Mycroft had rolled his eyes and turned back to his drawing, observing the shrieks of laughter and play halfheartedly. His father deemed him too old to play, instead expecting him to educate himself beyond the curriculum during the the summer, but Mycroft secretly envied your carefreeness and wanted nothing more than to join.

Suddenly your shriek had sounded pained, and his head snapped up immediately. His siblings were hurt in various degrees often enough for him to discern that you were in actual pain. He had rushed to your side immediately.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

Stupid question, he thought immediately. But you had nodded. Your lips quivered and your brow was pulled tight, tears obviously threatening to spill. But you nodded. "I think it’s just a scratch."

Sherlock had stood at the side, holding Beatrice's hand, who seemed shocked at how quickly the mood had shifted.

He crouched down beside you looking at the gash on your leg. It was definitely more than a scratch. Blood trickled down your leg steadily. Concern settled in his stomach. "Does it hurt a lot?"

You nodded mutely, tears now quietly flowing down your cheeks.

He had released a breath through his nose, as he pressed a handkerchief on the wound. "Sherlock, Bea, go get mummy and her mother!"

Both of them complied immediately, running off towards the house. Only when they were out of earshot, did you allow the sobs to shake your shoulders.

Had it been Bea or Sherlock who had been hurt, Mycroft would have immediately my hugged them, but because you were slightly older then Sherlock and not family, he resided to simply patting your shoulder as you hiccuped and told him in how much pain you were. Years later he would remember this day and chuckle at his awkwardness. He would remembers thinking that he should be able to help, and that he wasn't able to understand at that age why he cared so much.

Soon after your mothers had come running out of the house. Your mother immediately gathered you in a tight hug, letting you cry into her shoulder as his mother urged him to go and get the doctor. When your mother later told him that he did a great job at comforting you, something in the young boy’s chest swelled with pride.

A couple of days later you had been up and running again, playing with the Holmes children as usual, though more careful than you were before, especially whenever you saw Mycroft watching.

The next time he saw you cry was at Beatrice’s funeral, not even a full year later.

The two of you were teenagers by then, simple friendship had slowly transformed into something more tender. You would blush frequently when he was talking to you, and he would stumble over the words he was trying to express. The tendereness had been promptly interrupted by the tragedy that overcame Appleton Manor.

On the day of the funeral, Mycroft felt numb and tired. He and r had cried all their tears in the previous days, sobbing outside of the room Bea’s body was kept in. Soon enough, Mycroft realised that neither Sherlock nor his parents were going to be able to take on the emotional burden without some help. People who came to visit were trying to ease the burden, but were too preoccupied with their own lives to actually make a difference. Instead, they expressed their awkward condolences to her parents and threw pitiful glances to Sherlock, who seemed too apathetic in their opinion. It seemed as if everyone was relieved whenever they saw Mycroft, because he was the only one they knew what to say to. “You have to be strong.” “Your parents are so lucky to have someone to help them.” “Be a good lad, won’t you?”

And so he tried to do the tiny, most necessary tasks around the house; he attempted to comfort his mother whenever his father was out to make funeral arrangements, and was adamant to keep Sherlock occupied at all times in between. Mycroft had stopped crying two days after Bea passed. The funeral was five days after they had found his baby sister.

He had followed the funeral service emotionless, and walked to the place where his sister was to be buried, while holding a crying Sherlock’s hand. Only a few close friends were invited to the funeral, but Mycroft did not wish to interact with any of them.

When they lowered the casket, he was aware of his mother’s sobs and the others guest sniffles, though his own body did not produce any tears. Instead a hollowness spread in his stomach and made it turn. The priest said something about how Bea would be missed by family and friends alike, and Mycroft realised he hadn’t even thought to take care of you in these past couple of days. He looked up to see you pressed into your father’s side, clinging to him, while your shoulders trembled under the steady flow of tears.

His eyes glossed over, and he quickly averted his gaze, hiding the emotions that were threatening to burst out. He looked at the grass under his feet, and squeezed Sherlocks hand a little tighter, reminiscing himself that he didn’t need to take care of you, and that he definitely couldn’t cry because of it. He needed to be strong.

Years passed after that, and life somehow went back to its normal rhythm. Mycroft started his apprenticeship in London, while Sherlock was send to boarding school. You stayed in the country side and started to work as a teacher.

Two years after Bea’s death, Mycroft made sure to visit Appleton Manor iin the summer whenever Sherlock was back from school as well, and invited you over regularly . There always hung a heavy sort of silence when the three of you were in the garden, a sacred pause of time none of you dared to disturb, but each one of you was adamant to preserve the friendship and the memories Appleton Manor held. And so it became tradition, the three of you spending summer together.

Five years after Bea’s death, Mycroft had grown up and his heart was healed enough to feel tenderness again. Whenever he saw you again in the summer his breath would stutter slightly. He was not blind towards your attractiveness, or numb to your character; but he hesitated to declare his affections.

At first he told himself he would wait until he had finished his apprenticeship, then until he had secured a job, then he wanted to wait until he had a steady income. He knew deep down he was avoiding the conversation out oof fear, but he was not ready to confront his demons yet.

Until it was too late, and you wrote him a letter, telling him about Thomas.

Thomas, whom you had met at a friend's birthday. Thomas, who worked overseas. Thomas, who was funny, witty, Thomas, who seemed to occupy your whole mind. Mycroft had never thought of himself as a jealous man, but the tightness in his chest at every mention of the other man’s name proved him differently. He tried to be graceful, and to be a goof friend, but his letters to you became more formal. He stopped telling you about his endeavours, not wanting to demand attention that was not his to occupy. Your letters in return also became less frequent, until both of you stopped writing.

When summer approached, he felt his heart grow heavy at the possibility of not seeing you again, and fear climbing up his shoulders at the thought of seeing you again.

