AStudyInBlue

When he first saw you, well he had never seen anyone like you. Dressed head to toe in delicate lace, short skirts and ruffles, walking down the street, looking every bit out of place. He hadn’t seen anything like it. Most girls wore jeans, baby tees, occasionally there would be some cool punk girls knocking around but no one like this. Nothing so… innocent and doll-like.

He paused, leaning back a little and tilting his head as he watched you cross the street, taking you in before he moved closer to you, stopping you in your tracks.

“Hey, princess” Adam called out as you walked past him, seeing you pause, the almost defensive and hesitant look in your eyes.

“Sorry, you just look like a princess, I like it” Adam rephrased, realising after how it sounded, “uh… can i take your picture?” The request was hesitant, realising how forward it was and how nervous you looked. You were probably freaked out about a stranger approaching and asking to take photos of you.

“I’m a photographer. I just… really like your whole vibe,” Adam began, gesturing towards you and showing you his camera around his neck. He paused, glancing up and down for a moment before his eyes found your face again with a small smile, “can I?”

You smiled slightly, nodding, turning toward him a little, straightening out your outfit.

“Yeah? Awesome.” Adam chuckled, picking up his camera, glancing at it for a moment before raising it to take a photograph of you. The shutter clicks and light flashes, the whining sound of it recharging being heard after.

“Nice…” he muttered softly to himself, glancing back at you, his gaze flickering between the camera and you, “Yeah, uh, Thanks. Your very photogenic, so…”

“Thanks” you smiled softly, looking at him, not moving to leave just yet. You lingered slightly, shifting a little where you stood. Adam stepped forwards.

“I’m Adam” he introduced himself, holding his hand out for you to shake. Taking his hand, you gave him your name in return, a soft smile gracing his feaures.

“You just look like a doll, like something my grandma would have… it’s nice, your really pretty- I mean, it looks really pretty, not that you’re not pretty…” Adam rambled slightly, betraying his nerves, his gaze flickering down to your outfit again, trailing off at the end,l

“I get that a lot” You explained, feeling yourself jittering from being able to talk about it and not be met with judgement.

“That’s cool. Really cool” Adam nodded a little in agreement, trying to keep it cool, “Uh, if you want I do a lot of freelance stuff, I can take more pictures of you. I’ll have to get these developed… if I get your number I can call you when they’re done, we could meet up for a coffee or whatever and I can show you them?”

That was probably as smooth as he got. He tried to think of any excuse to try and see you again. Maybe you didn’t care about seeing the photos he took of you, maybe you didn’t want to be photographed again. You probably thought he was some kind of loser. Regardless of what you might have thought of him, you nodded, Adam pulling out a pen and letting you write down your number onto his hand. The biro tickled against his skin. Once you were done, you passed him the pen back. He looked at the number written on his hand.

“Nice…” he began softly, before glancing at you, “Uh, yeah, thanks… I’ll definitely get these developed and I’ll give them to you later”

He nodded a little, seeing you begin to turn to head to wherever it was you were going before he interrupted you, “I’ll see you later then…”

Adam chuckled nervously, watching you go into the mall. A part of him thought how nervous he was seeing someone who looked as pretty as you did messed up his whole chances but he got a picture. He got your number, he got a chance to see you again, casually over coffee where he will give you the picture he took of you, maybe convince you to see him again on an actual date.

Regardless, if all fails, he’ll at least have a picture to remember you by. He thinks he’ll never forget how pretty you looked in reality, how the sun caught in your hair, the soft florals of the clothing you wore and how delicate and pretty you looked. You wasn’t his usual type but there was something unique and special about you that stood out to him that day he saw you on the street.

Walking out of the back room, Marty glances around the store, parents with their children, buying new school shoes. Elderly woman speaking to staff members about new pairs of shoes now their old ones have worn down. He saw a girl stood by the sneakers, holding the display in her hands and turning it over, looking at the sole; her fingers brushing the material. Marty sighed, walking over to the girl.

"Hey, kid, I don't think they'll let you wear those in school," Marty said, leaning down to her height and putting on that familiar customer service voice. She turned her head, glancing at him briefly.

"I know... I was just looking," She muttered, moving to put them back on the shelf, as if she was caught doing something that she wasn't supposed to. A guilty look settled into her features. He knew what kind of shoes they were, cotton, rubber soles, lightweight and flexible. Not sturdy and supportive like shoes girls would usually wear for school.

"Uh, you looking for anything in particular?" He straightened up, glancing at her, seeing the timid and lost look in her eyes.

She answered him after a moment of silence, "Mary Janes"

"Mary Janes, any particular colour?" Marty nodded, guiding her to the section where they kept a few of the Mary Janes they had on the shop floor, "You know, girls your age are usually wearing these"

He picked up a pair of saddle shoes, white and black in colour, showing them to her, "You like them?"

She looked at them for a moment before nodding softly, "You wanna try on a pair? What's your size?"

She answered him. Marty turned around, glancing at the shoe sizes they had out, pulling out a box, and kneeling down to help her slip them on. He glanced up at her, trying to gauge her reaction to the shoes. Her eyes only stared at him, brows furrowed slightly. Almost as if she was studying him.

"How do they feel? Do you like them?" He asked her, watching her eyes finally flicker down to the shoes. She rolled her ankle, shifting forward to place her feet on the ground.

"They're nice..." She muttered softly, tilting her head as she studied the shoes before looking at him again. His brows furrowed slightly when her eyes met him, an unwavering stare.

"What?" He asked with a small nervous laugh.

"Nothing... She said quietly, shaking her head. A quiet chuckle escaped Marty, taking the shoes back and putting them back in their box.

"Is that so?" He asked, decided to humour her. Kids were strange nowadays. She seemed more quiet and reserved compared to most teenagers he’s had to displeasure of serving. Nothing was ever right for them but she didn’t seem to know what she wanted.

"Yeah... you just looked like that guy who played table tennis at the British Open a few years ago" She continued. That made Marty pause, finally looking at her. She was way too young to remember that, a high schooler at least. Marty shifted forward, resting his arm on his knee.

"How do you know that?" He couldn't help himself. It had been years since anyone acknowledged his efforts; now, he only played recreationally after settling down with Rachel, and even that was rare.

"My dad liked it. He collects newspaper clippings," She explained, kicking her feet a little as she sat back in the chair. A shaky sigh left him, closing the box and setting it to the side.

"Uh... yeah, that was me" Marty acknowledged hesitantly. He had put all that behind him, deciding to focus on working now that he had that chance to prove to himself that he could do it. He wanted to focus on Rachel and his son. He owed her that at least after running away from his responsibilities for so long, "Marty Mauser-"

"The Chosen One" She smiled, pointing to him with unguarded excitement and admiration which made him smile.

"Yeah... yeah, that was me" He chuckled, nodding. She reflected his smile back to him.

"My Dad used to talk about how amazing you were" She continued, sitting forward a little.

"That's good..." Marty smiled, nodding a little, "The shoes?"

"Oh, yeah, I'll take them" She nodded, following him to the counter, pulling out her purse, counting out the amount she would have to give him. Quickly she passed them to him, extending her arm across the counter, waiting for her change. The coins trickled back into the bottom of her purse.

"Enjoy the shoes" He called out, pushing the till closed, watching her as she took the box and walked out of the store.

Once it was dark, Marty closed up the shop, counting up the money made at the end of the day before leaving, walking down the street and past the old gym he used to practice at. Memories of those days floated back to him and sometimes, he let himself float back too. Drifting back to the gym to play again or watch some of the new rookies play. Tonight was one of those nights where he felt like drifting.

The bulbs in the room flicker, the familiar sound of the ball hitting the table and then the paddle, a solid rally going. He glanced around the different tables, his eyes landing on a young girl who was playing against a regular. The same girl who bought a pair of shoes from him this morning, her eyes laser-focused on the ball as it hit her opponent's paddle, focusing on the point of contact and where that will predict it will go. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, tilting his head a little as he watched her power the ball across when an opening made itself clear.

Marty pushed past when she moved away to let someone else play. He quickly caught up to her, watching as he sipped on her water bottle. Her eyes widened when she recognised him, gulping down the liquid.

"You know, you're not half bad. You didn't tell me you played" He began, seeing her quickly rise when she saw him.

"I didn't..." She trailed off, shaking her head a little. He glanced over her thoughtfully, shifting.

"You should really hold the paddle like this" He picked up a paddle from one of the nearby tables, holding it in his hand the way he would, showing her, "You'll get better wrist movement if you hold it this way. Here..."

He took her hand, showing her how to hold it, manoeuvring her hand to hold the paddle the way he would have, "Try that"

Picking up a paddle himself, he moved around to the other side of the table, pulling out an orange ball. Her eyes followed him, brows furrowing slightly in confusion.

"You want me to play against you?" She asked hesitantly.

"Yeah, why not? I promise to go easy on you" He served, hitting the ball gently over the net, watching her movements as she returned it, "See? You're already doing better"

The sound of the ball hitting the table echoed through the room. It was steady and consistent, not necessarily trying to outplay each other, but more keeping up a rally between them. After a few minutes, she missed the ball, ending the rally with a soft sigh. Marty smiled, leaning against the table.

"You're a lot better than half the people here" He told her, "You can keep that, a free tip from me"

She picked the ball up from the floor, glancing over at him as he readjusted his glasses. Her brows furrowed as she glanced down at the ball in her hands, taking in a soft breath as if she was considering something, "Would you train me?"

His eyes widened, looking at her, "Uh... no, I don't really... I'm retired"

"Retired?" She quesioned.

"Yeah, I don't play anymore" Marty confirmed with a nod. Her fingers pressed into the ball slightly.

"Why not?" Was the next thing she asked, Marty sighing, leaning against the table, his eyes glancing around the room.

"Just... don't" He didn't even bother to try to come up with an excuse. He just told her as it is. He just didn't have a lot of time anymore and put that part of his life behind him, “Look… I wish you luck in whatever you’re doing, but I’m not gonna coach you”

He held his hands up, shrugging a little with a sigh, wrestling internally with something, stepping away before turning back to her, “Whatever you do, don’t go pro just… stick to the school tournaments, okay?”

With that he pushed his hands into his pockets, leaving the gym. Feeling the orange ball in her hands, she glanced down, rolling it over, reading the name on the ball. A small smile tugged at her lips but his words echoed through her. His warning about going pro, his refusal to help and apparent retirement. He was one of the best players in 1952, appeared for one year and then never showed his face in any tournament after that. Almost as if he just completely disappeared from the face of the earth and now he was found again.

.

Marty returned to his job at the shoe store the next day, almost forgetting about the kid if it wasn’t for her pushing into the store again. He sighed heavily at the sight of her, almost regretting telling her who he was when she approached him with a bright smile, wearing she saddle shoes she brought from the shop yesterday.

“What do you want?” He asked, glancing at her from behind the counter. She placed the orange ball on the table, steadying it when it rolled.

“You forgot your ball” She said brightly. His eyes dropped to the ball, shaking his head a little.

“Keep it… I have loads” He told her, brushing her off, before adding with a soft mutter, “Another gift from me”

She took the ball back, pushing it back into her pocket but she didn’t move to leave. Marty glanced at her before looking back towards the door, “Don’t you kids go to school anymore?”

“Why won’t you play?” She asked. He knew this was coming, the endless questioned about his short professional career in table tennis. He groaned slightly, shifting in his chair.

“Look, I’m 33 this year…” He began, placing down his sales book.

“Really? Wow… You’re like really old” She stated softly, tilting her head a little. Marty closed his eyes for a brief moment, sighing.

“Thanks…” The words were strained and muttered, “the point is… why am I even explaining myself to you? You’re just a… I don’t even know what you’re doing here”

She pouted a little, leaning against the counter, “I just wanna know why you won’t play”

“You said your dad collected the newspaper clippings… you know what happened” Marty muttered.

“You got second, that’s not so bad” She said to him simply, “and you got to beat him when you went to Japan”

“That’s not the whole story…” He said, scratching his pen against the book harshly, crossing something out, glancing at her for a moment with a heavy sigh.

“Why can’t you teach me to play like you?” She asked him.

“God… you never stop asking, do you?” Marty sighed, leaning back, seeing her smile in response, “Going pro isn’t a game, it’s… you’ll be better off sticking to local tournaments, trust me, I know.”

“I only asked for help for the school tournament” She explained

“I saw how you played yesterday, you’re fine” He told her, “why me? Surely your school has coaches”

“But my dad always told me about how amazing you were. How, even during a professional tournament, you messed around and did tricks,” she explained to him, “he said you were the best player, that the way you played was unlike anything anyone had ever seen before”

The praise was doing wonders for his deflated ego. He knew how good he was, even back then he knew his worth but he also remembered the pressure, the stress, the things he did to even make it that far. He believed he worked the hardest to be there out of anyone and yet he got nothing. No trophy, no reward, just debt and humiliation.

“I told you no. Just… Go back to school” He said to her, ushering her away with a heavy look, the memories creeping back putting him in a bad mood which he carried with him to the rest of the day.

Even when he went back home he found himself snapping at Rachel. He didn’t mean to, but as much as those days were the best of his life, the way he was treated by the industry was awful, and he made a lot of bad decisions that cost him his career.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” Marty sighed, leaning against the kitchen table when he realised he was being mean again. Rachel knew more than anyone how much table tennis meant to him then, and after he didn’t want to talk about it. Insisting on settling down, taking the manager job his uncle offered him and making the right decisions for once.

When he went to work the next day, he locked himself in the managers office, not wanting to be disturbed by her again when would she inevitably come by again. He was looking over the stock books when there was a knock on the door.

“Come in” Marty called out, glancing up. His eye widened when he saw her peek past the doorway, “How did you even get back here?”

“I told the guy out there that I was here for a part time summer job and that you wanted to interview me” She explained, walking in and dropping her bag on one of the chairs.

“Steve let you in here?” He expressed in bewilderment, standing up and closing the door, glancing back at her, “how many times do I have to tell you no?”

“Please, I promise I’ll be good, I’ll listen, I’ll do whatever you ask me to” she leaned forwards against his desk, clasping her hands together, practically begging him to teach her how to play. Marty sighed, sitting back down in his chair, leaning back and rubbing his temple.

“Kid… I don’t know what to tell you… I say no and you just come back again the next day and ask anyway” He began, studying her for a moment. Surely a highschool girl like herself had more aspirations past table tennis, “why do you want to do this?”

“It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. I would watch table tennis tournaments all the time growing up, my dad always told me how amazing you were. God… I wish I could have seen you play” She expressed, with wide eyes and full honesty.

“Alright, alright, alright just…” Marty cut her off, urging her to quieten down. A heavy sigh left him as he thought about his options. He had nothing to loose, it wasn’t his career on the line this time. It was some innocent kid’s who looked at him as if he was some sort of hero.

“Look, uh… what’s your name?” Marty leaned forwards, looking at her.

“Y/n” She answered. Marty nodded.

