"Stoic stance and a stone gaze
Towering over me like the Big Ben over the streets he controls
How can they call him the Ice Man
If he burns me to my soul?"
Notes:
Throughout the story there will be mentions of suicidal thoughts, depression, anxiety, addiction, drugs, alcohol, overdose and suicide attempts. I will add a note at the beggining of each chapter.
Very little Sherlock and John dialogue. Timeline all over the place. Already have a few chapters written, so will update regularly.
All characters belong to BBC's Sherlock and its writers Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. Except Sylvia, my own original character.
Inspired by the great "Between Bloods" by macbethsfool1511 and "A First Time For Everything" by Blood_Sucker_142
English is not my first language, it's my second! I'm Portuguese and a huge Sherlock BBC and Mycroft fan. This is my first ever fanfiction. Enjoy!
Chapter 1 - First Meeting
I was crying, sobbing really, by the river leaning against the railing. Wiping away my tears because I didn't like the way they felt on my skin, wetting it. Blowing my nose, I muttered "Fucking Hell"
before tossing the soaked tissued into a nearby bin and leaning back against the railing, taking a deep breath in and a shaky breath out. The heavy hard bar felt good against my chest, the pressure of it reminding me of my weighted blanket. I closed my eyes for a second, hating the feeling of being in my own head and regretting it immediately, opening them back up, craving stimuli, a distraction for my usual anxious and desperate thoughts. As I gazed into the water of the Thames the familiar pang of recognition came, the old friend of my dull pain. The horrible nothingness and numbness of being depressed. I've stood on bridges, cut myself and even attempted suicide before. Standing near a body of water trying to convince myself to jump always made me feel so weak and small and cowardly. Never brave enough to do it, never brave enough to try and improve my life.
Some improvements had been made of course. I managed to get the courage to introduce myself to my downstairs neighbours, having met a strange man called Sherlock that seemed annoyed by my presence and a much friendlier one called John. These past weeks I grew the habit of visiting Sherlock after several gunshots had woken me up and I ran there wondering what had happened. Sherlock's nonchalance about firing a gun, laying bored on the couch as John argued exasperated had made us all burst into a fit of giggles that broke the ice. John offered me a drink, I accepted, and a new friendship bloomed. Now I was overwhelmed here by myself, as usual, after a horrible job interview had gone wrong. I felt useless, with no self confidence and almost numb enough that I didn't care anymore.
As I leaned quite awkwardly into the river, sighing and trying to calm my breath while a few shuddering little sobs and stray tears fell, I noticed a figure approaching the rail next to me. Immediately I shot up straight as if being caught doing something illegal and wiped away my tears and cleared my throat. Grasping the railing and stealing a glance sideways through my peripheral vision I knew it was a man. an older man, perhaps in middle age, slim and wearing black leather gloves and a winter overcoat that seemed expensive and fancy. One hand grasped an umbrella while the other rested on the railing. He seemed to sneer at the water.
"The waters of the Thames are quite cloudy and grey today."
I did a double take to make sure he wasn't wearing earbuds or talking to someone else and politely retorted "Oh...yes, they sure are.", glancing behind me to make sure there were people in the street. I was relieved to see a couple walking by and a few kids riding bicycles and relaxed again, my hand touching the railing. I was tired of running to find places to cry where no one would see me and I'd be damned if I was gonna leave this one in a hurry just because a stranger started chatting. Plus he obviously had noticed my crying and was probably just trying to be polite.
"Its steady flow never ceases however." He stands up even straighter if that were possible and continues: "No matter how the weather may vary, the course is never changing. One of the few things it can be relied upon to do." Okay, he had caught my interest now.
I raised my eyebrows. What was this man a philosopher? A poet?
"Yes the…the river always runs… through", I said now facing him and taking in his features. He looked regal and quite pompous, the kind of man who lives a world above me and would never even glance at me. He was smiling gently down at the river when suddenly his expression dropped and turned to face me and I noticed his suit like one notices a chandelier light gleaming through the reflections of a golden ballroom. He was definitely rich and important. His gaze was light grey with a hint of blue and it was fixed on me like a disgruntled teacher looks at his students. I looked away for a second, intimidated then looked up at him again waiting for him to speak.
"I am sorry to approach you like this Miss Sylvia but I'm afraid I must inquire about your relationship with Sherlock Holmes." I froze, released the railing and took a small step back.
"How do you know my name? Who are you?" He raised his right hand and rolled his eyes as if annoyed by a child about to throw a fit and in need of a stern talking to.
"Please don't worry Miss Sylvia I assure you you are not in any danger. I am simply a person tasked with surveilling Sherlock Holmes' activity and the people he associates himself with. That's the only reason why I know your name." He explained this in a tired tone, as if speaking to someone dumber than him. I was infuriated.
