Summary: Mycroft's point of view and thoughts throughout his meetings with Sylvia thus far. Mentions of a suicide attempt, anxiety and drug use.

Chapter 6 - Mycroft's POV

Mycroft stared at the laptop screen atop his desk at the Diogenes Club. Within it was Miss Sylvia's personal file. It contained everything from her academic records, work history, financial situation, photos of her taken from CCTV cameras, a few from social media, albeit she didn't share much and had mostly deleted all of them a few years back, and general online activity. However, what Mycroft's gaze was more focused on were her pitiful hospital records and blog entries from several platforms she had used throughout the years to vent.

She had attempted suicide for the first time with alcohol and sleeping pills at the age of 19 and then had several therapists, mentioning more instances of suicidal thoughts and self harm. She had a few good years in university with plenty of friends, even participating in several theatre groups, and improving her grades, but she suddenly dropped out in the last year of her Masters degree. She was an only child from a typical family, common working class parents, a few instances of alcoholism and domestic disturbances but they were all of the verbal kind so he was sure she hadn't been physically abused in any way, just verbally and perhaps emotionally.

She was a timid child, outgoing young adult and then plunged into a deep isolation after the global pandemic which was unfortunately more than common. Still, she picked herself up and tried to find work and free classes wherever she could.

What had disturbed him was how cheerful, kind and polite she was, always worried about other people's feelings. She tried her best at several retail jobs but was either fired from them for making too many mistakes, or quit from having work related injuries or not being able to handle the pressure. She had no criminal record and showed virtually no instances of rude behaviour or altercations towards anyone. She was the sensitive type, full of self doubt and fear which prevented her from flourishing in activities she would strive in, such as being a writer, actress, or even a kindergarten teacher. She was very loving and kind towards children despite being an only child, and the few interactions she had with them were recalled fondly. He gathered all this mostly from people's tendency to post their entire lives online thinking their browser history or anonymous profiles can't be traced back to them.

As for health issues, besides her diagnosed depression and obvious social anxiety, she had low blood pressure and quite a slow heartbeat, qualities usually found in athletes. She wasn't one, but she liked to listen to music and dance and jump around nearly everyday. He attributed that to the fact she struggled to feel at ease in public spaces and needed and activity to release her pent up energy she could do at home without attending a gym or jogging through a park. She also smoked and drank, having had an instance of mixing prescription medication with hash that landed her in the emergency room with seizures. He listened to the call she made to the emergency services and cringed at her cries and stuttering voice. That must have taught her a hard lesson in drug use, he thought, because she showed no signs of using since then.

He sighed as he watched her come and go from Sherlock's flat. He had implemented a hidden camera in the stairwell to see if anyone would go into his little brother's domain. He knew it was dangerous for Sherlock to associate himself with people with suicidal and addictive tendencies, so he had to intervene in some way. He thought about being honest and introducing himself to her as Sherlock's older brother, explaining his past drug abuse and that he simply needed someone to look out for him. Someone kind and with not a lot of friends or anything else going on in their lives that could be distracting. He attempted to bribe Doctor Watson but soon found he had a kinship with Sherlock and didn't care much for informing him about his little brother. He was a doctor and often went out on dates with women in his free time so he wasn't always with Sherlock. Miss Sylvia was the perfect candidate to keep an eye on him.

So, he decided to monitor her whereabouts and approach her in a public space, so as to not frighten her.

The next day, he watched as she left a job interview with her head down and wiped her face with a tissue, moving towards the Thames. As she approached the railing, he immediately asked for a car to take him there, fearing she might be considering making an attempt on her life once more. As he walked towards her, he noticed how she was trying to calm herself down. He paused and decided to gaze at the river and not her, to appear less intimidating.

When he admitted to worrying about Sherlock he saw a deep sadness pass her features. If he wasn't sure whether or not she knew about Sherlock's drug use, he was now. Surely Doctor Watson had mentioned it to her, or perhaps even Sherlock. As much as he wanted to know, he couldn't listen in on his conversations. When she accepted his offer without even asking for the figure he would pay her, a small hidden chord in his heart was struck. He felt sorry for her but also admiration. He recognized the selfless worry he felt for Sherlock in her eyes and her actions. He felt a slight tingle over his chest and quickly composed himself. That was the beginning of his feelings towards her.

