Summary: Does what it says on the tin ;) Mentions of anxiety and picking at your fingers. Mycroft is cute, but a bastard.

Chapter 3 - Mr. Holmes starts picking me up

One of the things my therapists always tell me to improve my mental health in general is to get out of the house and join group activities. They help with socialising, building self confidence and just generally having a good time. I searched online and saw there was a nearby theatre offering classes for people of all ages. It was just an amateur theatre group but I immediately signed up. Ironically, despite being anxious, performing in plays is one of my greatest passions, and I always try to watch as much live theatre as I can. It doesn't matter what the show is about, I just enjoy the thrill of the lights going down, the crowd hushing, and watching the magic unfold before us. I had acted in a few amateur plays in my home country and was very excited to enter that world again.

When the day came, I took the tube to the theatre and walked the few streets needed to get there. The participants were a very diverse group of people, with ages from 15 to 72. We had a great time and when the class ended I exited the majestic doors and started making my way towards the tube. It was an after hours class so it was quite late, after 11 pm and the streets were dark and cold, alight only by a few streetlamps. It starts to drizzle and as I pull up the hood of my coat my phone starts buzzing. I see it's Mycroft and the pit of my stomach does a somersault.

He had been texting me regularly, asking about Sherlock of course, but tonight I went to my class so I didn't even know if Sherlock was home or not. I felt guilty, but i did ask him if he had any plans before I went out to which he swiftly replied:

"Why? So you can run off and go tell His Majesty? Let him stick his big nose in something else tonight for a change." I giggled and thoughtWhat's the harm?" It's just a couple of hours anyway. Now I was feeling guilty about it. Reporting to Mycroft about Sherlock's well being was my job after all.

I pick up with a sheepish "Hello?"

"Good evening Miss Sylvia. You know, you really shouldn't be walking the streets alone at this late hour."

"Mr Mycrof-Sir? How do you know where I'm walking?"

He completely ignores my question and continues. "Stay right where you are. There will be a car arriving at your location in 5 minutes to drive you home to your flat."

"What? Has something happened? Is it Sherlock? I was just gone for a few-" I pick up my pace, almost running down the street thinking Sherlock finally exploded his kitchen with one of his experiments.

"Sherlock is fine Miss Silvia, now if you could please stop walking, the car will be arriving shortly."

"But I-"

Click.

I stare at my phone and then both ways down the street I'm on. It is quite deserted, being a mostly residential area and I curse myself for having left Sherlock alone.A sleek black car pulls up and a man exits the passenger door to open one in the back. I climb in, finding Mycroft staring at his phone screen.

"What happened?" I ask anxiously.

"Nothing's happened Miss Sylvia I've told you. I was in the area, as they say, and found it best to give you a lift back to the flat. A young woman walking alone this late at night is not safe, as I'm sure you know."

"Oh I…I thought something had happened to…well thank you sir that's very nice of you. You didn't have to that, I was so close to the tube-"

Mycroft's upper lip twitches as if I've just insulted him. "No need for that, it's on my route home from the office anyway."

"Oh I see." I answer politely. "Where do you live?"

He turns to me with raised eyebrows. "I'm sorry?"

"I…I was just asking since you said it was on the way there…" I clear my throat and turn forward, hiding my hands between my thighs to try not to pick at the skin of my cuticles. Nasty habit.

"Well I'm not in the habit of sharing my home address around. It's on the outskirts of London, that's all you need to know."

"Sure I-I get it" I stumble out nervously. "No problem." I cringe at my choice of words, looking out the window.

After a couple of minutes he asks: "How was the first day at the theatre club?"

"Oh!" I perked up, turning to him. "It was lovely I- wait, how did you know I went there?"

Mycroft smirks tiredly but proudly. "Hardly a difficult deduction."

"I didn't tell anyone I was going-" I start, but then remember I searched for it online. I turn with narrowed eyes at him. "Do you have access to my browser history?"

He smirks at me again as if he was playing charades with a child. "Not at all Miss Sylvia, that would be illegal and, quite frankly, a waste of my time. I simply deduced you would be looking for group activities and given that your interests lie in theatre and writing and this was the only activity available for months in the area it was a logical assumption that you'd be there."

"Wh-but how did you know I was here walking home?"And how did you know I'd be looking AND what my interests are?! I wanted to ask as well but didn't.

He swallowed and pursed his lips, looking away from me and I had my answer.

"You're having me watched through the street cameras!" I raise my eyebrows at him as if his silence is a confirmation. "I knew it! John had mentioned you did that."

"Would you rather I had not done so and left you out in the rain?"

"No, of course not! I thank you for….it's quite alright." I pause facing forward again and try to use my best words for this. I knew Mycroft watched the city of London and God knew where else through the CCTV cameras and I was quite curious about it. "I feel much safer walking through the city by myself knowing you're watching over me-us, Sherlock and…everybody really." As always, I try to be smooth and end up being awkward.

"Is that so? Most people are quite appalled by the idea, claiming it to be a privacy breach. All the while posting their entire lives online and and their every waking thought onTwitter." he spits out the last word.

