her body from the mug seemed to chase away all her night's fears, and her weariness as well.
"You're all dressed up. Where are you going?"
Mr. Holmes answered for Melody instead. "Job interview, clearly, John! Can't you see at all?"
John pointed his mug at the other man. "Did anyone invite you to this conversation?" To Melody, he said, "Where are you applying?"
She finished off the last of her coffee before replying. It was more bitter than she liked it, but she wasn't at liberty to complain. "An orchestra studio not far from here. A friend recommended it to me. And,"—Melody checked the time on her phone—"I'd better get going, or else I'll be late. Thanks for the coffee, John!"
Melody left the mug on the coffee table, dashed out the door, and hailed a cab. After the first time she'd hailed a taxi, she always made a point of inspecting the cab driver before she got in, just to make sure that she never ended up with that sketchy old man again. He was bound to notice that one of his pills was missing, and she did not want to be around when he did.
The studio was a short drive away, and once she finally got used to navigating in this city, she planned to start walking to work. The building was nice, multiple stories, but kind of old-fashioned in its architecture. The fact that it was next to a bookstore and coffee shop more than made up for its rustic look.
When she opened the door, she received the best welcome any business could have offered: the sound of music. There were woodwinds and brass, strings, and pianos; any instrument Melody could have dreamed of was there. Psychology may have appealed to her brain, but music had captured her heart.
She found her way to the main office, where a middle aged man with thinning hair and an endearingly old fashioned sweater vest was sitting at a large desk doing paperwork. A knock on the open door caught his attention.
He looked up, blue-gray eyes curious yet kind. "How may I help you?" There was a twinge of French in his voice when he spoke.
"I'm Melody Holt, here for a job interview."
Melody watched his mind work through the movement of his eyes: blank confusion, then darting movements back and forth indicating thought, and then recognition. "Oh, yes," he said, standing and brushing himself off. "I'm Mr. Mathieu, the owner of Fond de l'Etang. Please, come in, and do excuse all the papers. My employees call me a micromanager."
Melody laughed, sitting down in one of the chairs in front of his desk. "I understand. I used to be that way." Before the incident...
Mr. Mathieu shuffled through the papers on his desk until he pulled out Melody's resume that she had sent a few days before leaving for London. "Your qualifications are a bit below par, but honestly I prefer assessing actual ability to these flimsy useless things. Shall we go to one of the music rooms and have, say, a little audition?"
Melody picked up her violin case and sheet music and followed Mr. Mathieu to one of the empty music rooms. It was spacious, and fully furnished with music stands and chairs for the musicians and a platform and podium for the conductor.
"I know sight reading can be a little intimidating, especially for auditions, so do you have any piece in mind?" Mr. Mathieu asked, taking a seat on the platform in the front of the room.
"I'd like to play a piece I composed myself, if that's all right."
She handed him a copy of her music and prepared her violin. She preferred playing standing, and from memorization.
"Whenever you're ready," he said with an encouraging smile.
Melody assumed playing position, closed her eyes, and began. Her violin was her heart, her bow, its mouth, her music, its words. The song was aching and beautiful; every note her bow drew from the dredges of her bleeding heart. She could feel all the pinpricks, pokes, and pulses of its pain in the sharps, and taste the manifold flavors of its emotions in the flats. Song and sensation coalesced into one in the same, all feelings blended into one, different in nothing but name. It was the music of the heavens, and she was merely its vessel. The stardust within her, rekindled, burst once again into hot burning flames, and ignited in her searing sensations that before had been only dormant ashes. Tears leaked from her blind eyes in the heat of her emotion, the force of which made her very core tremble. But, like the hottest of stars, she could not sustain herself for long. The song was over, and the remnants of the heavens within her fell back to stardust, where would they would lie in wait for the time when they could rise again.
Coming out of a song was like crashing back to reality at the end of a drug high. Both experiences left her extremely exhausted, yet craving-needing-more. When she opened her eyes, it took her a moment to remember who and where she was. Her eyes were wet, and her body burned and shook all over as though it were experiencing withdrawal. For a few seconds, she couldn't even breathe. Melody fell back into her chair, clutching at her violin until all the intensity had passed.
