Summary: Sylvia goes to Mycroft's house for the first time and things go awry. Mentions of an accidental cut and blood. Not graphic.
Chapter 5 -Books, Broken Bits and Breathlessness
After furiously googling the Dewey decimal system and watching tutorials to make sure I understood it completely, I made my way to Mycroft's house. Well, he sent a car for me that is. Upon arriving at what seemed more like a mansion, I made my way through the stone path that led to his front door. I knocked and when he opened the door, I felt my stomach ache in that delicious dull pain known as butterflies. He looked impeccable in a light brown suit with a dove blue tie. He moves aside to let me enter and as I do my mouth drops open.
"Wow! Your house is amazing Mycroft!"
He nods and drones on about architectural and historical facts but I was too busy looking around for signs of life. A tossed coat somewhere, an open notebook, any trinket whatsoever, but it looked like a museum. Even the kitchen was spotless. After a small tour, and pointing out where the guest bathroom was (I was thankful for that), Mycroft led me to a large room with floor to ceiling windows and told me I could get started and to help myself to anything I wanted from the kitchen.
I ran my hands through the spines of the books, all rich bindings with gold plating. Everything from science to history to poetry. It was every bookworm's dream. After a while, I make myself a cup of tea in the kitchen and put it in a plain coffee mug, bringing it with me into the room. Mycroft said he'd be in his office on the ground floor so I hadn't run into him. When I come back, I find a first edition copy of The Importance of Being Earnest and start reading it, just for a little.
Eventually, I lose myself in it, until I suddenly hear a smooth voice: "Enjoying yourself?"
I jump and drop the book on the table I was standing near by, knocking over the mug, spilling tea on the book, and hearing it clatter to the ground, shattering.
"Oh my God I'm so sorry!" I scramble to lift the book and dry it with the fabric from my sweater unsuccessfully. Mycroft was next to me in seconds, taking the book away.
"It's alright Sylvia, it's just a book, don't worry."
"And your mug! Oh God I'm so sorry Mycroft!". I crouched to pick up the larger pieces and gather them in my hand but I cut myself on a sharp edge.
"Ow, shit!" I cursed and Mycroft immediately grabbed my wrist and pulled me up. Standing so fast, our chests close together, I became dizzy and breathless. He gracefully pulled his handkerchief from his pocket square and wrapped it around my hand.
"I don't wanna mess up your handkerchief-"
"Please, hold that tightly. Come with me." He put his hand at the middle of my back and led me to the kitchen.
"Sit down."
I do and he pulls out a first aid kit from a drawer. I mournfully look at his bloodied handkerchief. "I'm so sorry Mycroft, I ruined your book, your mugandyour beautiful handkerchief!"
"Please Miss Sylvia, those are not important at all, they're just objects and can be replaced at any time. You however cannot."
I looked up at him silently. Did he mean it in the I like you sense or in the don't kill yourself sense? And why was he back to calling me Miss Sylvia?
He expertly disinfected my cut and put a bandaid on it. His movements precise and meticulous. All the while he held my hand gently in his palm. I held my breath the entire time and hoped he couldn't feel my elevated pulse through my skin.
I tried to keep my eyes on my hand but I couldn't stop looking up at him.
"There." he spoke softly, gazing into my eyes, and held my hand for a beat too long. I looked down and as he went to drop his hand away, I turned mine over and held his, with his palm facing up. I switched places with his hand like a reverse game of hand slap, or red tomato as they call it here. Much more appropriate given the colour my cheeks must have.
"Why do you wear a ring on your right hand? Are you a widow?" I ask softly, my voice wavering, not being able to look up at him. My thumb daring to gently brush over his exposed wrist.
"No" He replied in a quiet voice too. But he made no move to pull his hand away.
"Old girlfriend?" I opened and closed my hand slowly so the pads of my fingers could brush against his skin.
"No, it's just an old class ring. I started wearing it when I began working for the government so I stopped getting marriage proposals."
I chuckle and look up at him but freeze when I see those beautiful grey eyes staring at my own. "Well, it suits you" I almost whisper. He kept looking into my eyes and I saw a glint of something, but it disappeared just as fast and he pulled his hand away, straightening himself up.
"I think it's best you go home now. Get some rest, heal up. You may continue your work next week. My driver is just outside, he'll take you to your flat."
"Thank you" I reply, getting up to grab my jacket on the hanger. He nods politely, following me to the door. He opens it and I glance at him smiling awkwardly. "See you next week."
"Goodbye, Miss Sylvia."
He closes the door and it feels quite final. It doesn't feel like it felt when he led me to the door out of his office the last time we met, with an open ended invitation to come back. Even though he said I could come back next week, it doesn't sound true. It sounds like the empty promises friends make of future plans that never happen. It feels like we might not know when we'll see eachother again.
Over the next few weeks he stopped texting me and the familiar car that picked me up from theatre classes came empty of him and the smell of his cologne. I hoped I would get the daily text asking about Sherlock but it never came. I could take a hint. He probably felt uncomfortable when I touched his hand. I had a history of becoming obsessed with crushes and misreading signals. I had been rejected a few times too but it wasn't anything that killed me. I just hoped I hadn't pushed him away. I didn't want to lose Mycroft's friendship. Though, now that I thought about it, being away from him and not communicating, we weren't really friends at all. He just talked to me about Sherlock and when he met with me in person, it was always about him too.