“Y/n…" He sighed again, sitting back, considering something, "You might not go pro, but the moment this starts feeling less like a game and more like something you have to do, you stop. If you love it enough, just getting to play and win, sometimes you may win. That should be reward enough"

You didn’t know what he was. He drove you miles across the country, occasionally stopping for gas and picking up snacks from the gas station. Then, occasionally at night, he would pull over, tell you to stay in the car, irritable. He turns slowly, looking at you with a mix of annoyance and reluctant resignation, "Don't move. I'll be right back."

He doesn't wait for an answer, unbuckling his seatbelt and climbing out of the car, slamming the door behind him and turning to walk into the treeline, just a few yards away from where he parked the truck. Your first thought was that he just needed to piss or something. That he’d come back. That he wouldn’t take long. However, as time passed, it wasn’t until a while later that he returned, the door opening, shaking you from your slumber as he slid back into the driver's seat.

Turning the key in the ignition, the engine rumbled as he pulled off. He doesn’t look at you as he drives, his hand moving to turn the radio on, something quiet to listen to in the background. You noticed something brown-stained under his nails, dirt perhaps? No, it was too light to be dirt.

As your eyes drooped in the passenger seat, Lee glances over at you, noticing the slow, even rise and fall of your breathing. His grip on the steering wheel loosens slightly. For miles, he drives in silence, the only sound the hum of the engine and scattered rain on the windshield. Every now and then, he checks the mirror to make sure you're still there, still safe, still sleeping.

He knew you weren’t like him, and yet he took you with him anyway. He knew that taking you along was risky; you were innocent, unaware of what he was. Yet here you were, sleeping peacefully beside him in the car. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the steering wheel tightly, a mix of guilt and protectiveness washing over him.

Lee caught himself glancing at you again; somehow, you had decided he was the safest option. He knew what was out there: the ones who didn't feel guilt, the ones who hunted for sport. Compared to them, he probably was safe.

“Where are we going?” You muttered softly, being jolted from your sleep as we went over a bump. He keeps his eyes on the dark stretch of highway ahead, his voice low to disturb your sleep-ridden state.

"Just driving," he murmurs. "West. Maybe Kentucky. Just somewhere away from here."

He glances over at you, seeing your eyes half-closed. "Go back to sleep. I've got you."

He drives with one hand resting casually on the steering wheel, his eyes darting between the road and your reflection in the glass. You look so peaceful, so normal. He keeps his speed steady, wanting you to sleep without getting jostled. The landscape outside is dark and endless, but inside the car, it feels quiet and safe.

He sighed, glancing at the road ahead, finding somewhere to pull over again, groaning internally. He turned the engine off, leaning his head against the wheel. What had he done? He chose to travel with you; he couldn’t just kick you out, especially not now he’s grown so attached to you, but every journey was like torture. He gripped the wheel, jaw clenched as he leaned across the console, breathing in the air around you.

No matter how the hunger gnaws at him, no matter how his body screams for sustenance, he knows he could never, would never, feed on you. You're the one person he's sworn to protect, the one life he refuses to take. He's trying to hold off as long as possible, pushing back the feeling inside him. He knows he can't starve himself forever; his body will eventually demand to feed, whether he wants to give in or not. But for now, he's determined to resist, to keep you safe from him. Even if it means suffering himself.

He couldn’t do it when you were there, he had to be careful, make sure there was no evidence, but between driving between state to state he rarely got the opportunity.

When the sun rose you woke up, grabbing a sandwich from your bag, glancing at him. His head spun. He knew you noticed his unsteadiness but thankfully you didn't say anything. God, he was hungry. Starving.

“You can have the other half of my sandwich” You offered.

His hand gripped the steering wheel, knuckles white. The hunger gnawed at him, making his vision blur at the edges. But he couldn't tell you the truth, “I'm fine. I’m not hungry”

A clear lie but you never said anything. The car engine rumbled a welcome distraction. The hunger was becoming unbearable, a physical ache within him. He needed to feed, but he wouldn't do it near you. He couldn't risk you seeing, couldn't risk you knowing what he was. His hands trembled as moved to mess with the controls, fan on, heat off.

“You don’t look fine” you said, glancing at him again.

His grip on the steering wheel tightened even more, his knuckles turning white. He could feel his control slipping further with each passing second. The scent of you in the enclosed space of the car was driving him mad, "Would you stop fucking saying that?"

The silence that followed was thick and uncomfortable. He knew he had snapped at you, but he couldn't help it. Every second that passed felt like an eternity, and the hunger was becoming unbearable. He needed to stop the car, needed to get out, needed to feed.

“Can I put the radio on?” You asked hesitantly, wanting some noise to break the silence.

He tensed. He just wanted silence, needed silence to focus on keeping himself in check, but he knew refusing your small request would make things worse. He gave a sharp, jerky nod, his knuckles white on the steering wheel, "Do whatever you want."

The low hum of music filled the heavy silence between you. It was better than talking, better than you asking him if he was okay. He gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white, his eyes scanning the road frantically for a place to pull over. The hunger was a roar in his ears now, drowning out the quiet radio.

“It’s lick it up” he commented, glancing towards the console.

“What?” You asked. He scoffed slightly.

“Lick it up. You don’t know ‘lick it up’?” Lee sighed, shaking his head, “you live under a rock or something?”

He rested his elbow against the open window of the car, muttering softly, “I guess you’re like a good girl or something…”

After the silence settled over you again, he glances over, seeing that you had dropped back to sleep again. He reached over, gently brushing a strand of hair from your face before stopping himself. He was exactly what he'd promised you he'd keep you safe from. He kept driving through the night, his eyes glued to the road ahead. He didn't plan on telling you what he was. You were innocent, if you knew the truth, you'd run. You'd leave him behind without a second thought. And he didn’t know what he’d do then.

He drove for a few more hours, the sun beginning to peek over the horizon. He was exhausted. It reminded him of how he met you, the conversation you shared after when he treated you to something cheap st a restaurant.

“Lee… can I stay with you?” You asked softly. The question hit him like a punch to the gut. He froze mid-chew, his jaw clenching. His eyes darted to you, small, earnest, looking at him like he was something worth holding onto.

"No." His voice was rough, flat.

“Why not?” You asked, brows tugging together in confusion. He set his fork down, his appetite suddenly gone.

"Because..." He muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. He couldn't tell you the truth, that he was dangerous, that he was an eater.

“I don’t really have anywhere else to go” You expressed softly. He sighed, leaning back in his seat.

"Listen to me, okay?" His eyes were intense, almost scary. He saw you shrink back slightly and immediately softened his tone, "I'm not being mean on purpose. I'm trying to protect you. I'm not..."

Your stubbornness was both adorable and infuriating, like his little sister. He couldn't remember the last time someone wanted to be around him and if he was being honest, driving around on his own was lonely.

So he agreed to take you with him, out of some misguided hope that he would in a way get his sister back. With a sigh he pulled over, gently shaking your shoulder.

“Come on, get in the back, you’ll be more comfortable” He muttered, moving to drop down the seats. He helped you crawl into the back, grabbing a few stray blankets and pillows. He slid in beside you, pulling you against his chest, one arm wrapped around your waist. You sighed softly, shifting slightly to get comfortable. The hunger was a dull ache but he knew he’d be fine.

He pressed his face deeper into your neck, lips brushing the skin there unconsciously. His nose brushing against your skin and he inhales deeply. The scent of you fills his lungs, the restraint in his eyes. He's torn between his attachment to you and his insatiable hunger.

His hand tightened against your waist, his fingers digging into your shirt. He dragged his nose up the column of your throat, inhaling your scent like a drug, fighting the urge to open his mouth. He grew more and more hungry every day and he realised his hungry would never be fulfilled until he had you. It was you he hungered for.

He wanted to consume every part of you until there was nothing left, until you were woven into his very DNA. He pressed his open mouth against your pulse point, his breath shuddering out. His teeth grazing your skin as he fought for control. His hands shook slightly where they held you.

“Lee…” You muttered softly, shrugging him off slightly.

The movement made him freeze. Had he been too rough? Was he hurting you? But no, your voice was soft, sleepy, not afraid. If only you knew. If only you could see the way his eyes had gone dark, the way his jaw clenched with the effort of not tasting you. He pressed a surprisingly gentle kiss to your shoulder, "Go back to sleep."

His arms automatically tightened around you as you shifted, his body molding to yours instinctively. He buried his face deeper into your neck, inhaling your scent like oxygen.

“You cold…?” You muttered, trying to figure out why he was being so clingy. He usually kept his distance.

He swallowed hard, his voice rough with unsaid feelings, "Just... sleep. Please."

He listened to your breathing deepen, feeling your body go completely slack against his. The iron-will control he'd been exercising finally gave way, just slightly. He pressed his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent. One last, deep drag of your scent. He accepted the terrifying truth: he was starving, and he was never going to be full. You trusted him completely. He couldn't betray that. Couldn't. Wouldn't.

But there was an underlying guilt that you didn’t know what kind of person he was. He had protected you from other cannibals but at what cost? Every day he woke up starving for you. Every day he looked at your trusting face and felt like the biggest monster in the world. He protected you from others like him, but what about protecting you from him?

Your scent was stronger. Metallic, stronger than usual. How long had you two been traveling together? He felt you relax against him, your body warm and soft. His chin rested on top of your head, eyes closed tight. The hunger grew insistent but he held you tighter, focused on the way your breathing steadied. His heartbeat thumped against your back, a steady rhythm that seemed to soothe you further. He could feel every inch of your warmth, your scent filling his nostrils. It was torture; sweet, agonizing torture. His arms tightened possessively, pulling you closer.

You couldn't know how hard this was for him. How much control he was using to keep his hunger at bay. If anything, it was getting harder by the second.

You shifted, turning, your face inches from his, he could see every detail. His eyes dropped to your neck, how much he wanted to sink his teeth into your neck, how much he wanted to taste you. His breathing grew heavy, your eyes fluttering open to meet his.

His expression was tortured, eyes dark with hunger, jaw clenched, breath coming in shallow pants. He looked like he was holding onto his control by a thread. One wrong move and he might lose it completely. His hands on your waist tightened almost imperceptibly, "Don't, just… go back to sleep"

He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to block out your scent, your warmth. He took a deep, shuddering breath. Watching you through slitted eyes as you looked him over, taking in his strained expression, his tense body. He could see the concern in your gaze, the softness of your features. It was like offering a lamb to a wolf, so innocent and trusting. He reached up slowly.

He cupped your cheek gently, his thumb brushing over your soft skin. He leaned in slowly, his lips brushing against your ear. He heard your breath hitch softly. His warm lips pressed against your neck now, just below your ear, the scent of your blood driving him wild.

“Let me," he whispered against your skin.

You whimpered softly, whether it was from fear or something else he couldn’t tell. He knew he should stop. He knew that whimper could be fear, but he was too far gone. His lips parted against your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. His grip in your hair tightened, holding you in place, whispering, "It'll only hurt for a second,"

“Lee… Lee stop…” You mutttered softly “please…”

His heart shattered at the sound of your soft pleading. He froze, his teeth still touching your neck but not biting. He breathed heavily against your skin, his heart racing. He pulled back sharply, his hands releasing your hair and waist as if it burned him. He scrambled backward to the edge of the bed, putting as much distance between you as possible.

"I'm sorry," he breathed out, horrified with what he nearly just did, “Shit… I’m sorry”

He couldn’t apologise enough, no amount of apologies would help or erase what nearly happened. He breaths heavily, shifting away, putting space between himself and you. He couldn’t even look at you.

“You…” you gasped out, starting to put pieces together, the stains under his nails, how he disappeared sometimes, “You’re…”

He heard you scramble for the door, moving as quickly as possible he grabbed your arm, “No wait, please…”

You screamed, trying to push him away. You looked at him like he was a monster, everything he tried to avoid was happening.

“Don’t scream, please don’t…” he tried to pull you back but it just seemed to scare you more. How could he talk to you, how could he explain that he wasn’t going to hurt you when in that moment he nearly did.

“Get away!” You yelled, pushing him away.

“Listen… listen to me” he tried to say, placing his hand over your mouth, breathing deeply as you struggled, you screams muffled, “Please just… I never wanted to hurt you… I don’t… I won’t hurt you…”

“Just please don’t leave” Lee begged softly, his hand falling from your mouth, sighing deeply, pulling you into his arms, holding you tightly against him, “Don’t leave…”

Your heart raced, trembling in his arms as you tried to calm down, wanting to believe him. Wanting to believe that he would never hurt you, that he cared. He pressed a kiss to the side of your head.

“God… I’m so sorry…” he muttered softly. He knew it was doomed from the beginning. That this was always going to happen. He cared too deeply for you, so much so he doesn’t ever want to loose you, and if eating tou was the only way to achieve that, then he would. It was a compulsion. A feeling he couldn’t control.

Your arms finally wrapped around him, accepting him for who he was, despite knowing he was a threat to you. He breathed you in, his head dropping to rest against your forehead. Gently, he tilted your chin up, ghosting his lips over yours, pulling you closer. His lips connected with yours, moving slowly.

When you returned the kiss, he pulled you closer, tongue tracing against yours slowly, hands sliding down to gently grip your waist. Deepening the kiss, he let his tongue brush against yours, sighing deeply, as if it was what he needed all along to feed his hunger. At least for now. His hands moved to hold your face, breaking the kiss to press kisses along your neck.

“Don’t worry… I’m not gonna eat you…” he muttered softly, trailing off as he licked a stripe up your neck. His hands moved to trail down your waist, gripping your hips and tugging you closer to him. He moved you to lay you down against the seats, licking and sucking at your skin, hands gripping your hips, pushing your clothes up to expose your stomach which he peppered in kisses, fingers pushing your skirt up, licking and sucking marks into the flesh of your thighs.

He pressed his nose against the thin cotton of your panties, breathing you in, nuzzling against them as he slowly peeled them again. You seemed to have forgotten about what he did, relaxing against him, warm and soaked in slick as he parted your thighs. He licked a soft stripe against your entrance, lapping up the slick there, his nose brushing against your clit.

He ate you out as if he was starving for you, tongue dipping inside your entrance, shifting to gently suck and lap at your clit, thumb moving to stimulate your clit as he moved back down to lap at your entrance. He felt your thighs tense, soft whimpers of pleasure escaping you, gently tugging at his dyed red curls.

Your spoon clinked against your cup as you stirred the milk and sugar into your steaming cup of tea. You were sat at a bay window, doors pushed open, in hopes the answer would be whispered to you in the soft breeze.

"Miss y/n, Mr Holmes is here to see you." One of the staff announced. A soft sigh escaped your lips, your gaze not leaving the landscape. You didn't answer, but you heard his familiar steps as he made his way slowly across the room, taking a seat next to you. He sat quietly for a moment, eyes lingering on your saddened profile.

