Summary: Mycroft's point of view from his encounters with Sylvia thus far. Mentions of Sherlock's addiction.

Chapter 12 - Mycroft's POV II

Mycroft tried to pull himself away from her, occupy his mind. He had been rude to her on more than one occasion and he thought that would do it. But when she refused to get in the car he sent to pick her up from theatre class, he found himself following her every move until she was safely home at Baker Street. When she paused outside Sherlock's door and rushed inside, he knew immediately that something was wrong. Then, when she sent her text, he was already up with his coat on, rushing outside and ordering his driver to get him to his little brother's flat.

Sherlock's addiction. It was bound to happen, she was bound to see it sooner or later. He called her back immediately and her nervous voice on the other end of the line told him everything he needed to know. His little brother was alive but had been on death's door. When he arrived, rushing up the stairs and bolting through the door, the vision before him shot a knife through his heart. Sherlock, his dear brother and only friend, helpless and weak, lying like a child in her arms on the couch. She held him like a mother holds her dying child or Juliet holds her Romeo's lifeless body.

Thankfully, he was alive, just in a dreadful condition. She tried desperately to make him warm, having brought a blanket to cover him, he was sure of it. The way she was stroking his hair, holding him close to her chest, was beautifully tragic. Her tenderness and concern towards him made him feel guilty.

When she went outside for a cigarette, he felt at ease to show his cruelty and fury towards Sherlock.

"How could you have done this, Sherlock?" He asked, his tone cutting.

"Don't worry, Sylvia's fine." Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes.

"What are you talking about?" Mycroft bit back, hoping Sherlock wouldn't have noticed his concern for Miss Sylvia.

"Mycroft, this was for a case. And an experiment, actually. Your reaction was quite interesting. You can't-"

"My reaction?! You could have killed yourself-"

"But I didn't. And you're almost angrier about the fact that Sylvia witnessed it, than me actually doing it at all." Sherlock quipped, raising his eyebrows.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Mycroft was furious now. Surely his little brother couldn't be implying such a thing.

"It's obvious, really. You care for her. Upon entering the room you gazed at her lovingly-"

"Sherlock, stop it! Just stop it! What you did was dangerous and I don't want you to do it again! Promise me." Mycroft's features softened into a more pleading look.

"Wow, you really do care."

"Sherlock! Promise me, please."

"Don't worry brother mine, I won't hurt her or traumatise her and, if you have any semblance of intelligence and actually care about her you'll stop hurting her as well."

"I've never hurt her, Sherlock. I have no idea what you're-" Mycroft started, raising one palm up like a debate moderator.

"Oh, but you have. She's clearly in love with you and yet you have failed to reciprocate your feelings towards her, despite having her followed and watching her every move like a hawk, jumping in on every chance to help her, make her life easier. Not even I get that much attention from you, brother dear. So do us all a favour and admit your feelings towards her, and end this ridiculous game of denial." Sherlock turned his back on Mycroft and went back to his room to continue his argument with John, who was currently flipping over his sock drawer, determined to find his stash.

Mycroft was infuriated with Sherlock and refused to believe a word he said. He was just trying to deflect the attention away from him. Nobody deceives like an addict.

On the fateful day of the mission, Sherlock left with John to the Ritz without Sylvia, Mycroft suspected, on purpose, because his little brother knew he would insist on driving her and they would therefore be forced to spend time together. In the end, was he really so obvious? He thought he had kept his feelings toward her buried deep but apparently they hadn't escaped his little brother's radar.

Mycroft was desperately infatuated with her. During their fiery argument in the car, she ignited parts of him not even Sherlock could reach. The blazing fury and frustration he felt towards her mocking and protesting were blinding, and he had to control every fibre of his being not to reach out and grab her wrist, yank it towards him and make her listen to him, obey his orders. When she leaned in closer to him to see a photo of her dress and blushed, he felt an animalistic desire to touch her, one he hadn't felt for anyone in quite a long time and never as fervent as this.

When he saw her in the dress, he felt like he was in one of his films. The leading man watching the leading lady descend the stairwell in all her glory and beauty, and being the one she was looking at, the one to lead her away on his arm, to dance with her all night and end the evening with a romantic kiss, carting her away to his room for a passionate throw in the sheets. To be the one to touch her and make her gasp, between kisses and bites and scratches of fingernails and to hear his name fall from her lips between breathless moans. He was letting himself get carried away and he knew it. He had to focus on the mission.

On the balcony, her beauty in the moonlight called to him to approach her. And so he did, just as on the first day they met by the river. She looked happy and glowing after the evening's rush of emotions but she seemed quite nervous too. When she complimented him, he tried to shoot it down but she was insistent. Praising him with a joyfull twinkle in her eyes and a playful smile.

