The Man With The Umbrella

- 56 -

To say that Amelia's death was one thing she was able to accomplish without problem would be a lie because Mycroft had stated a similar quote before in regards to humanity and goldfish but when he attempted to saddle it aside to his Amelia, it didn't feel right.

He was angered by her dying he was angered and brimmed with rawness when it came to the acknowledgement that she was murdered.

He was in simplicity, a broken man.

He arrived to his Kensington manor home knowing that it felt lonelier than ever before. His home was missing something.

It was missing, her.

Mycroft Holmes appeared ruffled compared to his usual appearance of stepping through the door of his manor and went about his daily routines before taking the bottle of whiskey to his bedroom.

He stroked a match and threw it into the open fire before collapsing onto his plush chair and unscrewing the top of his bottle. He untied his tie and popped open a few buttons before gazing longly into the brightened fireplace whilst drinking blindly from his bottle.

He wasn't spiralling into drink but it was nights like these, nights when Viola wasn't home to occupy him that he needed a break from reality.

He didn't realise how he in himself had fallen asleep until he appeared to be sat in his plush seat in a field of wildflowers. He frowned in dismay until his eyes caught the figure of a familiar blonde-head bending over him with arms hugging his chest.

"Where on earth am I?" He asked accusingly not accustomed to the view of nature. "Isn't it obvious? You're dreaming, love. You're in your mind-palace again." Amelia answered whilst kissing his cheek before then licking her thumb to wipe the kiss-mark off of his face.

Mycroft caught her wrist in a firm but gentle grasp and turned his head to look pointedly up at her. "Don't." He warned. Amelia seemed confused. "Mycroft, you pride yourself in your appearances." Amelia stated gently, knowing her husband very well.

Mycroft looked around to the scenery unfolded in front of him before looking back up to Amelia who placed her hands back to his shoulders again, bending over him. They stared longly at each other before Amelia dipped her head closer to his own and smothered his face with peppered kisses.

Rolling his eyes at her antics, Amelia gave up and circled his chair before sitting on his lap and tucking her feet beneath her. "I must ask you, but why am I in a white dress?" She asked plainly with a hint of playfulness. "Isn't it obvious?" Mycroft rhetorically answered, using her own words against her, against himself inside of his own head. Even in his own mind, he was a stubborn man.

Amelia tutted in disapproval before smiling softly and leaning her head on his shoulder. "Where are we?" She asked looking to the wildflowers. Mycroft eyed her sharply before selfishly pulling his arms around her imaginary form. "West Sussex. I grew up here." Mycroft shared vaguely. "Ah." Amelia clocked her tongue. "It's beautiful, shame the real me has an allergy to natures beauty." She stated. Mycroft curved his finger underneath her chin to make her face him. "You are the most precious beauty I've ever lathered my eyes on." He stated sincerely.

He stared at her with a sadness pooling inside of him. "I wish you were here. Missing you, from what I can recall, comes in waves and today I'm drowning." He conveyed in brutal honesty.

Amelia shared his sad look before gazing to the clear sky. "You're a writer at heart, aren't you?" She asked in a slight lilt. "I was, many moons ago." He answered her. "Well, use it. Put your skills to test. You're a stubborn man, love so you will not cry over me... Instead you will bleed on paper." His version of Amelia spoke in encouragement, telling him what he should do. "Don't dwell on what cannot be changed. It's fates design that this has happened but you can write it."