When he arrived, Sherlock was already there, lounging in the dining room. You sat across from him. Mycroft’s heart faltered. You looked so grown and serious. Beautiful as ever, but less childlike.

“Brother dear,” smirked Sherlock, “you finally grace us with your presence.” You turned to look at him, and his heart stuttered again. “Mycroft,” you smiled reserved. “How are you?”

He cleared his throat. “I am - well. Thank you. H-how are you?”

The awkwardness was palpable, and Mycroft thanked any deity above that his younger brother kept his mouth shut. He knew this summer was different for many reasons, but your stiffness towards him made his stomach churn.

The first couple of days were torture. Whenever he wanted to speak to you and inquire about your relationship to Thomas, Sherlock spontaneously appeared in the room, seemingly unaware of his intrusion.

You were friendly, kind as always, but Myroft could not help but sense that your guard was up. He had seen you draw up walls in your years long friendship but had always been one of the few people to be allowed a look behind those walls. This time, he was clearly on the outside, and he did not dare to force his way in.

A week after he had arrived, Mycroft finally found a moment alone with you, though under different circumstances then he had wished for.

He had woken up in the early morning hours, frustrated that he wasn’t able to simply roll over on his other side and fall back asleep. He tossed and turned for a couple of minutes, before dragging himself to his feet and shuffling towards the kitchen in order to find something to drink.

He was halfway through the main floor when he noticed a light in the living room. He slowed down and strained his ears, but could not hear anything besides the soft turning of pages.

He stepped into the doorway and saw your figure lounging lazily no the sofa. Your legs were thrown over the armrest, your torso twisted in what looked like a very unhealthy position. You held the book with one hand, while the other rested under your cheek, eyes focused on the words before you.

His stomach tumbled at how peaceful you looked like this.

“Your back will kill you,” he said softly. He could have kicked himself for interrupting you, had you not given him a smile in return. He shuffled closer. You sat up and pulled your legs towards your chest, creating space for him to sit next to you.

“Better like this, doctor?” You asked smiling and winking cheekily.

“Much better.” He released a laugh through his nose as he settled down next to you.

“So,” he began tentatively.

You raised your eyebrows amusedly. “So?”

His chest tightened slightly. “Are you engaged?”

He expected you to grin and confirm. To laugh and deny. To shake your head and stay mysterious. Anything, but what happened next.

”Do you enjoy torturing me?”

He frowned, and his eyebrows pulled tight when you scoffed at his reaction.

“Don’t pretend Sherlock didn’t tell you. Go on, make fun of me if you must.”

The look he gave you was one of pure confusion. “I don’t know what you are talking about. Sherlock did not tell me anything.”

Your jaw was set and you avoided his eyes like one glance might contaminate you with a sickness.

When your name tumbled from his lips, your walls came falling down like he had blown the trumpets at Jericho.

You dissolved into sobs, struggling to breath. He moved immediately, putting his arms around you, like he could hold together the pieces of your heart, if he just showed enough strength of will. The sun had risen by the time your sobs had subsided and Mycroft had finally pieced together what had happened.

Thomas had not only pursued you, but also two other young woman, telling each one a different story about himself. One of the other two girls had found out and informed you and the third one.

You were angry at Thomas for lying, furious at yourself for trusting him and actually falling for him, embarrassed that you had not found out yourself. It was a cocktail of all the worst emotions, the pressure heightened because you barely talked about it.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Mycroft muttered into your hair. You had ended up hugging him back, finding comfort in his embrace.

“I was ashamed,” you admitted softly, voice muffled by his shirt. “I thought you would think I’m stupid.” ”Never,” he muttered.

You shrug in reply and shift slightly. “It’s all right. You can think I was. I was actually stupid.”

He shook his head. “You are not stupid for falling in love. He is stupid for lying to someone like you.”

A wet laugh tears from your throat. “You have to say that.”

He huffs a humourless laugh. "I don't have to say anything. I am quiet serious, he is the idiot in this whole situation."

You hummed. "Thank you, Mycroft. I'm sorry I didn’t write to you anymore."

"Don't be sorry. " A beat past, and he was sure you could hear his heart falter, when you nuzzled your face closer to his neck. "I'm glad I’m able to take care of you again." His voice shook slightly.

He knew you well enough to know that your eyebrows were furrowing, and s he anticipated that you were going to ask him something.

”What do you mean again?”

He chuckled softly. “Do you remember that summer when you fell and hurt your leg pretty badly?”

You lifted your face from his neck and gave him a deadpan look. “That could be every summer from when I could walk until…” a heavy silence took over, before you decided to be brave. “Until the summer we lost Bea.”

Mycroft smile softened, glad to hear her name. “I suppose you are right. But I meant the summer before that. The four of us were alone, and you fell and cut your leg.”

You nodded. “I remember. I was trying so hard not to cry in front of Bea, because I knew that if I cried, she would as well.”

Both of you chuckle at how empathetic his sister had been. “Well, point is this,” Mycroft continued, “I knew then already that I liked taking care of my siblings. And that afternoon I realized I also liked taking care of you. And then I couldn’t, because of Thomas.”

”Mycroft, I-“

”Sh, sh, sh, let me finish,” he interrupted you with a chuckle, “sleep deprivation is making me brave.” You rolled your eyes playfully, but let him continue regardless.

”I knew for a long time already that I liked you more than a friend, and I told myself time and again that I would tell you and ask for your hand. But then I never found the courage to do so. And when you told m about Thomas… I just want you to be happy. If that was going to be with him, I didn’t want to stand in the way. The truth is… I love you. And I know you probably want some time for yourself after this whole situation. And I respect that, I do. I just… I needed to tell you.”

During his speech you had slowly inched away from him, and he noticed your hands trembling when he was done.

”I am so sorry,” he said, “I shouldn’t have.”