"Accept Victor's proposal" He said to you quietly, like a whisper in the breeze. You closed your eyes, taking in a deep breath, the book he gave to you as a gift discarded on the table. His fingers brushed over the cover briefly, "I never hear the end of it. Victor is always talking about how long it's taking you to decide with Sherlock. You know he won't wait forever"

"I just don't understand why..." You muttered softly. A part of you always thought that perhaps you had read the whole situation wrong. That Mycroft never had any intention of marrying you and was simply doing you a favour out of pity when he knew you had no one else, "You say you can't, but I just don't understand why..."

Mycroft hesitated, his cold eyes studying you as you finally turned to meet his gaze, with teary eyes, furrowed brows, urging him to say something. Yet he said nothing, simply looking at you as if it would be the last time he'd be able to, the way the breeze from the window ruffled your hair, the warm sun lighting up your skin. Once again, he felt as if he was back there, sitting outside with you on a blanket, holding your hand in his; an action which was forbidden.

"I promised your mother I wouldn't", He answered eventually, feeling as if you deserved the truth if anything, "She told me before I left for boarding school that she does not want me to marry you"

You had no recollection of that, and it seemed so unlike your mother to turn him away after being friends with the Holmes family for many years. Thinking back, however, you remember her looks of disappointment, how she told you that playing with boys would only hurt your prospects of marriage later. You wouldn't listen to her, so she went to Mycroft instead. You sighed and began to pull away. He reached out for your gloved hand to stop you, "You have to understand, your mother forbade me. You should go and marry Victor, he will make you happy, he will become a lord, and you will be happy"

Mycroft pushed again, seeing you shaking your head and denying him. You pulled your hand away, feeling your chest tighten uncomfortably, "No... no, you're being mean-"

"How am I being mean?"

"You're not listening to what I want", You gasped softly, looking at him in distraught, your voice quivering, betraying your true emotions.

"It's the logical decision", Mycroft stated, as if marriage to him was just another statistic and fact which he could recite. As if to him it meant nothing, as long as you would be looked after and treated well, that's all that mattered. To him, it was Victor, Sherlock's friend of many years, and he knew he could trust him to protect and lift you into his arms as he did with his brother.

"But you know I do not love Victor, yes, he's wonderful and kind, but... I don't love him as I should" You tried to explain to him, "I can't love him, not when I have loved you my whole life"

It all felt more real now you said it out loud, a feeling which you had felt for many years and yet you couldn't quite identify. Those days when you were with him as children, playing and reading, you couldn't have been happier. Just being in his presence was enough to ease your nerves; no words needed to be shared, and you rarely spoke. When he was no longer with you, your mind was consumed with thoughts of him. The small, simple things. You would see him in everything you did, when eating or reading, your mind would cast back to whether he would like it, and every day, you longed and counted down the days until the next time you would be able to visit the Holmes' estate.

You didn't know what to call it back then. No book ever described the feeling of an all-consuming love which developed over days spent together as children. No one else's company ever could compare. Time with Victor, whilst nice, felt wrong. It just wasn't the same, and even when you sat there with Victor, you often thought back to Mycroft and compared their ways of simply preparing tea. With Victor, you always had to fill the silence. With Mycroft, the air was filled with unspoken words, things which didn't need to be shared. He simply understood you, and you him.

"That's... that's not true..." Mycroft tilted his head slightly, denying it once again. Whether it was to make himself believe it or you, you couldn't tell.

"You're going to sit here and tell me that after all those summers we spent together that you felt nothing?" You asked him seriously, needing to know. Wanting no more lies or facade, he felt like he needed to put on to be the eldest Holmes son. You just wanted your Mycroft back. The one who held your hand, who brushed your hair out of your face and spoke to you so gently when no one else was around.

“They meant everything to me…” He muttered reluctantly. His hand brushed against yours again, testing the waters before he took it into his. Your eyes glanced down at his hand against yours, feeling the warmth of his palm seeping through the fabric of your gloves. Carefully, he slipped the glove from your hand, feeling the soft skin under his palm, “I worry about you, constantly”

Even as children he worried for you, as long as you were with him, he knew you would be happy and safe. Asking for your hand in marriage was the only way he knew he would be able to keep you safe forever. But he was denied the privilege when he asked your mother for permission. The shock of it all had dire consequences, ones which he had to live with and carry.

“I decided it would be best to keep my distance, to keep you safe after she passed,” Mycroft admitted quietly, not daring to meet your gaze, not wanting to see your reaction, “To keep her dying wish of wanting me to not marry you”

He raised his eyes to see the shock on your face. The way your bright eyes widened, lips parted as you tried to come up with some way to answer him. It felt like an excuse. Like he was trying to think of any reason to no marry you but to him he felt like he owed her something. As if he was responsible for her passing.

“That’s… unbelievable” you breathed out softly, shaking your head “I can’t… I…”

A heavy sigh left your lips, glancing away from him, the words gettin caught in your throat. There were so many things you wanted to say, some mean, some heartfelt but none of them felt right. None of them could truly express how you felt. Mycroft leaned forwards, doubling down.

“Victor will keep you safe” He told you, squeezing your hand.

“No… no I don’t want to” You shook your head, tears welling up in your eyes at the thought. How he kept pushing you to marry Victor when you wanted to do the opposite.

“No, you will. Victor cares for you so deeply…” he tried to explain.

“You’re not listening to me” you shook your head, sighing heavily.

“I am doing this because I care” Mycroft expressed firmly, holding no room for you to argue or express your opinion or feeling. He was pushing you towards Victor because he cared, because he knew that whatever love your deserved, he couldn’t provide, “you deserve to be happy, to be looked after. I cannot give you that. Victor can”

A soft sigh pushed past your lips, closing your eyes for a moment, squeezing his hand slightly before pulling away. You shook your head, moving to stand up, pacing the length of the room, taking deep breaths. You felt your hands tremble, chest heaving once you turned to him.

“I… You have made me happy. My happiest days were those I spend with you at your family home as children” You tried to explain, your voice breaking, stopping in front of him, “All I want is to stay with you”

“Y/n, I promised your mother…” Mycroft began, taking your hands in his, pulling you closer to stand between his legs, “She forbid me. I am bound by a moral duty to foresee that her wishes come to fruition”

“Then promise me.” You urged him, looking at him sincerely, “you didn’t force me into anything, I chose this”

Mycroft took in a deep breath, turning his head away from you, your hands weighting his own down as he held them so daintily in his own.

“You’re making this more difficult than it needs to be…” He began, restrained and reluctant as you tried to get him to see things your way, to see how deeply you wanted this. His eyes trailed back to your hands, his thumb rubbing against the back of them, squeezing them slightly and yet he was tense. His shoulders pulled back, barely moving an inch.

“All I wanted for you was the best, just like your mother would have asked for. I helped in every way I can and when I released that no suitors were interested in you, I decided to take responsibility for my actions” Mycroft continued, “until Victor came along… and yet you seem to not want him”

“I do not care for his home or titles… all I ever wanted was for you to come home” you expressed softly. You took a step back as Mycroft stood up. You thought he had heard all he wanted for. Not taking no for an answer and telling you that you needed to marry Victor but instead he pulled you into his arms, his hand cradling the back of your head. His arms tighter around you, holding you as if it was the first and only time he’d be able to.

“I really have ruined you…” Mycroft muttered, “just like your mother said I did…”

His arms tighted just a fraction. You felt him take in a shaky breath before he spoke up again, “I suppose I’ll have to pay off my debt… and take responsibility”

You pulled back slightly, looking at him.

“Don’t marry him” Mycroft said to you, softly. That same whisper in the wind telling you the answer, “I will do my best to provide for you and make you happy as you deserve… if that is what you truly wish”

A small bright smile made its way onto your features, moving to pull him into a tight embrace, startling him momentarily, his hand moving to gently pat your shoulder. Soft expressions of appreciation left your lips, arms tightening around his shoulders. For once you felt his shoulders loosen, dropping slightly, his arms moving to wrap around you, pulling you closer to him.

"Your favourites, as always" Mycroft presented you with a small slice of cake on a delicate china plate. Your smile seemed to make the sun brighter and the air warmer. He smiled back, his gaze lingering for just a moment longer. For once, his day is filled with your laughter, your smile, your voice. When you spoke to him of stories of romance, daring tales of heroism, anything which struck your fancy, he would listen. Not out of any interest but because it was you. Because you loved them. Because you trusted him so dear to share such opinions.

"Mycroft, look!" You called out to him, hand tugging on this overcoat as you pointed out a squirrel, rushing across the grass, hidden behind the house. There it was again. Your smile, your bright eyes of wonder as you gazed upon the small animal. He watched as it scampered up a tree, leaves rustling, and even through the chaos of a warm summer's day with all the family and friends gathered in the garden, his eyes always found their way back to you.

With gentle hands, he would brush back your hair from your face, lingering there just a moment before he pulled back. As you turned to speak to him with renewed excitement, the only thing he could focus on was your eyes, how they sparkled and reflected the sun, as if your entire being were made up of bright rays of light which you could not contain. You felt his hand brush against your cheek as he moved your hair away from your face. He leaned one arm on his knee, content sitting here with you under the trees, where he could forget all about what would happen once you left, and he would have to step back into his office.

"Mycroft, why do you have to go?" You asked him. It wasn't the first time he had to break the news to you that he would have to leave for school, to go into politics.

"If I am to take over the family house, which I will, I'll need to learn", He informed you, "Going to boarding school is the only place for that"

"But I'll miss you ever so dearly", You expressed, shifting to your knees to face him, moving closer, "Mycroft, you can't go"

"I'll be back before you know it", He promised you, taking your hand in his with a small smile. You nodded softly, returning the smile. Carefully, he slipped the glove from your hand, glancing back towards the house briefly to make sure someone wasn’t looking. It was the only time he had ever held your hand. Always being separated by a barrier of gloves and formalities, and on the last day before his leave, the warmth of his hand touched yours, and he held it gently. You would have sworn you had never felt so close and connected to another person in your whole life. Even now, as you sat with Victor, his proposal echoing in your ears, "You'll barely notice I'm gone... and I'll write to you as much as I can"

That, however, was a cruel lie. He soon grew distant; you barely heard from him. As if he had forgotten you. Perhaps, you thought, he had met another lady in London. Perhaps he only spoke to you because your families were friends but he hid his pain well.

You often thought back to those sweet summer days, moments which slipped through your fingers, and now as you looked at Victor Trevor under the sun your heart squeezed. Could he really give you what you wanted.

“I love you, y/n”, Victor said to you, desperately, “ever since I saw you at the Graham household, I’ve always loved you”

“Victor I…” you glanced at him, shaking your head a little but you caught yourself. Wasn’t this what you wanted? For Victor to ask for you hand, so you will secure a place for yourself. He always listened, he had endless stories and yet, seeing him, sat so closely with you under the sun, sharing tea and cake together the way you and Mycroft would have done as children, it didn’t feel right.

“Say yes, say yes and we can travel, together” He promised you. You looked upon him, everything he could offer you, safety, companionship but it all just seemed hollow compared to your childhood filled with endless warm days.

“I… I need time to think” you informed him carefully. His expression fell slightly, expecting you to say yes but he accepted it, nodding.

“Alright… I’ll wait. I’ll wait forever if I must.” Victor sighed reluctantly, understanding how sudden it all was. You were sure then that if he had asked you again, you would have said yes as long as your mind didn’t cast back to the summer days you spent at the Holmes family estate.

You dismissed yourself, crossing the field between your home and the Holmes estate. The staff easily let you in, informing you that Mycroft was in his office. Your feet carried you up the steps, shoes clicking against the wooden floor, feeling your entire being trembling under the pressure. You had to know that you weren't waiting for nothing. Knocking on the door, you waited before letting yourself in. Mycroft was sitting there at his desk, surrounded by stacks of paperwork. He raised his head, looking at you with momentary surprise before schooling his expression to something more serious, “Miss l/n… how very unexpected…”

“Victor Trevor asked for my hand” you informed him, standing your ground, closing the door behind you. Mycroft looked at you for a long moment, placing down his pen. The words came so easily to you when you were alone. You didn’t have to act like a lady of society you could speak to him as a friend, like you used.

“And?” He inquired.

“And… and I… I told him I'd think about it,” you sighed, feeling your chest heavy and a bubbling feeling of regret. What if he didn't wait? Who would want to marry a lady who was unsure of what she wanted? Mycroft let out a heavy breath, standing up and rounding the desk to meet you. His eyes met yours, brows raised in confusion.

“Why would you do that?” He asked simply, calmly. His office was dark, lit only by the sun which barely filtered through the half shut curtains. Closed off and dark. Your eyes met his, taking a deep breath. There was so much you wanted to ask him, so much of his behaviour which didn’t make sense to you; anguish apparent on your features as you shook your head, brows furrowed.

“Mycroft, I cannot bare it. You never speak to me, ever since you left for boarding school, you’ve been different” A heavy sigh left your lips as you finally poured out all the things you wanted to say to him, “I waited for you to come back…”

“You shouldn’t have” He told you calmly, as if waiting was a choice. Not when you only ever felt truly seen with him.

“But I did… I waited… for years, hoping you'd come back" You expressed, trying to explain yourself, "and… I hoped that you would ask me to marry you when you eventually did.”

He only looked at you for a long moment, the sun filtering through the curtains, lighting up your features, seeing the same sparkle of sun in your eyes he adored all those years ago.

“I couldn’t marry you…” Mycroft muttered softly, shaking his head a little. Those words lingered between you two, heavy and swirling through the air, unlink the breeze which used to lift up your spirits.

“Why not?” You gasped softly, desperately trying to grasp at something that made sense.

“Because…” he said softly, taking a step closer, “Victor he… he’s more suited to you. He can give you things I never could”

He paused for a moment, wrestling internally, words failing him as he tried to explain himself. Explain why he ignored you, why he pushed you away and built up walls when all he wanted was the opposite. How he hated that he was upsetting you and wanting nothing more to pull you into his arms, to feel the soft touch of your hand against his once more, “He can love you properly… he is passionate, brilliant… he will adore you and I… cannot”

“You do not adore me?” You asked desperately, your voice breaking, brows tugging together in confusion.

"I didn't say that," His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, and for the briefest moment, something flickered in his eyes, something raw and vulnerable that was gone as quickly as it appeared, his voice quiet. "I said I cannot."

“But why?” You gasped softly, trying to understand.

He looked away, his hands clenching at his sides, "Because sentiment is weakness," he said flatly, reciting the mantra he'd told himself for years. "And I will not have responsibilities, such as my work be to complicated but such silly things-"

"Will not and cannot are two different things" you expressed. He stepped closer still, until you could feel the heat of his body, the subtle scent of his cologne. His eyes bored into yours, a silent command to drop the subject immediately.

"Not in this instance," he insisted, his voice low and final, "Your wishes are irrelevant,"

He heard your soft sigh and the unspoken heartbreak in it. Mycroft backed up, leaning against the desk, his grip on the edge tightening even more. He turned back to face you, his expression masked once more. "You're being dramatic,"

"I do not know how you can stand there and say something like that, after courting me for so long and...“ you began, your voice breaking slightly.