"I'm sorry." She found herself apologizing without knowing why. "It's been a very long time since I've played."
Mr. Mathieu looked just as frazzled and unable to speak as her. He recovered more quickly than Melody had, though. "Goodness, wow, that was . . . I feel I have to hold my tongue, for any praise I could offer would merely be an injustice." He handed Melody her sheet music back. "With talent like yours, it would be my humble honor to have you working here."
Melody's lips exploded into a grin that hurt her face but heated her heart. She was was ecstatic that she could scarcely keep herself from crying again. A string of a thousand "thank you"s gushed from her mouth, and Mr. Mathieu laughed, just as excited as she was.
"Let's return to my office and finish discussing all the technicalities."
An hour later, Melody was exiting Fond de L'Etang with a skip in her step. Melody would be teaching violin, flute, and piano classes at the studio for children and adults alike, and Mr. Mathieu had also hinted that he would be more than glad for her to help conduct some of the concerts they routinely put on for a bonus. Already she couldn't wait for the end of the weekend so she could start work bright and early Monday morning. Maybe she'd enjoy a much needed break for the rest of her Friday, and then spend the remainder of the weekend sprucing up her apartment.
It was unseasonably nice outside, and sunny (by London standards), so Melody decided to make the ten minute walk back to Baker Street. She even hummed a little tune along the way, swinging her violin case lightly in her arms. When she was within sight of the apartments, she noticed an expensive black car parked out front. Maybe Mrs. Hudson or one of the boys had a visitor over.
The back seat window rolled down as Melody passed by on the way to the door. She kept walking until a feminine voice stopped her.
"Melody Holt." It said, with complete certainty of her identity.
Curious, Melody walked back to the car and peered in the window. She felt relatively safe since only an idiot would think to kidnap her in broad daylight with so many witnesses. The woman to whom the voice belonged was texting rapidly on her smartphone, and only when she finished did she look up.
"Get in the car."
Ever one to tempt danger, Melody smirked. "Not without a convincing reason. And, before you try it, a physical threat is not a convincing reason. I know multiple forms of self-defense."
The woman in the car looked amused. "That's adorable. In the real world, information makes people much more cooperative than force. And trust me, Ms. Vance, my boss has a lot of information on you." She leaned her head out the window, staring Melody in the eyes. "I imagine you want to keep that information hidden, so I suggest you get in the car."
Hearing that name alerted Melody to the severity of her present situation. Internally, her mind teetered on the edge of panic, but she could not let them see. She could not allow her army to be compromised, she had to stay calm, she had to stay focused.
The woman opened the back seat door, and Melody slid in beside her. The interior of the car smelled meticulously clean, everything as shiny and perfect as if it were new. Melody sure that the windows were tinted darker than was legal because when she tried to look outside, she couldn't see a damn thing. A sliding glass panel, also tinted, separated the back seat from the front, so she couldn't see out of the windshield, either. Good God, just who was this woman's boss? It certainly couldn't be any law-abiding , well-intentioned citizen if they were being this secretive.
Melody could have driven herself mad guessing at who they were and what they wanted, but that would have only put her at a further disadvantage. Instead, she withdrew inside her mind and meditated, using some of the exercises she had taught her own patients to work through when they were stressed or anxious. Soon, she had tuned out the mental buzz of her worries and the rest of the world around her, entering a state of pseudo-peace. Still, fake tranquility was better than none at all, and maybe she could tell herself enough lies to quell her raging mind and heart.
How much time passed between the beginning of the drive and the woman telling her that they had arrived, Melody could not tell. She stepped outside and scrutinized her surroundings, finding them to be totally unexpected. Other than a sketchy warehouse, there was nothing but endless fields of dead grass and weeds. The scene was stranger than anything Melody could have conjured up, but when the woman motioned toward the building, she held up her chin and with a steel heart and stubborn eyes went forward to meet whatever awaited her in the warehouse.
Inside, it was cool and spacious, and Melody's heels clicked on the stone floor as she walked, giving away her presence. She could see little more than a foot in front of her, so she used her hands to feel for a wall and anchored herself to its safety. When she stopped walking and the blood stopped rushing in her ears, she could hear another pair of footsteps, click, click, clicking across the cavernous room, louder, louder, loudening as they came near, near, nearer.
