The Personal Blog of Mycroft Holmes: Tea for two at the abandoned warehouse.
Mycroft Holmes peers wearily into his morning cup of tea. The Diogenes club is empty, the silence filling every corner of the room. But Mycroft’s head is anything but silent. His skull is buzzing, brain processes overwhelming him, synapses firing one after the other, clouding his vision with the…
Irene Adler awoke not knowing what to feel or how to think. She was exhausted; she’d barely slept. Stressed over the idea of Sherlock Holmes being no more. Possibly even stressed over the idea of caring for Sherlock Holmes.
She knew Mycroft would be in touch soon and she also knew he would most certainly be difficult about it. He was a Holmes.
Irene went into the kitchen and made a strong black coffee; regularly checking her phone.
“Oh this is just simply ridiculous” she said and turned on the television; hoping for a temporary distraction.
A repeat episode of Crimewatch was on. Sherlock appeared on the screen alongside Lestrade.
“Really?!” she exclaimed and switched off the television; going upstairs to take a cold shower.Her shoulders were stiff, her head thumped and her mind buzzed with a million thoughts of Sherlock, Mycroft and clients who she would have to attend to later that day.
She didn’t want to meet Mycroft. It would be easier to just believe that Sherlock was still alive and that the media was lying. Again.
Her phone buzzed. It was Mycroft. Of course.
It read:
A car will pick you up in precisely ten minutes.
- MHIrene sighed and wrapped a thick, navy towel around her head.
“I believe in Sherlock Holmes” she told herself over and over whilst she got ready. The genius, the man she looked up to – the only man she’d ever looked up to (and respected) – could simply not be dead.
The silence of the Diogenes Club seemed to permeate the warehouse as well. There was a slight chill to the air, and the halogen lights burned far too bright overhead. The car remained parked at a slight distance, awaiting the companion vehicle bearing Miss Adler. In an open space, one of Mycroft’s associates had put out a rather nice, albeit plain, look table— adorned with a cloth, and set up for an early tea. Someone had gone through great lengths to ensure the table was neat and aesthetically pleasing— most likely Anthea’s doing, as she was his only assistant who knew him well enough to meet his exact specifications.
An identical black vehicle pulled in next to his own, and from the left side appeared Anthea’s patent stilettos. Her gaze was bored, her customary professional disinterest when escorting clients and other associates, and focused intently on her rapidly texting fingers.
‘Go on Miss Adler, this is the place,’ Anthea intoned dully. The other door opened, and from where he sat Mycroft put on the same sort of charming smile he’d used in meeting John Watson for the first time. As Miss Adler’s door opened, Mycroft’s eyes met Anthea’s in a look that clearly said, ‘This will surely be interesting.’ He remained silent, smiled, and fixed his eyes intently on his guest’s approach.
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thecentralexchange reblogged this from thequestionablememory and added:
He inhaled briefly the strong scent of what promised to be a very fine tea, before favoring a long slow slip and...
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thequestionablememory reblogged this from thecentralexchange and added:
Irene nodded at Mycroft “Good morning.” She sat down in the seat, crossing her legs carefully, angling herself slightly...
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