I Was Trying To Be Kind.

Threads of Trust

When Sherlock faked his death, Molly assumed that her role in bringing down Moriarty's criminal network would end. She was wrong. As an unknown figure takes over Moriarty's London syndicate, Molly finds herself relying on another Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, more and more.

Complete.

Spring Thaw

Mycroft Holmes was asked to choose between country and family. He chose country. So why now, six years later, does he find himself flying halfway across the world to attend Julia Baxter's funeral? And what will he discover there?

He remembered her smile.

The way her cheek dimpled just before her lips curved upward. Often her smile was accompanied by a laugh so infectious even he could not resist returning it. She smiled often, so it was written across his memory in indelible ink. 

The first time he saw her smile was across a conference room table in Brussels. The German delegation had made a comment obliquely insulting the intelligence of the American delegation, to which the Americans had taken offense. The French delegation had swooped in to smooth things over, with little effect.

Exasperated, he had glanced across the table at the Americans and caught her eye. 

Her cheek had dimpled and she ducked her head to hide her smile. 

He’d been enchanted.

He’d found her after, when they had taken a break for lunch. She was a junior delegate, as was he (at least on paper). He’d made a droll observation about the thin skin of her senior counterpart which had earned him another smile. Then she’d said something, and he could never remember what exactly it was (He! Mycroft Holmes had forgotten!), which had made him chuckle. The smile his chuckle induced had dazzled him.

This was a very long time ago. Twenty years, at least. Back before Sherlock had discovered drugs, when he was still a gangly young teenager much too interested in pirates than most boys his age. Back before Mycroft had known about Eurus. Back when things felt simpler and the future hopeful.

The close relationship his office had with the Americans ensured they crossed paths often over the years. He couldn’t deny that when he knew he would see her across the table from him, he felt a thrill. He treasured the looks they exchanged, the tiny eye rolls of exasperation, the little nods, and most of all, her smiles.

She was attracted to him. He’d realized that at once. It took him longer to decide if he was attracted to her too.

In the end, he decided he was.

She wasn’t a conventional beauty. Short, a bit heavier than her peers, a square jaw, liberally freckled from head to toe, and fiery hair. But her mind was sharp, and her humor even sharper.

Being together, having a relationship with any sort of stability, was impossible in their line of work. But when they did cross paths, it was inevitable that she would find her way into his bed, or he into hers. 

One night (they’d escaped a New Year’s Eve gala they’d been forced to attend in London), she'd asked him that if he had to choose, which would he pick: country or family? Uncle Rudy had died by that point and the burden of the secret of Eurus lay squarely on his shoulders. So with his sister's pale face and accusatory eyes at the forefront of his mind, he'd answered country without hesitation.

She'd hummed thoughtfully and he’d had the unpleasant, unfamiliar, sensation that he’d failed a test.

A month later the reason behind her question had been illuminated when he learned she had retired from the civil service due to “a family matter.” Her mother, he knew, had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis a few years prior.

What must it be like, he'd wondered at the time, to feel such a strong obligation to a member of one's own family? But then the next month Sherlock had overdosed for the first time and he understood.

It would have been six years ago. Six years and twenty one days ago.

Mycroft swirled his half-empty glass, the ice clinking.

He hadn't opened the folder since Anthea gave it to him.

Childish, perhaps, to avoid it. Some sort of misplaced belief that if he didn't look at it, it wouldn't be true.

But he was not a coward.

Decisively, he set his glass down and snapped the folder open.

There it was in black and white.

Julia Baxter was dead.

Continue reading here...

“Public libraries are such important, lovely places!” Yes but do you GO there. Do you STUDY there. Do you meet friends and get coffee there. Do you borrow the FREE, ZERO SUBSCRIPTION, ZERO TRACKING books, audiobooks, ebooks, and films. Have you checked out their events and schemes. Do you sign up for the low cost courses in ASL or knitting or programming or writing your CV that they probably run. Do you know they probably have myriad of schemes to help low income families. Do you hire their low cost rooms if you need them. Have you joined their social groups. Do you use the FREE COMPUTERS. Do you even know what your library is trying to offer you. Listen, the library shouldn’t just exist for you as a nice idea. That’s why more libraries shut every year

because i know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you.

“I stretch out my hands towards you. Oh ! may I live to touch your hair and your hands. I think that your love will watch over my life. If I should die, I want you to live a gentle peaceful existence somewhere, with flowers, pictures, books, and lots of work.”

— Oscar Wilde (1854-1900), in a letter to Lord Alfred Douglas (1870-1945), dated Monday Evening [29 April 1895], HM Prison, Hollowa, in “Oscar Wilde: A Life In Letters” (via finita–la–commedia)

Explosion of San José during Wager's Action. Wager's Action off Cartagena, oil on canvas by Samuel Scott, 1747

☂ “He has the tidiest and most orderly brain, with the greatest capacity for storing facts, of any man living.” {The Bruce-Partington Plans}