The footsteps stopped in front of her, and all was silent. Melody did not move, but during that inaction, her senses were observing, her brain was working. She smelled the aroma of cologne and starch wafting off of him, heard his quick, uneven inhaling, and felt his cool, minty breath blowing above her head. Now she knew that he was tall, taller than her, wealthy, probably a business a man going by the state of his unexercised body. Good, that was good. What else? Should she start a conversation? No, better not, wait for him to make his move, it'll reveal his personality...
His arm brushed the curls beside her left ear on its way to the wall against she was presently leaning, and her body drew itself taut as a rubber band about to snap. Perhaps she would.
The lights flicked on in the warehouse, both blinding and illuminating. She squinted, but could not afford to close her eyes nor allow them time to adjust. Just as Melody had hoped, waiting for him to make the first move revealed more about him. It was obvious that he wanted her ill-acclimated and off guard, and that screamed of a power complex. Whether it stemmed from an attempt to compensate a real or imagined failing, or from arrogance, she could not yet tell.
When her eyes adjusted, she found the subject of her musings standing, well, looming rather, as his hand was still beside her head on the wall, in front of her. He was well dressed for a potential criminal, kidnapper, murderer, and/or mafia ring leader. Did mafia bosses even wear three piece suits? That was not even to mention the golden pocket watch chain hanging from his vest, or the expensive umbrella he twirled on the floor with his other hand. Everything about him screamed office worker, and a high up one at that.
Melody looked into his eyes, trying to discern his mental processes, and found that they were familiar, inscrutable and freezingly blue. Everything he did reminded her of a more dramatic yet mature version of Mr. Holmes, but that must have been mere coincidence. Surely he would have mentioned a brother... wouldn't he? It was of course possible that they were estranged, but even so. Two of those exquisite minds? That would be too great a gift to the world.
They stared at one another, openly culling all the information they could gather based on what they could see. Melody was somewhat at a lost without a conversation, but once more, she waited for his move. It was not long in coming.
"Hello, Ms. Holt." What his smile lacked in emotion was more than reimbursed in politesse. "I am Mycroft Holmes."
Well, that was unexpected. So there were two of them. Oh, God, Melody's inner psychologist was going to have a field day. But, that would have to wait.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of being forcibly detained on this fine afternoon?" Sometimes Melody just couldn't keep herself from being a sarcastic ass, even when her safety appeared to hang in the balance.
Mycroft's next smile was sardonic and short, less fake than the first, but still very far from real. Imagine all the beautiful little compartments in his mind, she thought before she could restrain herself. She was doing a poor job of keeping her army together.
"Well," Mycroft sneered, puffing out his chest a bit, "as you deigned not to answer your mobile, you left me with few options. Apologies." He didn't even make an effort to be sincere.
"You were the one calling me yesterday?" Melody had planned on calling the number back after she left 221B, only to find that it was private.
Mycroft inclined his head in a refined version of a nod.
"Perhaps you should not have blocked your number then. Apologies if I was naturally suspicious."
Mycroft tapped his umbrella on the floor, sighing. "Women. Must you all be so irrational?"
Melody gritted her teeth, fury bursting forth inside her. How many times had she heard the likes of his insult, or worse? And yet each evoked her ire as much as the last.
She pushed it aside. "Everything of import is in the mind, Mr. Holmes, not the genitalia."
His smirk did nothing to help her forget the slight. "I am well cognizant, Ms. Holt."
The words were civil enough, but Melody did not at all like their implication. "I would love to give you a piece of my 'irrational' mind right now."
"Are you certain you have any to spare?"
Melody closed her eyes, breathing out through her nose and mentally cleansing herself even though she wanted nothing more than to sink down to her basest instincts and murder the man.
"Ms. Holt, do open your eyes," Mycroft said, tone more pleasant than before but not exactly placating.
"If you would like to continue with your string of slights, I may inform you that I do not need them to listen."