You shook your head. “I am glad you did. But you are right, I need time. I’m scared, and I am not sure i can trust very easily again after Thomas. By which I mean, I can’t promise you that it will ver happen.” Your voice was trembling, and you couldn’t meet his eyes.

”You don’t have to promise me anything. I am the happiest I could be, being a friend to you.”

’You don’t have to say that.”

He smiled, his eyes crinkling softly. “I don’t have to say anything. I mean it, your are and always will be my dearest friend. There is no need for anything more.”

You smiled tentatively. “Thank you.”

”Your welcome.” He took both your wrists in his hands and pulled you up gently from the sofa. ‘Now if I know you at all, you were up reading all night. Go get some rest,” he said, nodding his head into the direction of the staircase. You giggled quietly and walked away, feeling Mycroft eyes following you until you were out of sight.

Mycroft had seen you cry out of sorrow, but never out of anger or frustration. The first time that happened, he couldn’t help but feel somewhat endeared by it.

It happened in the new year. You and the Holmes brothers had come together to celebrate the winter holidays, because your parents had gone on a month long trip. You couldn’t join them, as you were still teaching in between the holidays. When Mycroft heard of it, he promptly invited you to come out to join him and his brother.

One particular morning, he had seen you stumble in as you walked down the stairs into the dining room, grumbling expletives under your breath. Sherlock and he had tried to stifle the snorts, but you had caught them and send death glares into their direction. They straightened their backs immediately, pretending they hadn’t seen you fight gravity.

The next mishap took place during breakfast. Your toast had flopped out if your hand unpromptetly, landing jam -down on your skirt, which had caused you to roll your eyes and huff out in frustration. You got up to change, and only when they had heard your bedroom door slam shut did the two Holmes let out quiet snickers.

“Poor girl, she really started her day on the wrong foot.” Sherlock took a bite of his toast, still grinning. Mycroft shrugged in response. “I’m sure she will be fine.”

He couldn’t have been more wrong. Before noon, you had dropped a couple of apples from the basket you were carrying. They immediately splashed everywhere in the entrance, which was annoying at most. But then Mr. Crowley almost slipped and you felt so bad, you didn’t manage to look either Mr. or Mrs. Crowley in the eyes.

After lunch you meant to relax and read a bit, but your book might have as well been swallowed by the ground. You searched every corner of the house, only to find out Mycroft had borrowed it and had been reading in the living room all along.

Mycroft apologised of course, but didn’t seem too bothered until you mumbled about how much time you lost looking for it.

When the time for dinner came around you were so tired that you almost excused yourself. A small simmer of hope convinced you to stay, convincing you that the day might still end well.

Which it seemed to. The food was delicious, the conversations light. Sherlock talked about his adventures, making you and Mycroft laugh ever so often. Your glass of wine was standing awkwardly at your sie on the table, and when you reached for a piece of bread thoughtlessly, disaster struck.

Your elbow hit the glass forcefully enoug to make it tumble, without making it shatter. The wine splashed out on your sleeve and Mycroft’s lab, who in his turn stood up instinctively .

“Oh god, I’m so sorry!” you exclaimed, getting up as well and handing him a serviette immediately. You snatched Sherlock’s serviette to soak up any liquid that had landed on the table and chairs.

“It’s fine, don’t worry.” Mycroft patted his trousers dry before assisting you with the table. “Are you alright?”

After the first shock wore off, your shoulders tensed. Mycroft saw your eyes become glassy. When he tried to get a closer look at you, you turned abruptly and started leaving the room, choking out an excuse me.

After a moment of hesitation he followed you and found you in the kitchen. The sight make him stop in his track. You were standing with your back turned towards him, furiously rubbing a damp cloth at the dark spot on your sleeve.

He pressed his lips together to suppress his smile and stepped up behind you.

“Allow me?” He reached for the cloth, but you took a step back, not looking at him. “I can do it.” Your voice broke at the end of the sentence and you huffed in frustration, using the cloth even more vigorously.

Mycrft placed a hand above you elbow and squeezed your arm. Tears spilled over your cheeks slowly and your jaw stet into a hard line.

”Will you allow me regardless?”

“I can do this. You don’t need to.”

Something shifted in his face, softening the edges. “I know you can do it. I know you don’t need help. But I am offering it regardless.”

You released the cloth slowly and Mycroft took it gently, dabbing the sleeve softly, working calmer and more efficiently than you had.

“Do you want to tell me what is wrong today?”

You shook your head stubbornly, refusing to meet his eye as long as you were still crying. He nodded in acknowledgment and kept working on your sleeve.

After a couple of minutes, he put the cloth away, having removed most of the wine stain from your sleeve. “The rest, Mrs Crowley will have to take care of.”

”I’m sorry,” you sniffled.

His eyebrows furrowed, while he duck his head to catch your eye. “it happens, you don’t need to apologize for spilling some wine.” The confusion in his tone was clear.

You wiped your nose. “I meant for not taking care of this by myself.”

He has to stop himself from chuckling once again. “You know I like to take care of you. You don’t need to apologise for wanting help.”

”But I’ve been so mean.”

This time he couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped him. Your eyebrows crinkled and hw hurried to clarify. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, I do not mean to make fun of you. But you have barely been mean today. A little less friendly and bright than usually? Maybe. But we all have bad days. That doesn’t mean we don’t want to help you.”

You released a soft laugh through your nose and nodded. “Thank you.” The blush that crept up your cheeks, and the butterflies in your stomach at his tenderness, were things that you would try to explain at a later point.

“”””

The first time Mycroft let himself cry in front of you was a week before your wedding. You had come to Appleton Manor a day early, wanting to surprise him, but upon arrriving you couldn’t find him in the house. Cordelia was still asleep and so you entered into the garden to enjoy the early morning sun.

