Chapter 9: Between the Dead and the Sleeping
It takes absolutely no time at all for Mycroft to catch up with Evie, mostly due to the fact that she is sitting on the low concrete wall between the parking garage and the high-rise building, crying. She has pulled her knees up to her chest and is resting her head on them, her brown hair covering her face. She isn't making much noise; Mycroft can see that she is crying because she is trembling all over. He is now in enemy territory: a crying female.
Sure, he has dealt with females his entire life: his mother, nanny, Grandmother, his assistants, even had several lovers…but this? Evie is probably the youngest woman he has come in contact with since he graduated Uni. Still, he has dealt with terrorists, whack jobs, serial killers, injured MI-6 agents, both Sherlock Holmes and John Watson together as a force of nature…surely he can handle this.
Mycroft steps over closer to the young woman in the overalls and follows some internal Mycroftian protocol that begins when he clears his throat. It is his old standby that has seemed to work on most occasions. He fully expects her to sit up and say, well, anything really that will absolve him of any wrongdoing; at that point he can go home and possibly never set eyes about her person again. Well.
Evie merely glares at him over her shoulder, wiping her eyes with one hand; she is unsure whether to feel irritated or humiliated that he has discovered her in such distress. Having grown up in a house full of brothers, breaking down in this manner is a very rare indulgence for Evie; generally she tends to deal with her life in a much tougher fashion. She tells herself that she's just feeling a bit overwhelmed by the old memories. She closes her eyes and goes very still.
Mycroft watches Evie get the upper hand on her obviously broiling emotions with something akin to fascination in his eyes. Though he has done the very same thing many times in his life, he has never really seen anyone else accomplish the same feat; Sherlock notwithstanding. The late afternoon sun barely gets in this far underground; what there is, however, slants across her face and makes her blue eyes glow. Something in his chest opens its wings and looks about hungrily. No, he tells himself. She, in turn, watches him, giving a tiny hiccup now and again. For once, he is completely unaware of the passage of time; it is a full five minutes before either one of them say anything.
"I don't know who you are, Mr. Holmes, but I don't like you." Evie narrows her eyes and a crease appears between her brown eyebrows. For all intents and purposes she looks like a mongoose ready to strike a cobra: bite first, ask questions later.
"Ms. Winstone, I would like to apologize for whatever you perceive that I did to offend you." There, he said it. He turns on his heels and strikes out towards where the Jaguar is parked, his thoughts moving forward. Her voice follows him. He is stopped in mid-step.
"Yeah, you look down on me like I'm a fucking cockroach. Is that really who you are?" She lays her street-smart mouth down on him thick.
In truth, neither of the Holmes boys ever really looks down on anyone other than those shorter than they are. They have always been more clever and intelligent than (mostly) anyone else. Typically, Mycroft tends to think of the world as divided by criminals and pretty much everyone else. Maybe it is because he is tired and wants nothing more than to go home, maybe play a couple of rounds of racquetball and then soak in solitude for a few hours before bed. Maybe it is because Sherlock's attitude is so overdone; or perhaps he really doesn't want to go home and bask in solitude. Perhaps he just doesn't like anyone attempting to perceive anything about him other than what he shows them. Perhaps.
Whatever the reason, Mycroft twirls his umbrella and slowly walks back to Evie. She is sitting up ramrod straight now, her strong overall-covered body a tense line from the top of her head to her rear end that is parked on what must be a cold, unforgiving seat. He sits down next to her, completely ignoring what the rough concrete is going to do to his trousers as if trying to prove that a little dirt never really hurt anyone. She watches him carefully as he removes his tie and stuffs it into his trouser pocket. She watches as he leans forward, both hands on his umbrella, and rests his chin against his hands. She just watches him.
Maybe she has just had it with stupid people this week. Between the customer yesterday who refused to pay the five pound difference between the new part that she had in stock and the refurbished part that she had to order and then having the old memories of Wickersham pulled up like a rusting anchor from the murky bottom of the Thames, Evie has had enough of thinking about bad attitudes. This other Holmes is nothing like his younger brother and it puts her on the spot because she cannot define him.