When he called her for the first time, her sweet and sleepy morning voice endeared him. He liked that he was the one waking her up. It felt intimate but justified by business purposes. He liked that too.

Everyone listened to Mycroft but no one seemed to enjoy it. They consulted him out of obligation or necessity and often avoided interacting with him as much as possible. When they did, it was begrudgingly so. He could tell by their microexpressions of boredom, fear, revulsion, discomfort, envy or just plain hatred. However, when Miss Sylvia looked at him with her wide eyes, she really looked at him. She furrowed her brow in concentration and often parted her lips absentmindedly, the gears in her mind making an effort to understand and keep up with him. She asked him questions and showed a genuine interest in hearing the answers. Whatever the subject he was broaching with her, she gave him her full attention. He enjoyed this too much and he knew it was foolish and careless to indulge, but he kept doing it.

After their initial meeting, where his deduction of her loneliness made her cry, he felt that same pang in his chest but this time with the shudder of guilt. The last thing she needed was for someone to exacerbate her already low self esteem. When he rose he meant to say: I hope you have a good evening, please let me know if you require anything at all. Please forgive me for what I said. I never meant to hurt a person as kind as you, you don't deserve that. Please talk to me about how you are feeling. Let me help. Let me take care of you. He would never forgive himself if he contributed to her sadness.

Instead, she left abruptly and he was left standing helplessly and cursed himself. He watched her enter the car through the CCTV on his laptop. Anthea had sent him an angry text then, reading:

What the hell did you do sir? She looks terribly upset.

He clenched his jaw. He didn't mean to upset her. He was trying to say: I know you're lonely because I'm lonely too. We're alike you and I Miss Sylvia. He typed his answer to Anthea, not wanting to show any hint of sentiment:

The emotional state of Miss Sylvia is no concern of mine. I did nothing whatsoever, she is just a highly emotional person. In the future, please refrain from meddling into my private meetings.

When he saw her quickly head from the car to the door of 221b Baker Street, while wiping her face and wearily climbing the stairs to her flat, avoiding Sherlock, he was angry at himself and guilt ate away at him.

The next day, when she wouldn't leave her flat, he was restless and thinking the worst. He didn't want to text asking for information about Sherlock or, God forbid, call and hear her teary voice, but he wanted to check on her, so he sent for food to be delivered to her door. When she opened it, he felt his heart swell and just as quickly deflate. She looked like she hadn't slept and her eyes were puffy and red. She wouldn't pick up the bag so he sent her a text. She glanced at it and took the bag. Thank God. He wasn't expecting an answer but when it came, he was elated. Then, she prinned herself up and left the flat for a stroll in the park.

He was pleased with himself. This was just to ensure her wellbeing and it had worked.

He kept texting her about Sherlock but he yearned to see her again, to feel her eyes on him and analyse every twitch of her face and her nervous hands. He wanted to see her.

Picking her up from theatre class was just a convenience, being able to catch up about Sherlock in person. That's what he told himself.

The truth was he had taken to reading all the information he had on her including her poems and constantly checking in on her on his phone through the CCTV cameras to make sure she was okay. When she didn't leave her flat for more than a few hours, he became restless. So he always texted her something asking about Sherlock's cases, forcing her to get out and meet him. He told himself it was because he wanted her to do her job but he knew damn well it was because he feared she'd be sad and lonely and having bad thoughts.

When he first picked her up, he wasn't on the way home from the office. He purposefully had stayed late, trying to distract himself with an upcoming undercover mission Sherlock, John and himself would have to do, regarding a possible terrorist attack, planning out all the details, which he could be doing in the comfort of his home. But he wanted to wait for her to finish her class so he could drive her home. Something told him she was unlikely to accept a ride from the other attendants and would just take the tube.

After their little cheeky back and forth in the car he decided he was becoming too friendly with her, too familiar. So the next time he picked her up he tried to be distant and indifferent. She made this impossible with her constant yapping, going on about his coat of all things. He felt a flush rise through his neck when she complimented it but pushed it down. When she quietly resigned from speaking and he saw her leave the car through his peripheral vision, he immediately felt the familiar pang of guilt. He had made her sad again, the precise opposite of what he intended. He wanted to simply distance himself from her, make her just as disinterested in him as all people were, but she never showed indifference to him. He made a resolution: there would be no more in person meetings.

