Summary: Sylvia is sad and angry about Mycroft and wants nothing to do with him. But she just can't seem to get rid of him. Mentions of depressive, negative and anxious thoughts.

Chapter 15 - Blue Bird

As I ride the train home, I try to distract myself by mindlessly scrolling on my phone. I still have a lot of Mycroft's money in my bank account from his previous "salaries" and I plan on spending it on whatever I want. I cry a few times during the ride, but the hatred I feel towards Mycroft keeps me under control to not become a sobbing mess, staying in a shitty balance of numbness. When I arrive at the station, I transfer to the Jubilee line and already have Uber Eats open to order something. I don't feel like cooking or going to the supermarket but I remember I don't have cigarettes so I walk into a nearby store. I pick up two packs, because I don't plan on leaving my apartment for a while, and two bottles of rosé. A third of one is enough to get me drunk but I don't give a flying fuck. And I hope Mycroft can see me through the CCTV cameras. After I get home, I pass Sherlock's door and he yells: "Don't get too drunk." I scoff and continue climbing up the stairs. I open my door and sigh. Home, at last. I order some fast food from a nearby burger place and start drinking, lighting a cigarette. Then, I remember I'm still wearing the clothes from Mycroft's house. I feel guilty but then consider he would probably not want them back and it would be stupid to return them. Fuck him, they're mine now. After the food arrives, I watch funny YouTube compilations on my laptop while I eat, then put on some music and drink until my face is numb. When my head starts drooping, I shut off my laptop and climb into bed, falling into a restless drunk sleep.

The next morning, I wake up with a dry throat and my bladder aching. I curse myself and head to the bathroom. I drink half of the water bottle on my night stand and lie back down, but I can't fall back asleep. I feel nauseous from the previous night's wine and Mycroft's cruel words. The pit of anxiety in my stomach is unbearable and the empty void in my chest brings silent frustrated tears to my eyes. No, I can't just stay here crying and feeling like shit.

I make some coffee and toast for breakfast and remember my notebook. The one Moriarty and Sherlock read. The thing that started all this crap. If I hadn't written those idiotic poems, Moriarty would probably never have figured out I like Mycroft. Liked. I take the book from the hiding place I keep it in, behind some books (uselessly, since they were able to find it anyway) and open its pages. It hurts to revisit those feverish memories of my infatuation with Mycroft but I make myself do it to cringe at how obsessed I was. I find the very first thing I scribbled about him.

M.
Mike?
Mark?
Michael?
Martin?
River

I scoff. Me trying to guess his name. I never would have thought it was Mycroft in a million years. Then I find the cringiest acrostic poem.

Mysterious
Yearnful
Charming
Ravishing
Ominous
Fervent
Tantalising

Christ, I'm an idiot. I close the book and put it in a drawer, under some papers.

I decide to take a shower and go out for a bit to treat myself (using Mycroft's money of course). I'm sure he's keeping tabs over my bank account so I decide to withdraw some money from an ATM in order to be able to pay cash. I go to the hairdresser to get my split ends trimmed and decide to do some highlights and straighten my hair. I have dark brown curls and I hate the way they look, always frizzy and untamed. I know people say that those who have curly hair always wish it was straight and those who have straight hair wish it was curly - but it's absolute bullshit. Try having curly hair for a week, I dare you. Anyway, I find it beautiful on other people, I just am shit at maintaining it. After 4 hours, which is usually how long it takes to dye and straighten my hair, I leave the salon feeling very pretty. I decided to get my nails done too while I waited for the ink and products to set, so I feel pampered and cute. I drop by a pub and decide to have a drink. I check my phone and find a text from Sherlock as I sip a fruity cocktail. I haven't had lunch yet so I ordered some fish and chips too. I must look like an idiot, all dolled up eating in a pub with a cocktail but I don't give a flying fuck. I need-Nay, deserve, to treat myself to whatever I want after what I went through. I chuckle as I read Sherlock's text:

Whatever my brother did to you, please talk to him again. He's insufferable. SH

His initials at the end of the text tug at my chest. Mycroft always used to sign his texts like that too. Who gives a fuck, remember? The vengeance demon voice in my head replies.