I chuckle. "You have a Twitter account?"

"God no, but we do monitor it for terrorist activity."

"Oh I see, very well." I reply smiling out of the window.

"You find that amusing?"

I turn back to him and my smile drops when I see his icy gaze. "No! No sir,I just…I didn't know the government did that, is all. I mean, I assumed terrorists used Telegram or something to organise crimes."

"Yes, we have that under surveillance as well."

"Yeah?" I look at him expectantly waiting for him to go on.

"Yes Miss Sylvia we do, are you expecting me to elaborate on the details of the British Secret Services investigation methods like it's a casual chat?"

"No sir I-Oh for God's sake!" I huff, crossing my arms and looking ahead." I was just asking on account of you talking about it" I pronounce this asonacounttaand curse myself for not having adjusted to the British accent. I still used a lot of expressions from American tv shows and my accent was all over the place since I watched British shows as well.

Mycroft chuckles again. "You use quite interesting expressions Miss Sylvia."

I look at him and seeing his slight upturned smile, I relax, shifting around a little, looking around the car. "Yeah well I'm not exactly a high born sophisticated lady of the court."

"Clearly." He retorts. I turn to him again faster, shooting him daggers with my mouth slightly open.

He smirks and looks at me intently. "I meant that as a compliment, Miss Sylvia."

I chuckle. "Very well, Mr. Holmes." And then turn to the window to hide my blush and smile happily as the street lights flutter by.

After that, he started picking me up from every theatre club session, always claiming to be around on business or going home from the office. I worriedly wondered how he managed to work so late every day, or at least every day I had classes.I mean when does the man sleep and relax? I found myself thinking about him more and more. Everyday, really. My brain thought: Stop it Sylvia, this is ridiculous and you know he will never like you back. But my heart replied: Mycroft is so handsome, keep texting him and hanging out with him. It's just a part of your job description anyway. It's not like you're harassing the man! And on it went until I found myself analysing every word he said to me and how he said it. I needed to get better at deductions so I could figure out what he was feeling. I mean, thinking.

The next class came and went and I entered the now familiar black car, sliding next to Mycroft. "Good evening, sir. Thanks for picking me up."

"Quite alright." He stared from the window to his phone screen impatiently and I took the liberty to linger my gaze on his form. His winter coat hugged his body neatly and its cut was prim, tailored to fit him perfectly. He wore black leather gloves, equally exquisite and the one not holding his phone rested on his knee, one finger tapping impatiently. I noticed him shift and looked at his face again, seeing his gaze fixed on mine. I immediately looked away blushing slightly but it was too late.

"Is there something on your mind?" He asked cooly but not with his usual curiosity.

I fidgeted with my fingers and hid them between my legs immediately not wanting him to see I was flustered. "No, sorry, I was just hum… looking at your coat. It's quite beautiful, where did you get it?" I tried asking nonchalantly.

He shifted and looked out the window again as if annoyed by my question or did I detect a hint of discomfort, pride? "I have all of my coats tailored from a specialty mens' wear shop."

"Oh so it's tailory made to…you have it specially made for you, so there are no others for sale?" I replied, nodding and trying to show I was listening. I really am awful at socialising.

He sighed dramatically and rolled his eyes, glancing at his phone again. "That is the definition of tailored, yes."

I look at him directly now with an accusatory frown on my eyebrows. He's barely looked at me once since I got in the car and now looks through his window, seeming utterly repulsed by my presence. "I'm sorry, have I said something to offend you?"

"Not at all. I just detest small talk." he replies with another stealing glance at his phone. Clearly there was some sort of work situation getting on his nerves but that was no excuse to treat me like that. It was him who offered to pick me up from each class which I consistently declined every time but eventually accepted after his incessant lectures about safety and convenience at it being on the way home from his work.

"I wasn't trying to make small talk, I was genuinely interested!" I say with a higher pitched voice than I intended. I turn forward to try to gather myself because looking at him is infuriating. His microexpressions of disinterest and disgust are painful and hurtful.

"I'm sure you were." He replies sarcastically and I retort in a softer tone:

"Sir, I was just making conversation."

"That's the same as small talk which is just as unnecessary and bothersome."

I scoff. "Very well then, what kind of talk do you prefer?"

"None would be ideal, in fact."

I don't reply. He keeps looking at his phone anyway. I look out the window and blink away the mist forming in my eyes. I pretend to look at something passing so I can turn my head as far to my side as possible, hiding it from him to quickly wipe the tears with my fingers pretending to scratch my face. We eventually arrive and as soon as the car stops I say: "Thank you for the ride, have a good evening." in the most polite and dismissive customer service tone I can muster and climb out of the car. I don't wait for his reply and slam the door a bit harder than I wanted.

I'm tired of trying to figure out your enigmatic moods Mycroft. You want to act like a snob and make me feel like shit? Be my guest, I won't even glance at you. And so, I spent the night tossing and turning thinking of clever replies I could've given him and already plotting my revenge for the next time we meet.

Notes:
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