When she confessed her feelings for him, he felt like he was in another dimension. How could she do it? How could she say it so easily, so innocently, like a child's confession? She made it look so natural, as if her feelings for him were as certain as the sunrise. He knew he couldn't reciprocate them, it was too dangerous, too careless. He couldn't afford to put her at risk. Moriarty called him the Ice Man. If he knew he cared about anyone other than Sherlock, he would immediately target her. He would use her to get to him. Kidnap her, threaten her, God knows what else. So he tried to explain it. She insisted, asking him directly if he had feelings for her. She was relentless that way and he loved it. He loved how she had chased him, tried to court him with her witty remarks, grasping his arm all night, looking lovingly at him, asking him to dance, calling him her boyfriend. So, he did what he did best. He even relented a little, not able to resist her wide pleading eyes.

"I'm…very fond of you, Miss Sylvia." Something he had not even said to his own brother. But he explained he didn't want,couldn't wanta relationship. He could never play the part, as hard as he tried. He didn't let anyone in. As much as he longed to touch her, to feel her touch him, the physical attraction being undeniable, he could never do what couples do. Public displays of affection, dates, arguments, spending time together, meeting the family, meeting friends, marriage, children. He could never do any of those things. It repulsed him. So, he said what was partly the truth: "But, I'm afraid I cannot reciprocate them." Still, she was relentless.

"I don't want a relationship. I just want you, Mycroft." No, she was getting desperate. She would say anything, he imagined. Then, that same chord she had struck before so delicately, so gently, like a warm helping hand that reaches out and expects nothing in return: "I'll wait for you."
He truly didn't want her to do that. To spend her days worrying about him, only to find him coming home exhausted from one of his missions, unable to give her the attention she deserved. So, he replied: "I don't want you to."

"I'll wait for you nonetheless." She had stated. Why did she always try to find new ways to get to him? Was her attraction for him so unbearable that she had to resort to giving herself away like this? So selflessly, so willingly?

"I forbid you to do that." It was the only thing he could think to say. He so wanted her to want him like that, but he knew it wasn't what was best for her. He couldn't be so selfish as to take her all to himself and put her in harm's way.

Her reaction surprised him. She offered him friendship. That was impossible for him. He had no friends. Sherlock didn't count, he was his blood. Still, she declared they would be pleasant acquaintances and gave him back his coat. He held it, his gaze never leaving her eyes. He saw her waltz away, defeated, like a wounded bird, happily chatting with the team. He couldn't bear to say his goodbyes and leave with her in the car, seeing her eyes grow wet with tears. Sherlock would most likely deduce something was amiss from him, so he occupied his mind with work and left, sending her a text.

Later, when he was in his hotel room, he received a call from his people, informing him one of the terrorists had escaped, so he clicked into emergency mode again. On high alert, his mind wandered to the horror of her coming from the Ritz all by herself, being attacked in the stairwell by a madman with a knife, or in the car by a sniper on a nearby building. He rushed to the elevator frantically, the doors opened, and there she stood, her eyes wet with tears. Had something happened? Was she hurt? Physically no, he could deduce she was okay. Oh, right, it was him. He had hurt her. Well, no time to make up for it now, he could do that when they were safe and sound at one of his secret properties.

Mycroft saw how nervous she was in the car, fidgeting with her gloves, her brow furrowed in worry, her eyes unfocused, her mouth dry, the muscles in her neck moving as she swallowed hard. She wasn't gazing at him lovingly anymore, she felt nervous around him and apprehensive. Of course that could be due to having just been told that a terrorist was out there on the loose and they would have to hide in a safe house. It made no sense to send her to one on her own, there was safety in numbers and she was safest with him, near him, under his close watch, much like Sherlock and John would be safest together, in each other's company.

At the safe house

As he saw her in the morning entering the kitchen, greeting him with a smile and a sleepy voice, all the worries that had kept him awake the previous night melted away. He longed to spend time with her, to show her his most prized possessions, his domain. Seeing her awe at his home the night before, despite her initial reticence at being close to him, made his heart soar with pride. He showed her to her room, and silently hoped she would muster enough energy to eat some dinner. He left her alone, and changed out of his tuxedo into another of his suits and descended the stairs into his office, not before turning on the lights in the living room. He wanted her to feel welcome in every part of the house, and hoped to share a night cap with her.

He poured himself a drink and waited for updates about the terrorist, keeping an ear out for the sound of Sylvia leaving her , when he heard her wash the dishes and wander out of the kitchen, he left his office and followed her footsteps into the living room. He really should have eaten something himself and not have indulged in whiskey again, but after the evening's rush of emotions, he needed something to unwind.

He saw her hands run through the spines of his books, her wet hair glistening in the lamp light, wearing the clothes he had carefully picked out for her a week before, telling himself it was just in case they ever needed to go to his safe house, making sure they were loose and casual because it was the style she usually wore. Seeing all of it made him stir like he was indulging in a guilty pleasure displayed before him.

He offered her a drink and noticed the small smile as she smelt the wine he poured for her, the bottle ordered a month before, just because he wanted to have something from her country, to bring her confort. Her eyes closed as she brought the chalice to her lips, losing herself in memories he could tell were bittersweet.

Oh, how he wanted to spend the evening with her, watch her drink and smile and look at him like no one else did. But her nervousness reminded him not to take it too far. She most likely didn't want to be in his company anymore after he had rejected her. She was only here because she was forced to, he reminded himself.