"And it's for the best," he repeated, his voice cold and detached once more. But inside, he was anything but calm. He was a mess of emotions he didn't understand and feelings he didn't know how to cope with. "Victor is a better match for you."

“I do not love Victor” you argued.

"That doesn't matter," he said sharply, "Marriage is about practicality, not love." He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, making sure he won’t say anything he’ll regret, "I’m sure you will grow to love Victor in time”

“And after all those years… you do not love me?” You asked softly. Seeing the pain in your eyes, he felt a pang of guilt. He wanted to take back his harsh words, to comfort you and tell you that he was lying through his teeth. But he didn't.

"No," he agreed immediately, the word coming out without hesitation. He saw the way your face fell, the disappointment clear in your eyes, and he hated himself for causing it. But he needed to believe it himself, "I don't..."

Tears gathered in your eyes, making them glisten more under the light and yet his own expression remained cold. Every instinct told him to reach out, to gather you in his arms and tell you that he was the biggest fool in the world, that he adored you, that he'd loved you more and more every time you came to his family estate. That he loved you even as children, spending summers together, reading together and sitting outside in the sun, but instead, he just stood there.

"You... are a cruel man, with a cold heart, that is if you even possess one" you stated with disgust, glancing over him, “I never want to see you again!”

“I never want to see you again!”

Those words echoed around him, and suddenly he was no longer looking at you but at your mother. You had the same quiet fiery spirit, but he remembered, clear as day, your mother speaking those exact same words to him.

“You will stay away from my daughter, I will not let you marry her… You have already ruined her by exposing her to these silly novels. I won't allow you to sully her any further. You will stay away!”

Mycroft breathed a heavy sigh, shaking his head slightly, calming himself for a moment, gazing upon your face as if contorted with unshed tears, “Victor will make you happy, I assure you”

“I do not wish to see you”, you said again, glancing at him, forcing yourself to storm out. The moment the door clicked shut behind you, he crumpled. He didn't make a sound, only pressed both hands flat against the desk, his shoulders shaking, his forehead bowed as he took in a deep shuddering breath, eyes closed. Taking a moment to recompose himself under the weight of upturned memories.

"I do..." he whispered to the empty room, sighing heavily, letting the silence of the room consume him. You were already gone, you had a suitor who was happy to marry you, and you would be safe and provided for. For all he knew, you were already making your way to Victor to accept his proposal, to travel Europe and be loved the way you deserved to be loved.

Your shoes clicked down the steps, huffing with agitation. How could he have said such things to you? How could he have disregarded some of the happiest days of your childhood?

Mycroft stayed in his office for a moment longer, moving towards the window to pull back the curtains just in time to see you storm out of the house and back across the field. Stomping your feet, tense and fast. He pulled the curtains closer together to ensure no light would come into the office.

Stepping into the hallway, which used to be coated in golden hues, now remained grey. Each step down the hallway, each room held memories, echoes of ghosts. With trembling hands, he pulled out a ring of keys, stopping in front of a door and unlocking it, the keys clanking together, the handle sticking as he pushed open the door. A bedchamber which had been locked away. Memories of screaming and crying. Memories of loss, which he kept locked away.

“Miss L/N, you have a caller” one of the household staff informed you, you father glancing at you with reverent enthusiasm.

“Of course, send him in” you father spoke for you, ushering for you to put down the book. Moment later you saw the familiar figure of Victor walk into the room, holding a bouquet of flowers.

“Miss L/N” he bowed slightly, “Mr L/N, I am honoured for you to let me join you this afternoon”

“Think nothing of it my boy, a friend of the Holmes family is a friend of ours” you father grinned, ushering him into the room.

“Quite” Victor agreed, moving closer to you, “I brought flowers, a simple gift but I do not yet know what you like, perhaps once we are better acquainted, I’ll be able to bring gifts such as literature”

“They’re lovely, thank you” you smiled, accepting the flowers, “I remember you mentioned you travelled”

“Yes, I always wanted to travel, to see what’s out there, learn of the different cultures” Victor explained, “it’s very eye opening to learn how people can be vastly different from our own”

“You could say, in a way I travel in my books” you explained with a smile.

“Precisely, many people do write of their travels” He informed you with a smile, “it’s almost as if you are traveling with them”

A lovely sentiment. It was never a battle to get an answer from Victor; he so freely gave himself away when he spoke. Every word, every sentence was as if he truly understood and cherished other people’s experiences.

“In fact, I kept a journal of my travels, in hopes of informing people about new countries. Perhaps you would like to read them” A soft shy smile made its way onto his features, a pink bashful tinge at the thought of sharing something as personal as his journal.

“I would love to read them.” You breathed out softly. He nodded slightly

“I shall have to remember to bring them” A small smile appeared on your face, nodding softly. How good it felt to be seen, to be listened to. Victor actually replied and asked questions. Mycroft wouldn’t ask or even offer for you to read his work. Those things were kept private.

“Miss L/N, you have another caller, Mr Holmes” the housekeeper said, seconds before Mycroft turned the corner and paused upon seeing Victor sat next to you. He visibly stiffened, staring at the scene for a moment, fidgeting with the wrapped box in his hands.

“Mycroft, I didn’t know you were calling upon Miss L/N” Victor turned his attention to Mycroft in the door.

“I thought you would be long gone by now” Mycroft informed, “no matter, I’ll wait”

You watched at Mycroft stiffly made his way over to your father, taking a seat nearby, placing the box down next to him. Hearing him begin to make conversation with your father, no doubt about his work.

“What of your books?” You heard Victor say, your eyes teared away from Mycroft, glancing back at him.

“My books?” You asked, your eyes flickering back towards Mycroft, momentarily distracted. He was sat right there. He would hear what you were talking about.

“Yes, the ones you’re reading currently” Victor prompted. You gasped in acknowledgment, nodding

“Ah, yes… um… I have just been rereading old favourites recently; there has not been much new which has gained my interest”

As you said that you saw in the corner of your eye Mycroft glancing your direction, his hand moving to rest upon the wrapped box before his gaze turned back to your father. Why did he keep looking at you.

“Even more of a reason for me to bring my journal. I promise the next time I visit I will come with an abundance of tales” Victor said with a bright smile, one which could sweep any lady of her feet if used in the right situations.

“Of course you must be off, I believe. Wouldn’t want to keep my brother waiting now, would you?” Mycroft spoke up with a strained smiled, looking at Victor.

“Of course not. He requires my assistance you see with one of his chemistry experiments” Victor explained to you, so you weren’t kept out of the dark with the whole thing. He said hi goodbyes, made promises of later visits before leaving. Leaving space for Mycroft to move and take his place.

The air around you shifted as he sat awkwardly, holding the wrapped box in his hands. Then he held it out and offered it to you.

“A gift” he said. Your brows furrowed as you glanced down at the brown paper, it wasn’t elegantly wrapped but as you uncovered the item inside, you expression shifted to one of surprise. Your brows furrowed as you looked at the title of the book.

“Folk tales from the Holy Roman Empire. A collection of them” Mycroft explained to you. It became clear that his silence didn’t mean he wasn’t interested but that he was listening. He remembered that you enjoyed fairytales and so found a book that compiled fairytales from many cultures for you to enjoy. It wasn’t that he did not listen but more so that he didn’t know what to say.

“Oh, it’s a lovely gift, thank you so very much” you smiled happily, glancing at him.

“Hopefully that will keep you occupied until Victor comes back with his stories of what the places those folk tales came from are like” Mycroft explained, nodding towards the book. Though he didn’t seem enthusiastic about the idea of Victor coming back and sharing such personal stories with you. He grimaced slightly when he mentioned Victor.

“I’m sure he will keep you entertained for a long time” he added, not looking at you but towards the mantle piece, “you at least deserve that…”

You leaned forwards a little, trying to gauge what he was trying to tell you. He never seemed to say anything directly, especially on matters of the heart, it was always some form of riddle, “keep me entertained?”

“Yes… and safe and secure. Just what you need” He nodded stiffly, pausing as if he was going to say something more by deciding against it.

“Good. Glad that’s settled then” Mycroft stood up from his seat, saying his farewells, “I shall see myself out”

He gathered his coat and umbrella, pausing by the door, glancing back at you, his eyes gazing over your form before stopping, “I’ll see you when I’m next free”

“I shall look forward to it” you were being polite, seeing a stiff nod, once, then twice before he eventually turned and walked down the hallway, hearing him open the door and leave. Everything he did was restrained, as if he was suffocating in the presence of others and could only breathe once he was away from them. Once he was buried in government work. That was where he was most alive it seemed, compared to socialising.

Somehow you thought he was right about Victor, how he would be more exciting and attentive than Mycroft. However, you barely knew Victor. Mycroft was an old family friend and yet, more and more everyday he seemed like a stranger. So far from that boy you used to know who would have tea with you. You feared he was gone. But this book showed you that he was still there, he still listened and cared, even if he had unconventional ways of showing it.

As he left you turned the pages of the book Mycroft brought you, scanning through the titles of each story, folk tales of which you hadn’t heard of before and some familiar titles. Your mind casted back to how he was before. How he always brought you recommended books from his parent’s library, books he knew you would like based on what you would speak to him about so freely during those warm summer months.

It was odd how vastly everything seemed to have changed. Back when your family would host frequent event just for your two families, days spent by the rivers, sipping tea and reading outside, the warm sun making everything seem like just a hazy memory.

Now as you look upon that garden, the gazebo, all you saw was grey clouds and an unkept field.

“I do hope one of those boys will consider an engagement” Your father spoke up, breaking you out of your trance, once again feeling the cold of the room.

“Yes…” you agreed softly, nodding, looking at your father, “Father does… Mycroft seem odd to you?”

“Odd? In what way?” He shifted in his seat, putting his papers to the side.

“He didn’t always used to be this quiet, did he?” You asked him. Of course, as a young child perhaps you saw things differently back then. Those hazy days of laughter filled childhood which seemed to only be a dream you recollected.

“Oh no, he did. He did” your father nodded, his arms resting on the arm rest of his chair, “very quiet lad, even back then. Only really seemed to lighten up with you.”

You never seemed to notice that but apparently everyone else did. Your father described him as very focused on his studies, always reading, writing, always in his study even as a young child. When your family came to visit, he always allowed himself moment away from his studies and work to spent it with you.

“I don’t think he’s had it very easy, darling, he’s been running that household since he was 15” He shook his head, straightening out his papers, “but that is a good thing, that means he’ll know how to keep you safe and will always be aware of the accounts”

“I thought you said he went to boarding school” You asked him, confused. Your father nodded

“He did, but as the eldest, they had to bring him back to look after the estate when his father died” Your father explained to you. It was as if you knew nothing. As a child, you only remembered those warm summer days and was blind to what was really going on.

“You don’t need to worry, I’m sure if Trevor isn’t interested, Mycroft will look after you. He always has” your father smiled warmly, seeing your internal conflict but you knew you couldn’t force an engagement. The decision was down to them. As days stretched into weeks and Mycroft visits became less and less frequent, Victor’s visit filled the empty hours of the day.

Mycroft would go a week without word and would show up only briefly, bring a book every time he came and only stayed for tea before leaving to go back to work. Mycroft was still, in your mind, a dear friend but as his visits were fleeting and left you wanting more, Victor was attentive and doting. If you expressed wanting something, he would have found it by the time his next visit came.

"I do enjoy our time together" Victor expressed, sitting with you, having tea and cake, "I want to make the most of it before my next voyage"

"You're leaving?" You questioned, leaning forwards a little.

"Yes... I will be in a months time at least. I'll need someone to look after the house" Victor smiled at you, leaning forwards slightly. Your eyes glanced over him briefly as he shifted closer with that knowing smile, nodding slightly towards you. You shifted slightly in your seat, glancing back towards your teacup, fidgeting with the handle.

"Is that so?" You asked softly, daring to glance back at him. He nodded.

“Yes… and I’ll need someone to look after the estate whilst I’m gone” Victor explained with a small smile, leaning closer to you. Your eyes widened slightly, tilting your head a little, picking up his intent. You glanced towards your father briefly. Victor caught your gaze, “I’ve already asked, your father, he seemed pleased”

Your breath caught, nodding slowly, “yes… he would be… he trusts you, being friends with the Holmes family…”

He hummed to himself, muttering under his breath things he needed to add, throwing open the cupboard doors, reaching up for small canisters. Popping them open, he added small dashes of herbs and spices, his sleeves rolled up to his elbow, curls pushed back from his forehead as steam rose up and dampened the loose locks. He was so utterly absorbed in his craft that he rarely noticed anyone come in unless they spoke to him. He didn't notice you watching right now.

He dipped the spoon inside the sauce, tasting it once again, thinking for a moment before turning back to the cupboard, "needs more salt..." he muttered to himself, immediately correcting the flavour, finally satisfied as it simmered in the pot. The pink tip of his tongue poking out between his lips in concentration.

"Willy", You called out with a small smile, finally stepping into the kitchen and setting down the crate on the small table in the middle of the room. He turned to you, watching as the box hit the table with a thud.

"You shouldn't have carried that down here all by yourself, I could have helped", Willy said, instantly moving to take the box from your hands, his warm fingers brushing yours.

"Mathew told me to" You told him, still smelling the aroma of cooking food. Willy shook his head.

"I got it" he reassured you, moving to help you unpack the things from the crate, "just what I needed!"

You turned your head, glancing at him as he pulled out an empty jar, cracking it open with a smile.

“You think I can have this? I wanted a jar to store my chocolate in” He asked you, holding the jar in his hand, his eyes bright and earnest as he asked.

You nodded softly, “Of course, I don’t think anyone is using it”

He grinned brightly, replacing the airtight lid, “I’ve been working on this new chocolate. I’ve found a way to keep the inside gooey and creamy whilst keeping a crisp outer shell”

You paused, glancing up at him when he said that. Chocolate where the inside is kept in an almost liquid form? It sounded too good to be true. And whether it’s any good was another thing but this was Willy Wonka’s chocolate you were talking about here. He has made some of the best chocolate you’ve ever tasted.

“Can I try?” You asked hesitantly, tilting your head, brows furrowing.

“Of course you can. Here” he moved to his satchel, finding a small piece of the chocolate he made earlier. He handed it to you. As you inspected it, the outside was solid chocolate, however upon biting into it, the inside was creamy and soft, unlike its hard outershell.

Willy’s entire face lit up as you took your first bite, watching as you eyes widened in ecstasy at how the chocolate practically melted against your tongue. That was his favourite part, witnessing people’s reactions to his creations which he poured his whole heart into.

“What do you think? Do you like it?” He asked excitedly. He pulled up a chair beside you, folding his legs underneath him, watching your reaction as if it were the most thrilling experience, "The chocolate glaze comes from cocoa beans I found from the last port."