It took you a while to spot a crouched figure under the tree next to Bea’s grave, but when you did, there was no doubt that it was your fiancé sitting on the ground. You braced yourself and took a deep breath before making your way downwards slowly.

Mycroft was sitting next to the headstone, arms around his legs, crying. It wasn’t dramatic, just a steady flow of tears while he stared into the distance.

You sat down next to him and leaned your head onto his shoulder. He wiped his face clean. ”I’m sorry, my love,” he whispered hoarsely.

”Don’t be.” You took his hand. “Do you miss her?”

He nodded. “I can’t help but feel our wedding party wont be complete without her.”

You nodded. “That makes sense.”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be crying,” he whispered,

You sat in silence, while he squeezed your hand. Now that you were close to him, you could hear the soft sniffing and how his breath stuttered. After a couple of minutes, when his breath was evening out a little, you spoke up again.

”At her funeral,” you mumbled, “I remember you didn’t cry. And I was so angry at you.” You smile at you the memory.

“I went to my mother and I said: Mother, can you believe he didn’t cry? And she just smiled and let me go on and on and on about how I didn’t understand how you didn’t cry. And when I was done, she just calmly said: Did you notice how he took care of everyone? The poor boy didn’t have time to cry.”

Mycroft’s jaw had set and tears were gathering in his eyes still.

“When I realised she was right,’ you continued, “I was so ashamed. I felt really selfish and bratty. Because its true. You take care of everyone around you, especially of me. When I am sad or angry or hurt or frustrated, you are always there. Even if I have no reason to be any of that.”

You carefully place you hand on his face and turn it towards you, wiping away a tear with your thumb. “I love that you take care of me, and that you comfort me and let me cry on your shoulder. But if we are to be married, you need to let me do the same for you.”

His entire face softens at your words. “Let me take care of you, as well,” you mumble. “Let me be your shoulder to cry on, let me be there for you. Promise me to not be strong for me, but to let me in.”

Your eyes were burning as well now, and when he saw that, Mycroft’s heart cracked open. He pulled you close sure and pressed a searing kiss to your lips, holding you tightly.

You recoiled slightly, eyebrows furrowed. “What? No! Who recorded her?”

His hands slid lower down your arms, softer now. “I’m sorry, darling,” he sighed, one hand coming down to rest on your waist and pulling you closer towards him. “I’m sorry, I just ... I don’t even know,” he admitted.

Your hands rested on his shoulders, thumbs rubbing small circles close to his neck. “Where is your mother now?”

“Back at home. With Sherlock.”

You nodded and searched for his eyes. “That’s good. Isn’t it?”

He nodded, though you noticed the tension in his jaw and how his throat bobbed.

You took a look around before bringing one hand up to his cheek and resting your forehead against his. He exhaled slowly, pulling you impossibly closer.

“I’m sorry, I just... I needed to ask. I don’t know who to trust anymore. What to think.”

Your thumb moved to draw tiny circles again. “It is all right. I understand. You can trust Sherlock. You can trust his judgement. And you can trust me that I never keep anything from you. I did not know that they were recording her.”

His eyes were closed as he nodded. “I’m sorry.”

You chuckled and pressed a light kiss on his cheek. “Don’t be.”

He smiled despite himself. It took him a few seconds to collect himself again and taking a step back.

“So what happened?” you asked. “Maude told me that Sherlock made an escape with Cordelia, but she didn’t have any details.”

“Well it is a long story,” Mycroft replied, pinching the bridge of his nose, “and I will tell you everything once you have finished for the day. The short version is: my mother was drugged, recorded and we don’t know why yet, so Sherlock decided to bing her home. Which happened after he went back to prison, broke out of rison, made sure fake Shou’An was behind bars, got her out again, while Bucephalus was murdered and Professor Malik went missing.”

Your eyes grew wide. “Drugged? Darling, I am so sorry, I should have paid more attention, I had no id-“

“You couldn’t have known. And if I am being honest, I have a suspicion that it all started after you were her nurse.”

In the past year, Mycroft and you had finally found the courage to confess your feelings to one another. While you took slow steps and tried to keep the relationship as private as possible, it did not take long before word reached the head nurse and the doctors, who promptly stopped assigning you as Mrs. Holmes’ nurse.

You still visited her, though only on days you were not working, and on the days you were working you made sure to be friendly without lingering, in order to prove that you could be professional, not only to your superiors but also to yourself.

While you knew Mycroft words were meant to calm you, you could not help the queasy feeling that settled under your rib cage.

“What if there are more?” you asked.

“More patients that are drugged?”

You nodded in reply, as your hands started shaking slightly.

Mycroft immediately took your hands firmly into his, ducking his head slightly to look into you eyes.

“If - and that is a big if - if there are other patients being drugged, there is no way you could have known.”

You nodded but your gaze was unfocused.

“Look at me,” he said. “We will figure this out. But for now you have to get out of here. After your shift, tell Maude and Edith what has happened and that you will be gone for at least a week.”

“A week? Darling, where are we going?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ll figure it out and tell you as soon as I know where Professor Malik is going. I will come to pick you up, once your shift is done.”

You nodded though you were still visibly distressed. “All right.”

A heavy sigh left Mycroft’s lips. “There’s so much happening, I don’t know what to focus on first. I’m sorry to have dragged you into this.”

“You didn’t drag me into anything. Besides, I think adventure is just part of your family. I’m happy to witness.”

His chuckle matched your teasing tone, and he took a look around, before pressing a gentle kiss on your lips. You hummed into the kiss, overtaken by surprise, but melted into it nonetheless. 

“You are part of this family, if not because of our relationship then because my mother adores you.”

Heat crept up your neck and ears, but you feigned composure. “Very flattering, Mr. Holmes. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to work.”

“Why of course, nurse, I wouldn’t imagine keeping you from your patients for longer than absolutely necessary,” he said, but pulled you in for another kiss.