I blocked his number. He can sod off for all I care. What did he do to you? I type back to him.

Doesn't matter. Just talk to him, please. SH

I frown at my screen. I don't think I've ever heard Sherlock say please to anyone unless when he's begging John for cigarettes after he's hidden them. I search for M on my phone and find that Mycroft's number isn't there anymore. I go to the blocked numbers tab and my finger hovers over his. It's the only blocked number I have. Being relatively new in the country and not having my number on any social media profiles, I haven't received many spam calls. And honestly if I did I would talk to them anyway because no one ever calls me except Sherlock and Mycroft. This makes me feel even angrier and sadder. No one cares about me, why should I care about Mycroft's feelings? After the horrible things he said to me? And using my depression as an excuse for lying to me as well. How could he ever think faking being attracted to me would be better than just telling me the truth?

He did say he wasn't interested in you at the ball remember? And he also said he wasn't attracted to you at breakfast. You ignored that. You're the one who always makes the first move. You came onto him. You held his hand. You held his arm. You asked to play the piano. You climbed the tree. You took his hand and held it under your cheek. You stroked his face. You kissed him first. You made up a game to get him to kiss you. Because you knew he never would never do it by his own will. If this was the other way 'round and you were a man and Mycroft a woman, people would call it harassment. Leave him alone, he doesn't want you. But Sherlock said- Sherlock was just being nice. You think he doesn't know you're depressed about Mycroft? He just wants to cheer you up and give you false hope like his brother. Mycroft is being annoying and talking to him and Sherlock wants to use you to get rid of him. That's all. Why else would he talk to you? He doesn't care about you either, you fucking idiot. When's the last time you were kissed first? Pursued first? Sure, a lot of guys welcomed your moves but that's because you always offered sex first and a friendship and relationship later. No one ever wants you when they get to know you. And even the few that did was because they were too old and ugly and self conscious to try to get someone better. They'd rather stay with you, an ugly sad girl, and know they would get laid, than go for someone better. You're better off alone and you know it. Now go back home and drink some more. Stop by Sherlock's, maybe he'll be bored enough to let you hang out with him a little and you can pretend he's your friend.

Wow, I sure am mean to myself. Get it together, Sylvia. My thoughts back to the vicious cycle of self-hatred, I finish my meal and go outside for a smoke. A man walks out of the pub and asks me for a light. I cringe but give it to him, afraid he'll start to make small talk.

"So, you live around here?"

Shit. "Yeah, I do. What about you?"

"I live on High Street. I see you have an accent. Where are you from?"

"Eastern Europe." I lie. I'm not comfortable making small talk to strangers, let alone men. And I don't want him to know where I live or where I'm from.

"I see. Hey, you wanna have a drink?"

"Sorry, I have a boyfriend." I lie again. I fucking want to put out my cigarette in his eye. My wounded proud heart wanted very badly to be able to call Mycroft my boyfriend and I did think of him, but I knew it would never be real.

"Oh, no problem. Doesn't hurt to ask, you know?"

I nod and smile politely. "Sure."

"Have a nice day!"

"You too!" He goes inside and I roll my eyes back into their sockets, thankful that he wasn't an aggressive and creepy man. A tremendous weight lifts off of my shoulders and I feel a little bad about having lied to him but I didn't feel safe or confident enough to flirt with a stranger so soon after Mycroft. Even if it was one sided, the attraction I had felt towards him was very real. Still, I walk home immediately, not wanting to stay there a minute longer, and I make sure to walk where there's people and look behind me several times to make sure he wasn't following me. Being a woman is exhausting.

I finally arrive at 221b and make my way up the stairs. Sherlock comes booming out of his flat wearing a rouge dressing gown and pyjama bottoms.

"Have you spoken to Mycroft yet?" He asks flatly.