"It really is good", You expressed, nodding. He smiled softly, relieved, watching you take another bite, pushing the rest of the chocolate into your mouth, feeling the soft creamy inside melt against your tongue, coating it in a sweet sugary nectar.

"I hope to open my own shop one day, so I can share my chocolate with the rest of the world" Willy told you with a smile.

"I really do hope you get to open your own shop" you leaned closer to him, pressing a kiss to his cheek, "You deserve it"

His breath caught in his throat and he sat perfectly still. The kiss wasn't on his lips but it might as well have been. His skin tingled where your lips had touched, his cheeks burning a soft pink. He stared at you for a moment, "I deserve it for cooking?"

"Well, amongst other things, you really have been a big help" You told him with a soft smile, "If anyone deserves it, it's you"

"That's very kind of you..." Those simple words were better than any endorsement. So genuine and kind. His heart hammered against his chest before he cleared his throat, moving to stand up and turn the heat off on the stove.

He began plating the food with a familiar artistic flourish, heading back towards the table holding a single plate. The plate almost looked too pretty to eat, a perfect golden duck breast, arranged on a bed of crisp greens, drizzled with a rich, glossy raspberry chocolate sauce. He places it in front of you with a proud smile.

"Well, we can't have our only errand girl go hungry, can we?" He grinned.

"It looks and smells divine" you smiled softly, glancing down at the delicately arranged plate.

Willy practically glowed under the praise, leaning in slightly, brushing a stray curl from his forehead, "The raspberry chocolate sauce... it required a bit of finessing, but I believe I've captured the perfect balance of savoury and sweet"

"I'd believe you before even trying it" You smiled. Willy sat back down at the small table, fidgeting with stray utensils, glancing back at you every now and then with a soft look in his eyes. Your brows furrowed, catching his gaze, in which he looked away, fidgeting with his shirt sleeve. You always thought kisses on the cheek were a friendly gesture, but what if, for him, it was something more intimate?

The question hung between you, heavy and thick but sweet, like the warm air of the kitchen. His eyes moved back to meet yours, pupils dilating as his mind raced through the possibilities - friendly gesture or flirty banter? Willy had no clue about romantic relationships, let alone if he was interested in someone. It never really crossed his mind before.

"Would you... Kiss me for real this time? for the food," Willy asked hesitantly, swallowing thickly, glancing at you, waiting for your answer. He looked at you, almost begging you to say yes, brows tugging together.

"Oh..." You were caught off guard, eyes widening as you studied him. Was he being serious? Knowing Willy, he rarely ever said anything unless he meant it. He was honest and sweet. Always spoke his mind.

"Yeah... okay" You breathed out, your eyes never leaving his, nodding slowly. He barely breathed, his heart hammering against his chest, a heavy feeling fluttering within him. Willy began to lean forward, his forearms leaning against the table, his movements cautious. As if he were afraid of this moment, afraid you may turn around and take back your offer.

You also leaned in, seeing a slightly damp curl fall over his forehead, how his eyes sparkled, waiting. His tongue darted out, wetting his lower lip, leaning in, his eyes dropping to your lips. Hovering there, you felt his warm breath against your lips.

Slowly, he tilted his head slightly, holding his breath. You felt his lips brushing against yours, barely a kiss. Then he dipped his head, pressing his lips against yours. A soft, fleeting kiss, warm breaths mingling. His tongue brushing against yours, curls tickled your forehead as he parted, breathing a soft, surprised sigh.

Willy was in his element. Seemingly dancing through the kitchen, dipping a teaspoon into sauces, his lips pursing as he blew to cool down the sauce. Tasting the sauce, letting his tongue lick the spoon whilst he added a few more herbs and spices. The warm sweet scent of melted butter filled your nose and he spooned it into the freshly boiled potatoes, rolling up his sleeves to his elbows, kneading and mashing them.

He pause, sighing, pushing back his chocolate brown curls, turning to you with a smile, “I didn’t hear you come in…”

He paused, his brow furowing, “I’m not late, am I?”

You smiled, shaking your head, “no, no, I’m early” you expressed, stepping into the kitchen. After picking up Willy seven years ago he quickly became the ship’s cook. Of course, no one ever had any complaints. He had to have been the best cook you’ve met. Anything he made turned out delicious, no matter the ingredients he was given.

“Thank goodness” he breathed out a sigh of relief, a small smile making its way back upon his features, “I’d hate to have been late again. I got distracted trying out new chocolate flavours”

“Do you really think you’ll make it to the Galeries Gormet?” You asked, pushing yourself up onto a nearby counter.

“I hope so. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do” He nodded with a sad smile, moving his hand into his pocket, pulling out small drawstring bag. He opened it, pulling out a dark brown square and dropping it into the sauce on the stove top.

“What’s that?” You asked, nodding towards the bag.

“What this? It’s chocolate” he claimed.

“Chocolate?” You gasped, your eyes widening.

“Of course. Chocolate makes everything taste better” he nodded, grabbing the wooden spoon and stirring it in. Willy turned, picking up the tea spoon again and dipping it int the sauce, blowing on it before pushing the spoon between the lips, humming to himself and nodding. He dipped the spoon in again and held it up to you.

“Go on, try it” he encouraged, feeding you the sauce. It was warm and creamy, you could taste the sweet caramelised onion. It was little tangy and salty from meat juices but they were balanced out by the bitter dark chocolate.

“It’s good right?” He asked with a small grin, moving to plate everything, the buttery mashed potatoes, sausages from the last port and veggies seasoned in thyme and garlic, all of which complimented the sauce nicely.

“Mhm, really good” you nodded with a smile. He sighed whistfully, crossing his arms over his chest.

“When we get to there, I’ll finally be able to share my chocolate creations with the world” He expressed. You smiled softly, moving to help with the plates.

“I don’t know what we’ll do without you, Willy, we’ll starve to death” you told him with a small smile. He chuckled, shaking his head.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine, anyone can cook” he said.

“No one can cook as good as you” you told him, watching as he drizzled the sauce over the food.

“It’s nothing special just… trial and error, like chocolate. Once you know what flavours do what it’s easy to mix and match” Willy explained to you, brushing off what he does as something that anyone can do. He really couldn’t see how amazing what he did was.

“Come on, it’ll get cold” Willy expressed, gesturing towards the food, “It’ll taste better warm”

You smiled, nodding, picking up a knife and fork, cutting into the meat, coating it in the sauce, letting the warm liquid coating your tongue, chewing it slowly. You let out a hum of approval, nodding.

“This really is good” you said to him, going in for another forkful. Willy leaned against the table, chin in his hand, watching you eat with sparkling eyes. As if your enjoyment was his, seeing you eat what he cooked and enjoying it was enough for him.

“I’m happy you like it” he expressed with a smile, sitting up straight and wiping his hands on a nearby towel, “I thought you’d like it, it’s similar to the food you said you’d eat back home, I tried my best to make something similar”

Your fork scraped against the china plate, glancing up at him as he cleaned up pots and pans, “really? You remembered that?”

“Of course I did. It was important to you,” Willy explained, wiping his hands on the towel again and stepping closer to you, “I wanted you to have the taste of home away from home”

It was a small thing but that mean everything to you. Cusine at home was different to what you had gotten used to on the boat, a lot of sea food and on the occasion meats from local markets by ports. The moment Willy saw the meat and potatoes he knew it would be his chance to try and replicate something you described enjoying back at home.

“It’s probably not exactly the same but at least it came out good” Willy explained.

“It’s perfect, Willy, thank you” you said, glancing at him with a soft smile, standing up and pulling him into a hug, “it taste’s better than home, Willy, because you made it”

His arms wrapped around your waist with a smile, holding you in warm the embrace, “I’m glad you think so…” he muttered, feeling you press a kiss against his cheek as you pulled away.

The Holmes family had always been reclusive, even before Mycroft and Sherlock’s time. A large estate, deep into the countryside, in which the inhabitants rarely left to mingle with other members of society. The Holmes’ were always reclusive but incredibly gifted. As your eyes scanned the crowd once again, they stopped upon a figure. Stood in the corner of the room, nursing a glass of champagne. Mycroft Holmes.

A small smile reached your lips; eyes locked onto his figure as you moved through the crowds of people. Faces blurred and bodies brushed against yours as you made your way to that very back corner. Until suddenly, a figure moved in front of you, blocking your view of Mycroft.

“Miss l/n” Your eyes glanced up to meet the stranger, taking in his light eyes, which gazed down at you.

“Ah, Mr Trevor” Mycroft stood in the corner of the room, you felt as if you were so close. Surely, he must notice you.

“Are you enjoying the party?” He inquired politely, tilting his head as he regarded you, noticing how your eyes were flickering over his shoulder, past him, towards Mycroft.

“Yes, it’s quite the event” A small smile graced your lips.

“I couldn’t help but hear you visited the Holmes estate recently, apologies, Sherlock told me” Victor smiled, nodding slightly in his direction.

“Yes, well… our families are quite close friends”

“Ours too” Your eyes glanced back over his shoulder again, nodding softly, a polite smile tugging at your lips, “Sorry, were you looking for someone?”

“No, no, just…” You shook your head, casting an overarching glance across the room

“Looking for a quiet corner to step into?” Victor guessed, his eye narrowing slightly, before nodding firmly, “You’re just as unsociable as they are”

“Just as well, like Sherlock, I find my interests take up most of my time” He continued.

“Yes, I heard Sherlock was incredibly lost without you” You smiled, nodding.

“The world will not travel itself” He chuckled, “and yourself?”

“Reading is what interests me” You answered.

“Reading… what kind of books in particular?”

“Novels, sometimes books of fact” You took in a small breath, looking over his shoulder to see Mycroft still standing in his corner of the room, “Sometimes I find myself drawn back to stories of love.”

“What is it about those that you enjoy?” Your gaze snapped towards Victor. How his eyes gleamed with genuine interest, smiling softly when he asked you, leaning forward. Mycroft would never ask about that. He thought romances were silly, unattainable, and corrupted the mind with sentiment.

“I suppose… the grand gestures… the way a gentleman would approach a lady” You began wistfully.

“I’m sure they’re lovely stories” He smiled a little, his expression softening slightly, “it is great that you have interests which occupy your time, I suppose we are alike in that way”

“Yes… I suppose we are” A small smile made its way onto your features, shoulders relaxing, eyes no longer wandering over his shoulder.

“Perhaps I may call upon you tomorrow” Victor suggested, “Would you dance with me?”

He took your hand in his. You felt the warmth of his palm through your gloves as he led you onto the dance floor. Fingers brushed against your bodice, guiding you through the steps.

“I’d like that…” you smiled softly. The warm pressure of Victor’s hand guided you through the steps, making sure you were able to keep up and not going too fast or too slow. Of course, you already knew the song, but the small pressure prepared you easily for what was to come, and dancing became almost a second nature for someone who had not done so in so long.

Mycroft glanced in your direction, now seeing you clearly away from the crowd and on the dance floor with Victor Trevor. His jaw clenched for a moment; however, he made no move from his corner, simply watching the dancers move in sync.

“Then it’s settled, I’ll call upon you tomorrow afternoon with a gift” Victor announced, guiding you off the dance floor. You nodded, watching as he left, then your eyes settled on Mycroft. He was still standing in the same position. You allowed yourself to drift towards Mycroft, a gleaming look on your face.

“I thought you said you didn’t have any suitors” Was the first thing he said to you, placing his glass on the table.

“I didn’t. Not until now anyway” Your eyes search his, but it was no use, he was a closed book.

“Victor Trevor… Sherlock must have told him” Mycroft stated, more so to himself as he watched Victor and Sherlock across the room. His gaze didn’t falter. He had to tear his gaze away to look back at you, his hardened gaze softening slightly when he met your worried eyes.

“He was very polite…” Your eyes pulled away to glance towards Victor.

“He’s a good man. Looked after Sherlock throughout his days at the university, I’m sure he’ll look after you” He picked up his glass again, taking a long sip, washing down those words with a slight wince. Whether it was from the strong alcohol or the idea of Victor Trevor showing an interest in you, you couldn’t tell.

“He had decided to call upon me tomorrow afternoon, father will be pleased” You continued with a soft smile.

“It is better to have some choice instead of settling” Mycroft answered, glancing briefly at you but not quite holding your gaze, flickering back to the crowd and in the direction of where Victor Trevor had wandered.

“Have you read any literature on politics recently?” You asked, turning to him. Mycroft’s ice blue eyes finally met yours, brows furrowing.

“Yes” he answered flatly. You smiled, nodding.

“What were they about?” You continued, probing, trying to get him to engage and answer in something other than one syllable words.

“Nothing that concerns you” he told you simply, leaving it as that. Politics was not for ladies to know about. It was useless trying to engage him in conversation, and whenever you tried, he shut you down. Often your mind wondered back to Victor. How attentive he was, how he asked you questioned about things he wasn’t interested in himself simply out of the delight of learning about you.

“I was reading something last week” You began, “an old favourite of mine, a midsummer night's dream”

“Shakespeare” he muttered quietly, acknowledging that he knew of the story, “A story of silly things like love and magic, perfect for you”

You glanced at him, your brows furrowing as you took in what he said. He wasn’t attentive at all. He didn’t ask, he wasn’t interested. He said such mean things every time you mentioned something you enjoyed and it made you heart drop. How deeply you wished he would show even the slightest bit of interest in you after all these years

“If I stay any longer, people will talk” you said, wanting to excuse yourself.

At least he seemed to be interested in another meeting. Mycroft had invited you to tea. Your father, upon hearing the news was delighted. Arrangements were made to have a new dress made for the occasion, adorned in your favourite colours, and the most fashionable silhouette of the century. Your handmaids dressed you, making sure your hair was perfect and elegant, curled and pulled into an up-do, your corset tied securely and last-minute alterations to the dress were made whilst you went over conversations in your head. This had to be perfect. You needed to be the picture of a perfect young lady.

Mycroft arrived at your home in the afternoon, reserved as usual, his mother acting as a chaperone. His expression remained guarded as he stepped out of the carriage, but his eyes flickered briefly towards you before returning to their distant gaze, moving to greet you.

“Miss L/N…” He said respectfully in greeting, bowing slightly towards you,

“Mr Holmes, thank you for joining me,” you said politely, looking up at him. He stiffly nodded. He didn’t offer his arm, barely looked at you as he turned to enter your house, expecting you to follow. As you followed him, Mycroft's voice carried back to you, explanatory and lacking any warmth.

"My mother suggested this... tea. She thought it would be... polite." His tone made it clear that he hadn't been in favour of the idea, but was making an effort, nonetheless.

“Oh… how kind of her” you replied softly, glancing at his form as he led you towards the same drawing room you used to dine in when you were little: the same wooden furniture, a small round table set up by the window. Pulling out a chair for you, Mycroft acted politely, letting you sit and pushing the chair in for you. The table was set elegantly with a teapot, cups and saucers, milk and sugar pots and a tiered cake stand with scones, small cakes, and finger sandwiches. The typical food items you would find when having high tea. His movements were efficient, almost clinical. No unnecessary contact, no lingering glances.