When he left you couldn’t help but think about how stupidly in love the two of you were to be able to joke in these circumstances. You watched him leave, and with a heavy sigh, turned back to take care of the patients.

Tough Mycroft had reassured you that he would take care of everything, you could not focus for the rest of the day, and apparently neither could anyone else. Every nurse, doctor and patient seemed to be agitated. You could not wait for the day to end.

When everything was wrapped up for the evening, you pulled Edith and Maude to the side and guided them outside, to tell them everything Mycroft had told you.

“What do you mean you won’t be here for a week?” Maude asked, panic lacing her voice.

“I don’t know; I don’t know what Mycroft has planned, but I think we’ll have to figure out what is going on.”

“What about your patients?” Edith asked.

Your throat constricted. “I don’t know. Can you keep an eye on them?”

Maude nodded immediately, but Edith seemed hesitant. “Keep in eye on them, how? What are we even looking for?”

You shrugged helplessly. “If Mycroft and Sherlock think that Mrs Holmes was drugged, we cannot assume that she was the only one.”

“And what about the recordings?” asked Maude.

Panic clawed its way up your chest and throat. “I don’t know,” came your hoarse response. Too many questions, always the same answer.

Edith saw the grip the fear had on you and pulled you into a hug. “It’s all right. We’ll make sure to keep an eye out and we’ll write if there’s anything suspicious.”

The weight on your chest started to dissolve slowly. “Thank you.”

Maude joined the group hug. “We’ll wire you if there are any big changes.”

You nodded, relief washing through you.

“You better not come back married,” Edith tried to lighten the mood, “I insist on being a witness at your wedding.”

You snorted and Maude giggled.

“Take care of yourself, is what I’m trying to say,” Edith smiled.

“I will. You, too, take care of yourselves.” 

You saw the carriage halt at the corner of the street. Mycroft stepped out and talked to the driver, before coming over to you and you friends.

“Maude, Edith,” he greeted both of them, bowing his head slightly to each one.

“What is all that talk about drugged patients?” Edith demanded to know. She had a manner of never beating around the bush, which you appreciated in her. Mycroft learned quickly that she was not trying to be rude, but that her nature was just very direct.

“My mother was drugged. I don’t know if any other patients are affected.” 

“Where are you taking her, Mr Holmes?” Maude asked, pointing at you.

“Well, it appears that professor Malik is in Paris, so we will go there, try to find out what he is doing there, and how our mother is involved.”

“Paris?” the three of you asked incredulously.

His eyes flicked between you and your friends bemusedly. “Honeybees,” he mumbled. “You three have a hive mind.”

Edith scoffed. “Curtesy of being in nursing school at the same time.”

He turned to you, offering his arm. “We really have to go as soon as possible.”

“All right.” You turned to you friends and hugged them tightly one last time, before taking Mycroft’s arm and walking towards the carriage. He helped you up and as soon as the carriage set in motion, the reality of what was happening seemed to come crashing down on you.

“So what now?” You turned towards Mycroft.

“Other than following Professor Malik to Paris?” His shoulders were pulled up and the muscles in his jaw jumped as he clenched his teeth together. “I really don’t know.”

* Paris***

As you were laying in the carriage, the world seemed to narrow down to your thrumming heartbeat and the pressure you forced your hands to apply to Sherlock’s abdomen.

Mycroft was pushing the cart, manoeuvring through the streets and straining himself to get his brother to the hospital as quickly as possible.

Next to you you could hear Cordelia’s laboured breathing and Sherlock’s shallow puffs of air. 

“Cordelia, can you press on the wound for a moment, please?”

Her wide eyes searched yours for a moment before nodding and pressing her hands where yours hand been a split second ago.

She watched you as you carefully placed a hand on Sherlocks forehead and to fingers under his chin. “What are you doing?”

“Ensuring that his airways are free.” you replied clipped, effortlessly slipping back into your professional expertise, as you pulled his head backwards carefully and tipping his chin up. “He’s burning up,” you observed quietly.

Your hands came down to the wound again, applying pressure and releasing Cordelia from the task, who immediately leaned close to her son, stroking his hair softly. You saw her fingers trembling and her lips quivering.

“He will survive,” you said. 

“How do you know?”

“The wound is treatable. As soon as there is a doctor, this wound is less dramatic than it looks right now. The highest risk is the blood loss and a possible infection. The infection I can prevent and, if need be, treat. So really the only thing we need to worry about is the blood loss. And we both know Sherlock is too stubborn to die of something so trivial.’’

An incredulous laugh spluttered out of her. “Thank you, dear.”

You smiled at her, hoping your doubt didn’t show through the mask you so carefully practiced as nurse.

When you arrived at the hospital, immediate chaos engulfed you. Mycroft and you carried Sherlock and placed him on a stretcher, while Cordelia immediately went to convince the surgeon to help her son.

You distantly observed Mycroft try and encourage his younger brother, you could hear Cordelia offering her gold, but your mind refused to take any of that in, instead focussing on the people who needed help.

When a nun walked by you in a hospital apron you grabbed her arm softly.

“Exuse-moi,” you said in a broken accent. By now the surgeon was taking a look at Sherlock and your heartbeat slowed a little.

The nun was looking at you expectantly. “Excuse-moi,” you said again. “Je peux aider, je suis infirmiere.”

She seemed relieved. “C’est excellent, nous avons be soon de tout le monde. Je vais vous chercher une blouse, vous pouvez commencer avec n’importe quel patient”

You didn’t catch everything she said, but she seemed friendly enough and pressed some gauze into your hands, so you concluded that your help was indeed needed and welcomed.

“Where are you going?” Mycroft grabbed your hand, looking frantic and subtly pulling you into the direction the other nurses had taken Sherlock to.

“Mycroft, I have to help,” you said helplessly. 

“It’s dangerous- Sherlock needs you.”