But what about the times he picked you up from the theatre? My heart pleaded, but I silenced it. He was just being nice because it was on his way. Now, he was probably so weirded out that he dreaded seeing me again, so he ordered a different car on purpose to pick me up because he felt guilty to stop it. You're giving him nothing but trouble, just let the man be. He probably had arranged for someone else to organise his books too. They lay forgotten in that large room of his house, just as my own secret notebook in a drawer Despite myself, I pulled it out and wrote another poem.
Leather, wood and book bindings
Shattered porcelain and the sting of blood
The warmth and precision of your feather touch
Like embers of a once raging fire
I wished too hard, I tried too much
I decided to try to occupy my mind with other things and go out more. And so, I got all dressed up and went to a trendy club in the centre of London. However, I am quite anxious, so to mellow out I had more than a few drinks. A cute guy with a group of friends even bought me one which I gladly took. He asked me to dance but he was getting rather handsy and kept glancing at his mates so I politely told him I had a great time, but had to go meet a friend. Thankfully, he accepted and asked for my number. I gave it to him partly because I knew I could always block him if he texted me anything weird. I made my way to the bathroom before leaving the club and realised I was a bit wobbly from the drinking but since I never wore heels, just trusty trainers, I was fine to walk home.
It was around 3 in the morning and the streets were filled with drunk tourists hollering, but I kept up my pace and was mostly ignored. I put my phone into my bag and my hands in my pockets and tried to walk fast. Then I heard my phone ringing and groaned. It was Mycroft. It had been three weeks since we last spoke.
"Hello?" I ask with a slightly slurred voice. I didn't realise how drunk I was until now.
"Miss Sylvia, you really shouldn't be walking around alone at this time of night."
"You're watching me?" I ask looking around the street for him or a car and then up for any cameras.
"I watch everyone. Now stay right where you are, a car will arrive in precisely two minutes to pick you up."
"Oh that's not necessary I'm only a few streets away from-"
"Please stop protesting Miss Sylvia, you are in no condition to get yourself home. Stay where you are."
Click.
I sigh and lean my back against the wall. This is gonna be so embarrassing. A car slows down and I stand up straighter, waiting to see if it's Mycroft. A driver walks out to open my door for me and I see him inside and climb in. The interior is warm against my skin after being in the cold in a loose black dress and coat with my legs only covered by thin stockings.
"Thank you, sir."
Mycroft eyes me incessantly. "I see you are cautious despite your risky behaviour."
"What?"
"You didn't get in the car until you were sure it was me and you never turn your back on anyone while walking."
"Well, I'm an anxious person. And a woman. So how come you were up so late?"
"I was in the area on business."
I scoff. "Sure you were. Business meeting at 3 am with Mr Businessman."
"You're drunk." he sneers.
"Affirmative" I reply, trying to copy his accent. He rolls his eyes. "You didn't have to come, you could've just sent an empty car."
"As I've said, I was in the area on business."
I sigh and look out the window. I'm too drunk to think of anything witty to say.
"I also…wanted to request that you accompany Sherlock on his next mission." I look back at him and he continues. "He's currently investigating a terrorist cell that we suspect will attack at a future event. He will be watching footage from hidden cameras that will be placed at the venue to identify any suspicious behaviour amongst the guests and staff. But he will have to cooperate with a large team and he tends to be…intransigent. I ask that you accompany him because I believe Doctor Watson won't be enough to keep his unorthodox methods and dreadful social manners under control."
I couldn't believe he decided to give me all this important information while I was drunk. "Of course, anything I can do to help." I reply, feeling sobered up by the prospect of a new task.
"Thank you." he replies facing forward.
"I was beginning to think I was fired." He glances at me and I explain. "You stopped talking to me since I was at your house…"
He exhales and looks away from me again. Despite this I go on. "I'm…I'm sorry I did that sir. I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable. I was just-"
"I don't get uncomfortable, Miss Sylvia, and certainly not by mundane occurrences. I didn't communicate with you because there was nothing to talk about. Sherlock's been working on the case diligently along with Doctor Wat-"
"Mundane occurrences?"
"Yes well, you made a mess at my house and injured yourself. It was just an accident. Could have happened to anyone."
"I'm not talking about that." I bite back, my hurt starting to show.
"Then I have no idea what you are referring to. Probably due to your considerable alcohol intake." he quips.
"I might be drunk but I remember holding your hand." I reply as a last plea.
"Whatever you think happened Miss Sylvia it was either a figment of your lonely imagination or your current pitiful state. Now please refrain from hurting my ears with your slurred ramblings."
I remain silent the rest of the drive. This had happened before with him, telling me to shut up. That he detested small talk. How could I have been so stupid as to try again. When the car slowed to a stop, I climbed out as levelly as I could and muttered a quiet thanks before closing the door. I didn't even look at him. Time to move on Silvia, time to move on.
Notes:
Move on my a***!
I struggled so much with this one because I want their relationship to have a natural progression and not seem forced. I also apologise for any wrong British terms, English is not my first language. Still, I hope you liked it :) Mycroft's POV coming next!