He took his own seat across from you, his posture straight, pouring out the tea, going through the steps one by one. Pouring the tea through the strainer, adding milk and sugar. He then pushed your prepared cup gently across the table, handle turned towards you. His eyes briefly met yours before darting away again.

“Cake? Or any scones or sandwiches? Feel free to help yourself" he offered, the tiered stand laden with delicate pastries and sandwiches, a few small bowls of clotted cream and jam to the side. His mother took a seat at the table with them.

Mrs Holmes beamed, gesturing towards the cakes. "Do try the lemon tart, my dear. It's Mycroft's favourite." She touched her son's arm with a gentle smile. Mycroft's jaw tightened imperceptibly, but he made no comment, returning his gaze to his untouched tea. She sighed, rolling her eyes, “I don’t know what the issue is, Mycroft, darling you used to love having tea with her”

“That was when she was five… circumstances have changed” Mycroft protested, glancing towards his mother.

“I remember how patient you were with her," Mrs Holmes continued nostalgically. "She'd ask a thousand questions, but you never seemed to mind."

“Again, we were children” Mycroft stated firmly, casting a cold glance towards his mother, a silent warning to speak no more on the matter.

"Yes, but those childhood habits often reveal character," his mother argued gently, sending you an encouraging smile before trying to lighten the mood by adding, "You were quite the little gentleman with her. Always making sure she had enough cake or tea."

“I was 11” Mycroft stated firmly, not seeing any point in his mother reminding him of his childhood. You barely remembered meeting Mycroft, but you remember that not long after that he had to go to boarding school and your visits to the Holmes house became less frequent. The tension in the room thickened noticeably. Mrs Holmes finally seemed to realise she'd strayed into uncomfortable territory and fell silent. Mycroft's expression had closed off completely, his earlier attempts at politeness evaporating. You could see now why your father had warned you about his reserved nature. he wasn't just distant; he was actively building walls.

“Perhaps I’ll let you two talk,” Mrs Holmes announced after the silence had settled over the table, standing up and stepping over to the couch to read quietly. His mother's departure left a heavy silence in her wake. Mycroft watched her retreat before fixing his gaze on his untouched tea, his profile rigid. The room felt suddenly much stuffier. After what felt like an eternity, he spoke without looking up, his voice low and tight.

"You're nothing as I remember," he said gruffly, his brow furrowed slightly as if the admission pained him. He sounded almost disappointed. "You're quieter..." He paused, before adding, "Less annoying."

My father told me not to talk too much, he didn’t want me to scare you away I suppose” You smiled a little. If you were being honest. His presence unnerved you like no one else did. He was serious and unmoving. Something flickered across his face at the mention of your father, a hint of a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. For a moment, you thought he might say something more, but instead, he merely nodded curtly.

"I see," was all he offered, his tone neutral once more. You nodded a little, glancing at him hesitantly across the table. This wasn’t at all like the tea you enjoyed as children. The silence stretched between you, thick and awkward. You could see Mrs Holmes watching from the couch, looking hopeful, but Mycroft seemed determined to let the conversation die. He took a sip of his tea, his eyes scanning over you briefly before returning to his cup. The familiar tension of his boarding school years seemed to have hardened him into something unrecognisable. His presence was familiar and yet he was like a stranger

As the minutes ticked by, the room grew heavier with the weight of their unspoken words. Mycroft remained unmoving, his posture stiff. You felt a pang of sadness, realising just how distant the boy you once knew had become.

You glanced down at your cup, shifting a little in your seat “Do… you have any interests?”

He went still. Mycroft's eyes flickered to yours at your question, a flicker of surprise breaking through his stoic façade and gone almost as quickly as it appeared. "Politics. Strategy. State matters which require my attention,” he answered flatly, setting his cup down carefully, "The affairs of the nation consume my time and intellect."

"Do you have any... interests, as well?" he asked after a lengthy pause, his voice careful. He showed no sign of actually caring about the answer, merely going through the motions of polite conversation. His eyes flicked to the window briefly.

“Reading” you answered thoughtfully, deciding that honesty would be the best course with Mycroft.

"Reading, yes you did say that" he repeated, his tone thoughtful. "What sort of literature do you prefer?" He leaned back slightly, his posture relaxing marginally. It was a small concession, but you took it as a sign that he might be willing to engage in conversation on a deeper level. However, the question was asked, not with curiosity, but with the precision of someone gathering data. You felt like you were being evaluated, placed under a microscope.

“Novels would be my preferred type of literature” you answered.

"Novels," he said, his voice flat. "Romances, I suppose?" He almost rolled his eyes but caught himself. The implication was clear: novels were silly, and therefore unsuitable for women.

“They fill the mind with unrealistic expectations and sentimental nonsense." His tone suggested he believed women were better off educated but ignorant. He clearly held to traditional views on gender roles. He nodded to himself, satisfied that he'd made his opinion on the matter clear. The conversation had devolved into exactly the sort of patronising exchange you'd been hoping to avoid.

“I suppose there’s some truth to that” you agreed softly, nodding a little, really thinking about it. If you didn’t read about being treated with love and respect you wouldn’t have expected it. Mycroft relaxed, pleased that you weren't arguing.

"Precisely," he said, his voice warming slightly. "It's not that I disapprove of women reading entirely, but certainly not such frivolous material. Perhaps history or a biography would be more... beneficial."

“Yes…” You nodded softly. Seeing you so quiet and agreeable seemed to put Mycroft at ease. You found yourself nodding along, not bothering to challenge his assumptions. It was easier that way. You had always read, was always curious which is why you enjoyed reading as much as you did even though most men disapproved of reading as a pastime. You found yourself slowly glancing up at him again, tilting your head a little as you took in how he had changed since leaving for boarding school all those years ago.

“What did I ask?” You spoke up softly, his gaze flickering up to meet yours, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“Sorry?”

“Your mother mentioned I used to ask lots of questions, what kind of things did I ask about?” You explained, curious about what sort of things you would ask about as a child, things that Mrs Holmes seemed to remember fondly, perhaps, there was a chance Mycroft remembered too. He took in a deep breath, sighing softly as he thought of one of the many questions he was undoubtedly asked.

“You would ask really stupid things… and to think I thought Sherlock was an idiot, you somehow managed to ask more idiotic questions than he did” Mycroft sighed, though a slight smile tugged at the side of his mouth, as if he found your stupidity amusing, “though I believe mother found it endearing; she had always wanted a girl”

“Yes, she… she seems to have some sort of a soft spot for me” You smiled a little nodding. Mycroft smiled too, ever so slightly before it faded, staring at you with an almost wistful expression, his jaw tightened his gaze flickering away suddenly, as if his mind were invaded by some memory. He cleared his throat, setting aside his tea harshly.

"So…," he said, his voice returning to its usual cool tone after the moment of warmth, changing the subject, "Tell me... do you have any plans for the upcoming season?"

“I think you’re my only suitor for this annual season” you admitted softly. Mycroft's eyes widened slightly at your admission, surprise flicking across his face.

"Well... that's rather unexpected." He paused, considering. "Not unwelcome, mind you. Merely... unexpected,” He added after a moment, his gaze flickering away from you.

“Unexpected how?” You found yourself asking.

"You're of suitable breeding and lineage," he said carefully, choosing his words delicately. "There should be more interest." His eyes assessed you with cool calculation. "Unless you've... frightened them off somehow."

Your lips curled up in a smile, laughing softly. Mycroft watched your smile, his expression unchanging but his eyes lingering a moment longer than they should have. The sudden sound of your laughter seemed to catch him off guard, and he blinked rapidly, looking at you confused.

"You… find that amusing?" he asked, carefully. Mycroft's eyes narrowed slightly as you laughed, his expression turning puzzled. He hadn't intended to be amusing, merely honest.

“I apologise; I… how could I have frightened away any other potential suitors” You smiled with a slight chuckle.

"Perhaps you simply lack certain... charms that other gentlemen find appealing," he said bluntly, though without malice. He wasn't being cruel, he was being practical, stating what he perceived as fact, "Though you're clearly not devoid of intelligence, if your father has raised you to be so quiet. That might be the issue."

“What about you? Do you… Find me appealing?” You asked before you could stop yourself. You were curious as to why he bothered inviting you into his home, if he even liked you. Mycroft's expression didn't change, but his eyes flicked to yours, holding your gaze for a long moment before he responded.

"An odd question," he commented dryly. "But I suppose it's fair, considering the circumstances."

You looked at him, confused, your brows furrowing. Why was asking if he thought you were appealing an odd question if he continued to go out of his way to invite you for tea? He sighed, sitting back.

"You're here because your father wishes it," he pointed out. "Not because I find you... appealing."

You hoped it would be something more. That perhaps, under that stoic façade, he did care, at least a little. He noticed the subtle disappointment that flickered across your face, and for a moment, he looked almost sympathetic.

“Our mothers were close friends so it’s only natural” He continued, his tone betraying any hint of emotion or concern. That this was merely just appeasing his mother’s adoration for your mother, “you’re the only woman I have contact with”

Your eyes widened slightly, glancing up to meet his gaze. It was surprising; however, it wasn’t unusual. Mycroft was always a very reserved man, didn’t speak a lot on topics of interest. He shifted in his seat, moving to pour you another tea, glancing at you briefly as a silence settled over you. After pouring and preparing your tea, he cleared his throat.

“I apologise; I rarely have much to share. My work takes up much of my time and I seldom ever converse with other members of the ton” Mycroft began, casting you a glance.

“That’s quite all right, I understand your work takes up a lot of your time” you admitted softly, nodding.

“Then you will understand that I will rarely be present. I had to make time for this meeting and… I am unsure when the next one will be” Mycroft explained to you. Even though he was a member of high society, he was always working, which was odd considering men usually didn’t have a need to work if they came from such a wealthy family. Mycroft, on the other hand, was always working. You nodded in return, tilting your head a little.

“Perhaps… we could write?” You suggested. He used to write to you in boarding school, then those letters became far and few between.

“Yes, I would think that appropriate” Mycroft nodded, casting a glance towards his mother who also nodded in approval. You moved to take another sip of your tea, silence setting over the two of you again, a comfortable silence however, the earlier tension gone.

Mycroft was quiet, often kept to himself you discovered which was vastly different from how he used to be when you were children. Every so often you felt as if you saw glimpses into the man, he was before, but they were gone as soon as they appeared. Small smiles and glancing in your direction when you weren’t looking, how he always saved you the last of the sandwiches or cakes.

"I have no personal interest in pursuing a romantic relationship," he stated flatly, "But I do find your company tolerable,"

Your mouth opened, drawing in a breath but he stopped you in your tracks, glancing at the table, not moving to meet your eyes.

“I understand that this is an… inconvenient situation” he stated simply, “You are a lady, you need not concern yourself with such matters. What I do know, however, is that I will look after you”

You paused, your eyes finally meeting his across the table, your tea forgotten. Was that him officially asking for your hand? You took in a breath, tilting your head as you processed it. His mother, you could see from the corner of your eye, was no longer reading but listening.

“You…” you began, but words betrayed you, sticking in your throat. Your lips parted as you drew in a soft breath, falling speechless, not wanting to speak out of line in case you misinterpreted what he was telling you.

“I will look after you” Mycroft repeated firmly, “you said you have no other suitors. You do not need to understand my reasons or motivations. You simply need to accept that I will provide for you, protect you, and ensure your well-being. That's all a wife needs to know."

Your eyes glanced over him, looking for any hint that this could be some joke, but he was serious. His hands clasped on the table, regarding you with that same expression you always saw. Calculating and expecting.

“Well…” you began, looking away from him, catching the watchful gaze of his mother.

“You are not in a position to refuse. You said it yourself you have no suitors, I will be happy to provide for you” Mycroft stated, business-like in his approach, “You do not have to decide now, you may wait until the end of the season if you wish to see if any other options come up”

“I think that would be wise, yes… wouldn’t want to rush into anything without considering my options” you said slowly. With a nod of approval, Mycroft relaxed a little.

“In the meantime, I think we should continue meeting like this” He suggested. That was that. His voice was devoid of any emotion or warmth at all. The way he spoke to you, it was as if you were in a business exchange. This had absolutely nothing to do with love at all. It was understandable that you would be provided for and safe, but could one really be happy in a relationship without love?

With only a shell that provides money and security, but who would never shower you with love and adoration. Maybe he was right. All those novels had plagued your mind and now you expected things he could never give you.

Mycroft had everything he wanted in life. He lived a comfortable life; his job was challenging, stimulating and structured; his brother, Sherlock, seemed happy enough now that John had taken up rooms back in Baker Street. For the longest time, Mycroft had inherited the Holmes ancestral family home from their Uncle Rudy, which was as vast as it was empty. A house as big as this was made for families, evidently, and yet Mycroft remained there alone. No family visited, and he had no friends to speak of, not that he wanted them. He was comfortable in his routine; from his home to the Diogenes Club, where his office resides, before going back home. Mycroft seldom ever deviated from this routine unless there was some urgent pressing matter he needed to attend to. Tonight was one of those nights.

It was a suffocating government party; everyone had to go because they would be discussing the next annual plans, and there was no way to get out of it. The Prime Minister was there, along with several members of political parties and local MPs. It was agony. Mycroft found himself glancing at his watch frequently, then rolling his eyes at how long he had before he’d be able to leave. Whenever anyone came to make conversation with him, he would inwardly groan, compose himself for the next agonising 10 minutes before he allowed himself to let the façade fall and wander back to the quietest corner of the room. He almost prayed that Sherlock would do something ridiculous, or that some national threat would occur, just so everyone would have to leave.

“Ah, there he is. I told you he’d show up eventually!” A voice called out from behind. Mycroft sighed, closing his eyes for a moment, his grip on his drink tightening before turning to face the person who called out to him.

“Mr Graham”, Mycroft acknowledged, seeing the man stop in front of him with a young girl by his side.

“You haven’t met the princess, have you?” He said, gesturing towards you. Mycroft glanced towards the girl; her hair was curled delicately, pulled into an updo with ribbons securing it in place. His eyes wandered to her dress, a gorgeous piece if he did say so himself, a gown with intricate lace and pearl details along the full skirt and bodice. Around her neck, she wore a delicate pearl necklace. A bright smile adorned her features, albeit slightly suppressed and almost practised.

“I have not, no”, Mycroft answered, looking back at the man.

“I’m looking after her, suppose his highness trusts me that much, eh?” He introduced her to Mycroft before engaging in government topics. She was barely an adult; at least she looked young, her wide eyes wandering around the room as if she had never seen anything like it. A room packed with government officials, which sounded just as exciting as it was. No one ever had anything of substance to share; however, it was mandatory that he attend.

Honestly, Mycroft wasn’t aware that people could bring their children here, not that any child would want to. It was an effortlessly dull event; no child would want to be here, and no parent would want to deal with a bored and complaining child. Which is probably why her parents were not present at this moment, but instead off somewhere else and left their darling princess in the hands of Mark Graham.