He broke his resolution when he learned of the assassins. He had to tell her in person.

He was determined to be stoic and impersonal but her sudden fear and concern about Sherlock completely disarmed him. Her wish to do more than what was under her control was quite relatable to him. At last, her desire to do more for the price he was paying her was quite noble. Most people under Mycroft's employment or arrangements did the bare minimum and even tried to bargain for more. He suggested his books needed organising, another lie. He could easily have had someone do it but he wanted an excuse to invite her to see his home. He wanted to breathe her in on his domain. Have her under his close watch while no one else was around to meddle or interrupt.

He indulged himself a bit too much then, complimenting her writing. Her flusteredness lit a fire inside him, and made him hungry for more. It was exhilarating to hear her laugh and see the slight blush tinting her soft skin. He was quite fond of her. He adored her. As a friend, of course. This was just to help with her mental health, and she was the one that had requested it.

He made sure to have the house spotless and her favourite tea stocked up before he finally sent a car to bring her to him.

Seeing her awe upon entering his home and following her marvelled gaze made him quite proud of himself. He decided to leave her alone to her work and retire to his office. He kept an ear out for any sounds, and couldn't concentrate on his work. After hearing her pace to the kitchen and back he couldn't help himself. He made his way to the large room where he kept the books silently, and stopped in his tracks in the doorway to take in the view. Her hair was half up half down, a few curly strands falling around her face. The afternoon sun floating through the windows kissed her skin and the pages of the book she was engrossed in, her fingertips grazing the paper reverently. He made a mental note of the title. He lingered on her face, her neck slightly moist from carrying the books around, the exposed skin of her chest above the hem of her sweater rising and falling with each breath. Her eyes twinkled with fascination. Her parted lips curved into an amused and interested smile. She must have been enjoying what she read. He stopped himself, having already indulged far too much.

"Enjoying yourself?" he tried smoothly. He wanted nothing but for her to look up at him.
She was startled. Everything happened so fast. He rushed to her the moment he saw her lift the front of her shirt from her stomach to clean the book. She didn't have to ruin her clothes like that, and he didn't think he deserved to be seeing such a private part of her body, at least to him, without her knowing he was looking.

Then, the cut, the fear and worry for her in his chest. He patched her up and felt her pulse elevate while he did so, her breathing shallow and erratic, as if she was trying to hold it.

Then, the touch from her. Her touch. She touched him, she caressed his hand and wrist. Could she be trying to take his pulse as well? He held his own breath. He answered her curious questions, lingering on her. When she chuckled at his joke and finally looked up at him, he saw the final proof he needed. Her pupils dilated, those same parted lips. She was attracted to him. He stopped himself. He couldn't do this. The indulgence was over.

He had to put a top to this and he knew it. As he closed the door on her, he closed his heart, pushing his desire and longing deep inside his mind palace. He knew what he was. A lonely man with a much too important job. He couldn't afford distractions or indulgences. He didn't have time to spend with her as much as she deserved. He could never give her what she wanted. He barely had time to show her friendship as it was. A relationship, a romance, was much too messy. And if people saw them together it would put her in danger, make her even more of a target than she already was due to her friendship with Sherlock. He had to protect her, she was his little brother's friend and that's all. Plus, he couldn't deprive her of other relationships. Of self reliance, happiness and finding love. He strolled to his study, filling a glass with whiskey and sitting in a rich leather armchair by the fireplace, to rest from her and try to forget.

It was final, he would stop texting or calling her unless it was about Sherlock and he would send for one of his drivers to pick her up from her classes instead of going himself. No more in person meetings., it was for the best. She would understand. She was probably used to people losing interest in her. It was cold and cruel, but it had to be done. He had to be cold. After all, he was the Ice Man.

Notes:
One of the things I love the most is the way people write Mycroft. I want so bad for him to be in character and I love when fic writers do it, so I hope I was able to do it as well.
Do let me know in the comments your thoughts and theories!
Have a lovely day or night wherever you are :)