"No, and I'm not going to." I continue climbing the stairs but he swiftly moves in front of me to block my path. I bump into his chest and freeze at our proximity. I haven't been this close to him since he almost overdosed. Since I've known Sherlock, I've been able to tell he doesn't enjoy affection or most social interactions, so I make sure to always give him space.

"Sylvia, you don't understand. I've never seen him this insufferable. You have to-" He begins, his bright blue eyes staring into mine.

"I don't have to do anything Sherlock!" I blurt out. "He said horrible things to me, he…he doesn't like me. He finds me repulsive and he really hurt my feelings in the process." I pause as I feel the tears I have been repressing bubble to the surface. I don't have any friends so I wasn't able to vent about this to anyone. I wish I was friends with at least one woman my age who could understand. I like Sherlock but he doesn't understand human emotions. Just right now he's standing in front of me, gazing at my face like a robot. "I really thought he liked me and we kissed but…he was lying to make me feel better about myself. I can't bear to look at him and I never want to see him again, Sherlock." I wipe away a tear that fell as I spoke.

What Sherlock did next I would never be able to predict. He lifts both his arms and pulls me into a bear hug, crushing my face against his chest and resting his chin on the top of my head. I am confused but the kind and warm gesture is welcomed, so I hug him back.

"Sherlock, I-"

"It's alright, I'm just doing this to make him jealous." He replies with his baritone voice. I feel it vibrating in his chest through my cheek.

"What?" I ask, pulling away and looking up at his face.

"The camera in the stairwell. He'll be absolutely pissed to know I've touched you. I mean- hugged you."

"What? There's a cam…" I trail off, my eyes widening. "The food he sent me…he knew I hesitated at the door...that's why he texted me! He can fucking see us!" I explode, Sherlock stepping away from me looking worried. "Where is it?" I ask, clenching my jaw.

"In the plant hanging from the-"

My eyes follow Sherlock's and I walk to a plant hanging on the wall by the stairs and see a tiny dot with what I assume is a camera. I take it, unsticking it from a leaf and throw it to the ground on the landing and smash it beneath my heel. I step on it again and again and start stomping on it angrily. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. YOU. MYCROFT!"

Then, I breathe out, straightening up my back and jacket. Sherlock stares at me puzzled. "Sorry Sherlock, but I'm tired of Mycroft trying to control my life and spy on my every move. Have a nice day." And I climb back up the stairs into my apartment. I try to distract myself with a movie and I end up snuggling with a blanket on the sofa, my body exhausted from the emotions and having spent so much time at the salon making chit-chat with the workers. I hate to be a rude or impolite client so I always try to ask questions and make conversation while they work, even if it's just asking them how long they've been in the profession. They always end up telling me a million stories about past jobs and other clients so it fills the time. However, it drains all my energy because ever since wearing a mask stopped being mandatory after the pandemic, I can't fidget with my tongue or lips, so I have to keep reminding myself to make a straight neutral face, or smile, or frown, or nod and it's a never ending battle. At least I can hide my fingers under the chair cloth and pick at them, but since I was doing my nails that was impossible. Sometimes I think I might be on the autism spectrum but to know for sure I'd have to go to therapy and tell my whole story from the beggining- and me and my fucked up depressed and anxious self both know damn well we're too lazy to make that happen. As these thoughts float through my tired mind, I end up falling asleep.

I wake with a start to the sound of shrill violin chords being played. I curse out loud into the ceiling and check my phone: I've only been asleep for 45 minutes. I groan and throw the blanket away from me as I get up stiffly from the sofa. I grab my keys and go outside my flat, stomping down the stairs, dead set on telling off Sherlock for playing so loud.

His door is open so I just barge in: "Sherlock! What the fuck are you doing playing that godforsak-" I stop as my eyes land on Mycroft. He's sitting in front of his brother on John's chair. Sherlock is in his usual leather armchair furiously playing the violin. As I arrive shouting, he stops and grins devilishly. Mycroft turns his face and glances at me, looking bored. "-en crap." I breathe out.