“I thought it was a good time for her to meet people; they’re hiring a lot of youngsters nowadays, well, I can only imagine what goes through a young girl's mind when she’s all cooped up in the palace like that, silly things, aren’t they?”

Mycroft sighed, glancing through the venue, becoming disinterested in Mark and his attempt at small talk. His social battery was low as it is, and this man’s trivial conversations grew increasingly tiresome. How could anyone think they were saying anything meaningful when all they did was gossip?

“They are, aren’t they?” Mycroft stated, a little strained, sarcasm seeping through, “Well, I wouldn’t want to waste your time, you appear to have a lot of people to talk to”

“Oh, it’s not a bother at all, in fact, I wanted to ask about the Alfreydo project” He brushed off, happy to continue the conversation.

“I don’t think now is the appropriate time for that”, Mycroft said, not only because the princess was standing within earshot of hearing about such private details, but this was a public government event, and anyone could easily overhear. Just the name of it was too much already. In this day and age, most parties are right-wing, and all of them are utterly useless at putting any of their principles into practice without letting something else fall in its wake.

“Of course, wouldn’t want to dull this party with business”, Mark said, Mycroft nodding in agreement, as if it could get any more boring than it already was. Then he glanced back toward the princess, who was standing there watching the conversation on the sideline.

He continued, catching his glance towards you, “You know how girls are”

“No, I don’t”, Mycroft muttered, sighing once again.

“You don’t?” Mark questioned, his brows furrowing. Then his eyes snapped up, locking onto someone walking by in the distance, “David, I need to talk to him”

Then he turned hack to the princess, holding her arms, “Stay with Mr Holmes for a moment, I’ll be back”

Before Mycroft could protest, he was already pushing past to leave, disappearing into the crowd. He heaved a heavy sigh. How did he end up in the situation? Why couldn’t he have just walked away minutes ago, and then he wouldn’t be stuck babysitting a young girl? He looked at her again, who looked more bewildered at her chaperone’s sudden departure. Her eyes met his, though she looked a little lost and confused, being in such a big place full of people she’s never met before, it was natural. A sigh escaped her, looking everywhere but at Mycroft. The idle chatter of the room mushed together into a low drone, and he could already feel the headache starting to come on. Mycroft sighed, glancing around the room, pushing his hand into his trouser pocket. She was so unsure and lost; the room was huge and crowded, and people were pushing past her to move toward the doors. Mycroft found himself reaching for her arm to gently pull her closer, away from the sea of people, which meandered through any open gaps. Her eyes widened when she felt his hand on her arm, pulling her closer.

“You’re like a goldfish”, Mycroft told her, his fingers brushing against her arm as he pulled his hand back. She looked at him, her brows furrowing slightly.

“A goldfish? What do you mean?” She asked politely, as her eyes flickered over him curiously.

“You looked very lost and confused, your highness,” He rephrased, not wanting to sound rude in front of the princess, no matter how far away from the crown she was; she was still royalty, and that was to be respected. He held profound respect for the queen and will continue to hold that respect for her granddaughters and great-granddaughters.

“There are quite a lot of people here, more than I’m used to”, she smiled politely. Mycroft glanced up to try to locate where her chaperone could have gone off to, but he appeared to be nowhere in sight. How long did he have to look after her for?

“Perhaps, you would enjoy it outside, in the gardens; it would be a lot quieter out there than in here” Mycroft offered her. She grinned, a bright, beautiful smile appearing on her face as she beamed at the idea, nodding happily. Mycroft was pleased with the distance from the room full of people. He ushered her through the crowds, his hand finding her lower back to lead her towards the patio doors. The first gust of fresh air was blissful. Both of them sighed in shared relief, making their way down the steps towards the path which wound around the garden and hedge mazes.

“Certainly, much better than inside” The Princess agreed, walking slowly down the pathway, taking in the sights of the flower garden.

“It certainly suits you, your highness” Mycroft agreed, glancing at her as moonlight caught in her hair, reflecting in her eyes and making her sparkle with renewed wonder. He tilted his head slightly, watching her as she leaned down to take in the scent of the blossoming flowers with a gentle smile. He thought it was something only princesses did in books and movies; turns out, they were just as silly as they were beautiful.

“What do you do, sir?” She asked him politely as she straightened up, meeting his gaze.

“I occupy a minor position in the British government”, Mycroft answered smoothly, that’s usually all he ever said about his position, “I am an adviser, I focus all information towards an issue and decide upon the best course of action and how it will affect all who are involved. I hold information on everything”

“Wow… you must be very important” she said softly, glancing over the gardens as she turned to continue the walk down the winding path.

“It is only a minor position,” He said again, moving to keep up with her. Whether he repeated himself for his sake or her’s, he couldn’t tell. Such praise of his intellect shouldn’t have affected him anymore after all these years; it was expected. He knew that he was much more intelligent than other people, but coming from a princess, it felt like high praise indeed.

“A minor position, but your word decides upon the whole country?” She asked, trying to make sense of it all, “How could someone who seems to have such a profound impact only be considered a minor position?”

“Well, my position is unique. I was originally a shortcut, a convenience for them, but I later became essential, so they invented the role,” Mycroft explained to her, walking in perfect time with her, a leisurely pace to enjoy the scenery.

“A role which they still consider minor?” She inquired, unable to make sense of it all, “You practically control the fate of the entire country

“That is how the world is”, Mycroft informed her, “Do not have sympathy, that’s how I like it. I wouldn’t want the attention the prime minister receives. I’m happy to be the puppet master holding all the strings”

“An accurate description indeed, Mr Holmes”, She smiled softly. They rounded the garden into the maze, wandering through the tall hedges.

“Do you know the way?” She asked him, glancing back.

“Regrettably, I do not”, He answered her, watching as she peeks around the corners of the different routes, as she smiles sheepishly and turns back to try the other way. The cool summer night air was a blessing for both of them.

“Perhaps they will be looking for you inside, your highness?” Mycroft asked, following behind her.

“They will have to wait”, she said, turning another corner.

“If they see us out here, one will only assume…” Mycroft trailed off, catching up to her as she slowed down, glancing towards him

“Assume what?” She asked softly, innocent and clueless.

“I’m sure Mr Graham is looking for you”, Mycroft informed her. At that, her expression dropped at the realisation that he wasn’t the one who was supposed to be looking after her, Mark was. And they had been gone for who knows how long. Both of them had lost track of time.

“But… I don’t want to go back,” She said hesitantly and softly with a slight pout, her brows knitting together, her bottom lip pushing out as if he had scolded her, “I want to stay out here, with you”

He looked at her, taking in what she was saying. His brows furrowed at her words, glancing over her repeatedly, replaying her words in his head several times. He was intelligent, but human nature seemed to make little sense to him.

“Why…?” Was all he said in response, confused and on edge. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He offered her a break from the social strife of the party, not… whatever she could be implying

“Because… I enjoy your company,” she said simply, as if to her it really was that simple. To enjoy 30 minutes of someone’s company meant they were a nice person.

“Princess…” he began slowly, looking at her seriously, meeting her soft, confused expression. He needed to explain to her that whatever impression she got was mistaken, but he just couldn’t do it. She looked at him so hopefully, with bright eyes and parted lips. No one ever paid that much attention to him before. People usually found his intellect repelling; he never enjoyed the company of people, but he found the princess's company at least the slightest bit tolerable. She was quiet and unassuming; she didn’t gossip or make idle chatter. She was totally present, here, with him, and she liked him and perhaps he liked her too.

He cleared his throat, trying again, “Princess, you're aware that… we’re just talking”

“Yes,” She nodded. So, she was aware. That seemed to make this all the more harder for him. If she were aware, how would he go about denying it? It was as if she brought down a barrier around them, and he was at ease, at peace in her presence, finally. After years of needing to carry his family’s burdens on his shoulders, he felt a great relief that she seemed to expect nothing from him but simply his presence. That was enough.

“Well, um… I just meant… that I’d like to stay out here just for a little longer, if that’s okay?” She explained softly, turning to gesture towards the entrance of the maze. He watched as a strand fell from her updo, bouncing and brushing against her bare neck. Before he could stop himself, he was already reaching out to tuck the strand behind her ear. Her eyes flickered to look up at him, pausing, her explanation falling flat, and breath catching in her throat at the unexpected proximity. Mycroft’s hand lingered for a moment, catching her gaze before pulling back sharply with a nod.

“Yes, uh… whatever you wish, your highness” He agreed, clearing his throat, moving away, needing to put some space between himself and the princess. Suddenly, his tranquillity became suffocating. His heart hammered against his chest, though he tried to keep a cool façade, pushing away whatever started to build, deeper and into the back of his mind. Perhaps once he leaves, he will revisit what happened closer, and why, for a moment, he panicked. He never panicked, not like this. He was always so sure, always knew the facts and was able to analyse the outcomes, but this… he could not foresee the outcome and the facts were foggy. He was never any good with human nature.

She nodded, smiling a little, “only for a little longer and then I promise we can go back, I just want to see what’s in the centre”

She brushed past him as she continued looking, weaving through the maze. Mycroft glanced back at her, moving to follow her. His hand reached out to her waist, guiding her down one of the routes, “This way, your highness…”

“How do you know?” She asked him, letting herself be led, feeling the warmth of his palm seeping through her dress and blossoming against her skin.

“I remember seeing the map before we came in” He informed her, remembering he glanced at it briefly, but he didn’t think much of it. It was a simple map for a rather simple maze. He let his hand linger there, feeling the warmth of her skin, the intake of her breath as she heaved a soft sigh when they met another dead end.

“Your highness… you have been lovely company” He began, watching as she turned to lean against the wall of the dead end. A small smile graced her features, glancing up at him, the moon reflecting in her eyes, which were bright and curious.

“You’ve also been lovely company, Mr Holmes” she smiled, nodding, her eyes flickering to the small space, “I hope I’ll get to see you again at another of these events, if they bring me again”

“Do not get your hope up, these events… they don’t appeal to me” Mycroft said to her honestly, “all the people…”

“Perhaps if we were alone together, like this, where it’s quiet?” She suggested. Mycroft chuckled slightly.

“Perhaps… that would be more appealing” He told her, his hand moving to touch her cheek with the back of his hand. A test. His eyes quickly scanned over her features, taking in every micro expression. How her head tilted slightly towards his hand and how her gaze softened. How her lips parted slightly and her tongue swiped over her bottom lip to wet them, almost as if she anticipated something. Something he only unfortunately just picked up on and found his gaze drawn to her lips which now glistened under the moonlight.

She smiled softly, shifting a little, “You will be there then? Next time?” She asked to make sure.

He was still on the fence about it. More suffocating government events such as this were agonising to even think about but if she was there and they were able to escape the hustle and bustle of the main room, perhaps it would be bearable. Mycroft sighed, glancing away from her briefly to think about it. She tilted her head a little to try and meet his gaze, shifting closer.

“You don’t have to answer, perhaps just… keep it in mind” she offered, her hand gently brushing against his, her fingers moving across the side of his hand. Mycroft glanced down at her hand. It was all so obvious now. His eye glanced over her, leaning down to press a kiss to her cheek, hearing her breath hitch at the proximity, feeling the warmth of her skin against his own, leaning closer to her ear.

“I’ll keep it in mind, princess, I assure you” He whispered to her before pulling back to stand up straight. Her eyes were wide and expecting, looking up at him with warm cheeks and bewilderment. Almost unconsciously her form leaned closer to him, searching for whatever it was she expected and yet it didn’t come. Her mouth opened, taking in a soft breath before closing, gaping like a goldfish, struggling to find something, anything to say.

“Kiss me…” Her words were whispered and hesitant, if he didn’t hear them, she was more than likely to deny saying anything, but her eyes spoke volumes of the desperation she felt. Mycroft knew he shouldn’t. This was the Princess of the royal family; he shouldn’t even be alone out here with her for as long as he had been. However, it was much too late to be thinking about right and wrong. To be ignoring how very much he did want to kiss her, just this once, under the confines of the maze and darkness of the night, the only light to oversee them being the moon, which hung over them like a spotlight. It was like one of those cheesy romance movies he regrettably enjoyed and found himself watching every now and then. The perfect scene.

His gaze flickered to her lips, waiting patiently. Mycroft sighed softly, taking in a deep breath before hesitantly leaned down, pausing halfway, his eyes searching her expression for any chance he read the moment wrong. Seeing nothing but her encouraging smile and how she leaned into him, he lowered his lips to hers, meeting them gently. His hand moved to cup the back of her head, bringing her closer to him, eyes fluttering shut.

She sighed softly, melting into the kiss, he felt her hand gripping his blazer, holding him close to her as if he would pull away and disappear. His other hand traced down her arm, tickling against her cool skin, intertwining his fingers with hers. Slowly, they backed up against the wall of the maze. His other hand traced down her arm, tickling against her cool skin, intertwining his fingers with hers. Slowly, they backed up against the wall of the maze. His arm wrapped around her waist, holding her closer. The kiss was slow and exploratory, lips moving in sync as they tried to find each other, soft sighs breaking the silence in the darkness of the garden.

Mycroft broke the kiss, pressing fleeting kisses along her jaw, nuzzling into her neck, earning him a soft gasp of surprise. Her arms moved to wrap around his shoulders, humming softly in delight. Everything about her was wonderful and perfect and yet it could not last forever and he knew that. This could be his first and only time meeting her and he wanted to make sure it lasted and was memorable. She sighed softly, relaxing into him as he pressed kisses against the side of her neck. His hands moved to her waist, squeezing gently, agonisingly. The soft flesh of her hips and waist was all too inviting but even though deep within this maze they were well hidden from any watchful eyes, it would be disrespectful to initiate anything.

“Princess… we shouldn't” Mycroft practically had to force himself to pull back, looking at her, heaving a soft sigh. The princess panted softly, eyes meeting his as he hand gently tried to pull him back in. He seemed to come to his senses, his grip tightening on her waist to stop her, “This… was wrong. It shouldn't have happened”

The princess looked at him confused as to why he was pulling away now. Did she do something wrong? Reluctantly, she pulled her own hands away from him, though she could barely meet his eyes. Her heart was racing from the kiss and her mind was reeling about why Mycroft now had second thoughts.

“We should… go back” She suggested breathlessly. Mycroft nods stiffly. That would be for the best, for both of them. They knew they had taken things too far but it was too late to take it back. It happened. He kissed the princess. If anyone found he could loose his job but she also kissed him. She didn't seem to understand the gravity of the situation and they moved away to walk back towards the main building and out of the maze.

“They come from a long line of squires, you know?” He continued. The carriage wheels crunched over the gravel drive as we approached the imposing Georgian facade of Holmes Manor. Father adjusted his cravat with hands that betrayed the slightest tremor, nerves perhaps of the upcoming meeting with the Holmes family.

