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.
Irene Adler walked out of her front door and carefully locked up. She strode towards the black vehicle with the blacked out windows parked outside of her house; it was clear this was Mycroft’s. “Dramatic” she thought. “A Holmes boy”.
The door opened as she approached the car. “Miss Adler” a familiar voice said from inside the dark car.
“Anthea. What a surprise,” Irene responded sarcastically, climbing into the car.
Anthea look tired. Bored. Unamused.She typed away passionately at her phone. Irene rolled her eyes and gazed out of the window, thoughts of Sherlock and the news she was going to receive crossed her mind.
The car pulled up and the door opened. Her eyes caught Mycroft’s.
“Good morning, Mr Holmes.”“Good morning, Miss Adler. Please, take a seat.” He gestured gracefully with his hand to the seat across from him, still smiling. “Anthea, if you please,” his voiced raised loud enough for Anthea to hear him, but he kept his eyes locked with Irene’s. With no reply, Anthea resumed her seat in the vehicle, hands still clutching her mobile phone.
She was so very good at her job. So adept at paying the unassuming disinterested secretary type. Mycroft thought perhaps he’d give her a raise soon.
With Irene perched gracefully on the seat in front him, Mycroft took a moment to give her a good once over. Her shoulders were pulled back, proud, but obviously stiff— worried, not looking forward to this meeting, good to know, as Mycroft was equally reticent. Her makeup, flawless, did little to hide the exhaustion in her eyes, but the look he was beginning to think of as her battle face was set in place. Her front was very good. Today she was all business— not the sort of business she usually conducts with handcuffs, but business all the same.
“Would you care for some tea, Miss Adler?” Pleasantries are always important. Always. Never skip the pleasantries when business is set to be difficult.
Irene nodded at Mycroft “Good morning.” She sat down in the seat, crossing her legs carefully, angling herself slightly away from Mycroft, shoulders pulled back proudly.
She turned around and watched Anthea leave the room, analysing her. “A fine young woman you have yourself there, Mr Holmes,” she smirks.“No tea for me, thank you. I’ve already had some,” Irene turned back around to face Mycroft. She pursed her lips and held strong eye contact with him, not wanting to come across as weak.
“So, your brother, Mr Holmes.”
He inhaled briefly the strong scent of what promised to be a very fine tea, before favoring a long slow slip and replacing the teacup neatly on its saucer. His gaze remained on the still surface of the cup for a moment, before once again meeting the determined eyes of his very unlikely tea companion.
‘I am unsure exactly how much reading you’ve done as of late, Miss Adler— I understand that you have been out of the country…’ He’d checked. It was difficult but with some digging and the knowledge that Sherlock had been in on the rescue, he’d been able to find her. ‘I expect you’ve had little reason to keep up with current events. If you had, you would have no doubt read the troubling news headlines regarding my brother. My now late brother.’
His gaze remained with hers. Level. Unwavering. A Holmes never wavered.
‘The papers read that Sherlock Holmes was a fraud. The stories speak of one Richard Brook, an actor, whom Sherlock allegedly payed to play the role of Moriarty, a worthy adversary. They say Sherlock fixed hundreds of crimes, paying off person after person, in order to make himself seem a genius. It’s all rather impressive. The latest stories say that Sherlock, upon realizing that Brook was going to come clean on the whole affair, leapt from the rooftop of St. Bart’s Hospital out of shame.’
He is very careful in his wording. His tone suggests any and all statements made by the newspapers to be ridiculous. He wonders if she notices the deliberate setup— calling them stories, alleged, farces of an ill-informed and well-tricked reporter who had no idea what sort of man she was ruining. He picked up his cup once again, taking another slow slip. It was a dance he knew well— every movement, every word, every action, all about the effect. He doubted she would believe the stories. What he really wished to know is what she made of the situation at hand.
Mycroft knew his brother was not a fraud, obviously. He grew up with him, after all. He knew, though he had only told John Watson, that it was his information combined with innumerable resources which had allowed Moriarty to create the persona of Richard Brooks and tarnish Sherlock’s rising reputation. What he did not know is what happened on the rooftop of St. Bart’s.
Sherlock’s leap was well-documented. Perhaps not in the newspapers, but in his own files. The public knew he had leapt to his death. What the public did not know is that Sherlock had spent his final moments on the phone with his flatmate. Furthermore, they didn’t know about the gun lying in a smear of blood on the roof, neither of which belonged to Sherlock.
Mycroft suspected that Moriarty had found the way to Sherlock through John Watson. Sherlock cared very much of his reputation only insofar as his deductive skills, but the tarnishing of that reputation was unlikely to be sufficient reason to die. It makes sense, then, that John Watson was somehow in danger. Somehow this comes back to the good Doctor, and Mycroft is uncomfortable to admit that he is unsure how exactly Moriarty fixed this. He is equally unsure of the bloody gun on the roof.
Teacup replaced with a clink. Incidental smoothing of the tablecloth with a derisive sniff. Every movement counts. His gaze returns to Miss Adler.
‘So the question remains, Miss Adler. What do you make of this turn of events?’
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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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