Still, he tossed and turned in his bed that evening, thinking of her sleeping peacefully under his roof, and had a nightmare of a dark cloaked figure breaking into his home in the night.

The next day, after he saw her eyes light up at the piano he knew she was longing to play it. He offered to teach her a little, wanting to be close to her. He couldn't help himself after he saw the sad look passing through her features after he told her the name of the song he played. He wanted to make a nod to her sadness, a salute. To let her know he understood, he felt sad too, much too often. He hoped she would understand what he meant. He couldn't afford to be blunt or direct about his feelings, the mere thought of doing it made him shudder.

He let his gaze linger on her unpractised hands, her chest rising and falling, her lips pursed in concentration, the gleam in her eyes when she got a note right. He gently took her wrists and placed them on the keyboard, feeling her pulse quicken and watching her pupils dilate. He just wanted to make sure she was still attracted to him, and she was. He shouldn't have done this. He saw how flushed she got everytime he praised her and it only made him want to do it more. After that, he decided it was best to stay in his office and occupy his mind with work and tracking down the rogue terrorist.

After she interrupted him, offering lunch and asking about a ball, of all things, he kept an eye on her through his window. As he watched her kick a ball made out of newspaper, he chuckled to himself. She really was stubborn, but endearing. It seemed she never ceased to amaze him in some way, to surprise him with her words and actions. He let himself watch her for a moment longer, enjoying the ease with which she could engage in childlike playfulness. Mycroft couldn't remember the last time he spent time outside playing games. Probably with Sherlock when they were children, playing pirates, he recalled fondly.

Then, he suddenly saw her wander over to a tree in the middle of the garden. He watched in horror as she began to climb it. His heart skipped a beat, and he turned and ran down the hallway to the back door, thankful for his regular sessions on the treadmill in his was scared, terrified she might fall, the image of her head splitting open or the bones on her arm or leg breaking, the blood, the panic, having to rush to the hospital. And yet, she was as calm as a cat lounging on a windowsill. She protested, as usual, and it infuriated him. She was completely oblivious to her own danger and was even nonchalant about it, teasing him with snarky remarks.

When she finally relented, the brief relief he felt was gone in an instant. As he saw her foot slip and her form start to fall rapidly down the tree, his instincts kicked in and he rushed to save her, holding her close to him. Very close. Too close. He let her body slide down gently to the floor, feeling her chest against his, their hearts thumping wildly together. As soon as her feet softly touched the ground, he let her go, his skin tingling, already missing the feel of her against it. Her warm skin, her hands wrapped around his arms like two lovers reuniting after being away for too long. He saw her pupils dilate, and he was sure his must have been blown wide too. Once again, he was dangerously careless with his closeness, so he promptly went back inside after making her promise not to ever do that again.

He paced around his office, wired and restless, and reached for a glass, pouring himself a drink. He watched her pace around the garden as well, and then head back inside. He lit a cigarette and made himself stop after the second glass. Then, she asked him to eat dinner, a pleading look in her eyes and pouted lips he could never resist. He ate in silence and talked only of the rogue terrorist and usual mission trivia, determined to never be as close to her as he was again. But her easy laugh and relaxed manner unnerved him. She seemed unaffected by their close encounter in the garden.

Back to his office, another drink poured. He couldn't concentrate on his work anyway, his mind drifting to her love confession at the ball. As the hours passed, his glass emptied and refilled several more times, he was no longer sure how many, he grew inpatient. He rose from his chair, heading towards the lights coming from the library. She was reading that book again, of course she was. She looked quite peaceful until she saw him and asked if everything was alright. Of course it was, except for the fact that she had confessed her feelings towards him like it was the most natural thing in the world, and continued being kind to him despite his rejection. Continued to invade his thoughts, his home and his life with her insufferable presence and jokes and worries and opinions and dangerously impulsive behaviour.

His words left his mouth before he could stop them, his usual composure and control clouded by the alcohol. She continued to praise him and ignored his compliments to her. He mentioned his past relationships. All of them purely physical, from other students in his university days, to work acquaintances from some of his jobs. He found people too woolly, too messy. They had showed lust towards him, and affection sure, but he cut it off before it could develop into anything further. He didn't enjoy people's company. He indulged in sex out of curiosity and being aroused, but he didn't feel any fondness towards his previous partners. As he was speaking to her and considering all of these things, he decided he was talking way too much.

He tried to leave but faltered, and she came to his rescue like he did her in the garden. He felt embarrassed and annoyed, but her soft touch and teasing remarks put him at ease. But he would never, could never,let her in his room. That was his space and his space only, not meant for any eyes but his own. He couldn't break any more of his rules for her.

As they arrived at his door, he lingered, and she broke away, after pleading with him to let her know he was okay. She cared about him. She cared too much. After he laid down he could still see her shuffling feet through the light spilling from the corridor under the door. He couldn't believe she could be so worried about him. No one ever was. He bid her goodnight with a smile on his face, as he rested his head against the pillow and sighed happily, drifting away to a sweet drunken dreamland filled with all the compliments she had paid him.

Notes:
Hope you enjoyed this one! Next chapter will be back to normal storytelling. :)