"How do you know I associate with him?" I reply curtly.
He nods solemnly as if repeating himself on a call to the phone company answering robot assistant: "As I've Just stated, I am in charge of his surveillance. He is considered a national risk. And you've just moved in above him at two hundred and twenty one B baker street just three weeks ago."
"You know where I live? And you knew I'd be here? Have you been following me?"He sighs and I continue: "Yes, yes I know, tasked with his surveillance. Well, I don't have any relationship with him."
"Is that so? You have frequented his flat 17 times in the short time you've known him and you're helping him solve crimes together with Dr Watson." He replies with a smirk.
"You know how many times I've been to his flat?"
He closes his eyes again and nods tiredly.
"Well what else do you know about me?" I continue, even though I suspect he won't answer me.
"Just enough to know you aren't an active threat. But I still do require to know your intentions about him."Seeing my eyebrows shoot up he immediately continues: "Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?"
I laugh out loud and he sneers in disgust. "I don't plan anything. We're friends I guess. Who knows what will happen tomorrow. I live there so I imagine I'll run into him frequently."
"Yes I imagine so. That's precisely the reason why I am prepared to offer you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis in exchange for information."
"Information? About Sherlock?"
"Yes, nothing indiscreet, nothing you'd feel… uncomfortable disclosing."
I scoff again. "Well I don't see why you would need that given that you have him under surveillance and know how many times I've been to his flat."
His jaw clenches. "It's a matter of convenience. I require information on his daily activities, his state of being, what cases he is working on."
"And why don't you just ask him yourself?"
"I can't, the point of this Miss Sylvia is to avoid his suspicion."
"And what if I say no? You'll kill me?"
He lets out a snobbish laugh but the smile doesn't reach his eyes and it feels fake and calculated. "Don't be so dramatic Miss Sylvia I am not threatening you, I am offering you a business proposal. After all, you do require money as you're out of a job for over a year and don't seem to be making any progress in finding one given your…" He takes out a pocket book from the inside pocket of his coat "…threefailed job interviews for low paying retail positions this week, the most recent one leaving you in tears."
He smiled smugly at the last revelation and I imagined the look of alarm that must have been on my face mixed with embarrassment. I look down for a second and shift my weight. He takes a step closer and my head shoots up to look at him. He towers over me and I grip the railing again, afraid he'll throw me over it and into the river right here in front of everyone. The irony of a suicidal persons survival instinct kicking in.
"So let's stop wasting time Miss Sylvia. You need money, I need someone to provide me intel on Sherlock Holmes, it's a win-win situation. So what do you say?" His eyebrows shoot up and there's a small sneering smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes again. I swallow hard and look at his suit to avoid his piercing gaze. The advantage of being nervous and anxious is I get to notice people's clothes a lot and his were rather exquisite. A golden tie pin on his blood red necktie, tucked under a pin striped black vest, adorned by two pristine coat lapels, all under his winter coat which had an equally deep red lining. To contrast between the colours and darks, a pristine white button shirt, but not the washed up thin white fabric from stores no. This was a rich velvety cream surely from a vintage tailor. All of him exuding luxury in a millisecond overwhelms me.
"Wh-who do you work for?" My voice cracks measly and I muster the courage to look up at him.
"That's classified information but I can tell you I occupy a minor position in the British government."
"Do you want to harm Sherlock?"
"The precise opposite. I protect him from harming himself. I worry about him. Constantly."
My brow shifted, rising from furrowed to knowing. My eyes go from fearful to distant. One of the worst things than being suicidal is knowing the worry you cause to your loved ones and I knew mine well enough. He seems to wait for my pause and I focus back on him.
"So what'll it be, Miss Sylvia?"
"Okay I'll...I'll do it" I replied quietly, my voice cracking and as I gazed up at him there was a hint of…pity? Concern? Surprise? That flashed over his eyes and slightly furrowed brow. He leaned back and I blushed slightly, not knowing if it was from the fear and adrenaline of meeting this man or the thrill of the promise of money and a secret Mission, or just the mere fact that a person was interacting with me and stepping into my personal space. All these flustered me and I cursed myself for having a mental illness. Then I cursed myself for not asking the amount he offered.
"How much money will you pay me?"
He smiled smugly "How does three thousand pounds a month sound?"
My eyebrows shot up in surprise and I cursed myself for being so obvious.
"I…very good."
He nodded. "I'll be in touch. In the meantime keep an eye on Sherlock and make no mention of this meeting. You've made the right decision Miss Sylvia"
As he turned to leave I almost pleaded: "Wait! How do I…I don't, I don't even know your name-" I started, only for him to cut me off.
"There's no need to, you may call me M. I'll be in touch. Have a good evening Miss Sylvia" and he strolled off, twirling his umbrella.