“Sherlock needs a surgeon, and he has one taking care of him now; I need to help.” Your fingers slipped out of his hand. A nurse pushed an apron towards you, which you took and tied around your waist, holding the gauze between your chest and chin.

Mycroft looked defeated. “Please stay with mother and me.”

“I can’t, I’m sorry.” your hands were gripping the gauze again as you to a tentative step backwards.

Mycroft nodded emotionless and turned to follow his mother. Tears gathered in your eyes and threatened to spill. You turned harshly and walked towards the first patient you saw. The woman was clutching her leg, silent sobs rocking her shoulders.

“Ma’am, I need to take a look at that.” She probably understood as much English as you did French, but lifted her hands regardless. The wound looked gnarly but no arteries had been hit, so you found a cloth and wiped of most of the blood, before pressing gauze onto it and bandaging her thigh.

“Bien?” you asked. She nodded and squeezed your hand. “Merci beaucoup!”

You rose up, and searched for more gauze, bandages and water, before making your rounds again and helping as many people as possible. It was as if your body was moved by outside forces, your hands automatically doing what they had learned in nursing school, your mind calm and focused on the injuries.

Before you knew it it was nightfall and there were hardly any new patients coming in. A nurse who spoke some English came up to you and put her hand on your shoulder.

“Thank you. For help,” she said. “You go rest. Go to your family.” She pointed towards the corridor into which the Holmes’ had gone earlier.

You nodded, your conversation with Mycroft rushing back to you. Guilt gnawed at you, when you walked towards the room in which Sherlock was resting. Standing before the door, you planned what to say to Mycroft when the two of you would find a moment alone.

The soft knock on the door seemed eerily loud and disrupting in the abandoned hallway. Your hand shook as it pressed the door open slowly.

The sight that presented itself to you, tore at your heartstrings. Sherlock was laying in bed, pale and motionless, while Cordelia clutched his hand in hers, whispering to him quietly. Mycroft sat on the edge of the bed, one hand on his mothers shoulder, providing stability, while his gaze was focused on his brother’s face.

Your throat closed up at the image before you. Your mind almost convinced you that you were intruding somehow.

“How is he?” Again, your whispered statement seemed too loud. Mycroft looked up and gave you a tiny smile. Your heart sped up. 

“He’s stable,” said Cordelia, not taking her eyes off of Sherlock.

Mycroft extended his free hand towards you silently, beckoning you forward. You stepped closer and took his hand. He pulled you closer and tucked you against his side, his arm coming up to rest around your shoulders.

One of your arms came up to fast around his torso, while your other hand rest on his chest. He turned his head and pressed a kiss to your temple, lips lingering on your forehead for a few seconds.

When you looked up, you saw his eyes were glassy and red rimmed. Tears immediately shot in your eyes as well.

“I’m so sorry.” Your hoarse whisper echoed in the room.

He shook his head and hugged you close. “We’ll talk later,” he simply stated. You nodded and buried your head in the crook of his neck.

You stayed like that for a long time, until you heard Cordelia’s breath even out. Her face was more peaceful asleep. You smiled at the sight of her and Sherlock, committing it to your memory.

Mycroft shifted slightly and you stepped back, giving him space to get up and shrug off his jacket. He draped it over his mothers shoulders, squeezing his hands into her shoulders softly. She shifted and let out a sigh.

Mycroft turned to you and nodded his head towards the door. You tugged your chin a little closer to your chest and moved out of the room quietly.

The hallway was still quiet, except for the click of the door behind Mycroft. He let out a tired sigh and dropped down on a bench further down the hallway.

By now, fear had spread in your chest again, worry about the argument that didn’t really happen closing up your airways.

Mycroft was sitting bend over on the bench, head resting in his palms, his fingers pressing on his closed eyes. “Darling, please... sit.”

You shuffled closer reluctantly, stopping a step short before him. When he didn’t hear you move anymore he looked up at you, eyes searching for yours. You kept your head low, biting down on your bottom lip.

He stood up and stepped closer to you, his finger lifting your chin, before his hand came to rest on your cheek.Your chin wobbled slightly, when his hand came up to pull your lip from between your teeth gently.

“It’s all right,” he whispered, resting both his hands on your hips, “Sherlock is going to be fine.” 

He spun you around slowly, until you were standing with your back towards him. “And mother is holding up better than we could have expected.” You frowned, confused about how he didn’t mention your stubbornness from earlier, and even more confused when you felt his hands an your back. 

“James has been here to visit,” Mycroft continued to murmur.

He spun you again, and when you were facing him again, he was holding the bloodstained apron in his hands. You had forgotten all about it as soon as you had entered Sherlocks room. A sob struggled its way out of your throat when you looked at the red stained apron in his hands. He dropped the fabric and pulled you in for a hug immediately, one hand stroking your hair and swaying your body back and forth gently.

You let yourself cry. It was as if your body had been pulled like a bow since Sherlock had broken Cordelia out of the asylum, and finally, finally, the arrow had been shot and the tension released. Mycroft held you through it, murmuring comforting words in your ear.

When your sobs quieted down, he guided you towards the bench again, sitting down with you. You looked up and saw that his cheeks were tear stained as well.

“I’m so sorry, Mycroft,” you whimpered, voice cracking on his name.

He shook his head slightly. “Whatever for?”

“I should have stayed with you. I shouldn’t have left, it was selfish.”

He huffed out a quiet breath, which under these circumstances you decided to count as a laugh.

“I admit, I was not happy. But you wouldn’t be the person I love, had you not thrown yourself at the opportunity to help.”

A wet, incredulous laugh escaped you. You wiped your nose. “So you’re not angry?”

“Is that what you thought?” He searched your eyes, and you shrugged in response.

“No, I wasn’t angry. I was scared for my family. And I know you can take care of yourself, I know that” - his hand squeezed yours - “but I was so scared that something might happen to you and that I wouldn’t be able to help.”

