ISWS Oneshots

Reunion (Mycroft X Rita)

A/N - oooo a cutscene :)))

So this was cut from a certain part (see below) and I have finally edited it to be worthy of a one-shot :D

Details:
BOOK: It Started With Stealing
CHAPTERS: Between 90-92
SITUATION: This is straight after the moment Rita arrives at Mycroft's mansion after having 'died' (90) and before Sherlock heads to Mycroft's place and discovers Rita is alive too (92).

_______________________

The government official sat in his chair by the fire, staring into the shifting light gravely, intensely, fondling a small glass of hard liquor to help ease his fright.

In the chair opposite, sat the woman who died.

Looking everywhere else possible first, he finally settled his gaze on the fiery amber liquid in his glass for the fire began to irritate him, almost as if it had been stoking a ferocious fire all his own in his stomach, in his chest, in his head. He had no words for her for she was a dead woman walking and dead women could not be spoken to.

"Myc?"

The older Holmes didn't respond, instead kept his gaze fixed on his crystal glass.

"Mycroft?"

He still didn't react.

"M - "

Before she could continue, he stood and left the room.

Rita watched, stunned, lost.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Mycroft had sought solace in his office instead of his room where he had been moments prior to her arrival, but not before he retrieved the biscuit tin, with the measly, little, paper label taped onto the lid that read 'R.R.'.

He had been reviewing the past, their past (for how long after she arrived he didn't know) in the pictures from their drama society days at university, of when she assisted him on a few missions, of times when they had just gone to see an opera or a theatre show together. There was a new memory in that tin too and while he had decorated his normally clear desk in the bittersweet photos and old tickets he had kept, the one he held in his hand brought him the most grief even though there was no cause for it now. Staring at the sepia-toned paper, hard-to-read calligraphy and daunting message, he sighed sorely.

What would he do?

The door opened and as he glanced up, he placed the A4 sheet face down on the desk before him.

Rita stood in the doorway, wringing her scarred hands gently. Lingering there, she briefly glimpsed the rest of his minimalist office space before landing her gaze back on him again. She was afraid but she hadn't been kicked out or rejected yet, so that had to mean something good. Or perhaps he had called the authorities and was simply letting her stay out of her own naive hope that he would accept her once again?

She stepped further into the room, appealing to him, "Myc, you've let me stay but you haven't spoken to me properly since I got here. Surely you have questions."

Mycroft glanced down at the document that lay in front of him, its contents not visible to or known by Rita but known by him. He looked back up at her, in those two alluring dark eyes of hers. He sighed, moving to rest his elbows on the desk and clasped his hands together, resting his chin on the bridge he had made and continued to look at her, speechless.

Rita had wanted to follow him straight after he had left the room, but decided against it for she understood that the Holmes children were fragile when it came to anything worthy of any overwhelming emotion. The children themselves never viewed their desperate want and need of apathy in these situations as fragility, but Rita knew better. They desired apathy for emotionally-heavy situations like these hurt them the most, hurt them the deepest, hurt them the hardest.