“I’m led to believe that it’s most unwise to upset a pregnant woman under any circumstance,” Mycroft riposted.
“Although one who’s given birth not six months ago is fair game?”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow and merely tilted his head to indicate yes.
Mary went for the direct approach. “What do you want to say to me?”
“I have a gift for your daughter, a celebration of her birth and to her health,” Mycroft replied, startling Mary with the sharp change in direction. “Well perhaps it might be more accurate to say it’s something that you and John might find beneficial to use with your daughter until she’s old enough herself.”
Mary blinked. The elder Holmes had taken her by surprise and she struggled to anticipate the man; a deliberate ploy on his part no doubt. Her gaze strayed to the package, sitting innocently on the coffee table. “Excuse me?”
Mycroft smiled again, his bland one, as he waved a hand at the package. “Please,” he encouraged her.
Checking that her daughter had finally finished burping and had fallen asleep, Mary took a minute to make sure her daughter was secure in the small bassinet they kept in the room before she sat down on the sofa. Her hands made light work of the paper wrapping and she found herself staring at the revealed gift.
“Books?” she asked Mycroft, still standing and who now towered over her. “I know you and Sherlock are … well, Holmes, so you had a pretty skewed development curve but I’m pretty sure my daughter won’t be making use of books for a fair few years to come,” she continued. “Especially Amelia Kipling’s children stories.”
Mary picked up the top book from the stack – hardback, embossed text in gold print, special edition. The set of books would have looked at home in a Victorian nursery, she realised. With care, Mary opened the book. After all, it wouldn’t do to crack the spine in Mycroft’s company or at all as she glanced at the dedication page.
“This is a first edition,” she said in surprise, as she carefully set the book aside and picked up another. “This one’s a second edition … and this is another first!”
Mycroft’s gaze was fixed on his umbrella. “I’m afraid I wasn’t able to procure a full set of first editions,” he replied. “However I assure you this collection still remains enviable in the eyes of collectors.”
“But … why?”
“I am led to believe you’re more than capable of working that out in short order.”
Mycroft’s full attention had turned to Mary, keen blue eyes observing her reactions, read her thought through her minute twitches and Mary recognised this was a test. She also knew she wouldn’t be able to read anything in Mycroft, unless he wanted her to, so the answer had to be in the books. She picked up the first book in the set and looked closely. The Oncoming Storm.
The dedication page.
For Will. To the little boy who dreamt of adventures and then grew up to live them.
Mary gives a short laugh. “For Will. Oh my god, William Sherlock Scott Holmes!”
“Remarkable,” Mycroft said, confirming that she was correct in her supposition.
Mary blinked and something cold curled in her gut. “You know.” A statement, delivered in a cold, flat tone.
Mycroft snorted. “I’ve been aware of Mary Morstan for quite a while now,” he said. “And then I knew everything about you, Mrs Watson, a mere thirty minutes after that.”
Mary took a sharp breath and quelled her instinctive response to threaten Mycroft Holmes. “Why didn’t you tell Sherlock?”
“I concluded that you presented no threat to John Watson,” Mycroft said, but then his voice grew deeper, introspective. “I deeply regret, however, that I did not foresee the threat you posed to my little brother.”
Mary’s eyes flicked to her daughter, still safely asleep. She arched an eyebrow. “Is this a warning?”
“I think we can safely say the damage has already been done, don’t you?”
FILL PART 1B: For Will, I Dedicate To You (Mycroft, Mary POV)
“I’m led to believe that it’s most unwise to upset a pregnant woman under any circumstance,” Mycroft riposted.
“Although one who’s given birth not six months ago is fair game?”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow and merely tilted his head to indicate yes.
Mary went for the direct approach. “What do you want to say to me?”
“I have a gift for your daughter, a celebration of her birth and to her health,” Mycroft replied, startling Mary with the sharp change in direction. “Well perhaps it might be more accurate to say it’s something that you and John might find beneficial to use with your daughter until she’s old enough herself.”
Mary blinked. The elder Holmes had taken her by surprise and she struggled to anticipate the man; a deliberate ploy on his part no doubt. Her gaze strayed to the package, sitting innocently on the coffee table. “Excuse me?”
Mycroft smiled again, his bland one, as he waved a hand at the package. “Please,” he encouraged her.
Checking that her daughter had finally finished burping and had fallen asleep, Mary took a minute to make sure her daughter was secure in the small bassinet they kept in the room before she sat down on the sofa. Her hands made light work of the paper wrapping and she found herself staring at the revealed gift.
“Books?” she asked Mycroft, still standing and who now towered over her. “I know you and Sherlock are … well, Holmes, so you had a pretty skewed development curve but I’m pretty sure my daughter won’t be making use of books for a fair few years to come,” she continued. “Especially Amelia Kipling’s children stories.”
Mary picked up the top book from the stack – hardback, embossed text in gold print, special edition. The set of books would have looked at home in a Victorian nursery, she realised. With care, Mary opened the book. After all, it wouldn’t do to crack the spine in Mycroft’s company or at all as she glanced at the dedication page.
“This is a first edition,” she said in surprise, as she carefully set the book aside and picked up another. “This one’s a second edition … and this is another first!”
Mycroft’s gaze was fixed on his umbrella. “I’m afraid I wasn’t able to procure a full set of first editions,” he replied. “However I assure you this collection still remains enviable in the eyes of collectors.”
“But … why?”
“I am led to believe you’re more than capable of working that out in short order.”
Mycroft’s full attention had turned to Mary, keen blue eyes observing her reactions, read her thought through her minute twitches and Mary recognised this was a test. She also knew she wouldn’t be able to read anything in Mycroft, unless he wanted her to, so the answer had to be in the books. She picked up the first book in the set and looked closely. The Oncoming Storm.
The dedication page.
For Will. To the little boy who dreamt of adventures and then grew up to live them.
Mary gives a short laugh. “For Will. Oh my god, William Sherlock Scott Holmes!”
“Remarkable,” Mycroft said, confirming that she was correct in her supposition.
Mary blinked and something cold curled in her gut. “You know.” A statement, delivered in a cold, flat tone.
Mycroft snorted. “I’ve been aware of Mary Morstan for quite a while now,” he said. “And then I knew everything about you, Mrs Watson, a mere thirty minutes after that.”
Mary took a sharp breath and quelled her instinctive response to threaten Mycroft Holmes. “Why didn’t you tell Sherlock?”
“I concluded that you presented no threat to John Watson,” Mycroft said, but then his voice grew deeper, introspective. “I deeply regret, however, that I did not foresee the threat you posed to my little brother.”
Mary’s eyes flicked to her daughter, still safely asleep. She arched an eyebrow. “Is this a warning?”
“I think we can safely say the damage has already been done, don’t you?”