You lifted one of his hands and placed a kiss on his palm. A tired smile spread on his face. 

“Come here,” he mumbled and pulled you closer.

Fatigue took over and you laid down on the bench, resting you head on his legs. His hand came up to your head, his fingertips massaging your scalp gently.

“I saw you, you know?” He asked gently. You hummed for him to continue.

“Out there. I saw you nursing the people. When I couldn’t take it to just wait for his surgery to be over, I went out into the main hall to find you. And then I saw you. You were taking care of a small boy who was caught in crossfire. And you were so gentle, so kind. I don’t know if you saw, but the boy was enamoured by you. He probably didn’t understand English, but he was just looking at you taking care of him.”

You turned your head and looked at Mycroft. His expression was so soft, you felt your heart melt. Your whole body seemed to calm down at the sight of him, warmth spreading from your sternum all throughout your body.

He continued softly. “And I felt so proud. So proud, of you, of your skills. Of being able to call you mine. And I thought that if I ever get to be a father that I wouldn’t want to share that with anyone else but you.”

You sat up suddenly, alert and observing his face closely. “Mycroft,” your voice trailed off at his expression.

“I want to spend my life by your side.”

“Mycroft-“ your voice was shaking. “You are not proposing right now.”

He smiled and looked away quickly. “No. As much as I would love that, and as much as I would love marrying you right here and now- no. I will propose to you with a ring and everything.”

You raise your eyebrows. “What was that whole speech for then?” you ask in an incredulous tone.

He shakes his head and pulls up his shoulders.The laugh the two of you share is freeing in a way. All the tension of the past days and weeks seems to vanish within a couple of seconds.

He grasps your hand, and you let him rest his head on your legs this time. He seems more exhausted than you.

“You know I don’t need the fuss, right?” you whisper after a couple of minutes of comfortable silence. “I don’t need a ring, or a proper engagement.”

He smiles. “I know you don’t need it. But you deserve to be fussed over, and to be taken care of. God knows how much you care for others.” He yawns softly.

You blush, unable to find an adequate reply, instead opting to draw tiny patterns on his shoulders. 

“I love you,” you mumble.

His eyes are closed, but he smiles. “Love you more,” he whispers, before falling asleep in your arms.

The next morning, you wake at the same time as Mycroft gets up from the bench stretching his limps. A soft groan escapes you as you get up from the bench and stretch your neck.

Mycroft kisses your temple softly. “Good morning, darling,” he muses. “Good morning, my love,” you yawn.

Before you get anything else out, James comes down the hallway with what seems to be pastries, and your stomach grumbles immediately, reminding you that the last meal you had was roughly twenty hours ago.

“Ah,” he grins, “Romeo and Juliet. Tristan and Isolde. The clerk and the nurse.”

You blush and hide your face in Mycroft's shoulder. He doesn’t grace James with an answer, instead stretching his hand out for some of the food he brought. He subtly took a step back from you.

James hands him a croissant, turning serious. “How is he?”

“Stable. He will survive, and he seems to recover pretty quickly.” Mycroft tore off a piece of the pastry, handing you the bigger part of it, and popping the rest into his mouth.

“And what says your professional opinion?” James turns to you.

You tear off a bite sized piece of the pastry, handing the croissant back over to Mycroft. “I am surprise he’s already awake again. But it is a good sign. He needs to rest though, we cannot risk him overworking himself too soon.”

“And what about infections?”

“From what I’ve seen the nurses and the doctors are working excellently here. It will only get risky once he’s out of the hospital. But I’ll be there to take care of the wounds then.”

James nods. “All right. I think he’ll like some of those, too” - he’s holding up the food- “and as cute as it is to watch you two love birds share food, you could have just asked for two croissants.”

His smirk is absolutely ridiculous, and both you and Mycroft blush furiously at his words, hands frozen mid air, as the last piece of pastry made its way from your hands into his again.

Before you can defend yourselves, James has already disappeared into Sherlock’s room. Honey- like silence stretches between you.

“I should probably make sure my mother is alright.”

You nodded, tucking some loose hairs behind your ears.

“What are you going to do?” he asked you.

You looked at him thoughtfully. “What do you want me to do?”

He huffed out a laugh. “I asked first.”

You smiled a little before turning serious again. “I would like to see if I can help some more. As long as Sherlock is not discharged, that is. Unless you want me to stay here.”

He smiled and picked up the apron from last night. “Go. We’ll wait here for you, and send for you as soon as plans change.”

You nod and take the apron. You turn to leave, but change your mind after six steps, turning around again and hurrying back into his arms to press a kiss to his lips. “Thank you for taking care of me,” you mumble. “And of your mother and Sherlock.”

“I- You don’t have to thank me for that,” he replies in shock, arms gripping you a little tighter.

You smile. “Yes, I do.” A kiss on the corner of his mouth. “God knows we don’t thank you enough.” A kiss on his cheek.

He laughs softly. “All right. Now go, before I change my mind and have you stay here.” A kiss on his lips again.

“See you soon, my love.” You hurry towards the main hall of the hospital.

As soon as you come within a couple of meters of the hall, your soft morning bubble bursts. Most patients are still asleep, yet the constant groaning and muttering in their sleep is a restless cacophony.

Your eyes search for the nurses in order to get instructions. Quietly you move towards the back door, where you find the nurse who sent you off the evening before.

“Ahh, our English angel! Bienvenue,” she greets you, “You have returned to help?”

“Yes, if I may.” You smile at her and she laughs under her breath. 

“If I may? We need all the help we can get. Give me that,” - she tucks at the apron - “I will get you a new one. And then... how do you say...? Se tuer à la tâch.”

You tie the new apron tightly behind your back and stuff the most basic supplies in the pockets, before starting to make your rounds. At some point you see the small boy Mycroft had talked about the evening before.