She thought she heard him mutter something like "predictably stubborn," but she didn't quite trust her mind in this state.
"You must have been veraciously angry, to have not noticed what I was doing."
Curiosity pried open Melody's eyelids. It took her little more than seconds to click everything in place, and Mycroft must have noticed, for the corner of his lips quirked in something close to approval.
"Yes, yes, very clever, but why?"
Mycroft twirled his umbrella. "Why have you twice waited for me to initiate our encounter?"
Melody could have slapped herself in the head. This is what happens when you neglect to prepare your army.
"Care to share what you unearthed?"
Mycroft stepped closer, never releasing Melody's wide eyes. No man had been this close to her in three years, and she felt the insuppressible urge to flee.
"Another time, perhaps," he whispered, and backed away. "Now, we have business to discus."
Melody wanted to laugh, but felt it wouldn't be appreciated in present company. "I don't make a habit of conducting business in sketchy warehouses."
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "If I were to tell you that you have no input in the matter?"
Melody smirked, twirling out from beneath Mycroft's arm. "I would rejoin that you are a liar. You took the time from your clearly important"-she waved her hand at his suit in explanation-"schedule to have me detained. I doubt you would let me escape without getting what you wanted, unless I am very much mistaken about your power complex."
Mycroft sighed. "You are as intelligent as I had feared. What is your preferred choice of venue, then?"
Melody smiled with all the innocence she could muster. "You're taking me to lunch."
Melody suspected that Mycroft Holmes never did anything halfway, at least that was the impression she received when they pulled up at a profusely expensive looking restaurant. She hadn't even been totally serious about going to lunch; she just wanted to leave that damnable warehouse. Be careful what you wish for, and all that. Oh well, at least now there were witnesses. Between the two of them, murder was not entirely out of the question. Melody didn't know who she was afraid to trust more: him, or herself.
Mycroft walked around the car to open her door, but Melody made sure she got out on her own before he reached it. She was fiercely adamant on the subject of independence.
The man gave an imperceptible shake of head, but said nothing and led the way inside. "Reservation for two," he said to the woman at the register.
"When did you have time to make reservations?" Melody whispered as the woman showed them their seats.
Mycroft only smiled.
Either Mycroft had rented out the entire second floor, or they had just missed the lunch hour. Given her limited scope of knowledge of the man, both options seemed possible. The waiter left menus with them and bowed out of the room.
"You seriously need to work on your power complex." Melody said, watching the man and disregarding the menu in front of her.
"I haven't the faintest idea what you mean." He replied, crossing his legs.
Melody gave him her best "don't screw with me" look. She knew that it was not just likely but nearly certain that he had brought her to such an expensive restaurant just to unnerve her.
"It's completely out of hand."
Mycroft raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow. "Mine? What of yours?"
Melody raised her menu in front of her face like a barrier and didn't speak again until the waiter returned.
"What will you have?" she asked, placing glasses of iced water and baskets of rolls on the table.
"Salad," they answered in unison, and exchanged looks. Is Mycroft . . . dieting? Melody wanted to giggle. Somehow, he seemed too refined for such things.
The waiter nodded, and left them. Melody sat more rigidly than she had before, anticipating the conversation to come. If John had noticed, then surely Mycroft would . . .
The question that actually came out of Mycroft's mouth was unexpected, and even more unpleasant than the topic Melody had in mind.
"Will you not remove your scarf and coat?"
"No." Melody hoped her tone would dissuade him from going down this road.
Nothing, she learned, dissuaded Mycroft Holmes.
"Those are outdoor garments, and they do not have a place at the dinner table."
Melody met his gaze with surprising evenness. "I will not remove them."
Mycroft smirked at her, placing a hand on the table and standing. "Then, I will."
Melody stood to meet him as he walked around the table. She held her arms at her sides, tiny little hands balled into fists.
Mycroft used his height to his advantage, stepping as close as the border between polite and socially unacceptable would allow. "Give them to me." He commanded, his voice low and powerful.
Melody stood her ground. "I won't."
"I believe can't would be a more apt word."