Sherlock is quite something in the looks department, but so obviously head-over-heels for John that no one else will ever turn his head. Of course, she can't fault him; John is adorable in a calm, safe kind of way. Mycroft has "danger" written all over him—from the cold mask he presents down to the posh shoes on his feet. She is no fool and no slag, either, but she has been around men her entire life from her brothers to the men in the shop: this one is different.
"So, just who are you, Mycroft Holmes?" It is probably better to drop the formal stuff now, she thinks. She holds both hands out towards him, palms up towards the top of the parking garage. It is a strange gesture.
Mycroft just sits quietly studying her through his peripheral vision and considers several ways that he can answer that question; at least two of them would involve either having her disappear outright or be shipped out of the country for protection; he finally lands on one that is close to the truth, but still not all of it.
"I work for the government." He says without looking at her. He's actually studying the motorbike that he is ninety eight percent sure is hers. None of the cars down here look like something the smoking pistol next to him would drive. He takes heart in the fact that said smoking pistol has scooted closer to him instead of farther away.
"That wasn't my question."There's the soft click of a zippo being closed and the faint smell of ozone as she lights up one of the cigarettes from a pack she has pulled from her overalls. Oh. That's why she was leaning closer. Mycroft finally turns himself to face her. She is smoking menthols and her eyes are also roving over the cars. It has been so long since he has felt the rush of nicotine. Just one shouldn't hurt; just one he promises himself.
"See, people like you, Mycroft Holmes, cannot understand how someone like me would ever agree to go out with someone like Charles Wickersham." Evie closes her eyes when she takes a drag, blowing the smoke out of her mouth.
Mycroft doesn't answer, it is the truth. "May I?" He asks, instead, holding out two fingers. Her eyes widen in surprise but she holds out the pack and the lighter to him. He lights up and the first drag makes him cough, unused to the sharp sensation. He steadies himself and takes another one. His blood feels like it is slowing down. How did he ever give this up so easily?
"My god, Mycroft, you almost looked human right then!" Evie gives a little cough and then laughs at him. Really laughs at him, too, right to his face.
Mycroft stares. No one since John Watson has ever dared to laugh at him. Would Red Riding Hood have laughed at the Big Bad Wolf had she known what he had done to Grandma before she arrived at the cabin? He braces himself against the handle of the brolly and considers that perhaps Ms. Winstone is a bit more brave than brainy perhaps. He also just happens to notice that her blue eyes are flecked with gold and that motor oil and other smells deriving from a life in a mechanic shop are not exactly off-putting. He has got to put a stop to these dangerous thoughts right now. He takes one last drag of the cigarette and casually tosses it to the ground where he stomps it with his uber-shiny black shoe.
"Gonna have to burn that pair now, huh?" Evie regards him thoughtfully, even having the brashness to look him up and down when he stands. Her voice would almost be playful if could not detect the hit of self-preservation in it.
Mycroft brushes off the seat of his trousers. He adjusts himself; pulling up to his full height and regards her right back, if perhaps a bit more coolly. He could almost reach down and cup that dainty chin with one hand; he wonders if she would struggle or perhaps slap his face. "Have a good day, Ms. Winstone." Once again, he turns on his heels, perhaps a little more crisply this time, and makes for his car. Predictably, Evie doesn't move, though he can easily discern the sound of a huff.
"You did not answer my question, Holmes." Evie shouts, her voice echoing off the metal rafters and concrete pylons.
Mycroft is completely finished with this conversation. Part of being the persona that he has cultivated is the knowledge of when to walk away. He is completely unsure about this woman and the way she seems to be of the desire to tilt his world on its axis. Upon reaching the Jag, he stabs at the keypad with his index finger so hard that the first knuckle pops. When he finally opens the door, he tosses the umbrella across the front seat where it makes a satisfying "thud" against the passenger-side door. He starts to pull the door closed and movement in the rear-view mirror catches his eye. Evie is walking past his vehicle directly towards the Honda, a move that absolutely confirms his suspicions. Well now. He pulls out his mobile and pops it into the connector on the dash board.
He flips down the visor and puts the key into the ignition in one single movement, then proceeds to back out of the parking spot carefully. Evie nor the motorbike are nowhere in sight. He surprises himself by letting a long, warm sigh escape his lips. How ridiculous! What exactly was he hoping to accomplish, anyway? She's easily fifteen years younger than him if he guessed her age even closely. Of course, if Sherlock's words are anything to go by, his educated guesses are generally at least in the ballpark. Females are difficult, though, they never seem to be their age: a twenty-year old woman who has had a rough life can easily come across to the world as forty and vice versa, at least in his experience. He's no "Three Continents," but he's not a prude, either. He gently nudges the car forward with a light touch on the gas pedal.