"Ah, Sylvia! What a coincidence!" Sherlock says in a cheerful tone that concerns me. "I was just telling my brother how upset you were with him. I'm sure you have much to discuss-" He continues while getting up and fastening the button on his suit.

I can't believe he's done this. Tricked me into coming here. I turn and walk away before he can finish his sentence, firm in my resolution. I never want to speak to Mycroft again. Just seeing him sitting there in one of his immaculate three piece suits, holding his umbrella and frowning, made me feel the heat of a thousand fires rise up my cheeks and tears sting at my eyes again. I will not be manipulated by Sherlock like this. As I near my flat's door I hear Sherlock start playing again. I sigh and turn the doorknob, intent on putting on some music to drown out Sherlock's ear-splitting strident notes. I walk over to the sofa to pick up my phone and blast Spotify on the speaker when I hear a soft knocking. Sherlock's violin stops. I walk over to the door and look through the peephole. It's motherfucking-bitch-ass-stupid-Mycroft. I ignore him and put down the latch on the peephole again and turn my back on the door. I hear his voice:

"Miss Sylvia, that camera was there for a reason, to monitor Sherlock. You are being very unreasonable."

I furiously pick up my phone and connect it to the bluetooth speaker I have lying on the table in front of the sofa and put the volume on full blast. "Fuck You" by Lilly Allen starts playing and I fastforward to the chorus and cackle, running to the door to look through the peephole again and see Mycroft's reaction. I notice his upper lip twitching and his eyes rolling. Then, looking pissed and defeated, his mouth in a straight line, he tilts up his head and turns away, descending the stairs. The joy I feel from ignoring him and pissing him off is short lived though, for as soon as he turns the corner on the landing and disappears from my view, I already feel numb and sad and angry again. I decide to drink the other bottle of rosé.

I awake the next day with an even worse hangover on the sofa, not even having bothered to change into my pyjamas. I begrudgingly take a shower and change into clean clothes. Then, even more begrudgingly, I do some laundry, clean the kitchen and the bathroom haphazardly, before going outside to take out the trash. I carry the trash bag away from my legs and hurry down the stairs so I don't stink up the hallway. When I go outside the building to put it in the bins, I feel the chill blowing through my hair and neck and curse myself for not having brought my jacket. I'm standing in leggings and a baggy jumper with a hoodie and pockets and foolishly thought it would be enough. I run to the bins, hurl the bag inside and turn back, hugging my arms close to my chest to fight the cold until I reach the steps of 221b. As I'm briskly walking towards the shiny wooden door, a sleek black car pulls up and the passenger door opens, with none other than fucking-bitch-bastard-Mycroft climbing out, looking like a pompous ass. Great, this is just what I needed. I ignore him and continue walking towards the door of 221b.

"Miss Sylvia, please get in the car, there's been a situation that requires your presence immediately."

I continue to ignore him mostly because of the cold and hop over the steps, reaching the door's brass knob. As I try to push it open, Mycroft's hand grips my arm and I'm so surprised I jump and look at him appalled.

"Miss Sylvia, please, there's no time. You have to come with me now!"

My eyes widen as I notice his expression: a furrowed brow and a pleading desperate look in his grey eyes. He's worried. And he's begging me. Shit. There must really be something serious happening. I nod and make a silent prayer that Sherlock and John are alright.

Notes:
This chapter is dedicated to my beautiful pet parakeet Talarico, who passed away on the morning of the 28th of november. He passed away on my palm, and I hope he went in peace. Me and my parents had had him for 3 and a half years and the emptiness and silence he left is unbearable. I loved taking my laptop outside so I could sit with him while he caught some sun and chirped with the other birds that flew by. I will never forget the sound of his funny cackles and squeaks. He tried to mimic us and it was hilarious. Rest in peace Talarico. I hope you're soaring in heaven with your beautiful blue feathers. I hope when I die I'll fly with you too.
I wrote most of this before he passed away so I don't know when the next chapter will come, probably another week, two at most. I have no friends at the moment so I am using this to vent. Hug your pets, dear readers, because they are gone before we know it.