And with that, he grabbed Melody's wrists in one hand and used the other to remove her scarf. The air that rushed in to meet her bare neck was cold and stinging because it was filled with shame and terror. She tried to cover her neck with the collar of her coat, but Mycroft forced that off of her too and returned to his seat, placing them both on the back of her chair where she could not get to them.
Melody quaked with embarrassment and indignation. "How dare you . . ."
Mycroft sighed. "Please tell me you aren't going to weep over spilled milk-or, in your case, spilled blood."
Her hands ached to feel the red hot sting that slapping him would bring.
"I've seen your hospital report, and the crime scene photographs. That scarf hid no surprises from me. I know about the whole business, Ms. Vance."
Resigned to accept the insurmountable intellect and might of the man before her, Melody sank back into her seat.
"Don't tell your brother. Please." she said quietly.
"He will deduce it on his own soon enough. And your-"
"No need to say it."
"In denial?" Mycroft quipped.
"Perhaps I was, until a certain military doctor made his diagnosis quite clear."
What didn't make sense to Melody was how Mycroft and even John had noticed, while Sherlock had not. Did he really believe she was dieting?
"Does your brother lie often?" Melody asked.
Mycroft looked at her strangely, but nonetheless answered her question. "When it behooves him to do so, I suppose."
Melody sighed. Between the two of them I feel I am caught in a spider's web . . . and yet I still cannot leave them well enough alone. Already her anger with Mycroft had faded. There was nothing she could have done to prevent him from finding out, but she would be damned if anyone else learned of it.
The waiter brought them their salads, but neither of them were really interested in eating. "What's this business that you felt compelled to kidnap me to discuss?"
Mycroft made a face of distaste. "My brother."
Well, that hardly warranted being taken to a shady warehouse and then out to lunch. "What about him?"
"Do you plan to continue your association with him?"
What business was that of his? "I plan to keep staying in Baker Street, but I fail to see how this holds relevance for you."
"I like to know the nature of the company he keeps. I worry. Constantly."
Power complex indeed. "Well, let me assure you that my presence will be nothing but a mundane part of his life." As much as she lied otherwise, Melody was a tad bitter at having been called "boring."
Mycroft clicked his teeth. "Mundane is most certainly not the word for you. You are a sea bass in my world otherwise filled with hopelessly inferior gold fish."
Melody found his statement so absurd and bizarre that a chuckle escaped her lips. "Was that a compliment?"
"Merely a fact, Ms. Holt. If I find you tolerable, then imagine Sherlock's fascination with you. Therefore, I must warn you, for both of your sakes: it would be best if you become as unobtrusive as possible, since you will, of course, insist on staying."
That was not a lifestyle Melody could lead. She craved action and stimulation as much as an adrenaline addict. It was an inherent part of her life, one she could not or would not remove. "I can handle myself," she said.
Mycroft looked like he wanted to laugh. "Your three year drug record says otherwise, but that is beside the point. It took me little more than a couple of choice words to ignite your ire this afternoon. Sherlock is more dim than I, but he can undoubtedly do the same, and unlike me he has no regard for the social graces or for boundaries.
"Now, that being said, do you think can you handle Sherlock?"
Melody rolled her eyes. Mycroft was indeed the more dramatic of the two. "I wish you would discard the notion that I am a porcelain toy. I will handle dealing with Sherlock, and I will handle you as well, and if I scrape a knee or two then I will put a band-aid on. Relax. If we're done here, I'll pay the check." Of course Melody didn't have that much money, but she figured it was time to do a bit of goading of her own.
Mycroft seemed to go pale at the thought. "You will do no such thing."
Melody reaching for her purse beneath her chair. "I insist."
"I cannot allow you to do that."
Melody put her purse on her lap, smiling. "Of course not. By the way, you might want to take a peak in the mirror. I think your power complex is showing."
Mycroft gave her a "really?" look, placing a check on the table.
"Still think I can't handle the Holmes brothers?" she mouthed.
The man actually smiled a little, handing Melody back her coat and scarf. Mycroft, being detained elsewhere, walked her out to the car before calling another for himself.
He looked down a Melody as she slid into the back, his hand on the top of the door. "Your psychiatrist is wrong, you know. The fault is not yours to keep."