Mycroft exists the parking garage, deftly waving his pass card at the monitor and waiting for the gate to open. In virtually no time at all, he is on the open highway. It's late afternoon mid-week and there isn't much traffic. Suddenly, the desire to just break free for a while hits him and he lets the car fly. He is zipping along at an easy 120 km/h when he is passed like he's standing still by a blue and white streak of a motorbike; the rider is hunched down some against the chill wearing a matching helmet and light blue coveralls. Evie.
Mycroft's first thought is that he could really make her life difficult by calling in a favor and having her written up for a speeding violation; his second thought, however, is that he hasn't really had any fun in a while. He guns the engine and it goes from a steady purr to a roar. He takes care to stay in his lane as he pulls up alongside the motorbike. Evie spares him a quick look through the dark visor on her helmet and grins like an idiot. He sees her kick the bike into passing gear out of the corner of his eye as he watches the road. They are on a straight stretch here and the road is dry.
The white Jaguar pulls abreast of the striped Honda; it is almost as if they are flying in formation. It is when Mycroft spares a glance at the speedometer that he misses the delivery van coming towards them in the other direction. When he looks up from his split-second glance, it is too late to stop it from happening. Mycroft Holmes is a genius with many gifts and one of them is the ability to recall events in full detail and sensation with a cold, detached manner, even decades after the events take place. Along with that gift is the ability to see events happen as if they are in slow-motion.
He sees the van heading towards them. He sees the black mutt on the side of the road open its mouth and bark, although he cannot hear the animal. It gives chase to the brown van, almost colliding with the side of it. The young driver who is nodding away at what is presumably music playing in the cab, is inexperienced to all the ways of the road and with the sudden thunk against the side of his vehicle hastily cuts the wheel and the van lurches sideways, crossing the line. There is the sickening sound of metal warping and safety-glass smashing. For the third time in his life, Mycroft Holmes knows fear. He stomps on the brake at the same time he's pressing buttons on the steering wheel, making the dreaded call and shouting his whereabouts to the emergency dispatcher. Without another word, he pushes open the door and runs across the road to the horrible wreck.
The weak sunlight mocks him when it lights up the scene: gleaming, twisted metal reflects the same light back perversely that was so beautiful in a young woman's eyes a mere hour ago. The dog is long gone, probably knocked senseless when its skull came into contact with the side of the van. The van driver is stirring and Mycroft literally has to fight the impulse to reach in through the smashed window and grab the young man by the throat. When his eyes land on Evie's bike, however, his only thought is that he must get to her. It's Sherlock all over again, but this time he has the ability to help.
Evie is lying on her side with one leg underneath the twisted hulk of the Honda. There is a stream of blood running down the side of her neck from somewhere underneath the helmet; the helmet itself seems to be intact. Possibly just road rash, then, Mycroft thinks. He kneels down beside her, all thoughts of the state of his trousers long past. Dirt digs into his knees and he accepts it as punishment for being foolish. He reaches out and grasps her hand, holding it caged within his slim fingers. Her coveralls are torn straight down the leg; it seems the blood from the gash there is already beginning to clot. He doesn't touch her helmet but reaches out and softly strokes one cheek. She has gone very very pale and suddenly he wishes that this was one of Sherlock's cases where he could remain aloof. For all that, however, she is all that he is aware of until there's a hand on his shoulder and a paramedic asking him to step back. He nods silently and moves out of the way; his attention is soon drawn to the young van driver who is shouting to all and sundry that the person on the motorcycle pulled out in front of him.
Mycroft thinks that it is strange the young man doesn't mention the black dog as he moves in slow motion towards his car that is parked in the center of the lane with the drivers' door hanging wide open. He yanks his phone out of the blue-tooth connector and dials another number. He studies the way that the van has stopped with the passenger-side tires over the line. He narrows his eyes as he considers just how difficult this young man's life is going to get if Evie is badly injured; there will be more than hell to pay if she never wakes up. He never stops to consider that his chosen pack has just allowed in one more member.