"Remember, Darling," he murmured, "Mycroft holds a position within the Government. Influence. Connections."

“I am aware, father, you tell me every time you bring him up” You smiled, tilting your head a little. His eyes met yours, leaning forward in the carriage.

“I know, darling, I’m just… I’m worried… after your mother… well, you’re all I have left,” He explained, taking your hand and holding it. He leaned back in his seat and sighed, his fingers steepled over his waistcoat. "And that is precisely why this match is advantageous beyond measure. The elder Holmes boy understands responsibility. Unlike that younger brother of his, forever traipsing about with chemicals and suspicious characters."

The carriage jolted slightly, and he caught himself against the side. "Mycroft is a man of the law. I hope it all goes well. The Holmes’ boys, they’re… rather unsociable, last I heard”

You gasped too, jolting, your hand moving to catch yourself upon the wall of then carriage, “what if they do not like me?”

"Nonsense," Father dismissed your worries with a wave of his hand,. "You've known them since childhood. Mycroft is... predictable. Stable. He'll tolerate your little eccentricities, your books, your writing. Unlike that wild younger brother who wants to 'deduce' the meaning of life from cigarette ash." He glanced at you.

“I haven’t seen either of them since I was five, surely a lot has changed since then” you tried to reason with him, to see if he understands that both men and women can change once they grow from little girls and boys

Your Father sighed, tapping his finger against his knee thoughtfully. “Mycroft was always a serious, quiet, observant boy. A natural for the diplomatic life." He straightened his coat and adjusted his waistcoat, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles. "You'll find him, satisfactory. You’ll want for nothing"

The carriage pulled to a stop outside the Holmes family estate. You glanced outside the carriage window, looking upon the large house, the grand doors opening, revealing an older lady and two gentlemen stepping outside.

“Ah, Mr L/N, we’re so happy you’re visiting us” Mrs Holmes smiled, welcoming both you and your father out of the carriage. You stepped out, your hands smoothing out your dress.

“Oh, these are my sons, Mycroft my eldest and Sherlock”, Mrs Holmes smiled, turning to gesture towards the two gentlemen who stood beside her. One was slightly shorter than the other, thin and stoic, dark hair slicked back beneath his hat, which he removed as he turned to greet you. The other was taller, reserved and a little podgy in his stature. However both were tall, imposing and two figures of great breeding and two men with great, sure futures ahead of them.

“My daughter” Your father turned to you to introduce you to the two boys. Mycroft stepped forward, his expression carefully neutral.

"Miss..." He hesitated briefly, then continued, his gaze flickering over you, taking in how your appearance has changed, "It's been some time since we last met. You've... grown up."

“Thank you… Your home is beautiful, Mrs Holmes” you smiled, bowing towards her.

“She’s absolutely lovely,” Mrs Holmes smiled, gently stepping forwards and brushing your arm, "Thank you, dear. It's been in the family for generations. Mycroft and Sherlock were born here."

She gestured towards the house, inviting you inside, turning to lead everyone into the house. The Holmes boys barely spared you a glance as Mrs Holmes lead every towards the drawing room, opening the doors wide. The room was bright and airy, decorated in cream and sage, two sofas and a coffee table in the centre with books and a fireplace, all the curtains drawn open to let the sun trickle into the warm and welcoming room.

“I recently had it redecorated, I thought a brighter colour would lift everyone’s spirits” Mrs Holmes commented, taking a seat on one of the sofas. A maid came in, placing a tea tray down on the coffee table. You felt a hand push you forward to take a seat on the sofa, your father stepping forward to sit next to you. The Holmes boys stayed stood in the doorway. Mrs Holmes looked towards her sons, gesturing for them to sit down, her brows furrowing.

“Mycroft. Sit” she muttered. There was a pause, Mycroft shifting in the doorway before he moved forward to take a seat next to his mother. She smiled, pleased.

“Very good.” She grinned, glancing at you, then your father, then Sherlock who had began wondering around the room. She sighed softly to herself.

“Mycroft works for her majesty’s government” Mrs Holmes began, speaking for her son. You knew that, of course, something your father mentioned before. Smile and nod.

“And your other son, Sherlock?” your father asked. Mrs Holmes jaw clenched, glancing towards her younger son, who was suddenly examining the painting on the wall with great interest.

“He’s… still finding himself” She answered eventually, tearing her eyes forcefully away from her son, “He’s a wonderful boy with such a big imagination I don’t think he’ll struggle to make something of himself. What of your daughter?”

“Well she… enjoys reading, singing, dancing” Your father explained for you, your hand fidgeting with the trim on your gown. Mrs Holmes seemed interested, nodding and engaging, however when you looked at Mycroft, he didn’t seem interested in you at all. He would barely look at you, barely casted a glance of any emotion in your direction, “Everything you would expect from a young lady”

“It’s alright darling” Mrs Holmes encouraged, “Perhaps we would like to here from your daughter herself?”

You nodded softly, glancing at Mycroft again, how he seemed to look everywhere accept meeting your eyes, his fingers tapping against the material of the sofa, “I… do embroidery and paint too… and I would like children”

“Yes, I would think so” Mrs Holmes nodded. A silence settled over the room like a dark cloud, suffocating, only broken by the clinking of china as Mrs Holmes sat forwards to pour the tea. Sherlock continued looking at the stray items around the room with disinterest, occasionally glancing back at the scene in the centre of the room. It fell quiet.

“Mr Holmes, don’t you have any questions to ask my daughter?” your father spoke up, strained, sweat beading on his forehead.

“Mycroft?” Mrs Holmes prompted gently, brushing his arm, “do you have anything you’d like to ask Miss L/N?”

“Can you actually do all those accomplishments you say you do or are you just saying them to please me?” Mycroft asked, cool and low. The first interest he’s had in you since your arrival, however small and fleeting it seemed

Your eyes widened slightly at the question, your gaze darting towards his mother and then back at Mycroft. A soft gasp escaped Mrs Holmes, looking slightly horrified at her son's directness. Your father shifted uncomfortably, but remained silent. Mycroft didn't seem to notice his mother's disapproval, his dark eyes fixed unwaveringly on you, waiting for your response.

“Mycroft.” His mother sighed warningly, shaking her head, “I’m sure she’s being frank”

“Many young ladies say they can do all these things, yet you never see them act upon it, whether they are any good at them is a different story” Mycroft said firmly, before turning to you, “Do you?”

Your breath hitched, staring at him, noting his brash addressing of yourself, sighing softly as you tried to find the words to answer him. It was expected of a lady of high society to do all of these things, if you were found lacking you felt as if he wouldn’t give you another the light of day. The Holmes family was your only opportunity for a match.

Mycroft's expression tightened slightly, his eyes narrowing as he watched your hesitation. It was a telling pause, one that spoke volumes without you saying a word. He leaned back in his chair, disregarding you. "I see,"

“Mycroft” Mrs Holmes said, turning to her son, scoldingly, “I’ve told you to be polite”

"I am being polite, Mother," Mycroft replied calmly, though there was an edge to his voice, his eyes narrowing as he looked directly at you, cold and unsympathetic,. "I'm simply trying to gauge her honesty. An important character trait in a wife, don't you think?"

You paused, staring at him before you found yourself nodding slowly, not being able to tear your gaze away from him. His stare was suffocatingly authoritative, “yes…” you breathed out softly, “yes… I agree”

Mycroft's eyes flickered with something, approval, perhaps a hint of surprise at your agreement with him. He raised a brow, settled at your answer, "Then be honest with me. Are you actually proficient in music, languages, and household management? Or did your governess simply teach you enough to sound accomplished at dinner parties?"

There was a pause. The room fell eerily silent as you clumsily stumbled through your words to make up some excuse. You were a novice at all things the governess taught you but usually that was enough. Most men didn’t ask for such things and it was merely a way to keep yourself looking busy through the long days of child rearing and keeping up appearances in society.

Mycroft watched your hesitation with growing suspicion, his eyes narrowing slightly. Your father shifted uncomfortably beside you, wishing he could intervene or rescue you from this interrogation. Even Sherlock seemed to sense your discomfort, his restless movements pausing briefly. You were stuck.

“I…do enjoy reading” you began honestly, glancing to them to see their reaction, “And…painting and needlework”

Mycroft's expression remained neutral, though there was a subtle tightening of his jaw, "Reading, painting, and needlework. Hardly the skills of a woman expected to manage a large estate and host grand dinner parties."

“I can also do that” You continued, hoping to earn his approval

"Can you?" Mycroft asked, his voice soft, mockingly so, tilting his head with a slight grin, blinking before settling his gaze on you, "Then tell me, what would you serve at a dinner party for twenty guests, including three foreign dignitaries with specific dietary restrictions? How would you arrange the seating to ensure political alliances are strengthened without causing diplomatic offence?"

“Mycroft, please” Mrs Holmes begged, turning to her elder son seriously, “She’s only being polite”

Mycroft turned to his mother, his expression softening slightly but remaining serious, "Mother, I'm not trying to be cruel," he said calmly. "I'm simply trying to determine if she's being honest about her capabilities. It's not unreasonable to expect a wife to manage household affairs competently. “

“Those things do not matter if you are looking for a love match” Mrs Holmes argues, causing Mycroft to look at her bewildered.

"Love match?" Mycroft repeated, his tone bordering on disbelief. He glanced back at you, his eyes searching yours as if looking for some hidden depth or intelligence that he had missed thus far. "Mother, we are discussing practical matters here. Love has nothing to do with it."

“Love has everything to do with it. When I met your father, I knew from the first day that I fell in love with him” Mrs Holmes described wistfully Mycroft listened to his mother's words, his expression becoming increasingly uncomfortable. He shifted in his seat, displeased with the direction the conversations had taken.

“Mother, with all due respect, Father was an exception," he said firmly. Mycroft straightened in his chair, his posture becoming more rigid, "Love is a fleeting emotion, an unreliable foundation for marriage. What one feels today may fade tomorrow. Practical considerations: compatibility, shared values, intelligence, capability, these are what sustain a marriage."

Mrs Holmes fell quiet, deciding to let her son direct the marriage in the way he sees fit. His ideas were rigid, and it was clear he wasn’t going to change his views anytime soon. Mycroft nodded, acknowledging his mother's silent reprimand. He turned to you, his gaze sharp and assessing once more.

"Forgive me, I realise I was rather abrupt," he said, though his tone betrayed no genuine remorse. "My point is simply this… marriage to me would not be for romantic notions of love. It would be a partnership. An arrangement of mutual benefit."

“That’s understandable. I believe many families follow that notion nowadays” You expressed. Your father expressed the same thoughts weeks ago when he brought up you meeting the Holmes family’s sons. They had sustained their wealth over decades, and your family's wealth was fleeting and loosing your mother at a young age meant you didn’t have a female role model to follow in preparing yourself for marriage. He appreciated practicality and a clear understanding of one's role and expectations, which was clear to everyone upon their birth.

"Precisely," he said, nodding in agreement. "Many families do. And in our current social climate, it makes sense to marry within similar social and financial circles."

"I must warn you," he continued, his voice low and serious, "my lifestyle is rather... solitary. I spend most of my time at the Diogenes Club or in my study."

Mycroft's reputation as a reclusive intellectual was well known in social circles. He rarely attended social gatherings, preferring the quiet sanctity of the Diogenes Club where conversation was forbidden and solitude respected. His days were spent advising the government on matters of state, his mind capable of holding seventeen different lines of thought simultaneously. He was, by all means, a challenging prospect for not just any woman, but men too.

“In fact, I doubt you’d see much of me at all. Perhaps you would be better suited to someone more social” Mycroft continued, glancing at you, "I would be terrible company for a sociable woman, such as yourself"

Mrs. Holmes' face fell at Mycroft's blunt statement. She had hoped that there would be some interest in you which may lead to a more traditional, affectionate marriage. But Mycroft was not one for sentimentality or false promises.

“Mycroft," she chided softly, " you promised you would at least try” Mrs Holmes muttered under her breath, shaking her head slightly in disappointment. Mycroft's jaw clenched slightly at his mother's gentle chastise. He knew he was being difficult, but he could not help it. The idea of marrying someone who was the opposite of him in every way seemed like a recipe for disaster. Not to mention he did not seem the slightest bit interested in the idea of marriage.

“Perhaps a walk? In the gardens” She rushed to say, in an effort to salvage what was left of this social call, “My dear, you must see the gazebo I had built last year, so much better than the old one”

You smiled, nodding softly, as you took Mrs Holmes' arm, allowing her to lead you from the oppressive atmosphere of the drawing room and out the French doors. Mycroft's gaze followed you both, though whether it was out of interest or mere observation, you couldn't tell. As you stepped into the gardens, Mrs Holmes's demeanour shifted.

"My dear," she said softly, squeezing your arm, "forgive my son. He is... He’s not usually this shy around guests, he’s always been so busy with government work, as you may know. He really is a wonderful young gentleman”

She led you through the gardens, past rows of tulips and lilacs towards the gazebo. Shy wouldn’t be the word you would use to describe his behaviour, but she clearly cared deeply about her sons, "but he's always been more comfortable with books and ideas than people. Marriage was never something he's given much thought to."

She paused, turning to look at you, short of the gazebo, which was at the end of the pebbled pavement, her expression serious. "I'll be honest with you," she began, "I'm not sure what his problem is today. He's never been this... difficult before. I know he's not the most sociable person, but he's usually more polite than that."

She sighed, looking around the garden thoughtfully. Her hands took yours, squeezing them gently before turning to lead you back inside with a gentle smile, which quite never reached her eyes. This was a woman who loved her son deeply but was watching him push away yet another potential connection. You walked back inside just as Mycroft was bidding your father farewell in the foyer. Your father's expression was unreadable, but you noticed his shoulders were tense.

“Darling, shall we head off?” your father called out to you stiffly, fidgeting with his hat, moving to take you away from Mrs Holmes arms and into his embrace, “I’m sure if Mr Holmes is at all interested he will call upon you”

Mycroft didn’t respond, smiling politely and nodding, moving to see both of you out. Mycroft moved with practiced grace, escorting both you and your father to the grand entrance hall. He held the door open, his posture impeccable, but his eyes never quite met yours directly. Once you were both outside, he gave a slight bow, polite, distant, completely detached.

Your father practically herded you toward the waiting carriage, his tension palpable.

“I don’t think that could have gone any worse” Your father sighed once settled into the carriage.

“I don’t think he likes me” you muttered softly glancing at your father who took the seat across from you.

“And that’s not your fault,” your father reminded you, “Mycroft Holmes isn't exactly known for his hospitality. He's brilliant, yes, everyone says so, but apparently, he's also rather particular about his company."

Your Father leaned forwards, turning towards you thoughtfully, “Darling, the Holmes family as you know are old friends, but if Mycroft Holmes isn't interested, then there's little I can do about it."

Your father nodded, with a wistful sigh, murmuring softly in a voice tinged with sadness, "Your mother would have known exactly what to say to win him over, she always did”