Chapter Two—
The blood splattered across the paper Mycroft had been writing on as his fist came down on top of the mosquito. He'd been killing them for hours, smashing them, slapping them, squishing them…. But nothing could make them stop. It was agony. He'd suffered severe acne for ages, and now the swelling, itching zits had finally cleared up, it looked like he was doomed to deal with swelling, itching mosquito bites in their place.
The letter was ruined now, he contemplated to himself as he tried to brush the smushed mosquito of the parchment. It didn't matter, the humidity of this little island would have smudged the ink at some point anyway.
Mycroft sighed, wiping the sweat from his brow. What he would give to be back in central London… he missed the sound of roaring cars rushing by his office building. He missed his office building, actually. It was impossible to get work done here without the smell of fresh-pressed leather seats or expensive ink. Mycroft missed his lavishly furnished house, his five-star maid service, his food cooked in his restraint-style kitchen. And what he missed most in the world was back in England too…
Mycroft pressed fists into his temples, berating himself. He couldn't think about him….. He was the reason he'd moved out of England in the first place. He had spent five years running around the world until he'd finally found this island. He'd been running from everything; his problems, his feelings, and mostly from him.
But that wasn't important. That had been five years ago. Lestrade had probably moved on by now. Mycroft picked one of his fingernails subconsciously…. Greg had probably forgotten about him altogether. It was unknown to him that at that very moment a certain Detective Inspector was back home in London, gazing out his rainy window having similar thoughts.
Mycroft's phone buzzed and he jumped when he realized who it was. Why would his formal employer be calling him after five years of unemployment with the 'company'? There was no reason, it wasn't like they needed him…. He'd only been in a minor position in the British Government anyhow ;)
It would be dangerous to answer….. if he did, they might as him to come back, to return. And if he returned, there was a small chance that he'd see him again, Lestrade. Mycroft had promised himself that he would never see Greg again for as long as he lived…..
But before he knew it, he was answering the phone.
The call was brief and to-the-point, and within the hour, Mycroft was on a plane to London, sitting in the window seat, staring at the clouds and wondering what in the world he was doing going back home.