The boy had a bullet wound on his arm. The bullet did more than graze him, but didn’t reach the bone, which made treatment easier and the healing process more manageable. You had stitched him up and put his arm in a sling to prevent him from any sudden movements.

He had already seen you when you were talking to the nurse, and so when you approached him, he waved at you excitedly with his unharmed side. “Bonjour, mademoiselle. Comment ça va?”

“Bonjour. Ça va bien, et tu?”

“Comme-si, comme ca.” he grins at you.

You chuckle, and check his wound between bandage changes. “Oh, this looks very good,” you mutter to yourself.

“Vous sont tres jolie,” the boy says confidently.

You were not sure if you understood correctly, and looked up at him questioning.

“You...” he hesitates, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. You know exactly when he has found the word he was looking for, because his face lights up like its Christmas morning. “Beautiful! You very beautiful!” He grins.

You laugh out loud, and quickly slap a hand over your mouth as to not disturb the other patients. 

“Aren’t you sweet,” you coo, “thank you.”

When you finish bandaging his wound, the boy is practically bouncing on the stretcher. “I go house?” He asks.

“Home? I’m not sure,” you admit. You wave over the nurse from earlier and explain the boys situation to her. After a quick discussion with him in french, the nurse decides he is ready to g back to his parents.

“Thank you,” you say, when you watch the little boy skip out onto the street. “I meant to ask... I introduced myself yesterday, but I never got your name?”

“It’s Estelle, I am charge nurse here,” she says warmly.

“Charge nurse? I am so sorry for bothering you with all these trivial matters then.”

 “No, no, its quite well. I like to be informed.”

You smile, and open your mouth to ask another question, but she beats you to it. “The boy yesterday, with the bullet. He is not your family, no?”

“Well-“ you splutter out, “you see- I - his brother...”

“Ah,” she interrupts you gently. “His  brother is your husband.”

“Not yet.” You blush.

“Oh la la, not married yet sleeping together in a hallway,” she winks at you.

Your eyes widen, presumably in a comical manner, because Estelle laughs heartily at your expression. “Do not worry. In France we are not so... ah, comment çe dit? Old fashioned?”

You giggle at her scrunched up nose, smoothing out your apron for lack of better things to do with your hand.

“He loves you very much. I can tell. It is very rare what you two have.” Estelle smiled at you, and then straightened up a little.

“Enough chit-chat. There are patients waiting,” she says, ushering you towards the hall, decidedly but surprisingly gentle.

*6 Month later****

Estelle walked down the small alley from the market place to her apartment. She heard the bell toll six times, and smiled as the last rays of the autumn sun warmed her face. It had been a good day at the hospital.

Exhausting, yes, but satisfying nonetheless. She had helped deliver three babies, all of which were perfectly healthy, and only one of the mothers experienced complications, which Estelle managed quickly and efficiently. She took comfort in knowing that even if she could never bear children herself, she was the reason someone else could do so safely.

She picked up the mail that was left at her apartment door and pushed open her the door, absentmindedly flicking through the letters.

“Good evening, my love,” she called out to her husband.

“Ah, Cherie, you are back.” He stuck his head out of the kitchen. “Come, you have to try this pastry. I am thinking of selling it soon at the bakery.”

Estelle smiled, handing him the mail and entering the kitchen, where the yeasty-sweet smell intensified. She picked up a pastry and bit into it, a satisfied hum immediately rumbling in her throat.

“Cherie? Why do you have mail from England?” Her husbands tone was amused.

“England? I don’t know. Maybe her Majesty heard about my outstanding sense of humour,” she deadpanned, taking the letter from his outstretched hand. She opened the letter, somewhat nervous and started reading with furrowed eyebrows. Her husband came up behind he reading along over her shoulder.

My dearest Estrelle,

I hope you are doing well! How is everyone at the hospital? I hope it is not as busy as it was when we were there.

I meant to write to you so much sooner, but a lot has happened in just half a year. It would be too much to recount in just one letter, so I trust you will write back and I can fill you in on everything slowly but surely.

The most important thing, it seems to me, is that everyone is well. Sherlock has recovered marvellously from is surgery, and is back to his old self. He instructed me to send the warmest greetings and his whole hearted gratitude to you and the whole hospital staff. His mother also sends her gratitude and blessings.

I learned so much from you in these few days that I was thee, that I have decided to leave the asylum and work in the hospital in London. I think my skills are used for far better purposes there. My dear friends, Maude and Edith, like to say that France made me betray them. But they are only joking, and I know they mean well.

Now, I cannot hold back my big news any longer: Mycroft and I are married! He proposed a week after we returned from Constantinople. I was so overwhelmed, the whole month had been full of so many emotional highs and lows, with his family not being... well, I think you would call it old fashioned.

But of course I said yes, and we were married four month after that. Which, for us British might be a bit quick, but what can I say? You’ve had a great influence on me.

Now we’ve been married for almost two months, and I have never been so happy. Neither has he, or so he tells me.

You said to me once that our love was rare, and I could not agree more. I don’t think I have ever met someone who cares so much for others. (When I told him this, he laughed; maybe you can explain to me why he thought that was funny?)

Anyways, the other big news is... We think we are expecting. We are not certain yet, and I am only writing you this because I need to tell someone. By the time the letter reaches you, and you have responded, I will be far enough to know for certain, or enough time will have passed for me to have gotten over my grief. In any case, I am confiding in you second, since the first to hear will always be my dear husband.

Dear Estelle, please respond! I cannot help but feel I have left a good friend back in France... If you ever do find yourself travelling across the sea, please do not hesitate to visit us. Mycroft and I would be so happy to see you again!

I will stop now, I do not wish to bore you. (You would be too kind to tell me when I share too much).

I await your response eagerly.

Remembering you fondly,

Your English angel.